Her head still ached from the sync.
The clone was resting now—cool cloth on her temple, neural activity dimmed like a sleeping system. Rehn sat alone in the dark, a warm cup untouched in her hand, watching the scroll of backup logs on her side screen.
So many pieces of herself scattered in code. So many versions.
And yet, something still didn't fit.
> Why would I approve second subjects?
> Why would I make more than one of me?
The shard had shown her a moment—but not the motive.
She had made promises to Kael. Kindness.
But then someone else stepped in.
Someone with authority.
Someone she once trusted.
---
The console pinged.
Low priority. Unregistered channel. External bounce mask.
The kind of message designed to slip past filters undetected.
> "Incoming: 1 audio file — sender unknown."
She shouldn't have played it.
But she did.
---
Audio:
> "It's funny watching you piece it together like it's a puzzle."
"You used to be faster, Rehn."
"You thought you buried us. You thought forgetting would make you innocent. But you forgot something else too…"
"…you weren't just the scientist. You were the one who gave the order."
End of message.
---
Rehn's hand tightened around the cup until it cracked.
No name.
No image.
Just that voice. Male. Calm. Cold.
And utterly familiar.
She didn't know if it was a rival researcher, a corrupted subject, or… something worse.
> "I gave the order?" she whispered. "What order?"
Her heart pounded. The room felt smaller.
If someone else remembered more than she did, they could reshape her truth before she ever saw it.
She stood quickly. Pulled up Kael's last traceable location.
Encrypted route, bounced through ten ghost towers—but still left a trace.
Sector 13.
Abandoned habitat zone.
Off-grid. But not silent.
> "System," she said. "Prep my mobility pod. No broadcast. Manual override. Destination: 13.0."
> "Confirmed. Launch in eight minutes."
---
She turned to the sleeping clone, now still as ice.
> "I'll come back," she whispered.
But she didn't know if that was a promise… or a lie.
She had to find Kael.
Before whoever sent that message did.
Before the truth was buried again.
---
As the pod door closed behind her, Rehn's screen lit up one last time:
> **"SECOND ECHO SIGNAL DETECTED.
SUBJECT STATUS: ACTIVE.
LOCATION: UNKNOWN."**
She stared at the words, breath held.
Then shut it off.
No more waiting.
Time to face Kael—and the truth she left behind.
The pod touched down with a soft hiss.
Sector 13 was quiet—too quiet. No drones. No scans. No hum from the Grid.
Once a research compound, now abandoned.
But not untouched.
Rehn stepped out carefully, her boots crunching against the old dust that blanketed the pavement like snow. Faded signage pointed toward corridors labeled in old code: "Memory Banks," "Echo Sleep," "Subject Recovery."
The air was dry. Her system mask adjusted for particle debris.
> "System," she said softly. "Scan for Kael Viren. Any trace within this sector."
A pause. Then:
> "Last trace: 16 hours ago. Location: Subsection Delta-7. No current signal detected."
She moved.
---
Delta-7 had once been a low-clearance research wing. Meant for housing passive subjects. It now looked like the remains of a forgotten clinic—walls stained with time, glass beds empty. Data panels offline. Power barely flickering.
Room by room, she searched.
Then, in the last one: signs of life.
An old coat. A still-warm mug.
A makeshift datapad left behind, blinking once every few seconds.
A thin trail of footprints leading out—but vanishing near the stairwell, where dust had been swept clean by artificial airflow.
Kael had been here.
But left—recently, and fast.
> "Where did you go?" she whispered.
She turned to the only functioning console and activated it manually.
> "System. Run voice access: Dr. Rehn. Show clone presence in facility."
The system flickered, glitchy from age.
> "One active clone signature detected. Sublevel two. Chamber: C-Vault-03."
---
She descended.
Sublevel two was even colder. Lights dim, floor grating old and rusted.
She entered Vault 03, and the door hissed open with resistance—like it hadn't been used in years.
Inside stood a single pod, upright. Inside, suspended: a Rehn clone. Eyes open. Breathing slow. Alive, but disconnected.
