by Sean Platt
Papa Friesh doesn’t know everything about me. He didn’t know I’d ask for Sophie rather than revenge, right before I tried to stab his throat.
And, thinking of that now with Sophie and Hannah beside him, Ephraim remembered Papa’s face when he’d demanded to know about Sophie. Papa had been shocked, yes; he’d expected Ephraim to say one thing and instead heard something else. But he’d also seemed pleased. Why had he been so happy to see that Ephraim wasn’t so predictable?
Random thoughts flashed through his mind:
On the tram, when Ephraim asked what Sophie would do if she discovered she was a clone.
On Eden, when Neven had told him what happened to a clone’s mind after they discovered his true nature.
And lastly, seeing Sophie now, aware of herself as an unnatural being. Content with who she was. And Ephraim’s outlook, changed for sure. Freed without a doubt.
Then what had felt like an epiphany faded, and they were three people walking the gardens.
“What?” Sophie said, looking at Ephraim.
“I just can’t believe that you understand. You know what you are.”
“It’s simply who I am.”
“I know. But it’s …” He ran out of words, didn’t know what it was. “Did you suspect it on Eden?”
“No. In retrospect it was obvious. But I had a blind spot. Papa says that Eden builds them into us.”
“But it could be worse,” Hannah said.
Ephraim’s attention was so focused on Sophie that he’d almost forgotten she was there. Hannah was beautiful in her way. Small, dark, with hard eyes. Softened by circumstance rather than nature.
“How?” Ephraim asked.
“At least we know where our blind spots are. Most people don’t.”
“Because most clones are unaware?”
“I’m not talking about clones,” Hannah said.
The thought settled. It sounded like cult-speak. His opinion of Papa Friesh had already changed dramatically, but Ephraim had his gut reaction. And now Hannah was saying, Papa Friesh freed us. He showed us what we did not see. And now we live here with him. Like a harem. In robes that make us anonymous, eager to do his bidding.
But that wasn’t fair. Papa didn’t strike Ephraim as a cult leader. He didn’t even strike him as a religious figure. If anything, Papa Friesh was a much less mystical version of Wallace Connolly. He didn’t appear in commercials that made him look like a living god, despite how straightforward it would be to do so. Papa was a figure of almost reluctant note, not one in search of celebrity. He wore a suit instead of a robe as if he saw his own conventions as corny. And he spoke like an intellectual, not a persuader. Ephraim liked him, more or less. All that held Ephraim back, ironically, was a fear that ‘liking Papa’ was how The Change ‘got you.’
“This is a strange place,” Ephraim said.
They’d returned to an outlook, though it was a different one than he’d visited with Riley. Rolling lawns sprawled before them, The Vineyard’s border marked by an ornate black fence.
“How so?” Sophie asked.
“It feels like a hangout, not a …” He stopped, aware of how offensive that was about to sound.
“Not a cult?” Hannah finished.
“Well …”
“I could explain The Change to you, but you’ll just think I’m trying to win you over. Suck you into our nefarious ranks.” Hannah smiled, but that was what he’d been thinking.
“Go ahead,” Ephraim said.
“It’s nothing,” Hannah said.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” she repeated. “At its core, it’s a simple set of beliefs that Papa had about the world. The Change, as it exists today, has grown up around those beliefs, many times over Papa’s objections. He doesn’t like the robes, though he indulges them. He doesn’t like the weekly gatherings because they remind him of churches. Because they are. But what is a church other than a place where spirituality is discussed by like-minded people?”
“I thought churches were monuments to God.”
“Maybe it’s semantics,” Hannah said.
After a moment, Ephraim said, “You understand about Eden.”
“Of course,” Sophie said. “We went there. Together.”
“I mean, you understand what it is. What it does.”
“Yes. How could we not? Those of us who came here from Eden had to be deprogrammed.”
“How? I was told that a clone coming to realize what it was would be enough to break the mind.”
“Papa has a process.”
“And you’ve both been through it?”
“All of us have,” Hannah answered. “There are many people at The Vineyard, but an especially large number of dromes and liberated clones. We come here for deprogramming, and many stay. Have you not seen any, other than me? No Elles? No Nolons?”
Ephraim shivered. There were Elles and Nolons here? “No.” Then, to change the subject, “What’s the process like?”
The women looked at each other. Finally, Sophie said, “You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I haven’t done it.” He looked around as if for help, but they were all alone. Why would they assume he’d been through deprogramming?
The women looked at each other. “Are you sure?” Hannah asked.
“Of course I’m sure. I was on Eden; I was arrested. You remember, Sophie.”
“I was given a continuity gap. I don’t remember much about Eden, except going, but even that’s fuzzy. Clear memories don’t start until The Vineyard after Papa fixed me.”
“Well, I was arrested and brought right back. Went right to jail to await trial; no opportunity for bail. Prison in Queensboro. Then here.”
“Don’t take offense,” Hannah said, seeming to carefully consider her words. “But how are you, you know, sane? If you know you’re a clone but you weren’t deprogrammed?”
Ephraim frowned. Hannah didn’t believe his story. Either Ephraim had been deprogrammed without realizing it, was lying, or was out of his fucking mind and hiding it well.
