Eve and Adam

It crosses my mind, just for a nanosecond, that Solo might have arranged to be here with me. Maybe he’s as desperate for company as I am.

Solo pushes my wheelchair into a horseshoe-shaped work station. It’s an amazing space with soaring ceilings and low-slung black leather furniture. There’s a huge ficus tree next to the desk. It’s strung with white twinkle lights, probably a remnant of the long-past holiday season. It’s oddly whimsical in the clean, minimalist setting.

I don’t have time to admire the decor, though, because I’m too busy gaping at the twenty-foot-tall, floor-to-ceiling monitor. I’ve never seen a screen so big. Movie theater big.

A strand of DNA is displayed on the monitor. This is not just some run-of-the-mill textbook image. And it’s definitely nothing like the primitive double helix model I made in sixth grade out of styrofoam balls and toothpicks. (My mother’s assessment: “What are we, Amish?”)

This thing . . . this thing is pulsating with energy. It’s alive.

“That’s the project,” my mother says. “That’s 88715.”

“It’s real,” I murmur.

“No, just a simulation. You can see the DNA, you can see entire chromosomes, you can pull out further –” She demonstrates by tracing a finger across the touchscreen that is set at wheelchair level. The image on the wall zooms out. “Now you see a chromosome. Out further, it’s a cell.”

Solo locks my chair wheel and grabs a chair. He yawns. Clearly, he’s not as mesmerized as I am.

“The best part is that you can use any number of different interfaces.” Tap, tap, drag. “This one’s made of Lego blocks, for younger kids. See how there’s a Lego representation of the DNA?”

My mother’s in the zone, her voice animated. She gets like this when she’s excited about an idea. And this little project – this “fluff ” – is nothing compared to her real work, the work she’s overseen on new drug therapies. When she’s laboring on something she’s excited about, she’ll move into Spiker’s lab for days, even weeks, at a time. More than once, she’s come home with her mascara smudged, her nails bitten to the quick, her eyes bleary.

Usually, it’s because her team has failed. But sometimes, and there are just enough of those times, it’s because they’ve succeeded.

“You can add or subtract blocks,” my mother continues. “Hover over and you see what each does. Or –” tap, drag, tap – “you can picture each element as a colored blob or as a tile in a mosaic. But either way you can run forward and see the effect.”

“The effect on what?”

“On your person.”

“My what?”

“Your person.” She enunciates carefully. “Per. Son. The person you’re creating.”

I lean forward and The Leg shifts slightly. “You almost sound like you’re talking about a real human being.”

She blinks and brushes back an errant strand of hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not real. That would be illegal. The fines would be astronomical. The government would probably shut us down. I might even go to jail. Me!”

“I didn’t –”

“No, no, no. This just provides students with an opportunity to learn how to . . .”

“To play God?” I supply.

She snaps her fingers. “Exactly. Exactly, exactly.” Deep sigh. “Exactly. We want to enable the average person, a person like . . . like him” – her eyes flit toward Solo – “to understand what makes humans . . . human.” She waves a dismissive hand and trails Bulgari.

“‘Like him’?” I repeat.

“You know what I mean: someone who’s not a scientist.”

“A mere mortal,” Solo suggests.

“Stupidity is relative,” my mother says, still addressing me. “And it’s also case-specific. Thomas, the scientist most directly responsible for this project, has an IQ of 169. He also has his entire body covered in ridiculous tattoos. He’s very smart at science. You, Evening, are very smart at school, particularly science, and very stupid at choosing your friends.”

“Oh, snap,” I say.

“What?”

“Sorry. I was flashing back to 2005.”

The corners of Solo’s mouth flirt with a smile.

“The point is, you get to play God.”

“Can I play Portal instead?”

“You play Portal?” Solo asks.

“I have,” I say cautiously. “Is it all right with you if a girl plays Portal?”

“A girl?” He’s puzzled.

“Yes, I am, in fact, a girl.”

“I noticed,” he says.

“No, you did not notice she’s a girl,” my mother snarls. “You noticed she’s my daughter.”

My mother favors Solo with a look that has reduced many a grown man and woman to sniveling terror. She is in full feral mode.

But Solo is not afraid.

