Hands. With tubes streaming blood back and forth.
Hands, floating in a medium of some sort, approximately two and a half feet below the eyes which, likewise, float in nothingness.
I have hands. Nice hands. And a pair of eyeballs. Nice eyeballs.
All that’s left is a face, legs, arms, shoulders, chest, back, and a brain.
Yes. That’s all of it. Or him.
I fidget a little. Why am I reluctant to give him a face?
Because, really, how do you do a face? That’s why. That’s part of it, anyway.
There’s something else, though. Once you have a face you have a person. A specific individual.
Adam won’t be Adam until he has a face.
And he won’t get a face until I design one.
I chew on my lower lip. Okay, then.
Brow. Shouldn’t be low, I don’t like low brows. I don’t want it too high, just higher than average.
Where there’s a brow, there’s hair. Blond? Brunette? Redhead?
Rupert Grint has red hair. He seems nice.
Am I looking for nice?
No. Not Rupert nice. A little less nice.
Daniel Craig. He has blond hair. He may be nice in real life, but he doesn’t play nice in the movies. Blond can be cruel.
“This is idiotic,” I say.
“What is?”
I jump. I don’t know the voice. I spin around and see an extremely strange person. He appears to be tattooed everywhere except his face. No, scratch that: He has a tattoo on his brow. Speaking of brows.
“What’s idiotic?” he demands sharply.
“Who are you?”
“I happen to be Dr. Holyfield. I’m in charge of Project 88715.”
“Oh.”
“I would like to know what’s idiotic.”
I’m not intimidated. He wants me to be, he’s frowning, but I’m not easily intimidated. Certainly not in a building with my family’s name on the outside.
“Hair. I was debating hair color,” I explain.
He stares at me like he can’t accept my answer. Like there must be a better answer that I’m just refusing to tell him.
I hold his gaze.
He doesn’t like that, either. Too bad.
“Hair color is irrelevant,” he says at last. “It’s nothing but aesthetics. That’s not why you’re running this simulation. Your mother didn’t task you to discover your preferences in hair color.”
“Huh. Then why did she ‘task’ me?”
“Because she wants to keep you occupied, I assume.” He shrugs when I fail to take offense. “And, I suppose, because it might be informative to see what an ordinary person comes up with.”
“Ordinary.”
He stares at my work so far—eyeballs and hands. “Why would you start with hands and eyes?”
I take a deep breath. The truth is, I haven’t spent much time thinking about the “why.” But I don’t want to admit it. This guy is annoying me. Set aside the tattoos, and he’s like a lot of the other Spiker scientists I’ve been introduced to: arrogant and in love with his own IQ.
So I say, “Because gods want to be seen, and they want to be served.”
“Gods?”
I lift my shoulders in what I hope is a parody of his
too cool for school
attitude. “Don’t give me the job of creating a human unless you want me to have delusions of God-hood.”
“It’s just a sim,” he says, and his eyes narrow suspiciously.
“Okay, and I’m just a God sim.”
The conversation is not going his way. “If there were a God in this process, it would be the guy who created the RDSS-3 software and married it up to the CGMs.”
“The what?”
“The Rapid DNA Selection System and of course the Controlled…” He stops, glares, and actually thumps his chest. “Me. That’s who designed the RDSS and realized its potential.”
“So
you’re
God.”
He snorts. “Well, you’re not. I designed this system. You’re just using it.”
“Yeah. Like an artist uses paint. Right?” I ask it innocently. “I’ll bet the guy who sold Da Vinci paint thought
he
was the artist.”
“Mmm,” he says, his eyes hard. “It must be nice to be you, kid. Rich and privileged. Everything handed to you on a silver platter. Must be very nice.”
He turns on his heel and walks away.
What on earth is a CGM? I wonder. Controlled … That’s as far as he got, and then he stopped himself.
I Google it. CGM and the word “controlled.” Plenty of results, none of them very interesting.
“Dark hair,” I say to no one.
Dark hair it is. I tap the screen, I move the jelly beans. But the program informs me that I have made an error. We’re going to need a scalp and an entire head before we can grow hair.
I have no idea how to decide on a head shape. In my entire life I’ve never spent three seconds thinking about head shapes.
