The Eden Experiment

by Sean Platt

  The man said, “I forgot the way,” then he put his hand on Ephraim’s back, pushed him into the room, and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 22

  A STEEP PRICE

  The door clanged, leaving Ephraim in the dark.

  In front of him was a thick black curtain. He found it after grasping around in panic. But the closed door was behind him, which on closer inspection turned out to be locked.

  Ephraim was stuck here, in this black anteroom; a foyer of sorts, partitioned from a larger room beyond the heavy drape.

  He was trapped.

  But not alone.

  He crept forward, finding the drape by feel. There wasn’t much more illumination past the drape than there was by the door.

  He pulled it back and peered through. It took his eyes a minute to adjust.

  Beyond the curtain was a large open space filled with naked people. Doing everything. All at once. Over and over.

  Ephraim, fully dressed and out of place, watched for several long seconds, his muscles now piano wire. Most of the experience was auditory, the visuals limited to flesh in the shadows. He heard shouts. Grunts. Screams. Begging. Pleading.

  A hand grabbed his left forearm, making him jump. He felt himself being dragged away. He moved through a second drape and stood in yet another hallway, this one shorter than the rest. Relief filled Ephraim as light past the new drape washed from above. A shockingly modest office stood to one side, its door open. And in front of him, wearing an oily smile and relinquishing his seized arm, was Mercer Fox.

  “Tell me you got the steak.”

  “I—”

  But Mercer didn’t seem to care. As someone from beyond the drape growled an obscene command, Mercer glanced back, then rolled his eyes.

  “Animals. The people who come here like to call that room back there ‘The Pile.’ Because they just pile on, get it? It’s like Twister without the spinner. Or, fuck, with the spinner. It’s amazing, the ways they keep finding to stick the same old shit into the same old places. And new shit. You should see the toys they use in The Pile. They’re not toys. More like weapons. Watching that shit out there? It’s not like watching people fuck. It’s more like watching rats give birth. Anyway. Come in. Mi casa es su casa.” And he gave Ephraim a shove, more insisting they enter the office than inviting him in.

  With the door closed, Ephraim couldn’t hear the ecstasy-slash-discomfort coming from The Pile. Once alone, the place was just another office, with a trio of MyLife jammers in the corners.

  Mercer sat. “You like what you see?”

  “Um …”

  “Well. Not all of it, probably. You don’t strike me as a ‘Pile’ sort of guy. Or a dungeon sort of guy for that matter. But you like the rest.”

  It wasn’t a question, so Ephraim dodged the answer. If Mercer wanted to believe he was on board with all the prostitution and deviant sex play, fine.

  “You wanted me to see this place?” Ephraim asked.

  “You wanted to see it.”

  “And you got that from my web search? Did you lead me here because I searched for …?”

  Mercer gave him a confused look.

  “If you wanted me to come down here,” Ephraim said, changing the topic, “why didn’t you just lead the way? Why the thing with the quarter?”

  “Access to this place is monitored by machines. You need a coded invitation. It’s complicated.”

  “What’s with the rooms along the corridors? If the room we just came from is ‘The Pile,’ what do you call those?”

  “Wildcards. They’re like hotel rooms. Totally private. Anything goes inside. Some girls like to choke guys. Some guys like to choke girls. Sometimes the one being choked is into it, and sometimes they aren’t. Lots of combos. People sometimes fight, or they’ll bring their own baggage.”

  This gave Ephraim a chill because he assumed “baggage” referred to people dragged in against their will. Mercer kept going.

  “Or maybe you’re into getting really fucked up. Not just getting your tip licked, just getting fucking blasted. That’s what’s up with the Wildcards. People do whatever they want in those rooms. I don’t know — or want to know — half of it. People check in with suitcases and sometimes need a gurney to wheel shit out. Whatever. I don’t pry; none of my business. Point is, you’ve got a full menu. So. I hear you roll. What’s your pleasure?”

  Ephraim blinked. All of Mercer’s examples had been about abuse and pain. Didn’t people ever want pleasure in their sex?

  “You heard I roll?”

