Unidentified Facility
Where he was, he did not know. It was a dark, cold space…there was a single light bulb hanging in what he supposed most have been the center, though it could just as easily have been the back, the corner, or the side…that single bulb cast a circle of illumination on a cement floor, but beyond that there was no way to tell anything about the rest of the room. The walls were beyond the circle of light…they were more than ten feet away, which he had determined from his limited exploration, but beyond that he did not know…they might have been six inches beyond where he had ventured, or a thousand miles. It did not matter. He had been lying on the cold cement when he returned to consciousness, but he did not stay there for long. He jumped about, despite the agonizing pain in his head; skipping and jumping and singing rude songs at the top of his lungs. He ran in and out of the darkness, frightening himself into believing there was a monster after him…not that the illusion lasted for long. But he would not sit down, or lie down, or do anything else that might have suggested an instant's fear or apprehension of what was to come. He was going to die…that much was all but guaranteed…he might even be tortured. But he had still won. He had killed the Empress, and there was nothing they could do to take that victory from him.
The light burned twenty-four hours, and no one brought food or water…his endless clowning desisted once he grew thirsty, but he still did not sit. Instead, he walked calmly around and around his small pool of light, pausing only to stop and remove the clown-like shoes that he was wearing. He was, after all, still in his servant garb. After an interminable length of time, he grew tired and slept…quite soundly, despite the concrete he had for a bed. Time rolled on; he might have been in the cell for a few hours or a few days…he did not know. But then, suddenly, the door opened. It was not far away, not much further than he had ventured from the comfort of his single light bulb…but suddenly it was there, a rectangle of blinding illumination. He raised a hand to shield his eyes as they entered: four troopers with rifles, accompanied by an officer and another figure in the rear.
The Oompa-Loompa grinned. "So, am I going to swing on a rope, sizzle like a sausage, be made into Swiss cheese, or none of the above?"
The officer's stony expression did not change in the slightest. "You are charged with the attempted assassination of the Empress of Nova Britannia, Her Most Regal Highness, Veruca Salt. This crime carries the penalty of death. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?"
"Yes, actually I do." Was this some kind of mind game? "Maybe you could repeat yourself a little louder…did I hear you say 'attempted assassination?' Because that was a pretty damned good attempt, if I do say so myself. Usually, when someone stops breathing and their eyes fix and dilate, it means they're dead."
"Yes," said the figure behind the officer. "It usually does…but not always." The other stepped forward into the circle of illumination cast by the ceiling light, and the bottom dropped out of the Oompa-Loompa's stomach. It wasn't possible…the other pulled back the hood of a heavy cloak to reveal the face of a woman, young and very beautiful: pale skin, long black hair, and icy blue eyes.
"You're dead," the Oompa-Loompa said, his mind racing. What in hell was this? It couldn't…couldn't…be her…this was a double, a pretender of some kind. For one thing, this woman was far too young; it wasn't possible…wasn't…"YOU'RE DEAD!" he repeated, his scream at once furious and terrified…he was backing away, not even aware of it…the face might have been duplicated through plastic surgery, but there was no mistaking those cold, cold eyes. He stopped, suddenly afraid to back away into the darkness. The young woman who could not be Veruca Salt advanced on him, kneeling down directly in front of him, clearly unafraid with five armed soldiers behind her. The Oompa-Loompa's voice was almost desperate. "It can't be…Veruca Salt is dead."
"Yes, she is," the woman said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "She's dead and her body is being cremated even as we speak. But her mind…that's something else altogether. Her memories… constantly downloaded by that tiny little computer chip implanted in her skull, actively recorded onto the fresh template of my cerebrum. I'm a clone, you see. Veruca Salt restored to life in a new body…twenty years old again and free of all the inconveniences which one inevitably acquires. And I'm not just a duplicate in the flesh. Veruca's mind may have died with her body, but I have her identity, her personality…her memories. I remember what you did to me…even if it wasn't done to this body. Because even though I wasn't murdered, I still felt…everything. Can you imagine what that's like, what it feels like to die? Oh, that's right…you'll find out for yourself soon. Only you won't be able to come back and tell me about it…whether it was horrible, or whether you found the experience as…exquisite…as I did." She gave a shudder of something obscenely like pleasure. "I've never felt anything quite like it. And I'll never have to fear it…because, even now, another body is already receiving my memory downloads. Immortality…within reach of anyone with enough money and the right connections. But of course that's a little beyond the reach of a slave. Which may actually be your blessing; otherwise, I could enjoy killing you again, and again, and again…"
The soldiers seized him roughly, lifting him bodily off the floor as they dragged him toward that shining rectangle of light. And as he was pulled from the room, his last words were a scream of horror and disbelief: "You're lying! It's not true! It's not possible! You're dead! I KILLED YOU!"