A Singular Echo

Reaching out with a tightly muscled right leg Matt shoved off strongly in order to build up speed as he approached the edge of the halfpipe. Making the most of the smooth asphalt of the deserted parking lot, which was great for skateboarding, he ollied over a curb stop with perfect form – unfortunately he failed to notice the branch an errant breeze had blown into his path. The branch was just before the dip leading down into the large open drain culvert which Matt utilized as a halfpipe for his practice sessions. When the front wheels of his Zero skateboard lurched to an abrupt halt against the offending chunk of wood Matt himself was not quite so lucky. The euphoria of completing a successful fifteen-inch ollie was suddenly transformed into a microsecond of “Oh Crap!” fear as his feet left the imagined safe transport of Zero. Zero notwithstanding, gravity took over with a vengeance as Matt flew head over heels with only enough time for instinct to allow him to get his hands under him before he did a major concrete face plant. l

Deciding that he would be better served to relegate his butt to a down position and his head to an up one, Matt rolled over and sat up. Looking at his hands, which were stinging, he noted several scrapes of road rash along his palms and fingers. There was also a new rip in the right knee of his good school jeans – the one’s Mom had paid $45 for just last week. “Damn! Mom’s gonna yell at me again.” The slightly injured boy stuck two painfully scraped fingers into his mouth and sucked momentarily on the coppery tanginess of blood. Turning his gaze to the sky where an errant cloud was just drifting past the afternoon sun, Matt started to laugh. “Guess this is why she’s always on my case not to skate without my helmet and pads.” Knowing that his Mom was also going to be upset that he had come out to this old empty warehouse complex alone again, Matt had the fleeting thought that maybe he could get someone else to pretend to be him this week – like in that movie Mom loved called ‘The Parent Trap’. Well, she wouldn’t be home from work for about another thirty to forty-five minutes so at least she wasn’t looking for him yet.

Checking his belt clip, the boy was relieved to see that his cell phone appeared to be undamaged. Flipping it open he checked for signal and noted that it was cool – six bars to talk to Mars. Scrambling up the six-foot curved incline of the culvert wall, Matt retrieved his skateboard and started trudging toward the hole in the chain link fence which was his portal to this skateboarding paradise.

Thoughts of bragging to his best friend Wayne tomorrow in school about his ollie and kick flip successes were interrupted by the unexpected sound of a car engine nearby. Realizing that the engine sounds had been getting louder for the last thirty seconds or so and meant that someone was actually approaching the gate to the warehouse complex, Matt ducked behind the nearest building. Walking along, one hand absently trailing along the warmth of the aluminum sided wall to his right, Matt approached the far corner and, placing his back against the wall, peeked around. Sure enough, there was a black four door BMW idling at the entrance. Whoever was driving it must have an official reason to be here since one had to have a four-digit code in order to activate the roll-away gate which was squeakily retracting to one side in order to allow the vehicle access. Matt was surprised that the gate, which he had never before seen open, even worked anymore. From his vantage point all Matt could tell about the driver was that he appeared to be a white older guy maybe in his forties or so. As the protesting gate reached the apex of its journey the BMW rolled through and the driver turned to his left.

Curiosity warred briefly with the need to get home before Mom could notice his absence. Knowing he should split this scene, especially since, Mom aside, he was also trespassing on private property, Matt nevertheless allowed his wayward size 10 ½ teenaged feet to carry him back along the wall of the building toward where the Beamer had headed.

Scooting over to the wall of the opposite building, Matt peeked around. The guy from the Beamer was just walking up to the door of Warehouse C. Sure enough, the man appeared to be about forty to forty-five years old, thin and tall like a whooping crane, wearing a long-sleeved cream colored dress shirt tucked into black slacks and shiny black dress shoes. In one hand the man carried a metallic briefcase which shimmered in the sunlight. Fishing out a key with his opposite hand the man inserted it into the knob and pushed the heavy door open slightly. With a quick left to right perusal of the empty lot, the stranger ducked through the door which closed with an audible snick.

In all the time Matt had been sneaking into this complex to practice skateboarding after school and on weekends he had never before seen anyone else actually enter it. There was only one cracked and potholed road heading to the gate and the complex, which had been abandoned for several years now since the local steel factory shut down, was surrounded by empty weed and rock infested fields on all four sides. The closest there had been to incoming traffic was the occasional patrol car pulling up by the gate for a quick look see. Those cops were easy for an observant fifteen-year-old to avoid since they just glanced around and left. Given the precarious nature of his situation, Matt knew that discretion dictated that he hightail it out of here ASAP. Nevertheless, he crept out from his observation post and, a quick scan of the area verifying that he was once again alone in the parking lot, ducked across the asphalt expanse to the now occupied warehouse.

Setting his skateboard down by his feet, Matt cautiously pushed his nose against the edge of a windowpane to the left of the door where Mr. Beamer had entered. The glass was grimy with built up dust and the boy used a corner of his shirt to wipe a cleaner spot and peered inside. The front room appeared to be a lobby of sorts with an aging Coca Cola machine along one wall. Papers littered the dusty floor and an old desk canted forlornly on three legs to the right side. A light glowed through an open door opposite the window Matt was peering through. Reaching over with one damp palm Matt tentatively tested the knob. Sure enough, undoubtedly counting on the remotely abandoned area to ensure his privacy, Mr. Beamer had neglected to lock the door behind him. Wondering if his cat Morris would loan him one of his nine lives should he need it, Matt gently turned the knob and, praying it wouldn’t squeal, pushed the door open. Holding his breath, certain that the man would hear his pounding heart, Matt ducked inside and eased the door closed behind him. Through the light of the window combined with that filtering in from the other room, Matt could see Mr. Beamer’s footprints where they had tracked a path through the accumulated dust and detritus. Patting his cell phone for the comfort of knowing he had contact to the outside should he need help, Matt crept across the wooden planked floor to the opposite doorway. His hands, which he had placed along the wall next to the open doorway, stirred a puff of dust which unerringly aimed for the boy’s nostrils. Painfully suppressing the sudden urge to sneeze, Matt slowly slid his head to the right until he could peek with one hazel eye into the open space beyond.

Intent on his own business, Mr. Beamer was unaware of his observer. The man was standing next to a strange machine in the middle of the large room. Around the room there were various old crates and boxes stacked haphazardly – some of which were standing open, trailing wisps of Styrofoam peanuts and/or shredded newspapers mute testimony to their discarded status. The metallic briefcase, now open, sat on a small rolling table next to where Mr. Beamer stood perusing the cabinet-like machine. Matt could see that the briefcase was padded on the inside and appeared to contain, instead of the expected notepads, papers and pens, some type of little bottles recessed into form fitting spots in the padding. For his part, Mr. Beamer, back to his observer, was intently punching buttons on a panel which extended horizontally out from the front of the machine. Noting that his estimate of Mr. Beamer’s size had placed the man at about 6’2” then the machine he was working on stood about seven feet high and four feet wide. The front of it was an opaque smoky color, almost but not quite see through. There was a panel of five lights running from just above the extruding control panel to about a foot below the top. As Matt watched, the lights in turn flicked on starting with the top one. Each cycled rapidly through a rainbow of colors before settling to a softly glowing yellow.

