by Sean Platt
Ephraim squatted. The emergency exit was tiny. Once he opened the thing, he’d need to crawl through it.
The tram jolted, knocking Ephraim backward.
The doors closed with a sigh.
And then the car moved, diving beneath the water like a dolphin returning to the deep, with Ephraim inside.
CHAPTER 57
STUFFED WITH MERCHANDISE
The tram was faster than the others, rocketing through the clear tube at the speed of a centrifuge. This was the opposite of the leisurely rides from before. Ephraim doubted it took two full minutes to slow as the ground rose again, and by that time he felt sick to his stomach. When was the last time he’d eaten? When was the last time his mouth hadn’t been filled with adrenaline?
The car swerved into an upswing, then broke the surface as the magnets silently slowed it. Ephraim didn’t have time to register his surroundings before the doors opened and thrust him into them.
He was in a large space — this one more like a warehouse than a marina. He’d surfaced in an artificial pool in the cavernous area’s opposite corner. His arrival drew no attention because the track was concealed behind a wall until the final ten feet, where boarding platforms lined both sides. But it otherwise might have, because this building, unlike the last, was alive.
The word that came to him, despite the lateness of the hour, was awake.
The place looked like a cross between a factory and a gigantic chemistry set. Ephraim saw machines and clear tanks full of liquid; he saw gears churn and glass tubes fill with multi-colored fluids. Along one wall was something that looked like a huge, grease-smeared carton of eggs. In the center was an enormous circular basin filled with a thick and opaque substance, slowly stirred by an arm on a central pivot.
The space, once the doors opened, wasn’t loud. But countless echoes exaggerated its vastness; more laboratory than machine shop, the distant clang of moving parts filling the air. Most of the thirty or so workers Ephraim could see (but which thus far hadn’t noticed him) were ghosts.
Without their hoods and visors.
The sight drove Ephraim back into the corner’s platform with a hand clamped hard over his mouth. The things worked with faceless intensity, their beady little eyes focused on the stations before them. No wonder they didn’t look up to see him. Ephraim wondered if they could. Jonathan had called them betas and Ephraim had made his interpretation: byproducts of the cloning process. Maybe some were mistakes, but he got the feeling most were copies that didn’t require the rigor of genuine cloning — because workers didn’t need much more than able hands and sense enough to follow a manual.
Oh, James? I need some extra hands on the XJ-79 machine to get my quota up for the boss. Go down and run me off a few more betas from the supply room, will you? Thank you, James; that’s a good lad.
Seeing the ghosts without their masks made Ephraim feel like he’d opened his eyes in a nightmare. He’d dreamed of these things before, but in the warehouse, none came at him (or even looked up) as his irrational mind felt sure they would. They were too busy, heads down, doing their jobs.
Move over, migrant workers. The next generation of cheap labor is coming for your jobs.
But they weren’t all ghosts, Ephraim realized as he skirted the platform’s edge, ducking behind a large machine and away from the incriminating tram car. No. There were supervisors in the room too, keeping an eye on all the workers.
Elle.
And Nolon.
And in one of the far corners, Ephraim thought he spied Elle.
With Nolon.
There was a blond inspecting what looked like a long laboratory bench filled with agar plates, stacked with reagent jars. Nolon.
And, with her face near enough to the central pool to smell the fumes, Ephraim saw Elle.
He slouched down. Back against the wall. Legs bent, tenting up enough to grab his knees. But Ephraim didn’t grab his knees — he was too preoccupied grabbing his mouth, the other hand holding an upright steel railing hard enough to make divots.
Elle.
And Nolon.
And ghosts.
Repeat.
Coming through the tube had been an awful idea. Ephraim thought he’d find a deserted hangar on the islet because he’d left one on the Denizen. But now he was in clone central, and he’d be more visible than ever once he moved.
He had no idea where the boats were, if they existed. He didn’t even know where an exit was. Popping up like a prairie dog, he saw two, but both bore large red warnings. FIRE DOOR. ALARM WILL SOUND. Opening one would be like ringing a dinner bell.
Ephraim slid sideways into a corner, trying to stay out of sight. Maybe he could make a classic escape by knocking some guy out, stealing his clothes, and leaving through the front door as if he had every right to do so.
But that felt far-fetched. He didn’t look anything like Nolon and even less like Elle. The only other prototype in the room was that of the homogeneously monstrous clones. Their skin tone could maybe pass for Asian or Hispanic, but Ephraim’s was far too dark to pass for ghostly.
Nothing but white clones in this bitch. Racists.
There was a desk in the corner, and Ephraim scooted toward it. On top was a plain old-fashioned paper-filled binder. Ephraim wondered if it’d tell him something helpful (Secret Exits and Self Destruct Buttons: See “Sabotage”), but it looked more like a photocopied textbook. Stacked on a small shelf behind the desk were actual textbooks, all worn out as if read since antiquity. They stuck Ephraim as quick-references — why have digital files of something the boss consulted so often?
He scanned the titles.
The Brain: Function and Structure.
Psychological Influence and Programming.
Neuroanatomy.
The Principles of Persuasion.
