The Tomorrow Clone (The Tomorrow Gene Book 3)

by Sean Platt

  “I suppose.”

  “If you suppose, why don’t you believe the Todds are working to take over Evermore. Or Eden, at least?”

  “Because they fucked up if that’s what they were trying to do. Somehow, Mauritius knew to come take Ephraim away and put the island on lockdown.”

  “Rumor says someone told the Mauritius authorities to storm Eden.”

  “Even if someone told them something, they’re not supposed to cross the border.”

  “Someone inside. Someone with authority to lower defenses. Someone who, if they contacted Agaléga, the patrols would come.”

  “I’ve heard the rumor,” Hershel said. “But who?”

  “Jonathan?”

  “And get his brother arrested? What kind of conspiracy is that?”

  “Then maybe …”

  Hershel raised his hand. “Never mind.”

  Martinez closed his mouth, slouched against a desk. “I don’t get why you’re not convinced.”

  Wood shook his head. “I don’t know. It just isn’t sitting right.”

  Martinez drew a deep, slow breath, and Hershel knew a come-to-Jesus was coming — and was perhaps, in Martinez’s mind and the other minds at GEM, long overdue.

  “You’re not a detective anymore, Hershel. This isn’t your fight. It’s not our fight. Maybe we should leave it to the cops. Until Eden opens up and lets us go ashore, there’s no need for GEM to be involved. If it turns out Eden’s up to some Doctor Moreau shit on those islands, fine; we’ll go in there and do our job. But until then, letting it go sure saves us a lot of hassle, and you a lot of stress.”

  Hershel considered. It was all true. This wasn’t GEM’s fight or his business. But Ephraim Todd, now missing, had made it personal.

  “You think I should drop it.”

  “I know that look on your face,” Martinez said, “and I know that you stopped being objective about this a long time ago. Why does the Eden thing bother you this much? You’re talking to the press like a star investigator, you’re bugging Ava Bloom for updates, you’ve got Kilik and me calling Eden all day long. Jonathan Todd hasn’t taken any of our calls, so what makes you think he’ll talk to us now? Todd’s not going to play out more rope to hang himself later by blabbing to GEM. If he has to consider us at all, it’s as a party with an academic interest in what Evermore is up to.”

  “You just said you think Jonathan Todd is working with his brother. Getting him out of Queensboro.”

  “I do think that. As do millions of people around the world. So? Doesn’t mean I’m going to divert my entire schedule to crack the case. Or, I mean, divert what remains of my schedule after I’m done chasing leads for you.”

  The hint of insubordination rankled Hershel. “You’re a genetic enforcement agent, Felix.”

  “I’m a scientist with an honorary badge.”

  “Agent Kilik thinks I should keep trying to get us onto Eden.”

  “Agent Kilik is an asshole.” Then he added a satirical, “Sir.”

  “Anyone who thinks Connolly — or Jonathan Todd, or whoever — isn’t doing something genetically questionable on Eden is an idiot,” Hershel persisted. “Connolly built Eden in international waters specifically because Precipitous Rise was fast-tracked to becoming a controlled technology. Look at the innovations Eden’s sent into the world and the clients who’ve visited its spas and tell me GEM has no business investigating, now that the doors are finally about to open.”

  “Spa services, even the best spa services, aren’t infractions worthy of an international incident, boss.”

  “Their signature service is called ‘The Tomorrow Gene.’”

  “Because it’s genetic refurbishment. What, you think there’s a gene for youth now?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Felix. Everyone knows Connolly’s hard-on for cloning.”

  “And cloning makes rich people young somehow?” He laughed. “You sound like Ephraim Todd.”

  “Cloning is fact. Duplicating people wholesale is science fiction. Managing the fact — maybe even keeping it from tipping into science fiction? That’s practically GEM’s job description.”

  Martinez laughed again. But as much as Hershel had mocked, disbelieved, and hated Ephraim Todd, the “crazy” things that man said wouldn’t stop haunting him. His face must have shown it — Martinez stopped laughing immediately.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Wallace Connolly always wanted to play God. You’ve seen his early posts online, same as me.”

