by Sean Platt
“Ephraim was talking like he wanted to keep one of the Alice DeVolias,” Mercer added when Neven didn’t respond quickly enough.
“Ephraim is a glorified lab assistant. Until he’s ready to pay for his own clone, he’ll keep his damned hands to himself.”
And even if he can pay, he’ll still keep his hands to himself.
Mercer nodded. “Ask you a question, Neven?”
“Okay.”
“You live here with those two. He jerked his thumb toward the lab. I don’t think you’re gay. If you are, I’m not judging.” He paused, raising his eyebrows to see if Neven would fill in the blank. “But either way — like, hell, even if you were gay, just not for Jonathan or Ephraim — I figure you’d get lonely.”
“Are you asking me out, Mercer?”
“You make all these clones. Why not make one for yourself?”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
Mercer’s head bobbed, interested, realizing a possibility he hadn’t considered.
“I might have more than one.”
Mercer raised his eyebrows.
“Back in my quarters,” Neven went on, his voice icy. “Chained to the wall. Gagged, so they don’t make noise. I keep one in a box under my bed. She sleeps in it like a coffin. Although, I guess she doesn’t sleep. Just sort of waits patiently until I need her.”
Mercer’s expression withered. “You’re sure witty for a guy who makes and sells people for a living.”
“Eden’s clone trade was always a means to an end. A necessary evil. The world wouldn’t allow my father to do any of this on sovereign land, so he had to build his own. He had to hire protection and buy supplies, and his suppliers knew he had limited options so they charged as much as they possibly could. I hate the trade, but I’ll take responsibility for my part. It’s the best way to meet his vision.”
“We’re in agreement,” Mercer said. “So what’s your fucking problem?”
“We’re not in agreement. I see our arrangement as necessary. Nothing more.”
Mercer shrugged. His floral print moved up and down on his shirt like a vase of flowers being fluffed. “All righty. Go ahead; pretend to take the moral high road. But in the meantime, can you please show me which humans from your Kennel you’d like me to sell for you? That’d be great; thanks.”
This wasn’t a fight worth having. Neven had made his sacrifices and was in the midst of making the largest one he could ever imagine. Mercer wouldn’t understand, but he didn’t have to. Everyone was using someone — the only question was who did it best.
“All but the Nolons and Elles,” he said. “Those stay here. The rest should match your requisitions.”
“You’re sure?” Mercer smirked. “You don’t want me to leave you any girlfriends? Or boyfriends?”
“Just do what we pay you to do.”
Mercer didn’t turn to go. There was a long moment, then he lost his adversarial tone and said, “There’s something I feel I should tell you.”
“What?”
“I told you the Ephraim clone seemed nervous but mostly together.”
“Yes?”
“But there was something in his eyes.”
“His eyes?”
“You remember that clone you sent me early on? The one who went bad?”
Neven remembered. There was only one incident notorious enough to go by the one.
“What about him?”
“I didn’t see it happen when that one finally snapped, but,” Mercer shivered. “And I know, I know, you have all these safeguards now. ‘Can’t happen anymore, Mercer.’ Jonathan’s been like a broken fucking record every time I bring it up. But you know that bad clone, from years ago? You know he had a girlfriend, right?”
“I know.”
Neven’s mind flashed back while seconds dragged.
In the entire trade, there had only been one fatality besides the Jonathan clone, who they’d intended for Ephraim’s clone to kill after his psychological fracture. A clone had beaten a guard to death at Mercer’s House of Depravity. That single snap had received almost more study than Precipitous Rise-era cloning itself so that Evermore could understand what had gone wrong and ensure that it never happened again.
So yes, Neven knew that the clone in question (of a young musician named Len Whitting) had formed a bond with one of the female clones in transit instead of waiting to bond with his owner. That little imprinting flaw had shaped the entirety of Eden’s conditioning process as it existed today.
