Perfectly Printed Peopleᵀᴹ

She looks so much like me. Her face features my small, dark freckles and pronounced laugh lines. When she tugs at her clinical gown, it’s my stubby fingers. When she cranes her necks to look around the sterile environment, it’s my dark, saucer eyes that do the looking. When she touches the cold metal table at which she sits, she pulls her hand back and places it on her collarbone, just like I do when surprised. When she turns and stares at her reflection in the two-way mirror, she bears my face of intense concentration, the face I often wear even when relaxed. The only physical difference between us is her hair, the thick black mass cut into a short bob by the nurse.

I’ve decided to name her Veronica. That’s not my name, because she’s not me.

I set before her a tray of finger foods: strawberries, miniature marshmallows, pretzel sticks, celery, orange slices, and ruffled potato chips. Each small portion rests in its own crystal dish.

The meal presents a sample of colors and textures, a test to see what she’ll go for. This is her first meal after all, the printing process finished just two hours ago. I take a seat opposite her at the table. “Take your pick,” I say.

Her dark eyes flutter from one option to the next, then meet mine questioningly… or perhaps suspiciously. I’ve been in this position before, at this very same table, wondering if my doppelganger would make the same choice I would make (I can never resist strawberries), wondering if this time, the printing process produced a perfect copy, a clone of absolute precision.

No, not a clone. A “printed person.” The Company was explicit on this point when they authorized the project. Clones are the subject of cautionary science-fiction stories. Clones threaten identities. Clones scare people. Perfectly Printed Peopleᵀᴹ “evoke the whiz-bang excitement of 3D printing with the comfort of traditional paper printing.” This workshopped slogan ignores the fact that most people have no experience with 3D printing, and often find paper printing a hassle. I’m just glad I don’t work in marketing.

Veronica lifts a marshmallow between thumb and forefinger, brings it to her snub nose, and deliberately sniffs. Then she pops it in her mouth and chews conspicuously. She tilts her head sideways. Is she learning the taste of a marshmallow, or remembering it? She’s the twenty-third printed person assembled here in Company R&D, and we’re still not sure how their brains work.

Veronica moves on to a celery stick. Her mouth screws up at the strong earthy flavor, like how I react when I drink sherry. Then she tries my favorite food, a strawberry, her eyebrows raise in recognition or pleasant surprise. Next she nibbles down a couple of pretzel sticks, her eyes relaxed, placid. She’s so much more comfortable chowing down in front of others than I am. I’m honestly jealous.

Even after seeing this experiment run twenty-three times, it still shocks me the subtle ways in which printed people differ from their templates, not least when that template is me. I sat in the full-body scanner for eighteen hours while the central computer mapped a blueprint of my mind and body. Then the printer went to work, crafting Veronica, line by line, hydrocarbon stacked on hydrocarbon. Assembling bone, laying nerves and arteries, building muscle from protein. I found myself entranced as the machine stretched olive skin over this newly-minted person.

I designed the processes from the biological side. I spent all of my thirties on this research. Four times I’ve sat in the full-body scanner. Four times I’ve watched the central computer manufacture a copy of myself with laser precision. Yet the process still disturbs and fascinates me.

Veronica stares at a second celery stick like it’s some sort of exotic insect. Then she turns her eyes toward mine, holding my gaze questioningly. She hasn’t yet talked, but appears curious to move on to something more mentally stimulating. Time to see if she’s ready:

“Do you mind if I call you Veronica?” I ask, holding my voice as neutral as I can.

She squints in puzzlement. Will she speak? Can she speak? Some prints never do. And for several moments it appears Veronica may be among those disappointments, as she holds my stare with curious eyes.

Finally, her lips part and she repeats the proposed name ever so slowly: “Ver-ohn-ee-kah.” It takes her five seconds to speak the full name as she draws out each vowel, as if testing each sound for possible pitfalls. “I like it. That’s my name.” And she smiles, a bright, guileless smile. A smile of the sort I haven’t known in so long. I feel tears tug at the edges of my eyes.

In theory, Veronika should know everything I do. The proteins and fats that compose the lump of grey matter in her head match mine molecule for molecule. And the electrical impulses that course across her brain correspond to mine at the highest registered rate.

So she should know she’s my genetic double. She should know the details of the project I’ve managed these past twelve years. She should know she’s not the first copy of my form and essence. She should hold memories of meeting three previous doubles, each different from the original in surprising, unpredictable ways.

She should have knowledge of advanced degrees in biology and psychology locked away, deep in her mind. She should know the intimate details of the People Printing Project. She should know how much money is tied up in this, and the potentially nefarious goals of the company’s board of directors (who dream of organ farms and biological servants.)

