Or did the clone actually think he was original? Certainly Jack's clone had thought and acted like the real Jack—though she didn't know how that was possible. Even if they were genetically identical, surely the way they'd been raised—in a lab rather than in a loving environment—would cause basic differences in thought and behavioral patterns.
How could a clone ever think the same way as the original when their life experiences were so drastically different? They couldn't, surely. Unless, of course, someone had succeeded in transferring memory and personality. Or, even more unlikely, whole brain matter. Though the original Wetherton had been intact when it came to brain matter—it said so in the report.
So, how could this Wetherton survive so long without someone close to him realizing something was drastically wrong? Or, at least, realizing he was drastically different?
It was certainly a line they needed to explore. Particularly since it was obvious that whoever was making these clones had successfully traded one of his creations for an original, and had tried to do the same with the prime minister himself. If Sethanon was involved with Hopeworth, as Gabriel and the Federation presumed, then these clones and the attempts to replace government ministers wasn't going to end here.
She let her gaze move on, studying the two other doors leading off this main room. One was a standard door, the other a double set with plusher handles. Wetherton's office, obviously.
But as her gaze rested on those doors, the feeling hit. A wash of heat, followed by the certainty that there was a shifter inside—a shifter whose very essence felt malevolent.
A tremor ran through her. Not so much because of the thick sensation of evil, but because she'd felt this particular baseness before.
In her dreams of Joshua and fire.
The man with the gray eyes was in that room with Wetherton.
Her heart accelerated at the thought and her stomach began to churn. She licked her lips and tried to get a grip. Damn it, she'd seen gray eyes last night, had even interacted with him, and she hadn't felt anything close to this.
So why now, and not then?
It didn't make sense. Maybe her psychic wiring had been short circuited by the lightning strike. Or maybe there'd been too much other shit happening last night and she simply hadn't had the time to notice psychic sensations.
"The minister won't be too long," the blonde secretary said into the silence.
She jumped, just a little, but managed to fake a smile of thanks. God, this was ridiculous. Anyone would think she was a green trainee, not a cop with years of experience behind her.
She crossed her legs, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited.
After another five minutes or so, the doors opened and two men walked out, both of them wearing that happy-to-have- met-you smile that was obviously as fake as the secretary's.
Gray eyes was dressed in military blue that made his silver hair stand out all the more. Just watching him, watching the calm, assured way he moved had the sensation of evil sharpening, until it felt as if her entire body burned with his wrongness. Looking at him was making her physically ill, but she wasn't entirely sure whether it was a result of psychic distaste or a reaction leftover from her dreams.
Wetherton stuck his hand out to gray eyes and said, "I'll certainly mention your concerns when the matter comes up in parliament, General Blaine. Thank you for speaking with me today."
General Blaine? It wasn't a name she'd heard mentioned in relation to Hopeworth or her, but then, given the security surrounding the military base and its projects—old or new— that wasn't really surprising.
So was Blaine one of the scientists involved in the Penumbra project, as her dreams seemed to indicate? If so, how had he escaped the fire that had killed nearly everyone else?
And why was there no sign of a cut or burn marks on the left side of his blunt features? Last night, when he'd climbed out of the car with the woman, the wound on his head had appeared nasty—and if the amount of blood that had been pouring down his face was anything to go by, it had been deep.
Wounds like that didn't disappear overnight. Not without a trace, anyway. Shapeshifters and shapechangers did have the ability to heal wounds fast—it came as a side benefit of what they were—but even they were usually left with scars.
Her gaze flicked to Wetherton. His spud-like face bore several nasty scrapes, and he had an egg-sized lump near his right temple. No anomalies there, at least.
Gray eyes nodded and shook Wetherton's offered hand. "I appreciate that, Minister. The military cannot afford to have our funds cut for the third year in a row. Several projects vital for national security could be in jeopardy if they are."
"I'll put your case forward, General. I can't promise more than that at this time."
Blaine nodded and turned for the exit doors. His gaze met hers as he was walking out and he paused. Deep in those gray, soulless depths, she saw surprise. Maybe even shock.
The sort of shock that came when you suddenly and unexpectedly met someone you knew but hadn't seen for a very long time.
Which again, didn't make sense, given the events of last night. If he did recognize her, did know her from the projects, why hadn't he reacted last night?
"Do we know each other?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Yeah, she wanted to say. I helped save your ass last night. But something inside stopped her from uttering the words. Instead, she simply said, "I don't believe we do."