# Chapter 3: Memories of Me

Alexander stared at the ceiling, tracking a small imperfection in one of the white panels. The restraints dug into his wrists and ankles whenever he shifted position. He had counted twenty-three surveillance cameras in the room, positioned to monitor him from every angle.

Four hours had passed since Original Alexander left. Four of his twenty-four hours gone already.

He closed his eyes and tried to think. If anyone could understand the original's motivations, it should be him. They shared the same mind, same memories, same thinking patterns—at least up to the point of divergence a month ago.

Why give him twenty-four hours? The explanation about studying death reactions felt incomplete.

"Think, damn it," he muttered to himself. "You know yourself better than anyone."

He needed to search his memories. The answer had to be there. If he and Original Alexander were the same person, then the reasoning behind the twenty-four-hour window might be buried somewhere in his own mind.

Alexander started with the most recent memories—working in the lab, the coffee-milk experiments, the data analysis. No, these were too recent. His own experiences as a clone wouldn't help.

He needed to go deeper, to access the original's memories from before his creation. He concentrated, drawing up images of the laboratory construction, the early days of the cloning experiments.

---

The memory surfaced clearly—standing in an empty underground facility, eight years ago. Alexander remembered the excitement coursing through his veins as he surveyed the cavernous space. The government had finally approved his funding request, disguised as research into life extension and neural mapping.

"This will do nicely," he remembered saying to no one in particular, his voice echoing in the empty space. "Plenty of room for all the equipment."

He paced the concrete floor, mentally dividing the area into sections—main laboratory, medical bay, living quarters, storage. In his hand, he clutched the preliminary designs for the cloning chambers.

The memory shifted. Construction crews working, installing specialized equipment. Alexander overseeing everything, checking measurements, testing systems.

"No, that panel goes over there," he heard himself say to a worker. "The electrical system needs to be completely isolated from the main grid."

The worker gave him an odd look. "Makes it harder to get help if something goes wrong, you know."

"Nothing will go wrong," Alexander replied confidently. "And if it does, I can handle it myself."

Alexander frowned as the memory faded. That confidence, that absolute certainty that he could handle anything alone—was that the key? Had Original Alexander's overconfidence led to some critical error he now needed time to fix?

He pushed deeper.

---

Another memory emerged. Two years later, standing in the completed laboratory. The construction crews long gone, Alexander worked alone now, as he'd always preferred.

He stood before a large glass tank filled with nutrient solution. Inside floated what looked like an incomplete human form—a proto-clone in early development. It was misshapen, only partially formed, nowhere near viable.

"Failure number twelve," he muttered, making notes on his tablet. "Genetic sequencing still not stabilizing properly."

He pressed a button, and the tank began to drain. Another failed attempt. But he wasn't discouraged. Each failure brought him closer to success.

"The problem is in the telomere reproduction," he said to himself. "If I can solve that, the rest should fall into place."

He moved to a computer terminal and began typing rapidly, adjusting parameters for the next attempt. The sound of his fingers on the keyboard created a steady rhythm, almost hypnotic. Hours passed without him noticing, totally absorbed in his work.

Alexander followed the memory, watching himself work with single-minded determination. He recognized that focus—the ability to shut out everything else and concentrate solely on the problem at hand. But there was something unsettling about seeing it from the outside. The way he barely stopped to eat or drink, the way he talked to himself constantly, as if trying to fill the silence.

Was there a clue here? Something about his work habits, his isolation?

The memory changed again.

---

Now he stood in front of a successful prototype—Clone One. The first to reach full physical development. Alexander remembered the pride he felt, watching the clone's chest rise and fall in the nutrient bath, attached to life support systems. A perfect physical copy.

"Beautiful," he whispered, placing his hand on the glass. "Absolutely perfect."

He performed a check of the clone's vital signs. Heart rate steady. Brain activity normal for an unconscious state. All organs functioning correctly.

"Tomorrow we begin the memory transfer," he said to his reflection in the glass. "Then we'll see if you're really perfect."

The memory shifted forward. Clone One awake, strapped to an examination table much like Alexander was now. But something was wrong. The clone's eyes were unfocused, face slack. It made no attempt to speak or move beyond occasional muscle spasms.

"Complete neural rejection," Alexander noted, his voice clinical despite the disappointment he felt. "Subject unable to integrate transferred memories. Essentially brain-dead."

He reached for a syringe on a nearby tray. "End of experiment one."

Alexander pulled away from the memory, feeling sick. He'd watched himself euthanize what was essentially his twin without a moment's hesitation. Just a failed experiment to be documented and learned from.

Was this why he had twenty-four hours? Because the original wanted to study his brain activity fully before termination? But that wouldn't require a full day either.

He continued searching.

---

The memories flowed more quickly now. Clone Two becoming violent upon awakening, screaming about being trapped in someone else's body. Clone Three developing rapid-onset cellular degeneration within hours of consciousness. Clone Four lasting slightly longer before organ failure began.

With each failure, Alexander saw himself grow more determined, more obsessive. He barely slept, subsisting on protein shakes and coffee. His movements became more precise, his notes more detailed. He was learning, adjusting, improving with each iteration.

Clone Five lasted almost a week before something triggered his awareness. Alexander watched the memory of himself monitoring Five's behavior, noting the moment when confusion crossed the clone's face during a routine experiment.