  Mercer shrugged. “You know what I mean. You had the 114 address and the egg password. That’s all I care about. Confidentiality matters, so I’m not inclined to ask a lot of questions. You know the right people in the right places, and vouched-for is vouched-for.” He spread his arms and grinned. “You tell me, Mr. Todd. How can I help you? I’m here to serve my VIPs.”

  “Confidentiality matters, but you know my name?”

  “Sure, I know it. But because ‘confidentiality matters,’ I’m not gonna tell anyone else.”

  “The girl in the jazz room knew my name, too.”

  Mercer shrugged as if Ephraim were nitpicking.

  “Who vouched for me?” But that sounded like a question he wouldn’t ask if he belonged here, so Ephraim softened it. “I mean, I wasn’t sure exactly who’d end up vouching.”

  A smile at the corner of Mercer’s mouth. “There’s that confidentiality again. You trying to test my willingness to violate privacy, Mr. Todd?” He stressed the name just enough that Ephraim decided Fox-brand confidentiality was a one-way street.

  Ephraim weighed possible responses. If he’d been vouched for, he didn’t know who’d done it, or more importantly, why. But he was in a dungeon and Mercer was the only way out; and, as luck would have it, he was a ripe source for exactly the information Ephraim had been seeking.

  He plucked up his courage. If he was fucked either way, he might as well take advantage.

  “‘I’m looking for a tall order,” Ephraim said, trying to sound like a high-roller.

  “Name it.”

  “I want to …” Damn. He wasn’t even sure he could say it aloud. “I sort of want to own someone.”

  “We have a lot to choose from. Just not kids. I draw the line at selling kids.” Mercer said the last part sternly, making it clear he took a righteous stand against the world’s perverts. “I’ll need to pass you to a partner if that’s what you’re into. I don’t deal in ordinary trafficking directly.”

  Mercer raised an eyebrow as if trying to see if Ephraim would call it out. Do you want what’s “ordinary,” Mr. Todd? Or something a bit more extraordinary?

  “What I want isn’t exactly ordinary,” Ephraim said.

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s a bit unusual.”

  “Hmm. Then maybe you should just tell me what you want, instead of beating around the fucking bush?”

  “You act like you already know.”

  “I might. You came to the back door. You had the password. But before I tip my head back and offer my throat for slashing, I’ll need to hear you say it aloud.”

  Ephraim’s hands worked in his lap. He’d started sweating. They understood each other, all right. If Ephraim asked directly, television’s lesson said that proved he wasn’t a cop. If an officer asked an incriminating question and Mercer answered, he’d hold “entrapment” as his ace.

  Still, Ephraim’s words were hard to force out.

  “I want to buy someone famous. Someone well-known.”

  At first, Ephraim thought he’d made a terrible mistake.

  Mercer narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward over the pressed-wood desk. This office suited the strange man; both bargain-basement with a surface-level gloss. Nice try more than hot property. But the same things that made Mercer seem like a poseur made him seem dangerous, too. Kingpins tended to play straight, but scrappers played both sides for insurance. They sold depravity, then recorded it to use as blackmail on the
back end.

  But instead of pouncing, Mercer relaxed. He sat back. His flimsy metal chair squeaked. He’d stopped seeming suspicious and now looked merely disbelieving.

  “Famous people don’t usually sell themselves as whores,” he said.

  “Maybe for a high enough price, they would.”

  “Who sent you, again? You said you don’t know specifically.” An expression met “specifically,” making it clear he wasn’t fooled. “But who in general?”

  “Like you said, confidentiality matters, Mr. Fox.”

  “Your references are my business.”

  Time to up the ante.

  Ephraim faked an annoyed shrug. “Kick me out if you don’t believe me! Maybe I don’t give a shit whether you take my ‘business’ or not.”

  Mercer held Ephraim’s stare, sizing him up. This was a game of chicken, and Ephraim was a terrible liar. Fortunately, his time on Eden had made him much better.

  Mercer reached for a tablet, then slid it forward. “Deposit first. Then we talk.”

