by M A Gelsey
“So your mom is trying to set you up with some rich bachelor?”
“It doesn’t matter, they’re all the same.”
“All?” he sounded surprised. “How many have there been?”
“I’ve lost count. Like I said, it doesn’t matter. It’ll just be a few minutes of awkward conversation at yet another stupid wedding.”
“I love weddings. Good food, free booze, dancing. What’s not to like?”
Mira laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m not. You should bring me along, I’m a great wedding date. Besides, if I go with you to the wedding, I’ll have a good excuse not to spend Memorial Day with my father.”
Mira twisted around to look at him again, expecting to find a smirk. He looked earnest enough, but Mira remained suspicious; surely he must be joking. She didn’t know how to react to this seemingly genuine interest. Of course Jack read her mind.
“What can I do to convince you I’m serious?”
“Stop talking.” She kissed him.
48: EDGAR PRIME
“Remember, if at any point you feel weird like they may have made you, fuck the footage, just get out. Okay?” Noela was as anxious as Edgar Prime had ever seen her. She hovered around Omar nervously in the center of her tiny living room. Edgar Prime sat on the worn couch with a laptop, testing the audio and video quality.
Omar rolled his eyes at his sister. “You worry too much.”
Noela’s mouth puckered as though she’d swallowed a lemon, and Edgar Prime hastily disguised his laugher as a coughing fit that fooled no one.
“This is serious, Omar. You don’t wanna fuck around with these people. Who knows what they might do.” Noela began pacing the room, three long strides in each direction before she hit a wall. Luken and a third roommate who Edgar Prime didn’t know were both out; Edgar Prime thought Luken had deliberately made himself scarce to further emphasize his disapproval. He was busily planning a rally for the end of the month, and refused to be drawn into what he called their, “playing at espionage”. Edgar Prime missed his lighthearted presence; Noela was more tense and serious without him.
“The plan is good,” Edgar Prime pointed out. Noela threw him an exasperated look, and Omar nodded appreciatively. “Go into the other room Omar, and say something so we can test the mic.”
Omar obediently went into Noela’s bedroom and closed the door. Noela joined Edgar Prime on the couch and watched the screen. Omar was walking in slow circles. The camera — hidden inside one of Omar’s shirt buttons — bounced with every step, but the picture was sharp.
“I’m gonna talk quietly to see how good this mic really is,” whispered Omar. They heard every word clearly from the laptop speakers; through the door they only caught the rise and fall of his muffled voice.
“Got it!” called Edgar Prime. The door opened and Omar reappeared, a huge grin on his face.
“I can’t believe we’re really gonna fuckin’ do this,” he said, sounding pleased. He returned to the bedroom to admire the camera in the mirror — it was impressively hidden, the sort of thing nobody would notice unless they were looking for it. Noela turned to Edgar Prime.
“This is a good idea, isn’t it?” she said, as though trying to convince herself.
“Yes,” Edgar Prime said, even as his stomach gave a nervous lurch. “We don’t have any better options,” he pointed out.
“You’re right,” Noela said grudgingly. “I’m just being paranoid.”
Edgar Prime thought back to his second meeting with Harlow. They met at the Bronx Zoo, where Harlow had long been a beneficiary. He liked to brag about which animals he personally owned; the rarer, the better.
“It’s all set up,” Harlow told him as they walked by a lone ostrich staring out at them from behind its glass partition.
“Thank you sir,” Edgar Prime said sincerely.
The corner of Harlow’s mouth twitched. “Damon, please. ‘Sir’ makes me feel like an old man.”
“Of course, sorry,” Edgar Prime said.
Harlow passed him an envelope. “Details are inside. Make sure to follow the instructions exactly. And remember, I won’t be taking credit for this mess if it goes south.”
“I understand, s—” Edgar Prime stopped himself just before saying “sir”, again. Harlow gave him a half smile and shook his head knowingly. They reached an enclosure where a surly-looking trio of lions lounged; two females and a male. Harlow pointed at them.
