Doppelgangers

“The Sad Day. One that will we be mentioned in history books and memoirs. Our leader, our father, nashe vsyo is dead!” a loud voice of Visilievich filled the room. He held his both arms on the part of his body where heart is supposed to be. He was almost crying, revealing wrinkles, badly hidden by cheap Botox.

“Shut up you… dysfunctional copy!” Valerievich was not happy with a sudden outburst of his colleague. He sat in the corner, trying to focus on a hockey section of a fresh newspaper that shook in his thin bald hands.

They both were appropriately shaved, dressed in similar Italian tailored suits and looked alike, but Vasilievich was just a tiny bit taller. Almost unnoticeable for common folk, although, as with identical twins, an accustomed person could tell. Valerievich always hated that parvenu who joined the elite club only when the Dictator approached 70. The rest, Olegovich, Yurievich, Gennadievich and himself had been there for all those years, throughout the good and the bad of times. Semyonovich, for instance, didn’t even manage to survive the Egg Coup, but in the cataract eyes of Valerievich even a deceased copy would have been a better fit for the upcoming Internal Election.

“I’m rehearsing, no big deal.”

“What made you think that you will be picked next?”

In fact, no one knew what would happen next. Every Good Copy waited for the Special Governmental Committee (SGC) to come up with a plan. The Dictator had been dead for almost a week, but state-owned broadcasters had more than enough footage to keep the myth alive for at least few months. That was done for the sponsors, of course. It was even unclear whether he would be officially declared dead during the annual Sorrow Convention or one of the copies would quietly step up to take a vacant throne. By that point it could have gone either way, as it seemed. But the feeling was pretty much artificial. After every significant death there was this visible tension, fear of the unknown throughout parliament walls, but usually nothing drastic happened. For sponsors even a minor change was scarier than sustainability.

Olegovich was the most worn-out copy, used almost as often as the Chosen Original. He was also as old as the original, which automatically made him next in line. But he was not up for the gig. Tired, leaning towards good-old whisky and young-looking women. Not power moves, not crowd-pleasing speeches, not even much appreciated Military Conventions satisfied him. Yurievich, on the other hand, was two years younger and embraced the limelight. He was usually the one to tell crude anecdotes and smile during publicly presenting any bad news. Gennadievich was out of competition because he smelled terrible, like an already rotten corpse. That was a sign of his natural decay and The Committee preferred someone who could last for at least a year.

It was an uneasy task to keep that company of old men together. The simplest way to remember them all was to appoint each one to a specific deadly sin. But after some consideration it became clear that each consisted of a rainbow of greed, wrath, sloth, pride, etc., one on top of another. They were human and difficult to classify even by the newest version of AI.

“Vonyuchiy urod! Tell The Committee what you really think of them, don’t be shy!” that was a remark thrown either from Olegovich or from Valerievich. It was hard to tell as they sat close to each other.

The youngest person in the room was Anya. A Secretary of Third Rank responsible for meeting demands of all copies. Bringing tea, taking notes, fixing wardrobe malfunctions. Easy tasks to be honest, but she hated her job. It wasn’t a privilege to be in the same room with Dictator’s doppelgangers. Blizost’ k telu sounded great only on paper: listening to them talk, finding out tomorrow’s agenda. It all had no real-world applications for Anya, except some minor bonuses – she was the first to shower even on holidays, as her neighbors respected and envied her. After all, she worked in a nursing home filled with some of the most feared representatives of power in the world, rubbing shoulders for 10 hours a day (with occasional holidays) with the one, who would soon be the next leader of a Freed World and Autonomous Deserted Overseas Territories.

Still, the worst part was to avoid contact with shaky old fingers and keep reminding those old men of current time and date every few hours. That could have driven anyone insane. Not Anya. She knew why she was suffering. Her goal had a name – Alex. The oldest child, born in-between wars, he was approaching 16 and already received a note from Military Recruitment Office (MRO). Anya was too afraid to discuss her problems with anyone and focused on earning as much digital currency as possible to bribe a military representative. She wanted Alex to end up on a secret service, rather than in Wasteland’s bootcamps.

