THE DEAD COPY

THE MAINTENANCE TUNNEL

The tunnel smelled like rust and old blood.

Elliot crouched behind a stack of concrete blocks, his back pressed against the damp wall, his breath fogging in the cold air. Frank knelt beside him, a black duffel bag at his feet. Ahead of them, the maintenance tunnel stretched into darkness—narrow, low-ceilinged, barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side.

Mira's map was tucked into Elliot's pocket. He had memorized it before leaving the penthouse. Three hundred meters to the first junction. Left at the water pipe. Right at the electrical junction. Then straight to the transfer chamber.

"Are you sure about this?" Frank whispered.

"No," Elliot said. "But I'm out of options."

Frank unzipped the duffel bag. Inside were weapons—pistols, knives, a compact assault rifle. He handed Elliot a Glock and two extra magazines.

"Do you know how to use that?"

Elliot weighed the gun in his hand. It felt familiar in a way that made his stomach turn. Another gift from the copy.

"Yes," he said. "Apparently I do."

Frank checked his own weapon—a matte black pistol with a suppressor. Then he pulled out a small device with a digital screen.

"Motion sensor detector. The tunnel is supposed to be clear, but Gavin updates his security protocols every week. Mira's information might be outdated."

"Then we adapt."

Frank nodded. He stood up and moved toward the tunnel entrance. Elliot followed.

The first fifty meters were silent.

The walls were bare concrete, streaked with moisture. Water dripped from the ceiling, forming puddles on the floor. The air grew colder as they descended, thick with the smell of mold and decay.

Frank stopped at the first junction. A large pipe ran along the left wall, rusted and leaking. He checked the motion sensor. The screen was clear.

"Left," he said.

They turned.

The tunnel narrowed. Elliot's shoulders brushed against the walls. His boots splashed through shallow water. Above them, the ceiling was so low he had to stoop.

"How much further?" he whispered.

"Half a kilometer. Then we reach the facility's foundation."

Elliot's heart pounded. Half a kilometer. Five hundred meters. Five hundred chances to be discovered.

They walked in silence. The only sounds were their footsteps and the steady drip of water.

Then Frank stopped.

"What is it?" Elliot asked.

Frank held up the motion sensor. The screen was blinking red.

"Someone's ahead," he said. "Two. Maybe three."

Elliot's hand went to his Glock. "Guards?"

"Or something else." Frank crouched down and peered around the corner. "I see a light. Flashlight. Moving."

"We need another way."

Frank shook his head. "This is the only tunnel. We go through them, or we turn back."

Elliot thought about Daphne. About the transfer chamber. About Gavin turning her into his mother.

"We go through," he said.

Frank nodded. He pulled out his pistol and checked the suppressor.

"Stay behind me. Move quietly. If they see us, don't hesitate."

Elliot followed Frank around the corner.

The guards were standing by a metal door.

Two of them. Both in black tactical gear, both carrying assault rifles. Their flashlights swept the tunnel in slow arcs, lighting up the walls, the ceiling, the water on the floor.

Frank stopped fifty meters away. He held up three fingers. Then two. Then one.

He fired.

The first guard dropped without a sound—a single shot to the head, the suppressor muffling the crack of the gun. The second guard spun around, his rifle coming up, his mouth opening to shout.

Elliot fired.

His aim was true. The bullet caught the guard in the chest. He staggered back, hit the wall, and slid to the ground.

Silence.

Frank moved forward, checking the bodies. Both were dead. He pulled the second guard's rifle off his shoulder and slung it over his own.

"Clean shots," he said. "You've done this before."

"I don't remember doing it."

"Your body remembers. That's what matters."

Elliot looked at the guards' faces. Young. Early twenties. Someone's sons. Someone's brothers.

"They were just doing their jobs," he said.

"They chose to work for Gavin." Frank's voice was cold. "They knew what he does. They didn't care."

He turned to the metal door. A keypad was mounted on the wall beside it.

"Mira gave me the code," Elliot said. He typed in the numbers. 10171994. The same code from Frank's door in the Underneath.

The lock clicked. The door swung open.

Beyond it was a staircase leading down. Concrete steps. Bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The air was warmer here—almost hot—and smelled like chemicals.

"The lower levels," Frank said. "The transfer chamber is at the bottom. Four floors down."

They descended.

The first level was storage.

Rows of metal shelves lined the walls, filled with boxes and equipment. Elliot recognized some of it—monitors, cables, the same kind of neural nodes he had seen in the white room. Other things were unfamiliar. Glass vials filled with blue liquid. Metal canisters labeled with hazard symbols. A row of empty tanks, each one big enough to hold a person.

Elliot stopped in front of the nearest tank. The glass was clouded, but he could see something inside. A shape. Human-shaped.

"What is this?" he whispered.

Frank joined him. His face was grim.

"Storage. The tanks hold bodies—clones—waiting to be activated. Gavin grows them here and ships them to his other facilities."

Elliot pressed his hand against the glass. The surface was cold. Inside, the shape didn't move.

