The Mirror Man, стр. 70

“I don’t know about the whiskey,” he said. “We need our wits about us.”

“I have a distinct feeling I am going to need it before this night is over. In case you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

“Besides,” Brent said, “we have ample time now. Might as well have one good bender while we can.”

“I drink like a fish now, thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re a terrible influence on me. I’m too old for this.”

“At least you’re not a stiff old asshole anymore, like your clone. I think I’ve been a very good influence on you. I’ve turned you into someone who’s actually cool.”

“Just like My Fair Lady. In reverse.”

“Well, my name is Higgins, after all.”

“So it is.” Jeremiah smiled. “What do we do now, Mr. Higgins?”

For the next few hours, they played IF at full volume on the wall monitor and got slowly but sufficiently sauced, going through an entire bottle in record time. Jeremiah hadn’t drunk like this since his college days and he began to regret doing it on top of the three greasy burgers he’d wolfed down earlier. It wasn’t long before he was leaning back on the couch alternating between a beer and bottled water, ruing the headache he was certain to have in the morning. He took off his headset and put down his controller, letting Brent tackle the battlefield on his own for a while. The game had started to make his head spin. He closed his eyes and listened to the muffled explosions coming from Brent’s headset. As usual, it was on too loud.

He had to admit, though, it felt good to let loose. They hadn’t typed a single word in the in-game chat and had not—even for a minute—discussed the actual issue at hand. It was an understood, shared decision to avoid it entirely. Jeremiah welcomed the distraction, and, for his part, Brent obviously realized just how much a distraction was needed. He was a good friend, Jeremiah thought, and the irony of that gnawed at him. He hadn’t had a real friend in a long time. He hadn’t made the effort. But Brent had stepped up to help him when he should have refused and run away. Jeremiah wouldn’t have blamed him. He was a kid. He had a lot to lose if something went wrong. He had everything to lose. And there was plenty that could go wrong. It was a big risk. And in return? Jeremiah would be literally stabbing him in the back. In twenty-four hours, he’d have to take a knife to the man and very likely never see him again.

“You know, Brent,” he said, loud enough to cut through the din of the game, “I have a lot to thank you for.”

“Yeah. I am pretty amazing.”

“I mean it. Most people wouldn’t do something like this.”

“Most people don’t find themselves in this kind of situation. Special circumstances.”

“You still think I’m doing the right thing?”

Brent took his headset off and turned off the controller in his hand. The sudden silence in the room was almost startling. “Do we need to make another smoothie for this conversation?” he asked.

“No,” Jeremiah said. “I just want to make sure I said thank you.”

“Don’t worry about me. Don’t go all sappy on me.”

“I’m not. I won’t.”

“Everything’s going to work out, Jeremiah. Don’t worry. And now that we know the truth, I don’t see that we have much choice.”

Jeremiah nodded. Brent was right. But as the moment got closer, and with the alcohol clouding his mind, he found his thoughts drifting in unexpected directions.

“Do you think the clone has a soul?” he asked after a moment.

“A soul? I think you’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t buy in to any of that stuff. But I guess he thinks he has a soul.”

“Is that enough, do you suppose? Just to think you have a soul?”

“I think it has to be enough,” Brent said. “For most people that’s all you get.”

“But does that make us human?”

“Maybe it does,” Brent said.

“I don’t know,” Jeremiah said, leaning back and closing his eyes. “It can’t be that simple. That clone’s not actually human. Just thinking he is doesn’t make it true. He’s just a copy.”

“Yes,” Brent said, “but he doesn’t know that. He thinks he’s you. So, whatever you feel, that’s what he feels, too. And all I’m saying is that, when you come right down to it, it’s the same thing. If he thinks he’s human, maybe he is.”

“Well,” Jeremiah said after some reflection, “he can believe anything he likes. Doesn’t make it true.”

“So,” Brent asked after a moment, “are you asking because you’re worried about your own immortal soul?”

Jeremiah pondered this for a moment. He remembered a time when he was very young, six or seven at most, and his mother found him in the backyard running hose water into an anthill and laughing as he did it. He’d felt a certain giddiness in watching that hole flood and all the ants come scurrying out, most of them only to drown where they stood. His mother had never liked the ants in the yard, so, at first, he couldn’t understand why she’d been so angry with him. But she turned the water off, yanked him by the arm and dragged him back into the house. He remembered she’d had real tears in her eyes while she scolded him harshly for what he had done, spouting off about how those ants were only going about the business of being ants and didn’t deserve such cruel treatment.

“You’re a good boy, Jeremiah,” she’d told him. It felt more like a plea than a character assessment. “You’re a good boy.”

He wondered now what kind of a mark it would leave on his soul once he killed the clone. What, exactly, was it he’d be killing? After all, he considered, wasn’t this thing just going about his business of being Jeremiah? He didn’t know he was a clone. It wasn’t his fault. In fact, he thought, the clone might be the