Chapter 7 The Cloning Conspiracy

# Chapter 7: The Cloning Conspiracy

Three days passed aboard the Valkyrie, drifting in international waters. Three days of cautious conversations and careful distance between Cain and me. His injured hand healed slowly—a constant reminder of my violent outburst. He never mentioned it, never used it to make me feel guilty, but I saw him wince when he thought I wasn't looking.

Murray's encrypted communications kept us updated on the manhunt. My face was plastered across every news outlet in the UK, labeled as "armed and dangerous." Coleman had crafted a compelling narrative: the amnesiac officer whose fragile psyche had finally shattered, resulting in the murder of five colleagues. They even had falsified psychiatric evaluations suggesting I'd been unraveling for months.

"They're thorough," I remarked bitterly, watching the news feed in the yacht's common area. "I'll give them that."

"They've had practice." Cain entered, carrying two mugs of coffee. He offered one to me—a peace offering I accepted. "Murray says they're expanding the search to include all vessels that left Scottish waters within 24 hours of the cliff house incident."

"How long before they find us?"

"They won't." He sat across from me, careful to maintain the distance I'd established between us. "This yacht isn't registered to me or any of my known associates."

I sipped the coffee—prepared exactly as I liked it, with a hint of cinnamon. Another reminder of how well he knew me.

"We can't stay at sea forever," I pointed out.

"No. But we can stay long enough for Murray to secure the evidence you hid." His eyes met mine over the rim of his mug. "Any progress on remembering where that might be?"

I shook my head, frustrated. Despite hours of meditation and attempts to access buried memories, the location remained tantalizingly out of reach. Fragments had returned—snippets of conversations, flashes of emotion—but nothing substantive enough to lead us to the evidence.

"The lighthouse key must be significant," I said, not for the first time. "But I can't connect it to anything specific."

"It will come." His certainty was both comforting and irritating. "Your mind is protecting itself, revealing things gradually."

"We might not have time for 'gradually.'" I set my mug down with more force than intended. "Every day we drift out here is another day they solidify their story. Another day they could discover Murray is helping us."

Cain studied me for a moment. "There is another option. One I've been reluctant to suggest."

Something in his tone made me wary. "What option?"

"I have a facility. A research lab of sorts, on a private island in the North Sea." He spoke carefully, measuring each word. "It's equipped with technology that might help access your suppressed memories."

"What kind of technology?"

He hesitated. "Experimental. Neural mapping, chemical triggers, targeted hypnotherapy."

"Sounds invasive."

"It can be." He didn't deny it. "But it's also effective."

I narrowed my eyes. "Why are you only mentioning this now?"

"Because it's not without risks." He leaned forward, expression grave. "Forcing memories can cause psychological trauma. And there's always the possibility that what emerges isn't what you're prepared to face."

"You think I'm fragile," I accused.

"I think you've been through enough." His voice softened. "But I also know you're running out of patience. It's your choice, Isla. Always your choice."

I considered his offer. An experimental facility with questionable technology versus continuing to drift aimlessly, hoping for spontaneous memory recovery. When framed that way, the decision seemed obvious.

"Take me to this facility," I said finally.

Relief and concern warred in his expression. "We can be there by tomorrow morning."

---

The island appeared through the morning mist like something from a dream—or a nightmare. Small, rocky, dominated by a sleek structure of glass and steel that seemed to grow organically from the jagged landscape. No visible dock, no signs of habitation beyond the facility itself.

"Home sweet home?" I asked as we approached in a smaller boat, having left the Valkyrie anchored at a safe distance.

"One of several secure locations," Cain replied, expertly navigating toward what appeared to be a hidden inlet. "This one specializes in medical research."

"What kind of medical research requires this level of isolation?"

He guided the boat into a concealed harbor carved into the rock face. "The kind that pushes boundaries. The kind governments pretend to condemn while secretly funding."

The implications of his statement hung between us as we docked. A hidden elevator carried us up through the rock to the facility above. Every surface was immaculate, clinical—the kind of sterility that spoke of serious science and serious money.

We were greeted by a small team of researchers, their expressions carefully neutral as they took in my bandaged arm and Cain's injured hand. They addressed him with a deference that bordered on fear.

"Everything is prepared, Mr. Lockhart," said a sharp-featured woman who introduced herself as Dr. Winters. "The neural mapping suite is ready whenever Ms. MacAllister is."

"Agent MacAllister," Cain corrected automatically, earning a surprised glance from me. "And she'll need time to acclimate. Show her to the guest quarters."

