Eve & Adam

by Michael Grant

  “The undiscovered country,” Aislin intones in a video voice-over.

  “Muffins, anyone?”

  Solo enters, rolling the coffee cart.

  “My point exactly,” Aislin says, motioning him over.

  I have several long, long seconds to wonder which is more embarrassing: a giant image of an Adam with a number of missing parts? Or an Adam with those parts?

  “How’re you feeling, Aislin?” Solo asks. He doesn’t glance at me.

  “I’m better now,” she says, giving him an up-and-down. She grabs a cruller.

  “Heard you moved out of the clinic,” Solo says, looking at me for the first time.

  “No point in staying,” I reply flatly. “I’m a freak of nature, as you know.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m on food-cart duty for one more day,” Solo says, as if I’d just told him I had a hangnail. “I thought I’d come by and see whether you need anything. Chips? Snickers bar?” He pauses, surveying our incomplete Adam. “Hot dog?”

  Aislin leans forward, very serious. “Do you have anything heartier than a hot dog? Say, a kielbasa? Italian sausage? A whole salami?”

  She is making hand gestures as she goes along.

  Solo’s face goes red. He’s only good for about one round of flirtation with Aislin. After that he loses his way.

  “He’s shy,” Aislin reports to me as if Solo isn’t there. “I don’t know: Should we make Adam shy? It’s kind of cute.”

  “I’ll take a sandwich. Not salami,” I say. “Turkey.”

  Solo pulls a turkey sandwich off his cart. He hands it to me and snags a napkin. The napkin drops to the floor. I automatically reach for it, but Solo’s already down on one knee. He grabs the napkin and hands it to me.

  Except that when I reach for it, he’s got my hand in his and the napkin is only part of what he’s giving me.

  Something small, maybe an inch long, hard and rectangular.

  Our eyes meet.

  He stands up.

  “The other night, I noticed you had your laptop in your room,” he says quietly. “MacBook Pro. A little old school, huh? Still has a USB drive.”

  And I know right then what he’s slipped me. A thumb drive.

  I can pull it out, notice it, hand it back to him. I can stop whatever he’s up to right now.

  I crumple the napkin in my lap in a way that Aislin won’t see. I glance down and confirm that it’s a flash drive. There’s a small Apple logo.

  Solo escapes from the room before I can say anything. Before Aislin can say anything else.

  Aislin watches him go, enjoying the rear view with the practiced eye of experience. “If you don’t, E.V., I just may.”

  I have a quavery, uneasy feeling in my chest. I don’t know what’s on that thumb drive. But I know it’s a secret.

  I know it’s a secret from a boy who hates my mother.

  Just a little longer and I can go home, I tell myself. I will have kept the deal with my mother.

  And I’ll be safe from Solo.

  “I’ve got to pee,” Aislin announces. “I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as she’s out of the room, I pull the flash drive from the napkin and examine it. Nothing special. And yet somehow, I’m afraid of it.

  I wrap it up and shove it into my sweater pocket.

  Adam hovers before me, glowing and gorgeous. My unfinished masterpiece.

  Suddenly, I feel this explosive restlessness, a craving for the fog and steep streets of San Francisco. I want out of this place. I want to run until my brain shuts off, my legs scream with exhaustion.

  Before I can lose my nerve, I cast a quick glance at the screen and randomly tap some options. I don’t think about it; I just do it.

  Aislin returns just as I hit the last button: Apply Modifications.

  A hum, a flicker, and there he is. My perfect man, with nothing—and I do mean nothing—left to the imagination.

  I tilt my head, squinting. “What do you think?”

  Aislin executes a flawless wolf whistle. “Girl,” she says, “I like your style.”

  – 24 –

  I slip the thumb drive into my computer. The icon pops up on my desktop. Now all I need to do is click on it.

  All I need to do.

  It’s late. Aislin is snoring softly. I faked sleep to get her to go to bed. I’m in the bathroom, in my pajama bottoms and T-shirt, sitting on the toilet with the seat down. The light is pretty awful for this time of the night. It’s a no-secrets light.

  The icon shows the Apple logo.