Oh, he pretends to be intimidated, but it’s an act. I see it as plain as day. He’s not intimidated at all. In fact, within his playacting there’s something else deeper going on.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

Oh my God. He hates her.

This startles me. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing in those eyes. He actually hates her.

I mean, I hate my mother, too, sometimes. But I’m her daughter. I’m supposed to.

And there are moments, like right now, when I actually kind of love her. At least, I love the way she loves her work. Whatever’s going on inside Solo’s head, he hides it quickly. He slides his gaze to the side, away from her, and when he looks up his eyes are as distant and unknowable as a starless sky.

He has really nice lashes. Better than mine.

I look for something to do. I reach my hand toward the touch screen. Objects on the wall screen move.

“So I make a human,” I say. “Is this just about how they look?”

“No, no, that would be a paint-by-numbers set.” My mother smiles, but not at me. She’s smiling at the computer-generated image. “No, if you’re playing God, a lot of the fun is in building the brain. The mind.”

She takes a step away. Her hands came up to form a sort of basket of fingers. It’s one of her gestures. She uses it when lecturing her underlings.

“We are at a turning point in the evolution of the human species,” she says, surveying, with slightly crazy eyes, an imaginary audience. “Evolution has blindly felt its way forward. Now we, the product of evolution, are taking the reins. We are taking the wheel.”

“Is it the reins or the wheel?” I ask perkily, but she hears nothing.

“We will soon have the ability to design and create the new human. Evolution still, but guided evolution.”

There is a long pause. I am not entirely sure if she expects us to applaud.

“Of course,” she adds, coming down off her high, “only in computer simulation.”

I don’t know where she was headed with her lecture. But I am definitely sure that this project sounds interesting. The touch screen calls to me. Suddenly I’m wishing everyone would go away and let me play.

“I think I’ll . . . you know. Just mess around with the program a little,” I say.

My mother is pleased. Solo is . . . well, I can’t exactly tell.

Ten minutes pass. I look up and I’m alone.

I didn’t even notice them leave.

I stare at my first choice. The choice I have to make before I get into the details of playing God: male or female?

I consider the looming monitor.

Here’s the thing: I am not beautiful.

I’m pretty. I’ll allow that much. Pretty.

But I’m not the girl boys long for.

Cheerleader? No. Prom queen? No. Voted most likely to get a modeling contract? No.

It’s not like I’ve spent my life beating the boys back with a flaming torch.

So. Am I “creating” a male or a female?

Worse yet . . . no, maybe it’s better yet . . . I’m picky. Not so much about looks, although even there I’m kind of picky. It’s more that I can’t pretend some guy is interesting when he’s not. If he’s immature, I’ll tell him. Within five minutes of knowing him. If he looks ridiculous dressed up like some wanna-be, I’ll probably say that, too, or more likely just steer clear of him.

When you’re at a high school, looking around at the boys, and you subtract all the ones who are looking for Ms Perfect, and subtract all the childish, ludicrous, boring, mean or sex-obsessed ones, there aren’t that many left.

It’s not that I think I’m some kind of prize.

No, wait, that’s not true. I do think I’m some kind of prize. I’m smart and occasionally funny and I’m pretty. I don’t see why I should spend long dates with some guy who expresses himself in single syllables and wants to go to slasher movies.

Which does not answer the question: male or female?

I also don’t understand why I should let some guy fondle me when I know the relationship has no future. I don’t need to be groped that badly.

So I’ve been on exactly three dates. The first when I was fourteen. The most recent two years ago.

A guy tried to kiss me once. I didn’t let him.

I live that part of my life vicariously through Aislin.

I hear her stories. And I admit I’m fascinated most of the time. Sometimes kind of appalled. And then fascinated again. I wonder what it would be like to be her. To be that . . . experimental. To be that “What the hell?”. To actually have detailed, well-informed opinions on questions having to do with kissing. Or whatever.

I have no opinion on chest hair versus no chest hair. Aislin could write a treatise on that alone.

So. Who do I want to create with my new simulated god-like powers?

Male or female?

I sigh. I squirm in my wheelchair.

Who am I kidding?

Male.

11

SOLO

I CAN’T GET into Eve’s file on Project 88715 yet. It’s encrypted.

