Security officer Phil Meeker was locking up the Viracrom Corporation’s multistoried HQ to begin his evening outdoor patrol when he heard the sound of angry voices. Switching on his Maglite, he walked down the long, verdant lawn to the corporation’s large Wildlife Habitat pond. Up ahead, he could make out the shapes of two small tents and chairs sitting on the bank.
“Meeker here,” he reported into his cell phone. “Looks like a couple of homeless people have made an encampment on the property by the pond. I’m going to instruct them to move along.” Middle-aged, with average, even features, looking solid and official in his company uniform, Phil approached the makeshift encampment with caution. Up ahead, someone was shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Screw you, you old alky!” screamed an angry diminutive man, his voice quavering with rage.
“Just stay out of my tent, you little thief!” boomed the deep, angry voice of the large man seated next to him. “I’m betting you were digging around in my bedroll to steal my bottle of hooch or a hit of coke. Why, I’ll...”
The two ill-clad men jumped to their feet, fists swinging wildly. Overpowered, the smaller man toppled to the ground, an ugly moan issuing from his throat. Groping about the shadowy lawn with his hand, he found a can of soup lying in the grass. Leaning back, he threw it with all his might. The big man ducked as the can whizzed overhead, straight at Phil’s head, hitting him with a resounding smack. Throwing his hands up into the air, Phil fell face-forward onto the manicured lawn.
“Now look what you’ve done,” groaned the big man, running up to Phil’s unconscious body.
“It’s your fault as much as mine,” whined the scrawny little man, tearing his tent down with frantic speed. “We better get the hell outta here, John!”
“Righto, Pete!” exclaimed the bulky man, racing back to the encampment.
Phil opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the cheap hotel room. It had been a week since his release from the hospital, where he’d been treated for head trauma. He’d had a lot of time to think about his condition, lying alone in bed, recovering from his injuries: about the headaches, the sweats, the difficulty he was having walking. He’d also had a lot of time to consider the situation it had thrown him into. Would he ever get well enough to work again? He desperately needed the money.
The truth was he didn’t really own anything, just bits and pieces of things. He owned a piece of a cheap vehicle—as long as he kept up the payments. He also owned an old computer someone had given him, and a few bits of clothes and shoes that he kept in a musty closet in his shoddy room. All in all, he had nothing of value to sell or pawn.
Perhaps the worst thing of all was that he had no friends to call on for help. He did have a girlfriend, at least a bit of one. He rarely saw her because she worked long hours at several jobs. Agnes desperately needed the money, too.
So what would happen if his condition prevented him from ever working again? He would lose those little bits and pieces of things he liked to call his own. Lying there in bed thinking about it, Phil realized he was only the bits and pieces of a man.
He switched on the television and started to watch some idiotic talk show. Suddenly, an ad came on that made him sit up and take notice.
“Make instant money! Loads of it!” exclaimed the exuberant young salesman from Synchronicity, Inc. “Sell your identity to us, and retire to a life of ease and pleasure. Call 1-800-555-SYNC.”
Phil recorded the phone number and lay back. He would call Synchronicity tomorrow.
“Please raise your hand and place it on the pad, Mr. Meeker,” drawled the elderly man dressed in an elegant black Brunello Cucinelli two-piece suit.
Phil placed a hand on the virtual pad suspended before him, and felt a pulse race through his fingertips as the complex details of his corporeal makeup were transmitted to a machine behind the office wall.
“Excellent,” said the man a moment later. “Now I would like you to look at my finger,” he continued, extending his index finger in the air.
A bright flash of light illuminated the shadowy room.
“They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul,” whispered a woman’s soft voice. “That completes your identity survey, sir.”
Phil didn’t believe his eyes when the flash-blindness faded. An attractive young woman dressed in a long, elegant gown stood before him, slowly withdrawing the virtual pad. Bewildered by the sudden change of personnel, Phil exclaimed, “What happened to the gentleman who was examining me?”
The woman smiled and said, “I am that man. Jenkins is my alternate identity. I switched to my female identity while you were blinded, merely to gauge your reaction and to amuse you. Consider it a fillip to sales.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” replied Phil, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“I am an experiment,” replied the feminine-looking robot, her face filled with pride. “Synchronicity’s commercial robots are only capable of reproducing one human identity. Perhaps dual-identity robots like myself will be common one day.”
“Amazing,” whispered Phil, his eyes filled with wonder.