Apparently happy with the result of his manipulations, Mr. Beamer turned to the briefcase. Reaching with one long fingered hand, he extricated a small bottle of dark liquid. Unscrewing the top, which appeared have a medicine dropper attached to it like the eardrop medicine Mom kept in the bathroom cabinet, Mr. Beamer held it over the control panel he had been messing with and squeezed the bulb. Time seemed to freeze for an eternal millisecond as a drop of liquid hung tenaciously onto the bottom of the dropper as if afraid to injure itself in a fall. With an imagined ‘PLOP’, though inaudible from Matt’s location but which nevertheless sent a zing across his quivering ear drums, time unfroze. As the liquid contacted the surface of the panel, the lights began once again to cycle through the various color spectrums. Aside from a soft vibrating hum which Matt could feel more than hear, the lights appeared to be the only initial indicator that anything was occurring. As Matt watched, Mr. Beamer replaced the stopper and returned the bottle to its padded receptacle.

Returning his gaze to the humming cabinet, Matt could make out through the opaque front of it a vague shape beginning to coalesce inside. It was kind of like watching a movie where someone approaches the hero through a screen of smoke or fog, their form slowly growing in size and solidity as they approached.

A sudden case of nerves shredding his ability to control his breathing, Matt pulled his head back for a second and took a deep breath through his nose. Placing one hand over his chest, he felt the rapid staccato palpitations of his pounding heart. Something weird was definitely happening in there. Reaching unconsciously for his cell phone, Matt briefly considered calling either his mom or maybe the police. Only the fear of Mr. Beamer hearing stopped him. Imagination running to the paranoid side, Matt pictured the stick thin form of Mr. Beamer stealthily creeping up on the opposite side of the wall against which he leaned, probably armed with either a syringe of anesthetic or maybe even a gun. Attempting to focus his hearing, Matt stealthily moved his head to the side once more until he could again peer at the strange happenings in the next room.

Mr. Beamer, thankfully, had not moved. Standing vigil over the humming machine, the man idly drummed fingers on the edge of the roll away table. As Matt watched wide eyed the swirling lights on the cabinet front one by one settled on a solid color – this time a reddish pink. When the last light finally ceased its swirling ascent through the visible spectrum Mr. Beamer ceased his nervous drumming and, rubbing hands together in typical movie villain glee, reached out to touch a palm against the bottom light.

As the man’s flesh made contact with the glowing point of light, the cabinet front began swinging open along a heretofore unnoticed edge. Fears of discovery forgotten for the nonce, unable to tear his eyes from the unfolding drama, Matt stared at the machine in fearful wonder. Would some hulking monster step forth from its bowels? A vampire or werewolf, possibly an archdemon from the tenth level of hell – it’s evil set to wreak havoc on the realm of mortal men? Rapt fascination held hypnotic sway as the boy watched the door creep slowly open on silently invisible hinges.

Just as the door reached the part of it’s trek where Matt was about to get a good view of the cabinet’s interior and its mysterious occupant, Mr. Beamer stepped in front of it. Damn! Just like in a monster movie, someone was always blocking view of the creature so you couldn’t get a good look.

Mr. Beamer extended his right hand, palm up, in obvious invitation to whatever creature inhabited his Mad Doctor’s creation machine. As Matt watched, a foot - bare, pink, and apparently perfectly human – stepped it’s reticent form from the confines of the cabinet. The foot was followed, at the urging of Mr. Beamer, by the form of… Holy Crap! It was Mrs. Moysello, his English teacher! And she was naked! Matt could actually see her breasts – nipples! and, damn!, her pubic hair…Everything. Mrs. Moysello was a young teacher, twenty-six if Matt remembered properly, and kept her lithe form in good physical shape. Long brown hair, usually done up in a severe bun, flowed down to about the middle of her back. What the hell was going on here? Mouth suddenly parched as dry as if he had been trekking across a blazing desert without water in mid afternoon, Matt licked his lips and tried to swallow. Tearing his gaze from the rather more interesting portions of Mrs. Moysello’s anatomy, Matt focused on her face. The woman’s normally alert and smiling face with its sloped nose and pointed chin was strangely blank. Mrs. Moysello’s eyes appeared unfocused and, well, vaguely empty. Like the old adage of the lights are on but nobody’s home.

For his part, Mr. Beamer was also visually inspecting the woman - rather like a rancher inspecting a prized piece of cattle before the state fair. Apparently satisfied, Mr. Beamer reached out and, grasping the unresisting woman by an elbow, led her a couple of feet to one side. As the two moved puffs of dust rose into the air to circle aimlessly in the flickering light before settling back. Mr. Beamer returned his attention to the cabinet and briefcase. Mrs. Moysello stood where he had placed her, for all the world like an android whose power switch was set to ‘OFF’ – the only sign that she was alive was the rise and fall of her nicely endowed chest.

Scenarios, each crazier than the last, raced through the boys mind as he watched Mr. Beamer repeat the process with another vial. This time the cabinet produced a light-haired man, about late twenties, physically imposing with a well built chest and arms above a thin waist. Matt tried not to focus any lower. Perhaps Mr. Beamer was actually a mad scientist from another planet intent on replacing the people of Earth with cloned alien replacements like in that late 1970’s movie ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ with Donald Sutherland – only this time without Pods. Surfacing from the vortex of ideas came an errant memory of Mom telling him that the Sutherland version was a remake of an even older black and white movie from 1956. Shrugging this tangent off as irrelevant, Matt continued to sift through possibilities, trying vainly to come up with a logical explanation for the patently impossible. Meanwhile, Mr. Beamer continued his work, producing a line of nude unresponsive people to one side of the machine. Matt was pretty sure the sixth person was the afternoon clerk from the 7-11 store he occasionally stopped by on his way home.

Suddenly, a more believable scenario began to worm it’s way up through the core of his brain. Clones. The people from the cabinet were clones of people in town. This had to be like that newer movie, what was it called? Oh yeah! ‘The Island’ with Ewan McGregor. That had been a cool flick! This guy was probably creating clones of people with the end idea being that they would be available for organ harvesting when the real people got sick. Heck! This could be great. Especially since these clones, unlike the ones in the movie, didn’t seem to be mentally “there.” They were like zombies. Maybe it wasn’t so farfetched after all. Sanity perched precariously on the fence, a foot dangling over on each side, the boys struggling mind latched eagerly onto what his fifteen-year-old brain could conceive as the only logical explanation for all this. The incongruity of such important medical and scientific breakthroughs taking place in an abandoned warehouse in a small Midwest town didn’t quite filter through.

Satisfied for his own immediate part that he had at least solved the mystery of what was happening, Matt maintained his silent vigil until Mr. Beamer had a line of ten naked people, six men and four women, all in excellent apparent physical shape and health, lined up to the left of the cabinet. For their part, the clones just stood there quietly, breath flowing in and out through their nostrils in a ceaseless stream, vacant gazes locked on apparent nothingness. Even though Matt was within their line of sight, not a single clone had even so much as blinked to reveal his presence.

