by Sean Platt
But what was he going to do? Run away? Head into New York, like he was now, and never go back? Not bloody likely. It was better to be on Neven’s side, given what was coming. Mercer, like everyone else, had his sequence in GEM’s archive. The chaos that would follow if Neven achieved his goals as enough to make him shudder. No one could hide from something like that.
Instead of docking the skiff and running, Mercer cinched the lines tight. He didn’t check in with the dock master because it wasn’t necessary. Palms had been greased. As far as anyone in New York was concerned, slip 41 was empty. There wasn’t even a Mercer Fox — not in the clubs and restaurants he technically owned, and not here, crossing a gravel lot, headed for the car that some faceless frightened person had left for him.
Neven almost envied the person. It was one thing to know enough to be scared; it was another thing entirely to know who was scaring you, and what you were supposed to be frightened of. Only Mercer, Neven, and the Hershel clone knew those things, and of the three, only Mercer was having a normal human reaction. Hershel wasn’t human, not like Mercer. And Neven? Well, this was what he wanted.
Maybe you should kill him instead of the clone, said the devil on his shoulder.
But Mercer had considered that before, and the idea went nowhere. It’s not like death had stopped him the first time.
Gravel crunched under his sandals. The day was warm. Mercer was in cargo pants that had worn through before getting ripped off at the knee, creating shorts and loose threads that never stopped tickling his legs. His short-sleeved, floral shirt blew in the breeze, trying to open around the buttons. He almost felt free.
Just check on him, Neven had said.
Neven was almost charming when he wasn’t in a rage. Like a good hostage, Mercer had learned to enjoy those interludes out of proportion, making Neven close to a friend when he wasn’t shouting. He’d come off as so reasonable, almost made it sound like a vacation for Mercer.
Take the boat. It’s lower-profile than the plane. You like the water, don’t you?
And Mercer did. He just didn’t like the Wood clone. But on the ride (solo on the water, with salt in his hair), it had been easy to forget where the errand was headed. But now his destination stared him in the face.
Just go into the city and have a talk with him. You’re a people person, Mercer. You’re good with words. You can talk anyone into anything. Or get anything out of anyone.
Mercer had his doubts. The Wood clone wasn’t like the people he used to schmooze in his old, restaurant-hopping, hand-shaking life. He’d talked to the clone many times while it was at the Domain. Neven and Wood had gotten along fine — the two of them had, in fact, started to feel like an uneven see-saw, with Wood and Neven on one end, with Mercer alone on the other. Two crazy fuckers and one guy who was shocked to find himself the sanest man in the room.
Talking to the clone was like talking to a hatbox. Or to a closet with a broken lightbulb.
When Neven came back from the Cube 13 control room three days ago, irked at the way Kilik’s mind had shut him out without resolution, Mercer had wanted to say I told you so. He wasn’t a geneticist or a psychologist, but it didn’t take a genius to see that when you tried to scoop someone out and fill them with new shit, the results would be shaky.
He had watched Neven’s intense discussions with Wood, intent on convincing him that his mission was now, first and foremost, to catch and kill the Ephraim clone.
The shock sessions.
The screams.
And what freaked Mercer out most was their cordial chats after what sounded like torture, Wood accepting Neven as a friend. As if nothing had happened.
But Wood hadn’t internalized the new directive.
Wood was acting erratic.
Neven wanted his new clones to be more human? He wanted them to be autonomous and free, and yet do exactly what he wanted them to do? That’s the sort of shit psychopaths did. They didn’t create robots to do their bidding because it was so much more fun to take free people and break them; to force instead of manufacture allegiance.
But it was better to be on Neven’s side than against him. Better to be patient and find himself in favor rather than out of it. To remember what Neven had done to the original Ephraim back on Eden. Mercer shivered. That’s how quickly his boss could snap.