But no maps, no facility directories, nothing helpful at all. Just this stuff about biology, brain, mental conditioning. Cloning homework, apparently.
Hypnosis and Hypnotherapy.
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorder, V16.
“Hey,” said a voice. “You.”
Ephraim jumped, but the speaker wasn’t barking at him. He peeked around the corner and saw Nolon with his eyes forward. The speaker was a man half in and half out of an adjacent room, wearing a white lab coat over a red flannel shirt.
A man with a black beard and large black eyebrows.
“Yes, sir,” said one of the Nolons.
“Who’s in charge of Denizen? Who’s keeping an eye on the Todd situation like I asked?”
“Elle 214.”
The man sighed. “Just point.”
Nolon did. Staying back, Ephraim followed the finger. There was a crow’s nest office at the opposite end, its walls made entirely of glass. Inside Ephraim thought he could see another blonde. Elle, her name was? What a coincidence.
“Call up there for me.”
“You asked for a blackout, sir. Even our communications are locked. Would you like Nolon to end the blackout?”
Ephraim felt vertigo on both of their behalf. With the possible exception of the black-bearded man, everyone in the room was apparently named Elle, Nolon, or nothing at all. Water-cooler gossip must be so confusing.
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll go up myself.”
Ephraim saw his chance. He wasn’t far from the door the man was peeking through. He might be able to sneak over. If he hurried.
The bearded man marched from the office, leaving the door to swing closed behind him. Under cover of a nearby venting, Ephraim sprinted on bent legs, trying to keep his conspicuous head down.
The door was marked, RESTRICTED. LEVEL SEVEN ACCESS ONLY.
Ephraim didn’t have Level Seven Access. Or any access at all.
But he was able to get his foot in the door before it closed.
He was able to slip inside and let it latch behind him.
But once inside with the door closed, Ephraim wished he hadn’t done e
ither of those things.
The room wasn’t empty. It looked like a clean zoo or a futuristic prison, with clear glass cells all around the walls it didn’t share with the larger factory. In the middle was a large, square wet bench with a chrome fume hood humming quietly above, all manner of glassware and equipment strewn across its center amid a mess of hand-scrawled notes. Large machines loomed behind with trade names he didn’t recognize and functions his brother would have understood, though Ephraim didn’t.
And Fiona. Fiona would have to get it because she’d understood Ephraim’s photos.
Her voice intruded, pressing on his mind like a throbbing migraine.
They’re making clones, Ephraim.
He pressed his temples. This wasn’t real. This was another lie that he’d need to let himself forget about later.
Using Precipitous Rise, they can grow embryos to adulthood in months.
The clear cells around the room were like display cases stuffed with merchandise. And like any good store, Eden had them sorted by category.
All the Alma Couches — at least twenty — were in one cell. Each was the younger version of Alma that Ephraim had seen on the island. They stood beautiful, stately, vacant-eyed and immobile, completely nude.
All of the Vanessa Smyths were in another cell.
And the other product lines, as well:
Carrie Whitney.
Rachel Wilhelm.
Stephanie Thacker.
And alone on the opposite gender, Ephraim saw a cell packed with Mel Samovars — all with perfect physiques, as on-display as the girls.
“I won’t lie to you,” said a voice. “It’s exactly what you think.”
Ephraim turned. Jonathan was standing toward the room’s rear, wearing a lab coat. He must have seen Ephraim enter, but he hadn’t bothered to speak up until now.
Ephraim retreated to the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. There was a finger pad beside it. Apparently, you had to ID coming in and going out.
Jonathan gave Ephraim a grim little smile. “Quite the coincidence that I ended up here, right where you happened to go. Convenient, isn’t it?”
“You’re not the same Jonathan. There must be copies of you everywhere, just like there are copies of them.” Ephraim pointed at the cells full of nude celebrities, all of them watching the brotherly discussion like vacant-eyed animals. “And of Elle and Nolon.”
Jonathan shook his head, walking forward. “No, little brother. There’s only one of me, and I’m it.”
“Stay away from me.”
Jonathan reached for the wet bench and picked up a knife — a big, heavy-bladed one like a butcher might use to cut bone. He shrugged regretfully.
“This would have been so much easier if you’d stuck around to listen. If you’d considered what I had to say instead of being so … prejudiced. And to think: prejudice from you, of all people.”
“I’m serious. Stay back. Just stay the fuck away!”
But Jonathan kept coming. “I’m sorry, Ephraim. I really am. People say things like, ‘This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,’ but I mean it.”
He held up the knife.
And kept coming while the cells full of clones watched without concern.
CHAPTER 58
A PROGRAMMED LOSS
“Wait,” Ephraim said.
Jonathan stopped.
Tone was everything. Ephraim had put as much focus into that single word as a black belt pours into a precision punch, but his next words would need to be perfect — as careful in tone as that simple Wait.
Jonathan wasn’t really Jonathan, but in some ways he was Ephraim's brother all the same. He knew their shared past. Somehow, he had most of the same memories. So how Ephraim spoke right now very much mattered. Jonathan had never tolerated bullshit, so Jonathan 2 probably didn’t like it much either. Straight talk would be required. Getting to the point gained the respect that evasion never could.