After the tenth clone had been produced, Mr. Beamer returned the final vial to its padded recess and snicked closed the briefcase. Picking it up by the handle he turned to the waiting specimens. Snapping his fingers in Mrs. Moysello’s face, Mr. Beamer gestured for her to follow him. Turning obediently, the line of clones following as if they were on a tether, Mrs. Moysello followed the thin short haired figure towards another door across from the one where Matt kept silent vigil.

When the last nude clone, the 7-11 clerk, disappeared through the opposite door it closed behind him with a dully audible thunk that carried across to Matt’s quivering eardrums. Matt supposed that Mr. Beamer had probably closed it as the clone didn’t seem capable of that type of conscious thought.

Shifting his body on feet tingling with the threat of going numbly to sleep due to lack of movement and circulation, Matt slid down the wall and sat on the wooden floor, fingers trailing absently in the dust making little whorl patterns as they wandered. Unsure what to do – leave or stay, investigate further or run home – Matt cupped his hands, outer edges of his palms together, around his nose and mouth and closed his eyes a moment trying to think rationally. Deciding that some discretion was at least called for he unclipped the Cingular cell phone from his belt, wincing as the snap scratched across his wounded fingers. After leaning over to peer once more around the doorjamb and verify that he was still alone, he flipped the phone open and rapidly dialed home. After four rings – each of which seemed to take half an eternity to follow the last – his mom answered the phone, breathless as if she had just run in to answer it.

“Matt? Where are you? I just got here. You should be home.”

Whispering, his empty hand cupped around his mouth to muffle his voice, Matt said “Mom. You won’t believe what’s going on…”

“What Matt? Are you okay? What’s going on?” A note of worry crept into his mother’s tone.

“I’m fine Mom. I’m at the old warehouses down from the factory.”

“Haven’t I told you not to go there? Especially alone. You could get hurt or even arrested.”

Exasperation lending an edge to his voice Matt said “Yes Mom, I know. Listen, this is important. There’s something really weird going on here. There’s this guy and…”

"Guy?! What guy? What is going on Matt?”

“I’m trying to tell you Mom.” Silently, Matt voiced “sheesh” to himself and counted to three before continuing. “There’s a guy here and he’s got some type of machine. It’s a clone machine. This guy is making duplicates of people.”

“Matt, what are you babbling about? Clones? Duplicating people? Is this some kind of joke?”

“No Mom! Of course not. I’m telling you, this guy came in here and he’s in the warehouse. There’s a machine that he’s using to make copies of people from town. He made a copy of My English teacher.”

“Mrs. Moysello? He made a copy of Mrs. Moysello?”

“Yes. And others. Ten people. I know I’ve seen a couple of the others before around town and one is the clerk at the 7-11. The guy that works there in the afternoons.”

“Matt. That’s about enough of this nonsense. You get home right now or, so help me God, I’ll ground you for so long you won’t see the light of day until you’re eighteen.”

“Mom! I’m not kidding! It’s all … Oh never mind. I’m gonna call the cops. Someone has to figure out what’s going on here.”

“Matt, don’t you hang up on…” The hum of an open but disconnected line cut off Ellen Harper in mid rant.

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Staring in disbelief at the quietly humming phone cradled in her hand, Ellen ran the conversation with her son back in her mind. Matt had never been one to make up stories before and certainly not such outlandish nonsense as this. Cloning machine indeed! Something strange was going on in any case. With an exasperated sigh she set the phone back into the charging cradle and picked up her purse. Dinner preparations would have to wait a little longer. Fishing out her car keys on the way, the worried mother headed out the front door. Clambering behind the wheel of her beat up cavalier, Ellen turned the key. As the engine started with its usual klunk and sputter, she dug out her cell phone and dialed the number for the local police.

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“911 Emergency, do you need Police, Fire, or Medical Assistance?” came the slightly tinny female voice of the dispatcher.

“Police!” whispered Matt urgently, simultaneously leaning over once more to verify that Mr. Beamer had not re-entered the next room and was not at that very moment creeping up on him.

“Where do you need the police at sir?”

“The old warehouse complex off of Beacher Street, south of the steel factory.”

“What is the nature of the emergency there sir?”

“There’s a man here and he’s…”

“Yes? What is the man doing?”

"This will sound crazy I know, but he’s making clones of people.”

On her end of the phone conversation telecommunicator Phyllis Silversteen rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Oh lord, another nut! Just what I needed! Catching the eye of her supervisor she raised her left hand and swirled her pointer finger in slow small circles next to her ear in the universal symbol to indicate that she had a looney-tunes on the phone. The dispatch supervisor shrugged and answered the next ringing line.

“What’s your name son?”

Whispering frantically the boy on the line said “Matt. Matt Harper.”

“How old are you son?”

“Fifteen. What’s that got to do with anything? Listen, there’s a guy here and he’s…”

“Matt are you aware that making prank calls to 911 is a crime?”

“What? This isn’t a prank call. I’m telling you there’s a guy here and …”

“I know. He’s cloning people. Son, are you on any medications? Or possibly taking some type of drugs?”

“No!” hissed Matt frantically. Exasperation raising his blood pressure to the point where his pulse pounded so loudly in his ears that he was certain Mr. Beamer would hear it even across two rooms, Matt hissed “Just send some cops to the warehouses. Please!” and hung up the phone. Leaning back against the wall Matt cradled his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ!” Just as he was about to reclip his phone to his belt it rang. The bird whistle ring tone he had it set to sounded like the tolling of his death knell. Frantically flipping open the phone he glanced at the LED. It was the police. “Please just send some cops” he whispered into the transmitter. Flipping closed the phone he set it to silent mode, forgetting in his anxiety to activate the vibrate alert.

Taking a deep breath, Matt tried to calm his racing heart. Still hearing no further activity from the next room he slowly regained his feet. Absently wiping dirt from his hands onto the seams of recently new jeans, Matt peeked around the corner again. The next room remained empty of all but dusty boxes and the clone machine. Several thoughts flitted across his frantic mind: Damn! Mom thinks I’m playing jokes and the cops think I’m on drugs! I guess it’s up to me to try and figure this out. What was it I said about someone taking my place at home this week?

Gathering his courage, Matt slipped around the corner and into the cloning room. As stealthily as he could he crept up behind a stack of boxes to the left of the door. Ducking down behind the crates he made his way, step by wary step, toward the door through which Mr. Beamer and his surreal followers had disappeared. Reaching the door, Matt placed one palm, damp with nervous perspiration, against the wood and leaned his head in. The smooth grained wood felt cool against his hot ear. Listening closely, trying to distinguish outside noises from the frantic pounding of his own blood roaring in his ear canal, Matt didn’t hear anything. All seemed deathly quiet. After about ten seconds Matt tentatively grasped the knob and slowly turned it, certain at any second that one of the clones or possibly an alien monster on the other side of the door would wrench it from his grasping hand. When the feared incident failed to occur, Matt very slowly and gently pushed on the door. Still nothing untoward occurred – no alien tentacles writhed through the narrow opening to slither around his ankle or grab his throat – no inhumanly strong clone hand wrenched the door open. Swallowing the bile threatening to surge up from his roiling acidy stomach, Matt pushed the door a little further and snaked his head in.

