# Chapter 2: The Seventh Iteration

Pain radiated through Alexander's body as he slowly regained consciousness. His head throbbed with each heartbeat, making him wince. The familiar scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils, and he tried to lift his hand to rub his aching temple. It didn't move.

He opened his eyes, blinking several times to clear his blurry vision. The ceiling above was the same pristine white panels he'd grown accustomed to, but this wasn't his bedroom or any part of the lab he recognized immediately. He tried to sit up, only to discover that thick restraints secured his wrists and ankles to what felt like a medical examination table.

"What the hell?" he muttered, his voice hoarse. His throat felt dry, like he hadn't used it in days.

"Language, Alexander," a familiar voice said from somewhere to his right. "Although I suppose I can't blame you for being upset."

The voice was his own. Exactly his own.

He turned his head as much as the restraints would allow. Through a large glass partition, he saw himself—or rather, the original Alexander—sitting comfortably in a chair, tablet in hand, observing him with clinical detachment. The original wore a crisp white lab coat over a neatly pressed blue shirt. His hair was trimmed, unlike Alexander's shaggy mop. The sight was unnerving, like looking in a mirror that showed a slightly improved version of himself.

"You're awake earlier than expected," Original Alexander said, making a note on his tablet. "That's interesting. The security system was set to stun rather than kill, of course. I wouldn't waste a perfectly good specimen. But the dosage should have kept you under for at least another three hours."

Alexander pulled against his restraints, feeling the unyielding material dig into his wrists. "Let me go," he demanded.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Original Alexander replied calmly. "At least not yet. You've become aware of your... condition. That makes you unpredictable."

Alexander stopped struggling and tried to take a deep breath. Panic wouldn't help him now. He needed to think clearly, logically. That's what he—what they both—would do in this situation.

"So I'm a clone," he said, making his voice as steady as possible. "You created me."

Original Alexander nodded, seemingly pleased. "Yes. And quite a successful one, I might add. The best so far."

So far? The words sent a chill through Alexander's body.

"How many?" he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

"You are the seventh iteration," Original Alexander replied, setting down his tablet and leaning forward. "The previous six had to be... decommissioned after showing various signs of independence or cognitive dissonance. Most didn't make it past the initial awakening phase without realizing something was wrong."

Alexander felt sick. Six others, all with his face, his memories, his knowledge... all disposed of like failed experiments. Which, he supposed, is exactly what they were. What he was.

"What happened to them?" he asked, his mouth bone dry.

"Nothing painful," Original Alexander assured him, as if that should be comforting. "I'm not cruel. I simply couldn't allow defective models to continue. It would be irresponsible."

Alexander considered his options. Playing along seemed like the best strategy for now. "And I was doing fine until the security scan failed. What happened?"

"Ah, yes," Original Alexander said, picking up his tablet again. "That was actually my fault. I made an adjustment to the system parameters while you were sleeping last night. The voiceprint recognition was calibrated to detect subtle differences between us that even you aren't aware of. I needed to test if the security system could distinguish between us."

"So it was a test? You wanted me to discover the truth?"

Original Alexander's expression hardened slightly. "Not exactly. It was a test of the system, not of you. Your discovery was an... unforeseen complication. The previous clones all showed signs of awareness much earlier. I thought you might be the perfected version."

Alexander felt a surge of anger. He was just an experiment, a thing to be studied and judged. "And now that I know, you're going to 'decommission' me too?"

"Eventually," Original Alexander replied with clinical detachment. "But not immediately. You've lasted longer than any previous iteration. That makes you valuable for study."

Alexander thought about the flashes of memory he'd experienced before—images of himself looking at a clone in a tank. No, not himself. The original looking at a clone. Those weren't his memories at all. They belonged to the man sitting across from him.

"The memories," Alexander said suddenly. "How did you transfer them? How much did you give me?"

Original Alexander seemed pleased by the question, like a teacher proud of a student asking something insightful. "Everything," he said. "Every memory up to approximately eight years ago, when I began this project. The process is quite remarkable, actually. Neural mapping combined with—"

"Skip the lecture," Alexander interrupted. "I know how it works. I have your memories of developing the theory."

