The Sixth Day Page 3

  Five

  The man wore dark glasses, a gray suit, and brown shoes.

  Clearly security of some kind, Adam thought, as he looked down through the Plexiglas windscreen of the cockpit toward the individual waiting beside the Double X helipad.

  Both WhisperCrafts landed smoothly, and Adam and Hank got out of one. Nobody got out of the other.

  The bodyguard in the gray suit approached. “You gentlemen the owners?”

  “That’s us,” said Adam.

  “I’m with Mr. Drucker’s advance team. I’ve got a contract here for you.” He handed Adam a sheath of papers. “I think you’ll find it standard except for … wait!”

  He blinked and did a double take, noticed for the first time that no one was getting out of the second Whispercraft. “Who was flying that one?”

  Adam showed him the luminescent, glowing remote, still wrapped around his hand. “Me. By remote. We can fly four of these between the two of us now.”

  “Amazing,” said the bodyguard.

  “So you’re here for our blood tests?” Adam asked.

  The bodyguard shook his short-cropped head. “No. My technician is set up in your office. You mind if I check out the aircraft while you do that?”

  “Not at all,” said Adam, skimming the fine print on the contract. “You said these are standard except for…?”

  “Oh yeah, the nondisclosure clause. You could overhear Mr. Drucker’s phone calls. It could be anything from big mergers to inside information on his sports teams. We’ve got a legal obligation to protect this stuff.”

  “You guys are sure thorough,” said Hank. “Who does he think he is, the president?”

  The bodyguard grinned back over his shoulder. “Oh, he considers her the world’s second most important person!”

  * * *

  Entering the office, Adam saw a mobile medical monitoring unit set up on the edge of a desk. With its tiny screens and blinking lights, intertwined tubes and bright glass towers, it looked like a child’s model of a futuristic city—without the people.

  Rosie was standing next to it, doing her best imitation of a torture victim. “The blood test was agony! Seriously, I was screaming!”

  The visiting medical technician stared at her, openmouthed. Rosie’s humor was lost on him. Adam decided to help him out.

  “She’s just kidding.”

  The technician looked relieved. “It really doesn’t hurt,” he said. He pointed to a pad on the machine. “Just touch your thumb—here.”

  Adam did, experimentally.

  “All done!” said the technician.

  Adam was surprised. “That was it? I didn’t even feel it!”

  “Now we’ll check your vision,” the technician said, pulling a small visorlike module from the side of the mobile medical unit. “Press your forehead against this pad.”

  Adam pressed his forehead against the pad.

  “Look straight ahead!”

  Adam did as he was told. Do this, do that. The military was good training after all. Adam thought wryly. “You give blood tests to all your pilots?” he asked.

  “Pilots, drivers, security people, assistants generally,” the technician said, as three tiny lights on one of the mobile unit’s towers flickered, then turned green. “Basically anyone who comes into contact with Mr. Drucker. Right now I’m heading back to town to test a chef and two waiters.”

  “I guess he draws the line at busboys,” said Adam, as he stood up and allowed Hank to take his place at the machine.

  He didn’t expect the technician to laugh, and the man didn’t.

  The three lights turned green again for Hank.

  “Perfect,” said the technician as he folded the machine into itself once, then twice, then slipped it into a metal briefcase and headed out the door. “Have a nice flight,” he said without looking back.

  “You know, Adam,” Hank said, “they can’t clone a pet in five minutes. Let me take Drucker. Then you’ll have plenty of time to get Oliver cloned.”

  Adam had been idly watching the technician give a thumbs-up to the waiting bodyguard, then drive away. He had forgotten Oliver.

  “I’m not going to get him cloned,” he said. “I’m just going to—check it out.”

  “And once you do, you’ll say yes,” said Hank, sounding ominously like a RePet ad. “Deep down, you’re a softy.”

  Rosie had been listening. She looked from one partner to the other, worry in her dark eyes. “They specifically asked for Adam,” she reminded Hank. “By name.”

