The Eden Experiment

by Sean Platt

  “That, I know they can’t do.”

  “I’ll pay more. Another half-million—”

  “Slow down, Rockefeller,” Mercer said, shuffling files. “Ain’t a matter of money. Believe me, I’ll take all you want to give, but nothing gets one on a plane today. These things aren’t blow-up dolls or some kidnapped girl from a Tijuana alley. You’re getting a fully custom replication. You’re not buying a suit off the rack. You’re getting measured by a world class tailor, for a bespoke woman made just for you.”

  “I thought they were standard copies, already made?”

  “‘They’re more or less the same physically. But up here—” Mercer tapped his head. “—there’s always leeway built in. Like I said about our Evangeline. The real Evangeline Walsh, if you put her in a little room and wouldn’t let her out, would rake the eyes out of the first person she saw, even if that person was her mother. The real Evangeline can’t control her temper. Search online and you’ll see, everyone says she’s a legendary bitch.”

  Mercer laughed, pleased with himself. “But this one is toned way the fuck down, to make her docile enough to be of use. They’re also made more sexual. You’d be surprised by how many famously hot people are total ice queens. Or kings, come to think about it. Which is another point. Mostly men buy these things, and some of them want a handsome male movie star to stick it in. A few Hollywood guys are gay, but not all of the ones we offer. They need time to program the clones to suit — to make them gay per the client’s needs.”

  Ephraim shifted in his chair. It wasn’t possible to be less comfortable in any place, with any conversation.

  “Now just think about what you’re demanding, with your whole ‘throw one on a plane right now’ bullshit. What makes you think that the real Sophie Norris would be into you? The old way of handling the sex trade is hard. You pretty much have to force them into having sex, or I guess if you’re smart you can find a way to brainwash them. Stockholm Syndrome; I don’t fucking know. That’s not the way clones are. They’re not forced in the least. They genuinely want you when all is said and done. You want Sophie Norris; you get Sophie Norris all up on your dick whenever you want it. But that process takes time. Even if you wanted something I have right down the hall, there’s a conditioning cascade I’d need to set her up with. Even coming from my stock, it’d be a few days before she’d be okay to be yours.” Mercer shrugged. “Or not to be yours, as the case may be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re not going to want her following you around all the time, are you?”

  “Well, I mean,” Words failed him, so Ephraim tried again. “What do people do with their clones when they’re not with them?”

  Mercer shrugged. “I don’t know. Stick them in a closet?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Let them play video games or watch movies or something; who cares? They’re conditioned to be uninterested in variety and comfortable in a spot of their own. Like teaching a dog to like his cage. Which is necessary, by the way, because you can’t go out in public with a celebrity on your arm, and I’m assuming you want to leave your house and have a life.”

  Ephraim hadn’t thought of that. The clones weren’t blow-up dolls like Mercer said, but anyone who owned one would almost have to treat them as such. Your only conversations would have to take place at home. Your only shared meals behind your four walls.

  Ephraim swallowed when Mercer looked away. So much for “saving” a clone. He wasn’t going to pluck a girl out of a room in this terrible place after all. He would have to commission one that wouldn’t have been made otherwise, then save her instead.

  “So, can you hold your dick until it’s ready? You still interested?”

  Ephraim wondered what happened when a client said no at this point. Were they allowed to leave after seeing what they’d seen?

  He nodded.

  “Excellent. Then let’s get you set up.”

  Ephraim’s mind wandered while Mercer worked on the digital paperwork. He thought of the women in their cells, the rooms without windows, and the steel doors he’d passed on the way here. Was that how Eden’s broker stored their sex slaves - like rats in cages?

  “Are they happy, do you think?”

  Mercer looked up.

  “The clones,” Ephraim elaborated. “You said they’re programmed to like their buyer. You said they’re content staying in a room when they’re not in use. But do you think that means they’re happy?”

  Mercer shrugged. “Who gives a fuck?”

  Ephraim didn’t stop looking at him, so eventually Mercer sighed answered his client’s question.

