Chapter #47The Patsy Redux by: Seuzz   Patterson is still suspicious, even after you've outlined the plan, but his suspicions lessen as you outline exactly how "Prescott" will be reconfigured and inserted alongside Frank and Joe. After an hour of discussion and close questioning, he agrees to the pact. After he leaves, you shiver hard.
"It's not a nice thing," Frank observes sympathetically, "to find out that someone you went to school with is such an asshole."
"He was always an asshole," you reply with hoarse horror. "I just didn't know much worse he could get." You put a call down to the apartment, and Rick and Swann come up. They listen with interest to your report of the meeting. Then you ask about Verity. "She'll be okay," says Rick. "She's got deeper reserves than she gives herself credit for."
"What did you two talk about?"
"Australia."
"Uh huh? What did you say about it?"
"We were both in favor of it. If your friend from Diana is gonna be back soon, we should get your machinery prepped."
* * * * *
You hated the pitch you made to Steve, but it had to be done. Dey's cloning machine destroyed your original body, and you can't resume your life as Will Prescott until you get it back. That's why you need Patterson's help, even if it's unwitting.
That was part of the pitch that you gave him: He has to bring a copy of Prescott's P1 back with him. Your excuse is that you want to erase the P1 of the real Prescott and substitute a back-up copy of him from before he was taken out to Vulcan. "He's seen some stuff that I don't want you to know about," you told Patterson. "I'm being blunt here. He's going to be loyal to you, and he'd tell you about all the stuff he's seen here. But he can't do that if the last thing he remembers is being caught by you." Patterson smiled thinly, but agreed.
As for the rest of it: You told Patterson he only had to supply a schematic his own P3 -- something Diana's tech can copy but cannot implant -- and from it you can "spin" the modified P3 that will be inserted into Prescott. Thus, Patterson himself does not have to go under any Vulcan machinery. It was that last bit, you'd bet, that convinced him to trust you.
Down in the disassembly room, you talk through the upcoming charade with Joe and Swann, and show them how to run the machinery. Your "number two" -- the clone of Dey with your own memories and personality -- is upstairs with Rick, listening to a record of the meeting with Patterson and preparing to temporarily take over as Julian Dey, as you disrobe. You do so slowly. Even though you trust the machinery and trust your new colleagues, you're still nervous, because the machine is going to reduce you to a blind and unconscious thing before you can be restored.
"So when you wake up," Joe reminds you, "you're going to have to be Patterson's pawn."
"I know that," you say with some slight irritation. "I'm the one who explained that to him."
"Just making sure we're on the same page." He regards you coldly as you lay back on the slab. "Tell me when you're ready."
"Ready. Wait. Joe." He turns hooded eyes on you. "Are we going to be okay? You and me? Frank and I had a talk, and I think we're okay, and I want -- "
"We'll be fine," he says brusquely. "Because in a little while it'll be you and not this cocksucker who destroyed my life."
Your heart tries to seize up. "I'm not him, Joe."
"I know. But it'll be easier when you're not looking like him." His cheeks tighten, then he winks without smiling. "We'll hash things out like you and Frank did."
So strange, you think as you lay your head back. I was so terrified of what Frank would do to me. But it's Joe who isn't forgiving me.
You close your eyes as the machinery starts up, and feel nothing just before nothingness is all that you feel.
* * * * *
Then you're cold all over, and light seeps through your lids. You blink them open and sit up.
Steve Patterson, tall and erect and stylish in his expensive suit is staring at you with bright speculation in his eyes. You return his stare with an even one of your own. It's hard not to show fear, but you'll be dead if you do.
"He doesn't look any different," Patterson says.
"What do you expect him to look like," retorts Joe, who's come up behind him. "You don't want anyone seeing any differences."
I've got Patterson's instincts, you remind yourself. "The fuck's going on?" you demand.
"Well, there's a difference," Patterson says. "I kind of like it. What's your name, fuckface?"
You clench your jaw. You're surrounded by friends, and that gives you a surge of confidence. "I don't know, asshole. Tell me yours."
"Oh, I definitely like him. But he's gonna have to tone it down."
"Explain things to him," Joe tells Steve. "Then he'll know what to do."
