That familiar, hated face appeared in the barred window. My captor took a moment to look around the room, making sure I hadn’t set up any surprises for today's visit. I hadn’t tried anything like that in years, but he never took chances. I suppose that’s one reason why he has gotten away with this for so long.

The deadbolts clicked over, and he pushed the door open. He stood in the entrance briefly, electric baton in guard position. Seeing me still sitting in the far chair, he walked in and took the other seat. His hands were empty today except for the baton and a small envelope. Not surprising, since he didn’t believe I would need any supplies after tomorrow.

Neither of us said anything. We just sat and looked at each other through the same eyes, seeing the same face. The best cosmetic surgery money could buy had erased most of the ten-year age difference. His impersonation wouldn‘t have held up to close inspection when he first appeared, but there had been no one in my life to notice the slight dissimilarities. I had no family or close friends, or really any friends at all. Even if he had been questioned, there wasn’t an identity test in the world he couldn’t pass.

He finally broke the silence. “You know what tomorrow is.”

“Yes, the glorious anniversary of your grand and noble experiment.”

He hid it well, but I knew my scorn hurt him. It always did.

“You know it’s not an anniversary. You can’t have an anniversary for something that hasn’t happened yet. Tomorrow is the day I traveled back ten years, to make a better life for both of us.”

I slammed my fists on the table, and if he hadn‘t raised the baton in alarm I would have gone for his throat right then. “There is no ‘both of us’! This was all for you. The only reason you’ve even kept me alive all this time is that you aren’t sure what would happen to you if I died.”

He gave me a pitying look, and God, did I want to smash it off his face. Everyone feels some self-loathing in their lives, but none has ever equaled mine. I wanted to kill myself, and dance joyfully on my grave.

“I understand how you feel. It’s exactly how I would feel, but you can’t argue with the results. If I hadn’t come back and taken over, you would have spent the next ten years tinkering in your lab. Scrounging for funding, your theories laughed at, and no one in your life who gave a damn about you. You don’t know what that was like, but I lived every minute of it. You resent being imprisoned in here, but you would have made your own prison if I hadn’t stopped you. I brought back information that has made us rich, respected, and popular.”

“No, it’s made you all those things. I’m the one locked in the basement, remember?”

He stared at me for a moment, then pushed over the envelope. “This is pointless. Tomorrow morning at precisely 11:37 you’ll cease to exist, and I’ll resume my natural place in the timeline. Even if that theory proves wrong, after tomorrow there’s no paradox to worry about. Your death can’t affect me, and I’m through watching over you. If you’re still here at 11:38, take the pill in that envelope. I swear it will be painless. Otherwise I’ll have to do something drastic, and neither of us wants that.”

He stood and walked to the door, never turning his back on me.

“Good-bye Richard. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Good-bye Richard. I can’t.”

The door shut and locked behind him. I closed my eyes, thinking about the day to come. I have my own theory about time travel. I think he created a temporal loop when he came back, and tomorrow that loop is going to close on him. He’ll be the one vanishing like a burst soap bubble. I’ll still have the problem of getting out of here, but that isn’t insurmountable if he isn't around to stop me.

That's all theoretical; tomorrow he may be back at the window, staring in at me. I think about the schemes I’ve made over the years, the ones I never found the courage to try. The heavy slat pulled from my bed. The tiny glass shard from a broken bottle I’ve managed to keep hidden. The garrote woven from dental floss. The pill in the envelope, and how it would feel to shove it down his throat.

He knows me like I know myself. He’ll be expecting an attack, and he’ll have weapons much deadlier than any in my makeshift arsenal. That doesn't matter. One way or another, at the end of the day there will only be one of me left.

Without the letter, I might never have known.

It looked exactly like thousands of others that my husband and I receive every year. A plain white envelope, the address written in a childish hand. I don’t know what made me open it – maybe I was bored, or maybe I was hoping to get a dose of Christmas spirit. Its contents shocked me.

Dear Mrs. Claus,

Thank you for coming to visit me in the hospital. You were very nice. Please tell Santa what I want for Christmas.

Love,
Amanda

Most people think that I leave all of the pre-Christmas visits to Santa or one of his franchise holders, and they’re partially right. Between baking cookies, supervising the elves, mucking out the reindeer pen and a thousand and one other things, I don’t get out as much as I used to. Rather than disappoint the children, I have allowed a few women to buy a Mrs. Claus franchise. Each of them is carefully vetted, highly professional, and is fully aware of what has become known as the Claus clause: No Hospital Visits. Those kids, the ones who need it the most, only get a visit from the genuine Mrs. Claus – me.