“Do you remember Neven?” Ephraim asked Sophie.
“I remember a man with a beard, dark eyebrows, and a head that was nearly shaved. Is that Neven?”
“Yes. Do you remember what happened to him?”
“You said he died.”
“And then Papa Friesh said ‘the first Neven died.’ What does that mean?”
The women shrugged. But then reluctantly, Hannah said, “Others of us know him. The man you call Neven.”
“Others?”
Hannah looked apologetically at Sophie. Apparently, this was something she hadn’t heard, being rescued from Ephraim’s arrest rather than arriving from Eden via whatever other means — probably through connections The Change seemed to have everywhere. Or perhaps it was something that had been intentionally kept from her.
“There is an underground from Eden,” Hannah said. “None of us — except Papa, I assume — knows The Change followers inside it. I only know that dromes and clones who arrive here fall into two separate camps. They were either made to be slaves for their owners, like Sophie, or slaves to Eden. The rest, like me, are known as ‘sons and daughters.’”
Hannah sat, seeming to need the support. Sophie and Ephraim sat with her, the trio finding its home on a rough circle of stone benches.
“I only know my own experience,” Hannah said, her voice softer, “but sometimes we talk, and I know I’m far from the only one. We are, to hit the heart of it, the children of Neven Connolly.”
“How …?” But there were no words.
“I’ve repressed most of it,” Hannah said. “We have many psychologists here. One of The Change’s tenets — the most important one — is that the mind should be free. But the caveat is that the mind should only be as free as it chooses to be. I choose not to uncover my repressed memories.”
“What kind of memories?” Ephraim asked.
“From what I have,” she said, indicating her head with a slim finger, “I know we were all raised in pairs. I had a sister. A half-sister. In each set of twins, one was a clone. For the boys, the clone was of Neven. For the girls, the ‘mother’ was a genetic sequence — not an actual woman, I don’t think — that’s jokingly called ‘Eve.’ The other child from each set —” Hannah put her hand on her chest, indicating herself. “—was an organic child. My ‘twin sister’ only had one parent — ‘Eve,’ who I mentioned — I had two. Eve and Neven.”
If Ephraim weren’t already sitting, he’d have slumped to the position as Hannah spoke. She was describing siblings and parents, brothers and sisters, pairs of twins that Ephraim’s mind saw in long unbroken rows. But the reality — and Hannah’s tone — felt darker than a story of simple births.
This was something more. Something worse.
Hannah continued. “I have only one clear memory of my ‘father.’ I was maybe six years old.”
“It was that long ago?”
Hannah shook her head and swallowed. “No. I’m sorry. To deal with seeing the reality of who we are rather than the false memories we were given, Vineyard psychologists suggest that we think in human years. I grew from birth to my current body’s age — maybe 25 — in six months. But it’s easier if I mentally stretch that time out, as if I grew up normally, in fast-forward. I was ‘six’ in this memory, but it was only a year or so ago. Does that make sense?”
He nodded — but no, it didn’t. Ephraim couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He hadn’t been deprogrammed like Hannah had; he’d learned his true nature as a gestalt punch rather than something psychotherapeutic.
Ephraim had grown just as fast as Hannah, but he had all his false memories. Four decades felt like forty years to Ephraim instead of whatever the time had been.
“He’d lined us up in pens,” Hannah said, her pretty face distant with recall. “That’s the only way to describe it: pens, like for livestock. He went down the row, one at a time, and he put his hand on our heads, turning us so we’d look at him. Then he’d meet each kid’s eyes, one of us at a time. It was maybe a minute. When the buzzer went off it was time to move on.”
“Why?”
“Studying us, maybe? I’ve compared stories with some people here, and I’ve practically begged my psychologist to get with Papa’s people and theorize at the truth. The best guess is that he was imprinting, like a human father might.”
“And the buzzer?”
Hannah’s expression turned bitter. “To make sure he gave each child the same type and amount of attention, per proper experimental protocol.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was conducting an experiment like a good scientist. He treated all of us the same. We were born from tubes, raised in isolation, kept from all personal attention unless it was precisely measured and controlled. Because that’s how you do experiments. You eliminate the variables — all of the differences between subjects — except for the one that you’re trying to test.”
“What one?”
But Ephraim was pretty sure that he already knew.
“Whether clones or normal people were better,” Hannah practically spat.
“Why would Neven do that?”
The thought was rancid. So many questions to follow. Answers he needed but didn’t want to hear.
His gaze strayed to Sophie. She hadn’t heard this either. Ephraim wished that she was still the vacant-eyed drone she’d been before Papa’s process had freed her. She’d be a slave, but at least she’d be spared the wretched reality of understanding this.
Papa Friesh arrived from the side, apparently finished with his call.
“Because that’s what Wallace did to him,” Papa said. “What I didn’t get a chance to tell you was that at birth, Neven also had a ‘twin,’ same as Hannah’s. An organic child that, unlike Neven, was only half Wallace. But there’s another reason Neven started doing his split-testing — and another reason he might now want to take it to a whole new level.”
“What reason?”