  Ephraim was seeing Mercer’s seams. He could win this gambit. He crossed his arms. “I’m not giving you a goddamn deposit.”

  “Just verify the funds. I can’t show my best wares to someone who can’t pay.”

  “If I verify, can you provide?”

  “I can and I will. But only after you verify funds.”

  Ephraim gave Mercer an assessing stare to hide his nervous breath. He’d anticipated this when he’d started looking for clones stateside, but in the moment of truth it was hard to put his thumb on the tablet.

  Fiona had never cut him off; he had access to the covert Riverbed account. But in this dark, underground place, he was suddenly terrified that it wouldn’t work. Maybe Fiona closed his access just this morning, and the second Ephraim tried to verify would be the second that sealed his doom.

  “Come on, Champ,” Mercer said, nudging the tablet. “Help me help you.”

  Ephraim forced his hand not to tremble and jabbed his thumb into the square. Mercer took the tablet, tapped it a few times, and said, “Damn. Okay, no problems with your credit, my friend. You roll indeed.”

  Relief came hard. As Mercer turned to place the tablet behind him, Ephraim closed his eyes and breathed slowly. It was hard, before Mercer turned back, to re-compose himself. But with effort, he did, and became once again just another buyer of human beings here on high-end business.

  “So,” Mercer said, his smile returning with his faith in Ephraim, “if you could ‘have’ anyone in the world, no matter how famous, who would it be?”

  Ephraim shrugged, pretending he needed to think before answering. Then he said, “How about Sophie Norris?”

  Mercer gave a half-chuckle. “It’s hard to imagine Sophie doing what you probably want her to do though, right?”

  “That’s the problem with celebrities.”

  “The original Sophie Norris wouldn’t do it, anyway. But maybe that’s a drop in the bucket because there are other downsides to the original. She’s old, for one. I’m guessing a strapping fella like yourself wants someone younger. Fresher.”

  “So maybe not the original Sophie.”

  Mercer nodded for Ephraim to go on. To be more specific. Finally, when Ephraim didn’t continue, Mercer said, “I’m going to need you say it, friend.”

  “Say what?”

  “Don’t turn into a little bitch now. We both know that if I had something to show you, it wouldn’t be the actual Sophie Norris. She’s in LA making movies. You came here knowing what you were after, and it’s like Sophie but not really Sophie. I just need you to say what that thing is in plain English.”

  Fine. Ephraim sucked up the crumbs of his courage.

  “A clone,” he said.

  “A what?”

  “A clone of Sophie Norris. I know they exist.”

  “That’s some pretty crazy shit you’re spinning, friend. Clones? That’s right out of some crazy-ass movie.”

  Now it was Ephraim’s turn to cross his arms and lean back. To raise his eyebrows. Finally, Mercer tipped his head, half-laughed, and reached to rotate his screen for Ephraim. He seemed about to touch something on it, but then he paused as if forgetting one final bit of business. He met Ephraim’s eyes, all mirth gone.

  “Fine. Clones it is. But they’re grown and specially trained. Lots of work and resources go into my merchandise, so you know that doesn’t come cheap.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten million credits.”

  “It’s not a problem.” And if Fiona minded the expense, she could run the next espionage errand to Eden her damn self.

  Mercer took a second to digest Ephraim’s immediate response, then nodded curtly.

  “I don’t have a Sophie right now. “My supplier is working on the line, but production is way behind. They’ve had setbacks. If you want a Sophie, there’s going to be a wait. Here. Let me show you what we have in stock.”

  He tapped his screen. A new window appeared. In it, Ephraim saw what seemed to be surveillance video of a woman in a simple dress — or maybe more like a robe, one step above a hospital johnny. She was young, maybe in her early twenties. Raven black hair, long and lean. She walked one way under the camera, and when she turned, Ephraim could see her sharp green eyes and full, pouting lips. From the angle of the camera, he couldn’t determine the size of the room, but it seemed small based on her pacing. Maybe the size of a jail cell.

  “This is an Evangeline. Hot as fuck, and she’s here in the building, right down the hall. Recognize her?”