Mercer would ‘talk to Wood.’ Determine what they both knew: that the clone wasn’t doing Neven’s new bidding to catch Ephraim because he was too preoccupied with Neven’s old bidding of violating the Gene Crypt. That had been the case three days ago when Neven spoke to him through Kilik, and it would be the case even more so now.
But what did it matter? GEM agents and police were being sent after the fugitive. Even if Wood’s heart wasn’t in the chase. If Neven had a problem with that, Mercer still wouldn’t tussle with Wood. It wasn’t necessary. Someone would catch Ephraim, and the database would be hacked. Neven wanted both things, so why be such a fucking control freak about the order in which they happened?
Because he’s Neven. That’s why.
Mercer inhaled the pleasant air, trying to find the good in his errand. He was off the Domain, and he was away from Neven. Jubilee was in two days, and he thought he could see decorations and temporary structures even from here. He could drag the errand out; he could even party a little. He could pretend to be a New Yorker for a while. He could ride the subway. Steal from bums. All the crap he used to do before he’d moved from the sex trade to the clone trade, and fallen into all of this.
He looked toward the skyline and let his mind wander. It wasn’t bad out here, despite the industrial tang in the air. If he was selective in what he let himself see, this might be any dock, anywhere else. There weren’t many cars around, just his own dropped ride, two beat-to-hell pickups, and a large van covered in dust.
Mercer squinted at the van as he passed. Extra height. Blacked-out windows. And a handicap sticker. He stopped. Something was wrong.
He was about to look again when a door unlatched then slid open.
Rapid footsteps approached from the rear, too fast for Mercer to turn. Large hands circled his midsection and pinned Mercer’s arms to his sides. A black bag covered his head.
And someone grunted, “Surprise, Mercer.”
Chapter 27
The Only Shot
Ephraim lifted a bag into the car’s trunk. There was another, smaller bag with clothing and toiletries for the two nights he and Sophie would spend in the city before Jubilee, but the bigger bag seemed to contain equipment. Not having any clue what the equipment might be was a sign that this endeavor was stupid.
“This is idiotic,” he told Sophie. “Every cop in New York is looking for me. GEM, too. I’m not a secret agent. I’m a fugitive, and everyone knows my face. This is …” Ephraim stopped, out of adjectives.
“You’ve been to Eden.”
“So what? Half the people at The Vineyard have been to Eden. Hannah has. Hell, Sophie, you’ve been there twice.”
That was an even dumber thing to say. It deepened the hole, and Sophie was smart enough to capitalize on his slip.
“That’s why I’m going with you.”
“Sophie …”
“Don’t argue. It’s as safe as it could be for anyone. The Change has people in the police, and in GEM. When Papa realized what Neven was up to years ago, he militarized The Change. It’s what it was and is supposed to be, but it’s also a weapon. He’s spent a ton of time getting devotees into the places they’ll be needed most. They will protect us.”
“Everyone knows me. Everyone is looking for me. I’m public enemy number one.”
“That’s why you’re growing the beard. It’s why you’ll wear the do-rag. It’s why you’ve got the fat pads under your clothes.”
“Nobody’s going to be fooled by this,” Ephraim said, poking at his flimsy disguise. Then he pointed to Sophie’s wig. “Or that.”
“Do you remember The Change’s primary belief? Its mission?”
“That’s right. Because most people’s minds aren’t free. Most people are hypnotized. They walk around all day in a trance.”
“Maybe you have a brochure I could read?”
Sophie ignored his sarcasm. “They’re in a trance about ‘Ephraim Todd,’ too. People are afraid of you, and of what Ava Bloom tells them you’re planning to do at Jubilee, but they’re not looking for you in the ways that matter. Their minds can’t see you. The same people who see you in their nightmares wouldn’t know it if you were standing right beside them. It’s a psychological blind spot. You’re too far out of context if you’re not a boogeyman on the news. You’d be surprised. The more infamous you are, the easier it is to hide in plain sight.”