But prints never gain full access to these memories. They always emerge as if from long, hazy dreams. It takes a while to determine what they can recall, and some never remember how to write, or speak, or walk a straight line. Those unlucky prints get sent to cryostasis within a day or two.

“Your name is… Nico, Nicole, Nicollette.” My nicknames and given name spill out of Veronika’s mouth. I hear myself gasp. She’s recalling information unprompted so quickly.

“Yes, those are my names. Most people call me Nico.” I manage a wan smile to meet her warm one.

“Nico. Nico! I thought so. It just popped into my head.” And she giggles, scrunching up her nose. Have I ever giggled like that?

“How did you like your first meal?” I ask. This is a standard question, a simple test of recall and sensory interpretation.

“Oh, these little things?” Her hand sweeps over what’s left of the sample foods. “I remembered to eat them. But I didn’t remember them this way.” And she points to her eye. “But I did remember them this way.” And she points to her nose.

What a fascinating rate at which she’s unlocking knowledge and sensory information. She’s missing words, but she’s already combining concepts.

“I have a set of questions for you. It’s okay if you can’t answer all of them. But I would like you to try and answer. Do you understand?”

She nods.

“If you understand. Say ‘yes.’”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” From a folder beside me I pull a stapled set of five pages with typed questions. The “printout for prints” as we call it.

“Question number one: Are you too cold or too hot?”

Veronika looks at me quizzically, then her eyebrows shoot up as if realizing some dark truth. She looks down at her arms, mostly covered by her hospital gown. She touches her wrist with the opposite hand. “I think I might be cold. Is it cold in here? There’s so little light.”

“It is rather cold.” I’ve always found The Company’s use of air conditioning excessive. “Would you like a sweater?”

“Like the one you’re wearing?” She points at my maroon pullover.

“Not exactly like it.”

“Oh.” She frowns.

“Why don’t I give you mine?”

“No! Yes!” She says in rapid succession.

She laughs heartily. And I find myself giggling, surely not unlike how she giggled earlier.

“Allow me one minute.” I exit the room to swap my woolen sweater for one of the facility’s white cotton ones. I lock eyes with one of the observers standing behind the two-way mirror. He’s a humorless accountant named Steve, and he frowns at me. He doesn’t approve of the mirth I’m sharing with my print.

I return to present Veronika with her first gift. Her eyes light up, and she stares at the maroon fabric like it’s a holy relic. Does she know it’s our favorite article of clothing? My heart swells. This must be like how parents feel when they impress their children.

Veronika lays her hands on the treasured sweater and just holds it for many moments, then smiles at me questioningly, as if to confirm that it’s okay for her to wear such a precious item. I nod in encouragement.

Her initial attempt to slip the sweater on proves disastrous, with her head attempting to emerge from one sleeve, then the other. We’re both cackling with glee by the time I assist her in getting all her body parts in the right places. Her short dark hair now sticks straight up from the static electricity. I sigh, what a shame that she’s unofficial property of The Company.

We spend the next hour on additional questions from the printout: What’s the most recent dream you can remember? What college classes do you remember taking? What homes have you lived in? How surprised were you to wake up in this facility. On a scale of one to ten, how confused are you about your current situation?

And Veronika answers every question. She speaks slowly, thoughtfully. She smiles and cocks her head playfully at the more personal questions. There’s something strange in witnessing this happier version of myself. Perhaps I could be this happy too, if I so chose.

She’s answering the questions with enough recall that she’s likely to be my second print to move up the chain. She’ll advance to the “play area,” where computer technicians and bean-counters will test what she’s capable of. I feel a swelling of pride, though I don’t want to let her go… I’ve decided not to let her go.

I’ve been jotting down her answers though I know it’s not necessary, as Steve and company behind the glass are copying down every word. They’re paying close attention, close enough that I can’t stray too far from the script without them noticing.

But I’ve been on the other side of that glass. I know the glass isn’t that clear. I know the speaker system filtering sound to them isn't the best. I know how I can make Veronika mine.

I take my chance, lean in slightly and whisper while barely opening my mouth: “Smash the trey. Then scream.” Veronika barely reacts, only her eyelashes flutter slightly. I wonder if she heard me as I prepare to ask my next question-

Veronika stands and picks up the tray, still carrying its six little dishes, and pauses only a second before smashing it into the table. Little bits of food and crystal fly in all directions. She moves so suddenly that the shock on my face is genuine.

And then she screams. A keen wail of a scream. She finds a note above middle C, and maintains it, while looking straight ahead. She continues screaming as security rushes in.

