“Doesn’t this go against basic human rights in some way?”

Aaron had calmed down after a short panic attack that hadn't surprised or troubled his three new friends at all. ("Quite normal. I have something like that at least once per day," Derek assured him.) He'd begun quizzing the clones—'Duplicates', to use the terminology they deemed most current—about the details of their predicament.

“They get around that pretty easily,” Cassie 2.3 said lightly. “A lot of us aren’t actually human, depending on the cloning technique they use—or pay someone else to use. My skin is actually a thin polyurethane blend!" She held out a smooth-looking hand so he could admire the naturalness of the material. “I’m sure there will be more regulations down the road, but the practice is new enough that they’re still working on developing the laws around it.”

“Great,” Aaron sighed. “And how do we get out if nobody comes to get us?”

“They have to register us and pay Duplication fees,” said 50117, looking bored.

“And if he doesn’t come and pay the… the fees and registration?”

“We’ll be dis—” Derek began, but Cassie 2.3 interjected.

“They’re starting a new program where you can be sponsored by a human and start your own life,” she said.

“Ok, but how can I talk to Jaymie and tell him to come pay the whatever?”

“They’ll contact him,” Cassie 2.3 reassured him.

“They’ll give him at least four or five notices, each a month or so apart, before they… you know…” said Derek.

Aaron didn’t know, nor did he want to. “Oh my god,” he muttered to himself. “Ok, he’ll get the warnings, then. I can’t do five months here… But he’ll come the first time they contact him, so it won’t be that long. Plus, Mom is coming home, so she can help prove I’m real. Unless he doesn’t get the notices because they’ve made a mistake… Which I’m still pretty sure they have…”

“Mine is working on getting a payment plan,” said Cassie 2.3. “She does care for us, she just got a little carried away. As soon as she catches up with payments, it’ll be back home for me!” She chuckled dolefully and played with the strap of her purse.

“I was grown in a vat…” said 50117. He spent the next two hours telling them of his glorious escape from his creators and his discovery of the human world, how he murdered his Original, who'd paid for his creation but who had "no use for extra organs now!" and his subsequent recapture by the Collectors while in the process of having two new clones of his very own created. He was currently waiting to hear from his lawyer whether his violent crime could be deemed an act of self-defence, considering the circumstances, and if he could look for a sponsor and start a real life.

Aaron zoned in and out, drumming on the table and missing all the things men who have lost their freedom miss, like his brothers and his mom and videogames. He wished he were a little more action-oriented; if Jaymie were in his position he would by now have orchestrated a grand escape for all of them, or at the very least created a hierarchy amongst all the captives and established himself at the top of it. Of course, Jaymie would never have ended up in his position, because no matter how lonely Aaron got, he would never have thought of “duplicating” himself, and so would never have created a Jaymie to get clone-napped in the first place… He shook his head vigorously and reminded himself that he was a real person, not a creation of his brother’s, and that this was a misunderstanding.

“It likely won’t be long. He just needs to come and pay.” Derek had noticed his unease and was trying to be comforting in his awkward, morose way. Aaron looked back into the watery, nervous eyes of the man who’d been painstakingly created for the sake of constant companionship and felt an odd kinship with him. He wondered if Eric was Derek’s Jaymie, and if Eric also loved Derek but couldn’t be bothered checking up on his wellbeing.

Aaron thought of the fight he and Jaymie had had back in June, when he’d taken a break from practicing five nights a week to go to evening classes and attempt to finish high school over the summer, and Jaymie had melodramatically left home for ten days and written his most angsty album to date. Of course, Aaron and Rex had soon rescued him and they’d compromised on a lighter performance schedule for the summer.

The two were good friends a lot of the time, but they also fought now and then, and that one had been particularly bad. The next time they’d disagreed, Aaron had quit the band, and Jaymie, having neither the time nor motivation for a week hungry and sleepless on a broken couch writing another album, had promptly replaced him with Colin; he’d already been looking for a lead guitarist, and you might as well get your new players trained at the same time if you were going to change the lineup anyway. It might have been a permanent solution had Colin not made poor choices and offended dear Sasha.

It had taken some time after the day Aaron had rejoined the band and helped with the pumpkin theft for the tension to completely dissipate. He now began to wonder if Jaymie still secretly harboured resentment toward him for not being an enthusiastic bandmate. Then he wondered if Jaymie even thought about him enough to harbour resentment, and he wondered how long it would take Jaymie to notice he was gone, and if, rather than come looking for him, he might decide to hire a new, more reliable drummer, whom he could stay on consistent good relations with.

