The Eden Experiment

by Sean Platt

  Ephraim drove out mid-morning to recover his truck. So what if there was a record of him renting it? So what if someone saw him driving? Ephraim could say he was buying a couch and needed the truck to pick it up.

  He searched the address, saw that it was twenty minutes away, and set off with twice that time on the clock. Ephraim felt fine behind the wheel. The truck wasn’t massive and was plenty easy to drive. There was barely any traffic. It was as if the world had greased his moment.

  But he’d arrived at a night club, not behind a shipping container at the wharf.

  And it wasn’t dark out. It was quarter-to-ten, and the sun was shining.

  You’re not going in there. You stick out like a turd in a punchbowl.

  And it was true; Ephraim could see the red-carpet entrance and bouncers in sober black suits guarding the door. A red-velvet rope dangled between them. A limo pulled under the awning. The driver moved to hold the door open. A woman in a long black gown emerged with a tuxedoed man. The driver dutifully closed the door, circled, and drove on while the couple entered the club.

  Nighttime reveling in the middle of the day?

  The truck idled. Ephraim was near the rear of the lot, but even in the shade by the street he felt like his vehicle was wearing a strobing policeman’s cherry, blaring its horn. The bouncers were inscrutable at a distance with their sunglasses, but the well-dressed couple had turned before entering as if to say, There’s a ruffian in a truck outside, Charles. Alert the authorities.

  Someone was banging on the truck’s door.

  “You can’t park this here.”

  Ephraim jumped, then looked through the open window to find a short man with a mustache had appeared out of the blue. He stood low enough relative to the truck’s cab to be partially invisible, and was well-dressed like the bouncers.

  “Sir? You can’t park this truck here.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Park it around back.”

  “I’m just leaving,” Ephraim said.

  He meant it. First of all, he obviously had the wrong address. And second, it’s not like his wrong address had turned out to be a home or a convenience store so he could at least check it out before bailing. He wasn’t going to pop his head in and see, or ask the wait staff at the club if they knew of any clandestine drop spots nearby where he should maybe conduct his business.

  Even if that made sense, he’d only draw more attention by walking closer. He was wearing clean clothes for the first time in a week and had even showered and brushed his teeth. But he was also in jeans and an older tee. His eyes probably looked wilder than he’d like.

  “Around back,” the man repeated, then slugged the truck’s door again before walking back toward the club.

  Ephraim considered shouting after him, but why? He didn’t need permission to drive away. He could idle here for another few minutes if he wanted. It’d take the short man with the mustache that long to reach the building and turn back once he realized the interloper hadn’t followed instructions.

  Ephraim put the truck in gear, maneuvered toward the street, then reached the exit to find a woman in a valet’s uniform blocking the way.

  Ephraim waited.

  The woman didn’t move.

  Ephraim reached out the window and waved for her to finish crossing the drive-out, but she only waved back, shooing his truck in the other direction like a traffic cop.

  Apparently, this was entrance-only. Because there were so many people coming to the club at 10 AM on a weekday, and the woman in the uniform needed to control the precise flow in and out.

  Fuckers, Ephraim thought.

  Sighing, he turned the truck in a long, lazy circle as he followed internal roads back to the place where he’d entered the lot. But when he reached his circle’s apogee and was ready to turn back, a man holding a pair of bright orange sticks stepped into his path and waved like flight crew directing a plane.

  That way, sir.

  With no other way to go, Ephraim followed. He apparently wasn’t allowed to cross in front of the club. He’d have to go behind. Talk about second-class treatment for the man in the box truck.

  He pulled around to the rear of the building.

  The back lot was gated. No exit.

  Ephraim was preparing to make a three-point turn and exit when a loud rattling poured through the open window, audible over the engine: a stick-waver, now dragging a long chain-link gate shut where he’d come through.

  Ephraim made a wordless gesture through the window. The stick-waver made a final, jutting sort of motion. Ephraim turned and saw a man-sized gap in the fence, leading around the building’s far side.