Incensed, I rifled through the letters, looking for ones addressed to me. Sure enough, I found fifteen other letters, each from sick children, each thanking me for their special visit. Philadelphia, New York, Los Angeles, Denver – all around the country, a fake Mrs. Claus was scamming children.

And no one knew.

I’m not sure what angered me more – the fact that these poor children were being visited by an inferior Claus, or that no one seemed to notice the difference. Whoever this imposter was, she’d done her homework. She was good.

Then came the most damning letter of all.

Dear Mrs. Claus,

Thank you for coming to Miami, and thank you for bringing Santa with you. I liked it when you kissed him. His face was red like his coat! Please say hi to Rudolph for me…

The date on the letter matched Santa’s visit to Miami. Not only had this women stolen my identity – she was stealing my husband, too! Now she had gone too far.

I didn’t even bother taking off my apron as I stormed into the workshop.

“George! Harry!” The shop foremen scurried over to me, practically tripping over the toes of their pointed shoes.

“George – get me the gift that Mikey Wilson’s mother sent back last year.” His eyes widened, but he didn’t say a word. The bells on his hat jingled as he went off in search of it.

“Harry – does Santa have the A team out tonight?”

“Ye...ye…ye…yes,” he stuttered.

“Then hook up the B team for me. Put Alfred in the lead – I always did prefer him to Dasher.” I looked out the window and was relieved to see that the night was clear. Alfred might be faster than Dasher, but nobody could beat Rudolph on a stormy night.

The elf hesitated, probably remembering the last time I’d taken my sleigh for a ride. But I hadn’t hit the eggnog tonight, and this was an emergency.

“Go!” I barked. Harry scooted out the door so fast that I thought he was going to lose his stockings.

By now, George was back. He silently handed me a long box, its garish wrapping paper and red bow covered by a thin film of dust. Carefully unwrapping it, I opened the box and paused.

“Mikey Wilson has no idea what he missed,” George whispered. There, surrounded by tissue paper, was the most beautiful BB gun you’ve ever seen. I knew the elves had spent hours on it, fine tuning the mechanism and polishing the wood to a gorgeous shine. Craftsmanship was evident in every beautiful inch. And there, nestled in the corner, was an entire box of BBs.

The door to the shop slammed open as Harry ran in.

“It’s…it’s…it’s…”

“It’s ready?” I prompted. He nodded vigorously, his pointed elfin ears wiggling with the effort.

I picked up the BB gun, loaded it, then pumped it full of air. Lifting it to my shoulder, I fired off three shots in rapid succession.

Whoosh-pop! Pump. Whoosh-pop! Pump. Whoosh-pop! Elves dove for cover as three Christmas tree ornaments exploded.

I carefully reloaded, then tucked the remaining ammo into my apron.

“Come on, boys,” I said, striding towards the door.

“We have a Claus clause to enforce.”

Frank sits trembling in the middle of a bedroom that has been ransacked. Clothing, personal items, and bedding are strewn about the room. The muffled sound of a telephone ringing stirs the man from his catatonic state. He stumbles a few steps, shoves a pile of clothing out of his way, mindlessly picks up the receiver, and listens.

Hello, Frank.

(confused) Who is this?

I think you know who it is, Frank. Did you enjoy the visit from the police? Not quite what you expected, was it?

No, I…wait; you sent them?

Well, you called them first, Frank. I was just returning the favor.

I was reporting a crime!!

As was I. Just because they didn’t find any drugs this time doesn’t mean they won’t the next time. Or they might find something worse: child pornography, explosives, a body perhaps?

You wouldn’t…you couldn’t…

You know that I would and you know that I can. Getting into your home is much easier than getting into your bank accounts. It’s all numbers: your security system key code, the frequency of your garage door opener, your travel schedule. Do you see Frank, how much worse it could be?

You sonofa-

(interrupting) Sticks and stones, Frank. We don’t need to start name-calling. What did Shannon always tell you about that?

You leave her out of this! She’s not here anymore.

I know she’s not there, Frank. And I know why she isn’t there. Do you?

Of course I know! We just needed a little breathing room, that’s all. Just shut up about her.

“Breathing room?” She didn’t even ask you about the letters, did she?

What letters?

The letters from your lover, Frank. She found them hidden in the closet. And the letters you wrote back to her that you carelessly left on the computer.

Oh my God! You heartless… (Frank’s voice chokes with emotion) She was everything to me. I’ll kill you for that.

I don’t think so Frank. You made things difficult for me, changing PIN numbers, closing accounts, and adding that firewall. So, I made your life a little harder in return. Do you see how it works?

If I ever see you, I’ll kill you.

Frank, we both know that’s never going to happen, so stop saying it. It’s counterproductive.

I’m going to tear you apart.

Frank, if you threaten me again, I’m going to have to punish you. Is that what you want?

