by Sean Platt
Without thinking, he threw his shoulder into the bearded man and knocked him flat. Two running steps and he was mostly over him, over the fallen woman, stepping on one of their limbs and nearly tripping.
Down the slope toward the ocean with the troops behind him, praying not to fall.
CHAPTER 54
THE ONLY WAY
But Ephraim didn’t fall.
He recovered as the security forces saw his intention. Their paralysis broke, and they ran after him.
Long lines of shrubs spilled down the lawn to the water’s edge. They were too big to hurdle easily, so he slalomed around them where they finally broke and surrendered to sand. Some of his pursuers, seeing Ephraim’s intention, climbed over the hedges or ran up toward the house, through breaks he could no longer reach.
Ephraim sprinted, winded almost immediately.
The halo of spotlights gave way to dark. The bearded man shouted behind him, and a long time later more lights clicked on with sounds like baseballs dropped to the bottom of giant steel barrels.
But they were lagging; by the time the second set of floods came on Ephraim was almost to the third lawn, and by the time the third set hit him he was almost around to the fourth. The force that had come to take him was thinned to a few die-hards, unable to close the gap between them.
How am I outrunning them? Why are they so incompetent?
He’d seen threatening-looking men and women on Eden before now, but none were in the contingent that had come for him. Jonathan had unleashed the fifth-string security force before ducking inside like a coward. These were the rejects. Reservists, never trained, unlucky enough to be called by Dr. Todd to pursue an intruder in the night.
Ephraim cut upward, using the dark to obscure him, moving from the beach to the mouth of the dwindling force who’d been running through gaps in the hedges. He caught them off guard; they hadn’t seen him shift direction.
Suddenly Ephraim was in their loose middle, throwing blind shoulders and elbows, hitting jaws and stomachs until he was free.
Shouts followed; he heard feet crack pavement. Whoever had the megaphone was back there as well, now far behind. Up the slope, windows illuminated.
What time was it, anyway? Was he waking the neighbors with his flight through paradise?
There was a wide-open street ahead. Nobody on it. Ephraim had lost his bearings, but he recognized this place. At the end was a small path along the water. Cut to the right, and the tram was close.
Is that your plan? Board the tram with people behind you? Sure, they’ll let you get on without them. And sure, Eden’s transportation service will happily take you home to the Retreat, where no one will be waiting.
But he couldn’t worry about that now. He could only face the next few seconds. His world was shouts and adrenaline. Staying one step ahead was all that mattered.
He made for the road, lined with just enough street lamps to see.
Make for the tram. It’s not a chance. But it’s the only one you have.
A shout from the rear. “Cut him off!”
Ephraim’s feet pounded pavement amid the squawk of electronics. Someone shouted into the megaphone again, walkies bleating static.
There were only a few remaining behind him. Maybe he could make it. Maybe the tram operator wouldn’t know this was happening, whatever it was. Or maybe the tram didn’t have an operator, and wouldn’t know to stop him.
They’ll cut its power. They’ll call it back.
But it was the only way.
Turn and fight.
He could do it. He had the advantage; he was ahead, in the shadows, and desperate. And the security force was a joke.
But then Ephraim heard a rumble from ahead.
And it wasn’t an engine.
It was dozens of pairs of feet.
Hundreds.
Thundering toward him.
Ephraim knew what he’d be facing before he reached the rise in the road, but he couldn’t turn until they were in plain sight.
Ghosts.
The street was filled with them, and they were running hard.
CHAPTER 55
A HANGAR OF SHADOWS
Clone Jonathan’s voice in his head:
We call them “betas.” They make for great workers, if somewhat slow.
Slow in mind, maybe, Ephraim thought, but not always slow in body. Not when instructed. Not when commanded by their masters to obey.
The horde of blank-faced ghosts charged him, a mass of white-clad bodies with covered hoods, menacing and anonymous.
