by Sean Platt
If Sophie was meant to be with one Ephraim Todd, which one was she better off with? The one whose hand had been forced but who had an unremarkable and annoying but otherwise spotless personal record? Or the Ephraim in the Rolls right now, with his history of insanity, paranoia, instability, and multiple murders?
Maybe I can’t be saved, he thought as Papa watched him. Maybe the journey to learn who I am has broken me beyond fixing, and the best thing I can do for Sophie now is to stay away from her.
He sighed.
Papa looked forward, to the sides, all around the car as they skirted the worst of the thrumming festivities and the way slowly cleared. His kind eyes settled on Ephraim. He spoke for him, asking the questions that Ephraim, momentarily hopeless, felt too beaten to ask.
“What do we do,” Papa said as the car turned, making for the Queensboro Bridge across the East River and back to The Vineyard, “is wait. Now that I know what Neven is probably up to, and based on some intelligence my people are sending me now that I know new places to look. My earlier urgency may have been premature. I do think Neven has the Eden database. But if he wants to do what I think he might, it will take time. He will need many clones. I want to beat some bushes. And unless you saw Sophie toss out her Doodad, she probably still has it. If Ephraim is sloppy, we might be able to track it.”
Papa smiled. “The man you left in the street when I picked you up? Mercer Fox?”
Ephraim nodded. The mention of tracking Sophie’s Doodad, though he was afraid to hope, had soothed him some. Papa waited a while to drop that chestnut, apparently wanting Ephraim to see a few truths without it.
“Mercer’s been missing. He’s only recently back. I know he’s been working with Neven. And he came on a boat. A small boat.”
“So?” Ephraim said.
“He works with Eden, too, but that boat didn’t take him all the way into the ocean on the other side of the world. He didn’t come from Eden.”
“You think he came from Neven?”
Papa nodded. “And if he took that small of a boat, it can’t be far. Maybe one of the islands offshore here, held by a dummy company, bribed off the maps like Eden. But now I know where I’m looking, and who to talk to. We’ll find it, with or without anyone else’s help.”
The car came to a sudden stop. Ephraim’s neck whipped, startling him. He looked at Papa, then at the driver.
“Sorry, Papa,” said the driver. “I almost hit that guy. He just walked right in front of the car.”
Ephraim looked. The man was now across the street, walking slowly, uncaring. He was hard to miss. He had to be over seven feet tall, muscular despite his height, dark-skinned in a sleeveless jersey.
“Jerk,” the driver muttered. And the Wraith moved slowly forward.
It stopped again, but this time because some idiot ahead of them had stopped his car and was now standing beside it with his door open. As was the car next to it. This one had his Doodad out, held horizontal as if taking a picture.
The tall black man was now in front of his car, still walking slowly. Why was he back on the street? Was he crazy? Drunk? And this far from Jubilee central, near the expressway?
Except that the man they’d all noticed before was where they’d seen him: walking on the far side of the road. It was an entirely different seven-foot black guy with a broad back in an identical sleeveless jersey that had stopped the other vehicle.
Papa watched through the window, his face wrinkled in confusion. Ephraim was impatient, making reluctant peace with the idea of “waiting to find the Domain” as their solution — maybe it’d take days, hours, a week. He could wait, after sleep and a shower.
“Can we just get around, toward the bridge?”
In a hurry. Exhausted. Ephraim had suffered the world’s longest day, and now he just wanted to go.
But Papa was opening his car door and standing. The driver, too.
Reluctantly, Ephraim did the same.
Many cars were stopped. They were all looking at the two tall men.
The three tall men.
No, wait. Four.
Five.
All seven-foot plus. All African-American. All wearing the same jersey. And all meandering across the street as if they’d just been dropped off from a boat in the East River to make their way to Jubilee in Midtown, blocks and blocks away, where the sky was brilliant with spotlights.
“Hey, Ephraim Fucking TODD! Where you been, man?”
Ephraim turned.
Altruance Brown was behind him.
“Lost you when we went in for Tomorrow Gene. Did you check out or something?”
Ephraim felt disoriented. Like he was back on Eden, the first time, with Altruance and the original Sophie and Gus and Pierra.
“Anyway. Funny to see you, brother.”
Altruance stuck out his hand.
Ephraim shook it, slapped it, went through the whole routine.
“We’re back, man,” Altruance said, grinning wide.
Probably meaning “we” as Altruance and Ephraim, back after their time at the spa.
But Ephraim, looking now across the streets and stopped traffic, could only hear it as a prelude to a polite and slow invasion.
We’re back, man.
Meaning the hundreds of Altruances coming up from the shore, toward the celebration in midtown, all dressed identically, strolling toward downtown with Neven’s terrible news written all over them.
Chapter 49
The Thing About Fire
Timothy opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch.
Morning sun greeted him; red rather than the yellow of midday. Past a patch of scattered pines ahead was the clear azure lake, glassy like always. Sediment stayed on the floor to keep the surface pristine. The stillness comforted Timothy. The world had changed so much. But the lake never did.