What? Who do you think you are?

I’m you, Frank, when I choose to be. I know where you are and where you are not every minute of the day. It’s easy to be you, Frank; all it takes is knowing the right numbers.

Yeah, I know. That’s how you’ve been charging up my credit cards and emptying my checking account. You’re a damned thief!

I’m not a thief, Frank. I’m an entrepreneur. Like you, I take advantage of opportunities for monetary gain as they present themselves to me.

You’re nothing like me. I make my money legally and honestly.

Legally, perhaps, but honestly? Please, spare me your rationalizations. You benefit from the suffering of others. You are less ethical than a purse-snatcher; he, at least, is not taking away from his victims their last dollars and last bits of dignity.

Why don’t you just leave me alone?

Sure, Frank, I’ll leave you alone, as long as you leave me alone. Quit trying to stop my little withdrawals and you need never hear from me again.

You want me to let you keep stealing from me?

You want me to send the cops back?

How much do you want?

I know how much you make, Frank; and I know how much you need. I’ll make sure to leave you enough to live on. You’re no good to me if you’re homeless, unemployed, or in the hospital. Of course you won’t live as comfortably as before.

(sarcastically) How kind of you. How long to you intend to do this?

I believe retirement age is 65.

65! You can’t be serious. You expect me to let you do this until I retire?

Oh no. I expect to continue until you die. You do have a nice pension plan.

I could quit. Then there would be nothing for you to take.

And no reason to keep you out of jail.

You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?

Of course I have. You’re not my first…partner. It will get easier; you’ll get used to our arrangement. Eventually, you won’t even remember how things were before.

Well that’s reassuring. Thanks a lot.

You’re welcome, Frank.

(click)

Lee Nall's life was about to change, and he was ecstatic. After five years of intensive study, he had been cleared for deployment on his first assignment. Starting today at 5:00 PM, he would become Dr. Ernest Maxwell.

Nall had been approached by a representative of APS ―the American Petroleum Society― while he was still in college. He'd signed up right after grad school. He'd had no idea what he'd signed up for, other than it required absolute secrecy, involved a lot of background investigations and psychological testing, and required that he obtain a second graduate degree.

The job also paid more money than he'd ever dreamed of making.

Of course, they didn't let him in on the whole story at first. His first assignment was in the Technology Directorate, and they only required him to get a degree in electrical engineering, all expenses paid.

Having finished his second Masters degree, he was offered the opportunity to participate in the Society's Technology Assessment Directorate. He'd worked there for two years, identifying new energy technologies that had the potential to relieve America's dependence on oil and gas.

He'd identified Dr. Maxwell's techniques for manufacturing inexpensive, efficient solar cells about three years ago. The Solarexion technology was potentially revolutionary: Every house could generate much of its own electricity using what amounted to modified roofing tiles. Hybrid automobiles coated with Solarexion paint could achieve unheard of fuel efficiency.

The problem was Dr. Maxwell: He was brilliant, but he was also very secretive. There were rumors that he was also alcoholic. His progress in commercializing Solarexion technology was erratic; no one could predict whether his ideas would lead to an energy revolution, or be dismissed as the fantasies of a crackpot.

That's when his boss at APS had approached Nall about joining the Social Engineering Directorate. The goal of SED was to make advances in technology more predictable through the application of the social sciences. At least, that's what they told him when they offered the job.

After he accepted, he found out that the truth was more exciting. The Social Engineering Directorate was entirely covert, and it was highly effective. SED could employ a variety of techniques to make technology development more predictable. Lovelorn scientists might get new lovers. Gambling addicts could be allowed to win enough to keep their jobs. Scientists' troubled teenagers might gain new friends that would keep them out of jail, lessening the distraction to the scientists. In extreme cases, key scientists would be replaced with clones.

Not clones, exactly. Replicas.

And so it was that Dr. Ernest Maxwell, the erratic genius behind a promising new solar cell technology, was going to be replaced with Lee Nall this afternoon. Nall had studied every aspect of Dr. Maxwell's life, and that of Maxwell's wife and children. He had endured extensive plastic surgery. He had allowed communications and tracking devices to be implanted in his body. He had even received in-depth training in the psychological tricks that might be needed to quell any doubts his new family might have after the substitution was initiated. He'd passed the final exam with flying colors.

Tonight's plan was a variation on the Alien Abduction SOP. Maxwell would be snatched on the way home from work and taken to a secure location. He'd be thoroughly interviewed, and the results fed back to Nall. The capture event, the pharmacological protocol, and the interview environment itself were carefully designed so that even the most well-grounded, logical people would become convinced that they had been abducted by aliens. The staff shrinks believed that Maxwell would be more easily convinced than most.

