The Tomorrow Gene

by Sean Platt

  “My name is Wilson DeMeritus, and I was burned over sixty percent of my body.”

  The next shot was a runner, arms pumping, shown from the waist up. Somewhat out of breath he said, “My name is Taylor Rodriguez, and I was born unable to walk.”

  The runner dimmed, replaced by a waist-up shot of a man with long gray hair and gray beard. Wallace Connolly, founder of Evermore and Eden — a face everyone in the world knew. He stood on a bluff, a bright blue horizon behind him. His hair lifted a bit in the tropical breeze. In the background was a low building with twisting metal spires pluming from the top, copper-colored and shaped like flames. Reception Island, where Ephraim had entered Eden.

  “The hand you are dealt is no longer the hand you must play,” Connolly said in his famously soothing voice. “For over twenty years, I’ve led Evermore on a singular mission.” He held up a hand, one finger aloft, indicating that mission. “To change destinies.”

  Connolly spread his hands, and the scenery bled away to a new background, a wide room with laid-back lounge chairs circling its edges, a smiling attendant in uniform perched on a stool beside each one. In the center of the room was what looked like a massive shower head raining down from the ceiling into a pool about the size of a hot tub.

  Connolly seemed to look directly into Ephraim’s eyes with his cool green ones as he said, “Isn’t it time that your destiny was one of them?”

  “You don’t have to watch the commercials,” Ephraim told Altruance. “You’re already here.”

  Altruance blinked at Ephraim. He’d been standing right beside the giant, but the big man hadn’t noticed him.

  Connolly finished with Eden’s trademark line, “Wouldn’t you like to have the one thing that changes everything?”

  The screen went black. Ephraim turned to Altruance, who appeared spellbound. “What does that mean, anyway? The one thing that changes everything’?”

  “Maybe it’s youth,” Altruance said. “If I had to guess, I’d say ‘the one thing that changes everything’ is the ability to turn back the clock so you can do it all over again.”

  Ephraim forced a laugh. Many of the rumors about Eden, filtered through Fiona’s lens and inked with this little errand, had stopped astonishing him. Now they were flat-out bothersome. Precipitous Rise might have made it possible for farmers to mature grain in a tenth of the time and revolutionized organ transplants before the World Health Organization hit the brakes on innovation, but despite all the suggestions and voodoo beliefs surrounding this place, it couldn’t make old bodies young again. Could it?

  Even if it could, why did Fiona distrust it so much? Why did she want it so badly? And why, if people like Altruance were willing to pay untold sums (plus, rumor claimed, untold sums forever after) to have the legendary Tomorrow Gene treatment before they were even told exactly what it was, did the very idea leave Ephraim with goosebumps?

  “You can’t believe that, Altruance. Life is life. You get old and then you die. That’s the deal. That’s the contract we made with God.”

  Altruance shrugged.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” he said.

  CHAPTER 8

  SORTING LIES

  The Patio.

  The Portico.

  The Palace.

  After a while it seemed after a while that all of the spots on the tour began with a capital P and were preceded by “the,” possibly (but not necessarily) also capitalized.

  Ephraim's attention degenerated. As champagne made its way around (Ephraim partook) and Lucky Scream was passed (he refrained; the idea of an unpredictable drug, now of all times, was terrifying), the group of strangers thawed, and then mixed in earnest. As it did, everyone wanted to talk about their lives, histories, and hopeful futures. Ephraim's cover story became increasingly difficult to keep straight.

  The group had been polite but standoffish on the tram, but everything Elle and Nolon showed them carried an unspoken assumption that this group would be spending time together — possibly with Elle and Nolon as their leaders. They’d live alone unless they’d come in pairs, in lavish standalone homes, most on the beach. But groups tended to stick together on Eden — and that meant that Sophie, Altruance, Pierra, Gus, and all the others were Ephraim’s friends for the next little while by default.

  So everyone got a little lubricated — just a bit in most cases because they hadn’t even seen their accommodations, let alone settled into them. Almost everyone got friendly, and Ephraim was asked the same questions again and again.

  What’s your name?

  Ephraim Todd.