  Ephraim looked closer. The woman in the video seemed to be wearing makeup, amateurishly applied. But even without Hollywood styling, it was clear who he was looking at: a decades-younger version of Evangeline Walsh, star of HBO’s Wrecked. She was even on the cover of this month’s Entertainment Weekly. Ephraim had noticed it while browsing digital magazines yesterday morning, looking for a way to kill time.

  “Hot temper on this one. We sent the first Evangelines back, insisting the supplier turn their temperament way down. Not all the way. The Evangeline line has a lot of spunk. I can’t take you to meet her because we follow a strict imprinting protocol, but if I did, she wouldn’t cower; she’d yell at you. Might even come at you with claws out. She screams at the people who bring her food even though she can’t see them through her door.”

  Then, seeing the shock on Ephraim’s face, Mercer raised a hand.

  “Oh, don’t worry. She’s not violent, just feisty. The shop taught her language in accented English, so she’s got a tinge of Russian just like the original Evangeline, and that makes everything she yells that much feistier. Funny thing is she’s meant to be just as spirited with her owner. The line is conditioned that way. We have video of a different Evangeline in action with her buyer if you want to see it. She tells the guy she’ll rip his balls off, then fucks him blue. It looks like a fight the guy doesn’t want to win. Hot. And this one here? She rubs one out at night sometimes, swearing under her breath the entire time.”

  Mercer touched the screen again. A new video feed magnified from a block of thumbnails, and the Evangeline footage was replaced by a petite brunette with a turned-up nose and elfin features.

  “Is that Lilian Fey?” Ephraim asked, leaning in.

  Mercer nodded. “Lilian at about 22 years old. We have clients interested in older models, but the older ones are niche and have to be grown custom. Most of our base stock is between twenty and thirty, though some of the men tend older.” He chuckled. “Sexist, am I right? But lucky for us, guys are considered hotter for longer.”

  Ephraim looked up. Mercer wasn’t remotely attractive. He wouldn’t mature like a fine wine; he’d shrivel like a grape in the sun.

  “But if you’re into that,” Mercer added, “you can also just hang on to the one you have instead of trading it in after a few years. It’ll age.”

  “They age?”

  “Sure they do. They’re just like people.”

  That wasn’t quite
right, as Ephraim understood it. The clones weren’t like people. They were people — just without childhoods and with someone else’s memories.

  Mercer tapped the screen. The video vanished.

  “I could take you through the whole catalog if you’d like. I can even do a side-by-side thing where I show you a photo of a clone next to a red-carpet photo of the original at about the same age. You won’t be able to tell them apart, and we have plenty to choose from. The whole rainbow. Like, who’s that Indian actress. Nisha something? Anyway, we have two of her right now. And a few men, if you swing that way.”

  “I want Sophie Norris.”

  “They’re back ordered. I’ll be lucky if I get one in the first batch, and it might take—”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You sure? Evangeline’s a firebrand. I tried one of the discards once before shipping her back. Holy shit. My dick still hurts. You know, in a good way.”

  “I’m sure. Sophie.”

  “Look, I’ll be honest,” Mercer said, his expression falling. “I’m not even sure I can promise that the single Sophie we might get won’t already be spoken for by the time—”

  “I’ll pay twelve million instead of ten. In full. Today.”

  But despite the confidence he was trying to project, it wasn’t lost on Ephraim that he was negotiating to buy the life of a human being. He kept telling himself, I’m getting proof against Eden. I’m stopping this. I’m saving the real Sophie. And the clone.

  “All right. Man knows what he wants.” Mercer began shuffling papers, opening files on his machine.

  “How long will it be?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do they have them in stock on E … at your supplier?”

  Mercer didn’t look up. He either hadn’t noticed Ephraim’s near-mention of Eden or for some inexplicable reason didn’t care that his new client knew more than he should.

  “Also not sure. I just know they’re backed up on delivery.”

  “If they have one,” Ephraim said, suddenly realizing that the adrenaline that had pushed him this far was fading. Now he had to crap his pants. “I want her on a plane immediately. Today.”