The Tomorrow Gene

by Sean Platt

  Ephraim ducked through the exit, turning back long enough to check whether the outside door had continued to open. It hadn’t yet; whoever was on the other side was talking to someone and hadn’t pushed inside.

  Ephraim could see neither person; he could barely hear low and undecipherable voices. But he had to see who was there. He needed to. The information he’d seen shouldn’t have been so freely available to a worker bee, and that made everything fishy. Either the user logging in with “neven” had hacked access he or she shouldn’t have or someone higher up than a groundskeeper routinely did business from the back of a pool closet.

  “Who are you?” a voice demanded from behind, from the larger room.

  Ephraim jumped. His exit had put him in a tiny alcove off the main spa room, probably to shield it from guest view — part of the whole “Eden never needs cleaning, and nobody here ever has to poop” image it fronted so well.

  His body was blocking the alcove’s access, barring the utility room door from view. He hadn’t turned, but the newcomer sounded far enough off; they wouldn’t be able to see it open.

  In his surprise, he’d let go of the handle.

  Ephraim watched the door slowly close, knowing he couldn’t reach for it again without drawing attention. Pneumatics pulled it shut.

  He held his breath while waiting for the latch to click, knowing the small noise would trumpet the fact that he’d been snooping and seal his doom. The aesthetician or whoever was behind him would know he’d been somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, and the person who’d just entered the janitor’s closet would probably hear it as well.

  But the door closed without a sound, as if buffered by a cushion of air. He saw the fingerprint lock beside the jamb as he turned, but it engaged silently only after the door closed.

  “I said, ‘Who are you?’”

  Ephraim turned. The pause between the first question and the second had only lasted a flinch, but Ephraim’s interim silence felt damning.

  “I’m sorry. I was looking for—”

  The bearded was looking at him with cool blue eyes under thick black eyebrows. The same man who had been staring at him when the ghost had been turned to burger beneath the mower. And a time or two before that.

  The man was following him.

  “… for?” the man prompted.

  “For the bathroom,” Ephraim finished.

  The man watched him. Clearly suspicious, most likely wondering why the nervous-looking, guilty-faced man had been creeping around an otherwise unoccupied spa room, sniffing in service alcoves, prying at doors with confidential information that was curiously easy to unlock.

  “The facilities are there.” He pointed. “Across the room.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. They’re not clearly marked.”

  The man’s face was unreadable. Ephraim waited for a response, wondering at his clothing. He wasn’t dressed in aesthetician’s white (suggesting he worked in this room) or groundskeeper’s stained denims (suggesting he’d come in from outside). He wasn’t wearing a uniform like Elle’s or the possibly-dead Nolon’s — or something fancier, indicating he was part of whatever passed for Eden’s management. He wasn’t dressed the way the boss man himself dressed, which would have suggested a connection to Connolly’s office. Wherever that was.

  Rather, he was dressed casually. Slacks and a red-checked flannel. The kind of thing a lumberjack might wear to town on his day off. He had no visible Eden badge. No displayed ID. Nothing at all to indicate that he was official — and therefore permitted to give Ephraim shit for being where he shouldn’t.

  “Excuse me,” Ephraim said when it became clear that his accuser wasn’t going to speak. He squeezed past. Blue eyes followed him the entire time. Only once Ephraim was out of the alcove, a foot from a bubbling hot tub decked in tiny white tile, did he speak again. “Thanks.”

  The other man said nothing.

  “I’m going to …” And Ephraim, knowing there was no logical need to explain or justify a trip to the john, pointed toward the concealed restrooms.

  “Okay,” the man said, his eyes hard. Or possibly, Ephraim thought, amused. A parody of hard.

  “I need to get back anyway. To my place on the Retreat, I mean. To the tram.”

  “You know the way, then.”

  “Just over here, right?” Ephraim pointed toward the restroom.

  “I meant to the tram.”

