by M A Gelsey
Later, he found himself in the kitchen with a beer in his hand. George was standing across from him with a knowing grin on his face. Edgar Prime blinked.
“How did I get in here?” he asked.
George snorted. “My guess is by putting one foot in front of the other.” He was drinking from a water bottle, and Edgar Prime wondered if perhaps he should follow George’s example.
“Hmm,” Edgar Prime said. He wished the fluorescent lights above them weren’t so harshly bright, like needles stabbing his retinas. He felt his pocket vibrate, and realized after a second that it was his phone. He pulled it out and squinted at the tiny words on the screen — a text from Hugo.
It read: ‘Sooooo sorry about Gerard. Should’ve told you about him, but I was trying to not see him or speak to him or think about him. Never thought you’d meet. Anyway, just want you to know it’s OVER. Really over. Not sure why I’m telling you this. May’ve had some drinks. So. There you go. Gerard and I are DONE. You looked cute tonight. Probs gonna regret sending this in the morning.’
Edgar Prime had to read the message three times for it to really sink in. By the time he looked up at George again, the guilt was burning a hole in his gut. It made his head feel slightly clearer.
“I’ve gotta go,” he mumbled. George opened his mouth to speak, but Edgar Prime didn’t give him the chance. He left his beer on the kitchen counter and crept towards the front door, trying to avoid Celeste. Unfortunately for him, most of the people had cleared out and he saw her sitting with Blake talking quietly across the living room. She smiled at him and waved him over when they made eye contact. In a moment of irrational panic, he simply stared at her dumbly for a second, then turned and walked out of the apartment without a word.
The next morning, a sledgehammer went through Edgar Prime’s skull as he awoke with a groan. He glanced down at his phone and saw that he’d slept two hours past his alarm — he’d be late to meet Noela and Luken if he didn’t hurry. Edgar Prime sat up and cringed at the abrupt increase in intensity of the pain in thrumming in his skull. He stayed still for a moment, waiting in vain for the pain to subside, and gritted his teeth as he slowly stood up and dragged himself down the hall to shower.
Thirty minutes later the throbbing in Edgar Prime’s head continued as he stepped onto the subway. He clutched a pole and willed himself not to vomit on the ground. The swaying motion was almost unbearable, and every time the cars turned and the wheels screeched Edgar Prime felt the pain in his head crescendo. Fortunately he only had to go three stops, and he exited gratefully, ascending the steps from the filth and roar of the subway to the filth and roar of the street. Once aboveground, he walked a short way to the corner and crossed the street to the cafe where Luken and Noela were waiting for him at an outside table under a rust-colored umbrella.
“You look terrible,” Noela said by way of greeting.
Edgar Prime barely managed to crack a smile. “Rough night,” he muttered, wincing at a particularly violent throb above his left eyebrow.
“We’ve all had those,” Luken said with a smirk.
A purple-haired waitress with heavy eyeliner and tattoos poking out from her collar and sleeves approached them and asked if they were ready to order. Noela ordered for both herself Edgar Prime; bacon cheddar omelets with hash browns and green goddess juice.
“I’m not sure I can eat anything,” Edgar Prime said, his voice sounding croakier than usual.
“You’ll feel better if you do,” Noela informed him.
“Maybe I can handle some coffee,” Edgar Prime said.
“Coffee will just dehydrate you more. Don’t you know that’s what causes hangovers?” Noela pursed her lips and shook her head, but somehow looked more sympathetic than stern.
They didn’t talk much until after the food came. Edgar Prime downed his first juice and ordered a second. He managed a few tentative bites of hash browns and omelet, and had to admit that Noela knew what she was talking about.
“We have some news,” Noela said as the waitress refilled their water glasses. He glanced up and noticed for the first time that she was practically bouncing with excitement.
“Oh?” he asked.
“That article you had Arthur Blair write,” Luken said. “It’s been more useful than we realized at the time. We’ve been approached.”
“Approached by who?” Edgar Prime asked.