“Look peaceful now, don’t they? I was there when they were acquired. They’re smarter than you’d expect — working together and all that. But not as smart as we are.”
“How did you wind up on a lion hunt?”
Harlow scoffed at that. “By paying a lot of money, of course! There are few things more thrilling than watching humans demonstrate our dominance over other species, and I had a front row seat.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Edgar Prime said.
Harlow let out a great, “Ha!” to that. “Part of the adventure, Prime! Always a bit of danger in anything worthwhile, I’ve found.”
Edgar Prime repeated this under his breath to reassure himself, as he studied Noela’s doubt-ridden expression. They were doing the right thing. They had to be.
Omar set off a short time later, bound for a warehouse near the river. Edgar Prime and Noela settled on her couch with the laptop on the table in front of them, watching and listening to the bustle of Manhattan as Omar made his way to the subway. At first, Noela barely seemed to be breathing, but she relaxed during the hour it took Omar to reach his destination; the scenes of normalcy were soothing and made what they were doing almost feel like a game.
The warehouse was nondescript, made of dark concrete with heavy steel doors covered with chipped gray paint in what appeared to be an unsuccessful effort at matching the color of the walls. From the outside, the warehouse appeared deserted. After hesitantly wandering around the periphery, Omar went to the nearest door and knocked. The sound was deafening; Noela cringed as it echoed through the laptop speakers. For a long moment, it seemed as though nobody would answer, then the door creaked open to reveal a short man with black hair, pale skin and piercing bronze eyes.
“Horoscope sign?” he asked.
“Aries, but I should have been Gemini,” Omar answered. Harlow had warned them that the passphrase must be exact, or else Omar would not be admitted. The man at the door didn’t reply immediately, but just as the tension was becoming unbearable, he stepped aside.
“Welcome,” he said. Omar followed him inside, and the door clanged shut behind them. The cavernous room was dimly lit, and Edgar Prime leaned forward squinting, trying to make out the dark shapes half hidden in shadow.
“So far, so good,” Edgar Prime murmured to Noela. She gave a small nod, her eyes fixed on the screen, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white.
“Follow me, please,” said the bronze-eyed man. He had neither asked for Omar’s name nor offered his own. Omar followed. There was an eerie silence in the warehouse, punctuated by occasional distant booms and clangs. The host led Omar across an expanse of open space into a dim, low-ceilinged hallway. When they reached the last door on the left, the man knocked once then opened the door for Omar without waiting for a reply.
Inside, a woman sat behind a scuffed wooden desk. There were several large file cabinets along the walls, but the desk was empty apart from an open laptop that she closed the instant they entered. She and the man who had greeted Omar looked alike enough to be siblings; her black hair was long where his was cropped, but they shared the same bronze eyes and fair skin. The woman stood up and extended a hand to Omar.
“Please sit down,” she said after they shook hands. She gestured to an empty chair opposite hers and Omar sat. The man stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
For a moment the woman did not speak. Edgar Prime wondered whether her silent, appraising stare was as unsettling to Omar as it was to him.
“I adhere to a ‘don�
�t ask, don’t tell’ policy here,” said the woman. “I don’t want to know what sort of uses you might have in mind for our product. The following are instructions about making your deposit,” she handed him a thin manila folder. “Once it’s completed you’ll receive an invitation to one of our auctions. Bids can be made in the form of cash or wire transfer.”
Omar opened the folder to reveal a single sheet of paper.
“That’s it?” Omar asked.
The woman smiled slightly. “That’s it. Were you expecting a blood oath or a collateral requirement of your firstborn child?”
“I don’t have any children,” Omar said.
The woman smiled more widely. “We’re businesspeople, nothing more. The truth is, we’re only interested in your money.”
Omar chuckled and lifted the folder. “Paper. Old school.”
“You can’t hack a piece of paper,” the woman replied.
“Fair point,” Omar said. He stood up and so did she. They shook hands again and he opened the door to leave.
“We look forward to working with you,” the woman said.
