CELL

/ THIRTY FIVE /

Ryan pressed stop on the cassette recorder.

So, that was the deal. Bradley Sr thought he was God, or a god, and was going to tell the Grim Reaper he was redundant.

"Sorry, mate, but you are no longer required. Thanks for all your millennia of service, however... yeah... We're making some changes and there just isn't room for you now. You understand, right? You're a good worker, and we'll give you exemplary references. You'll get something, I'm sure. We're having a few drinks for you down at the Pig & Whistle later, if you fancy it. Just make sure you finish those reports before you clear your desk, OK?"

"No, you can't keep the scythe."

People had been trying to discover immortality for as long as there'd been people. Why would Bradley think he was going to success? What did he have that everyone else didn't? The man was an egomaniacal lunatic. He was never going to solve the riddle. It was impossible!

Except...

Cycling. In the interview, it had been mentioned, but Bradley had not wanted to be pressed further. There must be a later tape with the revelations on, or perhaps it was a presentation for some wealthy clients who all desire to live forever.

Cycling. That, in itself, was a form of immortality, wasn't it? If he'd died on multiple occasions and the younger Bradley had shot herself, yet still been able to sit and talk to him, didn't that mean they were immortal?

Actually, no.

From the example of the bullet to the brain he'd witness in Fiona's office, they were different bodies. Both had shared the same room. That meant they, and he, were copies. Duplicates of the original, identical in every way. That wasn't immortality. For that, you were the same person throughout, just enjoying an eternally extending life. In this case, you were...

Clones?

This wasn't Orphan Black, a television show he knew – he fucking knew – that he liked. This was real life. Clones were the stuff of science fiction, and science was so far away from being able to have viable clones, it had to be fiction. Dolly was a sheep, not a person. That was inherently more difficult... wasn't it?

Whatever he might be out in the real world, Ryan was no scientist, of that, he was sure. He had no idea if reproducing a person was feasible. What else could it be, though? Doppelgangers of everyone were supposed to exist. Multiversal variants had been created in comic and movies. There was no way to know. What seemed certain was that he was not the first him. If Bradley, the daughter, could shoot herself and still be sat talking to him, he had no illusions about his being the...

What would it be called? Primary? Original? And what if he was the fourteenth in line to that throne? Was he a long lost, far distant relative of the Ryan who had been kidnapped and forced into being an experiment?

Was he him?

He considered the possibility that it didn't actually matter. He could mourn the first, but they were like a great grandfather they'd not even met. There was a hint of perfunctory grief and that was all. They could be identical in every way, down to the colours of individual hair strands and their reaction to the taste of a bacon butty. They could also be complete opposites. Auburn instead of black. Vegan versus lover of the aforementioned bacon. Fat to thin to tall to decidedly average. Is genetic proximity to the long line preceding him was immaterial. Fuck it and fuck all the Bradley's there were or had ever been.

He was Ryan. The one and the only. That was how he needed to think and it was the truth.

He sighed. Had the recording told him anything? Not really. There was some grand purpose behind his capture. That didn't make it any better or redeem his captors. If it was so vital, wouldn't people simply volunteer? Perhaps he might have himself, if asked.