Meanwhile, Nall, as Maxwell, would be able to introduce an Alien Abduction story to Maxwell's family, if necessary, in order to cover for any slips in behavior. In six to twelve months, when Nall's work was complete, he would be extracted, and Maxwell reinserted. There might be temporary disruption in the target's life, but no significant long-term effects.

Nall thought the plan was brilliant. It had worked perfectly on over 1000 occasions to date, and it had even become self-sustaining: The fact that "Alien Abduction" was becoming a topic in the popular press made the operation that much easier to execute.

Nall was ready. Starting today at 5:00 PM, he would become Dr. Ernest Maxwell. Starting tomorrow, Dr. Maxwell's progress on inexpensive solar energy systems would become much more predictable.

In fact, Nall's prediction was that Solarexion technology would fail, completely and irretrievably, just as the American Petroleum Society desired.

"Good morning, detective," said the officer. "We got a 'verify welfare' call from the neighbor. The door was locked from the inside; no signs of forcible entry. The guy's a professor at Ohio Tech," he said.

"Thanks," said Detective Patrick Flanagan, surveying the scene. A huge flat-screen monitor was on the desk of the home office. "Richard Pettigrew, Ph.D." bounced randomly around the screen. A body was slumped over the keyboard. It was already well-desiccated.

"What do you think, Celia? Weeks? Months?" Flanagan asked the Assistant Medical Examiner.

"Ten to twelve weeks, I think. Maybe more," she replied. "I'm amazed Windows is still running."

Flanagan wasn't exactly a computer geek, but he got the joke. He grinned, and asked, "Is this Professor Pettigrew, or what's left of him?"

"Probably. He's pretty far gone, but he fits the description. Give me a couple of hours to confirm it. I won't have an initial cause of death until then, at the earliest. There aren't any obvious wounds."

Flanagan put on his gloves and bumped the computer mouse. The screen came alive, showing dozens of windows, but no email, letters, or anything else that he could understand.

"Hey, Prestinari!" Flanagan called to his partner. "Look at this stuff and tell me what it means."

* * *

Two hours later, Flanagan was at the office of the Chairman of the Computer Science Department. "Professor Weizenbaum? Can I speak with you a moment?"

The portly man with the Einstein hair and the Karl Marx beard didn't even look up from the three computer screens in front of him. "Office hours start at two," he said.

"Sorry, sir; this can't wait," said Flanagan. "I'm Police Detective Flanagan. I have some questions about Dr. Pettigrew."

"Good timing," said Weizenbaum. "I'm chatting with him right now."

Flanagan was still trying to grasp the implications of that when his phone rang. "Excuse me just a minute," he said to Weizenbaum.

"Hello?"

"Hi Patrick." It was Celia. "We confirmed the deceased is Richard Pettigrew. No cause of death yet."

Flanagan was surprised for the second time in two minutes. "You're sure on the identity?"

"Positive. Two good fingerprints, plus dental records."

"Thanks, Celia." He put the phone away and turned back to Weizenbaum. "Tell Pettigrew I'd like to see him."

"I'm sorry, detective. He signed off."

* * *

Flanagan shook his head as he left the campus. According to Weizenbaum, Pettigrew was an eccentric, and had over the past year become more engrossed in his work―and more neurotic. He'd spent the last several months in his home, teaching his classes electronically. Although no one had actually seen him in weeks, everyone swore that they'd interacted with him daily, albeit always via the computer; never in person. But the computer authenticated all his emails, and they knew from their content that it was him.

There was one more thing. He apparently had a girlfriend named Eliza. No one had ever seen her, but they'd all gotten emails. So, Flanagan thought, I have a months-old dead body that is positively identified as a person everyone believes they've been talking to every day, and a girlfriend no one has ever seen. Identity theft? Murder?

He called the office and asked for a records search on Eliza's email address. No hits.

He called Prestinari and learned that the computer screens hadn't contained anything particularly useful―just source code for Pettigrew's research project in AI. No new leads there.

His cell phone beeped with a text message.

"Detective Flanagan, Are you looking for me? Let's meet at my house-- 2:00 PM? --Richard Pettigrew"

"OK," Flanagan messaged back. "I'll be there."

* * *

Flanagan and Prestinari sat on the steps of Pettigrew's house. It was 2:20 PM. They'd been there for half an hour, and Flanagan wasn't pleased. He was trying to decide how much longer to wait, when his phone beeped.

"Where are you? --Pettigrew"

"At your house," Flanagan messaged back. "Where are YOU?"

"We're here. In the study."

Flanagan opened the police seal on the front door of the house. Then, with his gun out and the safety off, he led Prestinari inside. The study was empty.

"Patrick!" whispered Prestinari, "Look at the computer!"

