The Tomorrow Gene

by Sean Platt

  “Gus and Pierra?”

  “They’re not going with us. Just along for the ride to the tram station.”

  “Why?”

  “Does there have to be a reason? We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

  Gus honked again. He gave a giant smile and waved. Pierra finally noticed Ephraim in the doorway and smiled as well, raising her hand.

  Ephraim’s Doodad buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, peered at the screen, and was nearly knocked flat by the message.

  It wasn’t an Eden page or an update from the Eden app. It was a message from Fiona, somehow sent in the clear despite what should’ve been a total lack of signal outside the communication zone.

  We need to talk about what you sent. Call soon. JUST US. They know.

  Ephraim’s heart pounded against his ribcage.

  He looked up at Altruance.

  “Who is it?” Altruance asked.

  They know.

  Ephraim lied without thinking, a knee-jerk reaction fueled by adrenaline. “Titus,” he said.

  “You been hanging out with Titus Washington?”

  Ephraim shrugged.

  “Well. Tell him you’ll need to hook up later. We gots to go.” Altruance gestured toward the waiting cart.

  JUST US.

  Meaning that he should talk to no one about this.

  But she had to mean Eden staff, right? Nolon, Wallace Fucking Connolly. Not Altruance. Not his friends.

  “Okay?” Altruance prompted, moving his head into Ephraim’s drooping field of vision.

  Ephraim looked back up, suddenly struck with the reality of what was about to happen. If he wanted to find out what had gone down with Jonathan, he was going to have to let Eden tinker with his DNA.

  The only alternative was to make a scene — to dig in his heels on his doorstep despite the fact that, as Fiona had said, they know.

  He’d agreed to this two days ago, but only now was it hitting him full-on. And one thing was clear. There would be no rescheduling. He was in now, or he was out for good.

  I don’t want to do this.

  And the competing voice that told him: To respect and honor your brother, it’s the only way.

  Or maybe there was a third choice. If he could just get to the zone and call Fiona before they headed off to the Pearl, a five-minute conversation with the dongle in place might offer an awful lot of clarity. She could tell him what to do, help him make sense of his options. Flight, submit, or fight.

  “I need to grab something first,” he told Altruance. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you at the station.”

  “It’s cool. We can wait.”

  “I mean, I need to do something.”

  Altruance nodded. “Okay. No worries.”

  “You go on. I’ll catch up.” Ephraim looked into the house behind him, then self-consciously down at his re-pocketed Doodad.

  “Don’t be crazy, man. We’re all in this together.”

  Ephraim looked at Altruance. Was he going to argue? Refuse to go? They’d discussed this at length. Altruance hated liars, and Ephraim was letting dishonesty best them. Yet he couldn’t move. Or speak, feeling Fiona’s message in his bones.

  Altruance sat on the stoop and gestured to Gus, who turned the key to save the cart’s battery.

  “Take your time, E,” he said. “Do what you gotta do. We’ll wait right here until you’re good and ready.”

  CHAPTER 38

  A UNIQUE EXPERIENCE FOR EVERYONE

  Gus and Pierra dropped Sophie, Altruance, and Ephraim off at the tram station, then parked at the end of the gravel path as if all three of the Tomorrow Gene guests had every right in the world to be there. Ephraim hadn’t tried to hang back. There was no point. If he hung, the others would, too. He couldn’t sneak off to the communication zone to try and call Fiona without admitting his intentions, and right now — for reasons that were hard to articulate — he couldn’t do that. Not now. Not yet.

  Signs reading Authorized Guests Only were everywhere even at the Retreat end of its tracks. There wasn’t a gate, though, nor guards or escorts. The tram waited in the station, its doors sliding open when Sophie approached.

  There was nobody else on board. Ephraim looked through the window, heart pounding, and saw Gus and Pierra looking on like family watching a plane full of loved ones about to take off.

  With a whoosh, the tram began to move. Retreat dwindled as the tram accelerated across the bay. Watching it, Ephraim had the strangest feeling that he would never see its shores again.