Ephraim didn’t know what to say. So he just said, “You’re pretty.”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
Ephraim heard a door hinge and turned, seeing Papa Friesh exit the mansion and descend the few steps toward the car. He was dressed casually — a look that Ephraim found odd. It made him look very human.
“How are you, Ephraim?” he asked.
“Fine, I guess.”
“No, I mean: How are you?”
Ephraim took two breaths before answering. Then he met Papa’s earnest blue eyes. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”
“Find Ephraim.”
“And then what?”
“Bring him here.”
“Why me, though?” He lowered his voice and tipped his head toward Sophie, now arranging something in the front seat. “Why her?”
“Because you know Ephraim better than anyone. I don’t think I need to explain why. And only you and Jonathan know him better than Sophie.”
“She should stay.”
“You might be underestimating her, Ephraim. She’s not an empty shell anymore. She’s smart. Very smart. And stronger than you’re giving her credit for. You’ll be protected. You don’t need to grab him yourself. Just find him. Figure out what he’s up to. Then call me, and I’ll send the cavalry to take him, and get both of you out.”
Ephraim felt his shoulders rise, felt his face squinch.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I just don’t understand. Why go after Ephraim? It’s Neven you want.”
“Ephraim is our only link to Neven,” Papa said.
“What makes you think he knows where Neven is, or where this ‘Domain’ facility is located? The other Ephraim’s been on Eden this whole time. If you don’t know even with all of your people everywhere, why would he—”
“I don’t think Ephraim knows where Neven is hiding,” Papa said. “I doubt he has any clue that Neven is even alive. I’ve been watching the Connollys for years — Neven especially, since Wallace died. I’ve fine-tuned my network to look for anything that might tell me what he has planned. I think this is it, Ephraim. Neven’s going after the Gene Crypt, and he’ll do it through Wood. Ephraim can’t possibly know that.”
“Then why are we grabbing Ephraim instead of Wood?”
“If we go through Wood, Neven will see us coming, and he may already have his finger on some triggers. The original Ephraim, however—”
“—has nothing to do with the Domain.”
Papa gave Ephraim a patient look. “Do you go through the front door when you break into a house?”
“I don’t break into many houses.”
“You go in through the back so that nobody sees you coming.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neven took it hard when Wallace died. The hologram that’s replaced Connolly on Eden’s commercials? It’s an AI. And do you know why the world thinks Wallace is alive, and that the AI is him?”
Ephraim waited, unsure.
“It’s nothing strategic,” Papa continued. “Neven could have easily taken the mantle publicly. But he created the hologram instead. He put AI behind it and used it to fool everyone into believing the hologram was his father.”
“Why?”
“Because Neven wanted to believe that the hologram was his father. Because Neven wanted to believe that his father was alive. One of the Elles here at The Vineyard told us about it after her deprogramming. He consulted with it, Ephraim. Talked to it, confided in it, even though he knew exactly what it was and what it never could be.”
Sophie closed the car door. Ephraim stood, his attention flitting between her and Papa.
“If anyone, anywhere, knows the breadth of Neven’s plans,” Papa said, “it’s that AI.”
“You want to use Ephraim to hack the Wallace Connolly hologram?”
“He’s one step removed from the top of Eden’s command chain. If Ephraim has nothing, we’ll use him to get to Jonathan. And if Eden’s CEO can’t get into the AI, nobody can.”
Papa gave a little half-chuckle that held no mirth. Resigned more than anything. “And the real reason we’re going after Ephraim? Even if this is a long shot, it’s the only one we have.”
Chapter 28
Except For the Truth
“The bag was hardly necessary,” Mercer said, the second it was off his head.
He was in a captain’s chair inside the van, facing Fiona. He was turned around, traveling backward, and her power wheelchair was facing forward across from him, latched into a modified rear seat, beside what he now realized was a fold-up hydraulic lift.
