by Sean Platt
Little by little, Ephraim lost the thread of his discussion with the masseuse, which had been entirely one-sided from the start, and the running monologues from Nolon and Elle.
His muscles had finally come unclenched, and his cares so much further away. His body was feeling heavy, like it would in sleep. Like he’d been drugged somehow. He couldn’t concentrate unless he tried very hard, and he didn’t want to. The massage was working. He could get used to this.
All of a sudden, the world he’d been watching through the donut (a bright patch of floor, for the most part) vanished, turning ink black. He had a moment of disorientation, then realized that either a screen had been drawn across his field of vision, or it had always been a screen, set to display what was beyond. And now a video was playing in front of his eyes.
It wasn’t another of Eden’s celebrated commercials.
This was something else.
The video started the same way Eden’s commercials usually ended, with their tagline.
A disembodied voice, speaking over a shot of Eden’s crashing waves, said, “Mr. Todd, wouldn’t you like to have the one thing that changes everything?”
The waves faded, and Ephraim saw a room with an open ceiling and abundant natural light. A beautiful, serene space, filled with what looked like glass coffins.
A man stepped into view, his hair and beard both a hoary gray. He wore a hawk-like expression with sharp, intelligent eyes.
“Hello, Ephraim. I’m Wallace Connolly, founder of Evermore. I built Eden because the world wasn’t ready for what the genetic revolution of Precipitous Rise made possible. But I have a sneaking suspicion that you might be. Would you like to hear it?”
Wallace Connolly waited on-screen. Ephraim felt a bizarre need to reply, even though it was just a recording.
Ten seconds passed, the video frozen. If a tiny landscape waterfall hadn’t been running behind the quiet Connolly, Ephraim would have been sure it had glitched.
Finally, feeling stupid, Ephraim mumbled, “Okay.”
Wallace Connolly smiled, the video’s next action apparently triggered.
“Then let me introduce you to Eden’s most premium offer,” he said as the background changed. “The Tomorrow Gene.”
CHAPTER 10
NEXT-LEVEL NDA
Ephraim raised the MyLife map Eden had uploaded at check-in, then used his finger to tap one of the little blue phone icons. A new menu offered information about or directions to the spot he’d indicated. He didn’t want either. He could figure out which way to walk just by noting the icon’s location. It was one thing to visit a communication zone but another entirely to ask the map to take him there. It was an arbitrary distinction, but there was little about this that didn’t make Ephraim nervous. He’d listen to what his gut suggested, no matter how irrational it might seem.
Rather than calling up a paint line, he noted the route to walk it manually.
But there was nobody in the communication zone when Ephraim arrived. The zone itself was peaceful; a sprawl of comfortable-looking outdoor couches, a covered bowl of cut fruit placed on a coffee table. The area hadn’t been visible until Ephraim entered, nestled away in a shallow dish of land. That was good. He’d have privacy here. He wouldn’t be overheard by anyone he couldn’t see coming in plenty of time.
He glanced around like a guilty man, pulled his Doodad from his shoulder bag, and cabled it to the small external charger Fiona had given him. Then he dialed.
Except that the device wasn’t a charger. Ephraim prayed it would work.
Fiona answered on the first ring.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Hello right back at you.”
“I asked you a question.”
Ephraim looked at the fake charger attached to his Doodad. Fiona had sworn it was foolproof, but Ephraim didn’t trust it. Or Fiona. Or anything right now.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier, Mom,” he said, his pulse pounding.
Fiona sighed her usual heavier-than-normal exhale, caused (Ephraim supposed) by the compressed position her chair placed on her lungs. “I’ve got your cellular signature, Ephraim. I’m pulling your cloaked signal straight from the network. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”
“And?” He resisted the urge to call her “Mom” again, sure that someone might overhear.
“And as far as anyone listening in, you and I are talking about your desire to take up surfing right now.”