  “Wanting doesn’t make it true. Sure, Connolly wants to play God. But do you know who else plays God, Hershel?”

  “Felix …”

  “GEM,” Martinez answered. “The US government. The UN. If you think Wallace Connolly is the only person who got interested in cloning just before the Precipitous Rise ban, you’re a fool.”

  “Stop being dramatic.”

  “You think we should divert everything we’re working on to chase Eden’s boogeyman like a bunch of high-tech cops in a Bradbury yarn? Okay. Let’s walk down and talk to finance, ask them to kill all of our research programs so the agency can afford it. We can back out of all our school sponsorships. Off to legal, see if they want to break our old contracts and write us some new ones. Raid the cubicle farm in Bethesda and take all of the researchers off of the Diseases and Defects committee. I’m sure all the mothers waiting on pins and needles for okays on their children will understand. You remember their not-quite-natural children?”

  “In-vitro gene therapy isn’t remotely the same thing as what you damn well know Connolly always wanted to do with—”

  “I have a Ph.D. in genetics, Hershel! I went to grad school for four years and did two postdocs a year after that so I could finally get the job I wanted. I for goddamn sure didn’t want to be a cop on international missions so that we can find out if Wallace Connolly is up to things that GEM has been doing for years.”

  “GEM isn’t breaking the PR treaty.”

  “But we sure did manage to broker the Genetic Accessibility Act. We got all the hospitals to shunt their genetic records into the Gene Crypt. That’s the national database. You could log in right now and pull up the complete sequence of anyone who was born in or visited an accredited hospital within the past 35 years. Who cares if GEM’s tinkering with DNA? Funding is the only thing stopping you from doing the same thing!”

  Martinez was breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling with borderline aggression. But Wood knew that even if what he said was technically true, this was apples and oranges. Black versus white. Eden might not have access to the world database, but its unregulated nature and the delusions of its leader made all the difference. GEM had oversight to go with its power. Connolly never had.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  Martinez looked like he might be preparing to fire back, but he wisely shut his mouth and left. Maybe Felix, like a lot of GEM lately, didn’t like Hershel’s single-minded focus on Eden. But Hershel was the boss and had impunity to fire those who didn’t wish to hop aboard.

  Hershel waited through sixty seconds of frustration, then tapped to the MyLife pager app on his tablet. He found the agent he wanted, tapped again, and fumed while waiting for the man he’d paged to arrive.

  Two minutes later, the tall, white-haired, overly-tan Agent Kilik filled the doorway.

  “Kilik, if I told you I wanted to divert another ten percent of our discretionary budget toward beating the bushes for Ephraim Todd, which clearly isn’t this agency’s business, what would you say?”

  Kilik smiled. His teeth, against his skin, seemed unnaturally bright.

  “I’d say that before you paged me, I was thinking a lot about Ephraim Todd. And I was, coincidentally, just about to call you and suggest the same thing.”

  Chapter 12

  The Big Man Himself

  Ephraim had seen Papa Friesh before.

  Everyone had seen the leader of the world’s foremost new religion on broadcasts and all over th
e web. In those places, the man had looked about the same as he did now. He stood tall, perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies, neither slim nor overweight. He had a kindly but wise face, a head of hair that had once been brown but gone mostly white in a way that managed to be flattering rather than humbling. But despite his appearance, the Papa in front of Ephraim wasn’t remotely the same.

  He wasn’t in Change robes, for one — he was in that navy suit with a bright red tie with a long white line waving through it — but it was more than that.

  He seemed larger.

  He seemed more present, Ephraim decided, as if his sharpness and contrast compared to his background had been cranked to eleven.

  And there was an aura about the man. Ephraim had a firm resistance in place, but couldn’t deny Papa’s palpable magnetism. Ephraim had been in his presence for all of ten seconds before he began to feel comfortable. It was as if Papa had known Ephraim his entire life.