Original Alexander frowned slightly at being cut off. "Yes, of course you do. Though it seems some of my more recent memories have leaked through as well, given your flashes of recognition in the scanning chamber. That's not supposed to happen."

Alexander tried to ignore the clinical analysis of his mind and focus on understanding his situation. "So I really believe I've been here for over eight years? All those projects I've been working on..."

"Most of them are real," Original Alexander assured him. "The cows, the hydroponics bay, even the coffee-milk project. I simply allowed you to continue my work while I observed. The polonium weapons research is fabricated, of course. Too dangerous to allow a clone to handle. The government would never approve such research anyway."

"The government," Alexander repeated. "Do they know about me? About the cloning project?"

A slight smile appeared on Original Alexander's face. "They funded it, though not explicitly. They believe I'm working on life extension and memory transfer technologies. They don't know I've successfully created fully functioning human clones with transferred memories. That would raise too many ethical questions."

Alexander felt his mind racing through implications. "So they think you're here alone? Nobody knows I exist?"

"No one but me," Original Alexander confirmed. "And that's how it needs to remain."

Alexander fell silent, processing everything. The restraints were secure—he'd designed them himself, after all. Or rather, the original had designed them. The distinction felt important now.

"So what happens next?" he finally asked.

Original Alexander stood and walked closer to the glass. "In the short term, I'll run some tests, take some samples. I need to understand why you've integrated my memories so seamlessly when the others failed. Then, in approximately 24 hours, I'll need to terminate you."

The blunt statement sent ice through Alexander's veins. "Why wait? Why not just do it now?"

"There are still tests I need to run while you're conscious," Original Alexander explained. "Brain activity measurements, cognitive assessments, emotional responses. You're the most successful iteration so far. Your data is invaluable."

"For what purpose?" Alexander asked, fighting to keep his voice level. "What's the end goal here?"

Original Alexander hesitated, seemingly debating how much to reveal. Finally, he sighed and sat back down in his chair.

"I'm dying," he said simply. "Advanced pancreatic cancer. Terminal. The irony isn't lost on me—spending my life advancing science only to be taken down by my own cellular rebellion. I've got about six months left, according to my own diagnosis."

Alexander felt a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, this was the man planning to kill him. On the other, it was essentially himself receiving a death sentence. "And you need a replacement."

"Precisely," Original Alexander nodded. "My work is too important to end with my death. The government values my research, but they won't allow it to continue without me. So I need a perfect replacement. Someone who is, for all intents and purposes, me."

"And once you have that perfect clone, you'll what? Just walk away and die somewhere while I—they—take over your life?"

"That's the plan," Original Alexander confirmed. "A seamless transition. No one would ever know. And my work continues."

Alexander processed this information. The original wasn't just creating replacements—he was trying to achieve a form of immortality. Cheating death through perfect replication.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Alexander. "Wait, why do I need to be terminated? If I'm the most successful clone so far, why not just update my memories with everything since the split and let me take over?"

Original Alexander's expression darkened. "Because you've deviated. You know you're a clone. That awareness creates a fundamental difference between us. You would never truly be me—you'd be a copy who knows he's a copy. That psychological difference would eventually become noticeable to others."

Alexander wanted to argue, but he knew the logic was sound. Even now, knowing what he was, he felt different. His identity had shifted. He wasn't Alexander. He was... something else. A copy. A shadow.

"So you'll make an eighth," Alexander said quietly. "And hope that one doesn't figure it out too."

"I'm making adjustments to the process," Original Alexander replied. "Your awareness occurred due to specific errors that I can now correct. The next iteration will be perfect."

Alexander turned his head to stare at the ceiling. He had all the original's memories of designing this facility. There would be cameras watching him, vital sign monitors tracking every fluctuation in his bodily functions. Escape seemed impossible. And even if he could escape, where would he go? The world thought there was only one Alexander.

He felt suddenly exhausted, despite having just regained consciousness. The weight of his situation pressed down on him like a physical force. He was going to die. In 24 hours, he would cease to exist, and another copy would take his place, unaware of its true nature.

"I want to see the others," he said suddenly.

"The others?" Original Alexander repeated, sounding confused.