She just finished up a half hour ago, but I’ve already checked out the surveillance video. I can watch her face as she stares intently at the screen. I can even see myself, staring intently at . . . her. And Terra, being her predictably insane self, raving on about world domination.

I’ve been able to access – and edit – this kind of file for a couple of years now. I don’t edit out the merely embarrassing, I make the minimal edits to conceal the degree to which I have penetrated security.

It bugs me that I can’t get into Eve’s working file. It’s that new security protocol. A lot of the newer stuff is beyond my reach. But I have enough to bring the Food and Drug Administration down like a hurricane on this place.

Soon I may have enough to bring the FBI.

Do I want Terra Spiker to go to prison? The question makes me a little uncomfortable. She has sure as hell broken the law. Many laws.

It’s time for school. It’s Saturday, but I slacked off all week and I need to catch up. It won’t take long, it never does. I click on the window for the online high school. I replaced the generic logo of the school with a picture of a guy sleeping. Which I guess says what I feel about it.

On my screen I get a video feed of a lecture on the Manhattan Project. Ancient history about the first atomic bomb.

The reading for this unit is on the right side of the screen in a window. There are numerous links in the text that open audio or video or text.

The lecturer drones into my headphones. I click on a link that shows a loop of an atomic bomb exploding.

A request for chat pops up. It’s a kid I know online. He, she or it goes by the name FerryRat7734.

FerryRat7734: What’s vertical?

SnakePlissken: You could just say, “What’s up?”

I don’t know if FerryRat actually meant to write FurryRat. I don’t ask questions of people I meet online. I figure they have a right to be whoever or whatever they want to be.

My online name is SnakePlissken. There’s a reason for that. It’s the only character I’ve ever come across who shares my last name. Plissken. Google just the word “Plissken” and that’s who you come up with. I don’t appear in Google. I am invisible. That’s deliberate.

FerryRat7734: Is it just me or are they teaching us how to make an atomic bomb?

SnakePlissken: The science is easy enough. The engineering’s a bitch.

FerryRat7734: So can you do me a favor? Send me your notes on the next week’s lectures?

SnakePlissken: You going on vacay?

FerryRat7734: I wish. I have a procedure.

I sit back. The teacher is droning on. A second dialog box opens up with someone saying, “How do you spell Openhimer?” I should answer that question, not ask FerryRat one of my own. I can sense I’m opening a can of worms. But how do you not follow up on something like that?

SnakePlissken: What procedure?

FerryRat7734: You don’t want to know. Trust me.

I say that’s not true, although it is. And I repeat the question.

Lung transplant. FerryRat has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease. Lung transplant is the final, desperation move.

SnakePlissken: F–.

FerryRat7734: Exactly. So take notes, okay? I’m not dead yet.

SnakePlissken: Will do.

What else am I going to say? Someone tells you they’re dying what do you say? You say yes, I’ll take notes.

It dawns on me for the first time that a lot of these online students that I know only by their handles, only from pop-up chat boxes, may be sick in one way or another.

It embarrasses me that I’ve never even considered this before.

“Slightly self-absorbed are you, Solo?” I mutter.

I sit through the rest of the lecture and then the natural history lesson after that.

Then I have work. Today I’m helping to prep visitors’ suites for a conference. We have those about once a month. A bunch of Big Brains and Even Bigger Bucks fly in and we wine and dine and lecture them about the wonders of biotech and what a great investment Spiker is.

I’m distributing cut flowers to the rooms, checking the mini-bars, that kind of thing. Then I’ve got to fill in for the coffee cart guy for a few hours while he attends a wedding in Monterey.

I don’t have to do this kind of work. Terra would let me stay here, keep a low profile, whatever. But the grunt work gives me access, and access is what I’m after.

When I’m done, I get into the system, mask my identity, and start looking around for cystic fibrosis. Because as full of crap as Terra might be, and as much of a criminal as she might be, Spiker does do some amazing work.

There are lots of hits for CF. The company has done some research on it. But all files have been moved. They’ve all been transferred to Project 88715.

I Google “genetic diseases” and get a list.

Back to the Spiker database. I search for hemophilia. Many files. It seems we may be close to a gene-based cure. Transferred to Project 88715.