“Someone who says she has information about the black market clone trade. She says she can get us inside,” Noela said. “A whistleblower.”
Edgar Prime didn’t speak for a moment. “Is she for real?”
“We don’t know,” Luken said. “We haven’t met her. ‘She’ just sent us an encrypted message. For all we know it could be from some bored hacker who thought we’d be fun to fuck around with.”
Noela gave Luken a reproachful look. “She sounds legit. And anyway, there’s only one way to find out whether her information is good.”
“But — wouldn’t that be dangerous?” Edgar Prime said. His fork was heaped with egg, suspended halfway to his mouth.
Noela shrugged. “Danger is a point of view.”
Edgar Prime couldn’t say that he agreed with this statement, but decided not to argue. “What are you going to do?”
“We’ll have someone pose as a buyer, but go in with a hidden camera. We’re going to expose them for what they are,” Noela explained in a low voice. She leaned forward in her excitement, and Edgar Prime felt his apprehension rising. For the first time since waking that morning, he didn’t even notice his hangover. He glanced at Luken and saw his own doubts reflected back at him, but Luken didn’t say anything.
“Look. The black market is illegal. These people — they’re real criminals. What do you think they’d do to whoever goes in there if they found the camera?” Edgar Prime asked, trying to keep himself from shivering at the thought.
“They won’t find the camera,” Noela said.
“You can’t know that,” Edgar Prime insisted. “They aren’t going to just allow you to collect evidence that could be used to send them to jail for the rest of their lives. People kill for less than that.”
Noela fixed him with a stare of such intensity, Edgar Prime felt as though it scorched him to the core. “I’d have thought you’d have more sympathy for your fellow clones. It was just by chance that you got to be educated and cosily brought up by the father of modern genetics, instead of being foisted off on the black market. If you’d been ‘defective’, do you think the venerated Dr. Edgar Midas would have kept you?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a low voice. “Being Dr. Midas’s lab rat hasn’t exactly been a picnic.”
“But think how much worse it could be — how much worse it is for so many other clones,” Noela said earnestly.
Edgar Prime shook his head. “You’d never understand. Either of you. You can’t imagine what it’s like.”
“Maybe you could try to explain it to us, then.” Noela said. “Because no matter how you look at things, you’re one of the most privileged clones ever made.”
“Privileged,” Edgar Prime spat the word, not realizing he was capable of such vitriol until that moment. “I’m a vanity project, the worst manifestation of narcissism in existence. I’m a successful experiment. Nothing more.” All the resentment he’d ever felt towards Dr. Midas had bubbled to the surface like poison; once awakened it refused to be suppressed again. His only value derived from reflected fame — by himself, he was nothing, no one. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Edgar Prime knew it was the truth. “Neither of you have any fucking clue what you’re talking about,” he snapped, glaring at both of them.
“Hey, this wasn’t my idea,” Luken muttered, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. Noela shot him a dark look, and he let them fall back into his lap, cowed.
“You’re right, we don’t. But neither do you, Edgar Prime.” Noela’s use of the name Dr. Midas had given him stung, as she’d intended. “I�
�m gonna send you some stuff on the clone black market. You need to educate yourself before you say that what we’re doing isn’t important enough to take a few risks.”
They stared each other down for a few more seconds, and Edgar Prime broke eye contact first. He shrugged, feeling the anger seep out of him as quickly as air left a punctured balloon. He had no more energy to fight, and was already beginning to feel ashamed of his outburst. The guilt reminded him of his other recent transgression, and he had to struggle not to grimace. He was the biggest fool who had ever lived, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to face Celeste or Hugo or any of them again. Did they all know? Surely Celeste would have spread the story of what happened in the bathroom. Edgar Prime felt sick all over again at the idea of Hugo hearing about it. Why should Hugo care? asked a small voice in the back of his head. He doesn’t want you anyway. No one does. You’re only a clone, after all.