"How many?"

"Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Gavin has been building this army for years."

"An army of copies."

"An army of slaves." Frank turned away. "Come on. We're not here to save them. Not today."

They walked to the staircase and descended to the second level.

The second level was a laboratory.

Tables covered in equipment. Computers with dark screens. Whiteboards covered in equations and diagrams that Elliot couldn't understand. The chemical smell was stronger here, mixed with something else.

Blood. The smell of blood.

Elliot's stomach turned. He covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve.

"What happened here?"

Frank walked to a table and picked up a surgical instrument. A scalpel, stained brown.

"This is where Gavin does his... adjustments. When a copy doesn't come out right, he brings them here. Tries to fix them."

"Fix them how?"

"Brain surgery. Neural rewiring. Whatever it takes to make them obedient." Frank set down the scalpel. "Most of them don't survive."

Elliot looked at the stains on the floor. Dark. Widespread. So much blood.

"We need to keep moving," he said.

Frank nodded. They walked to the staircase.

The third level was quiet.

No equipment. No tanks. No blood. Just a long corridor lined with doors. Each door had a small window at eye level. Each window looked into a room no bigger than a closet.

Elliot knew this place. He had seen it before. The storage facility. The catatonic copies.

But these rooms were different.

The people inside were awake.

A woman pressed her face against the glass of the nearest door. Her eyes were wide, her mouth moving, but no sound came out. She clawed at the window, her fingernails scratching the surface.

Elliot stumbled back.

"She's trying to speak," Frank said. "The rooms are soundproof. She can't hear us. We can't hear her."

"Who is she?"

"A copy. One of Gavin's failures. Not catatonic—worse. Aware. Trapped. Conscious but unable to communicate."

Elliot looked at the woman's face. Her eyes were desperate. Pleading.

"We can't help her," Frank said. "Not now. Maybe not ever."

Elliot forced himself to turn away. He walked down the corridor, past more doors, more faces. Some were crying. Some were screaming. Some just stared, empty and broken.

At the end of the corridor was another staircase. This one was narrower, steeper, and lit by a single red bulb.

"The fourth level," Frank said. "The transfer chamber."

Elliot took a breath. Then he descended.

The fourth level was different from everything above.

The walls were white. The floor was white. The ceiling was white. Bright lights blazed from overhead, making everything look sterile and clean.

And in the center of the room, surrounded by monitors and equipment, was a tank.

Not like the storage tanks. This one was smaller. More sophisticated. Glass walls, metal frame, cables running from the top to a bank of computers.

Inside the tank was a woman.

Dark hair. Pale skin. Eyes closed.

Daphne.

Elliot ran to the tank. He pressed his hands against the glass.

"Daphne. Daphne, can you hear me?"

She didn't move. Didn't open her eyes. A tube ran from her arm to a machine on the wall. A screen above her head showed vital signs—heart rate, blood pressure, neural activity.

"She's alive," Frank said, reading the screen. "But she's under. Sedated."

"How do I wake her up?"

Frank pointed to a control panel beside the tank. "There should be a release sequence. But it's probably password protected."

Elliot looked at the panel. A screen glowed with a single word: AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

He typed 10171994. The code that had worked before.

ACCESS DENIED.

He tried again. 1994. The year of the accident.

ACCESS DENIED.

He tried Margaret. Gavin's mother's name.

ACCESS DENIED.

"Step back," Frank said. He raised his pistol.

"No. You might hit her."

"Then we need another way."

Elliot looked at the cables running from the tank to the computers. He followed them with his eyes, tracing them to a junction box on the wall.

"The power supply. If I cut it, the tank will open."

"And the alarms will trigger."

Elliot pulled out his knife. "Then we work fast."

He crossed to the junction box and pried it open. Wires—red, black, green—ran inside. He didn't know which one to cut.

"Frank, do you know anything about electronics?"

"A little. Red is power. Black is ground. Green is data."

Elliot touched the red wire with his knife. "Here goes nothing."

He cut.

The lights flickered. The tank's glass walls hissed. A cloud of steam rose from the top.

And Daphne's eyes opened.

She stared at him.

Not with recognition. Not with love. With nothing. Empty eyes, like a doll's.

"Elliot?" Her voice was a whisper. "Is that you?"

"Yes. It's me. I'm here to take you home."

Daphne's brow furrowed. "Home? I don't... I don't remember home."

Elliot's heart shattered. "You will. I promise."

He pulled the tank door open. Daphne stumbled out, her legs weak, her arms reaching for him. He caught her, held her, felt her shaking against his chest.

"Elliot," she said again. "I had the strangest dream. I dreamed I was someone else."

"You're not someone else. You're my sister. And I'm getting you out of here."

Frank grabbed Elliot's shoulder. "We need to go. The alarms—"

Sirens blared. Red lights flashed. Somewhere above them, boots pounded on concrete.

"They know we're here," Frank said.

Elliot lifted Daphne in his arms. She was light—too light—and limp.

"Move," he said.

They ran.