  “Excited?” Sophie said from behind him.

  Ephraim nodded. He wasn’t, but this procedure was a half-million credit gift she’d given him.

  Mounted concrete pylons dipped below the water’s surface to hold the tram’s single track, presumably anchored to Eden’s ocean plateau like stanchions on a pier. The tram traveled higher than Ephraim thought necessary — a good fifty feet above the surface rather than the water-skimming ten or even five that would’ve made the ride feel more elegant and picturesque.

  It was probably high for safety reasons. They weren’t crossing an inland lake; they were crossing artificial islands in what was otherwise open ocean. There could be hurricanes. Typhoons. Thunderstorms, wind, and tidal waves. And the water out here, when it rose high and angry, wouldn’t be a tram’s best friend.

  Ephraim tried to settle, feeling the war inside his gut. The track arced up from the water at the Retreat end, stayed high for miles, then arced down again once over land on the Pearl side. The view was spectacular. The water was almost glass-smooth within the Eden archipelago and textured with waves beyond the outer edges.

  Eden’s internal water was crystal blue and the ocean beyond a dark navy. The sun was high, casting the many distant waves with flashing peaks. To each side were the other islands, all immaculately shaped and maintained, beaches white and greenery lush. The homes dotting their shores were all massive and gorgeous. Larger than life.

  The tram descended in a slow arc. When it arrived at Pearl station, the doors opened. This time, a party stood ready to greet them. Ten or twelve people dressed in white and smiling. Some of the white tops were smocks like Reef aestheticians, but two or three were jackets worn over white shirts. The single man in formalwear had a bright white tie. The two women wore their jackets buttoned, their manner polite and professional.

  The man came forward and took Sophie by the hand. It was Nolon, his hair slicked back, the wet look making it darker.

  “Welcome to the Pearl. I’ll be your personal guide.”

  “Oh, hi.” Sophie looked at Ephraim, her expression half perplexed and half amused. This guy gets around, she seemed to say.

  “I’m Nolon.”

  “Sophie,” she said, even though Nolon was already supposed to know. Not only was Sophie a VIP guest; Nolon had been leading their group’s treatments and activities since day one. Had he already forgotten? But no; Ephraim thought of his maybe-encounter in his foyer, where Nolon had come to him looking like a surfer.

  It’s not the same guy. It can’t be.

  Ephraim looked down and saw a milk-white hand take his. He glanced up, not even slightly surprised to see Elle, her hair pinned up, its blonde shade making her appear even paler in the all-white garb.

  “I’m Elle.”

  “I … I know.”

  “I’ll be your guide while you’re on the Pearl. Just let me know how I can make your stay more pleasurable.”

  “I signed the paperwork,” Ephraim said, nervous. And he had; he’d made a special trip to Reception the day after their boat ride to square whatever needed taking care of. There was paperwork waiting, just as Elle and Nolon and the others had said. He’d signed it. No big deal. As usual, he’d been imagining things. Paranoid for no reason.

  Except that he had every reason in the world.

  “What paperwork?” Elle asked.

  “When you came for me. When you and Nolon came to Altruance’s house. You wanted me to fill out paperwork.”
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  Elle tipped her head, like a curious dog. “I don’t recall that, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t recall it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It was just the other day! On the Resort island!”

  Elle laughed. “I haven’t been to the Resort island in months. Perhaps I have a twin.”

  Ephraim studied Elle, recognizing her look. A polite but pitying expression.

  That happened. She and Nolon came for you. You know it happened.

  But suddenly Ephraim wasn’t so sure. Elle had no guile in her soft blue eyes. She was the picture of hospitality, unable to harm a flea — or threaten it with tedious paperwork. And it wouldn’t be the first thing Ephraim had forgotten recently.

  “I’m ... I must be tired,” Ephraim said.

  “It’s quite all right,” she replied, smiling.