I get back on Google and start educating myself.
“Wait a minute,” I mutter aloud. “Is that what she’s up to?” Is my mother trying to entice me into majoring in genetics? Nah, that would be too motherly, not sufficiently subterranean.
Hmm.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m enjoying this. And it’s a good way to take my mind off Aislin and Solo and The Leg.
For the next three hours I barely look up from the screen.
And when at last I do look up, there’s Adam, looking back at me.
He has a very handsome face. The nose is perfect. The cheekbones could belong to a male model. The black hair is lush and lustrous. The mouth … that’s the only thing I’m not entirely happy with. That mouth, those lips, are almost too perfect. There’s something unnerving about a perfectly shaped mouth.
The eyes are blank, no glimmer of intelligence or thought or awareness behind them.
And suddenly I realize that I was right in my glib answer to Dr. Holyfield. I want my creation to see me.
For that, I will have to give Adam a brain.
– 18 –
SOLO
My phone goes off at 2:14
A.M.
I roll out of bed, stand up, realize the phone is still ringing, turn around, try to remember where the hell the phone is and what the hell it would be doing ringing. I find it and fumble with it and hold it the wrong way to my head.
I don’t wake up well at two in the morning.
“Solo.”
My eyes widen. It’s Terror her own self. At 2:14 in the morning. And suddenly I am acutely aware of the fact that I am not dressed, not at all, and without meaning to I glance toward where the security camera is.
I don’t worry about walking around naked. First, ninety-nine percent of security footage is never seen by anyone. It just goes straight into the servers. And second, on those rare occasions when camera footage is played, it’s for a bored security guy.
Anyway, I just don’t have much of a modesty thing.
Unless it’s Herself, the Mighty One, the Evil Queen herself, calling me in the middle of the night.
“Yeah?” I say, because it’s all I can come up with.
“I need you. Be at the south elevator, Level Two.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Am I stuttering? Now.”
I hesitate, trying to get the processors up to speed.
“I’ve already called two other employees, both of whom were unable or unwilling to respond. Both of whom are now former employees.”
“I’m on my way,” I say.
Click.
“What the hell?” I ask my room. I feel perfectly and completely awake and yet I manage to pull my jeans on backward anyway. And where did I leave my shirt? Does it smell? Are there clean ones in my closet? Yes, there’s one.
Find the front of the shirt. Okay. Good. Shoes.
I’m more or less dressed and I barrel out into the hallway, bleary, hair all over the place, no socks, underwear, or belt. My left eye has apparently been glued shut, but I am on the move.
I reach the elevator and ride it down to the second floor, which is the main reception area. Elevators coming from the parking garage come here first. It’s an amazingly impressive, intimidating space, a soaring four-story-tall atrium with a massive double helix floating in the air, all glowing colors and soft pulsations.
The lights are down, with soft spots on the elevator doors and the sweep of the reception desk. There’s a security guy sitting there, surprised to see me. He’s just thinking of asking me why I’m there when we hear the click-click of Terra’s high heels.
The guard quickly straightens his tie, shoots me a look, and stands up as Terra sweeps in.
Honestly, how does she manage to be that put-together at this hour? Sure, Eve mentioned she was at a spa all day, but it’s two-something in the morning and the woman looks like she just stepped off the cover of
Hot ’N’ Scary Moms
magazine.
She stares hard at me, like she’s caught me doing something. I flush with guilt because there are so many possibilities.
“That damned girl,” she says. “She’s here.”
Really? She’s referring to her own daughter as “that damned girl?” That seems harsh, even for Terra Spiker.
“I was in the middle of work,” Terra continues.
At two in the morning?
I think, but I keep my mouth shut.
“And now, you’ll notice, I am not in the middle of work.”
The elevator dings. The door slides open. There’s a plainclothes security guy—instantly recognizable by the MIB suit and the earpiece. And the gun bulge under his jacket.
He has a tight grip on Aislin’s arm.
I start to grin at Aislin. Then I see. Her nose has been split, right across the bridge. One eye is red and puffy and will soon be black. There’s a welt on her neck, a shoulder strap that was obviously torn and then retied hastily. There’s blood on a patch of scalp where someone has torn her hair out.
