Emergent

by Rachel Cohn

  For a second, I think I feel the baby’s first kick; then I realize it’s not the baby shoving me, it’s the ground below my bed. The ground shakes for a good twenty seconds as the sound of rumbling reverberates across the cave walls. Startled, I grab on to Alex, tucking my head against his neck and hanging on to his firm chest. “What was that?” I ask.

  But he laughs instead of fears. “I think that was an earthquake! Incredible!” He presses his hands together and…applauds?

  “I’m terrified! Why do you clap?”

  “Because if that’s what I think it was, it was the Emergents practicing to build a tsunami.”

  I datacheck tsunami and do not like the result.

  “A tsunami could wipe out this island,” I say to Alex.

  “Or it could be used to take the Insurrection directly to the Demesne property owners.”

  “Oh,” I say. That’s a good idea, maybe. “Nice earthquake, then.” The tremor was not so nice to my queasy stomach, which churns in anxiety or morning sickness, I’m not sure which. I grab on to my belly, thinking I’m about to throw up, but the moment passes. “Do they know?” I ask Alex.

  “Who? Know what?”

  “The Emergents. About the baby.”

  “They know. You’re their hero.”

  “That’s absurd. I’ve done nothing to deserve their admiration.”

  “You took justice on a human,” he says soothingly. “You represent their potential future.”

  “Their future? I may turn Awful before they can even achieve Insurrection. How could I possibly represent their future, if I’ve been programmed to die by eighteen or nineteen?” The Awfuls, the curse of the Beta clone. Thanks, Dr. Lusardi. May you rest in peace—never.

  Alex reminds me, “We don’t know your expiration date for sure. If you can get pregnant against all odds, maybe there’s a cure for the Awfuls. Maybe you’re the cure to the Emergents’ sterility.” Demesne adult clones are programmed to expire at the human equivalent of age forty, once their usefulness is complete and before their superior physical aesthetic turns displeasing. That gives these Emergents ten to fifteen years at most to enjoy their reclaimed land and newly independent lives, should they achieve Insurrection, unless they can figure out how to undo their genetic programming and make babies. “You’re their hope.”

  I don’t want to be the Emergents’ hope. I want to be free of their struggles. I just want to be a regular girl, allowed to live in peace with the boy she loves. Tahir. Not Alexander Blackburn. I want to have that peace not attached to a premature death sentence.

  I roll over on my side, turning away from Alex. “They don’t need me. Let the Insurrection bring their souls back instead. Then the Emergents can finally be happy—and hopeful.” And miserable, just like the humans.

  Alex says, “I thought you already realized you have a soul.”

  “I suspected. When I saw that Zhara was still alive, I realized why.”

  “That’s not why. Soul extraction is a myth. The Demesne clones have always had souls.”

  Instantly I am alert and awake. “Explain!”

  “The answers are outside this room. The Emergents have their own way to explain it to you.”

  I jump to my feet, more than ready to face this new day unraveling yet another ball of human lies. Excited + Angry = Awful. That’s the equation for the new Elysia—whose soul is no lie, apparently.

  A LIGHT FLASHES ON AND OFF beneath the boulder separating our “room” from the rest of the Rave Caves.

  “They’re ready for you,” says Alex. “Are you ready for them?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “The Emergents have an orientation for you. I saw the program earlier this morning, while you were still sleeping. It’s how I learned about the soul extraction.”

  “Ready!” My whole body has felt assaulted by heaviness and fatigue, but now I feel a palpable rush of energy. I want answers, already. I can’t believe answers even exist in this nothing place.

  Alex pushes aside the boulder. An Emergent stands on the other side, holding up her hand, which is illuminated like a flashlight.

  “How are you able to do that?” I ask her.

  “We’ve taken the locator chips that used to be under our wrists and reprogrammed the chips for different needs. And to turn off the humans’ ability to find us, of course.” I can barely see her face, but she clearly recognizes mine. “It’s good to see you again, Elysia.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I was the pastry chef at the Governor’s house.”