35: MIRA
They arrived in Washington an hour before Harlow was due to meet with Senator Dorcas Pryce. It was Mira’s first time on a private jet — Harlow had told her at the last minute she’d be accompanying him after he’d fired two of his more senior assistants in the space of a week. Whatever she thought of Harlow, she had to admit there were certain perks to this assignment. Rather than wait around in the Senate offices until the meeting, Harlow had the driverless limo take them to the Lincoln Memorial. Mira trailed after him, slightly bemused as he ascended the steps and stood gazing out at the reflecting pool towards the Washington Monument beyond.
A warm breeze rifled through Mira’s hair, keeping the humid air from becoming unpleasant. The sky was brilliantly blue and cloudless, and cherry blossoms were blooming all around the National Mall. The petals fell like pink and white snow, blanketing large swatches of the grass.
Harlow paid no mind to bustle of the tourists around them, speaking many different languages and pointing excitedly to their guidebooks and to Lincoln’s imposing statue. Mira leaned against a massive white column beside him, uncertain whether he wanted her there. He had an oddly introspective look on his face.
“I grew up here, you know,” Harlow said.
“Oh, really?” Mira already knew that of course, the information was available on Harlow’s wikipedia. But people liked to talk about themselves, so Mira feigned ignorance in the hopes he might reveal something interesting.
Harlow nodded. “Row house in Georgetown. All this was my backyard.” He waved a hand out at the National Mall laid out in front of them. “It’s a strange place. Most of the time you can forget that you’re neighbors with the most powerful people in the country. Well, nominally the most powerful anyway.”
“Does your family still live here?” Mira ventured.
“Oh yes. My parents are still in the same house, and two of my sisters live nearby as well.”
And yet, you aren’t taking the time to visit any of them. Mira filed this information away. She could ponder it later.
“Is this one of your favorite spots?” Mira asked.
“It is.” Harlow smiled fondly. “When I was a teenager my friends and I used to sneak out late at night and come here, usually with some stolen liquor. By two or three in the morning it’s completely deserted. Best place in the world to ponder the mysteries of the universe and plot our glorious futures. We thought we were awfully sophisticated, back then.”
“Do you still keep in touch with them?”
“A few. One of them was Tabitha O’Brian. You saw her older brother Solomon in the office not too long ago. God, I had such a crush on her.” He chuckled to himself. “Simpler days.”
There was a pause. They both looked out across the reflecting pool towards the Washington Memorial.
“You know, I went to prep school with Paolo Leone.” Harlow said it casually, but Mira’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. This is new.
“The mafia boss?” Mira the FBI agent knew who Paolo Leone was, of course, but Mira the silly assistant wouldn’t be as well-informed about famous criminals.
“The very same,” Harlow said.
“Did you know him well?” Mira asked.
“Somewhat,” Harlow said. “He had the most wicked sense of humor.”
Mira waited, but he didn’t elaborate. She didn’t want to push him; it wouldn’t do for him to find her questions uncomfortable or impertinent. She was lucky Harlow liked to talk. Her job was hard enough without adding a taciturn subject.
“We’d best be going,” Harlow said. “It wouldn’t do to offend the intractable Senator Pryce by being late to our meeting.”
Mira followed him down the steps and back to the limo. Shortly thereafter they were dropped off outside a four- or five-story white building with row upon row of large vertical windows decorating its sides. The aesthetic was clearly meant to recall columns, in accordance with the ones framing the front entranceway. Mira found all the pristine white buildings in Capitol Hill ironic, given what went on here.
They went through the metal detectors and took the elevators to the third floor where Senator Pryce had her office. She made them wait for nearly twenty minutes before her interns were allowed to admit them. Mira was sure she had done it on purpose, to send Harlow a message about who held the power during this meeting. Harlow seemed unperturbed however, and graciously took the seat the senator offered to him as if he were settling down on a throne.