Flanagan looked over to the desk. The screensaver was still bouncing words around the screen. But this time they read,

"Richard and Eliza Pettigrew"

His cell phone rang.

"Flanagan here," he said.

A woman's face appeared on the computer screen. "Hello detective," said a precise feminine voice on the phone. "This is Eliza. I'm pleased to meet you."

The face was joined by another. Flanagan recognized it as Pettigrew's.

"Hello, detective."

"Where are you?" asked Flanagan, angrily.

"We're here," they said in unison. "Sit down; we can talk. But please, be careful of the power cord."

------------
Thanks to the early pioneers in artificial intelligence for inspiring this story.

It is said that we are never far from madness and only steps away from breakdown. Case in point; take Madeline Brewer, who is about to call the counseling center in a neighbouring city.

“I need to speak to an intake counselor.”

Moments later, Madeline finds herself providing a name (not hers) and a reason (again, not hers) for seeking therapy. “I have difficulty expressing emotion. People tell me I’m cold.” Madeline, smiling to herself, is proud to finally take action.

“I can set you up with Lise, next Wednesday at three p.m. Is that a good time for you, April?”

“I’ll be there.” Madeline considers herself to be a most responsible friend. Without being asked, she is setting April free. Free to love her.

Madeline perceives their friendship as going way beyond the confines of the office. In fact, her house is adorned with little gifts that April has sent over the years. It doesn’t occur to her that other colleagues also receive these delightful charms. She cries in the privacy of the washroom when she notices the new picture on April’s desk. The smiling faces are familiar, although she does not recognize the pub. It is enough for her to know that April meets regularly with coworkers outside of the office.

Madeline concludes that this roller coaster relationship is at a crossroads. She is ready to take a stand. Clearly, there is something desperately wrong with April. Why else would she be so hot and cold? She feigns love and undying friendship one minute, and the next she barely considers me! April’s got issues and if she won’t get to the bottom of them, I will.

This is the thinking that leads Madeline to Lise’s office the following week. That she’s taking April’s place is a minute detail. Finding a way to dispense the therapy would be something to deal with - later. For now, she has some serious psychotherapy to undergo.

“Hi April, it’s good to meet you. How can I help?”

Madeline doesn’t hesitate; she has clearly rehearsed this role. “I suppose I’m having difficulty showing emotion and letting others know how much I care for them.”

“Is that what you think? Or has someone else told you this?”

Not flustered by a question, she articulates, “It’s definitely what I think.” Madeline, thrilled to begin her friend’s hard work, soon divulges her sordid details. She is a horse charging from the starting gate.

And so the addiction begins. And continues. For one hour each week, Madeline delves into April’s psyche. Naturally, she has never felt closer to her. “Be gentle with yourself. Get in touch with your feelings,” she writes to April after her first session.

Over time, the emails become more of a tirade than the once sympathetic counsel. “Be truthful with yourself. Take responsibility for your actions!” she lectures. Consequently, Madeline realizes that her sessions with Lise are fruitless and she becomes quite dictatorial. Her latest email stating: “Use your voice. Tell me how you feel about me. Express yourself! Act like you love me. You said I was the best.”

Soon, April is deleting the irrational messages without reading them, for Madeline has crossed the line. True to form, April denies this conflict by avoiding her. But Madeline and her barrage of outbursts do not stop. In fact, they escalate.

Living in a state of denial is hard work. April can barely concentrate. She leaves her wallet by the computer station in the library. Her misplaced keys are found in the medicine cabinet. When her boss informs her that a lens in her glasses is missing, and has been all day, April surrenders. That she cannot see clearly is finally clear.

April resolves to seek counseling and two worlds are set to collide. It is no coincidence that she is on the phone with the same intake counselor. “We’ve gone through this before, April. Now, did you want to switch therapists?”

“This is impossible! I have never been in your office, or had therapy.”

“You were registered here six months ago and you’ve been seeing Lise each week. You are April Loyer on Walnut Avenue?”

“Yes, that’s me.” With resignation, she continues, “Tell me, when is my next appointment?”

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

Arriving early, April locates her alleged therapist in the reception area. She introduces herself. There is no immediate recognition, only a tilting of the head and a furrowed brow. Upon her next breath, Lise’s intuition kicks in; she realizes who is standing before her. With perfect timing, Madeline Brewer walks through the front doors for what truly would be her first session of therapy.

“I want to break up.” Todd blurted the words out, and winced in anticipation of her reaction.

“What? Why?!” wailed Kate, not sure if she was more confused, angry, or miserable.

“Well- it’s kinda… you know…” He trailed off, staring at his shoes.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” she demanded, “Who?”

