The Mirror Man, стр. 72
“It’s too risky. If anyone finds a cell with my number in it, what’s that going to look like?”
He went over and over the maze-like path from the apartment to the exit doors.
“Right down the hallway, out one set of double doors and into the parking lot,” Jeremiah said. “I know.”
“Two sets of doors, Jeremiah. The second set of doors gets you outside.”
After lunch, Brent paced the floors of the apartment, his brow knitted in worried concentration, and muttered to himself under his breath. It was a far cry from the carefree, whiskey-fueled confidence of the night before.
“If this is going to work,” he told Jeremiah. “It has to be exact, down to detail. Nothing gets left to chance. We need to go over it again. What time do we start arguing?”
“At two-thirty in the goddamn morning. And I’m going to need some sleep before that. Or a few pots of coffee.”
“And where do you aim the knife?”
“Right shoulder. Away from the neck.”
“Jesus, Jeremiah! Left shoulder! I’m right-handed!”
“Right,” Jeremiah said. “I mean, correct. Your left shoulder. Got it.”
“Let’s play IF.”
Jeremiah sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Can’t we just keep the blender going?”
“I’d rather play the game,” he insisted, and had his headset on before Jeremiah even sat down on the couch.
“This is ridiculous,” Jeremiah told him.
“We can practice our moves,” Brent insisted, handing over a headset and glaring at him.
Jeremiah sat down on the couch and put his gear on. “Fine,” he acquiesced. “We’ll practice.”
If Scott were watching, he’d see only two men nursing massive hangovers and playing an inexplicably long video game. They were meticulous about keeping their eyes to the screen so as not to give anything away with their faces.
You know what to do when Mel takes you to your house? Brent typed.
I wait in bushes until clone opens garage door in the morning. About 7 when door opens, I go in. Hit kill switch to bring door down. Kill clone. Call you.
Camera!
Sorry. Hit camera above my right shoulder. Then door. Got it.
That’s important!
I know!
Hit ViMed camera!
I know! Okay! Shut up already!
Okay. You ready for it?
Sort of...except stabbing you. That’s tough.
Don’t worry. That’s why we’re in here. Let’s practice.
Fucking stupid, Jeremiah typed. It wasn’t the practicing he was worried about.
Humor me. Let’s go.
For an hour or more, their avatars battled in hand-to-hand combat amid the scream of AI grenades and mortar blasts. Jeremiah was expert, by now, at manipulating Clyde’s movements and deftly had him overpowering Brent’s man with high karate kicks and undercut punches that nearly knocked his head off. He couldn’t, of course, add any such ninja-style flourishes in real life, but it felt cathartic to do it in-game. He could wield the virtual knife pretty well, too, after a while, unsheathing it from a halter at his side and twirling it, baton-style, in one fluid move. But the first few times he stabbed it, he killed Brent’s avatar, once actually severing the entire arm, and the simulation would pause and start all over again.
Oops, he typed. Sorry!
Another time, Brent’s guy kicked Clyde’s feet out from under him and ended up with the knife at Clyde’s throat.
Stop that, Jeremiah typed. That won’t happen.
I’m going to fight back.
Eventually, he figured out that he needed to overpower Brent’s avatar first with a few well-placed punches, get him to the ground, pin him there and go for one quick jab in the shoulder. No fancy moves, just a series of careful actions. They practiced it over and over until Brent seemed satisfied and finally took off his headset.
“There!” Jeremiah said triumphantly, adrenaline still pumping. “Satisfied? Had enough yet? I can beat you every time.”
“You say that like it’s going to be easy or something,” Brent said. “Don’t get cocky about this, Jeremiah. Remember, you’re not Clyde. You are a middle-aged marketing manager from Massachusetts. You’re not a warrior. It won’t be that easy.”
By early evening, Jeremiah found himself lying on the bed, unable to sleep. His mind was racing, Brent’s pacing in the kitchen sounded like line-dancing, and he was seriously doubting whether he’d be able to take a knife to his only friend once the time came. Stabbing him a hundred times over in virtual reality was one thing. In the real world, there was blood and guilt. Brent had reassured him that he’d “take care of it.” Jeremiah had no idea what that meant.
He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He practiced the breathing exercises that he’d used so long ago, when he was first connected to the clone through the Meld. It had helped him then to stave off the terror of being sucked into the dark emptiness of his double’s blank mind. It didn’t work for him now. The moment he began to relax, new questions cropped up to trouble him: Where would he bury the body of the clone? What if the clone screamed and a neighbor came over at the wrong moment? What would happen once he took over his life again? How was he supposed to just seamlessly ease back into a life he hadn’t actually been living for six months? And how was he going to handle Parker? What if Parker noticed something was different?
After a few futile hours, Jeremiah got out of bed and went into the kitchen to find Brent putting two low-fat frozen dinners in the oven. His attempt to get a beer from the fridge was met with quick disapproval.
“Don’t start drinking now, Jeremiah. We still have a few hours to go. You need your wits.”
“Look who’s suddenly found his inner teetotaler? You’re right, though,” he said, and took a bottled water