Ephraim remembered recording that gem of a decoy conversation — the one currently playing out for any eavesdroppers on this conversation. He wondered if its content would cause him problems. Communication zones, because they were the only spots where the island allowed outside connectivity, were built to be private — something neither Fiona nor Ephraim was willing to trust. What would listeners do with the fake conversation about Ephraim wanting to surf? Would he be offered surf lessons? Would Eden commercials featuring surfers suddenly appear on every visible screen?
“You’re sure?” Ephraim asked.
“I’m sure. Unless Wallace Connolly is standing right behind you, anyone listening in will think this conversation is about surfing. The dongle is working fine, trust me.” Fiona paused, and in the background Ephraim could hear the artificial conversation playing out as Fiona monitored the network. Then she said, “Hang on. I think it’s coming up to the place where you tried to sing that riff from ‘Wipe Out.’”
“Fiona …”
“Nobody can hear us, Ephraim. Stop being paranoid. Remember what we discussed about your need to stay level-headed?”
Ephraim did. But he didn’t think Fiona’s warning about his “persecution complex” meant much, given that she agreed Eden was probably responsible for his brother’s disappearance a decade ago. Sometimes Ephraim wondered if Fiona was using him to get what she needed from Eden, but the facts about Jonathan remained convincing either way. Fiona or no Fiona, Jonathan was probably here.
And as the expression went, it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.
Stick to the facts, he told himself. Jonathan worked with Connolly. Eden was built; Eden operated and innovated for ten years with Jonathan as a consulting geneticist. Fiona doesn’t care about finding Jonathan, but she agrees he probably vanished here. She’s not just using you. If anything, you’re using her.
“Have you run into Connolly?” Fiona asked, breaking his thoughts.
“Only in commercials. And in a few broadcasts.”
“Is he on one of the islands, do you think?”
“Maybe. Probably. There’s a giant dish visible at the top of the highest place on one of the islets, so that must be their broadcast facility. If you’re sure Eden doesn’t broadcast from anywhere else other than Eden—”
“I’m sure.”
“Then he pretty much has to be here. They describe the islets as ‘backlot.’ It makes sense they’d have studio space. The broadcasts I’ve seen are timely. Like, Wallace mentions the weather. I don’t see how they could have been recorded very far in advance.”
Or maybe they could be? Ephraim thought back to the Tomorrow Gene presentation he’d been shown while receiving his massage. Wallace had said Ephraim’s name. A lot could be digitally fabricated, or Connolly might be recording somewhere else, with the video uploaded for broadcast from Eden.
“Who’s in your group? The other guests.”
“Sophie Norris. Pierra … Pierra Page? Oh, Gus Harmon. And that big guy who played Crusher; remember him?”
“Titus Washington?”
Ephraim nodded, knowing Fiona couldn’t see him. “Yeah.”
“Anyone else?”
Ephraim thought. There were the businesspeople and some no-names. People Fiona wouldn’t recognize.
“Nobody famous.”
“Nobody?”
Her persistence annoyed him. She was prompting him, nudging him to say something. But he’d already told her all the big-name …
Wait.
“Oh. And Altruance Brown,” he said. How had he forgotten Altruance?
“Hmm.” Now her voice was different. Relenting, as if he’d finally said what she’d been trying to get him to say. Or was that just more edginess? Fiona couldn’t know the Eden guest roster any better than Ephraim had before his arrival.
“Interesting thing about Altruance. He—”
“You can tell me the rest later,” Fiona interrupted. “Did anyone question your backstory?”
“No. I even gave them the ‘Riverbed compliance officer’ line. Mentioned it to Sophie when I saw her on the way down here to call you. I told her I had to check in with you, that you’re like a ‘friendly parole officer’ whose job it is to bust my balls and make sure I’m relaxing so I’ll be a better COO when I get back. More unclenched.”
“So, you’ve had no problems … you know … lying?”