The guard and Aislin step off the elevator. He’s still holding her arm in his big fist like she’s a threat.
“What a surprise to see you, Aislin,” Terra says in a voice that could freeze oxygen.
For once Aislin is at a loss for words. She’s been crying. She sees Terra, winces, and her eyes slide over to find me. For a second there’s a look of total vulnerability. It’s hard to see: She’s not the vulnerable type.
“A surprise to see you, not a surprise to see you in trouble,” Terra says. “And you wonder why I don’t want my daughter dealing with you? Look at yourself.”
“Leave her alone.” The words are out of my mouth before I know it.
Both security guys suffer simultaneous heart attacks. No one breathes. Terra glares incredulously at me. I see a faintly amused look in Aislin’s eyes. And gratitude.
Terra lets it go after no more than a single sharp intake of breath. “Aislin will be spending the night, Solo,” she says. “Find her a room. Do not wake Evening. She’s still recuperating and doesn’t need … this.”
The word “this” is drenched in venom.
“Twenty-four hours,” Terra tells Aislin, manicured finger puncturing the air. “And only because my daughter would hate me if I didn’t.”
She clickety-clacks ten paces away, stops, half-turns, and says, “And page Dr. Anderson, Solo. The girl’s a mess.”
And then she vanishes.
“Hey, Solo,” Aislin says sheepishly, as the guard walks away.
“Let’s go get Eve,” I say.
“No, no, no, you heard her mom.”
“Yeah, well, Terra can go … she can drop dead. Something bad happened with you. You came here to see Eve, not me.”
She half-leans against me. She smells like booze and cigarettes. “You’re a good guy. I hope E.V. figures that out.”
I ignore her.
No, I don’t exactly ignore her. It’s more like an arrow’s been shot into my chest and I find myself kind of startled and breathless and, I don’t know, I don’t know what that other emotion is. Like something I didn’t know was in me, and then suddenly there it is.
I walk Aislin down the hallway. She’s leaning on me and she’s wobbly but I don’t think it’s from drink. I think she’s holding on by her fingernails.
“Did you call the cops?”
“Long story,” she says.
“Because you should—”
We pass the nurses’ station. “We’re going to see Eve,” I say. “Evening.”
The nurse leaps to her feet. “That girl needs attention.”
“Page Dr. Anderson,” I say.
“I’m good,” Aislin says, waving her hand vaguely.
Eve’s door is open, but I knock anyway. It takes a couple rounds before she wakes up.
“Yeah?” she calls.
“It’s Solo. I’m with Aislin.”
“What?”
“Hi, E.V.,” Aislin calls.
“What … just come in, will you?”
Eve looks about like I probably looked twenty minutes ago. Like she can only open one eye. And there’s possible drool in the left corner of her mouth.
Why do I find that kind of hot? Seriously. Sleep drool.
She sits up. She’s wearing a too-small T-shirt. Her hair is all on one side of her head.
Her eyes widen. She barely notices me. Aislin staggers over to the bed and just sort of melts into her arms. It’s a long hug. I stand in the doorway, staring at my feet.
I’m thinking it’s time for me to sneak away quietly when Eve looks at me over Aislin’s shoulder, frowns, and jerks her head a little, indicating that I should come in.
I do. Feeling like I’m entering the Holy of Holies.
Oh my God. I’ve never been in a girl’s room before. It smells different in here. It smells good.
Still, the realization is disheartening somehow. All of this is new to me. Including the acknowledgment that it’s all new to me.
“Aislin,” Eve says softly. “Oh, Aislin.”
The nurse appears in the doorway. “Dr. Anderson’s on his way,” she says. “And you’re in no condition to be having visitors in the middle of the night.”
“Please,” Eve says, stroking Aislin’s hair, “leave us.”
The nurse wrings her hands.
“Two minutes,” Eve snaps, and the nurse retreats.
There’s some of her mother in Eve, I realize with a shock. I’ve never seen it in her before, but when she wants to, Eve can summon up that same voice of command and control.
“So?” Eve asks Aislin.
Aislin won’t meet her eyes.
Eve looks at me. I start answering before I realize I’m doing it.
“Your mother woke me, told me to meet her at the elevator. Aislin came up. I’m supposed to find her a place to stay.”