They were between Ephraim and the only place he knew to go. He turned, now seeing that the group behind him had finally gained ground. To his right side was a small cliff into the rising hillside. Down was the only way.
He turned ninety degrees to both groups and leaped a guardrail, headed off the road and its wide, clear swath. A scree of rocks tumbled ahead; Ephraim fought to stay upright, failed, ended up crab-scrabbling most of the way.
There was a path halfway down the slope to the sea. As he approached it, Ephraim arrested what felt like a slide about to spin out of control. He came briefly upright as his feet stopped. Then he overbalanced, landed on his ass and one hand. He was scratched, pant leg slightly torn, but alone.
He looked up. Had they seen where he’d gone?
They came.
Ahead, the path widened, wound away into something serpentine. It was clear and the only way, so Ephraim took it.
Fifty feet down. A hundred. The ground flattened. Ephraim dodged through the alleys into what looked like the Denizen’s faux-charming downtown, the street he faced now deserted in both directions.
Except that was wrong. It wasn’t deserted to the right, roughly in the tram’s direction. More ghosts were coming from there, too, broad across the street like a swarm of gunslingers.
Where are they coming from?
He went left, finding no one.
The new group of ghosts followed, slower — as if they couldn’t run as fast as the first. Convenient, because Ephraim was out of gas.
I guess I’m headed away from the tram.
But where could he go? He was on an island.
There were no options. No way out.
The group from the rise poured in behind him — with the new group of ghosts, which widened the gap.
The town area was spooky in its desolation, save the pursuing horde. Was nobody around? Was there nobody out after dark on the Denizen?
Just keep running.
It was all he could do. Just keep running — or shambling, as his energy dwindled. There were no longer three or five seconds ahead of Ephraim. There was only the current moment, only now. He’d seen the Denizen from other shores. It wasn’t massive. Supposedly it was home to Eden’s permanent residents and a few shops. That was it. So where was there to go?
Think.
But there was nothing to think about. Ephraim’s brain was foggy from lack of oxygen. His muscles burned, soaked with lactic acid. He’d pushed too hard; he might be on the verge of throwing up. And he was out of options.
But something was ahead. There was a gap between buildings, and through it Ephraim could see the water. It looked like ink, only dimly illuminated by the quarter moon’s mocking yellow face.
Swim. It’s the only choice.
He rounded a corner, grateful for the cover of the miniature downtown. He couldn’t hide here; this wasn’t a big city. But at least he could dodge. If he was lucky, he might gain a handful of seconds to catch his breath.
Around another corner. Then another. Hands on knees, he pitched forward and retched onto the back wall of what looked like a cafe. He felt no better. The poison wasn’t out; it was merely rising in a tide of bile. And he could hear the rushing of footsteps.
All from behind.
None from ahead.
It was almost as if they were trying to drive him rather than catch him.
But where would they drive him? And why? And why was the bearded man
back here on the Denizen, of all places? What did his presence mean, and why had he been following Ephraim since his arrival?
A large steel-sided building.
Ephraim looked up, peeking between buildings now, barely able to believe what he was seeing. It was right there on the dark water, silent and beckoning. It looked like an aircraft hangar, only smaller and lower. And it wasn’t for aircraft. At the edge of downtown, on the water, this hangar could only be meant to hold boats.
For the Denizen’s VIP residents.
Boats that, even if they stalled out and tried returning to the dock, would at least save him a few miles of swimming.
The boats will be locked down. This is too obvious. They know you’re down here, and that hangar is as plain as day.
More footfalls behind him. None ahead.
Ephraim ran away, staying low and light on his feet. There were many places to hide. Many places to disappear. They wouldn’t really assume he’d go for the hanger, would they? Especially if no boats popped its end and sped away?
He ran to the wharf’s edge. There were no exterior docks. Only the hangar, and its locked door. Ephraim fought to control his breath, certain that every inhale and exhale would surrender his location.