“You know how much I hate it. But no, I haven’t had problems. I think I sweated a lot until I got the hang of it. But it’s hot here, so sweat looks normal.”
“And you’re making friends?”
Fiona was the most utilitarian person Ephraim had ever met. She had few, if any, friends. It wasn’t because being wheelchair-bound her entire adult life made her a de facto outcast. It was more that she saw herself as too good for everyone else. Friends were tools. Asking now meant that she wanted to know if Ephraim had managed to get his hands on anything that might loosen some of the island’s secrets.
“I’m getting along well with Altruance. Gus likes me. And Sophie? Don’t think I’m crazy, Fiona—”
“You’re crazy.”
“—but I think she’s into me,” Ephraim finished.
“She’s a movie star. You’re nobody.”
“You’re wrong. I’m a wealthy executive, according to my official story.”
“Who gives a shit?”
Ephraim waited, unsure where to go. Sophie’s possible crush on Mr. Nobody was as irrelevant as her presence on the island, as far as Fiona was concerned. Ephraim found himself annoyed that Fiona was so dismissive. Why wouldn’t Sophie like him? Ephraim was a solid guy. He’d already told Sophie how great he’d been to his fictional wife, and what an excellent father he was to his nonexistent children.
“What’s the place like?”
“Same as the commercials. You know that hippie-dippy, airy atmosphere they have in the ad spots? Like with waterfall noises and New Age chimes in the background? It’s like that. A living commercial. Everyone who’s been here more than a day walks around in robes, acting high.”
“Have you been offered Lucky Scream?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do any?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I mean no. Sorry. I’m just so used to lying.”
Fiona was silent, seemingly trying to decide if she believed him. Or if he was kidding, which he sort of was.
“I know Eden is supposed to be paradise. But I swear, it’s like everyone’s on morphine. Even the staff. It’s creepy. The group I came in with are the only people who act like … well, people.”
“Maybe it takes people a while to settle in. You know, before they get brainwashed.”
Ephraim laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Ten years ago, brainwashing jokes had been like OCD references. People called each other “brainwashed” when they were merely strongly convinced. But that had been before The Change had become so mainstream. Now it felt like half the world was pledging their souls to Papa Friesh, and the metaphor was no longer as funny.
“This place creeps me out, Fiona. I just want to get in and get out. Put in the minimum time before I can sneak off and find Jonathan.”
“You mean find what I need, since I’m footing the bill.”
“Same thing, I think. Jonathan was Connolly’s right-hand man. If I can find him, I’ll find your answers.”
“Mmm-hmm. Just remember why you’re officially there, Ephraim. I don’t mean to sound cold, but I don’t give a shit where your brother disappeared to.”
Ephraim went mum. This argument always exhausted him, so as far as he was concerned, Fiona could believe or insist on whatever she wanted. In the end, it didn’t matter. Ephraim had gone to Eden, and that meant that Ephraim would determine when he was finished enough to come home — no matter how much or how little dirt he managed to dig up.
“Have you seen anything …” Fiona trailed off. Ephraim imagined her making a vague circle with one hand, groping for a word. Arm circles weren’t possible given her condition, but her voice carried them all the same. “Suspicious? Or interesting?”
“Wallace built Eden in international waters so he could conduct genetic experiments the world didn’t want conducted. It’s all suspicious.”
“Yes, yes. That much is practically in the brochure. I meant—”
“You meant, Has Wallace Connolly bent over in front of me to expose both his ass and his trade secrets? No. Shockingly, I’ve been here a whole fifteen hours. And I still haven’t broken their shit open like James Fucking Bond.”
There was a slight breath. Ephraim imagined Fiona rolling her eyes. That she could do just fine.
“I did, however, get a pitch,” Ephraim said. “For the Tomorrow Gene.”
Fiona’s voice was suddenly interested. “And?”