“I remember well how you wet your diaper during the Big Parade!”

“And you can’t spell out names of 10 out of 18 neighboring leaders!”

“Debil, we have 20 neighbors now!”

Those types of low-quality debates happened often. Old men barely ate anything but they fed on constant rants and conflicts. During those periods Anya usually concentrated on her grocery list, trying to figure out how to buy soy meat and regular meat for stuffing in one store, preferably. She also stayed on high alert for words like “doll”, “honey” and “hey you”, as that meant she had to assist one of the elders.

Copies usually stayed in one room during normal working hours, ready to jump at any task, assigned to them by The Committee. On most days that was for opening a high-profile construction site, and other minor things like appearing before filtered press, or drinking tea with a prime minister, or presenting awards to athletes. A task force of old people doing their representative duties, freeing the Dictator’s precious calendar. And as soon as one of them becomes the Dictator, that meant he would no longer need to attend those awful bad-mouthed and bad-smelling meetings. In a way that was the best and worst promotion possible, as everyone also knew that the next step would be to die in office. Those old men hated the idea of death. And each one secretly did his best to avoid getting chosen by The Committee.

Anya worked on that job for 3 years and had witnessed two Dictators already. It was easy to spot that once anyone takes office, he immediately does something terrible to overshadow his predecessor. As if he knew that there is no way back. Anya jokingly called that “play with eternity”, as each new Dictator’s plan was to stay alive forever by cementing his name in history books. They were obsessed with those history books. Each wanted a chapter of his own, a personal nickname, as many pages as possible, a good-looking picture. It never occurred to them that those books, accurate and unbiased depiction of past events, had been rewritten multiple times, according to whatever was the agenda. But even more than that they wanted a personal mausoleum. A body on display, a hefty fee for provincial tourists to witness a glorious corpse. It was an ultimate vanity project that none of them had yet fulfilled. Kirillovich The Peacemaker was the closest to reach the desired goal, got all the sponsors on board, but failed to fight corruption to the point that even his architect had been sentenced to 10 years for stealing two drafting tables.

If Anya had the right to vote, she would choose Yurievich above all. Despite crudeness and lacking sense of humor, he was obsessed with conquering space. That would at least draw some military attention towards Aliens, Mars, Venus and newly discovered Xsiu. Let them build rockets and steal fuel, she thought, rather than destroying what was left of her part of Earth.

The landline phone rang. Everything was digital, but copies specifically asked for that calming old technology that reminded them of better days. Those men were less demanding than one would think. Anya’s neighbors thought of them as grumpy old men who ate caviar and listened to renowned classical musicians all day. Firstly, copies were not that sophisticated. And secondly, they barely asked for anything out of ordinary. Even tailored suits were a necessity, provided by The Committee. If it was up to them, they would have worn only track pants. Anya had no desire to tell how things really were to anyone. Not to carry on the mystery, not because of NDA, just a silent presence of secret service was enough to keep her thoughts and observations to herself.

“Honey, are you still on the job?”

Anya left her daydreaming and picked up the phone. She stood there, near a huge wooden table, listening to the caller in complete silence. Copies paid no attention to what was happening, as they were used to tasks being distributed that way.

“Hope it’s a Revolutionary Concert,” Gennadievich could barely develop a sentence.

“You wish, dorogoy. Or… is it time for that already? What date is it? Hey you, are you done listening?”

Anya was speechless, processing the information. She had been personally invited to see The Committee. Alone. Her rank didn’t allow her to even enter the secluded part of the parliament building, Wing A, to be precise. But the instruction over the phone was clear. A mechanical voice ordered her to go, immediately.

No one she knew had ever been to Wing A. There were rumors, of course. Some said that the entire Committee consisted of the most prominent members of society – scientists, economists, politicians and artists. Others insisted it was AI, an enormous computer that filled the room. There were also rumors, fueled mostly by conspiracy lunatics and exiled opposition leaders, that The Committee was filled with oldest children of all previous and future Dictators, which made no sense in Anya’s opinion. She was about to see for herself, enter the most mysterious and talked about room that controlled the better half of Earth.