  “I know what specifically means, Rosie,” Hank said, with an edge in his voice. “I also know that bodyguard out there wouldn’t know the difference. He never asked our names. Adam—”

  Hank pulled his partner aside. His voice grew at once softer and more serious. “Adam, I admit, after hours I can be a goofball. But I’m totally serious about flying.”

  “Thanks for the help, but…” Adam began—then saw that he couldn’t refuse to make the switch without hurting Hank’s feelings. He tried to soften the moment with a joke. “But you’re sure this isn’t about the big mergers and the inside dope on the sports teams?”

  “You’re getting cynical in your old age,” said Hank.

  Adam signed the contracts, then gave them to Hank to sign. “Well, if you’re going to be me, stand up straight. Try to walk like an adult.”

  Hank’s wide grin showed his pleasure as he headed out to the helipad.

  Six

  Hank tried to look relaxed and unimpressed as the limousine pulled up beside the helipad. It wouldn’t do to stand at attention.

  The bodyguard bent down and opened the door.

  The man who got out was tall and lean and tanned. And half undressed. He was in the process of changing out of a business suit that cost more than most businesses, and into expensively casual neo-tek snowboarding togs.

  An assistant scrambled out of the limo behind him, carrying his snowboard and handing him a sleek, tiny cellphone.

  “No, you don’t understand,” he said into the phone, as the assistant knelt to Velcro up his boots. “You get the speaker to come. Don’t use my name at all. Hang on a sec, Dave…”

  He looked at Hank and held out a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Michael Drucker. You must be Adam Gibson.”

  Hank took the hand and returned the smile. “Accept no substitutes.”

  “Peter Hume speaks very highly of you,” said Drucker. “Says you know the mountains like nobody else.”

  “Thanks,” said Hank. “Except for my partner, that’s pretty much true.”

  Hank got into the Whispercraft and took the controls. Returning to his phone conversation, Drucker got into the backseat. The bodyguard stowed the equipment in the rear bay and followed.

  “We all set?” Drucker asked, muting his phone briefly.

  “Yes, sir,” said the bodyguard. “We’ve stationed our people monitoring the rescue beacons every six hundred meters…”

  Drucker stopped him with a shake of his head. “I don’t need to know the details.” Then he returned to his phone. “We gave a lot of money to his campaign, Dave. Not to mention what we pay your law firm. I’m counting on you to get the speaker there.”

  Trying not to listen, Hank eased the controls forward. The Whispercraft lifted smoothly off the helipad, hesitated for only a moment, and then blasted off for the mountains, folding its rotors into wings as it went.

  Seven

  “We’re here,” said the cab driver.

  “Huh?” Adam shook his head. He had been dreaming, first Clara and Oliver romping on the beach, and then …

  Ugh. Nightmare.

  He shook the cobwebs out of his brain and sat up.

  “Woodland Mall,” said the cabbie.

  Reaching back over the seat, she handed him a pay pad. He pressed his thumb on it, then flicked the twenty percent tip tab.

  Inside, the mall was busy. Soft music played buy buy, baby, buy buy for the eager shoppers, who rode up and down the
gleaming escalators like affluent salmon in silvery streams.

  Adam rode up, still trying to forget the dream.

  Ugh. Nightmare.

  At the top, he checked the video directory. There it was: RePet.

  He headed straight through the crowded corridors. Might as well get it over with.

  But he was stopped just outside the door.

  “Save your soul, man,” said a barefoot man with a long beard. “God doesn’t want you to go in there.”

  He handed Adam a leaflet.

  Adam handed it back.

  “Then God shouldn’t have killed my dog.”

  The RePet store was as quiet inside as a funeral parlor or a hospital. Maybe because it combines a little of both, thought Adam.

  An infomercial ran on a screen over the main counter.

  “It all begins with the growing of blanks,” intoned a soothing voice. “Animal drones stripped of all characteristic DNA, in embryonic tanks at the RePet factory.”