Nothing. No sign of the ten nude clones. No sign of the whip thin beak-nosed Mr. Beamer the Clone Master in his dress clothes and black shoes. Roving his eyes around the room, Matt noted the disturbed dust on the floor indicating the passage of multiple bare feet, but not the accompanying feet themselves. Eyes following the trail of dust still eddying in whorls in the slight breeze from a black painted window cracked slightly open on the right wall, Matt’s vision was led to a rectangular platform of some sort in the center of the room. The footsteps seemed to head to the platform and … stop. The platform itself was about six feet on a side and about six to eight inches in height. It looked like some type of smooth grayish plastic. Allowing his perplexed gaze to wander on past the empty platform, Matt noted another door in the far wall by the left corner. In the absence of any other possible explanation, the boy assumed that the clone posse must have continued through this room and into another through that door.

Withdrawing his head Matt silently drew closed the door. Turning, he allowed his gaze to rove back over the room in which he stood. Unerringly his sight tracked to the clone cabinet. Whispers of subconscious and unheeded advice urgently told the boy to “Run! Hide! Get out!” but his body, seemingly of its own volition, drifted toward the sinister machine.

Stepping up to the cabinet which Mr. Beamer had closed after the tenth and last clone had stepped forth from it, Matt haltingly raised a hand and ran it over the smooth surface of the door. The opaque material felt almost like glass but didn’t seem as breakable somehow. There was a bit of residual warmth that felt slightly painful against his scraped fingers, still recovering from their encounter with the unyielding concrete of the culvert outside. Turning his attention to the lights and, at their base, the control panel, Matt tried to take it all in. Raising his left hand, Matt ran it up the side of the machine, across the door and onto the bottom light. As he leaned forward, bated breath catching, he unconsciously raised his other hand and rested it for balance on the extruding panel below the lights.

As his freshly scraped palm made contact with the panel the machine emitted a hum. Jumping back, Matt darted his frantic gaze left and right. Nothing! Releasing pent breath in a whoosh of relief, Matt returned his attention to the clone machine. The row of lights was busily flashing through the spectrum and, as he watched, the top light settled into a steady reddish pink glow followed shortly by the other four. Inside the cabinet, through the opaque doorway, Matt could vaguely see a human shaped figure.

Raising his palm, Matt raked his frightened gaze across it. There were the tell-tale scrapes, fresh wounds still tinged red. Frantic hazel eyes jumped in their sockets, alternately locking on the still closed door of the clone machine and the lines of reddish scratches marring his palm. Haltingly, excitedly certain and yet scared to death of what awaited in the cabinet, Matt reached out and carefully, ready to jerk back at the slightest untoward feeling, placed his hand on the bottom light as he had seen Mr. Beamer the Mad Clone Master do.

Breath rasping in and out of lungs crushed by a tensely tightened abdomen, Matt stepped back. Silently, the door of the clone machine began swinging open. Closing his eyes, Matt watched a whirling vortex of starry vistas as a galaxy of comets and stars flashed across the dim blackness behind his scrunched eyelids. Nostrils flaring with each gulp of blessed life sustaining oxygen, Matt finally pried open his taut eyelids and gazed in rapt wonder at the sight for which he had been steeling himself. There in the cabinet stood… Matthew David Harper. Five foot eight, slim but with a healthy tan, and …. Nude. Perfect in every detail that Matt could see, even down to the fresh scars on the palms. Mouth open, Matt stared at his own naked self in absolute wonder. Obviously, the catalyst that caused the cloning mechanism to work was blood. Human blood.

“So, what do you think?”

Heart, lungs, and various other anatomical organs suddenly did simultaneous kick flips inside Matt’s abdomen. Whirling around with adrenaline fueled speed Matt simultaneously back pedaled – right into the unwavering chest of… Matt. Tripping over the clone’s foot where it remained as unmovingly steady as that of a statue, Matt once again found himself in the ignominious position of derriere to the ground staring up in startled befuddlement. Only this time, instead of cloudy sky and beaming sun above, there, for all the world to see, dangling just above Matt’s head was, well, apparently, …, his own penis. Scrambling crab-like on tennis shoe clad feet and hands, wounded palms and fingers scraping painfully against the rough wooden surface of the plank flooring, Matt found himself backed against one edge of the clone cabinet by the still open door. Gathering the shreds of what dignity remained Matt steeled himself and peered around the lightly haired legs of Clone-Matt, right into the amused countenance of Mr. Beamer.

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“Dispatch to 145.”

Reaching for the microphone with one hand as he steered with the other Corporal Don Grissard accidentally knocked over his cup of Circle K coffee, narrowly missing the stack of reports he had spent the last two hours working on. “Damn!” Keying up the mike he said, “Go ahead Dispatch.”

“Copy an area check reference possible prank caller.”

“Stand by one moment Dispatch.” Steering the black and white over to the side of the road, Corporal Grissard rolled his eyes at the coffee that was rapidly soaking into the carpet on the passenger side floorboard of the patrol car. Glancing at his watch the cop sighed. Twenty minutes and one report to finish writing in his ten-hour shift and Dispatch had to come up with something stupid to send him on. Rekeying the mike he said “145 to Dispatch, go ahead with the call.”

“Dispatch 145: Respond to the area of the warehouse complex off Beacher Street. We received a call from a fifteen-year-old male stating there was a suspicious person on scene. So far?”

Jotting down the location the cop responded, “So far.”

“Per the boy, a Matt Harper, the 13-P is cloning people in a warehouse.”

Blinking and shaking his head to clear it the exasperated cop rekeyed the mike. “145 Dispatch … Did you say Cloning People?”

“That’s 10-4 145. Cloning.”

“10-4. Sounds like a prank caller or a Signal-Twenty mental case.”

“10-4. That’s our take also but the boys mother… an Ellen Harper … called also and stated she received the same call from her son. She’s enroute to the warehouses also.”

“10-4. I’ll be enroute.” Setting down his notepad which contained the words

WAREHSE’S

TEEN – MATT - 15

CLONES – NUT/PRANK?

ELLEN – MOM – 10-51

the 12-year police veteran turned off the air conditioner, rolled down his window to help dispel the tang of Cinnamon Hazelnut creamer and threw some napkins down on the floorboard. “Jesus Christ! Damn kids and cell phones.”

Ten minutes later, patrol car bouncing in the ever-present potholes along the decaying black top, Corporal Grissard pulled up to the gate leading to the old warehouses. Exiting his car, the cop hitched his laden utility belt more comfortably under his expanding stomach and walked over to the chain link for a look see.

All appeared quiet inside. The only thing moving was the occasional heat shimmer and sunlight reflecting off the few windows that were still intact. The complex – consisting of nine large warehouses in three rows of three - had been empty and for sale for going on three years now, ever since the steel factory had shut down but, if he remembered right, the sergeant had said something in briefing a few days ago about some guy having leased one of the buildings for storage. That was probably who the kid was calling about - Doctor Somebody-Or-Other. The guy had apparently complained since teenagers liked to break in and use the place as a party spot on weekends and such. The kids rarely did more than break a window or two and for a long time there had really been nobody to care. Kids should be smarter than that Patrolman Grissard thought. If they’d leave off with the random vandalism most of the force would be perfectly content to let them have their little party spot as long as no harm came of it. Hell, at least out here it wasn’t bothering the old farts who liked to call 911 every time some kid walked down their street. Turning from the secured gate the cop walked over to the access control key pad and punched in ‘4591#’. The roll-away gate on its rusted chain failed to retract. Exasperated, he punched in the code again, still with no result.