 She was still frozen when two secret service employees entered. They kindly accompanied Anya towards the exit, limping, as they had only two functioning legs between them.

“She’s done.” Anya heard old men speak behind her back. “Zub dayu her child is a homosexual. Or worse: traitor, spy, deserter…”

Those words didn’t affect Anya. She knew that Alex was safe in school, making good impression during weekly True History Questionnaire. Her younger girl, 10-year-old Marina, was more likely to attract attention of authorities, as she was growing fast and asking too many rhetorical questions. Luckily it was not about them, at least it seemed that way.

Right behind the door stood a secret service official whose features were difficult to explain. He was an average looking 40-something man in a common uniform, with all body parts intact. That meant he was at least a First Rank Officer, responsible for granting permissions and overseeing common stuff. He blindfolded Anya and went on with a very detailed enquiry about her past. Mostly about Ivan, her deceased husband, who disappeared during The First War. They always cared more about men in their prime whom that they could not locate, correctly assuming that they were the main threat to any Dictator of the present and the future.

“You have the First Level Temporary Permission. All necessary documents are sent to your employee’s account.” the man finally concluded in a monotone voice. He never took off the blindfold, and simply helped Anya to navigate long corridors. “Today you are lucky, the mailing system runs smoothly.”

Together, they’ve descended a few staircases, then climbed back again, then walked long corridors, then entered the part with constant curves and turns. The entire building was constructed like a maze for a reason. It was supposed to be complicated, to scare off the weakest and less persuasive petitioners and applicants. Those walls were accustomed to seeing only secret service employees and secretaries, not designed to be comfortable or make sense.

“Wait here.”

Blindfold was tight and Anya tried to use her other senses. It smelled the same, it felt the same. Just another corridor, probably a long one, as the man’s voice echoed. Finally, he gently pushed her through the door to another room. Anya heard the click of the door closing behind her.

“What do you want?” the voice sounded artificial. Anya could not see a thing but knew that a vague question was addressed to her. She had to reply and be quick about it. “What do you want?” it was on repeat. Was The Committee a computerized entity with no human input? There was no time to think it through.

Anya had a lot in mind. She wanted Alex to get a prestigious job in a secret service, wanted Marina to marry a decent man, preferably a native, wanted to move to a bigger communal apartment and the last but not the least – to bury whatever was left of her Ivan. But in a hurry, subconsciously, it all came down to a single short sentence.

“I want more money.”

“Is that your main concern? Yes, or no?”

“Yes!” Anya could hear her own voice fade away in what appeared to be a big room.

“What would you do in order to achieve that?” cold mechanical voice asked louder. Anya understood that it wasn’t a dialogue but a predetermined questionnaire. And again, with no time to think the answer through properly she almost screamed.

“Whatever it takes!” the answer was honest but not enough.

“Please elaborate.”

She had no idea what to say. Wanted to spell out a correct form. Her gut suggested to speak as sleek as possible. There were well-documented cases when wrong answers in less serious circumstances led to real prison sentences. Was it a trap? Did one of her neighbors report on her?

“Please elaborate.”

Anya knew better not to make the machine ask her thrice.

“I want to make more money by doing honest work, by helping those who need it the most – our defenders. By following laws of our Dictator, written and unwritten.”

There was silence, as if the machine was possessing information. Anya patiently waited for a few minutes. Nothing happened. She was too afraid to ask anything but it was clear that the procedure failed in some way or another. Anya wanted the secret service officer to step in and do something. Yet, there were no signs of him anywhere.

“Blyat’, it’s broken!” a familiar human voice sounded irritated.

“Call someone.”

“You mean… her? She’s here already.”

“Someone else, debil.”