"Of course." Dr. Winters gestured for me to follow her through the labyrinthine corridors.

"I'll join you shortly," Cain said, his attention already diverted by one of the other researchers. "There are some matters I need to address first."

The "guest quarters" were luxurious but sterile—like an upscale hospital suite disguised as a hotel room. I showered and changed into the clothes provided, then spent the next hour exploring my surroundings, noting security cameras and access panels that suggested the facility was as much prison as research center.

When Cain hadn't returned after two hours, my patience evaporated. I left the suite, retracing our steps through the corridors. Without an access card, many doors remained closed to me, but I found my way back to the main reception area where we'd arrived.

No one stopped me as I wandered, which seemed odd for a supposedly secure facility. Almost as if I was meant to explore. To find something.

A glass-walled laboratory caught my attention—researchers in white coats clustered around equipment I didn't recognize. I pressed my face closer to the glass, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

"Cellular regeneration," came Cain's voice from behind me. "One of our more promising research areas."

I turned to find him watching me, his expression carefully neutral. "You let me wander."

"You've never responded well to restrictions." He stepped closer, nodding toward the lab. "Curious?"

"Among other things." I studied him, noting the tension in his shoulders. "What aren't you telling me, Cain?"

Instead of answering, he held out an access card. "Come with me. There's something you need to see."

He led me deeper into the facility, past laboratories and research stations, to a heavy security door that required both his card and a retinal scan. Beyond lay a corridor lined with what appeared to be medical observation rooms. Each contained advanced equipment surrounding central examination beds.

"What is this place?" I asked, unease growing with each step.

"The culmination of five years of research," he replied cryptically, stopping before the final door. "After you were found with no memory, I redirected significant resources to neurological research. Memory recovery. Trauma treatment."

"For me?"

"Initially." His expression darkened. "But when I couldn't reach you, when they kept you isolated, the research... evolved."

He swiped his card again, and the final door slid open to reveal a chamber unlike the others. At its center stood a large cylindrical tank filled with pale blue fluid. Suspended within, connected to various tubes and monitoring equipment, was what appeared to be human tissue—organized in a vaguely humanoid shape, but incomplete. Developing.

My blood ran cold as understanding dawned. "What have you done?"

"What was necessary." His voice was steady, though he couldn't quite meet my eyes. "Insurance, in case I couldn't recover you. In case your memories never returned."

I approached the tank slowly, horror and fascination warring within me. "You're growing a person. You're growing... me."

"Not exactly." He moved to a monitoring station, bringing up detailed scans. "It's not a clone in the traditional sense. More of a... vessel."

"A vessel," I repeated numbly. "For what?"

"For your consciousness, eventually. If needed." He gestured to the incomplete form. "It's grown from your DNA, yes, but with significant modifications to accelerate development and enhance physical capabilities."

The clinical way he described it made it somehow worse—this wasn't the act of a madman, but a methodical, calculated contingency plan.

"This is why Coleman warned me about you," I whispered. "Called you dangerous."

"Coleman knows nothing of this facility or this research." Cain finally met my gaze. "But he knows what I'm capable of when it comes to you. What lengths I would go to."

I backed away, revulsion rising. "And what was your plan? Download my fragmented memories into this... thing? Create some perfect version of your dead wife?"

"No." His denial was sharp, immediate. "This was never about replacing you. It was about saving you."

"Explain," I demanded, hand instinctively moving to where my weapon would normally be.

He sighed, seeming to deflate slightly. "When you were found, your brain damage was extensive. The amnesia was only part of it. The doctors gave you three years at most before degenerative effects would begin. Cognitive decline. Motor function impairment. Eventually, complete neural collapse."

This was new information—terrifying information. "You're lying."

"Your department concealed it from you. Deemed it 'unnecessarily distressing' given your fragile state." He approached a different console, bringing up medical scans. "These are your hospital records from when you were found. The damage is clear."

I stared at the brain scans, recognizing enough from basic medical training to see the affected areas. "If this is true, why am I not experiencing symptoms?"

"Because I've been treating you." He pulled up another file—chemical formulas, treatment protocols. "The headaches you get every three months that last exactly two days? The 'routine physical' your department requires twice yearly? All designed to slow the progression."

My mind raced, connecting dots. The headaches that came with clockwork regularity. The strange taste in my mouth after department physicals. The pills I was told were 'standard preventative care' for officers with head injuries.

"They were maintaining me," I realized with growing horror. "Keeping me functional just long enough to serve their purposes."

