The Rule of Luck (22 page)

“Despite the fact I'm legally dead? Such a romantic fool.”

I fought the urge to slap her. How could she be so tactless? I debated what to say next, afraid any misstep would uncork my own anger and send her running. “Why fake your own death?” I asked finally.

She shrugged. “It was necessary. I had a hypothesis to prove. Funding was lined up and the stakes were high. If the university grant committee suspected a link between us, my research would be compromised and my breakthroughs invalidated. I couldn't afford to contaminate the control group.” There she shook her head, as if the story of her research struggles was too sad to continue.

“Which I assume was me and my family?”

“Naturally. How is Granny G, by the way? Such an amazing woman. I don't think she likes me though.”

The desire to slap Monique grew. Granny G had raised me when it seemed like the world wanted to do nothing more than take away the people I loved. My great-grandmother had shown me more love and kindness than anyone. Not my father. Not my grandmother. Not cousins. Not friends. No one. And the fact that Monique spoke so casually about her, like she had any right at all to say her name, made me livid.

“She died five years ago.”

“A shame. I suppose science doesn't have all the answers yet, even with the Renew treatments.” She leaned an elbow on the bar and looked thoughtful. “It's sad to think all my hopes to avoid contamination were for nothing. The Tsarist Consortium found you despite my best efforts—the perceived weak link in TransWorld's armor. In a way, they're right. Then again, you're a weak link to whatever side owns you. They just haven't discovered that yet. Now Alexei Petriv…That's a specimen I'd love to get my hands on. When I saw you together at the picnic, I realized the irresistible force had finally met the immovable object. That's when I knew I had to break my silence and speak with you.”

I signaled for another drink, got it, and took a sip that turned into a gulp. What kind of game was she playing? Was she trying to warn me away from Petriv? From the Consortium? From her project and TransWorld? The whole thing annoyed me, but nothing more so than her casual cruelty in treating me as nothing more than a random acquaintance. And thanks to that, mixed with the horror of the past few days, Petriv's rejection, and my too-strong drink, I was ready to explode.

“Gee, that's mighty nice of you,
Mom
. It's so great you're taking an interest in my life. This newfound concern is
so
touching. We can completely overlook that you faked your own death, had me and my family blacklisted from the Shared Hope program, and are creating clones of me in Brazil! Did you find the luck gene you were after? Did you figure out how to use it for TransWorld's benefit?”

She smiled, unfazed. “You have no idea of the work I'm doing or the value of what I've harnessed. There were reasons I had to separate myself from you. Sacrifices had to be made. Your mere presence would have contaminated my research. If you saw the variables as I did and understood the levels of interconnectedness in seemingly random acts, you wouldn't have hesitated in making the same choices I did.”

“Then show me. Take me to your lab,” I challenged. Thanks to the alcohol, the feeling in my gut had grown to reckless proportions. Every word she spoke was another dig I wanted to challenge. “I want to see everything you've done for the past twenty-five years.”

“Why do you think I'm here? If you're willing, we'll go right now. The facility is closed because of the festival so most of the staff are off. There's no better time to show you.”

The feeling in my gut kicked me so hard, it was a wonder I didn't fall off my stool. “That's lucky,” I said, with irony.

She arched an eyebrow and climbed down from her stool. “Isn't it? Follow me. I have transportation waiting.”

“I need to let Mr. Petriv know first.” I paused, realizing I had absolutely no way to get in touch with him, and that pissed me off even more. However, I could reach Oksana. That would have to be good enough. I tapped my bracelet, sending a quick shim, pleased I could still manage a logical thought despite myself.
Monique's here. Leaving with her now. Let Petriv know.

“Not on a first name basis yet?”

“I'm not sure what you're implying,” I said icily. “We have a business arrangement, with details I don't need to discuss with you.”

The bracelet fluttered against my wrist. No picture. No name. Nothing to identify who it was until I read the actual message.
Wait. I'll be there in ten minutes.
Petriv. I could almost hear his voice in my head, demanding I not move until he arrived. Alcohol-fueled anger flared again.

“He wants to go with us. He says he'll be here shortly,” I relayed, fighting to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

She shook her head emphatically. “No. Absolutely not. Alexei Petriv cannot set foot on TransWorld property.”

I couldn't blame her. At the same time, my ass was on the line even if my gut didn't care about practicality. “I seem to recall several instances where TransWorld tried to kill me. It would be stupid to go by myself.”

“I told the Director he was behaving foolishly.” Monique sounded rueful. “They tried to recover you in Nairobi after your handler lost initial contact. And again at the auction. They'd hoped you could be reprogrammed and returned to the field control group.”

I didn't think it was possible for me to get any madder. I was wrong. Seething, I had a moment where I actually imagined choking her. Instead I settled on saying, “My
handler
? And here I was stupidly thinking he was my boyfriend. You do realize you're talking about me like I'm some sort of lab animal running a maze, right?”