After a painful consideration, Anya took off her blindfold. It was the same room. She was a bit upset that didn’t recognize the surroundings by sheer smell and familiarity. All copies were right there, around the large table. In the middle of it stood a karaoke machine with two wired microphones.

“It’s not supposed to work like that.” Vasilievich was visibly irritated. “Anton! Anton!”

The door opened. Same secret service officer ran in. He looked less mysterious as he tried to fix the karaoke machine by hopping around it on his knees, turning it on and off. Copies gathered around him, giving advice. No one paid attention to Anya. She froze in surprise and disbelief. She’d noticed technical issues before, and old men never missed an April’s Fool Day, but The Committee was no joke. Even in order to pronounce it in a sentence you had to be extremely careful. Not to mention it was late September. It made no sense. All of it. Anya lost count of ideas why they’ve decided to put her through that weird process.

“Ask Vadik and Grisha to assist!”

The two guards come galloping. Now they all tried to make a piece of ancient tech work properly. Finally, Gennadievish, who was the only one that remained seated, mumbled:

“What’s the point? She knows.”

Everyone looked at Anya. The entire Committee. After a couple of seconds of absolute silence, they all started to speak simultaneously. The general message was unclear, until the eldest of the elders, Olegovich, quieted everyone down.

“Eto nedorazumeniye!”

“You are a true genius to notice that, dear colleague.”

“But I’ve heard enough. She mentioned money. And I can’t agree more – working class, like her, is desperate and needs all the support that we can provide. If I am to become the next Dictator, I would definitely shorten that unfair gap in income. With the support of sponsors that all sounds achievable.”

Not everyone immediately understood that Olegovich gave a promotional campaign speech. While handpicking every word he shyly covered his expensive watch. The rest followed as they all wore same Swiss luxury watches.

“There are other immediate concerns of course, but we can think of ways to find additional resources to fund a pay rise of all governmental employees. Even though I personally think that a military base on Mars is more forward-looking.” Yurievich stepped in next.

“Well… yes, konechno. Let’s not forget that we’ve just conducted a very reliable poll. Went all the way to the bottom of things. That’s what is needed, what is expected from the next Dictator!” Vasilievich was overdramatic, as usual.

That went on for some time. Anya didn’t pay attention, as she was not eligible to vote anyway. Her understanding of how things worked in the Parliament Building was shaken. If there was no Special Governmental Committee (SGC), she thought, there was no plan for the future, no higher goals, just the present filled with aging copies. And what would happen when the Dictator’s age goes beneath modern human capabilities? Will the title be owned by frozen in time seniors forever? And what if all copies die of natural causes… like right now, for example?

It was overwhelming, but Anya instinctively checked her inner schedule: Marina had just finished her math class and was about to go home for online virtual violin class. Alex was probably playing gorodki on a school yard. And a promotional price for lasting French leggings would end in two hours.

“Are you still with us, doll?”

Anya came back to life. All men stared directly at her, young and old. The First Rank Officer had a golden envelope in his hand that he proudly presented to her. Inside she found a QR code with one hundred in digital currency attached to it. First Rank Officer was pulling a broad smile.

“Tell her, son. It’s your time now.”

“We’ve pulled some resources, made few legislative adjustments and have very good news for you. This considerable sum is all yours, after tax deduction, of course. It can be used in governmental stores all around the country and on some neighboring territories. That is if you decide to travel there. And please note – it cannot be used to pay off any debts or mortgages. But other than that – feel free to do with it whatever you want!” First Rank Officer was proud of himself, he almost didn’t stumble during his speech. Olegovich also looked proud. Others – no so much.

“Measures will be taken to prevent embarrassments like that from happening ever again. I propose to assemble the Bureau of Internal Financial Problems Resolution.”

“BOIFPR, odobryayu!”

Humming noise of approval followed, as they all hurried home. Anya stayed alone to pick up teabags and wipe off few stains from the table. Her neighbors would never now. No one ever will. Because of her the entire feared Committee was debunked and dissolved. A win was evident. But most importantly, she had 60 digital money left, after taxes and online transaction fees. Enough for now.