  “Look. I’ve worked trafficking, though never directly. And do you know why I don’t work it directly? Because it’s fucking horrible. Inhumane.”

  Ephraim wanted to interject with, why do you deal in it at all? But he was almost home, and there was no reason to press his luck.

  “They’re kidnapped, brought here illegally, forced to do stuff they don’t want to do,” Mercer continued. “People keep them in dungeons, in shackles. What we’re doing here, what you’re investing in and helping to grow? One day it’s going to replace that old trade. Someday the people I get celebrity clones from will start making more common lines. They’ll have pretty gals and handsome guys made from ordinary stock, affordable for everyone who’d otherwise go to a slave trader. In the clone trade, everyone wins. Including the clones. Do I think they’re happy? Yeah. Sure. In the way any clone can be happy. Don’t feel guilty. You and me? We’re part of the solution. We’re the good guys.”

  Ephraim thought that last bit must be a joke, but Mercer’s stern expression never faltered. He was waiting for acknowledgment. Waiting for Ephraim, who’d been misinformed about the wonderful clone trade, to see the light.

  Ephraim nodded, his guilt not remotely assuaged. “What happens now?”

  “Now you pay me.”

  Mercer extended his tablet and Ephraim offered his thumb, verifying the payment twice. He’d need to speak with Fiona now that the deed was done. A twelve million credit transfer from her hidden account wasn’t likely to stay below the radar.

  “And then?” Ephraim prompted.

  Mercer glanced at the tablet. “Based on what I’m seeing, it might be four weeks or so for delivery. We can either come to you, or you can meet us at an address we’ll send to you later.”

  Ephraim thought of his building. His neighbors. The watching eyes of GEM, the FBI, Fiona, maybe others. Not to mention the fact that Ephraim’s pad didn’t look like the estate of a man who could afford a celebrity slave.

  “I’ll pick her up,” Ephraim said.

  “Good deal,” Mercer said, making a note. “I have the info from your thumbprint. Shake on it?”

  Mercer extended a hand. Ephraim shook it, feeling like scum caked on a filthy alley floor.

  Mercer turned back to the computer, apparently summoning an escort out of the building. Within thirty seconds there was a knock. Mercer invited the visitor inside. It was a man without a shirt, in leather pants. Mercer told the newcomer to return their guest to the Lair, his attention seemingly on Ephraim’s digital paperwork.

  Ephraim stood to go, but before he took a step, Mercer called for his attention.

  Ephraim turned.

  “Almost forgot. When you get the ping that your order is ready, don’t bring a car. You’ll need a truck. A big one, with a pull-down door and a long bed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re sedated for transit, and shipped in a crate.”

  CHAPTER 23

  A MATTER OF CONVENIENCE

  Maria adjusted Fiona’s chair so it was facing Ephraim, across her large desk. She had the look of a company president addressing an underling called on the carpet. It wasn’t terribly far from the truth.

  Fiona only spoke once Maria was finished and had walked away from the chair. The silence was unbroken before then, save the chair’s unrelenting purr.

 
“So where have you been?” she asked.

  “When?”

  “When? Whenever! I told you to come to my GEM fundraiser and talk to Hershel. Between the two of us, we were supposed to soften him up. I was going to pull a few of his strings, and you were going to play innocent.”

  “I am innocent.”

  “Right. Perfect. Just like that.”

  Ephraim couldn’t tell if Fiona was speaking ironically. He was having trouble keeping track of the players in this endless game of cat and mouse. What did everyone know and which secrets should Ephraim be keeping? Did GEM and Hershel Wood know that Fiona had sent Ephraim to Eden with a fake identity? Wood seemed to think Fiona was up to no good, but Ephraim knew no details of what Wood knew beyond that. This was why Ephraim hated lying. It was dishonest, and damn confusing.

