In a few weeks, Adam would be dead. Soon, his train would be ready for boarding, and once it departed, Louise would be free to return home by herself. But before long, news would arrive that his body had been blasted to pieces, and the process would start all over again. Another copy of her husband would be frogmarched up to her front door.

Although Louise was familiar with the handover procedure—this was her third time—the knot in her stomach wouldn’t subside. It didn’t help that Adam was dawdling, dragging his new army-issue boots across Paddington Station’s concourse. She could link her arm through his to hasten him, but she preferred to touch him as little as possible.

Adam stopped, distracted by a flock of pigeons foraging for scraps, his mouth agape as if he were an astonished child.

“Come on.” Louise tugged on the fabric of his sleeve.

“I saw them…by the river.” His speech was slow, each word an effort.

This copy of Adam had never been exposed to London sights and sounds before, although her husband had loved the city. It wasn’t unusual for latent neural pathways to be activated—perhaps memories of when they’d first met at teacher training college were surfacing. Back then, eager to spend every moment together, they’d spent lunch breaks on the Embankment, throwing sandwich crusts to the birds that cooed and preened at their feet. It was where they fell in love. But as copies had proved incapable of recalling emotion and could not form even basic attachments, she remained silent. This, she’d been assured, was the best way for unnecessary information to be extinguished from a copy’s brain.

They’d set off early, travelling in from their home in the suburbs. Louise had skipped breakfast, but some coffee, or at least the synthetic version that passed for it these days, would be welcome. She led Adam to the food and drink kiosk under the tattered billboards. One cup would do: no point in wasting it on Adam.

A short queue of commuters wound ahead. The young woman in front of them wore utility overalls beneath her threadbare coat, most likely for working in one of the munitions factories that now occupied the former concert halls and museums. She scowled at Adam with a pinched face, shifting from foot to foot. There was no disguising what he was; his uniform and smooth, waxen skin betrayed him. Stepping aside, the woman granted them the priority treatment custodians and copies were entitled to, and Louise offered terse thanks.

“He’s one of them, isn’t he?” the vendor said when Louise placed her order. His white whiskers and sagging jowls indicated he was old enough to remember capitalism and freedom of speech. Sometimes his type were the worst—stubborn old fools with no faith in the new system. “It shouldn’t be allowed, letting monsters like him walk around in plain view.”

Louise fumbled for the credit tag on her lanyard; her fingers trembling as she held it out for the vendor to scan. “I could get you arrested for comments like that. You should be ashamed of yourself. Can’t you show some support instead?”

The vendor narrowed his eyes and pushed a cardboard cup of steaming black liquid across the counter. “Don’t mind me, love,” he said, his lips twitching with a forced smile. “Enjoy your coffee.”

With clenched teeth, Louise took the drink and walked towards the designated waiting room, with Adam shuffling after. If it weren’t for copies, they’d all be forced to take up arms. Surely everyone understood that now.

#

Although her husband had marvelled at copies, Louise had never overcome her aversion to them. Especially from the three she’d fed, cleaned, and clothed; each one a stark reminder of everything she’d lost.

Shortly after war had broken out, the Government had announced the first successful cloning of an adult human— a soldier killed in action. Louise and Adam, still settling into life as newlyweds, tuned in with the rest of the nation to watch the special bulletin. 

“Incredible,” murmured Adam, watching the silicone capsule being split open. A human figure slithered out, glistening with viscous fluid. Attendees in scrubs and surgical masks rushed in with towels and suction, clearing his airways, shining lights and checking reflexes. An endless supply of military personnel is within reach, the reporter announced.

“He can barely stand.” Louise watched the copy being hoisted to his feet. “What use will he be to anyone?” Staggering like a newborn calf, he squinted in the glare of camera lights.

“I’ve been reading about this.” Adam leaned forward on the sofa and jabbed a finger at the screen. He’d graduated with a first-class Science degree, and still devoured whatever research trickled through the Government censors. “You see, on a cellular level, he’s identical to the deceased man—his brain has all the same circuitry. In theory, he’ll have the same knowledge and skills, once those pathways are activated.”

Louise shuddered. “It’s creepy. Look at his face.” The copy stared into the camera with vacant eyes.

“I suppose he’s a bit of a blank slate right now. But he has the potential to function like the man he’s copied from.”

The reporter explained how copies would be prepared for combat. First, they would be farmed out to the homes of their deceased genetic donors for conditioning. Once muscle tone and rudimentary skills were honed through household occupations, the Government would provide military training and deliver fully functioning soldiers to the front line. 

“My son’s been brought back,” a woman told the reporter in a quavering voice. “It was his dream to serve his country, and now he can offer his life all over again. I can’t tell you how grateful I am…” She crumpled into convulsive sobs, her distress at odds with her profuse gratitude.

“For God’s sake, turn it off,” exclaimed Louise.

“But this could change everything. It’s better for a copy to fight than for another recruit to be enlisted. Perhaps one day all combat will be fought by copies.”