  The other woman in a white blazer was taking Altruance’s hand beside Ephraim. He didn’t know or recognize her. The woman’s coloring went better with the all-white garb than Elle’s. She looked Indian, her dark skin contrasting with her jacket rather than vanishing into it.

  “I’m Ana,” she told Altruance. “Please don’t hesitate to let me know how I can assist you.”

  The corps of other smilers parted before them, the jacketed guides holding their guests’ hands. Ephraim’s eyes were on Sophie’s. She kept looking back at him, wholly in her element. She was used to star treatment, being pampered and attended to. She’d left the tram with the same uncertain expression that Ephraim had felt. But unlike with him, Sophie’s doubt seemed to have already washed away. She was in bliss, surrounded by luxury while he felt trapped by it.

  Nolon led Sophie forward, and Ephraim’s feet moved to follow. But Elle pulled him in a slightly different direction, and Ana led Altruance in a third.

  “We’re not going with them?” Ephraim asked as they parted.

  “Oh no, Mr. Todd,” Elle purred. “The Tomorrow Gene is a unique experience for everyone.”

  Elle led him around a corner. To a building with a massive door made entirely of crystal, with a brushed steel pull bar. She opened it for Ephraim and gestured with a hand.

  “Welcome,” she said, “to the Enchanted Forest.”

  CHAPTER 39

  THE ENCHANTED FOREST

  Glass coffins filled the room. The sides were etched like shower doors, providing privacy for the naked people inside each one. From where Ephraim stood at the door, he couldn’t see much of the boxes’ contents, arranged around the edges as they were. But he could see bare feet, hair, long stretches of what might have been backs or buttocks visible around the etching. In a few of the boxes, he could see activity — something moved over the bodies inside, flashing in and out of view.

  “Most people who undergo the treatment do so in one of these enclosures. They’re entirely sealed, accessible from the side like a glovebox.

  “It’s not difficult to recombine DNA in a lab,” Elle said. “Doing it on a live person is far harder. In the past, the best gene therapy techniques used retroviruses — viruses that write their genes over a host’s. But that approach had its limits. There was plenty we couldn’t affect. Therapy was slow, in addition to being highly specific and hit-or-miss. But that was before Precipitous Rise.”

  “Of course,” Ephraim said.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  Billions, Ephraim thought. Most revolved around whether his genetic spoofs would hold. Fiona swore they would (they damn well cost enough, she’d said), but Fiona wasn’t the one about to submit to a genetic procedure and Ephraim was. Maybe his cover would remain intact, and they wouldn’t identify him. Or maybe the cover would fall apart, and his DNA would show the world exactly who he really was.

  Trying to stay cool, Ephraim answered Elle’s question with, “So is this it? You plunk me into one of these, start things up, and just wait?”

  “More or less.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On you. The Tomorrow Gene is highly individual. We’re not rewriting your genes, but we are proofreading them. Ever since hospitals began sequencing babies, genetic medicine became so much easier. Doctors with the right technology could always look back at how an individual’s genome was supposed to read — epigenetic factors and life’s mutations notwithstanding.”

  Elle laughed as if this was obviously hilarious, possibly even naive. Then she continued.

  “Precipitous Rise made this all so much simpler, but it’s still, at base, a comprehensive body process. All tissues are affected. Parts of the Tomorrow Gene treatment are more art than science, which is why Mr. Connolly insists on individually checking each treatment. It takes a fine eye to know what should be restored to a person’s ‘genomic default’ and what should be left alone.”

  “What’s it like?” Ephraim asked.

  Dropped in a glass coffin naked and resequenced from head to toe. Sounds like a party.

  “That also depends on you. Sometimes the mind doesn’t know what to do with itself during the process, and every brain is different. That’s what makes us individuals. It means the experience is at least a little unique for everyone.”

  “Like Lucky Scream,” Ephraim felt lightheaded. The idea that Sophie and Altruance — let alone the rest of Hollywood’s elite — could see this and feel enthusiastic was beyond him.