  “Oh. Of course. I knew that.” Ephraim tried to smile, but the man wouldn’t stop staring.

  Was he sweating? “Yes. I know the way to the tram.”

  “You don’t need me to show you on the app? Draw you a paint line?”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  Ephraim stumbled, nearly fell into a mud bath. His smile faltered. He tried it again, meeting the man’s gaze, like reinforcing a crumbling wall.

  The man in flannel nodded. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Todd.”

  Only once inside the restroom did Ephraim realize he’d never answered the man’s first question. Who are you?

  But when he poked his head back out into the portico, the bearded man was gone.

  CHAPTER 28

  AN IDEA DAWNING

  Ephraim didn’t even try to find his companion. Gus would be fine on his own. He was probably still in the upper portico, lounging in a mud bath beside an empty tub that was, once upon a time, supposed to be reserved for Ephraim. Probably smoking primo weed. Taking Lucky Scream — not that Ephraim would ever take that shit again. For Gus, life was probably fine.

  He rushed back to the tram, just shy of running. Given his druthers, he’d have sprinted, but people didn’t sprint on Eden. It was a no-hassle place, just like the maybe-deceased Nolon had told them on day one.

  He rode the tram, gripping a pole nearly hard enough to leave an indentation of his fist.

  He disembarked and was greeted by Elle and Nolon. Elle smiled, and Nolon said, “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  Ephraim couldn’t meet his eyes. He rushed on, almost running.

  The walk from the tram to his house was long, and Ephraim was immediately lost. His house was a beautiful mansion on a pristine stretch of beach, past the astonishingly manicured garden. But the Retreat was full of beautiful mansions on pristine stretches of sand, all of which were near astonishingly manicured gardens.

  Panic hit him in waves, forcing Ephraim to stumble onto patches of grass to sit, or onto benches to collapse. Each time, he moved to lay on his back, looking up at the clear blue sky and breathing slowly until coherence returned. And each time he did, he’d recite affirmations like a mantra:

  You weren’t caught.

  You aren’t being followed.

  You must have answered the man with the beard when he’d demanded to know who you were. That’s how he had your name. Or Eden just plain knows, like they have facial recognition for guests built into their MyLifes.

  Last night, you had a bad dream.

  That’s what it was. Only a dream.

  He had to get his head straight, so that he could think.

  No. Even better. He had to talk to someone who’d believe him.

  Because deep down, Ephraim knew he wasn’t crazy. Someone on this island was trying to make him think he was, probably because they’d caught wind of his espionage plans and meant to unseat them. But he wasn’t crazy. And the fact that they were going to such great lengths to screw with him — jamming his MyLife, stealing his bloody clothes when he was in the shower, cleaning his messes — meant he was on the right track.

  Now if he could only figure out where he was. Because once Ephraim gathered his bearings, he could go to the communication zone and call Fiona. He could upload the pictures he’d taken of the terminal’s digital paperwork, and screw it if anyone knew what he was sending. The communication zone was probably not as anonymous as Fiona’s scrambler device was supposed to make it, but fuck it; the cat, if that were true, was long from the bag.

  But Ephraim couldn’t find the communication zone.r />
  He couldn’t turn on his MyLife and ask for a paint line to find it.

  Not because he was paranoid.

  It was because if you turned on your MyLife, that’s how all the people watching and following you could home in and find you.

  Ephraim stumbled on, watching the sun fall and the afternoon stretch, repeatedly certain that he’d figured out where he was. The problem was, he’d headed out before remembering that the tram between Reception and Retreat was on the opposite side of the island from the one for Retreat to Reef. And everything looked so similar.

  He finally found the rise and corresponding dish of the communication zone, pulled the Doodad from his pocket, and almost dialed Fiona before remembering to attach the dongle. Not that it mattered. Everyone seemed to be watching his every move anyway.

  Fiona’s phone rang.

  And rang.