"Something wrong?" Memory-Alexander asked.

"I just... I don't remember setting up this experiment," Five replied, looking troubled. "But I must have. Who else would have?"

Memory-Alexander's face remained impassive, but Alexander could read his own micro-expressions—that slight tightening around the eyes, the barely perceptible tension in his jaw. Five had just failed the test.

"Perhaps you're overworked," Memory-Alexander suggested smoothly. "Why don't you take a break? I'll finish up here."

Five nodded, still looking confused. "Maybe you're right. I have been pushing myself hard lately."

The memory jumped forward to Five strapped to the examination table, just as Alexander was now, rage and terror mingling on his face as he realized the truth.

"You're not me," Five spat. "You're the original. I'm just a copy."

"An imperfect copy," Memory-Alexander corrected. "But your data will help improve the next iteration."

"You can't do this," Five pleaded. "I'm conscious. I'm aware. I'm you!"

"No," Memory-Alexander replied coldly. "You're an experiment that failed."

Alexander watched as his original self administered the lethal injection without hesitation. Five's body convulsed briefly, then went still.

The memory faded, replaced by another. Clone Six in the lab, working diligently. This one lasted longer, almost two weeks. But Alexander watched as Six began to grow curious about the restricted areas of the laboratory. When Six discovered a hidden door, bypassing the security lock with ease (of course he could—he had all of Alexander's knowledge), the experiment was declared a failure.

Again, the termination scene played out. Six's face, so like his own, contorted with fear and anger as the original explained his true nature.

"Twelve hours," Six said bitterly. "That's all I get once I know the truth? Twelve hours to contemplate my own execution?"

"I need time to conduct tests," Memory-Alexander replied. "And yes, to document your psychological response to your situation."

Alexander jolted out of the memory. There it was again—the explanation about studying death reactions. But something still didn't add up. If the original truly wanted to study how his consciousness processed imminent death, why not just be honest with himself about his cancer diagnosis? Why go through the elaborate charade of creating and then killing clones?

Unless... there was more to learn from the clones than just their reaction to death. What if he was testing something else entirely?

---

Alexander shifted focus, trying to access memories from before the laboratory project began. What had led him here? What events in his life had driven him to create perfect copies of himself?

But as he reached for those memories, he encountered something strange—a blankness, a void where memories should be. He could remember the laboratory construction in vivid detail, but trying to remember what came before that was like trying to grab smoke.

He frowned, concentrating harder. He remembered his education—graduating with dual doctorates in genetic engineering and neuroscience. He remembered research positions at leading institutions. But personal memories—family, relationships, the emotional context of his life before the laboratory—these were strangely absent.

Why couldn't he remember his life outside the lab? Had the original deliberately omitted those memories from the transfer?

Alexander tried again, pushing against the mental block. He should have childhood memories, parents, perhaps siblings or friends. Did he come from money? Was he poor? Did he have lovers, enemies, people who shaped him?

Nothing. Just generalized knowledge without personal context.

He opened his eyes, disturbed by this realization. The original had deliberately excluded personal history from the memory transfer. But why? What was he hiding?

Perhaps that was the key. Whatever the original was concealing about his past might explain the twenty-four-hour window. But without access to those memories, Alexander was still in the dark.

He checked the time on the wall clock. Six hours had passed since his conversation with Original Alexander. Eighteen hours remained before his scheduled termination.

Alexander tugged at his restraints again, testing their strength. They didn't budge. He was physically trapped, and now he discovered he was mentally trapped as well, missing crucial pieces of his own identity.

What was the original hiding? And why did he need twenty-four hours before terminating him?

A new thought occurred to Alexander. What if the twenty-four hours weren't for the original's benefit, but for his? What if he was meant to discover something in that time—something that might change the outcome?

No, that was wishful thinking. The original had been clear about his intentions. Alexander was a failed experiment, destined for termination. There was no secret escape plan or hidden redemption.

Still, the missing memories bothered him. He closed his eyes again and concentrated, trying to access anything from before the laboratory. School? Childhood? Parents?

The more he tried, the more certain he became—those memories weren't just faded or inaccessible. They were absent entirely, as if they'd been surgically removed from the transfer. The original had given him scientific knowledge, professional memories, but nothing personal. Nothing about who Alexander was as a person before becoming a scientist obsessed with cloning.

But why? What could be so important about his past that the original would hide it from his clones?

Alexander suddenly remembered a project he'd worked on years ago—or rather, that the original had worked on—involving targeted memory suppression for PTSD patients. The goal had been to isolate traumatic memories and selectively remove them without damaging surrounding memory structures.

Had the original used similar techniques on the memory transfer? Was he hiding some trauma?

Or was it something else entirely? Perhaps the original's motivations weren't just about scientific immortality. Perhaps there was something deeply personal driving this project—something he didn't want his clones to know.

Alexander stared at the ceiling, frustration mounting. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Without access to those memories, he couldn't understand the original's true motivations.

What terrifying conclusion did Alexander draw? If the original had deliberately removed all personal history from his memories, it could only mean one thing: the truth about who he was before the laboratory would somehow compromise the experiment. Something about his past would make Alexander question everything—perhaps even make him refuse to be a replacement.

But what could be so terrible that the original would hide it from himself?