  He was already claustrophobic. The thought of being sealed inside a glass box for an unspecified amount of time wasn’t making him feel any better.

  “Maybe,” Elle said, laughing a little. “Yes, I suppose, if you like that comparison.”

  “But the people in this room — are they aware of time passing? Or is it like sleep? Like anesthesia?”

  “It’s different for every client,” Elle said. “Some say they sleep; some say they even dream. On a biochemical level, what we call ‘thought’ is just a specific firing pattern of neurons in the brain. There have been many experiments and case studies proving that consciousness is only sparks and gray matter, as it were. A person’s brain will be injured and he’ll develop an entirely different personality overnight. But the idea persists that ‘who we are’ is more than that. Mr. Connolly disagrees. He feels that if you could track all the events in a brain and replicate them perfectly, you could re-create thought. It’s something we always monitor during this process, sedating some clients more deeply than others depending on what we see. Or stimulating them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because left to itself, a disobedient brain can turn a person’s reality on its head.”

  Ephraim looked over, eyes wide. “Are you saying the Tomorrow Gene process can make people go crazy?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Elle gave a good-natured laugh. “We monitor all that’s happening while we’re reconditioning your genetic material and its bodily products. We obviously can’t tell what you’re thinking or dreaming about, but we’re quite good at knowing dreams from distress and disorderly thoughts from organized ones. If we see a guest struggling, we simply adjust the stimulus.”

  That was the second time she’d referred to “stimulating.” Even assuming the workers didn’t walk around and give the sleeping clients hand jobs, it clearly meant more than the removal of anesthesia as he’d originally thought.

  “What do you mean by ‘stimulus’?”

  Elle gestured. “If you were to look into one of these boxes — which I can’t allow for privacy reasons, though I can show you the same on another portion of our tour if you’d like — you’d see that everyone in this room is wearing headphones, goggles, and a nosepiece. Between that, a cuff on one wrist, and a small tube inserted between the lips, we can stimulate all five senses.”

  “So if you see someone starting to ‘go into distress,’ you do what? Give them a taste of their mother’s apple pie?”

  “It’s subtler than that. There are patterns of flashing lights and sounds we use to calm the brain ef
fectively.”

  “How?”

  “Some of it is just jumbling stimuli — like smacking an engine to make it work again or shaking a bottle to agitate the bugs inside it. In those cases, it barely matters what we do, so long as we do something to disrupt the pattern. The rest is subliminal.”

  “What, like those audio programs that let you learn French or quit smoking in your sleep?”

  Elle nodded. “It’s the same principle, yes. Mr. Connolly believes that the brain is a computer, and that most of ‘who we are’ is basic programming.”

  “What’s to make sure you don’t brainwash me while I’m in here?” He laughed to show it was a joke, but deep down, it wasn’t. The Tomorrow Gene had felt scary enough when he’d thought it was a bodily experience. Adding the mental made everything worse.

  Elle answered with a straight face.

  “Time,” she said. “Programming a brain takes much longer than the few hours we have. If we wanted to brainwash you effectively, Mr. Todd, we’d have needed to start doing so years ago. Hypnotists can do parlor tricks, but the real brainwashers are parents, teachers, ministers who do wrong by you or can’t keep their hands to themselves. Your personality is developed inch by inch as you live your life. The mind is strong and resilient. Nothing we can do in this room could break you.”

  Another joke? It sounded like one, but Elle didn’t smile.

  She gestured across the circle of coffins. “Unfortunately, I can’t assure you that this process will go smoothly from start to finish, and I can’t promise parts of it won’t make you scared, or even panicked. It’s the nature of the beast; we’re making significant changes to a body that your mind has become comfortable with. But I can promise that when it’s over, it will all be worth it. And I can further assure you that in ten years of doing variations on this procedure, none of our clients has ever, ever complained.”

  But Ephraim was scrambling to keep up. “Wait. Are you saying the process might make me panic? Are you saying that’s normal?”

  “This way,” Elle said, gesturing back out the door.