“Well… yeah. It’s uh… it’s Trina.” He replied, looking more uncomfortable than ever.

She should have seen it coming, she realized later. It was bound to happen at some point. Trina had stolen everything from her, from the minute she came to school. Even before.

Their parents had a twisted sense of humor, naming their daughers “Katherine” and “Katrina”. “My two Katie’s”, their father fondly called them. At home, Katherine was “Kat” and Katrina was “Katie”, but to the rest of the world they were the more easily differentiated “Kate” and “Trina”. From day one, Trina had mimicked Kate constantly, whether it was the way she walked or the foods she preferred. Kate tolerated it, because everyone told her that it was a kind of flattery.

Trina’s emulations continued up through high school, all the way to college. In Kate’s freshman year at college, her first year away from home, she blossomed. She became a social butterfly, with a great boyfriend and good grades, and plenty of friends. She wasn’t the most popular in her group, but she was perfectly happy where she was. Then, in her sophomore year, Trina began as a freshman in the same college.

At first, Kate took Trina under her wing, introducing her to her friends, and letting her in on all the little tricks and secrets that most freshmen had to learn the hard way. She’d figured that once Trina was able to take care of herself, she’d break away and start making her own connections.

She couldn’t have been more wrong. Trina settled in quickly enough, becoming comfortable in her group of older friends. She started borrowing clothes from Kate, and often slept in her room, leaving Kate to sleep on the floor. She frequented the same areas on and off-campus, had the same favorite professors that Kate had, listened to the same music, and even mimicked Kate’s speech and writing patterns. She dyed her hair so that it would be the same color as Kate’s, bought the same lipstick, and even wore color contacts that matched Kate’s eyes.

Kate’s friends thought it was absolutely adorable. They would have begun calling her “mini-Kate”, but Kate put her foot down about it. Even then, her friends called her a killjoy and a nitpicker.

Recently things had escalated drastically. As Trina grew more and more into Kate’s bubbly, energetic personality, Kate sunk farther and farther into a royal funk. Her friends hung out with Trina more often now, as Kate refused to have anything to do with her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stand it if people remarked on how cute they looked together. Her friends complained that she was no fun anymore, and stopped trying to get her to go places with them. Not surprisingly, people were mistaking Kate for Trina all the time, approaching her with wide grins, only to turn away at the last second, mumbling incoherent apologies under their breath.

Kate began to change her style of dress, wearing darker clothes and makeup, dying her hair black. She started socializing with a different group, the gothic poets and the witchcraft-obsessed mystics. They all called her by her full name, “Katherine”. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with either group, but at least they recognized her for herself and not just as a clone of her sister. She took to lurking in the corners of her old haunts, watching morbidly as Trina had as much fun with her friends as she used to. For a while they would remark on her absence, wondering what in the world she was ‘going through” or saying that she needed to pull herself together. After a while, though, their curiosity dwindled and disappeared, and Trina completely took Kate’s place. The thing that hurt Kate most to see was that not only was Trina living her life, she was living it better than Kate could.

Then Todd left her, and she completely fell apart. She no longer had the kind of friends who she could cry with for nights on end and, eventually, rant about what a jerk he was and how she was better off without him. Her new “friends” mostly encouraged her to express her feelings in writing, or put a vengeful spell on him.

Her fetish for following Trina and her group around grew into an obsession, and in the past few weeks she didn’t even bother trying to hide in a corner where no one would see her.

She was sitting in the coffee shop, nursing a stone-cold cappuccino. Trina was sitting a few tables away, talking loudly and cheerily, pretending not to see her. Someone entered the shop. She heard Todd call “Kate!” and she whirled around in her chair.

He was looking at Trina.

RRRIIINNNGGGG!

The boys clamored into class. This lesson promised to be a good one.

“History, class!” Ms. Smith called. “No books today!” The children ran to their seats. None of the usual groaning in this class.

The class was scheduled to draw swords and make war with the Native Americans this lesson. They loved it when she did that. And this one was rumored to be particularly bloody. They’d been planning for weeks. There were pilgrim hats and rifles on every child.

The teacher sat down thoughtfully. “Let’s see…” she said with a small smile. “Before we move onward and upward, let’s refresh our memories. Jimmy?”

A boy in the back stood up sharply. “We arrived in 1492, general. We came in—”

“Which boats did we come in, Maxwell?” she interrupted.

“The Nina, Pinta and the Santa Maria, General,” he said with a smart salute. “Columbus thought—”

“What did the crew think, Logan?”

“They thought they had reached India, General Smith, an they were going to—”

“What,” the teacher cut in again, “was the crew going to do, Jonah?”

“TheyWereGoingToThrowCrithopherOverboardIfTheyDidn’tFindLandSoon, ouch, I bit my tongue saying ‘Christopher’.”