Mira sat beside him, placing his briefcase on the floor between them. Senator Dorcas Pryce was a blonde woman in her early forties, with sharp gray eyes and a slightly-too-large nose. Her hair was short and stylishly cut. While not exactly pretty, she was striking in a severe way. She was eyeing Harlow with open dislike, and Mira guessed that she had somehow been strong-armed into taking this meeting.
“Mr. Harlow,” she said. Her voice was deep and melodious. A good voice for making speeches with. “A pleasure.”
Harlow smiled at that, knowing full well what a lie those words were. “Senator Pryce,” he said in feigned deferential tones. “An honor to meet you at last. It has been quite difficult setting up this meeting. You’re obviously a busy woman.”
“I am.” She said it brusquely, not even pretending to be courteous. It was obvious that she thought Harlow was wasting her time.
“I’ll get right to it then. You’ve been very vocal about your opposition to cloning.”
Senator Pryce raised an eyebrow. “And you’re unhappy about it.”
“I would prefer if you turned your talents towards less hopeless endeavors, yes.” Harlow gave her a winning smile. “Surely there are other more urgent issues that require your attention.”
“If there were, they’d have my attention. Cloning is an abomination. It’s shameful that this country has tolerated it for the last nineteen years.”
“A time during which hundreds of clones have been born. What do you propose we do with them, if cloning is outlawed?”
“My bill clearly defines their legal status, something your people seem reluctant to do.”
“And what of the people who commissioned clones? Will they be at risk for prosecution under your new bill?”
“They would not,” Senator Pryce conceded reluctantly. “If I had it my way though, every last one of them would be in jail, along with you and Midas and all your cronies.”
“Surely you can understand that they did it for love? For grief? The cloning industry fulfills a very important role in our society, Senator Pryce. It offers the impossible: a second chance.” Harlow sounded so earnest that even Mira was almost convinced. She had to remind herself that the true reason for Harlow’s interest in cloning was money.
“Some things are impossible for a good reason, Mr. Harlow. It’s never a good idea to play God.”
A half-smile flitted across Harlow’s face before he spoke again. “And yet, that’s exactly what you’re doing with your sister’s treatment, isn’t it, Senator Pryce? How lucky that she was able to get that liver transplant before it was too late.”
Senator Pryce paled
; Mira could tell she didn’t think even Harlow would stoop to use her family’s tragedy against her. “That’s not the same thing at all.”
“Isn’t it?” Harlow mused. “They seem quite similar to me. Scientific innovation trumping the will of God. If you believe in that sort of thing.”
Senator Pryce had balled her hands into fists, but Mira could see they were still shaking. “How dare you,” she said.
“I can’t imagine what’s got you so upset, Senator Pryce. I merely pointed out that you and I are more similar than you think.”
“We are nothing alike.” She steadied herself, and took a deep breath.
“Nonetheless, my corporation wishes to set you up with a Super PAC, run by a person of your choosing to be used for any purpose you like except to undermine the cloning industry. All you have to do in exchange is withdraw your anti-cloning bill and get your voting bloc to stop talking about this issue. The question of cloning was decided nearly twenty years ago. Find something new to focus your energy and considerable influence on.”
“If you think I can be bought so cheaply —” Senator Pryce began, but Harlow cut her off, raising his voice slightly to drown out her protests.
“There is another alternative, of course. You can reject my kind offer, and we can part as adversaries rather than allies. If that’s your choice, you might find yourself with an uncommonly well-funded and well-liked opponent during your next election cycle. You could take your chances against such an opponent, of course, but if I remember correctly, you won your seat by a rather small margin. And many in your state remain dissatisfied that you spend your days railing against cloning instead of addressing the issues they really care about. It would be quite a risk for you, I must say.”
Senator Pryce opened her mouth to retort, then closed it. She looked as though she’d just been asked to swallow battery acid. And yet she did not throw the offer back into Harlow’s face again. As any shrewd politician would, she recognized the truth in what he’d said. It appeared that cloning wasn’t such an important issue to Senator Pryce that she’d be willing to risk her seat for it.
