by Sean Platt
Neven had kept a tight leash on things when Eden was his show, and Jonathan had plenty of other fish to fry when Mauritius came calling.
Had anyone officially, on the record, ever told Mercer about betas? He didn’t dare search Fiona’s eyes for a clue, but partial honesty felt safest. A good salesman could always improvise.
“Betas,” he said, raising his head, saying the word as if Fiona were the idiot. “I know what betas are. Clone blanks, partially developed in advance of finishing. Neven said it was like cooking a roast before freezing it. When you finally want to eat, all you need to do is heat it up.”
“You know about betas?”
“I’m in the clone trade!”
Fiona, satisfyingly, seemed at a loss for words. Then she sharpened, remembering her anger — though at what, Mercer wasn’t sure.
“And you have access to them?”
“Of course not!”
Indignant. Because he had access — or had until recently, when Jonathan must have noticed the shortage and changed all the codes. It didn’t mean he knew Mercer was the leak; Jonathan, like Fiona, would be shocked to learn that he even knew what betas and differentiation hormone were. Mercer only knew about them and their location from Neven.
This must have been convincing enough, because Fiona was stumbling.
Mercer took the defensive. “How the hell did you find me, anyway?”
“I have people close to Eden. The car they left for you was registered through the island.”
It wasn’t; that was just one more way Neven kept wrapping his actions in Eden’s protective disguises. There were many advantages to being declared dead, and the fact that nobody considered your continued insider information — and sometimes, access — was one of them.
“If you know Eden is leaving cars for me, why the hell do you think I’m stealing from them?”
A leap too far. Fiona glared.
“Don’t pretend you don’t steal from people who think you’re allegiant, Mercer. If you’d understood the spirit of our agreement, you wouldn’t have gone missing.”
“We were through. I was busy.”
“I had need of you.”
“How?”
“On Eden.”
“You wanted to get to Neven. And now Neven is dead!”
“I wanted information on the clone, too. On Ephraim Todd.”
“Arrested! Escaped and missing! Maybe you didn’t hear, Fiona, but the whole fucking city is afraid he’s going to suicide-bomb the Jubilee parade!”
“Settle down, Mercer. I’ll remind you that you’re missing, too. Nobody’s seen that slippery son of a bitch Mercer Fox in some time. And it’s a funny thing when people who are already missing go missing. Nobody tends to notice.”
Mercer deflated. Power right back in Fiona’s court. And rumor said she’d made people ‘go missing’ before.
Fiona seemed to think. Mercer intuited that he should keep his mouth shut. Then she said, “You’re saying you haven’t been conspiring with Jonathan Todd.”
“No!”
Fiona’s gaze was a laser. “Because I know Eden’s stock shows missing betas — the raw materials needed for a technology you’ve for-sure heard of.”
“Which?”
“It’s called ‘Quarry.’”
Mercer, fortunately, had pre-guessed Fiona. She’d have some interest in betas, but replicating that part of Evermore’s cloning tech would be relatively simple on her own. That wasn’t what this was about. Nor was it about a frame-up against Riverbed; Fiona was just as slippery as Mercer and had defended far more elaborate attacks in the past.
No. If she was this angry about something at Eden, it had to be about her Quarry device — which had traveled to Eden in Clone Ephraim’s hands before it vanished. Had the Todds kept it? Had Mauritius stolen it? Had Mercer sold it on the black market? Fiona would have considered every option, except for the truth.
Because he knew Fiona would say ‘Quarry’ before she did, he had time to compose a suitably confused response. He made his face baffled —not even Fiona would be able to see that he’d recognized that particular word as more than referring to an open mine.
“‘Quarry’?”
Fiona exhaled, frustrated, and said, “Never mind.”
In the following silence, the big man beside Fiona said, “Want me to tell another joke?”
Fiona ignored him. “Are you in contact with Eden?”
He had to say yes; thanks to Neven’s computer manipulations, Fiona thought Eden had left the car at the dock for him.