  Apparently, he was supposed to park the truck and go inside.

  It felt wrong.

  Very wrong.

  The rental truck was empty, but in the span of three minutes Ephraim had flip-flopped his way from optimism to a certainty that he was about to be robbed.

  Lock a guy in, then break into his truck and steal his nothing.

  Why not? Stranger things had happened.

  But nobody else came up to Ephraim and his conspicuous truck.

  So, he pulled to one side, killed the engine, and got out.

  It was 10 AM, and apparently time to go clubbing.

  CHAPTER 28

  IDLING OUTSIDE

  Ephraim mentally scrambled, trying to remember his last contact with the few people who could offer backup. He’d followed breadcrumbs to find Mercer’s Lair the first time. He’d been in too deep then and couldn’t send up a flare — but he’d also been freshly suspicious of both Wood and Fiona. This time was different. He didn’t trust either of them, but at least there were vested interests here. People who knew, or should know.

  Fiona wanted to learn all about Eden’s technology. A bona fide clone was its perfect example. Wood seemed willing to believe Ephraim with some proof — and a clone, again, was better than the MyLife he wanted Ephraim to steal. Both Wood and Fiona should be interested and might agree to have his back now if he got in touch.

  He pulled out his Doodad, then looked up at the club’s side and rear. The lot itself was mostly quiet with the ordinary sounds of a city morning, but he could hear music pulsing through the concrete like a throbbing heart. He didn’t see any cameras, but they were mostly invisible these days, at least from more than a few feet away.

  Screw it.

  Ephraim walked to the corner. Staying as much out of obvious sight as possible, he snapped a photo of the club’s front. Then he messaged the photo to Fiona and Hershel with the address and a message: I’m here to pick up an Eden package from a man named Mercer Fox.

  He sent the message before he could think himself out of it. It struck him as a fair thing to send; giving his location with a time index but not revealing too much — either to the recipients (who might not believe him if he were more specific, or think him crazy) or to anyone who might intercept the message along the way.

  A “package” could be anything. Now Ephraim’s potential allies — neither of which seemed terribly allegiant to anything beyond their own goals — had another name to chew on, should things go south: Mercer Fox.

  Hesitating, Ephraim composed a new message to Sophie. He attached the same photo, typed the same address, and changed the message to make it even more vague, working mostly on a hunch, wanting contact with her more than support from her.

  I’m at this place. I feel like maybe we talked about it before. Do you recognize it?

  His thumb hovered to send, but as a final thought he added: Miss seeing you.

  Well, for better or for worse, it was done.

  He waited, holding the Doodad, eager for any potential reply. Fiona was probably somewhere between pissed at him and afraid of his crazy, but she’d be curious and want to send help just in case. Or Wood might respond first; Ephraim may or may not have contacted him during his fugue and made himself irrelevant as a GEM witness (Ephraim couldn’t recall), but “Eden package” should interest th
e man regardless.

  And Sophie? She’d want to be friendly, right?

  But the Doodad stayed silent. No replies, not even after another five minutes standing idle at the building’s side.

  Ephraim pocketed the device and, fighting nerves, approached the door.

  The bouncers watched, apparently unconcerned that he’d arrived from the alley rather than the red carpet.

  “I’m sorry,” Ephraim said when he got close. “I’m not dressed for—”

  The first bouncer unclipped the rope and pulled it aside. “Not a problem, sir.”

  CHAPTER 29

  EVANGELINE WALSH

  The club was loud, dark, and full of hard bass notes that rattled his skeleton. Ephraim felt lost the second he entered.

  The doors were doubled — inner and outer. He entered with no outside light for company. His eyes fought to adjust from the morning sun, but until they did, he was mostly blind. In here, the night was forever.

  Someone brushed by him holding a drink. A woman with jet black hair. She looked a lot like Sienna Minelli, the Italian actress. She didn’t stop to apologize. Instead, Ephraim watched her part the crowd, bumping into others until she disappeared.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice.