Papa exhaled, eyes flicking away. “Because I told him to.”
Chapter 20
The Greatest Scientist in the World
Wallace poured tea into Timothy’s cup. Not coffee; tea. Just one of the many subtle changes in Wallace over the years. A small thing, but Timothy couldn’t help seeing it as yet another straw on the camel’s already burdened back. A man who sipped tea was different from one who drank coffee.
“Lemon? Sugar? Honey?” Wallace asked.
Timothy laughed without giving his friend an answer.
Wallace paused, the stainless steel teapot tipped in one hand. “What?”
“What happened to you, old man?” Timothy asked.
“Me?”
“You’re serving tea like a handmaiden.” Timothy indicated his teacup, then added a refined lilt to his voice. “Yes, please. Sugar. Two lumps, and don’t spare the raised pinky!”
Wallace set the teapot down. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you.”
“Fuck you first.”
“Fuck you infinity.”
Wallace sat in his chair with an overacted grunt to underscore his elderliness. Or at least his forties. “I’m tempted to say, ‘Fuck you infinity plus one,’ but as a man of science I can’t pretend that infinity plus one means anything more than infinity.”
Timothy sipped. “Yeah, well. You’re rubber and I’m glue.”
“If you say it, you’re supposed to be rubber. I’m supposed to be glue. But now it’s too late. Yes, I’m rubber.”
“Ha-ha,” Timothy said. “You’re a rubber.”
They chuckled. A quiet moment passed.
Wallace’s new house was more spacious than the last — so spacious, in fact, that Timothy was a little timid to ask for a tour. There’d been a day when Wallace had been an arrogant little bastard, and this tea tête-à-tête had Timothy thinking that his oldest friend might’ve finally mellowed into a sensible human being. But if the house was as big as it looked from the outside (infinity pool; tennis courts; a goddamn topiary; that was only the grounds), Timothy might have to admit that he was wrong and that Wallace’s ego was back with a vengeance.
“Speaking of ‘man of science,’”
“Really?” Wallace said. “You just got here.”
“I’m just asking. We haven’t talked in a year. It was your idea to set up these little reunions. You want to start holding back?”
“It’s just that I know how you are. You’ve never liked my business. I’m not sure I feel like defending it without some liquor in me.”
“There’s liquor?” Timothy asked.
“I stopped drinking. After …” He shrugged. “You know.”
Timothy took a sip. He looked out the window at Wallace’s sprawling estate. They might as well talk business; Evermore’s spoils were all around them. And it was hardly one-sided; both of their reputations bordered infamy. Better they clear up the truths between them, lest they were influenced by the media’s opinions and flat-out lies.
“Would it help if I go first?” Timothy asked. “My cult has to be worse than your playing God.”
Wallace laughed, but these were things they could talk about. It was safe; Timothy could feel it. They’d had their epic arguments; they’d had their blowouts and years of silence. Wallace knew exactly how Timothy felt about Evermore’s early years — and conversely, Timothy knew how Wallace felt, perhaps even today, about The Change.
It didn’t matter. Their blood had spilled; now was a time for well-earned reconciliations. Resentment had faded, and they both knew painfully well that Wallace had paid the price for his impetuous arrogance.
“Okay,” Wallace said. “Go first.”
Timothy told him how what had begun as a psychological renaissance intersecting with a New Age movement ha
d evolved into something that was clearly edging a religion.
He told him how, deciding to join them rather than beat them, Timothy had filed for nonprofit status and the requisite exemptions.
He told Wallace about the decision many had made to start wearing robes, to start marking themselves with tattoos on the web between thumb and forefinger, ostensibly to ‘free the mind from brands’ and identify with others.
He told him about the churches. The donations that came in even as Timothy tried to tell his ‘followers’ (though he loathed the term) to keep their money. He told Wallace how the Change had found a life of its own, and that it wasn’t through Timothy’s urging that it was spreading like wildfire.
“Like you don’t want it to spread,” Wallace said when Timothy finished.
“Of course I do. But as a movement, not a religion.”
“You were the one who made it a religion, Tim.”
“Because it was becoming one anyway. The least I could do was give it guidance. They look to me anyway. Don’t think for a second that I want to be a church head, but if I’m not, who knows what The Change might become without me?”
“You hate it, then?”
“I hate the burden. The responsibility. Not The Change itself.”
“The media calls you Papa Friesh.”
Timothy gave him a level stare. If there was one thing Timothy hated more than the cult-like reputation his organization had unfairly acquired, it was the title that he now felt on him like the spray of a skunk.
“Oh, relax, Papa,” Wallace said, setting his tea down. “I’ve known you your entire life. I know you don’t fancy yourself a demigod. The truth about your humility and obnoxious self-sacrificing nature is safe with me.”
Timothy sniffed, trying to laugh. Across the big room, Wallace’s 13-year-old son Neven was sketching on a pad. A sullen lad, more absorbed in his work than in the world around him. Some of the things Neven had said when they’d met were dark, thick with undertones that made Timothy uneasy.
The boy’s manner made sense, given his past, but Timothy couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. His voice low enough that Neven couldn’t hear, Timothy nodded toward the boy.