Neurofibromatosis. Ditto.

Sickle cell disease. Ditto.

Tay-Sachs disease. Ditto.

Not every genetic disease, but a lot. Too many for it to be some kind of fluke. Half a dozen major genetic diseases that Spiker has worked on have been suddenly transferred to Project 88715.

Why transfer all this info about genetic diseases to some ridiculous classroom software project?

I know the budget for all of Project 88715 is 12 million dollars. That’s a lot of money, but it’s not a lot of money at Spiker. At Spiker, anything under a billion is loose change.

I pull up the log entries – the brief descriptions – for CF and hemophilia and the rest. Rough addition in my head: the total budget is over twenty-eight billion dollars.

Billion. With a “B”.

Twenty-eight billion dollars’ worth is suddenly under the aegis of a 12 million dollar project?

That’s like saying your local grocery store chain will be managed by the kids selling lemonade on the street corner.

Terra Spiker’s up to something. I don’t know exactly what yet.

But I will find out.

12

EVE

“MMMMM. CAVIAR,” AISLIN says.

It’s one of her phrases.

It’s late afternoon, and Solo has just entered my room. He’s holding Aislin’s shoulder bag.

Aislin has no self-editing function. She is incapable of ever not saying what she’s thinking.

“I’m sorry?” Solo says.

“It’s expensive. It’s . . . delicious. And I could eat it with a spoon.” She’s employing her purring, hair-tossing, flank-stroking voice, one that brings an alarmed expression to Solo’s face. He’s probably not used to girls like Aislin.

Come to think of it, almost no one is used to girls like Aislin because there’s only one Aislin.

God, I’ve missed her.

“Leave him alone, Aislin,” I say mildly.

What can I say? I like the girl. She’s the polar opposite of me.

“Oh, is he yours, E.V.?” Aislin asks innocently. She’s about six inches away from Solo. “Can I at least have . . . the leftovers?”

Aislin is tall, taller than I am, and I’m not short. She’s wearing shorts which, if they were any shorter, would qualify as the bottom of a bathing suit, and she has about a mile of leg. Her T-shirt might as well be spray paint. She has sleek, short, stylish copper hair and eyes that slant up, giving her an exotic, feline look.

And breasts. Which she deploys with absolutely cynical yet devastating effect.

I love myself and my body and I’m proud of being who I am blah blah blah. But there are times when I would give a lot to have Aislin’s body and her boldness.

She knows no fear, Aislin.

No, that’s not true. She shows no fear.

“Your bag,” Solo says, leaning back with eyes wide. “It’s uh . . . security . . . you know.” He shoots a panicky look at me.

I shrug. I’m not rescuing you, dude. I look down to conceal an anticipatory grin because I know what’s coming.

Aislin takes the bag from Solo, but before he can escape, she clamps a hand on his wrist. She opens the bag and examines its contents. “So I guess they took my flask.”

“They said something about your personal property being returned when you leave.”

Good boy, Solo: a complete sentence.

“Wait!” Aislin says. She reaches into the bag and then, yes, draws out a long string of condoms. “At least,” she says, “they didn’t take anything I really . . . need.”

A slightly strangled sound comes from Solo. He backs out of the room, smirking but clearly thrown.

Aislin laughs, delighted. She perches on the edge of my bed and I say, “You are such a bitch.”

“I know, aren’t I?”

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” I sigh. “I miss everything. I miss homework. I miss the very special stench that is the girls’ locker room.”

“You are such a nerd. School’s over in a few days, anyway. They’ll let you make it all up in the fall.” Aislin pats The Leg. “Oh, crap, sorry! Did I hurt you?”

“No, actually. The pain pills work really well.”

“Don’t suppose you have any extra you feel like sharing?”

I breathe in deeply. “How’s Maddox?”

“Who?” she asks. “I’m sorry, that name slipped right out of my brain when I saw Mr Scruffy McMuscles.”

“His name is Solo.”

She grinned a huge, lascivious grin. “Why, of course it is. But he could be in a duo without too much trouble.” She switches on her serious face. “Maddox is out on bail. If he doesn’t screw up again they’ll probably let him go with community service.”

“If,” I say.