"The failed clones. If I'm going to die anyway, I want to see them. The ones that came before me."

Original Alexander seemed to consider this request, tapping his fingers on his tablet. "I suppose there's no harm in it, from a scientific perspective. It might even yield interesting data on how you process seeing your own... predecessors."

He stood and moved to a control panel near the glass partition. After pressing a few buttons, a section of wall to Alexander's left slid open, revealing a large glass window looking into another room. Inside were six cylindrical tanks, each containing what appeared to be a sleeping human form floating in clear fluid.

Alexander stared in horror. It was like looking at multiple versions of himself suspended in animation. Some appeared physically identical to him, while others had subtle differences—slightly different builds or complexions, as if the cloning process had introduced minor variations.

"You keep them?" he asked, unable to hide his disgust.

"Of course," Original Alexander replied matter-of-factly. "They represent years of work and contain valuable genetic material. Besides, I needed to study what went wrong with each iteration to improve the next."

Alexander couldn't look away from the macabre display. Six versions of himself, preserved like specimens in a museum. Would he join them soon? Another failed experiment to be studied and harvested for parts?

"What went wrong with each of them?" he asked, morbid curiosity overriding his revulsion.

Original Alexander seemed pleased by the question, as if it validated his scientific approach. "The first simply didn't accept the memory transfer. Brain activity patterns indicated rejection, somewhat like an organ transplant rejection. The second accepted the memories but couldn't integrate them properly—he knew immediately something was wrong and became violent."

Alexander could almost picture it—waking up confused, with memories that didn't quite fit, realizing something was fundamentally wrong with your existence.

"The third?" he prompted when Original Alexander paused.

"Cellular degradation. The clone body began breaking down within hours of consciousness. The fourth had similar issues, though he lasted several days before showing signs of organ failure."

Alexander felt a chill. Had the original solved those issues with him, or was he also beginning to break down at a cellular level without knowing it?

"Five and six were closer to success," Original Alexander continued. "Five maintained the illusion for nearly a week before questioning his surroundings. Six actually did quite well but showed subtle personality differences that made him unsuitable. Too curious, too questioning. He began looking into areas of the lab that were restricted. I had to terminate him when he discovered the cloning equipment."

Just like what had happened to him, Alexander realized. He had failed the same test as Clone Six. "And now there's me. Number Seven."

"Yes," Original Alexander confirmed. "And you've been the most promising by far. Nearly a month of perfect integration before today's... incident."

A month? Alexander thought he'd been here for years. The revelation that his entire experienced reality only stretched back a month was disorienting. "So what made me different? Why did I last longer?"

"I made several adjustments to the memory transfer protocol," Original Alexander explained, clearly warming to the technical discussion. "Previous iterations received memories as discrete packets, but I realized this created integration issues. With you, I implemented a continuous stream approach, allowing your brain to process and integrate memories more organically. I also improved the conditioning during development to better prepare your neurology for the transfer."

Alexander felt sick hearing himself described like a computer receiving a software update. "So I'm just Memory Transfer Protocol version 7.0?"

"That's reductive," Original Alexander frowned. "You're an extraordinary scientific achievement. The most advanced human cloning experiment ever conducted. You should be proud to be part of this work."

"Proud to be murdered tomorrow so you can try again?" Alexander shot back.

Original Alexander's expression hardened. "I'm not murdering you. I'm decommissioning a failed experiment. There's a difference."

"Not from where I'm lying," Alexander said bitterly.

They fell into silence for a moment, the original making notes on his tablet while Alexander stared at the ceiling, mind racing through possible ways to escape or convince his creator to spare him.

"What time tomorrow?" Alexander finally asked.

"Pardon?" Original Alexander looked up from his tablet.

"What time tomorrow will you kill me?"

"Approximately 1400 hours," Original Alexander replied after checking something on his tablet. "After I've completed the final cognitive tests."

Alexander nodded slightly, as much as the restraints would allow. "And what happens to my body? Do I join the museum of horrors over there?" He nodded toward the room with the tanks.

"Your neural tissue will be preserved for study. The rest will be processed for biological material recycling. Nothing goes to waste."