  Thankfully, Fiona had managed to keep his name intact while changing everything else about his identity. Good thing, since Ephraim doubted he could sort the lies otherwise.

  What do you do?

  I’m with Riverbed Corporation. I’m their Chief of Operations.

  But he wasn’t COO, was he? Or was he? Was it Riverbed he supposedly worked for? Couldn’t be; it’d give him away as Fiona’s errand boy since Riverbed was her company. Or wasn’t that the point and Fiona had her own cover story? Maybe it was. He’d flown in on a Riverbed jet, after all.

  What brings you to Eden?

  Honestly, I’ve been having a hard time at work. I’m an asset, I guess, but I’m slipping. Riverbed is an understanding company, though. They know I can’t help it; life has really piled some shit on my shoulders. They sent me here to unwind, relax, and find my center again.

  Whenever Ephraim said that last bit, he got a sympathetic look. And then, usually: What has life piled onto you?

  Ephraim would answer with the stock I’m sorry; I’d rather not talk about it, which worked because people stopped asking questions. It also worked because Ephraim couldn’t remember which details of the story were verifiable versus those that weren’t. He was reasonably sure Fiona had fabricated a wife for Ephraim (Jasmine) and two small children (Avery and James), but he wasn’t supposed to mention the building they supposedly lived in, near Riverbed HQ in Manhattan, because another of the guests might live in the same one. Or maybe it was that mentioning the building name would add veracity for some people but not others? Ephraim couldn’t remember.

  The day wore on, and Ephraim grew frustrated. Wasn’t this supposed to be a tour? Weren’t these people exhausted from traveling, and shouldn’t Eden understand that? Or was this the island’s way of “relaxing the weary travelers” — holding an impromptu mixer, serving drugs that were illegal on the mainland? Ephraim couldn’t be the only closet introvert here. He couldn’t be the only person wound tighter than a steel braid after his trip.

  He felt dizzy despite not having much alcohol, suffering from bone-deep fatigue. Concentration was quickly impossible. He sat without focus. He lay down, found his head in Sophie Norris’s lap, and wondered how it got there. She ran her fingers through his hair. It went on for an unknowable amount of time.

  A few of the guests partook of the drinks and drugs early and often enough to cause a minor scene, even before checking in on opening day. Gus took Lucky Scream and started laughing so hard that he choked on his own breath. A Japanese man in a suit took off everything from the waist up and pretended to be a samurai atop the statue in the middle of a fountain. Titus Washington took Scream and grew paranoid, telling Ephraim that someone would discover his secrets, that he wasn’t who he was pretending to be. He told Ephraim that people were following him and that they had no faces. He was having delusions of persecution.

  Sophie heard Titus ranting at Ephraim and laughed. Ephraim didn’t. It felt far too close to home.

  Then, blessedly, the impromptu gathering concluded. Ephraim hadn’t worn a watch and didn’t trust his Doodad not to track him in unknown ways, but his MyLife replay showed him that two hours had passed. He wasn’t sure of that, either, though; his ocular implant was glitching, and timeframes had already gone missing. Maybe someone had slipped him drugs without his knowledge. Maybe he was stressed. Maybe it had to do with his flimsy cover story. Or the Bermuda Triangle
. Ephraim didn’t know. He was so weary he could barely stand when the others rose and fell back into formation.

  Elle and Nolon took them away in a single group. Gus had to be dragged. The whole thing was so odd. Where did debauchery fit into all the polite, spa-like decorum shown on Eden’s commercials and in their brochures?

  One by one, Nolon read names from his tablet, swiped a card across a digitizer attached to its port, and handed each guest a key. Most of the guests then sent directions to their MyLifes and followed their unique, invisible paint lines toward their temporary homes, heading off on foot. Some, who had farther to go (like Altruance; his home was up the cliff), accepted rides in golf carts. A few, with residences on the Strand, returned to the tram.

  Before Ephraim knew it, his failure to select a mode of egress left him alone in the twilight. He had directions on his MyLife, but instead of calling up the paint line and following it to his house, he sat on a rock overlooking the sea and pressed spots behind his right ear, scrolling through his MyLife records to try and find the missing pieces in his timeline.