“Yes. Some.” Go for broke, as long as the right things are truths and lies. “I wanted to lay low after Neven was killed, but I’m in the trade. I moved my operation. It’s entirely mobile now; I don’t even have a club. But I fly to Eden and bring celebrities back. Just a few now, because it’s all I can sneak past the people occupying the island.”
Fiona seemed to buy it. And she might as well; it was halfway true, and the lies were all plausible, though difficult to verify.
“You work with Jonathan and Ephraim. The original, I mean.”
Mercer tried to look like she’d caught him. He nodded.
“How are they? As brothers, I mean.”
“In what way?”
“Do you get the feeling there’s a rift? Anything strange in their relationship?”
“No. Why?”
Fiona was thinking, working this new information out. “When I heard that betas were showing as missing on Eden, I figured the information GEM has been releasing about a conspiracy between Jonathan and Ephraim might have some truth to it. The public doesn’t know there are two Ephraims, so they figure it’s brother and brother working together to bring Neven down — to kill him, as it turned out. But the Ephraim everyone knows about is a clone, and that complicates everything. I assumed Jonathan had conspired with the clone behind his brother’s back.”
“I thought the clone was working with us?” Mercer almost said “with you.” Changing it to ‘us,’ since Mercer had helped in his own small way, felt safer.
“He was. And with Hershel Wood, and I assumed with Jonathan, too. He’s a polygamous little bastard.”
“But?” Mercer said, sensing a missing piece.
“But the real Ephraim was oblivious when I called him. He had no idea what I was talking about. It was obvious from his reaction.”
“If Jonathan was working with Clone Ephraim, then wouldn’t you expect Real Ephraim not to have a clue?”
“Yes, but …” Fiona stalled, fighting with something inside her head. This clearly wasn’t falling into place for her. “He’d have to have some idea. He’d have had to see something weird going on with Jonathan. He should have heard rumors or whispers or seen records or something. From what I hear, Jonathan couldn’t have hidden things from Ephraim. Not entirely. What I told him on that call should have stoked suspicions he already had, not gone over his head.”
Mercer inhaled, steeling himself. Time to go all-in, if he expected Fiona to let him go, or at least not have him killed by these slap-happy henchmen.
He had the perfect response, explaining exactly why something like that might go over Real Ephraim’s head.
He could tell one little Neven story, couldn’t he?
Chapter 29
A Day to Procession
Hershel hung up. The screen went blank, showing an old-world phone icon, now red. The status read CALL ENDED.
He swiveled in his chair. Maybe he should call someone into the office to talk about what he’d just discussed with Ava Bloom.
But there was little point. Kilik was handled; Hershel’s words with him earlier in the week seemed to have stepped on his autonomous part and left the subconscious part confused or downright absent.
Felix Martinez was stewing; he’d pulled a light shift in the Gene Crypt center for Jubilee night, but Hershel had reassigned him to be out on the streets with the drunks, looking for Ephraim Todd — something Martinez had bitched about so many times
now that Hershel had to consider beating him to death.
Layla, more or less an ally in the Ephraim Todd matter purely because she was a curious person (she’d been beating her head against the Titus Washington report for days before the Ephraim-in-the-city plot had surfaced), was already doing what Hershel would call her into the office to do. She and the other dutiful agents were holding most of their assignments at triage while devoting the rest to finding Todd. Ephraim was a needle in a haystack. Good thing Hershel didn’t give a shit if he was found.
He understood why Neven wanted Ephraim caught, on an intellectual level. Emotion was clouding his judgment, turning something uncertain into something dire.
So what if Ephraim blabbed to the press? He didn’t know Neven was alive, and he probably didn’t have sufficient reason to believe that the copy of Hershel’s mind, on the Quarry device, had turned into a whole new Hershel. But even if he did, who was going to listen to Ephraim Fucking Todd?
Everyone knew the guy was out of his goddamn mind. He’d burned an entire island — a beloved archipelago, owned by the century’s foremost icon if you didn’t count Papa Friesh — to ashes. He’d killed people, and it was all caught on MyLife. Anyone knew that Ephraim had lost his grip on reality.