She approached carefully, placing her palm on the interface.
> "Link me. Minimal sync. Allow speech only."
The pod responded with a long beep, then clicked as neural contact was initiated.
The clone's head twitched.
> "Subject online," said the voice.
> "Who are you?" Rehn asked softly.
> "Echo 3A," the clone answered. "You left me here to forget."
> "Where is Kael?"
A pause. A flicker of something in the clone's eyes.
> "He came to wake me. But I didn't remember him. I only remember you."
> "Why did he come?"
> "He said he needed something from the old blood."
Rehn's pulse quickened.
> "Did he take it?"
The clone nodded, slow and sad.
> "He took a sample from me. Said it would help him remember you better. Then he left. Fast. Like he was afraid."
Rehn stepped back, heart pounding.
> "He's trying to stabilize his identity," she murmured. "But through me… through the clones…"
And maybe… through control.
---
Rehn looked around the dusty, forgotten room.
No monitors. No surveillance.
Just one clone, one pod, and a haunting question:
> "Why would he be afraid of remembering me?"
The clone looked at her through the glass.
> "Because you didn't stop the project."
> "You became it."
Rehn stared at the glass.
Clone 3A watched her with a gaze too steady for something barely alive.
> "I need to access your memory," she said.
The clone blinked once.
> "It will hurt."
> "I know."
> "For you, or me?"
Rehn didn't answer.
---
She connected the bridge cables—old hardware, manual sync, unstable. The lab equipment groaned, but the pod's neural mesh still responded to her clearance.
The sync was rough. Flickering. Her vision blurred.
But then—
A shard pierced through:
---
Memory Shard...
Bright white light. Sharp and clean.
She—Rehn—stands in a sealed room with two subjects.
One is Kael. The other… herself. Clone 1A. Younger. Composed.
They are connected by a shared neural band. Data flows between them.
Rehn watches with cold, professional distance.
> "Subject Kael is destabilizing," one assistant says.
> "We need to tether him," another mutters.
Rehn steps forward, placing a hand on Kael's forehead.
> "Imprint test sequence complete. Begin emotional dampening."
> "Are we sure about this?" the assistant asks.
> "He volunteered," Rehn answers, almost bitter. "That's more than most of us did."
Kael's face contorts in pain. His body arches.
Clone 1A twitches violently in her seat.
The feedback begins to spike.
> "This will kill her," someone yells.
Rehn doesn't flinch.
> "Let her break. If the memory holds, she was never viable."
---
Back in Present
Rehn stumbled back, ripping the cables from the console.
Her breath came in sharp gasps. Her skin felt icy.
> "Let her break."
She had said it.
Cold. Detached. Like it wasn't even a person.
She looked at Clone 3A—who now sat slumped in the pod, pale but alive.
> "I'm sorry," Rehn whispered.
The clone didn't respond.
But Rehn knew she'd felt it too.
---
She couldn't stay still. The memory burned too hot.
She wandered the empty halls of Sector 13. Room by room. Dust-covered consoles. Broken glass.
But she found a back room—small, half-collapsed.
Inside: an old server stack, still running on emergency power.
She dug through the files manually. No Grid access. Just raw, unfiltered logs.
Then—a file blinked.
"EMPATH THREAD – ALPHA/BETA (REHN-KAEL)"
She opened it.
A small audio file. Corrupted, but partially intact.
---
Audio:
> "He'll hate you when he remembers."
> "I know."
> "And if he doesn't remember you at all?"
> "…Then he's free."
> "What about you?"
> "…I don't deserve to be."
End.
---
Rehn stared at the screen.
Had she tried to set him free—by removing herself from his memory entirely?
Or was it guilt?
Was she running from something worse?
---
A red light blinked in the corner of the terminal.
Kael's trace—renewed.
> "Signal found. Movement in Sector 14. Northwest rail bridge. Time-stamp: now."
Rehn stood slowly.
> "You're not running," she whispered. "You're waiting."
She grabbed her coat, locked the vault behind her, and began walking—into the shadows of a life she once rewrote.