“It was whitewashed like all Eden propaganda, but we’re under NDA now so they can give us more detail than is the commercials. From the commercials, I couldn’t even have told you what the ‘Tomorrow Gene’ is. It could be a type of vehicle for all they say publicly about it.”
“So, what did you find out?”
Ephraim thought back, recalling what he’d seen through the donut. “For one, it’s not a gene. In the video I saw, Connolly refers to it a few times as ‘Tomorrow Gene therapy,’ and I got the impression that the best way to group those words isn’t ‘Tomorrow Gene’ and ‘therapy,’ but rather ‘Tomorrow’ and ‘gene therapy.’ ‘Tomorrow’ is branding, but I think it's a lot like what you do at Riverbed.”
“That makes sense. Precipitous Rise made heavy use of gene therapy from the start. You can’t just grow organs from nothing. You need stem donors, and the lines have to be homogenized.”
“‘Homogenized’?”
“‘Made universal,’” Fiona explained. “But also purified, in a way.”
“Purified? You mean building perfect organs for a master race?”
“Give me a break, Ephraim. I’m trying to dumb it down so you’ll understand. It’s not important. Find Jonathan, and I’ll talk to him like an adult. No offense, I’m wasting time giving you the technically correct context for what Connolly might be up to.”
She sighed. It was the closest Ephraim would get to an apology. “So. What else?”
“The rumors about the Tomorrow Gene having a continuity element are true.”
“Continuity? For gene therapy? That doesn’t make sense.”
“All I know is the pitch said that if you want the treatment, you pay for it once and then keep paying an annual ‘maintenance charge.’ Forever. You have to return to Eden twice a year. They must continue touching your genes up or something.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Why? Don’t people damage their genes when they spend too much time in the sun, stand in front of microwaves, or refuse to eat their veggies at dinner?”
“Damage, yes. But the need for ‘gene therapy touch-up’? Not at all.”
“The pitch made it sound like if you stop paying, you return to your true genetic age. Hell of a compelling moneymaker, isn’t it? Half of Hollywood gets the treatment, then bounces their tune-up checks. Suddenly the cast of Teen Movie 6 turns into the cast of Cocoon.”
“What’s Cocoon?”
“Never mind. You get the idea.”
She exhaled. “How much?”
“Half a million credits for the procedure itself, then two hundred thousand per year for as long as you want the therapy to hold. Or until you die.”
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“Based on what you’ve seen, do you think this ‘Tomorrow Gene’ bullshit can turn back the clock? That it can make people young again?”
“Honestly? Maybe. I’ve seen more than a few faces here that look like kids of celebrities who’ve gone recluse on Eden. Do you know Carrie Whitney?”
“I know the name.”
“Well, I think maybe I ran into her. And if it was her, she looks like a college kid. She’s not the only one, either. John Stafford, Bella Johansson and some others I can’t think of right now. They look decades younger. Decades.”
“Is it just cosmetic? Does the therapy make your body younger, or does it make it look younger?”
“I don’t know. I only saw a pitch video.”
“What about genetic corrections? If they can reverse aging, can they tweak the genes responsible for certain traits? Make your brown eyes blue, stuff like that?”
Ephraim felt a rare surge of pity for Fiona. It didn’t happen often, but every once in a while, he remembered why she was so obsessed with Evermore and what the company had done with its illegal Precipitous Rise technologies.
Given her history with Wallace, Fiona wouldn’t be getting Eden therapy anytime soon — to turn her brown eyes blue or to reverse the spinal muscular atrophy that had left her paralyzed from the neck down. Not unless she discovered enough of what Connolly was doing to replicate it for herself. Not unless she stole it.
“I don’t know, Fiona.”
“Then ask around as if you’re considering treatment. They have to tell the guests details eventually. Nobody would agree to something that sounds like the Tomorrow Gene without knowing a hell of a lot more about what to expect than rumors tell them.”
“I can try. But I get the feeling it’s a next-level NDA. Only the people who sign up for the therapy get to know more than what I already know.”
