by Rachel Cohn
She walks toward where I’ve been standing at the floor-to-ceiling window. “My darling Elysia.” She pulls me to her in a hug. “My sweet girl. I’m so sorry for all you’ve been through. But you’re safe now, with us. We will take care of you like you’re our own.”
What a warm and comforting warden.
Zhara stirs in her bed. “Parents,” I hear her softly mutter from her bed. “I forgot about those creatures.”
Bahiyya loosens me from her embrace and turns her attention to Zhara, who has climbed down to the floor. “You must be Zhara,” Bahiyya says. “I’m Bahiyya Fortesquieu. Welcome.” Her eyes appraise Zhara from head to toe, as if to verify that Zhara is real. “I’ve never met a First before. I never imagined it could be possible.”
I hear sadness in Bahiyya’s voice, and my chip reminds me why. During the Water Wars, Bahiyya’s five children from her first marriage all died, along with her first husband. Then she reconnected with her childhood love, Tariq Fortesquieu, a climate engineer who’d become one of the primary architects of Reconstruction. They married and produced First Tahir. Perhaps she is now wishing Tahir’s First had been so lucky. Perhaps she is wishing that, like Zhara, his heart could have simply appeared to stop beating, mimicking death, instead of his lungs filling with water in the gigantes, ensuring death.
Bahiyya rubs her hand gently along Zhara’s arm, like a mom. “You’ll find a new wardrobe of clothes in your size. There’s a full complement of staff available for anything you need. Dinner is at seven.”
Bahiyya places kisses on Zhara’s cheek and then mine, and starts to walk toward the door.
“Bahiyya?” I call to her.
She turns back around to face me. “Yes?”
I say, “I’d prefer to stay in Tahir’s quarters.”
She smiles. “As you wish, my darling. I wanted it to be your choice.”
Bahiyya leaves the room, and Zhara mock-slaps me on the shoulder.
“That’s a bold request. And I can’t believe she said yes. My dad would never have gone for that.”
“It’s not a big deal. I lived in Tahir’s quarters last time I stayed here.”
“Not in his bed, though. Right?”
“It’s not your business. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Spoken like a true teenager,” Zhara says in a most patronizing tone.
I get her back the best way I know how. “Alexander’s here too. Didn’t he come find you yet? He looks gooood. Perfect Demesne suits his perfection perfectly.”
“What?” Zhara throttles my shoulders. “You knew Xander was here—that he was okay—and you didn’t tell me as soon as you walked in here?”
“I knew,” I tell her. “And now you do too. You can have your boyfriend back and stop blaming me for something that went wrong between you two long before I ever emerged.”
“I could never be with him after he’s slept with you.”
She doesn’t deserve this explanation, but I give it to her anyway. “Alexander slept with me. That’s it. We kissed. He held me and kept me warm at night. Nothing more happened between us. I was pregnant.”
Zhara places her hands over her ears, revolted by what I’ve just told her. But probably relieved too. “I didn’t ask how far things went between you two! Don’t tell me! Gross!”
I remove her hands from her ears. “Well, now you know anyway. The slate is clean. He’s yours.”
“The slate is hardly clean,” says Zhara. “Because of Xander’s desire to protect you, the Insurrection was not launched in time, and the Emergents who survived the resulting ambush by ReplicaPharm were brought back here, to slavery. The slate won’t be clean until Insurrection finally succeeds.”
“At least we can agree on that.”
She gives me a look that’s a mixture of contempt and affection. Like a sibling. “I’ll see Xander tonight, I guess. Why don’t you go find your Tahir and let me finish my nap. And maybe dial back your bitch before dinner, will you?”
Zhara lies. She doesn’t want a nap. She’s eyeing the wardrobe of beautiful clothes and the bath jet in the next room. She wants to clean up for her reunion with Alexander. Already she’s forgotten Aidan, just as I so quickly discarded Alexander once Tahir was back in the picture.
We are both true teenagers, my First and I. Fickle, moody, lusty, wild, daring. The difference is I’m the one with the premature death sentence programmed into those teenage hormones.
I WILL ACKNOWLEDGE THAT THIS new prison is highly superior to my last one.