 Louise dropped her gaze, unwilling to witness the mother’s anguish.

Taking her hand, Adam pressed it to his lips. “Strange times, Lou,” he said. “Strange times.”

#

Louise placed her coffee in Adam’s hand while she fumbled with the swipe card for the waiting room door. She rarely bought coffee at home, saving credits for more nutritious groceries. It was best to avoid reminders of the slow Sunday mornings spent over steaming mugs and crossword puzzles, back when the world made sense.

“Nice…” Adam said, lifting the cup to his nose and inhaling.

Louise’s breath caught in her throat. Once, moments like this had dared her to believe the true Adam—her husband—was hidden inside, lost in the factory meat that masqueraded as him. These days, she knew better, but still she tested him.

“Taste it,” she said. “Go on.”

Tilting the cup, Adam sipped, spluttering when the scalding liquid burned his lips. Dribble darkened the khaki green of his shirt. Louise snatched back the cup, pushed the waiting room door open with her shoulder, and gestured him inside with a flick of her head. 

A handful of other custodians and their copies were already scattered across the rows of plastic chairs. Avoiding eye contact, Louise chose seats close to the door. When Adam was settled and staring trance-like at the news repeats playing on the wall-mounted screen, she dabbed at the stain on his chest with a crumpled tissue. The cowlick of dark brown hair she’d smoothed down with water this morning had curled back up and resisted efforts to flatten it. Once, Adam’s unruly hair had lent him a rakish look, but now, in uniform, it looked tawdry.

“God only knows how they’ll make soldiers of this lot,” a woman in the chair behind her piped up, her tone conspiratorial. She smelled of cheap perfume, a hard-to-come-by perk. “This is my fourth, and I swear it’s taken longer to toilet-train him than all the others. Sometimes I think he’s winding me up on purpose. He’s every bit as spiteful as my husband was.”

“I’m hungry,” said the barrel-chested copy beside her, fidgeting in his chair. “Hungry.” He smacked a fist into his open palm. A shadow soured the woman’s face, and she rummaged in her bag for a sandwich, unwrapping it from greaseproof paper. He tore into it with vigorous bites, scattering crumbs.

“Same temper, too.” The woman repositioned her chair a fraction further away from him. “I’ll be glad to see the back of him.”

“It’s my third,” said Louise. “My husband was a teacher. He never wanted to fight.”

“None of us wanted this fighting, did we? But we’ve all got to pull our weight.” The woman folded her arms and sniffed. “Anyway, what’s the point of teachers now that education's not compulsory? We’ll win this war with practical skills, not fancy ideas.”

They sat in silence as the waiting room filled up.

#

The school closures had hit Louise and Adam hard, stripping them of status and income overnight. With children now treated as commodities, drafted into the workforce as soon as they were competent, Adam’s conscription was inevitable. The front line devoured new soldiers by the thousands, while the production of copies lagged. Many early copies proved defective within hours, gargling to death from fluid-filled lungs or convulsing from catastrophic brain malfunctions.

The night before Adam reported for duty, they prepared dinner with sombre care. Months back, they’d dug over the flower beds to plant potatoes and chard. These homegrown staples bulked out their rations, staving off hunger, but that evening, Louise and Adam pushed uneaten food around their plates until it grew cold. 

Adam cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He rested his chin on the steeple of his hands. “I’ve been informed of…an arrangement. It’s been offered to all recruits as a choice, but I doubt refusal is an option. Lou, I’m going to be copied.”

Louise’s knife and fork clattered onto the table. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Look, let’s face it, nobody’s returning from the front line. They’ll have me fighting to the death, and at least this way you’ll be entitled to support.”

“I want my husband to come home. Not some grotesque double of him.” Louise’s voice was thin and fractious when she meant to be firm, and she pushed her plate away.

“It makes sense, though, can’t you see? The Government will take care of you—you’ll have more credits, and medical treatment if you get sick.”

“What for? To feed and clothe an aberration?”

“It will be me. A genetically identical version of me. We haven’t had children, and I’ll never have the chance to teach again. This way, I can leave some trace of who I am behind.”

They argued, their raised voices fracturing their last hours. When Adam begged Louise to concede, insisting it was the only way he could face what future he had left, she covered her face with her hands and wept.

#

The air inside the waiting room grew warm and oppressive. When the expected departure time came and went with no update from station officials, Louise unbuttoned her coat.

The woman behind her sighed heavily. “I daresay there’s trouble down the line. More insurgency in the home counties. They should blow up the bloody lot of them if you ask me. Traitors deserve—”

She paused, interrupted by the sonic booms of fighter jets from City Airport crossing overhead. Some of the copies flinched, their limbic system reflexes kicking in. Louise placed a hand on Adam’s knee to still the twitching in his leg. Not that it mattered. Soon, the training centre would desensitise him through relentless exposure to stressors.

“There, that’ll sort it,” the woman said when the roar had faded, leaning back in her chair. “This lot will be off our hands soon.”