Fiona didn’t respond, so Mercer tried again. “If you want people to stop thinking you’re an evil bitch, you should stop doing things like throwing bags over people’s heads.”
“The bag was my idea,” said an enormous man in the seat beside her. The interior, despite the wheelchair’s bulk, was spacious. Luxurious. Beside the man was a bar full of bottles. A covered ice bucket, stainless steel tongs and, incongruently, a clutch of white straws. Mercer didn’t understand that at first, then he realized. Fiona couldn’t tip her head back without help. What would it be like to drink single-malt through a straw?
“No,” said a second man on the bar’s other side, their four seats in a rough semicircle, “it was mine.”
“Bullshit,” said the first man.
“I guess it was both of our ideas.”
“A problem with the bag, we might take as an insult.”
Mercer ignored the men and faced Fiona. “What’s with the goons? Maria isn’t enough?”
The second man leaned forward and, in one deft move, hit Mercer so hard on the side of his face that he saw stars.
“Maria hits like a girl,” Fiona explained.
“This guy has no sense of humor,” said the first man, insulted.
“He just didn’t get it,” said the second man. “I’m going to tell him a joke. Knock knock.”
Mercer wanted to rub his face, but his hands were cuffed behind the chair. He moved his jaw, trying to feel it again.
“Knock knock,” he repeated.
“Who’s there?” Mercer managed.
This time, the first man hit him. Afterward, he said, “Fist.”
“That’s not how it goes,” said the second man to the first.
“He gets the idea.”
Mercer, blinking and finding his eye sluggish to open, said, “I don’t get it.”
“He doesn’t get it.”
“That’s because you ruined the punchline, dickhead.”
“I’ll repeat it.” The first man raised his hand.
“Okay, knock it off,” Fiona said.
Both men lowered their limbs, clearly disappointed.
“No sense of humor, like I said,” muttered the first man.
“I thought we should talk,” Fiona said.
Mercer, pain creeping in now that his shock was abating, spat blood. “Sure. It’s always nice to see you, Fiona.”
“And yet you vanished. Just ran away. Disappeared. Makes me wonder, Mercer. You’re supposedly someone who can be bought. It’d be on your business card if you had one. I spent a lot of money on you during the Eden fiasco, and you t
old me a lot. But then I started to wonder what you didn’t tell me. What didn’t you tell me, Mercer?”
“I told you about the Sophie I sold to Ephraim. I told you how to find her and about my trip to Eden to get her. I kept my end of the bargain.”
“But you didn’t tell me the rest, did you? Like how you’re stealing betas. Or how you’re pretending to steal betas but actually just marking them as missing from Eden’s stock. Are you working with Jonathan? Or are you trying to frame me so you can extort—”
“What?”
The second man punched Mercer in the stomach. To the first man he said, “See what you did? Now he can’t hear.”
“How do you know it was me?” the first man answered. “You hit him in the head, too.”
Mercer felt like he was sucking air through a miniature stirrer. His world was dimming. For long, terrifying seconds, he couldn’t re-inflate his lungs; his diaphragm had surrendered. He didn’t think Fiona or the men spoke again, but he was beyond hearing.
He waited for death, but his breath slowly returned. “I didn’t … anything.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you,” Fiona said.
“I didn’t … I …” It was all wheezes. Mercer’s head was down, concentrating on words.
“I can fix him,” said one of the men. Chair springs creaked. But Fiona must have given him a look because there were no more blows.
“Say again, Mercer?”
“I didn’t take anything.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I didn’t take anything from Eden.”
“What didn’t you take?”
“I didn’t take any fucking betas!”
“Not curious what they are, though. The things you say you didn’t take.”
Mercer thought fast. Did he officially know what betas were? He’d stolen enough of them for Neven when he’d flown to the island for clones, confident that in all the fuckery following Neven’s ‘death,’ that Jonathan would barely think to check — or know the systems to plow through even if he did.