  I still can’t see her face, but I know exactly who she is. “Catra! You made the chocolate soufflés and the lushberry pies!” The other primary want I have, should I ever achieve a free life where I’m not trapped by a dying clone race’s need for Insurrection: chocolate. Every day, every meal, maybe. Chocolate scramble for breakfast, chocolate sandwich for lunch, chocolate casserole for dinner. I’m hungry. Now I remember: Catra and her delicious concoctions disappeared suddenly from my previous home. I say, “I was loaned for a week to the Fortesquieu compound. When I returned to the Governor’s house, the desserts were not as good. Was it because you escaped?”

  “Indeed,” Catra says. “But I don’t handle culinary tasks here. I’ve discovered my real talents are in drama production.” That’s a waste, I think. And, how is drama production even a valid or necessary role in a stranded environment of outlaws? “You’ll see!” Catra chirps.

  These Emergents are very, very different from the clones they were on Demesne, I see. They express their feelings freely.

  Catra uses her illuminated hand to guide our path across the caves. We follow what appears to be a stream built into the ground, a long and narrow water channel alongside our otherwise barren path of rock walls. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the stream.

  “Irrigation tunnels for the water supply,” says Alexander.

  The redirected technology chips. The irrigation tunnels. Creating these things requires resources. I’m confused. I ask, “I thought these islands in the archipelago were empty. Hostile for life. How is this possible?”

  Catra says, “When we were Defects, we were stockpiling supplies, little by little, and transporting them when we escaped to become Emergents. We had some help on the inside.”

  “Who?” I ask, and Catra and Alexander both laugh.

  “Yours truly,” says Alex. “My job on Demesne was to serve as a Uni-Mil liaison between Demesne and the Replicant Rights Commission, to make sure the clones were treated ‘humanely,’ which meant nothing in terms of what the property owners could be held accountable for. It was my duty to interview the clones about their working conditions. There were some whom I could tell had become Defects. So I made sure there was no trace of the supplies they were stealing. I helped reprogram the island’s requisition and accounting systems, you could say.”

  We reach an opening to a large area, lit with torchlights in each corner of the cave. “This is our dining hall and communal area,” says Catra. A group of Emergents who have been sitting at tables in the room suddenly rise as we enter. I turn around, wondering what’s so interesting behind me that could cause these people to rise so suddenly.

  “They rise to honor you,” says Catra.

  The Emergents break out into shy applause, the sound barely discernible as they almost politely tap their hands together. Then I walk past the first table, and the shyness is gone. A female Emergent lunges toward me, and I recoil slightly, surprised. But she just wants to touch my arm. “Thank you,” she says. The male Emergent standing next to her salutes me.

  None of them look me in the eyes. I feel like they’re all looking at my belly, to see if their hope is showing yet. I pull my shirt down and out, not wanting to offer a further view.

  The Emergent called Aidan, who I guess is their unofficial leader, steps forward to greet me. He, too, touches my arm, but to lead me to a lectern built at the head of the room. I feel a slight sizzle when his hand touches me, then lo
ok down and see that the tip of his pinkie finger is a light blue color.

  “We have the training orientation ready for you to see,” Aidan says. “If you’re ready to begin now.”

  Now I understand why so many are gathered. “The other Emergents here are also new arrivals?”

  Aidan says, “No, they’ve seen this already. They just wanted to be near you.” How flattering, especially since I have no real desire to be near them. I don’t hate them, of course, and I hope they will achieve their Insurrection. I want them to have good lives. Free lives. But the only person I want to be near—ever—is Tahir. “Be seated and we will begin.”

  I sit down, and Aidan points his finger toward the empty wall behind the lectern. The wall suddenly illuminates like a holographic screen. “I have a customized chip beneath my skin,” Aidan explains. “The file is saved there.”

  A holographic video, like the one I saw when I first emerged in Dr. Lusardi’s compound, begins. A hologram of Catra appears. She has smooth, ebony skin, dreadlocked black hair interspersed with strands of bronze, and perfect facial features—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes with high arched eyebrows. Her fuchsia eyes seem to shine with delight.