I know it’s wrong, but Aislin’s troubles are almost reassuring to me, they’re such a regular feature of our lives.

I first met Aislin in sixth grade. My dad had died over the summer, and she provided much-needed distraction. Even then, she was the glamorous fashionista, and at a point where I was still four years away from noticing that boys existed as something different and apart and interesting, Aislin was already charming them like a cobra mesmerizing prey.

She was also the only one who could make me laugh that horrible year.

“You know Maddox,” Aislin said. She looks down and away, her patented move to ensure I don’t know how much something is bothering her.

When he goes off to prison – and he will, someday – Aislin will probably wait for him. Her loyalty is fierce.

I love her.

“So what are you doing in here for fun?” she asks.

“Help me get into my wheelchair and I’ll show you,” I say.

It takes a while, but we manage to haul my giant leg and bruised body into my wheelchair.

Except, now that I think about it, am I bruised any more?

“Push me over to the mirror,” I say.

It’s a floor-to-ceiling mirror, gilt-framed.

I brace for the worst. I saw myself early on, a reflection in a piece of shiny equipment: it was not good. I had huge raccoon eyes, my nose was red, and there were two visible bumps on my forehead, one of which was about the size of an egg yolk.

Since then, I’ve been avoiding mirrors.

I stare at my reflected image in disbelief.

I’m me.

“Huh,” I say. Where are my bruises? My egg yolk? “Push me closer.”

“It’s kind of hard to believe you almost died,” Aislin says. “It’s only been, like, a few days.”

“It’s nuts,” I say. “I mean, my eyes were all . . .” I wave my hand around my face. “I looked like I’d been hit by a train. With good reason. I shouldn’t be this . . .”

Aislin shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t a regular hospital, right?”

“No, you’re right, it isn’t,” I say. “My mother was completely freaked about getting me out of San Fran and into this place. I guess she was on to something.”

While I contemplate my reflection, Aislin pokes around the room. “Giant flat-screen, nice sound system. Maybe I should get run over.”

“I had stitches here,” I murmur, peeling back a strip of surgical tape. “Right here on my cheek. Now there’s nothing.”

“Lucky,” Aislin says. “Would’ve been hard to cover with make-up.” She slides open my closet doors. “Whoa. Primo robes. Can I steal one?”

I glance at the closet. My sketchbook is on the top shelf, barely visible. “Hey, can you get that down for me? My mother probably had someone stash it there.”

“Have I mentioned that your mother’s an ice-cold bitch?”

“I believe you may have mentioned that in passing, yes.” I hold up my cell phone. “At least she finally let me have my phone back. Charged and everything.”

Aislin stands on tiptoe and retrieves the sketchbook. She browses through the pages, holds one up for me to see.

“I love this guy. You’ve been working on him forever.”

“He’s a cartoon. He has no depth. No soul.”

“Screw depth.”

“I can’t get the eyes right.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But he’s got great lips.” She taps her chin with her index finger. “You know, he reminds me a little of what’s-his-name. So-hot.”

“Solo.”

“Needs a body, though. Your drawing, I mean. So-hot’s doing just fine in that department.” She smirks. “If you need suggestions, I can help you finish him. If you know what I mean.”

I ignore her. “Must be genetic. My dad never could do faces, either.”

“But he was a sculptor.”

“Sculpting, drawing. Same problems.” I stare out the window at the undulating hills wreathed in fog. “I remember once he tried to draw my mother. He was using oil pastels, I think. He gave up after a couple tries.”

“Must’ve been tough, capturing Satan on canvas.” Aislin places the sketchbook on my bedside table. “Hey, can you draw, anyway? With your arm all mummied up like that?”

“Nah.” I consider my crushed hand. “Although the way things are going, who knows?”

“So where’s the mini-bar?”

“There’s a fridge in that cabinet with sodas in it.”

Aislin pulls a flask from the back waistband of her shorts. Naturally, security only found the one in her purse: who carries more than one?

She takes a swig and holds the flask out to me. “Cough syrup?”

“You mean vodka?” I ask. I don’t want to show disapproval, I really don’t, because it bothers her when I do and it creates a barrier between us.

“Lemon vodka, cough syrup, who can tell the difference, really?” Aislin asks.