  But he was too tired to pursue it. The day was too strange. Ephraim pulled up his old MyLife recordings and replayed memories from long ago. Memories of Jonathan. Memories of searching for Jonathan. And memories of violence, like the fight that gave him his scar.

  Turning off his MyLife replay, sitting on the rock in the dim, Ephraim thought of Altruance, who’d been so transfixed by Eden’s ad.

  What the hell was the Tomorrow Gene, exactly?

  Everyone had a guess. No one had proof.

  At least not yet.

  Ephraim gripped his head, realizing all at once that he had a terrible headache.

  I’m just tired. And Eden is exactly as weird as Fiona warned me it might be.

  Down the shore, three ghosts passed — dressed all in white, their faces invisible.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE TOMORROW GENE

  A knock on the door woke Ephraim. The voice sounded like Elle, but all of her stiff formality was gone. Maybe it was the fact that Ephraim’s head hurt and he’d slept restlessly, but he found her intrusion obnoxious. How much money had he paid to be here, or would have paid, if Riverbed wasn’t footing the bill? More than that asshole knock was worth, for sure.

  “Wakey wakey, Ephraim! Time for reveille!”

  Jesus Fucking Christ. It was like being at camp. And screw that; he’d rouse at his own speed.

  But after waking and showering (and then opting for breakfast in his lavishly stocked kitchen rather than finding a dining hall to heighten the camp like experience), Ephraim's irritation dulled. He decided that Elle was acting playfully, a mild form of hazing, welcoming newbies into Eden’s fold.

  He took his time getting ready. He rehearsed to reinforce the proper lies, all the while carefully scrubbing the genetic evidence of his true identity away and replacing it with his new one. He put his fake contacts back in; he repainted the resin on his fingertips so his fingerprints would match those of the counterfeit Ephraim Todd. A million details followed, but even as he ran through the mental list, Ephraim felt sure he forgot something — and that by the end of the day, holes would show and everyone would see right through him.

  You’re paranoid again, he thought. And the thought helped a little.

  Elle was gone from his door by the time Ephraim answered it forty minutes after her knock. But she’d left instructions taped to his door.

  Meet in the Roundabout for orientation, the note said. And she’d given a time, about fifteen minutes from now.

  Ephraim consulted the Eden map on his MyLife, then followed a paint line in his heads-up retinal display to a small area surrounded by columns and already filled with most of yesterday’s group. He saw Altruance Brown, Sophie Norris, Pierra Page, Gus Harmon, and the suits (now no longer in suits) that he didn’t particularly care to know. Elle and Nolon waited up front. The very definition of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  Ephraim must have been the last to arrive, because once he settled in at the edge, Elle began speaking. No need to wait the extra few minutes after all.

  “I hope you all slept well. Did you find your homes comfortable?”

  Ephraim mumbled a yes along with everyone else. The truth was, he’d slept terribly (with horrible dreams he couldn’t remember) but had done so in a house that was at least five times nicer than any he’d ever seen, let alone lived in. The average of the two questions was neutral. Good enough to round upward.

  “As we mentioned yesterday, Eden is a hassle-free zone. We won’t schedule games of volleyball or shuffleboard, though there are spots for both should you wish to join in. You can take your meals wherever and whenever you want. Our concierges are on call for you at any time you need or want them. Our promise is complete and total luxury, whether you’re here for a full treatment or a quiet stay away from it all.”

  “So,” Nolon said, taking over, “we promise not to bother you much. But there are some necessities to cover that we didn’t discuss yesterday, so we’ll need this final meet-up before setting you loose.”

  “Fortunately, Eden meet-ups are different than meetings in the outside world,” Elle added.

  She stepped aside as Nolon went the other way. Ephraim realized they’d been standing strategically so as to block the view beyond. But with the twins parted, the group could now see a path leading a short way downhill. At its bottom, fifty feet away, was a semicircle of massage chairs and milling guests.

  “We talk. You relax,” Elle said, a surreal smile painting her face.