  Holo-Catra raises both her illuminated hands in a welcoming wave. “Hello, Emergents!” she says. “Great job making it here to Heathen. I’m here to tell you a little bit about the environment and explain how things work here. As you’ve probably noticed by now, Heathen is quite different from Demesne.” An image of Demesne and its violet sea, called Io, appears behind holo-Catra, who moves her hands to direct the earth images north, moving the setting from the tranquil sea to the towering waters called the gigantes, then past the gigantes to the rough ocean and up, up, up, past little atoll islands, past Mine (here the audience behind me applauds again—I guess many of them, like me, took refuge with M-X after escaping Demesne).

  Holo-Catra’s hand stops on Heathen. I let out a gasp as beautiful purple-magenta clouds swirl over the island. “Yes, these clouds look beautiful,” says holo-Catra. “But here’s what those clouds mean on Heathen. Danger.” The background transforms into Heathen’s jungle, where lush green trees sway and tropical birds sing. What’s so dangerous about that? I wonder. The purple-magenta clouds hover over the jungle and send a light rain over the landscape, producing beautiful rainbows in the mist. How beautiful! I think. Then the rain turns to hail the size of human fingers—with blades at the tips. It’s like an icy avalanche of dagger pellets. The landscape shifts, taking shelter inside the Rave Caves. “And that,” says holo-Catra, “is one of the many reasons we choose to live in caves.” Images of clone quarters and the communal dining hall we’re in now flash behind her.

  Next, she takes a bite out of a piece of raw fish. My stomach revolts at the sight, and I swallow a sudden surge of bile. She says, “Fortify, my friends. Just as on Demesne, you’ll have a role here. The difference is: your role here is your choice. You can fish for food, cultivate the fields of produce, serve as a lookout, become an environmental engineer. No matter what your role, you will spend your remaining time training.” Artillery fields and military-worthy obstacle courses—in lagoons, in the caves, in the jungle—appear behind her. “Insurrection is coming, comrades. We will be ready!”

  The orientation video ends. It was good, I guess—certainly an improvement over the last one I saw, on Demesne, which instructed newly emerged clones on their new lives of slavery. But it failed to address the fundamental question I want answered.

  “But what about the souls?” I ask Aidan.

  Aidan points his blue finger at the blank wall again to cue another video. “This is the second part of orientation. This was taken with a stealth surveillance monitor we hid inside Dr. Lusardi’s private office.”

  My heart sinks as I see Dr. Lusardi, with her corkscrew of long orange hair, sitting at her desk, wearing a white lab coat. She’s the reason I emerged. She’s the reason I’ll barely have a chance to live. Then my heart sings in surprise, because sitting on the other side of her desk is the next best thing to Tahir—his father, Tariq Fortesquieu.

  “Where is First Tahir’s soul?” Tariq demands. “I want it back. This Beta Tahir is so rote. He’s breaking his mother’s heart. He’s incapable of affection.”

  “’Raxia will unblock that,” advises Dr. Lusardi.

  “No ’raxia,” says Tariq. “That’s what contributed to First Tahir’s death. We tried so hard to discipline him, but Tahir was a playboy. We loved him too much. We looked the other way when he indulged in alcohol and ’raxia. We thought he was just a young man sowing his wild oats. ’Raxia was what led to his death. No. I demand the soul you extracted when you made Beta Tahir. Return it to him.”

  Dr. Lusardi pauses, then leans in to Tariq. “First Tahir’s soul is there.”

  Tariq looks around the office. “Where?”

  Dr. Lusardi touches her head, then her mouth, and then her heart. “Here. Everywhere. Mind, body, soul.”

  “Don’t be oblique. I won’t tolerate it!”

  Sounding fearful, Dr. Lusardi confesses, “There’s no such thing as soul extraction. It’s a myth my First developed in order to sell the Demesne clone product line. Souls die when Firsts die, of course. But when their clones emerge, souls emerge too.”

  “The same souls?” Tariq asks, looking confused.

  “Not the same. New souls. They form organically. Clones do have them, but don’t know it. So my First developed brain inhibitors to block the clones’ feelings, to make them emotionless, so they seem soulless.” As if trying to justify herself, Dr. Lusardi amends, “The clones are soulless. Because they don’t know their souls exist. And they wouldn’t know what to do with the souls if they did.”