  He left a brief voicemail saying that he was sending her some files he found “in the right kind of place.” Then he sent her each snapped image.

  He deleted the originals. Too late, he wondered what might happen if Fiona didn’t receive the images — if his invisible pursuers snatched them from the air and never returned them.

  But screw it. He wasn’t about to keep evidence of wrongdoing on his personal device. He needed plausible deniability if they caught him doing all the nothing-wrong he was doing.

  Once the images were sent and deleted, Ephraim collapsed on an ornate stone bench. He finally knew where he was; he could hike up the rise, pass between the two large groups doing Tai Chi on the side lawn, dodge the nude celebrity couples in the artificial hot springs, and find his home to rest.

  But Ephraim didn’t want to. He felt deflated. Not quite enough to join the volleyball game on the rise’s other side (supposedly Elise Morton and Colton Thomas were playing; Ephraim hadn’t known they were on-island, but his Eden app had pinged an impromptu roster), but deflated nonetheless.

  It took him a while to understand why, but then he did.

  He’d flat-out needed a conversation with Fiona. Because even if she had no reason to believe nor disbelieve his tales of murder and monstrosity, she at least knew who he was.

  He wasn’t Ephraim Todd, Riverbed executive in need of recuperative therapy after losing his family; he was Ephraim Todd, a part-time loser on a mission of infiltration who’d never had a wife, nor the kids to go with her.

  Ephraim hated lying, and now his entire life was full of it. Telling lies was physically painful. Heaping them all on top of this strange uncertainty?

  It was too much.

  Ephraim needed someone to know him for who he was.

  Someone to believe him enough to give him an anchor.

  He sat up, an idea dawning.

  He suddenly didn’t want to go home after all.

  He needed to go somewhere else.

  CHAPTER 29

  THAT MAKES TWO OF US

  “Ephraim? What happened? You look like shit, man.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Altruance shrugged, then stepped aside with the door gripped in his big hand. Ephraim walked into the marble foyer, thinking as he looked around that the house didn’t exactly match Altruance’s style. The place was posh in a wealthy-old-couple way. Foyer like this belonged to people with last names like Witherspoon or Dunbottom.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” Ephraim said.

  “Well? Are you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Altruance walked toward what appeared to be a living room — the size of two basketball courts stacked one on top of the other. The ceiling was so high, it looked like the room might have its own weather.

  “Dunno,” Altruance said, sitting. “You sure ran out on us this morning looking like a man about to shit from his mouth.”

  “I just realized I needed to be somewhere.”

  “In the middle of breakfast?”

  Altruance was staring at Ephraim. Chin tipped down. Giving him the Don’t treat me like an asshole gaze.

  “Yes.”

  “All of a sudden. Without saying goodbye. Without offering to pay his portion of the check.”

  “Hey, look, I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Relax. I’m fucking with you. First of all, you know meals are included. Second, even if they weren’t, Sophie would have fought you to pay it. After you left, she made a list of all the shit she’s going to have done. Not because she needs the work. I mean because that bitch just wants to spend. Like, to spite her handlers. So I’m just saying, if there’s really a chance she’s into you? Then maybe you should tell her she can blow you for like five million credits. Because she’ll pay it. She’s on a roll.”

  “Altruance. That’s kind of—”

  “I’m just joking. Trying to calm you the fuck down. I’m serious, E. What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Funny you should say ‘ghost.’ That’s actually why—”

  The doorbell cut him off.

  “Hang on,” Altruance said. He stood.

  “Wait.”

  “That’s what I said. Wait.”

  “No. Just …” Ephraim held up a finger. He sneaked toward the windows while Altruance watched, his expression somewhere between amused and pitying. Ephraim was crouching low, looking around. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to stand upright so Altruance would stop looking at him that way, but if he did, the person at the door might see him. And that would be bad, because—

  Altruance’s new visitors were Nolon and Elle.

  “Don’t answer.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They’re here for me.”