  “I sent Wood over while you were trying to hide behind that plant,” Fiona continued. “I know he found you; I saw you talking. But then you both vanished. I finally ran into him later on, and he said you talked. He was frustratingly vague on what exactly was said, what he thought, or what his interview-slash-fucking-inquest might look like when he got his hands on you formally, but I figured that was fine; you could tell me your half of the story later. But I didn’t see you for the rest of the night. I tried to call, but you didn’t answer. And all the next day, nothing. Now here we are, almost 48 hours after we were supposed to do our debrief at the GEM fundraiser. And how did that go down? You waltzed in without an appointment, and the first words out of your mouth weren’t, ‘Fiona, I’m sorry I lost track of time, but I was working on Hershel like you asked, and here’s the Quarry, full of what you need.’ If you didn’t blow me off because you had a better idea for how to get what I needed from Wood, why the hell did you blow me off?”

  Ephraim was looking down, brushing lint from his pants. “You mean, ‘to get what we need.’”

  “What?”

  “I’m just clarifying. I wasn’t supposed to get a mind map of Director Wood for you. I’m getting it for us. So that we have leverage if he acts against us rather than in our favor. Both of us. See the difference?”

  Clearly suppressing her irritation, Fiona replied, “That’s what I said.”

  “You said it’s what you needed. Not we.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “One is singular. The other is plural.”

  Ephraim looked up. Fiona’s eyes were full of fire, but Ephraim went on anyway.

  “What are you planning to do with a Quarry full of Wood’s memories, Fiona? Can you shuffle through them and find something embarrassing, like maybe his pants falling down in public?”

  “I think we can find something more incriminating than that. You don’t get to be Director of GEM without making a few questionable deals.”

  Ephraim nodded. “Like you did.”

  Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “What’s on your mind, Ephraim? Where were you yesterday?”

  “Doing some research. I’m a little obsessed. You know me, right? Always obsessed.”

  “Research on what?”

  “Jonathan, to start. I’d never thought to poke around and figure out who he knew before he vanished. Just, you know, for clues?”

  Fiona made her own parody of a nod. There wasn’t much movement, but Ephraim could see it on her face. “Let me guess. You found out that I was his advisor at UCLA. Is that what this is about?”

  Ephraim was surprised she’d so readily admit to what Hershel had told him, but he bobbed his head as though unfazed. “Seems like something you’d have mentioned before now.”

  “Telling you would have confused the issue. But yes. I was. So how did you find out? It just came up in your everyday life somehow?”

  “I did a lot of research.”

  “I hope you spent some of that ‘research’ on Hershel.”

  Something itched at Ephraim. Fiona hadn’t answered his question. What would she do with a map of the Director’s mind? Could she pluck memories, finding them as neatly organized folders in a file tree? Was this about leverage? Or was it about hoarding information — like the MyLife that could’ve killed Eden, if she hadn’t refused to share it?

  “I know that look, Ephraim. What’s bothering you? Spit it out.”

  “This shouldn’t all be on me. That’s what’s bothering me.”

  “What shouldn’t be all on you?”

  “You sent me to Eden, Fiona. And even though you acted like it was all my crazy errand that you just kind of ‘went along with,’ it sure seems, looking back, like you wanted me there for your reasons. I didn’t know that you knew Jonathan before I left, and now I find out exactly how well you knew him. I also didn’t realize how close your business and Eden’s lined up. You want me to get a mind map of Wood — but I can’t help but notice that your ‘Quarry’ device is a much better version of what Connolly uses on Eden to transfer donor memories to his clones. Just a big coincidence, Fiona?”

  “I told you that Wallace and I worked together. You’re not—”

  “I can’t help but feel,” Ephraim interrupted, raising his voice a notch, “like I did all the work, to benefit you. Now I’m getting all the blame, while you’re reaping all the rewards.”

  “That’s not true, Ephraim.”

  “Where’s the MyLife? The one that proves I’m not crazy, that what I’m saying is true?”

  “I told you. It contains privileged information. I need to retrieve that data before handing it to GEM.”