He could still hear them. Grunts, and running, their clumsy feet as they stepped over debris and made it rattle.
But he couldn’t see them. And that meant they couldn’t see him.
Ephraim scooted to the water’s edge.
Yes, the hangar was locked.
It was built on water, its keepers more concerned with people taking what it harbored than with people getting inside.
Looking around, hearing his pursuers, Ephraim silently slipped beneath the water.
He swam underwater until he reached a post, and pulled himself up.
And then he surfaced inside the hanger, having dipped beneath its water-skirting wall to emerge on the other side.
Moonlight spilled through semi-transparent plastic roofing, arranged in patches along the hangar’s top amid opaque sheeting, to show him the way.
The outer door was closed. No boats would leave without a battering ram.
Ephraim climbed onto the interior dock, lay flat to catch his breath, and waited for others to emerge from the water like aquatic zombies — for Jonathan himself to bang on the hangar door and demand Ephraim’s surrender.
But no one came. He sat up. Even with his eyes adjusted, the gloom had barely retreated. Vague shapes swallowed everything. The dull, sedate song of gently lapping water filled the cavernous space.
He listened, and tried to see through the darkness.
How much time had passed? He hadn’t a clue. If his Doodad hadn’t permanently died at the house, it was dead now. He was soaked. But at least he could breathe. And think.
Nobody came. Nobody knocked on the door. Nobody swam beneath the hanger’s outer walls.
Ephraim waited forever. Groping in the semi-dark and trying hard not to fall off the docks into the water, he felt a rack of fishing spears. He held one like a trident, daring the first aggressor to try his luck with a man who’d quite frankly had enough of this bullshit. He’d been tense when he’d come to Eden, and he sure didn’t feel any more relaxed now.
He might have stood with his spear for ten minutes or an hour. Maybe two. As with the time spent heaving breath after swimming inside the place, it was impossible to tell. But he could press his ear to the door and try to peek around its cracks, and so he did.
He heard nothing and saw less. They’d given up. Somehow — even on an island — Ephraim had managed to get away.
Impossible. They’re moving the search elsewhere. They haven’t stopped. You’re trapped, and you’ll be easy to find.
And yet it wasn’t just possible. It had happened.
Ephraim let the spear hang at his side. Then, realizing he’d either have to lift it again or drag it the next time he moved, he laid it down on the deck. Nobody was coming. He was here for a while — at least until morning.
Fortunately, there were plenty of places to hide in the hangar. Dark shapes were everywhere. Mostly Eden boats, unable to drive into the open water. But they’d make excellent hiding places, especially if he could climb inside a cabin, then close it up behind himself again.
Ephraim climbed carefully onto the nearest boat, minding the widening gap between dock and deck that formed between his feet until the line pulled taut. Of course, the cabin was locked.
There must be keys around here somewhere.
Even if Denizen residents brought their own boats to Eden from the African mainland (or farther abroad, for the seafaring and adventurous), they’d keep them at their mansion docks or at least in an open marina. No self-respecting boat owner would keep their boat in a hangar. And that meant the boats in this closed space must belong to Eden, were probably for rent, and would thus have their keys stowed in an office somewhere. Ephraim’s mind imagined those keys on a pegboard, hung with fobs on tiny hooks.
He disembarked, then walked down what he sincerely hoped was the dock’s center. There were anti-skid pads along its length, but his footing was awkward in the scant light. And given that the docks were floating and even the stillest water made for wobbly walking, the sounds of lapping water in the dark screwed his equilibrium.
But once he reached the central dock, Ephraim found a railing. And once he followed the railing to its end, he felt a wall. And on the wall, his hands ran over what felt like …
… yes …
A switch.
His fingers and thumb were on the tiny toggle when his mind protested. Hey asshole. If you turn on the lights on a dark night, everyone will know there’s someone in here.