  Ephraim turned. The “excuse me” hadn’t sounded polite. It was more like get out of my way.

  The shadow-draped woman had brunette hair pulled high, wearing a gown with a slit so far down one side that it was obvious she had nothing underneath. The garment clung to her like a vain hope.

  “Do you mind?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ephraim said, “but are you …?” But no, asking that particular question was stupid, even given what he knew. He asked it anyway. “Are you Evangeline Walsh?”

  “Can I get through?” she shouted over the music.

  Ephraim moved aside.

  “The other way. I’m going that way.” She said it like Ephraim was a professional asshole. Her lips pursed. Her eyes rolled up, their whites nearly blue in the lighting.

  Ephraim moved back to where he was. She shoved him aside with a huff. Her body brushed his. As she passed, he saw that her lips were painted fire-engine red, her eye makeup heavy and dark.

  The woman (Evangeline?) turned. She projected above the music, “Are you coming?”

  She wanted him to follow?

  That couldn’t be right.

  His eyes wandered. Ephraim realized that everyone in the club was beautiful, looking plucked from the pages of a fashion magazine. Except for Ephraim, who wore jeans and boots, with at least four days’ stubble. He looked like a delivery guy who’d taken a wrong turn, which was exactly what he’d assumed the parking lot attendant out front figured when she’d sent his truck to the rear.

  Again, the woman rolled her eyes. Ephraim’s vision must be adjusting to the gloom because he saw her condescension.

  She snorted, seemed to decide that Ephraim was worthless, and moved on. If she was supposed to be an escort, she was a terrible one. He was about to lose her in the crowd. But was that a bad thing? He barely knew why he was here; if he’d ever known. He’d woken this morning clearheaded for the first time in a week, finally settled about his mission to pick up his clone then loudly blow the whistle on Evermore.

  Snapping to, Ephraim pushed himself through the well-dressed crowd, passing many people he felt sure he recognized. Then he was back at the woman’s rear — so much that he couldn’t arrest his momentum enough to avoid a crash.

  The woman turned and gave him a look, both venomous and sexually magnetic. It said, for that, I’m going to fuck you ‘til you bleed.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said as if reading his mind. “I’m here with someone.”

  Ephraim scrambled, trying to recall who Evangeline Walsh was rumored to be dating. Then he had it.

  “With Jason Brady?”

  She rolled her eyes. Not Jason Brady. Not for this Evangeline.

  She opened a door in front of her, though Ephraim hadn’t seen it until she pushed. She entered the concealed room and Ephraim followed, taking particular care to keep his hands to himself.

  The space was small. There was another door on the far end — another inter-club airlock, like the one at the front door — but this one must have been heavily insulated. With the club-side door closed, the thumping music diminished. Lights in this new place were dim, but it was worlds brighter than the outer room; at least it was bright enough to see how annoyed his escort so obviously was.

  “Touch me once we’re inside, and I won’t be the only one to break your arm.”

  “Jason Brady will break it too, huh?” Ephraim attempted an ill-fitting smile.

  She gave him another annoyed expression. Ephraim’s eyes wanted to wander, but he felt somehow sure that if he looked at Evangeline’s body, she’d make good on her limb-shattering promise.

  “Just shut up and come this way. The sooner we find yours, the sooner I can get away from you.”

  “Mine? My what?”

  A cat’s smile creased the woman’s red lips. She opened the second door to reveal what looked like a bright, well-appointed ballroom filled with even more immaculately dressed people. With both doors now shut, the club’s rhythms were lost in well-bred chatter and a string quartet in the corner.

  A strange place to receive an illicit crate.

  “Excuse me,” Ephraim repeated as the woman walked off. “My what?”

  She squeezed between two men in tuxedoes and vanished.

  A hand touched Ephraim’s shoulder, soft through his T-shirt, like it hadn’t seen him in a long time.

  “Ephraim,” a tentative voice whispered. Almost a question, as if she hadn’t seen him in a long time.

  He turned.