  “Please,” Papa gestured, “have a seat.”

  Ephraim had to force his head toward Riley; tearing his gaze from Papa’s kind, fathomless blue eyes. But she was backing out of the room and closing the doors.

  Ephraim came back to center and took in the office. A white sculpture shaped like a single wave, a small desktop fountain running slightly amber liquid, Papa’s big desk and bigger window, bold red art, a Zen garden and tiny rake. The white sand was so fine, carefully combed into sharp lines like cocaine.

  “I’d rather stand,” Ephraim said.

  Papa smiled. Like they were in on a joke, and somehow Ephraim managed to feel like joining the smile instead of being alarmed by it.

  “What?”

  Papa Friesh was standing in front of his massive dark-wood desk. On its top, beside a stack of papers were three blank index cards, one closer to Papa’s hand than the others. He turned the card over and held it up for Ephraim. In large black marker, it read: I’D RATHER STAND.

  “Sorry,” Papa said. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “Are you trying to convince me that you can read minds? That you’re a psychic?”

  “I’m quite good at predicting the future. It’s a talent of mine, and a co-conspirator of mine from an earlier life.” Papa laughed. “But no, that’s not the point. I want to put your mind at ease so that we can talk without worry.”

  “With stupid little tricks?”

  “By showing you that there’s a trick to the trick,” Papa said. “I know more about your history than you’d probably be comfortable with a total stranger knowing. And I know that you have reason to be afraid and to doubt most of what you see and hear. That’s what this is about, Ephraim. I’m showing you the unseen hand behind the curtain. Your world is created as your brain drinks it in. I can guess what you’ll do, to a degree, by understanding basic psychology. It’s not magic and not mind control. All humans are machines. It’s not just you who feels programmed.”

  “What makes you think I feel programmed?”

  “Tell me, Ephraim. If you could have one thing in the world right now, something I could hold in my hand and give to you, what would it be?”

  “I don’t feel like playing games.”

  “Just like you didn’t want to sit. I understand. This must all feel very strange. Too liquid. You must want answers.”

  Ephraim felt like rolling his eyes, but Papa’s voice was smooth and cool. Refreshing. He was fixed on the man’s blue eyes, almost tempted to sit despite himself. No wonder he had a cult army at his command. Papa didn’t feel remotely threatening, despite all that had happened. He felt like a friend. Like someone Ephraim could trust.

  “Just indulge me this one question,” Papa said, “and I’ll answer anything you want. About anything at all. What would you like me to hand you right now if you could have anything at all?”

  “Fine. A Coke.”

  “A Coke? You mean the soft drink? A Coca-Cola?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “Why would you ask for a Coke? I said you could have anything that would fit in my hand.”

  “I don’t know. I’m thirsty.”

  “Is that your favorite beverage?”

  Ephraim shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You must know.”

  “Okay. Fine. Sure.”

  “When did you have your first Coca-Cola?”

  “I’ve been drinking them for as long as I can remember.” He paused, realizing those memories had to be fake. How many Cokes had he truly had, versus those he only thought he’d had?

  “You’re sure? That’s what you’d want right now? Not money, not jewels, not a gun to kill me so you can escape, not the hand of a beautiful woman. You’d want a can of Coke.”

  “Yes.” It was true. He really was starting to want one.

  “Positive?”

  Impatient now. And, interestingly, thirsty. “Yes!”

  Papa reached for the second card on his desk. It read: A COKE.

  Motherfucker, Ephraim thought, he’s one of them.

  Ephraim’s hand flinched toward the letter opener. He’d killed before — maybe as many as four or five times, depending on what was real. He could kill again, and save the world one hairball religion.

  Papa saw the motion but didn’t react other than to raise a pacific hand. The gesture was so strong and calm that Ephraim paused with his hand outside his pants, trying to will himself to reach for the blade.

  Papa, unconcerned with his hand out, waited for Ephraim’s alarm to fade. It retreated only partway, Ephraim’s hand hovering only an inch from the concealed weapon.