Omar turned back to face her. “Likewise,” he said. The man was waiting by the door to lead him out.
“That was quicker than I expected,” Omar confided as they walked.
“You’re not the first one to say that,” the man answered. He led Omar all the way back outside, where dusk was just starting to fall.
“Thank you for your help,” Omar said.
“Thank you for your business,” the man replied. They shook hands, then the man pulled the door shut again with a clang, followed by the scraping sound of a lock sliding into place. Omar set off for the subway, clutching the manila folder. He walked quickly, and Edgar Prime could tell he was eager to get back so they could discuss what had happened. The street was nearly deserted.
It happened out of nowhere; suddenly he was falling until the camera hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Noela gasped and Omar grunted. When he rolled onto his side with a groan, they saw blood on the pavement. Then the camera showed two feet, one of which swung forward and connected with a thud and another cry of pain. Noela screamed as the foot pulled back and kicked Omar again and again, punctuated by yells. Too soon, the reactions stopped. The attacker crouched down as if he was going through an unconscious Omar’s pockets. His breaths were short and sharp; they couldn’t see his face, only his ripped jeans and dark sneakers. He ran off while Edgar Prime was still dialing 911, feeling zombielike as if he were watching somebody else explain to the operator what was happening.
The assailant left Omar lying still on the curb when he ran off. Noela tried calling him again and again in the hopes he’d wake up, but there was no answer. Tears slid down her cheeks as they heard the sirens approaching, and watched the EMTs put Omar in a stretcher and load him into an ambulance.
49: MIRA
John had set up a screen on one wall for them to watch the livestream. From the looks of it, Omar Kearney was on the subway, heading to the warehouse where the meeting was set to take place. The others looked as tense as Mira felt. She almost reached out to grasp Jack’s hand under the table, but resisted the impulse. Warren might have a stroke if he found out about their after-hours activities; it had been several weeks but Mira still considered it far too early to call whatever was going on a relationship. She dragged her focus back to the problem at hand, and watched as Omar exited the subway and wandered down a run-down, mostly deserted street lined with warehouses.
Once Mira discovered what Harlow had planned for the CAN, Liesel had hacked Edgar Prime’s computer with ease. While none of them thought he’d allow the CAN to come anywhere near the black market — the fact that he had sent them to a shady warehouse in Brooklyn struck them all as Harlow’s idea of a joke — they had decided nonetheless to keep tabs on the video feed so they could continue cataloguing all of Harlow’s associates just in case one of them produced another lead.
Harlow’s network was proving more layered than an onion, and Mira suspected they’d have a ways to go before they even came close to the man himself. One wall of their office had a massive board with photographs pinned up of all of Harlow’s known associates and how they related to the business. They knew they had only scratched the surface. Because the black market transactions occurred on the darknet, many of the individuals involved never needed to come in contact with Harlow at all, or even with anyone who reported to him directly.
Omar had reached a door with peeling gray paint, and knocked. When it was slid open, Mira received her first gut punch: Bob Smith with his easy smile and melodious voice. After their date, he had never contacted her again. She had wondered whether he’d been told not to get involved with one of Harlow’s assistants, or if it was just that he’d lost interest. While he and Omar exchanged the passphrase, John voiced what all of them were wondering.
“Does Harlow know we’ve been monitoring Smith? Is this just him fucking with us?”
“Could he possibly be that arrogant?” Liesel asked.
“Yes,” Mira said, without hesitation.
“We should pick him up,” Jack said. “Before he disappears.”
Warren scowled. “It’ll blow our whole operation,” he said dismissively.
“Not necessarily,” countered Jack. “If Harlow thinks he vanished of his own accord —”
“And why would Harlow think that?” Warren snapped. “Don’t think he doesn’t have spies of his own keeping tabs on his operation. He isn’t just winging it. There’s no way we’d be able to get Smith without showing our hand.”
On screen, Omar was speaking to a woman with the same black hair and bronze eyes as Bob Smith. The resemblance was uncanny.
