“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.
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.