  “This is an outrage,” says Tariq slowly. But I can see by the look on his face: he’s trapped by the lie. He and his wife have tried so hard to pass off clone Tahir as their actual son, First Tahir. To acknowledge the lie of the soulless clones and spread it would dismantle the entire haven of Demesne. “What does ’raxia have to do with it?”

  Dr. Lusardi says, “’Raxia has the unintended side effect of unblocking those brain inhibitors. But no Demesne clone should experience want. They should never desire ’raxia to begin with. It shouldn’t be a problem. Let this be our little secret.”

  Tariq, normally so calm, uncharacteristically raises his voice. “You’re saying the entire workforce on Demesne could be compromised if they simply took ’raxia?”

  “Sorry,” says Dr. Lusardi, who herself is a clone. According to M-X, who’d worked in Dr. Lusardi’s laboratory, the real Dr. Larissa Lusardi was murdered. She objected to her clones being used as slaves. ReplicaPharm, the corporation that financed her work and most served to profit from it, decided her righteous sense of ethics was all wrong. They killed her, and then cloned her to finish her First’s work.

  So it’s no surprise that her apology sounds insincere. This Dr. Lusardi’s not sorry.

  I have a soul.

  It wasn’t my imagination.

  It’s my own, not borrowed from my First.

  I feel…joyful.

  “Where’s Zhara?” I ask Aidan, realizing she’s been gone through this whole presentation.

  Aidan doesn’t answer for a moment. His face is set to grim. “She’s sleeping it off in the tree house.”

  “Sleeping what off?”

  “When we returned from the atoll yesterday, she bolted into the jungle and returned to her unfortunate old habit. ’Raxia.”

  ONCE AGAIN, I AWAKE FROM THE DEAD, only this time, I wish I hadn’t.

  I’m still groggy from the ’raxia that catapulted me into welcome emptiness, but this time I re-emerge knowing exactly where I am, and it’s not Demesne paradise. I’m in the tree house on Heathen. After we returned from the atoll with Xander and Elysia, Aidan took them to their quarters…and I ran away to the cuvée fields. Aidan must have found me and brought me to the tree house after I passed out in the fields. I can see by the light outside that
it’s midmorning. I must have been out for at least twelve hours. My brain is still hazy, but my heart pounds hard, remembering. Yesterday, I was ignorant of my clone. Today, I am not.

  My whole world is different. Skewed. Wrong.

  I press my hand along the floor of the tree house, searching. I want to go back to sleep. I want more ’raxia. Where did I leave the other pills I made from the crushed cuvée seeds last night?

  I hear a voice. “What are you looking for?” asks Aidan. I look up. He’s standing at the tree house entrance.

  I sniff, smelling a burning smell. “Are you playing fire tricks outside again?” I look, but his pinkie finger is not lit in blue.

  “I ordered the cuvée fields destroyed.”

  I cover my face with my hands. My heart pounds harder, with extra discomfort. It’s called panic. “Why? You don’t understand. I just need a little more to get through. You need the cuvée seeds to finance supplies for Insurrection.”

  “Then Insurrection will just have to come sooner rather than later. We’ll do without. As will you. The Aquine told me you were an addict in your previous life. I won’t allow that to happen to you again here.”

  Who does this clone think he is, my sobriety sponsor? “You could use some ’raxia. Lighten up, already.” I hate Aidan so much right now.

  Aidan shakes his head. “’Raxia affects us differently,” he responds, taking my comment literally. “We don’t develop the instant addiction to it that humans do. It’s nothing to us except a potential profit source.” He looks out beyond the tree house, to the smoke rising from the fields. “Rather, it was.”

  Aidan sits down on the ground next to me. He removes my hands from my face and stares intently at me, and I wish he would lean down and kiss me. I want to be held, comforted, stroked, loved. If I can’t have more ’raxia, I need something—someone—to numb the pain. My desire to feel anything other than what I feel now—deep, abiding anger—temporarily overrules my disgust with Aidan. Give me more. Please don’t make me beg!

  I sit up and move farther from him. “You knew,” I accuse him.