She gave me a puzzled look. “No one was controlling you, Felicia. Your life has been entirely your own—until you crossed paths with the Tsarist Consortium, that is. Then it was felt that precautions needed to be taken to protect our investments.”

“Such as the bomb in the Consortium's jet? Was that TransWorld too?”

“Well, I certainly hope you don't think
I
was behind it. The Director thought he could remove Alexei Petriv from the equation even when I told him that with the two of you together, his probability of success was less than zero. If he'd asked, I could have told him it wouldn't work.”

I blinked. This woman was unbelievable! “So…you
want
to kill me?”

“Of course not. Your existence is vital to the acceptance of my research.”

“What happens when I relay all this to Mr. Petriv?”

She shrugged. “What you tell him is irrelevant. One Gov's bid is all but awarded. There's nothing you can do to change its outcome, and little you could influence after the fact. What I'm willing to show you is a one-time offer. The Director doesn't know I'm here. But you're my daughter, and after seeing you today…” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged again. “If you choose to wait for Mr. Petriv, I'm afraid I'll have to leave you now.”

That was no choice at all. “Alright then, let's go.” I tapped a reply to Petriv's shim. Gods only knew if he'd receive it or not.
Can't wait. Have to go now or not at all. I'll find out what I can.

We left the bar. I noted we were nearly the same height. I was a little taller, presumably from my father's side. It was an odd thing to realize, and yet something I'd always wondered. Just like I wondered about the sound of her voice. How she smelled. If her hands moved when she spoke. A thousand things I now had the potential to learn—if I didn't throttle her first.

A hand touched my arm. “Leaving so soon?”

I glanced back. Ah…Average-looking guy with the so-so shoulders. I'd forgotten about him.

“I thought we could get a drink? Maybe all three of us,” he said, looking to my mother. “I'm Marshall, by the way. And you ladies are?”

“Leaving.” I extricated myself from the hand he tried to sweep down my back and walked away with Monique in tow. “Sorry, but you're about ten minutes too late for the best night of your life. We could have had some incredible revenge sex.”

We clicked across the lobby to the main doors and outside into the humid Brazilian night. A breeze teased my hair away from my face.

Monique shot me a quizzical look. “My research didn't indicate your casual attitude toward sexuality. I will need to note that in my records.”

She didn't see my jaw drop since she'd walked on ahead, but it did. I wanted to defend myself and let her know I wasn't like that, that I was just confused. Then I realized I owed her nothing. She didn't deserve an explanation and could think whatever she liked, even if her tone sounded more curious than judgmental.

I followed her to the waiting flight-limo. Unlike Petriv's nondescript black vehicle, this had a TransWorld logo on the side.

She turned to me before climbing into the open door. “A last request. I would ask that you turn off your c-tex bracelet. The tech is antiquated, but it can still be traced through the CN-net.”

“Another deal breaker?” I asked.

“I'm afraid so.”

With reluctance, I powered down the bracelet and cut myself off from my only link to the CN-net. I was now a spook in every sense of the word, invisible from the tech world. Funny how despite the fact that my gut wanted me to all but dive into the flight-limo, I'd never been more terrified.

The ride to TransWorld headquarters was uneventful and blessedly short. I didn't know how to speak to this stranger beside me. I felt like I'd lost all the small-talk skills I'd mastered over the years. There was so much I wanted to ask, yet anger crippled me into silence.

We set down in front of the TransWorld tower. It stood out as a beacon of light in an already light-saturated city, so tall I couldn't see the corporate logo on top. Monique took my arm and led me up the front steps. The doors opened at our approach and I found myself in a dimly lit lobby. With only the automated security system to greet us, I found the setup creepy. Monique led me to the bank of elevators at the other side.

“What's to stop a stranger from wandering in?” I asked.

“The system scans all visitors. If you don't match preprogrammed protocol, you can't enter the building. Right now, it's on holiday setting so it only lets in authorized personnel.”

“Meaning you?”

“And you.” When I looked puzzled, she clarified. “Your DNA is the same as the clones. Also, your lack of tech. The system scans for t-mod signatures, which are absent from your profile.”

The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside. It was illuminated from both the floor and ceiling, and after the darkened lobby, I had to shield my eyes a little. I watched Monique tap another light display on the wall—we were going to the 200th floor. I watched her, so cool and remote, and wondered what was going through her head. Maybe it was time I asked.

“You know I don't understand you, right?” I began. “I don't understand the lies, why I'm blacklisted, or why you did what you did to my family. I don't even know if I believe this luck gene exists.”

“Oh, it exists,” she said, turning toward me. “I've found it.”

“But what can you do with it? What advantages has it given you? What made you go to these insane lengths to set yourself up like this and—” I broke off, afraid I'd cry and look weak.

