by Sean Platt
He descended the few short steps in the dark, turned on the light, and saw the stark room for what it was: a concrete-walled basement with a staircase to one side. Beside the chair he’d vacated was the small, flat “Hopper” device he tried not to think too much about. It was about the size of a coaster, octagonal and painted a violent red.
“Let me see you,” Neven said.
In the room’s corner, atop a white plastic plinth that rose six inches from the floor and covered by thick optical cables, a six-foot hologram shimmered into existence. For a few seconds, he saw all blue flashes, semi-transparent. Then it became Wallace Connolly. The image appeared as “Wallace” always looked in Eden’s famous commercials; wearing a white tunic, his beard gray, hands clasped serenely at his waist.
“You didn’t go through this, Dad,” Neven repeated. “Not when I was born and not before you died.”
The irony of speaking to someone — digital or not — as if its own death was in the past wasn’t lost on Neven, but the AI running the hologram didn’t seem to notice or care.
“I chose not to,” Wallace’s doppelgänger said.
“But all of this … what I’m doing down here. It was your vision.”
“You were my vision, Neven.”
Neven sighed again. He could keep talking to the hologram as if it were his father, but doing so wouldn’t grant any real insight. Most of the hologram’s guts were run by commercial scripts sent up by Eden PR. The AI that Neven had added was, in theory, meant to make the hologram more personable. Only in retrospect had Neven seen how much of “real Wallace” his subconscious had stuffed into the hologram, like he was trying to make a puppet father to replace his lost father. He’d left the AI work incomplete, feeling pathetic enough for the hologram’s faux-paternal answers to embarrass him, but not so pathetic that he stopped asking questions.
“Why did I build you?” Neven muttered.
It was rhetorical, but the hologram heard him. It moved subtly, exhibiting the “thinking” behavior that always showed when someone asked something too far off-script — the 3D equivalent of a progress bar. Finally, unable to cobble a pseudo-intelligent response, it replied as it always did. “I don’t know.”
“I should have let Public Relations keep you. You’re not Wallace Connolly. Wallace Connolly is dead.”
“Death makes life meaningful,” the hologram said. “Living only has purpose because it eventually ends.”
And boy, did Neven know that line. It was the first one he’d taught the AI after the real Wallace died. Neven didn’t even know why he’d done it until after he had; he only knew that his father’s health had been poor for months and that Eden needed commercials. They’d created the hologram as a solution. It was never meant to become therapy. But that was something the real Wallace had said right up to the end, sure as anything.
Living only has purpose because it ends.
A strange thing to say, but exactly what Neven needed to hear.
Neven looked at the projected image of his father now, irritated for no reason. Or maybe there was a reason. In a way, Neven was dying, too — and not eager to go quietly into that good night.
“Maybe life doesn’t end. Maybe the Church of The Change has it right.”
Neven didn’t believe it, not for a second. But right now, he felt like fighting. Like seeking pain to know he could still feel.
“Maybe,” said the hologram.
“My father would never have said that,” Neven replied. “He’d never buy into bullshit like The Change.”
“And maybe,” the hologram replied, “you don’t know everything about your father after all.”
Neven bit his lip. Whatever this was, it wasn’t worth it.
“Tell me about the Riverbed project.”
With his hands shaking, he went to the bank of light switches to turn on the rest of the room’s lights. With the last of the dim, the room’s dark mood vanished. A man couldn’t dwell in shadows when his space was awash with light.
“You should consult with Jonathan. He’s been monitoring the Riverbed situation. Jonathan has all the required access to—”
“Jonathan doesn’t have as much access as me, does he?” Neven shot back. “If he did, he’d be in charge. But he’s not. I am. And I asked you a fucking question.”
Jesus Christ, he thought, hearing himself. Do you want a punching doll until you’re through this little tantrum?
He breathed. Slowly.
“Just tell me what the system knows,” Neven said more calmly.