“Thank you,” said the robot. “I fancy I am unique, for a robot. I often wonder, though, what it must be like to be human, the most unique and advanced life form on the planet.”
Phil glanced up at the ceiling as the lights went on.
“Synchronicity, Inc. requires only one thing of you,” intoned the robot. “As of this moment, you are retired from the workforce and must remain that way for the remainder of your life. You can never work for money ever again. The law requires Synchronicity, Inc. to provide you with a sizable compensation package for the loss of your identity.”
“I don’t quite get this business of forced retirement,” said Phil.
“It means you will be fully compensated for the loss of your future working years, Mr. Meeker — at a fair wage rate, of course,” replied the robot patiently. “It is illegal for you to work if you are being marketed in the form of a wage-earning robot — that is, a synchronicity or duplicate of you. Synchronicity, Inc. may even capitalize on this sale and produce an entire line of robots using your identity, robots that they can lease, robots that can work 24/7. Try to imagine the potential earning power Synchronicity, Inc. has gained through the purchase of your identity, and you’ll understand why your compensation must be generous.”
“I see,” said Phil, scratching his head. “Do I have to do anything else?”
“No, Mr. Meeker. This business transaction is finished.”
The female robot opened the door and looked into Phil’s eyes.
“It’s very easy to sell oneself, isn’t it?” she whispered.
Phil raised the gullwing door of the exotic sports car, and stepped out onto the shoulder of the long, circular drive. Reaching into the car, he removed the case of cognac and scotch whisky he’d picked up at the liquor store. Hoisting it up onto his shoulder, he walked down the bowered pathway to the entrance of the rambling ranch-style home. His man, Raoul — five foot two, a hundred and ten pounds — met him at the door. Taking hold of the heavy case, he lugged it into the kitchen and placed it on the counter.
“Another party?” asked Raoul politely, opening the box and removing the bottles one by one. “Will we be needing food, sir?”
“Plenty of it. Best to call in the full kitchen staff.”
Outside the kitchen windows, Phil could see the crew of after-party cleaners busily loading their truck with vacuum cleaners and trash bags stuffed with the detritus of the previous night’s blowout. Noting everything was well in hand, he retired to his room to catch some long overdue Z’s. It was dark when Phil woke to the sound of the front doorbell ringing. Throwing on some fresh clothes, he hurried to the living room, where Raoul was admitting a stream of eager partygoers. Agnes, petite and vivacious, dressed in a high-waisted knit skirt and black blouse, was there to greet him.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said, holding a glass of cognac in her hand. “Ever since you came into all that money, you’ve been partying day in and day out.”
Phil smiled and added a few drops of ice-cold water to his scotch whisky. “Well, Agnes dear, it’s not just the money I’m celebrating,” he replied, slipping his arm round her waist. “It’s my health, too. The headaches have diminished. I don’t suffer from the sweats anymore. And I can walk a whole lot better, unless of course I drink too much...”
Phil fell silent and took hold of Agnes’s hand. The jazz trio on the patio was playing Poor Butterfly. Dancing out of the house, they followed the other couples onto the patio and the lawn. Twirling and spinning, the evening flew by in a blur of rhythmic motion and alcohol.
The moon was beaming down on the patio when Phil and Agnes finally slipped away to a shadowy bower beneath a tall, mature oak. “Marry me,” whispered Agnes, kissing Phil passionately on the lips. “You have everything you need, except me. Make your life whole and complete, Phil. No more bits and pieces. Let’s get married.”
“Your wish is my command,” laughed Phil, steering Agnes toward the house.
Inside, it was starkly evident the hour had grown late. Inebriated guests lay scattered about the furniture and on the floor, the air reeking of cigarette smoke and guttering candles. Since no one was available to share the joyous news of their upcoming nuptials, they poured themselves a drink and proceeded to toast each other’s joy. Toast followed toast until their eyelids began to droop. Unable to stay awake any longer, they leaned back in their chairs and fell asleep, overcome by a surfeit of alcohol and fatigue.
The first thing Phil saw when he opened his eyes and looked down were his feet dragging along the grass. In the distance, he could see flames pouring out of the windows of his house, charred bodies being pulled out of the smoke-filled doorways, a blazing sheet of fire engulfing the roof.
“You’ll be all right now, Mr. Meeker,” gasped Raoul, lowering him to the ground. “Thank goodness I got you out in time. There were a lot of people inside the house that I couldn’t save.”
“Agnes! What happened to Agnes?” cried Phil.
Raoul grimaced and looked away.