“She’s new,” commented John. He proceeded to search every facial recognition database they had access to; the only name that popped up was an expired New Mexico driver’s license with the name “Jane Smith”.
“Siblings?” Mira asked.
“I’d make that bet,” Jack said.
“Difficult to say,” Warren said. “Liesel, see what else you can come up with about the alleged Smith siblings.”
“It’s probably another alias,” Liesel said. “Bob and Jane Smith are about the most generic names anyone could ever come up with. There’ll be so many false hits on any search for either of them. But I’ll do my best.”
Omar left the warehouse, and was walking off down the block as the sky began to darken into dusk.
“Do you think there’s anything in that manila folder she gave him?” John asked.
“Doubt it,” Jack said. For once Warren agreed wit him.
“This entire endeavor has been nothing more than an elaborate piece of theater meant to —”
Out of nowhere, the camera shook violently as Omar was thrown to the ground. Mira gasped as a boot-clad foot came into view, and connected with Omar’s ribs; the meaning of Harlow’s promise that he had something special planned for the CAN had become abundantly clear. Jack called the police, while the rest of them watched the assault helplessly, each kick punctuated by a sickening crunch. The heard sirens approaching, and the assailant stopped kicking the now-still Omar, and ran off. The ambulance arrived a moment later and Omar was rushed to the hospital; he was badly injured but still alive. The video feed went dead, but Jack had instructed the on-duty officer to keep them informed of Omar’s status.
They all sat in stunned silence. After a moment, Liesel replayed the last portion of the video, more slowly. Mira gasped again, so loudly the others whipped around to look at her in alarm.
“That shoe,” she said. “It... I think it... This morning, the man, I delivered his money and — and —” She was shaking and incoherent. Liesel paused the video feed on a decent view of the boot; brown and scuffed, just like the man from the Met.
“A lot of people have boots like that,” John pointed out.
“That’s true,” Liesel agreed.
“They do,” Jack said.
She knew they
were trying to reassure her, but it was useless. The guilt felt like a grenade that had detonated in her stomach. She could have prevented this, should have prevented this. If Omar died, it was her fault.
“That’d be one hell of a coincidence though,” Warren muttered.
“It’s him,” Mira said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Warren said. We’ll need traffic camera footage from that area. Liesel, John, see if we can’t get a good shot of the attacker’s face. Then Mira can see if he’s the man she met with this morning.”
“On it,” Liesel said. She and John both began typing furiously, but it took a surprisingly short time before they had images up on the screen. None were very good, the man wore a hat and kept his head down. Mira took a long look before speaking.
“It’s him,” she said again, in a quiet voice. She felt hollow now, wrung out and exhausted. “How could we not have seen this coming?” she said.
“We should have.” Warren’s voice was gruff. “But even if we did, we couldn’t have intervened. You don’t get a whale like Harlow without any collateral damage. Don’t forget about the lives of all the clones that are on the line if we fail.”
Mira wanted to argue, but she knew Warren had a point. Harlow would pay for this, she’d make sure of it.
50: ANNABEL
After the initial blow-up about the cell phone records, Annabel and Rex had come to a sort of detente. Neither one mentioned the argument, and both went out of their way to pretend that things were normal. They ate together, slept together and talked in a superficial way. But underneath, there was an uneasiness that belied the truth of their situation: their days were numbered. The end was approaching, it was only a question of when.
There were times when Annabel almost pitied Rex. More often, she felt a detached, faint distaste towards him. How stupid he was to think a clone would be the solution to his grief. Stupid, and stupidly optimistic. But then, if he hadn’t been so stupid, she wouldn’t exist. Whenever this occurred to her, Annabel’s guilt returned and she tried and failed to persuade herself that maybe she still owed Rex. Maybe she should stay after all. Ms. Durant’s voice floated through her head telling her that this was her place, her purpose. As Ms. Durant used to remind her, other clones had it much worse than she did. Who was she to complain, or to think she deserved any more than the security she currently enjoyed? After all, there was no guarantee things would get better if she left. In fact, odds were they’d get a whole lot worse.
