Author: Hugh J. O’Donnell

I woke up in a hospital room that smelled like bleach and bad coffee. There was a woman sitting at the foot of my bed. Emma, my agent. But something seemed not quite right.
“What happened?” I managed. Emma stood and came closer. She looked terrible.
“You were in a car accident,” she said. “What do you remember?”
“My name is Philip Reuben. I’m a writer. You’re my agent, Emma Glazier.”
“Can you tell me the year? What’s the last thing you remember?” It felt weird to have these questions come from my agent instead of a doctor, but Emma always took charge of a situation.
“2025. I remember signing the contract for the fantasy series. You said there was a clause, something new. The publisher wanted me to get a medical checkup. I remember the MRI.”
Emma nodded. She made that face that meant she had bad news and was putting off telling me.
“How bad was it?” I asked. I couldn’t feel any bandages or broken bones. I was just a little sore. I tried to lift the sheet, and something was wrong with my hand. I stared at it for a moment, confused.
The scar on my knuckles from when I was a kid was gone. I turned my wrist over and stared at the spot where I should’ve had a tattoo of a fountain pen crossed with a feather. The skin was as smooth and pink as if it had never been there. Which I suspected was the case. I stared up at Emma, searching for an explanation, horrified that I already guessed it.
“You were in a car accident,” she repeated. “A bad one. You, you…”
“I didn’t make it, did I?” Emma shook her head.
“Those medical tests?” I asked
“It was in the contract. I never thought they’d exercise the right. I mean, it felt like…”
“Science fiction?” I asked.
“I never thought they would clone you. The technology was supposed to be years away.”
“What year is it?” I asked.
“It’s 2032. The fourth book just made the bestseller lists. You were on a book tour. Your rental car spun out on a mountain road. There wasn’t anything they could do.”
“But why bring me back? Why not just hire someone to finish the series for me?”
“They couldn’t decipher your notes. You’re a technological breakthrough, you know? You’re the world’s first cloned author.”
“Who knows?” I asked.
“The publisher hasn’t released a public statement. Your funeral was last week.”
I fought to keep despair and panic out of my voice. I was a clone, a clause on a publishing contract, and nobody else knew I was even alive. I looked up at Emma. She’d never steered me wrong before. “What do I do?”
She gripped my hand, and my agent’s face settled back into a more familiar, fiery expression. “I’ll get you out of here. But for now, you’ll need to emulate Scheherazade.”
“I always did write best under a deadline,” I said. “When do I start?”