“That Len clone was acting funny the day before he snapped. I brought him in, suspecting he’d bonded with one of the women, and I asked him some questions. I said, ‘Have you talked to the others? Carly, Ophelia, Melissa?’ And I watched his eyes as I said each name. They sharpened when I said ‘Melissa.’ But it was a strange kind of ‘sharpening.’ Scared me a bit, looking back. Like nothing I’ve ever seen in a human’s eyes.”
“Clones are humans.”
Ignoring the correction, Mercer said, “Your guy Ephraim? I’d swear he had that same look. Just for a second. There and then gone, when I mentioned the Sophie line. Happened so fast, I figured I imagined it. But the more I think about it?” Mercer shook his head, semi-dismissive. “Anyway. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just thought I’d mention it.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure. But it’s under control.”
Mercer nodded. It looked like someone trying to convince himself of something he wanted to believe. “All right. Yeah. I’m sure you guys know what you’re doing.”
“Keep an eye out anyway. Let me know if you see anything when you drop off the Sophie clone. Maybe even unbox her early. Get her ready, so you can get a surprise out of him and watch him like you watched Len, rather than giving Ephraim the crate.”
Mercer nodded. He looked distracted.
“Mercer? Let me know. Got it?”
But the way Neven was taking the issue seriously seemed to have frightened Mercer. Denial was already crawling across his face. “Forget I said anything. I was imagining things.”
“It won’t hurt to pay attention. Just unbox her early, like I told you.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Mercer said.
As annoyed with Mercer as Neven always was, he nodded almost amiably. It seemed necessary, to assure himself if no one else.
And he said, “I’m sure he’s fine, too.”
CHAPTER 26
CASE IN POINT
Ephraim wasn’t sure what was in the many pills he’d taken to bar the Sandman. He’d taken them so long ago. He only knew that he hadn’t slept and no longer wanted to. Sleeping was such a waste of time. He was so much more productive without it.
Case in point: He’d had time over these past days and nights to read nearly everything he could about cloning. Mostly academic, with a few editorial opinion pieces of the “just because we can, does that mean we should?” variety. A fraction of what he found was paranoid and conspiratorial. A few nut jobs believed that half the world’s leaders were cloned replacements, like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
It was absurd. The world’s leaders weren’t clones. Though Fiona might be. That might explain why she was so inconsistent. She sent him to Eden but had been unsuccessful, so far, in helping him with GEM. She wanted proof against Eden but had withheld the MyLife evidence for her own purposes. She was Ephraim’s advocate but regularly threatened to bite him like a serpent. She was a friend who had his brother killed.
Wait. That might not be true. You don’t know that Jonathan is even dead, let alone that Fiona was behind his maybe-murder.
But the little voice — the Ephraim he used to be back when he slept at nights and had some sense left — was squashed by this newer, better Ephraim.
These days, he saw the world as it was. Fiona wasn’t on his side. Nor was Hershel, for all his wink-wink support. Hershel was on his side if, and only if, Ephraim could steal the MyLife from Fiona. There were sinister things about Wood that Ephraim was only now beginning to s
ee after so many sleepless, obsessive nights.
For one, Wood struck Ephraim as a zealot. He was probably a disciple of The Change, that wacko cult religion headed by Papa Friesh. And second, in half of Wood’s press photos, the man with tan skin and bright white hair (the one who’d attended Ephraim’s GEM hearing and kept laughing at him) stood by his side. He looked like just another GEM agent — maybe even Wood’s personal bodyguard. But Ephraim knew the truth. The white-haired man was an assassin, just like half of GEM.
You’re crazy, whispered Ephraim’s sanity. You need to sleep.
But he couldn’t sleep because everyone was against him.
Fiona, Wood, the real Sophie Norris, and Mercer Fox most of all.
That monster played for himself.
And you know who else wasn’t on Ephraim’s side? Fucking Ephraim.
Ephraim Todd was supposed to be a good guy who loved his brother, missed his sister, and never lied. But this modern, newfangled Ephraim was the opposite. His recent memories of Jonathan were of the evil clone; Ephraim didn’t seem to have even had a sister. And he lied all the damn time.