  A click of the mouse or the touch of a finger on the screen is all it takes. Here’s the thing, though: You can’t un-know something once you know it. Once you know, you know. Once you know, you may be compelled to act. Once you act…

  You’re overthinking, I tell myself. Overworrying.

  And yet…

  Why is this so hard? Didn’t I come in here for the purpose of seeing what is hidden within Solo’s drive? Isn’t that why I’m sitting on a hard toilet seat in the middle of the night?

  I stick out my index finger, hovering over the screen.

  Touch.

  The file opens. It contains three other files. One is a video. The other two seem to contain documents or pictures. The video is labeled “#1.”

  I take a breath. I find my earbuds—they’ve fallen to the tile floor. I plug them in and stick them in my ears.

  The video is of Solo. He’s standing, kind of bouncing back and forth with energy. He’s nervous.

  “Eve. It’ me, Solo.”

  I smile a little, in spite of myself. Like I wouldn’t know that without him telling me.

  “I don’t know if you’re going to watch this. I don’t know what your reaction is going to be. You were never part of the plan. But… well, here you are. And I guess you’re involved now. Now.”

  He seems to be losing his way. He starts to reach for the camera, as if he’s going to turn it off. Changes his mind.

  “Anyway, you’re part of this because you are who you are. It’s just that before, I didn’t know you. I mean, I knew you existed. I knew about you, but then you became a real person. A person I liked.”

  He looks down at his feet. “A person I like a lot.” Pause. Shuffle. “A lot.”

  I glance nervously toward the locked door, as if someone might overhear. But I’m the only one hearing. The only one feeling.

  “So, anyway, you’re Spiker as much as she is, I guess. So I’m laying this out for you.” Long pause. I sense he’s arguing with himself, regretting this. “I feel like you deserve to know everything.”

  Solo clears his throat. He reaches toward the camera and the video ends.

  I’m in this deep. I click on the first file.

  There are a dozen individual documents in the file. The first ones I open look like budget spreadsheets.

  I don’t really have any interest in budgets and I don’t really know how to read a spreadsheet. Maybe they’re incredibly meaningful, but I’m not the person to figure that out.

  I’m disappointed.

  But I keep looking. The next thing I open is a description of Project 88715.

  PROJECT 88715, PHASE ONE: WE WILL UNIFY SEVERAL NEW AND MATURING TECHNOLOGIES DEVELOPED WITHIN SPIKER AND OTHERS FROM OUTSIDE THE COMPANY. THE GOAL WILL BE TO DEVISE A SIMPLIFIED USER INTERFACE THAT REDUCES THE EXTREME COMPLEXITY OF GENETIC ENGINEERING TO SUCH A LEVEL THAT ANY MODERATELY BRIGHT OPERATOR CAN CONSTRUCT A FULLY DEVELOPED HUMAN.

  PROJECT 88715, PHASE TWO: WE WILL LINK THE USER INTERFACE PERFECTED ABOVE TO BEGIN ENGINEERING HUMANS.

  I stare at the page. This is about the program I’ve been using, the one I am using to create Adam.

  A program to allow the creation of simulated humans.

  Except for one thing: It doesn’t say anything about “simulated.”

  I open the remaining file. The pictures come spilling out.

  There’s a picture of a pig. Its flesh is green.

  There’s a picture of a puppy
with ears, human ears.

  There’s a picture of a man with vacant eyes and folds of skin hanging from his chest like sails made of flesh.

  There’s, oh God, there’s a girl with a face on…

  There’s a row of giant tubes, each with some living thing.

  There’s…

  I’m sick to my stomach.

  The pictures are still spilling out.

  A cow that’s all out of proportion, with an udder so large the legs couldn’t reach the ground, even if she were on the ground and not floating in some kind of tank.

  And then another giant tank, with something—someone?—suspended in it. I see hair, dark hair, swirling like seaweed, a hand, a foot, but that’s all I can make out, because there’s someone standing outside the tank, grinning. It’s the scientist with all the tattoos.

  The computer clatters from my lap.

  I twist around, fall to my knees, and get the lid up before I vomit up what little is in my twisting stomach.

  Dry heaves. Can’t stop.