Unlimbering the pac-set radio from his utility belt he pushed the TALK button. “145 to Dispatch.”

“Go ahead 145.”

“I’m on scene at the warehouse. Do we have the code for the gate? It’s either broken or been changed.”

“Stand by 145.”

Crunch of tires on loose gravel and the sound of an approaching engine brought the cops attention back to the roadway. A red cavalier was approaching down the rutted road. The driver appeared to be a white female. No other occupants. This must be the mother. Thinking ‘Here we go,’ Officer Grissard ambled back over to the black and white, leaned his considerable and tired bulk against the trunk, and waited for the probably hysterical mother to pull up.

Ellen Harper pulled behind the police car and got out. Eying the harassed looking policeman she walked over.

“Are you Mrs. Harper?”

“Yes, Officer … Grissard.”

“Corporal Grissard, yes ma’am. Dispatch said your son,” glancing at his notepad, “Matt? …”

“That’s right. Matt Harper. Have you found him?”

“Not yet ma’am. I only arrived about two minutes before you. I was just looking around when I saw you coming. Uhm, Matt apparently called in saying something about some guy in a warehouse here that was, uhh, … cloning people?”

Running one hand across her forehead and over her face to dispel the tiring worry that was stressing her, Ellen Harper said “That’s what he said to me too. I know it doesn’t make any sense but Matt’s not usually the type to make stuff up.” Waving her hand around in small circles as she tried to explain. “Matt likes to come out here and skateboard because there’s a lot of good pavement and also because, no offense, the police and other people don’t harass him so much here.”

Smiling, Officer Grissard absently tucked the flip pad back into his shirt pocket. “I understand Miss Harper. I have a nephew who skateboards. He’s always complaining about how people treat him like a criminal just because he skates on the public sidewalks.” Chuckling, “He says cops seem to think the newest crimewave is ‘Walking While Young.’”

Smiling wanly, Ellen placed one hand horizontally above her eyebrows and looked toward the buildings. Worry evident in her strained tone she said “Can we check inside? Matt sounded really upset when he called. There’s something weird going on.”

“Dispatch is checking on the gate…”

“Dispatch 145” came the tinny voice over the handheld radio.

Holding up a hand to forestall the worried woman he spoke into his radio. “Go ahead to 145.”

“CAD shows code 4591 followed by pound sign.”

“Copy that. That code is inop. Do we have contact info for the property?”

“Files show Metro Leasing Inc. as property owner but there’s no answer at the listed px. Other contact is a Steven Howard, also no answer.”

“10-4. Keep trying. I’ll be out with the boy’s mother on scene. We’ll be on foot checking the area.”

“10-4 145.”

In the background Corporal Grissard heard “Matt! Matt, where are you?”

Replacing the radio in its clip the policeman turned back to the stressed woman. Mrs. Harper had walked over to the gate – her hands were clasped around the silvery metal as if she could physically force her way inside to check on her son. The officer noted that Ellen Harper was medium built – not chunky but not one of those twiggy dieters either. She appeared about 35 to 38 years of age and had what he thought of as “mouse brown” hair cut to the shoulders. Still, she was kind of cute with a pert little nose and the conservative cream-colored pantsuit she wore didn’t hide the fact that her chest was pleasantly filled out. At the moment her features were distorted with worry lines and concern swam in the dark eyes she turned back toward him. “Dispatch says they can’t get ahold of anyone with the code for this gate. We’re gonna have to check around for another way in.”

Placing one hand on his hip he turned an exasperated gaze toward the offending keypad. Figuring that his wife was just going to have to deal with him being late once again he asked, “Do you know how your son gets inside?”

“He said there was a break in the fence by the back corner. I think it’s on the East end over that way.” Waving one hand toward the back left side.

“Okay. I’ll check it out.” Pictures of his bulk – should have stuck with that exercise program Marge had tried to get him on – getting caught a hole in the fence like a rabbit in a trap flashed through the cop’s mind…. Wonderful… loads of fun.

“Should I go around the other way?”

“No. You can either wait here and keep an eye out or, if you’re more comfortable, come with me. I don’t think you should be wandering around here alone, just in case there really is something going on.”

“Then I’ll come with you if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine. First though, can you try calling your son back? See if he can tell us exactly where he is. Maybe we can just get him to come to us."

“I’ve tried several times. He’s not answering.”

“Okay then. Nothing for it then.” With a brief sigh the corpulent officer headed toward the left corner of the fence - knowing that his nicely shined shoes were going to get messed up on account of some little delinquent.

-----------------------------------

“If you’re here to rob me you’ll find precious little. Otherwise, would you like a hand?” Mr. Beamer’s voice was high and thready as if the medium through which it swam was too thin to supply it buoyancy. There was an overtone of amused caution as if the man, while concerned about this juvenile burglar, was still barely suppressing the desire to burst out with a belly laugh.

“I, uh … just came in to … Is there a bathroom in here? I think I may have peed myself.” Matt’s halting attitude combined with his comical pose - peering uncertainly as he was around the bare legs of his own biological double – must have decided Mr. Beamer. Letting out a loud chuckle which caused his scrawny chest to shake, the scarecrow thin man stepped past the nude clone. For all the attention he spared it the clone boy may as well have been merely an adornment - bric-a-brac to be dusted occasionally, but certainly of no consequence. Reaching down toward the cowering boy he proffered a hand.

As if hypnotized Matt’s whirling mind locked out thought and he found himself staring at the hand as if it was a tentacle attached to some alien being. He noted the smooth texture of the unmarred flesh. No work hardened calluses broke the outline of the man’s palm and the fingers, rather than blunt instruments of manual labor, were long and delicate – the fingers of a virtuoso. Tightly clenched toes, sore from attempting to dig splinters from the floor right through his shoes, switched their ineffective backward pedaling to a more positive direction. Avoiding the extended appendage dangling in the air by his face Matt reached out with one shaking hand and gripped the edge of the cabinet door. Trembling legs pushed the terrified teen to a standing position. “Are you going to kill me? I didn’t see anything…”

Lowering his rejected hand back to his side Mr. Beamer frowned slightly. Ignoring Matt’s question he said, “It’s rude not to accept a sincerely extended offer of assistance son.” A chill wind blew through the man’s tone like a cold front - precursor of a major winter storm.

Glancing down sheepishly at his shoes Matt said, “I’m sorry?” in a low questioning voice.

“In any case,” waving a negligent hand toward the nude clone, “I see you’ve had the singular experience of actually meeting yourself, so to say, in the flesh.” A wry smile tugged once again at the lips which were a thin slash of red in a pale face. Turning his penetrating gaze to the nonreactive specimen next to him, Mr. Beamer examined the newest specimen. “By the way, not bad,” he said as he perused the clone’s extant anatomy.