  Adam stopped and watched in spite of himself.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the image of a colorless, lifeless dog floating in a tank.

  “In stage two, your pet’s DNA is extracted from a lock of fur or drop of blood, and then infused on a cellular level into the blank.”

  As Adam watched, the dog on the screen slowly began to ripple and change, taking on color, growing fur, subtly changing its shape and even size.

  “In the final stage, using RePet’s patented cerebral syncording process, all of your pet’s thoughts, memories, and instincts are painlessly transplanted via the optic nerve.”

  Now the dog was out of the tank, dripping on a metal table, as a hoodlike device was placed over its head.

  The hood was pulled off. The dog blinked, then barked …

  “And now, to tell us more about the science behind the miracle, here’s Roscoe the RePet cat…”

  Enough! thought Adam.

  He was about to walk away, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Still can’t make up your mind?”

  Adam turned and saw a salesman, dressed in a smooth blue suit that matched his smooth smile.

  “You lost a dog, right?” he said.

  “Right.” Adam’s respect for anybody who cut straight to the chase, held him in place. “My daughter’s.”

  The salesman winced. “What a heartbreaker. What did you say his name was?”

  “Oliver.”

  “Well, Oliver’s in luck,” said the salesman. “Because this week we’re having a special. Twenty percent off. When did Oliver die?”

  Adam was fascinated in spite of himself. Talking to this guy was like turning over a rock to see the bugs. “Some time this morning.”

  “Perfect,” said the salesman, as if dying on schedule were one of the primary indicators of a well-trained dog. “We can still do a postmortem syncording. But you gotta act fast, ’cause there’s only a twelve hour window on a deceased brain.”

  “I have some problems with the whole idea,” said Adam.

  The salesman nodded sympathetically. Understandingly.

  He’s heard it all before. Adam thought. But he’s just going to have to hear it again. “I mean, suppose it’s true that clones have no soul? The real Oliver would never hurt Clara, but…”

  “Cloned pets are every bit as safe as the real pet,” the salesman insisted. “Plus, they’re insured.”

  “If it’s so safe, why is cloning humans against the law?”

  “The human brain is much too complex to syncord,” said the salesman. “Remember that experiment they did? That’s why it didn’t work and now it’s illegal to even try. But with pets, it’s a totally proven technology.”

  Adam shook his head. He’s said it before. I’ve heard it before. He glanced toward the door.

  “The RePet Oliver would be exactly the same dog!” the salesman continued in a rush. “He’d know all the tricks you’ve taught him. He’d remember where he buried his bones. He wouldn’t even know he’s a clone. Did I mention they’re insured?”

  “I don’t care about insurance,” Adam said, starting for the door. “I care about whether I can trust my daughter with a very big animal with very sharp teeth.”

  “We could make him smaller,” said the salesman, wringing his hands. Was he about to lose a sale?

  Not if he could help it.

  “With softer teeth…”

  Adam slowed. Was this guy for real? “You can do that?”

  “We can even color coordinate him to your decorating scheme,” the salesman joked.

  “In that case I might as well get a new dog.”

  “Oh,” said the salesman, getting serious again. “If you’re interested in a new dog, I’ve got a real bargain. A genetically engineered K-9 police dog.” He whipped a picture out of his coat. It was of a huge German shepherd with wires leading from his skull to his hard plastic collar.

  “See? Just like the ones on TV, with the embedded remote control and everything. We’re talking a brand new seventy-five thousand dollars dog here, but the security company that ordered it went bankrupt, and I can give you one hell of a good deal.”

  “When I said new dog, I was thinking of a puppy,” said Adam, backing toward the door. “You know, from a mommy dog and a daddy dog.”

  “Well, that’s taking a big risk,” said the salesman. “But with RePet there’s no surprise. So what do you say?”

  Adam was about to answer when, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a sign on the toy store across the wide mall promenade.

