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 –
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.
“Got into my files, didn’t you? Clever boy. Dumped coffee on me. Jumped on my computer and used the old Wi-Fi. Smart boy. But were you smart enough to load it to the cloud? Or is it still trapped inside your computer?”
I don’t answer.
Tommy strides over to the desk where my laptop and my pad both lie. He drops into the chair and taps the pad. The four-digit-code screen pops up.
“What’s the password?”
“One, two, three, four,” I say. I’m pleased at how calm I sound.
Tommy’s skeptical, but he types it in, anyway. He scowls at me. “Cute. You have a separate security software installed.”
I shrug. “Too easy to break a four-digit numeric password. So I added a little something.”
“Give me the code.”
I shake my head.
“You know, bagel boy, it’s bad enough you left the Wi-Fi on,” Tommy says. “You also neglected to consider the fact that I have three separate micro surveillance cameras installed at my workstation.” He clucks his tongue. “Very sloppy.”
“What can I say? I’m an amateur.”
“Give me the code,” Tommy snaps. He casts a significant look at one of the security guards.
A split second later my head’s jolted by a full-palm slap.
It stings. But I box. I’ve taken a lot worse.
“Okay,” I say. “Don’t hurt me. The code is FG6H8D55lMSU1LQWVFOP7FD34MHUTDLK.”
Tommy types as I speak. “What is that, like, thirty characters?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Paranoid much?”
On the pad’s screen, a graphic of a middle finger appears.
Tommy curses. He knows what I’ve done.
The screen goes dark. All the data on the pad has just been erased and rewritten. A lab with the right equipment and trained personnel might still be able to salvage some of it, but it would take days, maybe weeks. Even then they’d just get fragments.
“Want the password for my laptop, too?” I ask.
Tommy leaps up out of the chair. He still has my pad in his hand. He smacks it against the side of my head, shattering the glass.
He brings it down again, this time on the top of my head, hard, with both hands and all the leverage he can