“I'm sorry.” To her credit, she sounded contrite. “I can only tell you my side and I'm sure it will be nothing you can sympathize with. I discovered empirical evidence of the luck gene while in graduate school. There was no proven research, just anecdotal stories. Other researchers dismissed it, but every legend holds some grain of truth. I knew if I could put real science behind the stories, my career would be made. Offers would pour in and every door in the scientific community would open for me. Success is important to me. If I could do this thing…well, I
had
to do it.

“My research took me around the world. I followed the clues, spoke to hundreds of people to gather firsthand accounts, dug up research to verify the sources myself…I exhausted every avenue I found in literature and ultimately, I found your family. There are others like you—those with a higher probability of success in everything they do, regardless of what it is. In your case, your family decided to turn their luck to crime. The discovery fascinated me. You come from a long line of thieves, grifters, and con artists despite your present circumstances. I was also intrigued by your family's tech aversion. While the world relied on t-mods and MH Factors, your family shunned them. I arranged to meet your father. Or perhaps luck had its way, and the arrangement happened without my intervention. Whatever the case, he was single, handsome, and I was still girlish enough to be swept away. I ran a DNA analysis from a strand of his hair and found the genetic anomalies I was looking for. The next step was to have a baby.”

“You just met the man and decided to have his baby?”

The elevator stopped, and doors opened into an empty corridor. White walls, floor, and ceiling stretched out before us. There was a white door several yards away that broke up the monotony, but little else.

“It was a calculated risk. Your father had many admirers. I couldn't chance him turning to someone else so I worked quickly to gain his affection. Plus, I needed genetic material for the experiments to prove my research. A baby would cement everything, although for a time, I worried the luck gene may not strike true and I'd have gone through all that misery for nothing. I've since learned luck isn't as elusive as I'd thought. It seeks to create circumstances to ensure its success—reproduction included.”

“I don't understand,” I said, the understatement of the day. “Everyone can have luck?”

“What I mean is luck creates circumstances where it can thrive and flourish. Odds change in its favor. Probabilities are skewed. The impossible happens. Long series of event-chains that seem innocuous at first, when studied as whole, show patterns of increased success. Even a thing that appears horrible on the surface, such as the death of a loved one, may be good if it leads to more money, more success, or something the luck gene needs to increase its odds of survival.”

For some reason, I thought of Granny G's Tarot cards. She'd died as Charlie Zero and I were about to open the shop on Night Alley. Her heart just stopped, even though she kept up religiously with her Renew treatments. Everyone said she was too young, that it had been too sudden. Now I wondered if there was more to it. I'd inherited her cards exactly when I needed them most. That would mean…No. Impossible. I refused to contemplate anything so horrific.

“I'm not the universe's puppet, changing direction depending on how the wind blows!”

“You're not far off, although I don't think things are quite so arbitrary,” she said, completely missing my disgust. “I've discovered there are ‘rules,' as it were, which I can explain later. Suffice it to say I worried needlessly about having a baby who carried the luck gene. Ironically, I also felt pressure from my family to have a child. A baby satisfied everyone—giving me the material I needed, and my family the child they wanted. Even better, as the baby grew older, I had a control sample I could use to compare against my findings in the lab.”

She stopped talking and moved to the single white door. It opened at her approach. “That's handy. Do all the doors open for you?” I had to ask, barely keeping the scorn from my voice.

“The building is state of the art. The AI knows who to let in and who to keep out. With the clones' impaired mental faculties, it knows to keep them inside for their own safety. The rest of us have access, depending on the set protocols.” Monique stepped inside while I hesitated in the hallway, afraid. I did not want to see what waited in that room. She looked back to me. “Come, Felicia. Come meet your sisters.”

Sisters? Were we all the same to her? I bit my lip. I couldn't make myself cross that threshold.

In the end, the choice was made for me. A little dark-haired specter launched itself from the room's muted darkness. It threw itself around Monique's waist with an almost animalistic squeal.

“Momma! Missed you!” said the creature. No, not creature. A little clone about five years old with long dark hair in twin braids down its back, waif-thin in a pink nightie. It looked up, eyes unfocused, face fighting to find its smile. Drool crusted around its mouth and I saw a bruise at its left temple.

“What are you doing up, sweetie? You should be asleep.”

Monique rubbed at the clone's mouth with the back of her hand, attempting to wipe away the stain. The clone flinched, then ambled back into the room, squealing the whole way. As Monique stepped farther into the darkened room, more lights came on, creating a path to follow.

I hovered in the doorway, afraid to fully commit. The room looked like a playroom. Large and airy, yet windowless, I saw workstations, child-sized desks, toys stacked on shelving units, and brightly colored interactive displays on the walls.

“What is this place?” I called out. Monique had disappeared down one of the hallways branching off the playroom.

“The nursery,” she said once back in view.