“They’ve probably contacted him, and he’s scraping up the money now!” said Derek.

“I’m not sure that’s going to happen,” said Aaron. He looked around at the friendly dungeon imprisoning them and he knew he might not be able to rely on a rescue. He would have to fend for himself in this new world. A thought entered his mind that he never would have expected to find there: What Would Jaymie Do?

“My great hope,” 50117 was expounding, “Is that people still need organs, right? My kidneys are my ticket out of here, baby!”

“It’s very hard to find sponsors,” Derek quietly explained to Aaron. “The program is so new that nobody knows about it, and even if they did, who wants to take on a murderous clone they have no relation to?”

“My Original must have relatives who’ve drunk themselves into liver dysfunction and want to sponsor me in return for half of mine, right? Even a non-relative—I’m type O Negative, and that’s got to count for something!”

“No such luck for me,” said Cassie 2.3. She looked down at her slim midriff and then gave Aaron a sad smile. “I doubt I have organs.”

***

Jo finished her cold coffee and laid her head on a stack of mail at the end of the couch. The three ancient cats flowed silently out of the cat flap and slowly eased themselves on top of her as though hoping that, if they were silent and slow enough, she might not notice. She cuddled them miserably.

The cats had survived the Brzezinskis' long absence in November without losing so much as a pound. When their weekend's worth of rations had run out, they'd nudged their way out their little door and slunk off down the street to seek their fortunes.

Dick, the eldest and a lover of comfort and good times, had immediately found another pet flap, which led into a house down the block and was frequently utilized by the young dachshund who resided there.

He'd let himself in, disguised himself as a damp bath mat eternally hanging to dry—which each of the two human inhabitants assumed their spouse had, for some stupid reason not worth developing communication skills over, dragged in and left there—and led a comfortable existence on dog food and bathwater, napping twenty-two hours per day until the Brzezinskis' van reappeared in the driveway down the street.

Then he extricated himself from the towel rack, creaked down the block, and crept back into the bed of Jaymie, who was his personal favourite because he didn't wake up when Dick slept on his face. The hungry and confused dachshund was relieved at his departure.

Diana, the second sibling, had made her way downtown and put her vocal prowess to use busking in front of a beer vendor on Main Street in hopes of being discovered and booked at the cabaret/comedy venue across the street. She knew the time was right; she'd been doubling the Brzezinskis' harmonies an octave up for the entirety of their lives. And she certainly wasn't getting any younger.

She was promptly taken to the pound and scheduled for euthanasia should no owners come to claim her—an appointment which was bumped to a closer date when she made the employees aware of her singing skills. Her passion for music was infectious; soon the entire doomed menagerie had formed an ungodly choir from their various cages, and they might all have been exterminated at once except that a pet rescue initiative was doing its pre-Christmas rounds, and it swept them up and brought them to a no-kill shelter.

In the confusion, she slipped out of her cage and spent a week hiking in the Assiniboine Forest, which she realized was an activity much more akin to the Eat-Pray-Love-style quest she needed at that point in her life. She received a thorough petting at one point from a weeping Mira Reyes who, as a resident of the nearby neighbourhood of Charleswood, often walked in those woods to sooth her broken heart. Then she returned home to the care and ministrations of the middle Brzezinski, whose name she had not bothered to memorize but whom she recognized by smell and touch as being the one who was home the most and therefore most likely to dole out breakfast and dinner.

Herman, the youngest, moved to Nashville and invested in a recording studio that was on the verge of going under. He had a good ear for talent—or rather, he was stone deaf, but he'd seen many trends come and go and he could recognize an artist with a certain attitude and look about them. He bet on the right up-and-coming country star, released a hit record that same week, and watched as the money rolled in.

He frequented the hippest venues, sired many broods of kittens with felines decades younger than himself, forgot his old life entirely (such is the memory span of cats), and might have continued building his empire indefinitely had he not attended a Cirque du Soleil afterparty with two lady cats on his arm, gotten himself recognized by the circus’s principal saxophonist, been given a scolding and a snuggle and then mailed home in a cat carrier to the three Brzezinskis, who were relieved to have the last member of the household accounted for before the date their family was due to visit.

He soon forgot the whole charade and contentedly went back to his old hobbies of staring at the closet door for no reason and following Rex—whom he preferred, since they'd neither squeezed him too hard nor drummed on him as child—around from room to room, meowing, also for no reason.