“The virus that Jonathan installed as a trojan in his own clone’s MyLife has been transferred to the Riverbed servers,” said the hologram. “Just as Jonathan anticipated, Ephraim Todd’s clone took it to Fiona Roberson, who’s already taken some information off the device and is trying to extract more. And with it, she’s taken our virus.”
“So, Ephraim’s clone thinks it stole that MyLife from us. He thinks that I didn’t want him to take it and that I tried sincerely to get it back.”
“Correct. From what we can tell, he does not realize you let him leave Eden on purpose. His conditioning is more or less intact.”
“Go on.”
“According to Jonathan’s journal entries in the upstairs lab, the virus is pinging back from Riverbed. However, it’s been unable to spread beyond a firewall on Fiona’s terminal. Until it does, it cannot access what Evermore requires.”
“Jonathan said that might be an issue. Fiona is smarter than to put all her eggs in one basket. But wasn’t there supposed to be a way around the firewall? Didn’t Jonathan build that ability into the virus, anticipating this hurdle?”
“Yes. But there is an inherent problem when trying to program a virus to face an unknown firewall.”
“The fact that it’s unknown,” Neven said.
Wallace’s visage nodded. “Correct.”
Neven watched the hologram. He couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t yet shaken off the dreamy threads of their earlier conversation. For long seconds, it was possible to believe that the real Wallace Connolly was standing before him. The thing on the white plinth looked almost solid. Its only tells were its subtle lack of human scent and the way his voice came from its feet — speakers in the projector rather than the apparition’s mouth and lungs.
“Then the virus isn’t working. It isn’t doing what Jonathan hoped it would.”
“Also correct.”
“It’s okay. The virus was always Plan B. Ephraim’s clone is Plan A, and he’s in play.”
“Are you sure, Neven?” the hologram asked.
“We have his frequency. The virus did at least that much while Jonathan’s MyLife was in his possession.”
“Correct. We have direct access to the clone Ephraim’s MyLife. Jonathan has been tampering with his memories and experience already.”
“He needs to be careful,” Neven said. “We need him to bend, but we can’t break him.”
“Noted. For your part of the record, the Riverbed project is on track.”
Neven consulted his internal compass to guide his next decision. The team had returned to Eden from the ocean platform, finding the essential underground labs untouched by the fire just as expected. Ephraim’s clone was on the mainland, also as expected, connecting not just with Fiona Roberson, but Sophie Norris and Hershel Wood as well. The phoenix was indeed rising, even if you had to look closely at the ashes to see it.
“More or less,” he answered.
Neven went to the small table beside the gel-filled chair, noted the lack of flashing lights on the Hopper’s ports, and pulled the cable from the rear of the device. He turned it over in his hands, feeling its eight corners, a bit too fascinated by its blood-red casing. Then he slipped it into his pocket.
Neven headed for the stairs. In the aboveground lab, Jonathan would be hard at work, checking the clone Ephraim’s reports and what little data the virus had sent back from Fiona’s computers. There would be things up there for Neven to do, and
petty squabbles to be had between them.
And he’d have to face Ephraim — the real Ephraim Todd in blood and body. But wasn’t Ephraim’s clone also “true in blood and body” — perhaps even more so than the original? Hadn’t Wallace always insisted that cloning was the more faithful process — that a cloned brother was closer, on an organic level, than a biological one?
None of it mattered. It only mattered that there was work to be done.
And with the Ephraim clone’s conditioning hitting all of the embedded triggers (and with Jonathan now hacking access to the clone’s MyLife signal as well), there would be plenty of work.
Neven ascended the stairs and killed the lights behind him.
In the new darkness, Wallace’s hologram continued to glow.
“Neven,” it said.
Neven turned back. He waited.
“It’s okay to be afraid.”
CHAPTER 7
INTERCEPTED
Ephraim fidgeted, out of place in his formal suit. He’d bought it ten years ago for Jonathan’s memorial service, which he’d finally held after enough calls and messages went unanswered that Jonathan’s banking began to pile up. At that point, it had become simpler, administratively speaking, to have him declared dead. A funeral absent one body was the logical follow-up.