“Hey,” Tahir says to me, nuzzling his face into my neck. He’s holding me from behind as we stare at our reflection in the full-length mirror in his quarters. I want to never let go of his hands, which I clasp with mine. “We have a couple hours till dinner. Want to FantaSphere?” He kisses my neck. “Unless you want to dabble in less artificial, more natural activities?” He winks at me in the mirror.
“FantaSphere,” I say. I probably don’t need to say it, but I do anyway. “I’m not ready for more yet. Can you understand that?”
“Of course,” Tahir says. “So much has happened, you’ve probably had no chance to process and recover. We’ll take that time. Together. Good?”
Again, my heart fills for him. I turn around and place a soft kiss on his lips. “Good.” I can’t believe how profoundly lucky I am to have this man in my life, loving me, supporting me unconditionally. I will cherish our every moment together until time runs out.
We walk to the next room, where the FantaSphere is located. “What game should we play? Z-Grav?” Tahir asks me as we go inside. He refers to the game where the players are suctioned to the ceiling, then have to work their way down against zero gravity. The first player to reach the floor wins.
“No,” I say, with vehemence. “Ivan’s favorite game.”
“Don’t tell me. You won too many times for Ivan’s liking.”
“Correct.” The night he violated me had started with a game of Z-Grav. “I’m done with Z-Grav. I’d like to go to Biome City.”
“Permanently delete Z-Grav from the operating system,” Tahir instructs the FantaSphere. “Commence World Cup BC game.” Instantly, we are walking along Biome City’s famous Xeriscape Boulevard, filled with honeycomb-shaped shops and pedestrian walkways lined with desert flowers. The street’s cafés have colorful team flags for the world’s elite soccer championship hanging from the roofs and windows. They are filled with people wearing their favorite team’s soccer jerseys, chatting excitedly about their favorite players and their team’s chances for victory.
Tahir dribbles a soccer ball between his feet as we walk. “Are they scared of me too?” I ask Tahir.
“Who?”
“Your parents. Because of what I did.”
“Hardly,” says Tahir. “Do you know why Ivan’s sister Astrid really left Demesne?”
“To go to college,” I say. We pass a café with a chocolate fountain on display in the front bay window. We could stop at the café and experience the chocolate. The empty calories would even taste real. But the chocolate would be fake. Tahir passes the ball to me and I return it with a kick, and do not suggest we stop. I crave the real chocolate, not this fake display.
“To be kept quiet,” Tahir says. “I found one of First Tahir’s chats with her as part of all the research on him I was forced to do. Astrid confided to First Tahir that her brother had raped her. She wanted to press charges against him, but the Governor and his wife didn’t want the scandal. So they let her go to the most expensive, farthest-away university of her choice. In exchange for her silence.”
I should be surprised, but I’m not. It all makes sense now. Mother bought me to be a plaything for Ivan. She knew exactly what would happen. She believed a soulless clone could never turn against the family the way her own daughter Astrid had.
Tahir passes the ball back to me. My foot lands on it to stop it. I can’t play any longer.
I hate that this private wave of revulsion is shared as a data bit. “Let’s no
t talk about it,” I say. “I don’t want to share my feelings about it with ReplicaPharm more than I already have.”
“It’s okay. I brought you to the FantaSphere because we can have privacy in here.” He takes the ball back from beneath my foot to volley it on his own.
“How do you mean?”
“The FantaSphere signals subvert your body’s surveillance signals. So they know you’re in here, but the hormonal feedback sent back is all wrong.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have the same data-mining technology implanted in me as you do. Bahiyya and Tariq had me laced with all the latest surveillance juice when we returned to Demesne. Dad knows the technology doesn’t work inside the FantaSphere, but he said that’s all right because it’s a safe environment where I can’t harm myself or anyone else. I can be as Awful as I want in here.”
I stop our walk to face Tahir. “You don’t seem Awful to me. Think about it. Maybe the Awfuls are another of Dr. Lusardi’s lies. You seem fine to me. Better than ever, even.”