  SIM-PAL. THE BEST FRIEND

  MONEY CAN BUY

  “I’ll think about it,” said Adam. He was already out the door. “I might be back.”

  The salesman watched him go. “You’ll be back,” he muttered to himself.

  Eight

  She seemed to be about eight or nine years old. Out of the box, she looked almost human.

  The Sim-Pal salesgirl held her up and she blinked at Adam beguilingly.

  “You don’t want the box, right? You’ll take her just like this?”

  “You guessed right,” said Adam. “I don’t need the box.”

  “Your daughter is going to think you are the best dad in the world,” the salesgirl said, handing Adam the almost life-sized doll and taking his cash card. “My kid sister has two, and she loves them.”

  * * *

  A few hours later Adam was heading home. Beside him in the back seat of the taxi sat a smiling eight-year-old girl.… Or an approximation, anyway.

  The doll’s bright eyes stared straight forward, and her eager smile showed that she was ready to make friends. “Hi, I’m Sim-Pal Cindy,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  Adam wasn’t interested.

  He pressed his thumb on the phone icon on the cab’s divider, and dialed Hank at home.

  Hank’s face came up on the screen as a still video capture.

  “Hi, I’m not here to take your call, leave a message.”

  “Hank? It’s me again. Where the hell are you?”

  Adam waited a few seconds, in case Hank was—for some reason—screening his calls.

  No such luck. The still picture remained unmoving.

  “Let’s be friends!” said Sim-Pal Cindy.

  Adam ignored her. “I waited at Kelly’s for half an hour,” he said, no longer trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “It’s five after seven and I’m heading home.”

  “I can sing songs,” said the Sim-Pal. “Would you like to sing with me?”

  Adam frowned and ignored her. “If you get this message,” he said into the phone, “head over to my house with a good excuse and a bunch of flowers. Otherwise Natalie’s gonna kill you!”

  He hung up and stared out the window until the taxi pulled into his driveway.

  He punched the pay pad and got out, carrying the Sim-Pal under one arm. It was still smiling. He was still frowning.

  As he walked up the driveway toward the brightly lighted house, he
tried out the lines he would have to say to his daughter:

  “Clara, sweetie, honey, Oliver was very sick and had to be put down.”

  He winced. Put down didn’t sound right. It didn’t sound right at all.

  He tried it again. “Clara, sweetie, honey, Oliver has to go to Heaven.”

  He winced again as he imagined Clara’s answer:

  “Why, Daddy?”

  And his response: “Well, sweetheart, because—”

  He gave up and kicked the asphalt. “Shit, Oliver! Why’d you have to die?”

  As if in answer, he heard a loud barking.

  Adam stopped. He recognized that bark. He walked to the fence and looked over into the backyard.

  Oliver barked at him and ran toward the fence.

  Adam backed away, puzzled, repulsed—and angry.

  “Natalie…!” Fists clenched in anger, he walked toward the front door. As he started up the steps he heard a chorus of happy voices from inside the house.

  “Happy birthday to you …

  Instead of opening the door, Adam stepped off the porch and peered in the front window.

  Natalie, Clara, and all of Adam’s friends and neighbors, except for Hank, were standing in the living room around a birthday cake.

  Where was Hank?

  Then Adam forgot Hank. He saw an even more familiar figure, wearing an aloha party shirt, bending over to blow out the candles.

  Clara jumped up and down excitedly. “Make a wish!” she squealed. “Make a wish, Dad!”

  Adam couldn’t take his eyes off the man in the aloha shirt blowing out the candles.

  The man was—himself.

  Nine

  Adam felt as if he had been hit in the stomach: sucker punched.

  Himself. The man was himself.

  He stepped back in to the bushes, reeling. Then a bark from the backyard woke him up. Oliver.

  Not Oliver.

  What was going on? Adam had to know. He reached for the front door and was just about to open it, when he was stopped by a voice from behind him.

  “Adam Gibson.”

  He turned and saw a big man in a gray suit step out of the shadows. The effect was menacing.