Page 19 of Double Take

He loved how they could joke around and how she seemed comfortable with him. He should stop stressing and go with the flow, let her set the pace, be there to be whatever she needed. Stop worrying about the future and enjoy the present, focus on her pretty eyes, her fragrance, her sensual voice.

Her long, delicate fingers gripped the steering apparatus surely and capably. Personal transports on Earth operated on autopilot. A manual override allowed people to fly or drive thevehicle—if they knew how, which few did anymore. “You’re a good pilot,” he said. “Driver, I guess, since the wheels are on the ground.”

“First time!”

“You haven’t done this before?” Alarm shot through him.

She laughed, a sound of such gaiety and lightness, he’d gladly risk his life to hear it.

“Just kidding. I took a crash course in driving when I got here.”

“No pun intended.”

“No pun intended. Amity and I needed transportation. A neighbor offered us this vehicle for a good price.”

He hoped they’d gotten a steal. Rust appeared to be the glue holding the contraption together.

“Having a vehicle gives us flexibility to promote All Fired Up. This planet has been a great boon to the business. Pottery sales are much better here than on Earth.”

“I’m happy for you,” he said. “Your art deserves recognition.”

“Again, thanks for coming with me. It’s hard to man a booth solo.”

“Happy to help.” Wild horses couldn’t have kept him away.

As she drove, level terrain became rolling hills, the narrow road winding up and over, down and around. Rain continued to fall, beating a tattoo on the metal roof. The rhythmic drumming and vehicle’s sway was soothing, almost mesmerizing.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” she said.

“Can’t promise an answer, but go ahead,” he replied flippantly.

“What is it like being a clone? Did you always know what you were?”

Did I know I was created to be a copy?He stifled the ever-present bitterness and replied, “Yes. My future was predetermined. As soon as I could function, they trained me tostep in. You could say I have a master’s degree in Hammond. It started before I was born. Recordings of his voice—speaking, shouting, laughing—were piped into the gestation tank. Then, afterward, I watched endless vids. Acting coaches tutored me. I had to memorize factoids, dates, names relevant to him, and they tested me on the material. I got judged on how well I walked, talked, sneezed, ate, laughed like him.

“While he still lived, I spoke with him at length, sometimes shadowing him at HQ. There was a practicum, a final exam, in which separately we interacted with other operatives in a skit observed by a jury of fellow operatives. They had to decide who was the original and who was the copy.”

He let out a bark of ironic laughter. “I did Hammond better than Hammond. Seven out of the twelve chose me as the real deal.” Until that time, his progenitor had been mockingly accepting, referring to Bragg as “mini-Mark,” and treating Operation Double Take as a lark. After the practicum, Hammond changed his behavior and manner of speaking to undermine the impersonation. However, Bragg knew him too well to be fooled.

He was not without empathy. Having an understudy waiting offstage served as a constant reminder Dark Ops did not expect you to survive. They didn’t expect Bragg to live. Hammond 3.0 already floated in the gestation tank. Nobody was indispensable.

She shot him a sideways glance. “You do Mark better than Mark? Show me.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Please.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

The vehicle labored up a hill.

“Please.” Her gaze turned pleading.

He could deny her nothing.

He spread his legs wider, claiming more of the seat, his posture assuming an arrogant confidence. He curled his lips into a smirk and lobbed a dismissive glance in her direction. “Hey, babe. Been a long time,” he drawled in a bored tone.

Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. “Jesus!”

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