The suit was jet black and far too sober for the affair he circulated through now. He should have opted for gray. Maybe a dark navy. Both would be more versatile than black. This was supposed to be a party, but in his glum attire, Ephraim felt like an undertaker.
Ephraim couldn’t remember a single detail. That whole period, traumatic as it had been, was a bottomless pit in Ephraim’s memory. Obviously, he’d bought the suit, but where? When exactly? What had the salesperson looked like, and how much had Ephraim paid?
He had no idea. It was as if he’d never actually bought the suit at all — and yet here it was on his narrow shoulders. He barely remembered the memorial, come to think of it. He’d knew he’d held a small service. He knew he’d cried. But beyond that, Ephraim couldn’t recall.
Just like he couldn’t remember other missing wedges from his past.
Like his childhood street address.
Or Jonathan’s birthday.
Or his absentee father’s name. And damn, hadn’t he just remembered that one after forgetting a first time?
You’re going through a rough patch, Ephraim told himself. It’s natural to feel a little disoriented.
But there were also other things. Troubling things. Three or four times now, he’d tried to unlock cars that weren’t his — cars that looked nothing like his. Yesterday he’d come back from the grocery store without any meat. He’d written three kinds of meat on his list, but then he remembered that he’d always been a vegetarian.
He needed to make an appointment with Dr. Scully, his psychiatrist.
And he needed to call a tech about getting his MyLife implant fixed.
But he knew what both would say, more and more. Your MyLife is fine, Mr. Todd. It’s you that’s broken.
Ephraim blinked hard, trying to reset. He didn’t need these thoughts right now. Not now of all times.
He looked from his polished shoes to a row of pots on a shelf beside him, each holding a bright yellow orchid. Fiona knew how to decorate, and throw a formal party. It was too bad that Ephraim had no idea how to act, or deal with the arguments inside his mind.
He looked up, scanning the room for Hershel Wood, whom he’d recognize from the photos he’d discovered online. Wood wanted to meet him? Maybe wanted to interrogate him, with the resulting judgment likely to swing in either direction? Fine. Then Ephraim would be proactive. He’d go to Wood instead of waiting for the man to come to him. Wasn’t that why he’d come tonight? This was a GEM fundraiser, held by Fiona, and Wood was the head of GEM. What better time and place was there for Fiona to introduce them as mutual friends?
Go, a voice inside him urged. Go and—
But then there was a stabbing sensation inside his head, jarring his vision. The world glitched. Then it glitched again. Recovering, Ephraim moved his finger to the small MyLife controls behind his ear. If it was going to glitch, he’d just power it down.
“Is it your implant?” said a voice.
Ephraim turned to see a familiar tall man behind him. He had thin, dark brown hair that was perfectly parted, medium length. Slight receding hairline. He had serious eyes and was wearing a nondescript black suit, white shirt, and matching black tie.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your MyLife implant. Fiona tells me you’ve been having trouble.” Then, getting nothing, he extended a hand. “I’m Hershel Wood.”
“Oh,” Ephraim said, shaking the man’s hand. “Ephraim Todd.”
“I know. Fiona suggested that we talk. She said you wanted to meet me.”
“Oh,” Ephraim repeated, a little flustered. Yes, he’d meant to meet Wood. But he hadn’t yet psyched himself up.
“She does that,” Wood said.
“Does what?”
“Makes matches, whether they want to be made or not. She says, ‘You two should know each other,’ and then she goes away and leaves two strangers to figure each other out. So,” he said, raising a drink in the general direction of Ephraim’s face, “is something wrong with your implant?”
Ephraim slipped the finger from behind his ear. It had spontaneously started working again. Nothing to see here. “I guess not.”
Wood nodded as if he knew something about Ephraim’s MyLife that Ephraim didn’t. “We have a date, you and I.”
