Constance (Constance #1)(12)

“Welcome back, Constance.” Laleh was trimming Con’s fingernails quickly and methodically.

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Constance.” Laleh nodded, clipping the last nail.

“How did . . . die?”

“We don’t have time for that right now, Constance.”

“How?” Con demanded.

Laleh glanced nervously at the door. “I swear I don’t know. Your biometric chip registered a death event twenty hours ago. The company doesn’t wait to find out the details; the download begins automatically. You know that. We have to go now, Constance. Can you walk?”

“. . . haven’t tried,” Con stuttered. “Why can’t . . . say . . . ?”

“Can you do something for me, Constance?” Laleh said.

Con nodded rather than risk more stuttering. She had no idea why Laleh kept saying her name over and over. It had a ritualistic quality to it like a mantra or a meditative chant, and each time Laleh repeated her name, it sounded like a bell in her head, soothing and clear.

“Tell me who you are, Constance,” Laleh said.

Con had expected some kind of physiological test. “That’s all?”

“That’s all, Constance.”

Con opened her mouth but couldn’t even force out the first syllable. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She shut her mouth rather than leave it hanging open stupidly.

“Con. Stance,” Laleh prompted, breaking the name into more manageable pieces.

It didn’t help.

“I . . . am . . . ,” Laleh said, nodding along. She waited a moment and prompted her again.

On the third try, Con said it with her. Haltingly, like a rusted-out engine.

“I . . . am . . .”

“Good job. Now the rest,” Laleh encouraged. “Constance.”

Con could have sung “Station to Station” in the time it took her to say her own name. It was humiliating, and she was flushed and embarrassed when she was done.

Laleh smiled encouragingly. “Good. Good, that’s a great start. I want you to practice on your own: ‘I am Constance D’Arcy.’ Work up to ten repetitions in a row.”

“What’s wrong with . . .” The word me caught in her throat.

“Personal pronouns. Names. They’re difficult in the early going. We’re not sure why, but you need to practice thinking about yourself as Constance Ada D’Arcy.”

Con wanted to tell Laleh that was stupid. That she knew exactly who she was. But the words refused to cooperate. Her frustration must have shown on her face, because Laleh squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

“It’ll be alright, Constance. Everyone goes through this at first. Revival is not as seamless as they make it sound in the brochures.” As she talked, Laleh helped her into a sitting position and began unhooking the IVs. “But in a couple of days, things will get easier. I promise. Your new brain grew twenty-four years’ worth of neural pathways in a very short period of time. The mind-body relationship is incredibly delicate, and even with drug therapies, it’s a massive shock to the system. Ordinarily, we would have a counselor to help you work through it, but there isn’t time now.”

“Why not?” Con asked, afraid of the answer.

“Because if we don’t get you out of here, Dr. Fenton is going to delete you.”

“Delete . . . ?” she stuttered.

“Can you stand up, Constance?” Laleh asked, helping her off the table.

Con didn’t think so, but she found her feet and stood, rocking back and forth. A moment later, her vision filled with gray static and her knees buckled.

Laleh caught her. “It’ll pass. It will pass.”

“Head rush from hell,” Con said woozily as blood pounded in her ears, although to call it a head rush didn’t begin to do it justice. After all, she’d never stood up before. Not in this body.

When her vision cleared, Laleh helped her to a small footlocker, which all of Palingenesis’s clients kept in the event of their untimely download. Like identical twins, clones didn’t share fingerprints with their originals. Instead, the locker required an old-fashioned PIN and a cheek swab to open. Inside was a set of clothes, a key ring with a single fob, a physical copy of Con’s ID, a backup LFD preloaded with her contacts and banking information, and a digital drive with her birth certificate and notarized legal documents proving that she was the clone of Constance Ada D’Arcy. Her new-life starter kit.

Laleh left her to dress and went ahead to scout the hallway. When she returned, Con was struggling to tie her shoelaces. Fine motor function was proving a particular challenge. Laleh knelt at her feet and finished lacing her shoes.

“Why does she want to delete me?” Con asked.

“Because you have eighteen months of lag. That’s so far outside our safe range, we don’t even have reliable data for it. The board is concerned that if they discharge you, and you become”—Laleh paused, searching for a diplomatic way to say it—“unreliable, it’ll be a public-relations nightmare. Palingenesis can’t afford to give anti-cloning advocates any more ammunition.”

That was a lot of information to absorb all at once, but Con knew Laleh was right. In the early days of Palingenesis, there had been incidents of clones experiencing psychotic breaks. A tragic standoff with the Chicago police had ended in a clone murdering his entire family before turning the gun on himself. Right up until the end, he’d insisted that he’d only negotiate with David Lyons. The police tried and failed to convince him that he was, in fact, David Lyons. Critics still pointed to the “Chicago Massacre” as proof of the necessity for a federal moratorium on cloning. Palingenesis had worked tirelessly in the years since to reassure the public that such anomalies were behind them. If the company decided Con put that effort at risk, it would go to any lengths to protect its interests.