  “Bitch, they ain’t here for you.”

  “Trust me.”

  “They wanted you, they’d’a gone to your house. This is my house.” Then, probably to try and lighten the mood, he repeated it, thumping his chest the way he might when trash-talking during one of his games. “My house!”

  “They know I’m here.”

  “Okay. So what?”

  “You can’t tell them I’m here.”

  Altruance’s face finally lost its humor. He looked at the door, then Ephraim. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’ll explain later. Can you just …” He stared grimly toward the foyer. “Can you just get rid of them?”

  “And what if they ain’t here for you, like I said?”

  “Then fine. But don’t let them in. Please, Altruance. They can’t know I’m here.”

  Altruance’s jaw slid side to side. He licked his lips.

  The doorbell didn’t repeat.

  Ephraim could see Elle and Nolon through the curtains, staring at the door with an unsettling patience.

  “You do something wrong, E? Something they won’t like?”

  “I promise I’ll tell you after they’re gone.”

  Altruance met his eyes. Then he nodded gravely. He was taking Ephraim on faith, but would only do so once. Altruance didn’t strike Ephraim as a man who liked being played the fool.

  “Okay. Go back into the kitchen. Don’t make any noise so this can happen easy. I don’t like lying.”

  That makes two of us.

  He’d already lost some of Altruance’s trust by asking this favor, and Ephraim could see the postscript in the man’s eyes as he turned to answer the door.

  And I don’t like liars either, it said.

  CHAPTER 30

  YOU MAY BE CRAZY

  Altruance entered the kitchen a few minutes later.

  Ephraim heard the rattle of wheels on the road as the Eden golf cart rounded the bend, but he hadn’t heard a word of conversation. Altruance had stepped outside rather than inviting the others in. He was a high-tier guest, but Ephraim had to wonder if stepping out had affected Elle and Nolon’s line of questions, or if they’d believed what Altruance had told them.

  “Okay, E, they’re gone.”

  “Were they looking for me?”

  Rel
uctantly, Altruance nodded. The small motion seemed to require tremendous effort — as if he wanted to maintain that Ephraim had been wrong when in fact he’d been right.

  “Yes. Did you do something to make them angry with you? Something you shouldn’t have done before coming here to hide?”

  “I didn’t come here to hide. I didn’t know they’d come after me. I just—”

  Altruance held up a finger. “Answer the question.”

  “Maybe. Maybe something I did made them … made them want to ask me some questions. But it’s chicken and egg. I think they wanted me before I did anything.”

  “And what was it that you did, either before or after?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  There was a long silence. Then Altruance said, “I told them you weren’t here. Not just once. They kept asking, again and again, like they didn’t believe me.”

  “Do you think they finally did believe you?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I’m in the middle of this now. And I’m not so sure I’m happy about it.”

  “Thank you. Thanks for doing that.”

  Altruance took a stool around the kitchen island and gestured for Ephraim to move from the window and meet him. “Maybe it’s time to start talking.”

  Ephraim took a deep breath. He was unsure how much to say, but this was all or nothing. He hadn’t been able to reach Fiona. He honestly doubted, given his new fears, that he’d be permitted to reach her again. He’d always trusted his first impressions, and Altruance struck him as worthy of his confidence. He’d told Ephraim last night that he’d grown up around phonies and yes-men — the shackles of a prodigious existence. Truth should go a long way with a man like Altruance, whether it was an appealing reality or not.

  Over the next hour, Ephraim laid it all out. He told Altruance about his brother’s disappearance after working with Wallace Connolly on Precipitous Rise. How he’d lost his sister ten years before that and how important it was for him to find his brother. He’d done his research, finally zeroing in on Fiona Roberson as the ideal candidate to bankroll an undercover mission to Eden. The story seemed to hit Altruance with a bullseye. He’d had an older brother once, too, murdered in a thrill-kill incident when Altruance was only twelve.