He also supported human trafficking. According to Mercer, each celebrity clone was made custom, for one specific client. That meant that if Ephraim hadn’t ordered the Sophie he’d now spent six days waiting for, she wouldn’t even exist. The clone trade was now one victim thicker thanks to Ephraim’s involvement.
You need a clone so you can prove that what you’ve been saying is true. You’re not ordering your copy of Sophie to abuse and rape her. You ordered her as proof for GEM. To destroy Eden’s underground trade.
But if that was true, why was there no sting being arranged behind him? Why did he have no support in his attempts to bring down Connolly’s evil empire? He’d called Fiona again, but she’d refused to answer. He’d called Hershel, who wouldn’t shut up about the MyLife or consider another word until Ephraim delivered the missing device. He couldn’t call Mercer and wouldn’t want to, but he did call the real Sophie, who he’d managed to get on the line before losing track of his thoughts. She’d started to cry, urging Ephraim to “get help.” After that, he’d called Fiona again. Day Three or Four, if he remembered correctly, and today (Day Five), Fiona said that they had nothing to discuss. That he had gone, in her words, “completely spastic.”
He swallowed more pills.
He felt better.
He sat.
But he couldn’t sit still.
Ephraim tried to read, to research. But he couldn’t concentrate. He was a bundle of conditioned reflexes, and none of them made sense.
He felt an urge, and he ate.
He felt a different urge, and he went to the bathroom for a piss.
He felt an urge and tried to search for “Meet Sophie Norris” again, but his previous trail of mysterious coincidences didn’t recur. This time he was one of a million desperate assholes trying to meet the rich and famous. No doors opened with a free ticket to the inner sanctum.
There was no logic. Only stimulus and response.
You’re broken. You’ve lost your damn mind.
But that wasn’t true. He was only waiting. The first night after visiting Mercer’s Lair, his mind hadn’t permitted sleep, and on the second, he’d been so sure he’d sleep like a brick that he didn’t even try.
By the third morning, Ephraim considered staying awake until Sophie’s inevitable delivery. Constant vigilance was a must; he couldn’t relax his attention for eight out of every 24 hours.
The FBI might be watching, waiting for him to make a mistake. For sure GEM was observing, with Wood and that tan, white-haired assassin waiting in the wings. Fiona was probably watching, too; hadn’t Wood said she played both sides?
Hell, even Eden might have its eyes on him.
And his reflexes, now tuned with drugs, were like a cat’s.
Why aren’t you stopping to ask the big questions, Ephraim?
Have you forgotten all the strange things that happened on the island?
Have you forgotten that you lost most of your history? That Neven himself told you (and you later verified) that you never even had the sister you were so sure you saw die?
Have you forgotten all the hints, suggestions, and small things admitted and executed by Jonathan’s clone and Neven?
Have you forgotten how you’re no longer even sure of who you are, and the times you spent feeling so certain that your memories weren’t even yours because they were implants instead?
None of it mattered.
It matters.
Who are you, Ephraim?
He had to wait. His Doodad would ring, and then Ephraim could finally pick up his slave. Then maybe, blessedly, he could end this.
Who are you, Ephraim Todd? If you are Ephraim Todd?
Too much thinking. Right now, there was only room for action and reaction. He had to rely on instinct. On reflexes. On intuition. On programming. On conditioning, just like Eden conditioned its clones.
When is your mother’s birthday, Ephraim?
What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
When was your first kiss?
Do you remember any of the gifts at your thirtieth birthday party? Or your twentieth, or your sixteenth? Or, for that matter, any birthday at all?
What did you do for a living, before you sold yourself to Fiona the way Eden sold your new Sophie to you? Do you have any idea? Because it sure as hell seems like you don’t have another job and never did — as if you were born into Fiona’s servitude and didn’t exist before her.
He should call Fiona again.