Phil was transported to the city hospital. He spoke to the police from his bed the next day. That’s how he found out about Agnes and the others. The police conjectured that someone had probably kicked over a candle and started a curtain or some other flammable object on fire. Phil was one of the few who had survived. Agnes never made it out alive.
Phil was released from the hospital a week later. The first thing he did was return to the site and the remains of his home. The fire had been an immensely destructive force, completely destroying the structure. He’d lost everything—his home, his future wife, his friends, his joy of life. Turning his back on the scene of destruction, Phil began to walk.
He walked clear out of the city and kept walking.
Phil spent the next four years on the move, roughing it, wandering the countryside alone, sleeping in farm fields and abandoned barns, squandering the last of his money on a bottle of hooch or a bag of coke. Then one day, he drifted back to the city, carrying a small tent and an empty food bag. Meandering through the quiet streets, he returned to where it had begun for him all those years ago, the Viracrom Corporation’s Wildlife Habitat Location outside the head office building. Exhausted and half-starved, he barely managed to raise the tent next to the pond before collapsing on the nylon floor.
Phil realized he was in motion the moment he opened his sleep-filled eyes. Was it possible? A man in a security uniform was carrying him over his shoulders as if he weighed no more than a child. And the man’s face — it was like looking into a mirror. The man in the security uniform was a dead-ringer for Phil, only he looked younger. The way Phil used to look before he began living rough: healthy, robust, vital, clean shaven...
Phil lay in the spider robot hammock, examining the equipment in the bright white mechatronics lab: the various motor wiring systems, trainers, control and electrical systems, hydraulics, pneumatics, pumps, and sensors. Peering out the lab’s tall windows, he could keep track of the goings-on inside the cavernous interior of the robotic warehouse as the robots picked, packed, and palletized items from the interminable rows of shelving.
But the most interesting thing in the busy warehouse was his identical twin, Elvin1010, the man in the security uniform who had brought him here. Elvin1010 sitting stock-still next to him, communicating nonverbally with the lab’s robotic diagnostics machine.
“Looks like I suffered no damage carrying you that distance,” murmured Elvin1010 matter-of-factly. Stepping away from the machine, he walked to the back of the lab, returning with a cup of coffee and a plate of macaroni and cheese.
“My favourite meal,” said Phil. “How did you know?”
“I know everything about you, at least up until the day you sold your identity to Synchronicity, Inc.”
“Of course,” giggled Phil, feeling a little embarrassed. He knew he had to adjust his thinking. After all, there were many questions that needed to be asked. Why was Elvin1010 treating him so well? What did the robot want? Phil suddenly felt vulnerable and afraid.
“It’s a lucky thing I found you,” continued Elvin1010. “I work here in the warehouse ten hours a day doing maintenance on the robots and equipment. Then I put in another ten hours at your old security job at the Viracrom Corporation. I recognized you right away. Seeing the bad shape you were in, I decided to bring you back here.”
Elvin1010 leaned forward and looked into Phil’s eyes. “What in the world happened to you in the intervening years?” he asked.
Realizing he had a friend in Elvin1010, Phil proceeded to tell him the entire story of his life since he’d sold himself to the corporation: the parties, the fire, the lost years wandering aimlessly, and finally his return to the city and the Viracrom Wildlife Habitat Location.
“You’ve been through a lot,” whispered Elvin1010. “I’m really sad to hear it. You see, I’m a big admirer of yours. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have acquired your personal identity: your good values, calm demeanor, solid character, and gentle manners. I know that I’m merely a reflection of you, your synchronicity. But when I stand next to you, I know what I should be.”
Phil’s mouth fell open.
“And now I have some good news,” announced Elvin1010, a broad smile crossing his face. “Synchronicity, Inc. gave me this lab to live in. From now on, it’s your home too.”
Phil felt his eyes swelling up with tears. “And I thought I was finished,” he sobbed. “I had everything I wanted and lost it all. But now I have all the bits and pieces I need... a true friend I never imagined I had, and a place I can always call home.”
Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in: Anotherealm; Jakob’s Horror Box; Literally Stories; The Literary Hatchet; Literary Veganism; Bombfire; Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; The Sirens Call; Yellow Mama Webzine; 96th of October; Underside Stories; Danse Macabre; A Thin Slice of Anxiety; Blood Moon Rising Magazine; Corner Bar Magazine; Free Bundle Magazine; The Chamber Magazine; and Suburban Witchcraft Magazine.