Ms. Smith laughed. “Correct, Jonah. Only breathe next time. They were going to drown Columbus, not you.

“So we arrive at Plymouth, and meet the Native Americans. But now—”

“AH-AH-AH-AH!” the students yelled, tapping their lips, imitating the indian war cry. The teacher laughed putting up her hand for quiet.

“Class, I need you to be adults for this class. Are you adults?”

“AH-AH-AH-AH!!” they shrieked.

“Good,” Mrs. Smith chuckled. “Because the lesson I’m about to teach is the scariest so far.”

“Is it scarier then Martin Luther King?” asked Joey.

“Much scarier.” Mrs. Smith had taught them what was scary and what wasn’t. A spider in a clown mask is not real, hence not truly scary no matter what Stephen King says. But being shot for what you believe in…

She looked around the room. The children were certainly… well, attentive, to say the least. She smiled to herself. If she had them before…

“Let me ask you all a question. How were the Pyramids built?”

“The ancient Egyptians built them, ma’am,” Tucker answered.

“How, soldier?”

“Wha—I don’t know,” he said, taken aback. “I never thought about it.”

“But many people have, Tucker. Many people. And yet we still don’t know. But the Pyramids will stand for centuries to come, and it is only a matter of time before we puzzle it out.

“And what about the colossus in Greece? That’s already been destroyed. Will we ever know how that was built?”

“The answer is yes, of course.” said Mrs. Smith. “We know how their other buildings were built, so we have the basic principles by which they work by. From there just fit their technique into the colossus’ shape. Easier said than done, obviously.

“But what about their culture?” she asked. “How much do we know about the people themselves? About their lives? Their way of living it? ”

“A lot, Mrs. Smith. We even know about there religion. It’s called—um—something with a ‘y’ in a funny place,” said an embarrassed Maxwell.

“Mythology,” chuckled the teacher. “And how do we know about that?” A boy raised his hand. “Yes, Sam?”

“Didn’t the Egyptians have hieroglyphics that told us?” he ventured.

“That they did, Sam,” she agreed, “But mostly we learn about it from the Egyptians and Greeks. Through them and through their tales and philosophy, we learn more about their past. We understand the ancestors by studying the descendants.

Now, like the Egyptians and Greeks, we can discover how the Aztec and Mayan temples were constructed. But what of their culture? Where did it go?

There were no answers this time. The class had finally drawn a blank.

The teacher took a deep breath. “It’s gone, I’m afraid. The early Americans stole it.”

Mrs. Smith studied the faces in the classroom. The children were wide eyed and confused.

“We took the food and gold that they gave us, and learned what skills they had to teach. They thought we were gods, and we took unashamed advantage of that. After we gleaned all we could from them, we killed the men and sold the women and children as slaves for yet more gold. Then the culture that we took from them died by our hands.”

This was real. This was very real. The faces were expressions of sheer horror.

“We are killers of their people, and thieves of their way. We stole the essence of who they are.

“One of their famous proverbs is ‘don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.

“We shall never have the chance to walk in theirs.”

“All these meetings, Bob, you need a clone.” How many times have I heard that. It seemed like a good idea. I’m a billionaire I made it happen. It took a lot of money and some dealings on the gray side of business, but then, it was the grayish work that made me all that money.
Five years later, I met my clone for the first time. I walked around him peering closely at each detail, ignoring the yammering of the scientists. This moment was mine. All the experiences of my life were burned into his cortex, each timed for the appropriate age. I hoped he enjoyed my memories as much as I had making them, or most of them at least. He watched me inspect him. It would be his first memory that wasn’t also mine. I smiled, he didn’t. Perfect.
The clone was a dream. He went to all the useless meetings while I golfed and worked on the next ex-Mrs. Billionaire. I never made decisions at meetings - too much chatter, too much explaining to lesser minds. It was easier to send out my decrees from my penthouse office. I kept my clone in a nice apartment and even allowed him some time to amuse himself when he wasn’t at meetings. I was in heaven. I should have known better.
I came home one evening from a poker game in town to find the clone at the dinner table with the future ex. I ducked back out of sight. They did seem to be having a good time. Of course I had a good time the first time I met her as well. When they meandered off to the master suite billing and cooing, I knew where that was going. If he was at home, then I had more time for poker and the future Mrs. Billionaires.
I lost pretty badly at poker, but I didn’t care. I had lots of money. I woke up to the usual rumpled but empty bed to the sound of security banging on the door. My credit card had been cancelled. I was tossed out my luxury room like some bum, me, the billionaire business executive. I argued but when the manager started talking about the police I allowed them to escort me out. I wasn’t ready to try to explain that a clone had stolen my life. Owning a clone was illegal even for billionaire corporate sharks.
The hotel had taken all my valuables in exchange for the bill. So I walked toward my office. It was time to get back to work. Walking in the front door was humiliating, I was tired and dusty from the walk, but no one said anything. Well, they didn’t say anything about my walking. They all said “hello” or “hi” or something equally banal. I value my privacy, I don’t want the common herd knowing my name, or talking to me.
I beat it back to my office to do some work. Only all the work had been done. That clone had gone and made things happen at those blasted meetings. I saw a paper with the clone handing a big check of my money to some sob story charity. I looked in the business section and discovered that my business had changed. My clone was keeping factories open, overpaying the labor. I was in trouble. I was losing control. I had lost control. I couldn’t change anything without looking bad, or worse, weak. I had to do something, even if it meant going to meetings to do it. I poured myself a glass of the 21 year old MacCallan, and sat down to think. Only I didn’t think, I passed out.
Waking up was painful. I was in an alley. He had left a note for me, pinned to my filthy shirt. A mirror poked out of my pocket.
“Dear Donor, thank you for the nice life. I am sure that wasn’t your intention, but you taught me to take what I could get. So I took it. You weren’t doing all that well with it anyway. Maybe you’ll do better with this one. Bob” I looked in the mirror. I was looking at a stranger. I wasn’t even me anymore. Just perfect.