  Oh, no, no, no. My mother… Oh God.

  Aislin bangs on the door. “Hey, what’s going on with you in there? Are you all right?”

  I can’t stop the heaves.

  Aislin picks the lock. It’s not hard. She has to step over me to get all the way inside. She places a calming hand on the back of my neck. Aislin has long experience with puking.

  “Try to breathe, but only through your nose,” she says helpfully.

  She sits on the edge of the tub, prepared to wait it out. I hear her pick up my computer.

  I try to say “no,” but I can’t find any words.

  “Don’t fight it, just relax into it,” Aislin advises. “It’s…” She falls silent. She’s seeing.

  “Oh my God,” she says. “Oh, no. What is this? Oh… Oh no. No. No.”

  But of course, no is not the answer.

  – 25 –

  SOLO

  I’m awake when someone pounds on my door. It’s not like sleep is an option. I’m so hyped up I can’t lie still for long.

  And if I close my eyes, even for a second, the horrifying images from Tommy’s computer are waiting for me.

  The pounding intensifies. I throw on a pair of boxers.

  For a moment, I wonder if it’s Eve. She’s probably viewed what’s on the flash drive by now—assuming, that is, she has any intention of looking at it at all. Could be she just tossed it in the nearest trash can.

  I wonder, again, if I was wrong to share what I’ve learned.

  No. Eve’s like me. She’ll want to know.

  “Open the damn door.”

  A jolt of pure adrenaline shocks me into full alert mode.

  It’s Tommy.

  He knows.

  I have no choice. There’s nowhere to run, not from here, not now. I unlock the door.

  Two security guys burst in. One is older, graying. The other’s young. He works out, I’ve seen him at the gym.

  And then he appears. Tommy.

  He reeks of sweat and dope. Beneath a skull tattoo on his neck, a blue vein throbs.

  “Got into my files, didn’t you? Clever boy. Dumped coffee on me. Jumped on my computer and used the old Wi-Fi. Smart boy. But were you smart enough to load it to the cloud? Or is it still trapped inside your computer?”

  I don’t answer.

  Tommy strides over to the desk where my laptop and my pad both lie. He drops into the chair and taps the pad. The four-digit-code screen pops up.

  “What’s the password?”

  “One, two, three, four,” I say. I’m pleased at how calm I sound.

  Tommy’s skeptical, but he types it in, anyway. He scowls at me. “Cute. You have a separate security software installed.”

  I shrug. “Too easy to break a four-digit numeric password. So I added a little something.”

  “Give me the code.”

  I shake my head.

  “You know, bagel boy, it’s bad enough you left the Wi-Fi on,” Tommy says. “You also neglected to consider the fact that I have three separate micro surveillance cameras installed at my workstation.” He clucks his tongue. “Very sloppy.”

  “What can I say? I’m an amateur.”

  “Give me the code,” Tommy snaps. He casts a significant look at one of the security guards.

  A split second later my head’s jolted by a full-palm slap.

  It stings. But I box. I’ve taken a lot worse.

  “Okay,” I say. “Don’t hurt me. The code is FG6H8D55lMSU1LQWVFOP7FD34MHUTDLK.”

  Tommy types as I speak. “What is that, like, thirty characters?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Paranoid much?”

  On the pad’s screen, a graphic of a middle finger appears.

  Tommy curses. He knows what I’ve done.

  The screen goes dark. All the data on the pad has just been erased and rewritten. A lab with the right equipment and trained personnel might still be able to salvage some of it, but it would take days, maybe weeks. Even then they’d just get fragments.

  “Want the password for my laptop, too?” I ask.

  Tommy leaps up out of the chair. He still has my pad in his hand. He smacks it against the side of my head, shattering the glass.

  He brings it down again, this time on the top of my head, hard, with both hands and all the leverage he can get.

  I’m not exactly home for a few seconds. Not all the way unconscious, but not functioning, either.

  One of the guards, the younger one, pulls Tommy back before he can do me serious damage.

  “Hey, hey, hey, Dr. Holyfield,” the guard says.