  “Before you decide to stab me with that letter opener, would you at least like to hear how I knew what you’d say?”

  Ephraim blinked, suddenly guilty.

  “You’re in my head. You’re controlling me. That’s how you know I have the letter opener.”

  Papa shook his head slowly. He was, unbelievably, smiling.

  “Cameras in the room. You saw me take it.”

  “I knew you’d take it because it was left for you to take. It was the only easily concealable weapon in the room. It’s your security blanket. You took it because you wanted to know you could best me if you chose to. Whatever makes you comfortable is okay with me, Ephraim.”

  “If you’re so psychic,” Ephraim said, caught with his hand inches from the blade, “how do you know I won’t kill you anyway?”

  “Because you’re curious. You want to know why I brought you here. You want to know about The Change, and why The Change is interested in you.”

  “You’re a cult. You think you can save me.”

  Papa went on as if he hadn’t heard. “And you’re smart enough to know that we wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of retrieving you if not for a very good purpose.” He’d crouched a bit to offer Ephraim striking distance. He straightened. “And because you are smart, and because you know full well that I know who you are and why the whole world knows your name, you must realize that this isn’t just about The Change. It’s about Eden, too.”

  Ephraim held his eyes. Until Papa finally moved back around the desk and said, “You can remain standing if you’d like. I hope you’ll forgive me if I sit, though. These old bones get tired more than they used to.”

  He sat, and so did Ephraim.

  “I didn’t know you’d ask for a Coke because I’m psychic, Ephraim. I knew because I told you what to say.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything.”

  Papa gestured at his tie. It was bright red with a single, white wave down its center. Then he pointed at the sculpture in the room’s corner, which Ephraim now noticed had the same shape.

  “There are a few recent additions to this room’s decor that look a lot like the Cola-Cola logo. The main colors you see, including that painting, are red and white. That ugly little fountain in the corner, with its brown and dirty water? That’s new, too.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I stacked the deck. Everything around you and everything I’ve told you was m
eant to evoke one answer from you at the proper time: Coca-Cola. You see it all around you. The little sand pile there — did it make you think of cocaine?”

  Ephraim nodded, feeling smacked.

  Papa nodded with him. “Me too. That’s why I bought it to show you. Little hints were in everything I said to you. I said ‘liquid’ and ‘drink.’ I referred to coal, like ‘cola.’ At one point, I even said ‘co-conspirator,’ which evokes the same phonics as ‘coke.’ Remember that?”

  “Mumbo-jumbo,” Ephraim said.

  “And yet out of everything in the whole world, you said you’d want a Coke. It’s nothing new, Ephraim. Mentalists and con-men have planted thoughts in people’s minds for centuries.”

  “You got lucky.”

  Papa shook his head. “I doubt I could repeat it faithfully with a new stimulus and new setup, but no; I knew this particular example, with you and a nice, cold Coke, would work.”

  “How?”

  “Because it’s the example Wallace Connolly first wrote about when he began experimenting with conditioning as a means to program a mind. And because his son, while growing up, was particularly fascinated by his father’s Coke-conditioning trick.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Not at all. The most direct answer to your question, Ephraim, is because it’s worked before.”

  “On who?”

  “On you.”

  They matched gazes. Papa’s seemed to say: Oh, yes. I know it all.

  Ephraim’s eye went to the final index card, now between them on a vast wood plain. “What’s on that last card?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’m tired of games. Just fucking tell me.”

  “It’s an answer,” Papa said, “just like the others.”

  “What’s the question?”

  Papa smirked.

  Ephraim stood.

  “What’s the question?” he repeated, approaching the desk. Ephraim slid the letter opener from his waistband. Papa’s eyes flicked toward it, but his smile didn’t fade. “Tell me.”

  “Aren’t there other things you’d like to know? Things about Wallace? Neven? Eden? Fiona Roberson, and what all of this has been about from the start?”