  “But after that, you will hand it over. So you can clear my name.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’d like to have it now, Fiona.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Then you need to speak up and help me out while we wait. Tell Wood that you sent me to Eden. Admit that you falsified a few records. Just do something. Don’t deny it all, say nothing, and leave me on the hook all alone. It isn’t fair. If I’m important to what you’re doing, help me out.”

  “I am helping you. But I’m not going to be much use if I’m under suspicion as well.”

  Wood already suspects you, Fiona, he wanted to say. But Ephraim kept his mouth shut.

  “Testify. Just tell them enough to verify that Eden is making clones to sell as slaves.”

  “Not yet.”

  “We have to stop them, Fiona.”

  “The islands burned. They’re stopped.”

  “They’re not. Eden is operating, somehow. The clones are out there. They’re making new ones.” His voice was losing its calm, but this point had been circling his mind all night long. True, Eden had burned to the ground. But the way Mercer had talked about custom-building a Sophie, it sounded like the labs were running.

  How could they build a Sophie on Eden if the island was dead? Evermore’s heart was beating. And with every moment that passed without a stake driven through that heart, the disease beneath Mercer’s restaurant would continue to spread.

  Fiona pursed her lips and gave Ephraim a sympathetic sigh. “Look, I know you haven’t been to your shrink since you’ve been back. I keep telling you to go. It’s for your own good. It’s—”

  Ephraim brought his fist down hard on the arm of his chair.

  More than ever, he was barely keeping it together. The casual purchase of another human gnawed at his guts. He wanted to call the real Sophie, to let her know about the atrocities being committed with her genes and mind. But why should he have to worry Sophie with that information? Fiona was supposed to be his partner. She wasn’t supposed to leave him hanging, or patronize him.

  “I’m not paranoid! I’m not imagining this or making it up, Fiona! I was there! I saw it with my own goddamn eyes!”

  Fiona’s expression changed. He’d finally surprised her.

  “Where?” she asked.

  Shit. He’d said too much.

  “Where were you? Not Eden. You didn’t fly to Agaléga and back yesterday. What do you think you saw, Ephraim?”

  “I don’t think I saw it. I—�
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  “Fine. I understand. I believe you.” But it was pacifying bullshit; she couldn’t believe him if he had yet to tell his story. “Where were you? What did you see with your own eyes?”

  Ephraim told her. It took fifteen minutes, and Fiona didn’t interrupt. He almost wished she had; it would have broken up the impossible monologue. He’d lived it; he believed it; he could even go back to his MyLife and replay everything up to the point where he entered Chez Luis — which, it seemed, had some hidden jammers of its own. But spoken aloud, the story sounded like fiction.

  Once Ephraim finished, closing with the twelve million credits he’d spent on her behalf, Fiona took a long, silent moment to digest the deluge.

  Then she said, “It’s too convenient.”

  “What do you mean, ‘too convenient’?”

  “Oh, come on, Ephraim. You searched for something vague like ‘meet Sophie Norris,’ and suddenly the Wizard of Fucking Oz gives you the magic word from the mouth of a random webcam girl. What makes you so sure that whoever’s behind this didn’t want you to find that place?”

  “Why would they want me to find it?”

  “I don’t know. To mislead you? To know where you are? Maybe they’re planning to kill you. The whole world knows you’re the man who might have burned Eden down.”

  “I’m not hard to locate. I’m not in witness protection. Ask the people who throw garbage at my front door if they need help finding me. And how does giving me a clone mislead me?”

  “They haven’t given you a clone. They’ve accepted twelve million credits.”

  “What’s twelve million credits to Eden? They wouldn’t let me peek into their operation and get more proof just to make a sale they could have made to someone else.”

  “But you don’t have proof. You said there were jammers all over the place so your MyLife couldn’t record. You can’t prove more than what you already couldn’t prove.”

  “What’s their upside in fucking with me, Fiona? Why go to the trouble? They showed me video of Evangeline Walsh and Lilian …” He searched his memory, trying to recall. “Lilian Fey. I didn’t know they had those lines. Why tell me all that just to ‘mislead’ me? Why let me see Mercer’s operation at all?”