  I’ve never seen Tommy this enraged. I’m not surprised. But it’s weirdly fascinating to see such an intelligent man so lost in fury. He’s spitting at me. He’s cursing. He’s straining against the guard until the tattoos on his arms are stretched and distorted.

  It takes surprisingly long for him to get hold of himself. Eventually, the guard lets him go. Tommy paces, fingers twitching. He shakes himself out, adjusts his shirt.

  “Okay. Okay,” he mutters, and I’m thinking he’s calmed down, but just then he darts in and punches me, a good, solid left jab. Blood explodes from my nose.

  The guards are worried. They step in to stop him, but he backs away, hands up. “He had that coming. Little punk.”

  Blood runs from my nose and more streams of it come rolling down from my head, pooling in my eyes. I’m still trying to get my scattered wits back.

  “Who have you talked to about this?” Tommy asks.

  I make a mistake. I say, “No one.” But I say it too fast, and he picks up on it.

  “No one, huh? What’s ‘no one’s’ name, huh?”

  He looms over me and I don’t think the guards will be enough to stop him if he decides to nail me again.

  “You guys are going to be dragged into something very heavy,” I say to the security guys. “I don’t think you’re getting paid enough to be involved in major felonies.”

  They exchange a glance. I’ve hit home.

  “Walk away right now,” I tell them. “You haven’t done that much so far. We can let—”

  Wham!

  Tommy nails me again and this one really hurts.

  “Whoa,” he says, examining his effort. “That’s going to be ugly tomorrow. Of course”—he moves in close—“a couple days from now, you’ll be good as new, won’t you?”

  “Dr. Holyfield, you gotta chill, man, he’s right,” the younger security guard says.

  “It’s all recorded, geniuses,” Tommy says. “We already have video of you two. And about the only person who can make that go away is me. So you are already deep in it. But bagel boy makes a good point: You aren’t being paid well enough. Which is why I’m going to give you each, what, let’s say five grand?”

  “Each,” the older guard growls.

  Tommy grins at me. He reaches out one finger and swipes the blood from my forehead. He sticks the finger in his mouth and licks it.

>   “Deal,” Tommy says.

  And it’s that easy. My life has been bought for ten thousand dollars.

  – 26 –

  There’s a bell and a button. I stare at them for a while.

  It’s late. And I don’t want Solo getting the wrong idea. Me coming to his room. Wearing… what am I wearing? Belatedly I look down and consider the matter.

  The gym shorts I sleep in. And the T-shirt. And the lack of bra I also sleep in. And a pair of untied sneakers I slipped into on my way out.

  I should have brought Aislin. She volunteered.

  But, I don’t know, it just felt wrong. This is about my mother, which means it’s about me. And Solo.

  I’m shivering, and it’s not because of what I’m wearing.

  I push the buzzer.

  He doesn’t answer. I buzz again. Nothing. I press the buzzer and hold it down. I don’t care if he’s asleep, he can damn well wake up and let me in.

  The door flies open.

  A man—no, more than one man—rushes out. One of them slams me against the wall. I trip and slip to the ground. A third man stampedes by with a heavy step on my once-severed leg.

  The door to Solo’s room is ajar. Something is wrong, terribly wrong. Solo isn’t one of the three men.

  I climb up and rush into the room. Stupid, really, I probably should call for help or something. I think of this too late.

  Solo is in a chair.

  The first thing I notice is the blood.

  The second thing I notice is the ropes.

  “Close the door,” he says in a clotted voice. “Dead-bolt it.”

  I do it. Then I rush to him, kneeling down so I can look up into his face.

  “Gruesome, huh?” he asks.

  He’s wearing nothing but boxers. Thin rivulets of blood have made it all the way down to his shoulders and onto his chest.

  “I’ll get help,” I say. But I know that’s the wrong answer.

  “No. There’s no help in this place. They’re just shook up because they didn’t expect you.” Solo works his tongue around his mouth. He grunts, and a second later spits out a tooth. “Sorry.”

  I run to his bathroom, soak a hand towel in ice-cold water, and run back. Carefully I blot the blood from his head. It’s shockingly red on the white towel. I can’t do a very thorough job because his hair is thick.