The database was more important. Same for the experiment. In an ideal world, Ephraim would be found and eliminated from the equation, but it wasn’t worth upending the mission for.
Neven was a friend, and Hershel needed him to focus on their shared vision, the one begun by his father. But his taking the Ephraim thing personally was pissing Hershel off.
His chair made slow half-moons. Loose bearings made soft sounds of friction, like fine-grit sandpaper on pine.
He thought back his conversation with Ava. He’d done plenty there — no need to call anyone in for more. The agents were scouring, working with the police as far as they would allow.
Now Ava knew a little more — and Neven, who was smart enough to keep both pots stirring, would be whispering in her ear like he whispered in Kilik’s. With just two days to Jubilee, the city’s energy was rising.
Tomorrow was Procession. Neven may have dropped the report about Ephraim being a terrorist into Ava’s head, and Hershel might be stoking it, but even if those reports were false, Ephraim was out there and would show up.
But part of Hershel wished the reports were true. He wished Clone Ephraim was planning to bomb or rampage at the celebrations, and that he’d do it a day earlier than expected, wiping out the Procession fools instead.
Slow arcs of the chair. Whispering sandpaper. And then the chair stopped.
He’d moved the old Hershel’s nearly forgotten firearm to the desk drawer. He opened it up and looked at the gun.
It was gorgeous. He’d taken it back to Original Hershel’s apartment last night, then stripped and cleaned it. He’d known how to do it all. He even knew about the circular brush in one of Original Hershel’s drawers. He used it to clean the barrel.
It was interesting to know all that Original Hershel had known — to be Original Hershel in every way other than the awareness that he technically wasn’t — and yet hold himself apart as a distinct being.
Not Hershel. Not even New Hershel. Better Hershel.
Like it should be.
Like it would be.
Hershel closed the drawer, turning his attention to the monitor where he’d just told Ava Bloom about a few new credible threats, and all the reasons everyone in New York should be terrified of Ephraim Todd.
He closed one window and opened another.
This backdoor script, if it was to be ready when Hershel entered the Gene Crypt during Jubilee’s confusion, wasn’t going to write itself.
Chapter 30
A Master Liar
Mercer didn’t want to spit any more blood. He might get some on his shirt, and it was filthy enough. If he could get away from Fiona without soiling it more, he might be able to get the stains out.
He swallowed the blood instead, rotating his hands in their cuffs to ease the chafing. Fiona was waiting, sensing a forthcoming reply.
“Let me get this straight,” said Mercer. “The thing that’s bugging you is that Ephraim Todd — the real one, on Eden — didn’t react like you thought he should? That you confronted him with the idea that someone was screwing with the betas and Jonathan might be working against him, and Ephraim acted like the whole idea of a conspiracy was news to him?”
“If Jonathan were working with the clone, wouldn’t real Ephraim have to—?”
“Forget Ephraim. What did Jonathan say, when you talked to Jonathan about this?”
“Jonathan?” Fiona repeated.
“Yes, Jonathan. If you had questions about Jonathan, obviously you talked to Jonathan,” Mercer said, his tone slightly patronizing. The key to selling the Fox was insulting people just enough that they’d leap at your proposed solution because they realized how stupid they’d been without it. It was a fine line. If Fiona felt insulted or patronized by Mercer instead of by herself, it wouldn’t go well.
Fiona didn’t answer, so it was safe to push. “You did talk to Jonathan, right? I mean I know I’ve been around those two more than you have, but you know Jonathan from way back. He’s the brains. Ephraim is, well, he’s Ephraim.”
“Jonathan wouldn’t take my call.”
Mercer laughed. “Okay. Now I get it.”
“What, Mercer? What do you ‘get’?”
“I heard them arguing about this, last time I was there. At first, I didn’t understand, but now it all makes sense. Jonathan was saying that they don’t talk to any outside parties at all. Eden is on blackout except for face-to-face, talking to Mauritius. They won’t take GEM’s calls, and they sure shouldn’t take yours. That’s obviously what it was about.”