But the hangar had no windows. If it did, he’d have been able to see. It had semi-skylights, but those were only visible from above. If he turned on banks of fluorescents, he might show people outside a bright outline around the door, but there was a whole row of little switches on the wall board. He wouldn’t flick them all. Just one. Enough so he didn’t end up in the water, drowning between boats while his brother’s clone laughed its ass off.
Fuck it.
He flicked the switch. And gaped in shock.
Most of the enclosure was a large boat hangar, as he’d known from the outside.
But there was also a miniature tram platform in the middle. And from that platform, a tube-enclosed track dove beneath the water.
Above the track was a sign.
RESEARCH ISLET 09
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
A micro-sized tram car was sitting in the center of the small platform with its door wide open.
CHAPTER 56
LIKE A DOLPHIN IN THE DEEP
The tram was nicer than the one that docked on the Retreat. Like a smaller version of the tram he’d taken to the Reef island — to the store room where he’d learned his brother was dead.
But was Jonathan dead?
Ephraim was no longer sure. He hadn’t given himself permission even to consider the question. When he’d seen the fake Jonathan that first time, his mind had let go of what he’d learned in the illicit storeroom, deciding that Jonathan was alive after all.
But was he? Was the Jonathan clone a duplicate, or a replacement? The file had declared Jonathan Todd Deceased. Was it true? What was true?
He couldn’t think about it now. Just like he didn’t have the mental bandwidth to think about his MyLife’s disagreement with his memories or Jonathan’s claim that at least one of his memories hadn’t truly happened.
But given that Jonathan had turned out to be a clone, that meant he was lying … right?
Or was he? Was there a chance that Jonathan had been telling the truth, and that Ephraim’s mugging memory had been implanted during the Tomorrow Gene procedure? Was there a chance he hadn’t broken up a mugging to get his scar? Even if Eden could implant false memories, Ephraim knew he’d recalled the mugging before his treatment — and how could it be a fake memory if they hadn’t touc
hed him before a few days ago?
It couldn’t.
Unless his memory of remembering the memory was also fake.
It hurt Ephraim’s mind to consider. This was like staring into a reflection of another reflection, the series repeating into infinity.
But it didn’t matter. Not now. This wasn’t the time. Ephraim was trapped in the hangar, maybe safe, not quite understanding how neither Jonathan nor that big pursuing horde hadn’t figured out to search here. Now was the time for action, not philosophy and mindfucks.
What now?
He couldn’t leave the hangar in case they’d posted ghosts as sentries outside. He could wait for the hangar to open in the morning and steal a boat then — hoping both that Eden authorities wouldn’t see or hear him and that they couldn’t turn his boat around by remote. Or he could live here. Forever.
Or he could take his chances with the tube. He wasn’t “authorized personnel,” but there was another way.
Ephraim glanced inside. The tram was small but comfortable. The size of a large van, styled like the inside of a limo despite its utilitarian location. But his look was only a flash. He wasn’t interested in the tram. He was interested in the tube it used to run beneath the water.
Squeeze behind the tram. Enter the tube. Cross to the research islet on foot, then make your way to open sea.
Hadn’t Jonathan said there were non-neutered boats on Islet 09? And regardless, wasn’t a restricted islet an ideal place to hide?
But Ephraim couldn’t get behind the tram. There was no room.
Go through the car. Go inside, then into the tube through its emergency exit. It must have one, at the rear.
He entered the little car, feeling its electric hum. Vehicles on Eden were always slightly alive, waiting for authorized passengers. Ephraim felt watched just hearing the background change in pitch. Security must keep an eye on the trams. Were they watching him now?
There was no help. He moved fully inside, then toward the nose — or what became its back end on any trips from the other direction. As he’d suspected, there was a hatch. Any tram would need an emergency exit, especially one that ran in a long tube underwater. What if it stalled? Walking to the tunnel’s other end wouldn’t be fun, but at least you wouldn’t starve or asphyxiate on your own exhaled gasses.