“And the…girls live here?”

“Live. Learn. Play. Train. Everything. It's a wonderful setup and TransWorld provides everything we need. I wouldn't be where I am without their generosity. They've been tremendously supportive of my research. It's one of the best-funded programs in the corporation.”

“I hear a ‘but' coming,” I offered. There was something in her voice. I had a sense she wanted, no
needed
, to unburden herself to someone.

“Sometimes they're shortsighted. The results I've uncovered…They could do so much more with the luck gene if they looked beyond the obvious. Further, my findings are their property so I'm unable to publish. No one knows about the work I'm doing. If they did, there would be no limit to the offers, the money, the opportunities. Sometimes it's stifling here.”

She sat in one of the small chairs and stretched her legs. Feeling like I had no choice but to join her, I hunkered down in my skintight, shimmering minidress and tried not to feel self-conscious. I had bigger things to worry about.

“I approached the Tsarist Consortium first, years ago. They've done things with gene modification that shook the world so I thought they would be interested in my research. They were, but not as I'd hoped. They said there was no practical application for luck. In fact, they felt it best to remove luck from the equation. It was too random and unpredictable. But I knew if I could determine the rules and an element of predictability, I could ensure its reliability in any scenario.”

“And did you?”

Monique smiled. “I did. Luck will always work to preserve itself, forever putting itself in a situation to its best advantage. After all, look at you.”

My eyes narrowed. “Look at me how?”

She laughed softly, as if I was an idiot. In this case, I suspected I was. “You've fallen in with the Tsarist Consortium, under the watchful eye of Alexei Petriv.”

“How is that an advantage?”

“I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that he's one of the finest specimens on the planet. Genetically, he's perfect. I suspect he's never been sick a day in his life.”

“You make it sound like you want to dissect him.”

“Do I?” She laughed at that as if I'd said something particularly amusing. “Yes, in some ways, I supposed I do. My point is you alone have his attention. There is no better place for you to feel secure. He's handsome, rich, powerful, and has no women of significance in his life. If he isn't enamored of you already, he will be, and vice versa. The luck gene will see to it.”

“You make it sound like we're trapped,” I answered, appalled.

“You're not looking at it properly. If you remove religious bias from the equation, everyone is brought together through random chance and coincidence—except you. In your case, events work in your favor. Things may not go as you want, but they will always be in your best interest. You have an advantage over everyone. Or rather, anyone with the luck gene has the advantage.”

I shook my head. I couldn't focus on this right now. “What about the other rules?”

“If you believe the cause is just or sincerely believe what you're doing is in another's best interest, you can short-circuit your own luck on another's behalf, even at the cost of your own life.”

“So I can give away my luck?”

“Yes, though it can require some indoctrination,” she agreed. “This is the element TransWorld has focused on. The clones believe they're doing valuable work on the corporation's behalf. They can be difficult to train, but I've discovered how to dull their egos and superimpose TransWorld's agenda. It was one of the most significant challenges I faced since finding the initial gene, but it appears be working.”

“Let me guess: the impaired mental development?”

“Correct, although it's more complex than that. The clones' personalities are subverted and their mental capacity limited with a few modest DNA tweaks. Then, we begin service training, making them understand the value of their own lives and the need to protect all things TransWorld. We've found that subjects aged five to ten have the highest rates of success. Older, and their personalities begin to express themselves, leading to violence and self-destruction. Too young, and the training hasn't taken a firm hold.”

“How does TransWorld use the luck?” I asked. This was the crux of what Petriv wanted to know. If I could uncover that detail, I could end my association with the Consortium and be free of Petriv forever.

“The clones attend all business meetings. They watch the proceedings, but are kept out of sight. They also fly on all shuttles between Earth and Mars, ensuring the flight's safety. In fact, I believe two of them are on the round-trip back from Mars due to launch in the next few days. No flight will have any life-threatening incident if they're onboard, thinking good thoughts about its success. It's a genius way around the paradox of luck, even if it isn't what I originally intended. I just wish I could do more.”

“What happens to subjects older than ten? How did you discover the optimal age?”

For the first time since she'd appeared beside me, Monique looked uncomfortable. She got up and began to pace. “No research is without setbacks. You can't expect everything to go as planned or every hypothesis to be proven correct. With the Tsarist Consortium, this would never have happened. They'd already made the genetic leaps I had to discover on my own. I made mistakes and there were some…abominations.”

“Abominations? What does that mean?”

“I know now what I did wrong and how to correct that,” she said instead, ignoring me.

“Tell me about the—”

“If you could just talk to Mr. Petriv and make him understand my work, that's all I ask.”

Okay, then. So apparently I wasn't allowed to discuss the abominations. “You expect me to put you in touch with him to see if he's interested in the clones?”

“No, of course not. They're TransWorld's property. I can't touch them. But I could start again and rebuild.”