Louise offered a weak smile and turned back to Adam. Placid once more, he tilted his head back, his face illuminated by the cycle of state-sanctioned news. Together they watched drone footage of the smouldering Amazon basin, guerrillas gunning their way across the Canadian border, and European cities ravaged by African shelling. The message was clear— the world was collapsing, its borders dissolving into chaos. And then, salvation. A camera panned across row upon row of armed copies marching in formation, primed to protect the nation from the violence posed by foreign forces and desperate refugees.

When Adam touched Louise’s hand, she jumped. Adam stared at the screen, the reflected images dancing in his hazel eyes. Lifting Louise’s hand to his mouth, he gently brushed the back of it with his lips.

“Strange times, Lou,” he whispered, dropping her hand back on her lap. “Strange times.”

“What did you say?” Louise hissed, leaning in to avoid being overheard. But Adam gazed ahead, unperturbed by the elbow she dug into his side.

#

When the first copy of Adam was delivered in a windowless van and hauled inside in a soiled grey tracksuit, Louise had expected an emotional connection. She’d soon discovered copies were empty. The body slumped on the sofa where her husband used to sit was a stranger. When she washed his perfect porcelain skin, running the flannel over a complexion unblemished by age or the elements, it was as if she were cleaning a mask. 

For weeks, Louise showed him photos and played their favourite music, determined to spark the connections their relationship had forged. His motor skills developed fast; soon, he could feed himself and dig the garden plot. His semantic memory was close behind, with simple sentences demonstrating a concrete understanding of the world. But there was never a glimmer of warmth or desire. Sometimes Louise slapped his face, deluding herself that the scarlet bloom on his cheek was passion. He learned to catch her wrist in a clumsy gesture of self-defence, this awkward grapple becoming their new embrace.

By the time the second and third copies of Adam were delivered, Louise had no expectations that they were anything but organic machines. 

#

Just then, for the briefest moment, it was as if her husband was sitting beside her again.

“Adam,” Louise said, her voice low and steady. “Look at me.”

He turned, and Louise bore into those familiar eyes.

“I love you.” Louise spoke so softly she doubted if Adam would hear her at all. 

There it was. Adam’s pupils dilated— for a mere split second, but it was enough. She glanced at her watch. Any moment now, officials would arrive to usher the copies onto their train. Grasping Adam’s arm, she prompted him to stand.

“You can’t go now. It’s nearly time,” said the woman behind her.

“We’ll be right back. I left my bag somewhere.” Louise led Adam out of the waiting room with the eyes of custodians and copies alike burning into her back. 

Although her muscles were sprung with adrenaline, Louise strolled across the concourse, fighting an urge to seize Adam’s arm and run as fast as they could from the station and the train that would take him away. A cleaner trundling a trolley of buckets and mops towards the public toilets cast a wary glance at Adam as they crossed his path, and they ducked around a woman rushing to the platform gates. She cursed, not looking back. Louise’s gaze flickered over the coffee kiosk and the vendor who’d criticised them, her legs swerving from the queue of strangers at his counter.

Two armed policemen sauntered through the arched passage leading to the street outside. Louise’s neck prickled as their paths converged. The younger one, nearest to them, could barely tear his eyes from Adam, staring with an intensity Louise could not decipher. It was hard to predict the powerful visceral responses that copies evoked in observers. Louise exchanged a cursory nod as the policemen passed by.

“Wait, hold on a second. Miss?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Louise saw the policemen had stopped. It was the younger one who’d called out, his hand resting on the holster of his gun as he retraced his steps towards them. Her stomach lurched. She slowed down, and Adam, a step behind, did the same.

The policeman was not as youthful as she’d first thought. A junction of worry lines joined his eyebrows, and grey hairs flecked his short back and sides. After spending so long examining Adam's uncreased face, these signs of life’s weathering were strangely compelling. He looked concerned, as if preparing to challenge them as deserters.

“My brother was copied,” the policeman said. “I know how hard it is. It proved too much for my mum in the end.”

Louise swallowed, thrown by this intimate disclosure. She opened her mouth to form the words I understand, but no sound came. In silence, the policeman studied the toes of his boots, then glanced back at his waiting colleague. “Well, take care,” he said, walking away.

There was no queue at the taxi rank. Private travel was decadent, even for those with privileges, and Louise could only afford a one-way trip. But there was only one destination she cared about, only one place that mattered for now. The black cab they ducked into smelled of tobacco and sweat, and she suspected the nonchalant cabbie both lived and worked in this fetid space. People did whatever was necessary to survive.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie, as Louise buckled her own and Adam’s seatbelt.

Louise squeezed Adam’s hand, felt his fingers curl around her own, and said, “The Embankment.”

About the author:

Cecilia is a writer from London, where her career as a health professional has run alongside her love of real and imagined stories. Her work has been published in Intrepidus Ink, Empty House Press, Cranked Anvil, and elsewhere. She is a Best of the Net 2024 nominee and winner of the Edinburgh Flash Fiction Award 2025.

Read more of her work at ceciliamaddison.com.

Instagram: @cec_maddison