Author: David C. Nutt
I remember the day as if it were only yesterday. I walked into the room. Adrian was adjusting a painting- Starry Night by Van Gough. It was breath taking! “Is it the original?” It wasn’t a stupid question. That’s how powerful Adrian was. I also noticed his antique Colt Whitneyville Walker was broken down for cleaning on his desk.
Adrian smiled “Yes… and no. It’s a copy. One that is accurate down to the molecular level so it is indistinguishable from the original.”
It was my turn to smile. “But it’s still a copy.”
Adrian shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter? I had this one made to prove a point to friends 22 years ago, part of an ongoing debate about immortality.”
The epiphany washed over me at that precise moment. It was like a cold wave of effluent trying to drown me. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m your clone?”
Adrian spun around “Bravo Michael! You truly have exceeded all expectations. I must remember to do something nice for your tutors… a villa in Tuscany or Fiji seems appropriate, one for each. And there they can enjoy themselves in perfect luxury until-“
“Until they die under mysterious circumstances.”
“My, my, my, aren’t we the genius!” Adrian pulled up a chair and began assembling the Walker. I could see he had six rounds set out. I knew these were real. I knew no good would come of it.
Adrian loaded the pistol. “Yes. You truly are a genius. You were the proof of concept. There’s two more of you in the tanks in the south wing of the house in the sub-basement. My brain will be implanted into one of your “brothers”, the other will be destroyed and this old body, which won’t survive the transfer anyway, goes away and I inherit everything from myself.”
I looked at the door. Adrian stood and leveled the revolver at me. “Don’t bother running Michael, you won’t make the door in time.”
I sighed. “Wouldn’t think of it.” Instead, I launched myself at Adrian. He fired once and the bullet creased my cheek. My body hit the old man dead center mass, one hand closed around his wrist, the other pulled down his elbow so the pistol dropped under his jaw, and the second shot rang out.
I straightened the painting. It dominated my downtown office. Around it were pictures of my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Absentmindedly, as I looked at the brushwork I scratched the scar that neatly crossed my cheek. I could have had it removed but I’ve grown rather attached to it, like the painting. Besides, the scar makes it easier to tell me apart from my younger brothers, so much alike we’re often accused of being triplets… carbon copies of each other. Kind of like the painting. Van Gogh’s Starry Night. A copy- perfect down to the molecular level… except for the blood spatter in one corner.