Given the nonviolent nature of Mr. Beamer’s reaction thus far the blood rushing in a torrent of white noise across Matt’s ear drums began to slow to something more closely resembling a normal flow. Wiping his clammy hands on the seams of his jeans he said, “Thanks. I guess.”

Like an avid fan following the path of a tennis serve Mr. Beamer’s gaze darted back to the clothed version. Night dark eyes speared the interloping teen like a javelin piercing his guts, pinning him in place. The warmth of the man’s smile was belied by the lurking calculation swirling in the depths of enlarged pupils. “Now,” wiping his hands together as if rubbing two sticks to start a fire, “just what, pray tell, are you doing here?”

“Well, uh, nothing really. I was just skateboarding in the parking-lot and I saw a light in here and…”

“And you thought you’d upgrade the level of your crime from trespassing on private property to breaking and entering?”

“No sir. At least I didn’t mean to.”

Withdrawing the piercing spear of his flesh rending gaze, Mr. Beamer allowed a modicum of warmth to creep back into his reedy voice. “So, young man, how long have you been in here?”

“I didn’t see anything! I swear.” Matt’s eyes darted left and right like a deer in headlights seeking escape.

“It’s all right son. Calm down.” Only the slight narrowing of Mr. Beamer’s eyes betrayed his disbelief as to the boy’s professions of ignorance. “Are you here alone?”

“Yes sir.” Thoughts of the two calls he had made were ruthlessly repressed. Better to string along and pray that Mom or the cops were on the way. “I just come here after school to skateboard.”

“This is private property you know. I could probably call the police. However, I don’t think we really need to do that.” Eyes narrowing to horizontal slits, “Do we?”

An audible gulp accompanied Matt’s swallow. “No sir. I don’t need the police.”

Clapping his hands together and rubbing them momentarily, Mr. Beamer spread his palms theatrically in front of him like a pastor inviting sinners to redemption. “Fine then. I imagine you’re curious about our nudist friend here. I can attempt to explain if you’ll allow. By the way,” once again extending his right hand, “I’m Doctor Steven Howard. And you are?”

This time Matt reluctantly grasped the proffered hand. “Matt. Matt Harper.”

“Well Matt Harper, meet,” gesturing to the doppelganger, “Matt Harper.”

Awestruck, Matt breathed out a slow breath. “Yeah. This is way cool. So, what is the deal? Are they clones for medical research? Organ harvesting for rich people or something?”

Dr. Howard’s chuckle sent a tremor through his cadaverous body which swayed like a reed in the breeze. “Or something. Tell me, did you see my other friends Matt? I know you were watching longer than you want to admit.”

Dropping his eyes, unable to maintain contact due to guilt, Matt sheepishly replied “Yes I guess I did.” Voice raising towards excitement again he continued “You cloned my English teacher!”

“Ahh, Mrs. Moysello I presume? Quite a specimen. And the other clones of course.”

“Right! Clones. I knew they were clones.” Matt’s eyes lit up like reflected fireworks on Independence Day. Turning from Dr. Howard he began to examine clone Matt more closely. A whimsical fantasy from his childhood swam across the undulating current of his cerebral cortex. Like most kids Matt used to daydream about having – not necessarily a brother – but a duplicate; one on whom all the bad consequences could fall in his place. This train of thought brought to mind visions of the mischievous little Calvin from an old book of comic strips his mom had: ‘Calvin and Hobbes.’ A running theme in the strips had been Little Calvin with his stuffed tiger play pal Hobbes using a cardboard box as a ‘transmorgrifier’ to create a duplicate Calvin that would be responsible for all the bad things in life – things such as eating spinach, cleaning his room and going to school. This would free the real Calvin to play all he wanted and eat desserts without first being forced to swallow something slimy and green. As he perused the duplicate he tracked the clone's vacant gaze. “So why are they like, vacant? Like nobody’s home up there.”

“The clones, as you see, are exact biological replicants of the original DNA donors at the time of,” reaching into his vocabulary bag he picked out “donation of the biological material.”

As the doctor was speaking Matt, curiosity having overcome reticence, walked a slow circle around the nude duplicate. As the boy paced the clone’s eyes tracked his progress but otherwise showed no reciprocal interest in his biological original.

“Their minds are, for lack of a better term, like a blank slate. They’re physically the same as their original counterparts but they have no memories, no experiences upon which to build and thus no true personality.”

Stopping his circling examination Matt glanced towards the clone maker. “So, they don’t know anything at all. No identity or, I don’t know, sense of self?”

“That’s basically right. They can be taught or imprinted with a whole new personality but initially they’re like a newborn. They have no frame of reference from which to interact with their environment.”

“So what’s the deal? Is it a government experiment like maybe an army of clone soldiers?” Raising one palm he passed it slowly left to right in front of the duplicate. Clone Matt’s eyes tracked the hand as it moved, nostrils flaring slightly as he (it?) breathed. Cocking his head to one side the clone locked gazes with Matt. A feeling of intense déjà vu shivered across Matt’s spine. “Whoa. Hello.”

“Whoa. … Hel … lo …,” said the clone in an eerily familiar voice.

“Hey! He can talk! Cool! Maybe I could teach him enough to take my place at school for a while. Get him to do my chores around the house.”

“Yes, yes.” Glancing at the clone and away again, dismissing it as unimportant. “Basically, he’s just mimicking you; but his brain is as fully matured as, well, your own.” Smiling indulgently like a parent who wanted to show something to a precocious child Dr. Howard said, “Come here a moment.”

Glancing at his nude self, the clone’s eyes curiously tracking Matt’s movements, Matt turned back to the doctor. “Can we maybe get him something to wear? This is getting kind of creepy.”

“He’ll be fine. It’s not as if he has any modesty to worry about.” Patting a crate next to him. “Have a seat. Let me try to explain.”

“Medical research, right? Like in the movie ‘The Island.’”

A harsh exhalation accompanied a hand brushing back a nonexistent lock of errant hair from his high forehead. “No. No government projects. No medical research or organ harvesting. The truth is actually much stranger.”

-------------------------------------------

Pushing at the links where some teenager had undoubtedly cut the fence Corporal Grissard gauged the width of the opening. “This must be where your son got inside.”

“I suppose.” Worriedly, her maternal instincts on full bore alert, Ellen Harper gazed at the buildings on the other side of the fence – her eyes attempting to penetrate the walls as if she would somehow develop X-ray vision if she tried hard enough. Transferring the two-inch heeled shoes she had removed for her walk along the weed infested perimeter, she cupped her free hand to one side of her mouth. “Matt! Matt! Matthew David Harper, where are you?! Maatttt!”

Grunting with exertion the corpulent police corporal raised himself from where he had been on one knee looking at the hole in the fence. Guess as uncertain which would prove to be wider – his hips or the break – the officer said, “How about you try your son’s cell again?”

Pushing the redial button, Ellen put the phone to her ear. Once again, she was rewarded only by the melodious tones of John Denver’s “Sunshine On My Shoulder” – the musical ring tone her son had set to come up when his mother called. Giving up after thirty seconds, Ellen flipped the phone closed and stepped up to the fence. Looks like we have to go in Officer.”