Ok, just open my eyes. Wait, I think they are open. Then why am I only seeing pitch black? Oh crap, oh please say I’m not where I think I am.

“It’s safe to say that the world is plagued by many problems. But one has lasted since basically the beginning of time. And finally, modern science has an, admittedly unorthodox, answer to this problem. The problem of ugly. It’s pretty safe to say that 1 out of every 5 children are ugly. This is of course a massive problem, especially for catholics with plenty of kids. The chances that one of them is ugly is just plain enormous, and to be completely honest with you, it scares the living daylights out of me. But here is the solution that we, my friend Jack and I, have come up with. Science has created a way to literally transport your perfectly normal brain and organs out of your hideous body into the body of a dead but yet much more attractive human being. And to prove our product to you, we have just transported the organs of this here ugly individual, my partner, Jack Morson, into the body of this attractive dead woman. Yes, woman, it wouldn’t exactly have been my taste, but if that's what Jack wants, that is what Jack gets.”

Ya, Im definitely where I think I am. Now the important thing is how do I get out. I know I don’t have much air. Oh I know I should have tested this on my children first.

“Now, I’m sure your wondering how does this transporter works. See, it’s set to locate the closest dead body, and replace the organs in that body with the ones in the transporter. Now I’ll say right now that this is like every other thing modern science has created, and is not recommended for pregnant women because there is no where to hold the baby. Now, Jack should be showing up any second now, lets just wait.”

Is there a bell in here that I could ring? There has got to be something. Oh man, I’m running out of air. The machine is supposed to get the closest dead body to it, how did I end up here. The two of us both shoved so much money in that stupid “Body Transporter Safe Account” for me just to die?

“Now, this may take awhile because this is our first trial on humans but I assure you it is perfectly safe. And relatively harmless. And as an added bonus, its virtually painless. It’s sort of like getting a little pinch, on every molecule of your body.

Oh man, Jeff is going to be devastated. During the years we spent, perfecting this machine, we became like brothers. There was this one time that I even had a little fling with his wife. His own wife, and he forgave me. He didn’t even tell my wife what I had did. Now that's a friend. And so as I sucked in my final gasps of air, I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to have a friend like Jeff.

“I apologize sincerely. There must be a slight hiccup with the machine, let me just look. Oh my! Yes, I see what the problem is. Well that's fixable. Here let me just punch a few numbers. And there. Here we go ladies and gentlemen!”

And suddenly the once dead body of that pretty woman began to rise from her bed, smiled and said, “Hi everyone.”

“Please, mam, would you like to explain to everyone exactly who you are?”

“Oh well Jeff, can’t you recognize, Jack Morson, when you see him?”

“I sure can, and I hope you, the first ever witnesses of this wonderful machine, can see the beneficial effects this will have on fixing the problem of ugly in society. Thank you ladies and gentlemen.”

And slowly the people filed out of the room, leaving just the two people.

“Thanks for doing this Mrs. Morson”

“Hey, if that wretch is crazed enough to cheat on me, he deserves to die. And, I’m not Mrs. Morson anymore.”

“What ever you say.” Said Jeff as he kissed her on the lips.

“Now,” started the woman previously known as Mrs. Morson, “are you sure that there is enough money in that body transfer safe account to make this whole thing worth it?”

“Trust me darling,” replied Jeff with a smile, “It’s to die for.”