The most incomprehensible changes appeared to have been reserved for her own life. Somehow in the last year and a half, the original Con D’Arcy had done what she’d been unable to do in the three years prior. It blew Con’s mind but also made her strangely proud of her original. Con wished she could have met her so she could ask how she’d found the strength to leave DC behind at last. Of course, that was impossible now. Her original was dead out there somewhere. The need to know returned. And not just how her original had died, but everything, every moment of the last eighteen months. It felt essential to fill in those gaps. If she knew everything, then the paradox of two Constance Ada D’Arcys would resolve itself. Only then would she stop feeling like a charlatan. At least she hoped so.
Since her arrival, the other customers at the diner had given Con a wide berth, but now a man slid onto a stool two over from her. Of Japanese descent, he looked to be somewhere in his midthirties and had brilliantined hair that looked like a sculpted oil slick. He wore a herringbone tweed waistcoat over an impeccable open-necked dress shirt—a little overdressed for a diner in Silver Spring. He turned over the coffee cup in front of him and smiled at Con.
“How’s your morning?” he asked in an accent that she couldn’t quite place. Southern, if she had to guess, but with all the identifying characteristics carefully sanded down until only the faintest traces remained.
She reached for her backpack. He raised a hand, palm up, to indicate he came in peace.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Peter Lee.”
“And what do you want, Peter Lee?”
“A word. That’s all,” he said and slid a business card across the counter to her.
It read, “Vernon Gaddis—CEO, Gaddis LLC.”
Con raised an eyebrow. She knew the name; everyone did. Vernon Gaddis was the angel investor who’d taken a chance on Abigail Stickling, at the time a young researcher facing ridicule and condemnation from the scientific community for her radical theories. In 2019, they’d founded a small start-up named Palingenesis and gone on to make human cloning a reality. The other relevant detail Con knew about him was that Vernon Gaddis was also a clone.
Three years ago—no, wait, five. Five years ago. Con had to keep reminding herself that it wasn’t 2038 anymore. Five years ago, Gaddis and his wife’s Gulfstream had crashed in the North Atlantic. Back in Washington, DC, his clone had been activated within seconds. Turned out, though, that his wife wasn’t a client and thus had no clone. The new Vernon Gaddis had spent years defending himself against accusations that his original had murdered Cynthia Gaddis, knowing full well his clone would survive the crash. Although no criminal charges were ever filed, the media had lost its collective mind over the unfolding scandal, and the complex optics had forced Gaddis to step down from the company he’d co-founded. Countless think pieces had been written on the issue. Could a clone be charged for a crime committed by its original? Had cloning created a murder loophole? When would Congress write comprehensive, national cloning legislation instead of ceding its leadership role to a patchwork of conflicting state laws? Vernon Gaddis had become a recluse, rarely venturing out in public. After only one night as a clone, Con was beginning to sympathize with his decision.
Curious what he could want with her, she squeezed the top-right corner of the business card between her thumb and forefinger, triggering the embedded video. A middle-aged Black man with snow-white hair appeared on the business card and smiled.
“Hello. My name is Vernon Gaddis.” The video segued to a tight, well-produced overview of Gaddis LLC and its core businesses: telecom, real estate, climate therapies, biotechnology, and lobbying, to name but a few. Gaddis LLC, it seemed, had a hand in everything . . . except cloning. There was no mention of Palingenesis. When the video was over, a second recording began, this time a personal message. Vernon Gaddis sat behind a desk, looking somber and thoughtful.
“Constance. I apologize for not reaching out to you sooner. I can only imagine how difficult things have been for you. It would be my privilege to offer you sanctuary. An opportunity to regroup. There are matters that I would discuss with you that I believe will benefit both of us greatly. If you accept my invitation, Peter will bring you to my home. I hope you will consider it. I look forward to meeting you.”
The video ended.
“Where exactly is home?” Con asked.
“In Maryland. Charles Island.”
“No kidding.” Charles Island was a narrow five-mile sliver in the Chesapeake Bay that had become a sanctuary for wealthy elites needing an escape from the grind of DC. Strictly billionaires, mansions, and yachts. Con had sung at a wedding out there once. Eight hundred guests. A white-tie affair. It had paid her rent for three months. Accessible only by a private two-lane bridge, the entire island was a gated community with its own security force and enormous moat, if you wanted to look at it that way. The perfect refuge for the most controversial clone in the United States.