“Damn. How did I know you were going to say that?” Wait till I get my hands on that dispatcher, thought the policeman glancing at his watch – his shift had officially ended five minutes ago. Sighing, Corporal Grissard took one edge of the cut metal links in hand. “Hold this open for me please?” Setting down the shoes she was holding, Ellen Harper took the fencing in hand and pulled it back as the policeman attempted to worm his way through. Corporal Grissard, on one knee, pushed his head and shoulders through the teenager size opening and began squirming forward. Stifling a sudden urge to laugh, Ellen Harper turned from the not exactly attractive view of the rotund officer’s derriere which was reminiscent of two large hams doing a shimmy.

Grunting with the unaccustomed effort the policeman nevertheless continued forward, sucking in his not inconsiderable gut as the wider portions of his anatomy reached the fence. Bracing his feet against the sandy soil Corporal Grissard shoved forward and just managed to pop his stomach through only to be brought to a sudden halt. Feet scrabbling, he attempted to resume his forward progress only to discover that the equipment on his duty belt was jammed against the fence opening. Loosing his grip on the chain link the policeman attempted to reach down and unlatch his belt but was unable to quite manage. Face turning red with the strain the policeman resumed kicking his feet and pulling with his hands, ineffectually scrabbling.

Ellen Harper, uncertain whether to laugh or cry, had the uncharitable thought that the overweight cop looked like a Saint Bernard trying to squeeze through a cat door. She wondered if the police department no longer had standards for physical fitness. “Can I help?” she asked doubtfully.

“The equipment on my belt is stuck. Try to pull the fence a little harder.”

“I’ll try.” Grasping the chain link with both hands the woman pulled as hard as she could.

Resuming his efforts Corporal Grissard planted his feet and shoved. This served to jam his radio and the butt of his service revolver tighter against the fence line. After about a minute of determined effort, his breath now coming in ragged gasps, the policeman capitulated to the inevitable. “Mrs. Harper, can you get my radio out of my belt?”

“Okay.” Leaning down the woman reached past the rounded buttocks and unsnapped the leather strap holding the radio in place. Unfortunately, the radio, jammed as it was against the metal links of the fence, could not be pushed forward out of it’s carrier. “It won’t come out. It’s stuck.”

Placing his hands palm down against the broken asphalt Corporal Grissard lolled his head forward. “Mrs. Harper, I need you to do me a favor. Go to my patrol car. If you open the driver door you will see a hand mike on the seat which is attached to the police band radio. Please just key the mike and say, “ID 145 10-12 to Dispatch.””

“All right. Then what?”

“When they respond back to you, please tell them that officer needs assistance at the warehouse complex off Beacher. Advise them there are no injuries but to expedite please.”

As the woman headed back to the car Corporal Grissard resumed his squirming attempt to shove through the fence. Christ, he thought, I’ll never hear the end of this one. They’ll be making jokes about greased pig in roll call forever.

---------------------------------------

“Stranger than clone soldiers, government experiments or replacement people?”

“How about aliens?”

“Aliens? Oh come on; you’re putting me on.” Matt Harper turned a disbelieving eye on the thin man pacing in front of him, hands clasped behind his back.

“Not at all. You see, the clones are sent through a worm hole to another planet where they are imprinted with just enough knowledge to perform their assigned tasks and then used as servants by a race of aliens called the Kerzanxth.”

“A worm hole transport system. Aliens… Wow. Sounds awesome. Maybe I could check it out sometime. So where is this planet where you send the clones?”

“It’s somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy.”

“So, let me get this straight. You collect DNA samples from people, use them to make clone copies, and then send them to another galaxy to be slave servants to an alien race. Is that about it?”

“Pretty much.”

Rubbing an absent finger along his jawline the boy tried to process this through. “How do you get the genetic material?”

“That’s simple. I work in the blood mobile, the RV that goes around setting up at schools and offices whenever they have a blood drive. When a particularly fine specimen – someone that meets the criteria my bosses want - donates blood then I merely set aside a part of the sample and then bring it here later with nobody the wiser.”

“And where is this transport system?”

“In the next room.” Pointing toward the door in the opposite wall from the lobby where Matt had come in Dr. Howard said, “Right over there.”

“Can I see it?”

"Why not? At this point you pretty much know my secrets anyway.”

Grasping the clone by one hand the doctor gestured toward the door. “After you.”

Wishing he had eyes in the back of his head, Matt stood and preceded the doctor and the clone through the doorway. There in the room was the same platform he had seen before. Other than a small refrigerator, about 12 cubic feet, humming in one corner there was not much else. As before, the trail of footprints, plain to see in the accumulated dust, led to the gray platform Matt had noticed before and then ceased.

Stopping just inside the door, Matt stepped to one side. “So, the clones step up on this platform thing here and… What?”

“When I activate the mechanism they’re, teleported, I guess you’d say, instantaneously through a wormhole to a similar platform on another planet.”

“Where they are then forcefully ‘imprinted’ you called it?, with a personality.”

“Not what you’d call a personality as I understand it. Really just the basic knowledge they need to perform their duties.”

“So, they’re just dumb slaves for some creepy aliens? No way for that to ever change?”

“They’re just copies. They’re not actually real people Matt.”

Looking at the clone standing there looking back, the light of curiosity sparkling in the depths of his eyes, Matt said “He looks pretty real to me. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“As I said, nobody gets hurt. All I do is set aside a small sample of the freely donated blood. The original donors are never even aware. It’s not as if I’m going around slitting throats or anything.”

"Yeah, but what about the clones? Aren’t they still human? Don’t they have some sort of, I don’t know, right to a life?”

Narrowing his eyes, Doctor Howard let a quiet sigh escape through his nostrils. “A philosophical discussion for another time perhaps. Would you like to check out the wormhole device?”

“Sure.” Stepping over to the edge of the platform Matt went down on one knee and tentatively ran a hand over the smoothly cool surface. The teenager never saw coming the piece of 2x4 which struck him at the base of his skull.

“Just what I needed - a teenager with an Abraham Lincoln complex.” Stepping up to the sprawled body, Doctor Howard leaned down and checked for breathing. Reassured that the boy was still alive and would probably recover he began methodically stripping the unconscious form. “Be careful what you wish for Matt. You never know when you may get it.”

------------------------------------

Having finally extricated his bulk from the fence - with the assistance of a smirking rookie patrolman by the name of Jose Gerardo who had been forced to utilize the expedient of a shoulder to buttocks shove (which move is not taught in most self defense classes) – Corporal Grissard finally stood inside the perimeter surveying the expanse of asphalt leading to the array of warehouses. As the rookie officer and the worried mother joined him, the Corporal, shamefacedly red but attempting manfully to ignore it, gave his marching orders. “Officer Gerardo, you take the front row nearest the main entrance. Mrs. Harper, you come with me if you don’t mind and we’ll check the third row over here. Then we can meet up and all three check the center row.”

“No problem corporal. I’ll holler if I find anything” said the thin Hispanic patrolman as he set off toward the indicated row of buildings.

