A Short Story by Jan Chaffin

I answer the knock and there at the door is me and I don’t seem happy to see me. Come in I say, let’s talk.

PAST
The protests had been fun. Beyond fun, full of joy, hope, all those cringy essentials. There was little doubt nothing would change. Did we know that? Did we care? Thousands of us lined our city streets, chanting and swaying to big bass drum beats, imperfect and powerful. Unstoppable.

He who we later called Maggot for feeding off death and decay had just been placed in power. He swiftly denuded us of our humanity, stripping away our rights, like an avalanche plowing us under, burying our free will. So the marches and signs and familiar faces were like a slender tether to all that we had taken for granted.

As the protests increased in size, frequency and intensity, the military was called on to quash our resistance. Because they were stretched thin also guarding our borders and protecting recent global acquisitions, protests continued albeit more sporadically and
furtively. We became used to living in the shadows of soldiers.

In this age of AI and genetic engineering, Maggot turned to science to provide extra enforcement. Drones of course, but also robots and eventually a program of human replication by one of countless executive orders which slipped under public radar.

Meanwhile, our resistance took on other forms and we donated to help support entities trying to provide services in lieu of those which had been curtailed. Some of us continued to use the internet and credit cards. Our identities were easily trackable. We never imagined our puny efforts would trigger Maggot’s revenge. At times we even wondered if what we had been resisting was actually any different than what we had been trying to save.

Eventually, our numbers started diminishing. Neighbors stopped waving back. We didn’t notice at first or piece together the cause and by the time we did, it was too late.

PRESENT
I invite myself in and point to a chair. Sit down, I think you know everyone. The room is crowded. I am everywhere, sitting, standing, leaning on the kitchen counter. Some of us are talking among ourselves, others merely watching.

I walk in and take the last empty seat. Is this everyone I ask? We all nod. Well, I guess we know why we are here. Multiple heads nod around the room. So, if I am killed by my own clone, is it murder or suicide? How will I be tried—in a clone court? We all laugh.