“You lied to me,” Ephraim said.
Jonathan paused, looking uncertain. If Ephraim hadn’t spoken up, he might be dead already. Straightforward guys didn’t pull knives without meaning to use them. And Jonathan had always been stubborn. He didn’t commit to something and then walk away without a damn good reason.
“I what?”
“You lied to me. And treated me like an idiot. You’re still lying. You have my brother’s memories somehow, right?”
“I am your brother, Ephraim.”
Ephraim let that slide. His brother, for one, wouldn’t be holding a four-inch blade near his abdomen.
“Then you know we don’t lie to each other. Or treat each other like fools.”
Ephraim fought to maintain his breathing — to hold the calm, casual tone he’d managed so far. But it wasn’t easy. No matter what this man said, he wasn’t his brother. Jonathan would never hurt him. This man might, and Ephraim was fighting fears that he wasn’t willing to show.
“You should have told me the truth.”
“I was about to tell you the truth when you ran away.”
“Were you surprised? You were pretending this was all about morally ambiguous genetics work. Then it became obvious that you weren’t who you said — that you knew why I was here but had been pretending you didn’t, and you had a net to snare me. You cut off my call and came at me, then had an army waiting on your lawn. What was I supposed to think? You should have laid it all out instead of playing me like an ass.”
“You came to us, Ephraim. Nobody came to you.”
“I came to find you.” A little shrug. “Well. To find Jonathan.”
“And you’re working with Fiona Roberson.”
“Because she was my ticket here. That’s the only way I can use her — her money and connections — to get what I want. Are you really not understanding this?”
“It was all an act,” Jonathan said, every gesture screaming that he didn’t believe a word. “You were always on board for all of this. Is that what you’re saying? You’re on Team Jonathan as long as I play straight, and screw Fiona. Because you sure sounded convincing on those intercepted calls. Like you wanted to go home when you begged her to extract you.”
“What did you expect? You kept fucking with my head! I see an accident, and you clean it up, make me think I’m crazy. You send a duplicate of someone I’ve already met; he tries to drag me in; we fight; I kill him. But you clean that up, too! What the fuck were you trying to do, Jon? Convince me, or drive me insane?”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“And the mind games. You told me I saw you for the first time but that we didn’t fight until hours afterward. You told me I never saw the mugging that gave me my scar.”
Jonathan’s knife hand had lowered as though the weapon was forgotten. “That was all necessary. There are things you don’t understand.”
“But you won’t tell me, will you? No. You follow me, you spy on me, you listen in on my conversations. Have I been under surveillance the whole time?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Do you really think this little of me? I hate lying, Jonathan! You should know that if you’re even a little bit of what my brother was.”
That punch had sailed too close to the bullseye. Ephraim saw clone pride rear its head as Jonathan’s eyes swallowed him. He’d admit he wasn’t the man born as Jonathan Todd because it was a fact. But Ephraim’s implication that he was less-than was fighting words.
“You think I’m his replacement,” Jonathan said.
“What do you mean?”
“You said ‘was.’”
“Are you saying that Jonathan’s here? The real, original Jonathan?”
“I haven’t said anything. You’re proving how little you understand.”
Time to summon anger. It was a hard emotion to feel, amid all the fear and disgust and ambiguity, with the dozens of nude clones staring at them. But it was his only way out. The only avenue he had.
“Then explain it! You want me to understand so
badly? You want me to work by your side? Then stop making it impossible by holding everything back! Trust me for once and stop treating me like an idiot, will you?”
“I’m my own person, Ephraim. Your brother is a different person. I have most of his memories — probably as comprehensive a guide to his past, honestly, as the native one, and the best we can do with our process’s current — and temporary — limitations. We’re similar because we share most of the same building blocks. But you can’t equate us. I’m not him, and he’s not me. I’m not a replacement.”
“You’re a copy.”
Jonathan’s eyes sharpened. It was as scathing an epithet as any racist remark.
Ephraim’s eyes went to the cells full of clones. “Don’t lie to me, Jonathan. Don’t insult me.” He pointed. “They’re slaves. Aren’t they?”
Jonathan nodded. “Willing slaves. That was something we insisted on, that they liked whatever they ended up doing.”
“We? You mean you and the other Jonathan?”
“I mean Wallace and me.”
“Where is he, then? Where is Wallace Connolly?”
“He’s not here.”
“Will you just … stop … fucking …!”
“He’s dead. Okay? He has been for years. But the process that let me adopt the first Jonathan’s memories was used, prior to his death, to extract his. Those memories live in an AI that usually presents itself as a hologram for Eden PR. He didn’t want to be young again, nor did he want an organic replacement. We talked philosophy, believe me. But Wallace was stubborn. He said the ending made life precious, and that fear of death was part of what sharpened a person’s vision. He felt that if he made a copy of himself, the original Wallace would somehow cease to matter. But he also said that most people weren’t like him. That the essential element, as far as the majority was concerned, was to continue existing. We live on however we can. And if Evermore became the company that could make immortality literal, there’d be nothing we couldn’t do.”