“What what was about?”
“I’ll say this slowly, Fiona, because it’s tricky. Are you ready?”
The man beside Fiona put one big fist into his opposite palm. “I know I’m ready.”
“He’s an idiot,” Mercer explained. “He’s not supposed to take any calls, let alone yours. Jonathan knows you; he knows how good you are at manipulation and bullying. He knows about your ability to sniff out the truth when people are trying to hide it.”
Here, Mercer paused a half-second to bask: Everyone except a master liar.
“Jonathan is smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He told Ephraim to do the same. But he didn’t. Why? Repeat after me?”
The second goon recited incorrectly, “‘I want you to punch me a few more times for not getting to the fucking point.’”
Fiona eyed him and he stopped.
“He’s an idiot,” Mercer said, even though no one repeated.
Fiona’s eyes darted around, her mouth still.
“Look,” Mercer said. “By now, I think we all know why Neven and Jonathan decided to clone Ephraim instead of someone else. They needed to send someone after you that they could control, and that meant a clone. Neven didn’t want his profile raised, and you knew Jonathan. But it couldn’t be someone random; it had to be someone that it made sense for you to send. A clone of Ephraim Todd was perfect. You didn’t know him personally, but you knew who he supposedly was. He had a perfect sob story, and they knew you’d see him as an opportunity to spy on Eden. But from the way Neven talked, I think Eden needed that clone because they wanted to spy on you.”
Mercer paused, letting Fiona digest this information. She didn’t know that he knew about the Quarry, but that’s what she’d be thinking: Yes, what Mercer is saying sounds right. Because I did intend to use Ephraim to spy on Eden, but instead, they flipped things around and used him to steal the Quarry instead.
“But there was a problem,” Mercer continued. “‘A clone of Ephraim’ was just about the only thing they could send to you that checked all the boxes. Only Ephraim worked. But Ephraim sucks. He’s lazy, he’s arrogant, he’s a hothead, and he’s a total fucking idiot. You know how Neven was. Just a little crazy, r
ight? Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side, even though he seems so mellow most of the time? He constantly wanted to get rid of Ephraim. Probably wanted to kill him. Jonathan and Neven used to fight about it all the time. He even hit Ephraim with a bat once. Hard. There was blood everywhere.”
“He hit him with a bat?” said the man near the wet bar, sounding jealous.
Mercer nodded, wishing he could touch his forehead for effect to show them all where Ephraim had an unfortunate scar. “Neven said he was turning around to put the bat in a closet and it was an accident, but I think that’s bullshit. It was his father’s bat, and Ephraim had been screwing around with the thing. Neven was pissed. I half think he and Wallace used to go out into the gardens, back in the beginning when it was just them and the dromes, and they were living a little cliché. Neven saw him with the bat, and it was like Ephraim had grabbed his dick.”
“And to be clear,” said the first man, “he hadn’t grabbed Neven’s dick?”
“Quiet,” Fiona snapped.
The van went graveyard silent. Fiona wore her assessing, thinking expression. She was smart. Stupid levels of intelligence. A genius. Mercer was tricky like his surname, but guile alone wouldn’t fool Fiona Roberson. That’s why his story had so much truth, its artifice there to season the meaning.
She looked at Mercer, her stare hard but not icy. He met her gaze, afraid to flinch or worse. This was the moment of truth. His earlier tales — his ignorance as to the cause of the beta thefts and any frame-job on Riverbed, the Quarry, and most of the big picture — hinged on this moment. Fiona was trying to decide if Mercer was right; if Jonathan was conspiring against her with the clone and his brother was only a fool after all.
“All right,” she said.
“All right?” Mercer repeated.
“I don’t like you, Mercer.”
“That’s okay. Really.”
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t use you. I don’t trust you, but I do trust your ability to be bought. So, here’s the first part of my offer: I’ll give you nothing.”