The next few hours blur together, but I do what must be done:

…

She’s not right. We must put her in cryopreservation.

…

I had high hopes, but there’s no way she’s suitable.

…

She’s a print of me. I’ll fill out the paperwork and have her frozen by the end of the day.

…

It is evening, time to check out after a difficult day. The two of us make our way across the company parking lot. Security was designed to keep snooping journalists or industrial spies from coming in; they've grown lax to the possibility that someone inside might sneak a print out. And since she looks like me, I left her in my sweater, and gave her my Dodgers cap, while I exited wearing the blue jumpsuit of a technician, hair in a ponytail.

Everything went smoothly. Veronika left first, walking right past the front desk and smiling at the intern without generating a hint of suspicion. She waits for me by an island of grass in the middle of the parking lot. I walk out without even waving to that same intern. I’m just another technician heading home. No one stopped either of us. No one ran out to meet us outside.

Within a week, the security cameras will have any evidence of this erased. They might eventually notice that Veronika disappeared, but The Company is so bogged down with bureaucracy I wouldn’t be shocked if they never figured out what I did. To them, Veronika is just another failed print to be stored away and dealt with once they’ve gotten all the legal issues ironed out. Cheaper and simpler to print more people and work with the ones that emerge deft and compliant.

I hold the passenger door on my Integra open for Veronika. She stares at me quizzically, but eventually takes the seat without further prompting. She even fastens her seatbelt without needing to copy me.

Now we’re driving home. Veronika stares bemusedly at trees and apartment buildings. She smirks at an accident we pass (a volvo driver hit a post office box.) She never once asks why we’re doing what we’re doing. I feel comfortable enough to roll down the windows. Veronika sticks her head halfway out like a cautious dog, her short, stiff hair barely sways in the wind. Surely this is happiness.

We arrive home. Veronika follows me up to my apartment on the third floor, stomping on each wooden stair with increasing force, reveling in the vibrations. We come to the door. “Time to meet your other roommates!” I say as I put the key in the lock.

Bernice comes running as the door opens, her long, wild hair flying all around her. Bernice doesn’t like to talk, but she approaches and shakes my hand, then Veronika’s, with enthusiasm.

Veronika’s eyes grow wide, she appears overwhelmed by this quick-moving stranger who appears so similar to both of us. Perhaps I should have done more to prepare her.

Bernice runs to grab a sheaf of papers from the coffee table, which she presses into my hands. “Oh, how pretty!” I say like a doting mother. She’s painted images from the park. “Maybe we’ll all visit the park one morning if you’re up for it.”

Veronika looks over my shoulder, and her countenance softens as she looks over the bright, skillfully painted watercolors of flowers and fountains. I took art classes in college and showed some promise. That was before I decided on a more lucrative major. Seeing Bernice develop a skill I’d abandoned feels so gratifying.

“Another one of us. Aren’t you afraid of having so many mouths to feed?” Vera, my cleverest and most cynical print, says from the far corner of the living room. She and Veronika lock eyes from across the space. My own eyes flit back and forth between my doppelgangers, from the new, enthusiastic print with short hair wearing my favorite sweater, to the dry, sarcastic, original print across the room. Vera’s hair is even shorter, trimmed down to a crew cut, I suspect for reasons of individuation. She’s like how I was before joining the corporate world.

By now Bernice has noticed the staring contest. She playfully tries to intercede, but Veronika and Vera simply stare over her shoulders, their eyes only for each other. I worry for a moment that they might be instant enemies.

I was wrong to worry, for slowly, almost in mirror image, they start to smile, turning their mouths from slight smirks to wide grins of small, pearlescent teeth.

A year back, when I first brought Vera home, smuggled her out in fear they meant to destroy my beautifully rebellious print, I worried for months about what might happen. About the moral and legal risks of creating, and then stealing, a copy of myself. Slowly I came around to the idea that this was my life’s work, my purpose, and the source of my future happiness.

I will continue to request prints of myself, then smuggle those prints out. I will teach them and learn from them. I will have the sisters and friends denied to me by being born an only child who studied and worked too hard. Maybe one day I’ll reunite with my second print, Oletta, who graduated to The Play Room.

“They’re all me. You’re all me.” Veronika says slowly, deliberately.

“We’re all the same. And we’re all different.” Vera says, mimicking Veronika’s cadence.

“Pizza?” Bernice suggests, and gestures toward the kitchen where three varieties of frozen deluxe topping pizzas wait.

“A good second meal,” Veronika says. Together, we move to the kitchen to select our dinner.