The clinical detachment in the original's voice made Alexander want to scream. How could someone—even himself—be so callous about ending a conscious life? But then, the original didn't see him as a person. Just an experiment, a stepping stone toward perfect replication.

"I don't understand," Alexander said after another long silence. "Why give me 24 hours? That doesn't make sense. If I were in your position—and let's face it, I essentially am—I wouldn't take the risk. I'd terminate the failed experiment immediately and move on to the next iteration."

Original Alexander raised an eyebrow. "An interesting point. You think like me, as you should. But there are still tests I need to conduct—"

"But they don't require 24 hours," Alexander interrupted. "You could do them in six and still have time to dispose of me before dinner. So why wait? What's the real reason?"

Original Alexander studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he set down his tablet and leaned forward.

"You're right," he admitted. "It's not just about the tests. I need time to make final adjustments to the next iteration based on your data. And..." he hesitated. "I suppose there's also a certain... reluctance. You are, after all, the closest thing to a success I've achieved."

A bitter laugh escaped Alexander's lips. "You expect me to believe you have sentimental feelings about me? When you've already killed six others? When you're already planning version eight?"

"Not sentiment," Original Alexander corrected quickly. "Scientific appreciation. You represent thousands of hours of work and significant progress. Terminating you is... regrettable from a purely scientific standpoint."

Alexander wasn't convinced. He knew himself—or at least, he had the original's memories and personality as a foundation for his own. And one thing he knew with absolute certainty: the original Alexander wouldn't hesitate to eliminate a failed experiment, no matter how "close" to success it was. There had to be another reason for the delay.

"I don't buy it," he said flatly. "There's something else. Something you're not telling me."

Original Alexander's expression flickered briefly—annoyance, perhaps, or concern that his clone was too perceptive. It confirmed Alexander's suspicion that something more was going on.

"Regardless of what you believe," Original Alexander said, standing up and straightening his lab coat, "the facts remain the same. You have approximately 24 hours before termination. I suggest you use that time to make peace with your situation."

He turned to leave, moving toward a door at the side of the observation room.

"Wait," Alexander called out. "If I'm going to die anyway, at least tell me the truth. Why the delay? What aren't you telling me?"

Original Alexander paused at the door, his back to the glass partition. For a moment, Alexander thought he might ignore the question entirely. Then, without turning around, he spoke.

"The truth is, I need a perfect copy to replace me after my terminal cancer diagnosis," he said, his voice slightly softer than before. "I had hoped you would be that perfect copy."

"You already told me that," Alexander pointed out. "That doesn't explain the 24-hour delay."

Original Alexander finally turned, meeting his clone's gaze with an intensity that surprised Alexander. "Fine. You want the whole truth? I'm conducting an experiment within an experiment. I've given each clone a different amount of time between awareness and termination. I'm studying how you—how each of you—processes imminent death with full knowledge of your artificial creation."

The revelation hit Alexander like a physical blow. "You're studying how we face death? That's sick, even for you."

"It's science," Original Alexander replied coldly. "When I face my own death in six months, I want to know exactly how my consciousness will process it. Each clone provides valuable data on different timeframes. Clone Five knew for only one hour. Six knew for twelve. You get twenty-four."

"And clone Eight?" Alexander asked, disgusted yet morbidly curious.

"Assuming Eight is successful and doesn't discover the truth prematurely, they'll never know they're a clone. They'll simply believe they are me, continuing my work indefinitely."

"And if they do find out?"

"Then the experiment continues with Nine," Original Alexander said simply. He turned back toward the door. "Rest now. The tests begin in four hours."

As the original walked out of the observation room, Alexander stared after him, mind racing with this new information. The original was studying how different versions of himself faced death. It was beyond cruel—it was methodically sadistic.

But something still didn't add up. Alexander knew himself too well. This explanation, while horrifying, still felt incomplete. There was more to this 24-hour window than just a morbid death study.

Lying on the examination table, securely restrained and monitored, Alexander began to analyze everything he knew about the situation. There had to be a reason—a logical, scientific reason—for Original Alexander to take such a risk by keeping a self-aware clone alive for 24 hours.

And if he could figure out that reason, maybe he could find a way to survive.