Jo blinked awake as her empty paper cup slid from her fingers, hit the floor, and rolled under the couch. She realized she’d been dozing on the pile of mail. The black print on the letters blurred in and out of focus under her tired gaze. She shifted under the cats and kissed Herman on the nose, mumbling, “Did you invest in a studio? Yes you did oh yes you did…”

Then the print on the top envelop fuzzed into view again, and she noticed something very, very odd.

***

Aaron stared at a plate of food from the lunch buffet set up nearby. It was neither delicious nor like the bland, sterile hospital food he’d been expecting; the sandwiches and salads could only be described as entirely inoffensive.

He knew he’d overexerted his adrenal system in the last twenty-four hours; his last panic attack had left him shaky, with a dull, nauseous coil in his stomach and a distinctly grumpy temperament. Part of him felt annoyed that in this entire ordeal he hadn’t come to any physical harm except for the discomfort his own body was causing him in response to it. Still, he was fairly certain that counted for something in the future lawsuit he was planning.

“How long do we have to stay here after the warnings are given?” he asked his lunchmates.

The clones squirmed and took large bites of their sandwiches, except for Cassie 2.3, who did not need to eat.

“It sort of depends…” she said.

“‘Til they decide your time’s up!” said 50117 with a chortle.

“His time should’ve been up ages ago,” said Derek darkly. “We suspect he’s bribed the authorities.”

“Suspect no longer—I did bribe them!” said 50117 proudly. “Gave them far more than the cost of registration would’ve been. You know, I made quite a fortune while I was out there in the world! And money is power! Did you think of that when you decided to become a musician, boy?”

“You mean, did I imagine myself mistaken for a clone and in need of thousands of dollars to bribe the government?” said Aaron testily. “No, Five-O, I can’t say I had that foresight. Hey—why don’t they just let us pay our own registration and be done with it?”

“Because of monsters like him,” said Derek, glaring at 50117.

“I’m not ashamed! As soon as I’m out of here, I’m going to make more clones of myself! For their organs!” said 50117.

“We’ve been here several weeks now,” said Cassie 2.3, indicating herself and Derek. “We happened to have Originals who… didn’t respond well… when they got the first warning.”

“Eric and I tried to escape over the border and hide out in Fargo until the Collectors forgot about us. They found us, obviously,” said Derek, with his usual melancholy.

“As I said, Cassie hid me outside in the garden shed. I don’t get cold, so that’s convenient.” She gave a short laugh and pulled a nail buffer out of her bag.

“So, both our Originals had to give us up, for the time being, until they can finish the registration,” said Derek, glumly watching her shine her nails.

“Or until all their warnings have been given, and it can be assumed they’ve abandoned you,” 50117 reminded them. “Presumably, they’ll receive them for another month or two.”

“So, if your Original didn’t do anything against the rules, he could have received the notices while he still had you,” Cassie 2.3 explained to Aaron, ignoring 50117’s provocations.

“He’d have told me…” said Aaron, but he was starting to lose his resolve.

“Unless he showed signs of being an irresponsible or unsuitable clone owner—harvesting your bone marrow, training you as a secret weapon against his enemies—”

“No, and no,” said Aaron.

“—Trying to escape with you or hide you in the shed…”

“Oh my god,” Aaron sat up hopefully. “We toured to Saskatchewan and got kidnapped by an evil cult—would that count as irresponsible?”

“It sounds promising,” said Derek.

“If it did, he’d be yet to receive the warnings. You just need to sit tight!” said Cassie 2.3 pertly. “You have nice hands—would you like to help me braid my hair?”

Aaron gave up trying to eat the overly oily—though pleasantly spiced—pasta salad on his plate and said, “There must be a manager here. Or a supervisor. Someone I can ask about it!”

“Of course!” said Derek, surprised.

“You can always go talk to the Director,” said Cassie 2.3.

“The Director?” said Aaron.

“Of Clone Services,” Derek nodded. “He’s just down that hall.”

“Do I need… an appointment… or something?” Aaron asked, feeling stupid, though he reminded himself that this was all entirely mind-boggling and there was no reason he should feel foolish.

“Yes, and you have one!” said Cassie 2.3 brightly. “We’re all allowed a meeting with him when first we get here.”

“To get clarification,” Derek clarified.

“And to help get settled in,” said Cassie 2.3.

“If it’d help you feel better…” Derek gestured an open palm toward a hallway leading out of the room and smiled encouragingly.

“Yes. It would fucking help me feel better.” Aaron put down his fork, which clattered through a slat in the picnic table and smeared greasy penne onto the fake grass below. “Fucking Director of… you’re shitting me…”

He left the clones to their eternal milling about and walked down a long, fluorescently lit corridor to find the Director of Clone Services.