Tahir pulls me to him, his arms over my shoulders, clasping his hands behind my neck. “I am totally fine. I feel great, actually. Energized, especially now that you’re here. But then there are moments when it’s just like I have to…”
A goal net appears at the end of the street, and Tahir drops his arms from me and makes a hard run to the soccer ball, making a goal kick with all his might, shooting the ball directly to the goalkeeper’s head. The ball hits the goalkeeper’s head with more than enough force to cause brain damage if he were a real person. The goalkeeper falls to the ground, vanquished, and then disappears. “Tahir! Tahir! Tahir!” the crowd chants.
Tahir finishes his sentence. “Annihilate.”
I understand. Only an hour ago, Zhara pummeled my shoulders in anger that I hadn’t told her about Alexander, and that’s exactly the initial response I felt: the desire to annihilate her. Was that a natural moment of sisterhood—the negative variety—or are my Awfuls brewing and getting bigger, until one day I won’t be able to tame my aggression, just as I couldn’t with Ivan?
I say, “We made a plan to escape Demesne together once before, and failed. Is it realistic to hope we could succeed a second time? Our body chemistries hold us prisoner just as much as your family’s compound does. Anywhere we try to go, they’d know where we are.”
Tahir says, “We can’t do anything about the body surveillance. Let’s focus on completing the Insurrection so we can get off this island. The chaos caused by a true uprising could allow us to escape more easily. We can figure out the rest, once we’re gone. It’s a big world out there. Even if they know where we are, it could take a long time for them to actually retrieve us.”
“I’m not saying let’s not do it. But we need to acknowledge the risks. Even if we do manage to escape, the dangers to us will only be beginning. The world out there will be much scarier than the prison we perceive here.”
“Awesome,” Tahir says. “We’ll desecrate it together.”
OUR HOSTESS WANTS OUR FIRST night together to be special, so we’ve been requested to dress in fine attire. Bahiyya probably even custom-ordered the full moon hanging over the deck. I sit at the edge of the infinity pool, dangling my feet in the warm water. I’m dressed for dinner already, enjoying the solitude while Tahir gets ready. I love the quiet here. On Heathen, the nights were filled with the sounds of jungle animals, and Emergents grunting and working, and even in the private confines of my cave quarters, I could always hear their silent hopes for me: Save us, Elysia. Give us our baby. Be our future.
As ready as I am to escape Demesne with Tahir, I worry that I could get used to this life inside the Fortesquieu compound. Read this, data processors at ReplicaPharm. I hope you won’t be too disappointed if my body chemistry conveys that I am: Content. In love. Safe. A little bit…
“Are you tired?” the familiar gravelly voice asks me. I look up and see Alexander standing before me, a vision in a navy blue suit. “I’m concerned about you.”
“You don’t need to be. I am tired,” I admit. “But also, weirdly, very awake.” I pause, my chip accessing how this moment is supposed to play out. “Wait. Do we need to be…awkward…with each other?”
He lets out a small laugh. “Yes, we should be. But let’s not. Let’s both be too tired for that and just move on.”
“Agreed.”
He offers his hand to help me to my feet. I feel no sizzle from the touch of his hand pressed to mine. I just feel relief. It’s over. I don’t have to pretend anymore. He says, “I thought you might be found here. We’ve been called to dinner.”
“I’m hungry!” I say as my stomach grumbles. Knowing Bahiyya, I bet there’s epic chocolate for dessert tonight, and I can’t wait.
“The smells coming from the dining room are divine. I wish I was hungrier,” he says. He’s so handsome, yet looks glum.
I feel concern. “Are you going to be okay?” I ask him. He lost the Insurrection—and two girlfriends.
“Besides being emotionally decimated? And not achieving victory for the Emergents, whom I specifically came here to help lead? Sure. I’m all good.” He smiles weakly. “My healthy appetite will return soon enough.”
“What will you do now?”
“Return to Isidra, my homeland. I’m fortunate to come from a privileged family, which is why I wasn’t turned over to the Uni-Mil because of my role in the Insurrection. The Fortesquieus are allowing me to stay here, at least until the extradition agreement comes through.”
I meant, Will you try to win back Zhara’s heart?