"What's the last thing you remember?" Patterson asks. "Come on, Prescott."
"Prescott?" you exclaim, and look down at yourself. It's part of the act that Joe had suggested you put on for him. "Fuck!"
"I'll get him a robe," says Joe.
"Come on, what's your name," Patterson asks again.
You stare daggers at him, and bite your lip. You imagine a hard tug of sympathy between you and Patterson -- the most imaginative thing you've ever done in your life. Then, bitterly, you spit it out: "Steven Perceval Patterson."
Patterson stares, then laughs. "I really like this. If that's your name, when's your birthday?"
"Fuck you!"
Joe returns with a robe, but Patterson takes it from him. Stiffly, you let him put it on you. "Let's you and me talk." He takes you into the hall and up an elevator and into a conference room deep inside the building. The whole time he shoots you speculative glances. You try to seethe at him. It's not hard.
* * * * *
But you allow yourself to be talked around by him, and to listen raptly as he explains a scheme that you had explained to him, and with quiet loathing you examine yourself on the screen of a cell phone. "Can I put on some fucking meat?" you ask as you touch your pecs with pretended loathing. He replies, "Do whatever you want as long as you play the rest of the part perfect."
Then he goes, having reluctantly allowed "Julian Dey," who has come in to listen to some of this debriefing, to return you to Saratoga Falls in the company of his own agents. Joe brings you some aspirin and water when you put your face in your hands after he's left. "Thanks," you tell him.
"I think you did good, Prescott."
"Thanks."
"I thought maybe you were overdoing it for a bit. But maybe Patterson wouldn't appreciate subtlety."
"Maybe not. Where's Rick?"
"Sleeping. He's pulled a couple of all-nighters looking after you."
You sag. "He's pretty amazing, isn't he?"
"He sure is. He saved our asses. Frank's and mine, I mean."
You bite your lip. "I tried to help too."
You keep your eyes on the conference table, and look up only when Joe doesn't answer. He's leaning back in the seat Patterson vacated, hands clasped behind his head, staring at a wall. "Yes you did," he says at last. "It was an all-hands effort. Well, not mine's or Frank's, because we were hors de combat."
He is going to keep plucking that string, isn't he. "Uh huh, can we talk now so I can apolo -- "
"And Verity didn't have any idea what was going on."
"Right. Joe, I want to apolo -- "
"Hal, he made some good contributions, though mostly it was a matter of spinning you in the right direction. He didn't do much directly himself."
"Joe?"
"So I guess it was a four-hand operation when you get down to it. You and Rick."
You say nothing, and don't try to keep the reproachful look from your face. Joe slowly turns and stares blankly at you.
Then leans forward slowly, and creeps around the table toward you. You draw back and freeze as he puts his mouth up to your ear. You tense as his lips tickle you.
He blows a hard raspberry. "Jesus!"
"Be careful who you invoke," he says sharply. "That's something you'll have to learn. You never know which deities, from Christ to Quetzalcoatl, will be listening. But I'm just trying to make it right between us, like I promised. Oh, fuck me." He sighs and launches himself onto the table, where he lays on his side and grins at you. "I'm good at being cute, but no good at being apologetic, and I'm rotten at being angry. I can't manage it. I'm like a mean drunk when I get mad. Miss Dillon used to say it's 'cos I had no practice at it. Rick says you were scared of Frank, but it was me you really shoulda been watching out for." He buries his face in the crook of his arm. "It wouldn't have been sudden death, either. It woulda been quick, but not instantaneous, and with plenty of time for you wish it was coming even quicker than it was coming because it was hurting so much."
"Joe," you tell him earnestly, "I'm really sorry for what I did to you, five years ago. I'm sorry for all the shit you have to remember. I will make it up to you forever if I can."
He raises his head again. "You can try that. Or you can make it up to me now, all of it, in an instant." His eyes crinkle.
Somehow this is more frightening than anything else he's done. "How?" you ask warily.
"Like this." He leans in on you again. And again you freeze as now he delicately covers your mouth with his, and slips his tongue between your lips.
"Mpgh?"
He leaps away with a burst of laughter. "Now we're even for everything you did to me!" he howls. "Race you to the elevator!"
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