He felt eyes on him. It wasn’t a startling sensation — more like a slow dawning of realization. He turned his head and saw Neven in one of the chairs, watching him, his feet in Converse like always, brushing the wood decking of the log cabin’s porch. The look, for the usually-so-guarded seventeen-year-old, might be described as carefree if you didn’t know Neven as well as Timothy did. Wallace had softened so much, and these days Neven was the true son to his old man that he always should have been. But even Neven’s smile had an edge. His eyes were like the lake: still at the bottom, where old wounds settled.
“You’re up early,” Timothy said.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams?”
“It’s too quiet here.”
Timothy’s sipped his coffee before replying. “That’s what I like about it.”
“My mind won’t settle. It keeps running in circles.”
“That’s why we’re here, Neven. We’re teaching our minds to slow down.”
Neven considered. A few years ago, the boy wouldn’t have bothered to think. He would have said something arrogant and insulting. But Neven’s edge, like Wallace’s, had dulled with years. Or perhaps it had retreated, like a protruding bone scarred over with layers of skin.
“Is your dad up yet?”
Neven nodded. “Yeah. He was inside working on his Shoebox when I went in to get some water an hour or so ago. I call it ‘Scrapbooking.’ Dude’s not fooling anyone.”
“He’s always been very precise. Everything is always carefully documented. It’s what makes him an excellent scientist.”
“Yeah, but he’s on vacation.”
“He’s documenting the vacation. He always said that a life worth living is worth recording. You’ll be glad he did it, someday when he’s gone.”
The idea of Wallace dying seemed to dampen Neven’s mood. He looked away and said, “He must have gone on a hike or something if you didn’t see him in there.”
Timothy turned his attention to the lake. To the woods all around the cabin. Neven had gone quiet. Now he’d have to break the ice all over again.
“Does this place suck? Is it stupi
d?”
Neven nodded. “I see. Because I’m a teenager, I’m supposed to say that anything my dad and his buddy do is stupid.”
Neven’s rough edge was peeking out, but Timothy refused to bite. Another sip, then, “I don’t think it sucks.”
“I guess it’s good to get away from Eden for a while,” Neven said.
“It must be terrible there.”
Timothy looked over at the boy, grinning to show his sarcasm. The expression felt dumb, almost dangerous for two long seconds while Neven stared. But then Neven laughed, just a little. It sounded like a trained reflex — something learned.
“Seriously, though,” Timothy said, sitting with one chair between them — always one chair between them when they were alone. “I know Eden is supposed to be paradise. But doesn’t it just feel like your father’s work?”
“I’m fascinated by my father’s work.”
“But no other kids. No school.”
“Dad teaches me everything I need to know.” His eyes returned to the view. “I need to know it all, because some day, Eden will be mine.”
Timothy considered Neven’s profile. In some ways, he was exactly like Wallace. In other, he was very different. They shared the same ambition. They had the same cool, assessing logic. The kind that would understand that sacrificing one life to save thousands made perfect sense, and wouldn’t hesitate at or regret the sacrifice. Neven had Wallace’s chin and the slope of his forehead. He had his father’s hairline. But even Neven’s appearance had its own identity, despite his genetic history. The differences were proof that genes never told the full story — that nature and nurture were both at play. Timothy knew that Neven was a clone of Wallace, but it was so easy to believe that he was merely a son.
Poke him.
“The research your father is doing might allow him to live forever.” He said it casually, almost like a joke. But Neven answered seriously.
“He doesn’t want to live forever.”
“Really?”
“And you know how bad his arthritis has gotten. He doesn’t want to fix that, either.”
“Why?” Timothy knew; Wallace had suffered for years before Neven was born.
“He says that what nature breaks, it’s not our job to fix.”
“Interesting. He told me it was because the research was so different. Cloning, including Precipitous Rise, is about creating something from scratch. Therapy requires taking something that exists and making it better. To focus on therapeutic applications, he’d have to change the work itself. He’d need to divert attention from cloning — and in the end, the work mattered more than his or anyone else’s comfort. Or their lives.”
Timothy thought he might have gone too far. What he’d said was partially true. Wallace fixated on pure cloning, but pushing the process to its limits would never pay the bills. He’d found ways to take the same technology and use it with existing bodies. Eden was becoming half lab, half spa. If he couldn’t build clients’ bodies from scratch to improve them, he could at least build parts, then swap them live. The effects were cosmetic, life-changing only for the vainest clients. They’d argued about it before. There was no point in doing so now — especially with his friend’s son instead of his friend, and especially not when this might the last time they saw each other, given the work that needed to be done.
Neven gave Timothy another of those Wallace-but-not-quite-Wallace looks. It lasted only a second. Then he shrugged and said, “Whatever.”
Timothy sighed. He looked across the lake. “I can’t come back here in the spring.”
“Dad told me.”
“It’s been twice a year for four years now. I’m going to miss this place.”
“We can’t come either. Dad says the border patrols are starting to crack down. Officially, if anyone knew he was in the country, he’d be arrested. He’s a federal criminal, you know.”