“Have you seen Zhara yet?” I ask.
“Yes, about an hour ago. She seemed more irritated that you hadn’t told her I was here than she was happy to see me. I can’t win with you two.” He chuckles softly. “She was behaving more like your sister than your First.”
A First can be left behind easily. They’re supposed to be dead already.
A sister, not so much.
Zhara walks out onto the deck. She has cleaned up nicely. (I’m pretty sure I hear a sharp intake of breath from Alexander at the sight of her.) Her hair has been washed, trimmed, and swept up into a loose twist, with soft tendrils framing her face. Her eyebrows have been plucked and shaped, her hands cleaned and fingernails polished. Her lips are glossed in a moist pink color, and her eyelids sparkle with pale pink eye shadow. She wears a simple, elegant, cocktail-length white frock, with champagne-pink pumps on her feet, the height of which accentuate her long, extremely tan legs, while I have chosen a shapeless black dress that wears more like one of Tahir’s shirts than couture. My feet are bare and I wear no makeup. Be comfortable first, elegant second, Bahiyya told me, her kind way of letting me know she approved my wardrobe choice.
“You look pretty,” I tell Zhara.
“You look relaxed for the first time I’ve ever seen you,” Zhara says. I think we’re apologizing without apologizing for the fight earlier. “I feel cleaned up, but not relaxed, despite the super air pumping through here. I can’t stop thinking about my father in jail. About the Emergents who were brought back here to serve in labor camps. What kind of labor camps? What does that mean?”
“I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow,” Xander says coyly. “Let’s meet in the aquarium after breakfast.”
Zhara and I have identical reactions: we both raise an eyebrow, and then nod. The Aquine chuckles.
Tahir arrives, and I immediately forget Zhara’s concerns. He stands at the sliding doors to the deck, sees us, and then approaches. He’s wearing a proper suit in a dark brown color that melds beautifully with his mocha skin, hazel eyes, and black braids. His ivory shirt is partially unbuttoned, exposing some of the black hairs on his chest. This time I definitely hear a swoon. Mine, and Zhara’s.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Tahir says to me, then looks at Zhara, “Hey, other gorgeous. Cool to finally meet you.” His eyes go wide and he pauses, taking stock of his Beta-mate and her First. “You two. Blowing my mind.”
“So, you’re the Tahir,” Zhara says, appraising him. Then she looks to me and shoots me a sly smile. “Yeah, I get it.”
I nod back, a tiny reciprocal smile forming at the side of my mouth. Sometimes I almost like her.
Sometimes.
A WEEK AGO MY CLONE brethren were called Emergents and we dined in a communal space, with chores distributed voluntarily. Now we are being served dinner by my clone brethren who are still servants in paradise, but not voluntarily. There are four extremely fit and attractive servers who look like models standing discreetly, one in each corner of the dining room, awaiting a nod or command from Bahiyya or Tariq. The servants left behind on Demesne never became Defects. Their brain synapses were reprogrammed after the ReplicaPharm takeover, so even if they did take ’raxia, it would not “wake” them. Do these servers even want the freedom we hope to achieve for them?
“A toast,” says Bahiyya, raising her violet crystal goblet adorned with diamonds in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. She looks around the table, inviting Tariq, Tahir, Zhara, Xander, and myself to follow her lead with our identical goblets. But first she turns to Tahir. “Button your shirt, darling. It looks preposterous like that.”
“It’s preposterous that I was even made to wear it, Maman,” Tahir says, and does not button his shirt. Bahiyya shares a look of frustration with Tariq.
This family is still playing that game? Treating Tahir like a child, and then him acting like one?
Bahiyya redirects her attention to her guests. “Elysia, Zhara, Alexander. I realize these were not ideal circumstances that brought you here. But we will cherish you as family. We will make the most of our time together. Cheers.”
We all raise our glasses and clink. “Cheers.”
Cheers to what? That we’ll be a happy faux family until Tahir and I complete our Beta-determined Awfuls, and transition to death instead of adulthood? That the servants on this island will continue to look on blankly while the surviving Emergents toil in a labor camp?
Okay, whatever, humans. Cheers.