“Roger that. After you Miss.” As Mrs. Harper set off, Corporal Grissard placed one hand in the small of his back and tried to stretch out a nagging kink. He knew he was going to have a major backache and just hoped the wife had remembered to buy some Epsom Salts. Heaving a sigh of resignation, the policeman followed Mrs. Harper to the third row of warehouses.

----------------------------------

Whistling the theme to Steven Spielberg’s ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ quietly to himself as he worked, Doctor Steven Howard tied the second shoelace and rocked back on his heels. Inspecting his handiwork, he nodded his satisfaction. Before him was a fifteen-year-old typical teenaged boy, road rash scrapes on his palms, bruise on his forehead where he had struck it in his fall, rip in his jeans where his knee had scraped concrete. All perfectly normal for an active teenaged boy who had taken a spill while skateboarding without proper protective gear. Just as he clipped the cell phone back onto the boy’s belt, he heard a banging on the entry door to the warehouse. Smiling wryly to himself and thanking whatever blessed spirits were watching over him for the fortuitous timing he surveyed the room. All appeared fine. Just a mostly empty warehouse in the process of being cleaned out to use for storage. Taking the unresisting boy by one hand he headed to the other room.

Opening the exit door he was greeted by the sight of a rather heavyset, red-faced police officer flanked by a younger and noticeably thinner Hispanic officer. Behind the two policemen was a small to medium built white woman with brown hair. The woman was holding a skateboard and had a worried look on her face. “Thank the lord you’re here officers. I was just about to call the police.”

One hand resting lightly on the butt of his service revolver the fat policeman said, “And just why would that be sir?” as his eyes attempted to peer past the thin man in the narrowly open doorway.

Opening the door all the way the scarecrow thin man said “I found this boy in the parking lot here. He seems to have taken a pretty good fall. I don’t know if he needs medical attention but…”

As the teenager behind him was revealed to view Ellen Harper dropped the skateboard and flung herself between the two policemen. “Matt! Thank God! Are you okay?” Grabbing the boy in her arms the relieved mother gave him a hug. Pushing him back by the shoulders she perused the bruise on his forehead and tsked over his scraped palms. “Matt, what happened? You scared me to death.” Finally noticing her son’s lack of response Ellen Harper turned her gaze to her son’s face. Rotating her head slowly left to right she looked the boy in the eyes, trying to see into his thoughts. Crawling up from the deepest crevices of her strained psyche came a gnawing fear which began to nibble at the linings of her emotions.

“You’re his mother miss?”

Turning to the stick thin man standing there, wringing his hands in apparent worried sympathy, Ellen said “Yes. Can you tell me what happened?”

“As I said, I found him in the parking lot. He was barely conscious and apparently must have taken quite a spill. I brought him in to clean him up and see if I had a first aid kit.”

“Dispatch 145.”

“Dispatch, go ahead 145.”

“Please send an ambulance to the warehouses off Beacher St for a teenaged boy with head injury.”

“10-4 145.”

“Matt? Matt, do you hear me? Do you know who I am?” Fear growing rapidly, Ellen took her son’s chin in one hand and gently rotated his head left and right.

“He’s been like this since I found him miss. I think he must have sustained a pretty good concussion. I tried to do what I could for him.”

“Thank you Mr…?”

“Doctor. Doctor Steven Howard. Pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you for your concern, Dr. Howard.”

“No problem. I just hope your son will be okay.”

“Uhm, Dr. Howard,…”

“Ma’am?”

“Matt, that’s my son here, called me about half an hour or so ago. He was saying some really strange things. Something about someone making, you’re probably going to think I’m nuts, but he said something about someone making clones of people in town.”

“Clones? How strange. He must have been hallucinating due to his head injury. I’m not sure how long he was out there. I’ve been in here for about an hour trying to clean this place up. I just went out for some fresh air and found him. He was over near that culvert there.” In the distance a siren could be heard approaching.

“Excuse me sir. Do you mind if we take a look around?”

Nodding at the officers the thin man stepped to one side. By all means officers. Be my guest.”

Ten minutes later the injured teen was loaded aboard the ambulance. Clambering in beside the gurney Ellen Harper took her son’s hand and, pressing it tightly held on as the ambulance pulled out.

Behind her the two police officers watched as the vehicle departed. Turning to the doctor, Corporal Grissard nodded. “Thanks for your cooperation sir.”

"No problem officers. Always happy to help.”

“Have a nice day. Let’s go Jose.”

-----------------------------------

Two weeks later, as she was exiting the examination room where her amnesiac son was being subjected to yet another battery of tests, Ellen Harper heard a vaguely familiar voice. “Excuse me. Mrs. Harper?”

Turning she saw the cadaverous form of the man from the warehouse. “Yes, Doctor…”

“Howard. But you can call me Steve.”

“What can I do for you Doctor Howard?”

“I was just wondering how your son was doing.”

Anxiety brought a frown to Mrs. Harper’s face. “Not well I’m afraid. It’s as if every single memory Matt ever had has been wiped clean. They’re at a complete loss to explain it. I … I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, I know someone who might be able to help. Possibly.”

A flicker of hope brought some semblance of color back to wan cheeks. “Really? Who?”

“I have a colleague, a Dr. Kerzanxth, who has had remarkable success with amnesiac patients. He’s been developing a technique for imprinting knowledge that combines elements of hypnotism with some sleep teaching therapy. I’d be happy to recommend you. He’ll probably be willing to work with your son free of charge as long as you allow him to publish his results in the medical journals.”

-------------------------------

Circling a mid-size yellow sun in an arm of the Andromeda Galaxy 2.7 million light years from Earth was an oxygen rich planet recently settled by the expanding Kerzanxth Empire. In the upper northeastern part of the second largest continent of this colony world was an agricultural complex, a subunit of the nearby Kerzanxth settlement. In the fields of this complex, by day, ECHO-372 [Earth Cloned Human Organism Number 372] toiled uncomplainingly in the company of his fellow Agri-ECHO’s. Still, as evening would invariably follow afternoon and wind its inexorable way to dusk, ECHO-372 would often find his gaze wandering to the heavens. Past the two small circling moons shedding just enough luminosity to light his path to his assigned sleeping crèche, his gaze was drawn like a moth to flame to a brighter patch in the night sky. Had ECHO-372 been imprinted with a knowledge of astronomy he would have known that this bright patch in the night sky was actually the Milky Way Galaxy and, somewhere in it, the world of his origin. Aside from his un-ECHO-like predilection for stargazing, another thing which made of 372 a singular ECHO was his persistent visions. During his nightly three chrono long allotted rest period ECHO-372 would often find himself experiencing pangs of … something: Something that would cause an uncomfortable tightness to develop in 372’s chest and bring a hitch to his breathing. Visions of a female ECHO he had never met which bore a strange label called “MOM” would flit by like an insect to tickle the inside of ECHO-372’s eyelids. Along with this unidentified female there was an even more persistently nagging thought which clamored for attention, raising it’s mewling crying voice in the furthest recess of his slumbering psyche – what (who?) was a Matthew Harper? Often upon awakening ECHO-372 would find his headrest damply salty.