His call went right to voicemail as if she’d seen and declined it.
He should call Sophie.
But again, right to voicemail.
He should call Wood.
Hershel answered and asked about the MyLife. Ephraim insisted that Wood needed to believe him even though he didn’t have the MyLife from Fiona. When it came to proof against Evermore, he could do better than some stupid MyLife. He had a clone of his own on the way.
Wood hung up.
Ephraim called back, and it went right to voicemail.
You need sleep.
You’re losing it. If you haven’t already completely lost it.
Go to bed. No more stimulants. Get some rest, and maybe things will seem normal again.
Ephraim’s Doodad pinged.
He looked down and saw a message from an unknown sender:
YOUR ORDER IS READY FOR PICKUP. TOMORROW 10 AM. DO NOT BE LATE. And there was an address.
Looking at the Doodad, Ephraim expected to be keyed up by the news, but there was no excitement. No sorrow for the commissioned life, born into bondage thanks to his order. No ratcheting tension, no nervous explosion as his mind spooled through all that could sour. No new hope, as that same mind saw the light at the end of this troublesome tunnel.
Instead, Ephraim deleted the message and felt something like relief.
Not relief that this would all be over soon, but the relief of a mismatched puzzle piece finally dropping into place where it belonged.
Ephraim didn’t care why he felt better. He didn’t care why — although he’d felt insane seconds ago — he now felt such undeniable clarity.
He only cared that the terrible ache of waiting was finally over.
Ephraim returned his Doodad to the counter, then collapsed to the floor where he slept through an afternoon, all the way until morning.
CHAPTER 27
STRANGER THINGS
What Mercer had told Ephraim about bringing a truck to pick up his Sophie wasn’t true. Either that, or he’d imagined him saying it. That was a strong possibility. The last week was a fog, and seeing past it required a leap of faith.
The address from last night’s message wasn’t an empty warehouse or a nondescript spot beneath a bridge, shrouded in darkness.
It was a nightclub, bustling with life.
Ephraim pulled up to the club in a conspicuous U-Haul, knowing full well that he was fai
ling his “crime on the down-low” debut. At first, he was sure the address was wrong. He’d deleted the message to erase traces of wrongdoing, planning to repeat it in his head until it stuck. He knew the area, so it should be easy. He just hadn’t planned on falling asleep seconds later.
But when Ephraim woke at first light, the address remained bright and vibrant inside his not-entirely-foolproof memory. Better, he hadn’t just retained the memory. He was suddenly refreshed from top to bottom — thanks, probably, to finally getting some sleep and letting the drugs flee his system.
He felt like a different person. Ephraim remembered the maniac he’d been, suffering from such paranoia. Nailing the windows shut had, at some point over the past few days, felt downright necessary. But that insanity now felt safely distant, and Ephraim was again the same man he’d always been. Good, steadfast, reliable, honest Ephraim, who wasn’t programmed to play out someone else’s script.
Waking up so refreshed, Ephraim had known exactly what to do. He remembered Mercer’s instructions. The poor, unfortunate girl would come in a crate, so he’d need a truck for transport. He’d remembered the address. And most of all, he’d remembered his mission. The sacred mission was a beacon in his mind. Ephraim was on the right side of morality. He was going to topple an evil enterprise and win the day. He would save them. All of them.
He’d reserved a box truck since he didn’t own one, had no friends who owned one, and didn’t want to carry what amounted to a casket in the open bed of a Hertz pick-up. He’d been fine all morning — making preparations, second-guessing nothing, and having no mixed feelings about today’s errand. For once, things were black and white, with no gray area, as if something had finally snapped into place.
You were FUCKED UP, and now you feel clear? That is a reason to worry. Maybe you’re not “normal” right now, either. Maybe this is just the flip-side of your craziness from yesterday, and maybe you’re manic.
But that was bullshit. For once, Ephraim was fine, and he wasn’t about to ruin that with worry. And besides, if it wasn’t broke, you shouldn’t try to fix it.