“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, and getting to know your father all over again. I’m glad we started this little tradition, and I’m sad to see it go. I’ll be honest. This isn’t easy to arrange. Wallace and I make it happen mainly because we always book the same cabin on a standing arrangement. We leave anything to chance, and it’d fall by the wayside. I’m afraid that’s what might happen now. I was talking to your dad last night, and we promised to find something new. Either he’d invite me to Eden, or we’d find a way to get you back here, or somewhere in between after things change. But we both know that’s probably not going to happen.”
Neven surprised Timothy. He expected a rebuttal — an assurance that their tradition (by Green Lake or elsewhere) would, against all the odds, eventually resume. But Neven, like his father, was a realist. “Probably not,” he said, then snickered. “Besides. It’s not like either of you is willing to be seen with the other.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Timothy. You hanging out with the outlaw geneticist Wallace Connolly? Your followers would hate it. And my dad’s work relies on his reputation. What would it look like if people knew he was talking to you? It’d be like the president consulting a psychic.” Then, as an afterthought he added, “No offense.”
Timothy sipped his coffee. The woods, around the lake, were quiet save the rustle of birds.
“Neven, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to offer you a bit of advice.”
“Is this advice from Timothy, my dad’s friend? Or from ‘Papa Friesh’ of The Change?”
“It’s from me to you. Man to man.”
Neven’s attention sharpened. The boy was strange, and some of the things he casually mentioned scared Timothy a little. But no teen boy was immune to the pride that came with being addressed as a man.
“You know our past. Your father’s and mine, I mean.”
Neven nodded.
“We were best friends. Spent tons of time together. But in our heads, I think we were always making something, even when we were playing. When we built with Legos, there was a purpose. He’d create, and I’d shape. We’d draw the blueprints together, each contributing our style. By the time we were your age, we’d dreamed up half a dozen businesses and launched two or three depending on which ones you count as legit. But our roles, in business and play, were always the same. Wallace was the visionary, and I was the articulator. Your father dreamed big and pushed limits, and I found ways to make those big dreams fit into the real world. Without him, I never would have taken the risks we took together — or the risks I’ve taken on my own since. And without me, a lot of your father’s ideas would never have left the ground. They were too grand — too much dream and not enough substance.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But in addition to being vision and articulation, your dad and I were also yin and yang. Yang is harsh, bold, and aggressive. Yin is calming — the voice that says to look before you leap. There were so many times that Wallace forced me to be daring in ways that don’t come naturally to me. But there were also many times that I blunted something he’d gotten into his head but hadn’t thought enough about. Times when he wanted to be impulsive, sometimes acting out of anger or hurt pride, and I made him stop to consider. And after he had time to sit with those ideas, he always thanked me, just like I thanked him for pushing me.”
Timothy took a slow breath.
“Your father and I made a great pair. After our falling-out, I think we became better men, tough as that was. I feel Wallace’s influence on me, urging me to think bigger. He’s said he felt my influence on him, telling him to slow down and think. But neither of us used to be that way. It took trauma. For your father, especially. It wasn’t until after—” He minded his words. Careful, now. “—until a while after you were born that he moderated.”
“Moderated how?”
“Some of the things he talked about doing with Eden, back before it even existed, scared me. The ideas were too daring. He wanted to change the world. Still does. But now he’ll change it better because he’s a little older and a little wiser. Because he’s
learned to add some yin to his usual yang, he’ll be more effective.”
“Why would slowing down make him more effective?”
“Because your father always wanted to push harder than the world could accept. The ways he’s pushing now, with Eden?” Timothy gave a small nod, sipping after. “Those ways, the world is willing to try.”
Timothy hoped Neven wouldn’t push. If he asked what Wallace’s proposed missions for Eden had been, Timothy wasn’t sure what he’d say. He could hide those things, pretend he didn’t know. But Wallace was indeed a precise documenter, and somewhere in Eden’s archives his frightening ideas were surely laid out. And like Neven had already pointed out, Eden and its work would belong to him some day — sooner rather than later if Wallace’s health was beginning to fail just as Timothy thought it might be.
“Why are you telling me this?” Neven asked.
“I want you to know that I’ll always be here if you need me.”
“Why would I need you?” A beat, then. “I mean, thanks, but I have my dad.”
“If you ever need another opinion or advice. About anything.” Or once your father is dead, and your hands are on the wheel of his big, bad machine.
“I’ve got Jonathan Todd, too.”
“Yes, but you and Jonathan don’t always get along, do you?”
Neven shrugged.
“I can’t keep coming here, but I’ll keep an eye on you.” Timothy scrambled; that implied the wrong things. “And your father, I mean. I’ll keep an eye on Eden. I want to watch it all grow, with pride. But I can only help if you ask, Neven. Please keep it in mind. If any idea you have feels too big, for example. I’ll always be here, as your articulator. Just like I was for your father.”
“Thanks.”
But it almost had a question mark at the end, as if Neven either didn’t understand the offer or thought it was ridiculous and was merely being polite.
It probably sounded absurd. From where Neven stood, Wallace was in perfect health, and would be at Eden’s helm for many more years, with Jonathan Todd by his side. And more troubling: from Neven’s perspective, his biggest, most aggressive, least-thought-out ambitions (or Wallace’s, if Neven found them) probably didn’t feel like they needed tempering.