“A date?”
“For an interview. About the Eden affair.”
“Oh.” He’d known this was coming, but it wasn’t any fun regardless.
“Tell you the truth, Mr. Todd. Fiona—”
“Call me Ephraim,” Ephraim blurted.
Wood took a well-bred moment to settle, or perhaps to let Ephraim regain his dignity. Then he continued.
“All right, Ephraim. Fiona Roberson and her company have donated a lot of money to GEM. To my campaigns in particular. She’s gracious, always good to us. Even got us some great vodka for this little shindig. You been to the bar?” Wood raised his tumbler.
Ephraim shook his head.
“But even with all of her generosity, that doesn’t mean I believe — or can be persuaded to believe — what I’ve read of your story. But to be fair, I don’t disbelieve it, either.”
Ephraim waited for more. There didn’t seem to be any. Apparently, Fiona’s plan to swing Wood’s vote had already failed — and without Ephraim even opening his mouth to stick a foot in it.
They stood in silence, quiet amid the party’s chatter.
“I believe in being direct,” Wood finally said. “I’m here because this is a GEM fundraiser, but there’s no logical reason for your presence. So, when Fiona contacted my office and said you’d ‘just so happen’ to be at this event and that we should talk, I smelled an agenda. Fiona always has one. Have you ever noticed that about her, Ephraim?”
Ephraim nodded. Across the room, a group of people he’d never seen was staring right at him. They looked like GEM agents. Or plainclothes cops.
“How long have you known her?”
Ephraim turned his head toward Wood, away from the group. “What?”
“Fiona. How long have you known her?”
“A few years.” But for a weird moment, he wasn’t sure that was right.
“What do you do, Ephraim?”
The truth was, he worked for Fiona. Off the books. For more money than he deserved, because he was conducting corporate espionage.
“I’m currently unemployed.”
“I thought you lived in the 660 building? That’s a nice part of town.”
Ephraim suppressed his first question: How do you know where I live? Instead, he said, “I had savings before I lost my job.”
“Must be burning through it fast, living somewhere so expensive. You’re looking for work, I assume?”<
br />
Ephraim nodded.
“I see. What kind of job are you hoping to find?”
“I’m sorry,” Ephraim said. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Just making small talk.”
“I’m considering a few different options.”
It was both vague and true. Ephraim hoped Wood wouldn’t press for details.
Wood sipped his drink and looked around the room, turning so he was more side-on to Ephraim than facing him. Ephraim looked up at the man and noticed his upturned eyebrows, like the diagonal shape of a horned owl’s temples. They made his gaze look severe. Assessing.
“I’m curious,” he said after an appraising moment. “Seems to me, Fiona and Wallace Connolly are in the same line of work.”
“Were,” Ephraim corrected.
“Yes. Were. You claim that Connolly is dead and that the world has been watching a hologram.” The statement came out neutral, unclear whether Wood believed it or not.
“That’s right.”
“Do you think the hologram was destroyed in the fire?”
“How could it have been? It’s a hologram.”
“That’s right. And if that’s true, then someone has been writing its lines for Eden’s commercials. It would be stored on a hard drive somewhere. There would be off-site backups, just in case.” Hershel turned to Ephraim. “So why do you think we haven’t heard from Wallace if he’s just a hologram and didn’t die in the fire? Eden burned to nothing. The world is waiting for a statement.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d expect Eden to vilify you. Or at least to check in, regardless of blame. But there’s been nothing at all.”
“Maybe that’s because I’ve been telling the truth. The minute anyone from Eden speaks up, people will rush in to help them. And if anyone goes to Eden now, they’ll find evidence of everything I’ve told your agents.”
"But there’s not a single shred of it. And yet you seem so stuck on that, from what I hear. Why should we believe you?”
“I brought back a—”
“A MyLife. I’ve heard. From a ‘clone’ of your brother, also presumed deceased. But there’s no record of you entering a MyLife into evidence, same as there’s no proof.”