"While denying you access to more advanced treatments that might trigger memory recovery." Cain's voice was gentle but firm. "This facility was developing those treatments. And yes, this—" he gestured to the tank, "—was the final contingency. If your neural degradation couldn't be stopped, your consciousness could potentially be transferred."

I walked slowly around the tank, studying the half-formed being within. "How far away is it from... completion?"

"Years, still. It was always a last resort." He watched me carefully. "One I hoped would never be necessary."

"And now?"

"Now we have you—the real you—beginning to remember. Making this research obsolete." He pressed a button, and a protective shield rose from the floor, encasing the tank. "This was never about creating a replacement, Isla. It was about refusing to accept that I might lose you a second time."

I should have been horrified. Should have run from this man and his obsessive determination to preserve what we had been to each other. Instead, I found myself strangely moved by the depths of his devotion—twisted as its expression might be.

"Show me the rest," I said quietly.

He hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"No more secrets, Cain. No more protected truths. Show me everything."

He led me deeper into the facility, to a secure wing that required multiple authentication methods to access. Inside was what appeared to be a comprehensive medical suite, centered around a specialized examination chair surrounded by advanced neurological equipment.

"The memory recovery program," he explained. "Targeted electrical stimulation combined with tailored chemical compounds to access suppressed memories without causing further trauma."

"You developed this for me?"

"For you. Because of you." He approached a cabinet, removing a vial of amber liquid. "This compound was derived from your own neurochemistry—designed to facilitate neural pathway reconstruction without the psychological shock that typically accompanies forced memory recovery."

I studied the equipment with growing understanding. "This is why you brought me here. Not just to show me the... contingency plan. But to offer this."

"Yes." He set the vial down carefully. "It's your decision. We can proceed with the memory recovery protocol, attempt to access where you hid the evidence. Or we can leave, continue trying more conventional methods."

"What are the risks?"

"Seizures. Hallucinations. Psychological distress." His clinical detachment slipped, revealing genuine concern. "And there's always the possibility that accessing those memories will trigger a cascade effect—bringing back everything at once. Your mind might not be ready for that."

I approached the examination chair, running my fingers along its contours. "If Coleman was right about my mental state—if I had some kind of psychotic break when you approached me before—wouldn't this treatment risk triggering that again?"

"It's possible." He didn't sugarcoat it. "But the alternative is continuing to drift while your enemies close in. While the evidence that could exonerate you remains hidden."

The decision should have been difficult. This man had created a clone—or "vessel," as he called it—of me. Had built an entire research facility dedicated to preserving what we had been to each other. Had crossed ethical and possibly legal boundaries in his obsessive quest to get me back.

Yet standing in this sterile room, surrounded by the physical manifestation of his devotion, I found my path surprisingly clear.

"Do it," I said firmly. "Help me remember."

Relief and apprehension warred in his expression. "You understand the risks?"

"I understand that every day we wait gives Coleman and his conspirators more time to bury the truth." I sat in the examination chair, steeling myself. "Besides, apparently I'm on a biological clock I didn't know about. Might as well make the time I have left count."

His expression softened. "For what it's worth, the treatments I've been providing have significantly slowed the degradation. You have years, not months."

"Comforting," I said dryly. "Now, are we doing this or not?"

He nodded to Dr. Winters, who had appeared silently in the doorway. She approached with a team of technicians who began preparing the equipment while Cain remained by my side.

"I'll be monitoring everything," he assured me as they attached sensors to my temples and inserted an IV line. "At the first sign of distress, we stop."

"Just find where I hid that evidence," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as anxiety crept in. "Everything else is secondary."

Dr. Winters approached with the amber vial, connecting it to my IV. "The compound will take effect quickly. You'll experience a sensation similar to lucid dreaming. Try to remain calm and allow the memories to surface naturally."

I nodded, then reached out impulsively to grasp Cain's hand—his injured one, the wounds from my attack still healing. "Whatever happens, whatever I remember or say... thank you. For not giving up on me."

Surprise flickered across his features, followed by something deeper—a vulnerability I hadn't seen before. He squeezed my hand gently. "Never. Not in this lifetime or any other."

As the compound entered my bloodstream, warmth spread through my veins. The room began to blur, colors shifting, sounds becoming distant. Cain's face hovered above me, concerned and hopeful, before dissolving into a kaleidoscope of fragmented images.

And then I was falling—not into darkness, but into the scattered pieces of my past, finally reuniting with the woman I had been.