  The group of guests moved between the hosts, walked to the circle and each chose an empty massage chair. The masseuses beside each chair were dressed entirely in white, like the ghosts, but smiled like a models in a dental brochure. As he neared his chair, Ephraim noticed a few more ghosts in the distance, their presence innocuous, almost invisible.

  The masseuse behind Ephraim’s chair put one hand on his arm and another on his shoulder. Gentle pressure urged him to sit, but he was still staring at the scene beyond.

  It was beautiful. Guests milled, some sipping from cups and mugs, all with blissed-out expressions. Many of those faces were somewhat familiar — from TV or film, Ephraim didn’t know. Staff waited in the wings, hands clasped in front of their belts as if awaiting command. And the ghosts were behind it all — between buildings, on buildings, climbing ladders, cleaning litter. They were like silent worker ants, blinded to all but their chores behind their all-white hoods.

  “Please, Mr. Todd.” His masseuse had blonde hair pulled back into a thick braid. Her voice was soft. “Lean forward and make yourself comfortable in the chair.”

  But Ephraim was watching the ghosts, the cogs no one else noticed.

  “Why do those workers dress all in white like that?”

  “We dress for serenity, Mr. Todd. You don’t have to believe in Heaven to believe in Eden.”

  “I didn’t mean you. I meant—”

  Her hand was firmer on his back, pushing his face toward the padded donut. He ended up facing downward at a 45-degree angle with the masseuse behind him.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “Sort of.” His words sounded muffled by the cushion against his face. “But—”

  “Shh. It’s best enjoyed in silence.”

  The masseuse was strong. Her hands were firm on his muscles, working through his shirt. There were long presses; he thought she might be using her forearms instead of fingers. Elbow points rather than forearms. Anything to mash his taut body into submission. He now realized that his tension might look to the trained masseuse like a note of confession.

  Yes, I’m lying. No, I’m not supposed to be here. It’s all written right here in my tense trapezius muscles.

  And then a new thought. A terrifying thought.

  You left dead skin cells in the bed you slept in last night. The little vacuum Fiona gave you didn’t catch them all, and right now Eden representatives are in your room with DNA-testing equipme
nt, discovering your secret.

  To the thought, Ephraim said, Stop it.

  But his mind was spinning, increasingly certain that his fears had got it right.

  He thought of last night. Of the way his MyLife kept glitching. How he’d lost time, and how segments he tried to replay later weren’t there like they should have been. Was there something wrong with his ocular recorder? Was something wrong with his mind? Or was Eden interfering — watching his every step?

  Those glitches were just a coincidence. Nobody’s watching you.

  Except for the ghosts. And a man he’d seen twice now, not dressed like Eden’s staff or its guests. The man was medium height and thin, razor-short hair and a full beard. He had dark, thick, severe-looking eyebrows. He hadn’t given Ephraim an unkind look. If anything, his expression had been almost assessing.

  Possibly he probably hadn’t given Ephraim any looks at all. Except that he must have, or Ephraim wouldn’t have been able to see his soft green eyes — the color of a clear sky reaching for dusk. The watcher had been sitting on a bench amid the ghosts when Ephraim walked home. Watching.

  You’re acting paranoid. It must be the Lucky Scream still working on you.

  But he hadn’t had any Lucky Scream. Waiters with the drug had passed him many times, but Ephraim had never accepted a vial.

  And the masseuse said, “You carry so much tension in your shoulders, Mr. Todd.”

  Apparently, neither Elle nor Nolon had got the memo that massages were best enjoyed in silence because they kept on talking once everyone was comfortable. The masseuse made the occasional comment as well, as if she couldn’t hear Elle and Nolon. She asked him where he was staying on Retreat. She asked him what he did for a living. She asked him when he’d arrived — was it yesterday, on the Eden Air flight from Johannesburg? She whispered to him in the middle of Elle explaining more of the island’s rules — it had plenty, for a no-hassle resort. She whispered to him while Nolon was reading a list of genetic refurbishment treatments, all of which probably had a scientific basis but were framed like New Age bullshit — as real-sounding, perhaps, as crystal therapy or a good chakra cleansing.