  Standing in front of Ephraim was the merchandise he’d come here to retrieve, dressed in clinging black.

  CHAPTER 30

  TOO WEIRD

  “Ephraim? Is something wrong?”

  Vertigo claimed him. This wasn’t the 47-year-old Sophie he knew. This was Sophie as she’d been at no older than 25. He’d seen her this young once before, a different Sophie clone, back on Eden. But this clone looked at him differently. There was affection in her gaze.

  Yours, Evangeline had said.

  Sophie spoke again, eyebrows drawing together in concern.

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Again, her tone seemed to add.

  Because this wasn’t a first meeting from where the Sophie clone was standing; that much was obvious to Ephraim as he met her eyes.

  This was a reunion for her. But how was that supposed to work? They didn’t share a history, and Ephraim, if he winged things, was bound to get it wrong.

  He tried to think back to what Mercer had sent him — to the anonymous information sent via email, non-duplicatable, with a self-destruct program ticking from the second he’d opened it. What were his instructions? What was he supposed to know about his “merchandise” that he’d missed or forgotten? Was it that the clone’s mind would be suggestible and malleable, meaning he could make up anything and she’d go along with it?

  She’ll go where you lead her, he thought was the phrase. And, Ephraim seemed to recall that even late in a clone’s life it remained suggestible. Eden clones were always sort of under hypnosis, and open to subliminal nudges. They could be trained forever, although after the first weeks you had to whisper commands through a hack in their MyLifes.

  Ephraim felt lost. What should he say? This wasn’t a robot. This was a human being built from a blueprint, with hijacked memories, brainwashed to follow orders. But she was human.

  “You … you just surprised me,” Ephraim stuttered, forcing a smile. “Of course I’m happy to see you.”

  Sophie’s hand drifted down to his bare arm. She was dressed formally but showed no awareness that he wasn’t. Her dazzling eyes were locked onto his. Her soft hand traced his skin and gave him goosebumps.

  She seemed to be waiting for Ephraim to do or say something more.


  She moved closer when he didn’t. Pressed her body to his, embraced him. Biologically speaking, it was the same body he’d hugged before. This was the original Sophie Norris’s architecture; the same materials, same curves and in all the same places. But still, the woman in front of Ephraim was different. Younger, for one. Tighter. More skin pressed against his skin.

  His heart pounded. This was too strange, and a betrayal — though he didn’t know exactly who he was betraying. Maybe everyone at once.

  “Ephraim.”

  His eyes snapped to center. He’d been gazing across the room. Sophie, even in heels, was over a half-foot shorter than him. When she spoke this close to his body, he had to look almost straight down. And when he looked down this time, she slid her fingers through his hair and pulled him into a kiss.

  Ephraim’s first instinct was to pull away. He blunted the reaction and let the kiss linger longer than felt comfortable, but the clone must have been conditioned to expect an unusual greeting. It couldn’t be uncommon, when owners first met their clones, for the chemistry to be off. Even repellant.

  “Where have you been?”

  Ephraim answered the only way he could think. “Just out.” And with the thought of “out,” his mind turned to the world beyond this gala, past the wealthy club and all its trappings.

  He’d driven a box truck here. A fucking U-Haul. How would he explain that to Sophie? She wasn’t going to be riding in the back, seeing as she was both uncrated and awake. He could have brought a sedan. She was dressed for a limo; just a famous actress and her slob of a date.

  “You came separately?”

  Ephraim nodded. Sure. Why not. “Have you seen Mercer?”

  “Who?”

  “Mercer Fox.”

  Sophie shrugged, smiling slightly. She didn’t know who Mercer was. Why would she?

  “Never mind.”

  She looked past him. “I’ve just been circulating. A lot of my friends are here.”

  “Which friends?”

  “Bridget Crow, Aaliyah Bell, Mia Chase, Amélie Lajoie.” She giggled. “I even know Slava and Majestic.” Then she pointed. “Oh, and Alma Couch is over there. Have you met Alma?”