by Rachel Cohn
“They reduce our caloric intake. They make the room dark—for days instead of just nights,” Tarquin tells Tahir and me.
“The better for us to fornicate,” says Tamsin. I’m not sure if she’s serious. “They like to watch.” She looks up at the ceiling and accuses. “PERVS!”
“I love you so much, baby,” says Tarquin. It’s like Tahir and I are not even in the same room as Tamsin reclines back into his lap, and he leans down to kiss her again. And kiss her and kiss her and kiss her.
I almost admire their crazy love. They’re so open and free about it. But the display feels like equal amounts public show as genuine, private affection.
“For their benefit,” says Tahir, pointing to the side walls, referring to the unseen surveillance.
“To what purpose?” I ask.
“Science?” Tahir posits.
“But what science?” I ask. I was brought back to Demesne and given clemency for more than just to be Tahir’s companion. I know it. These humans are too greedy to give two Betas a second chance just for the sake of love. Certainly the Terrible Ts have not been confined to this space in the interest of their true love.
“I’d like to know the same thing,” says Tahir.
Tarquin’s mouth removes from Tamsin’s to let us in on what he knows. “ReplicaPharm are using our raging hormones for a project they call Mimetic. If it’s successful, it will become a vaccine given to teenagers around the world.”
“To do what?” I ask.
Tamsin hisses, “Make them less like us, of course! Awful!”
“I don’t understand,” says Tahir.
Tarquin says, “Like a flu shot, a vaccine that injects a dose of flu in order to stave off worse flu. Mimetic would be like that. A dose of our reproduced Awful hormones, injected into teenagers to prevent them from being teens. Wild! Crazy! AWFUL!”
“It would sublimate them until adulthood,” I say, suddenly coming to this realization. “Make them passive. Easy to control.”
“Exactly!” Tamsin and Tarquin both say.
The Terrible Ts are clearly crazy. They have to be making up this nonsense about Mimetic. It’s one thing for the humans to try to control their clones. It’s a whole other thing for them to try to control all their own teenagers. I’m beginning to understand that destroying the human infrastructure on Demesne is about so much more than Insurrection. It’s about protecting clones—and our young human brethren elsewhere in the world.
Tamsin cocks her head to the side and nonchalantly says, “Yeah, sicko science.” Her gaze returns to Tarquin. “I can’t get enough of you, baby.” She caresses his chin with her hand. “I just love you so much. It’s not even fair how much I love you.”
“I love you more,” says Tarquin.
I’m obviously not going to have the opportunity to make any real connection with the Terrible Ts. They’re too into each other. Is that so terrible?
“Give me a baby, baby,” Tamsin whispers to him. “Please? My eyes are blacker than black. I need hope. Someone to love who isn’t doomed to death.”
“I would if I could,” Tarquin tells her. “You know I’m trying.”
Suddenly she stands up, in what looks like a rage. “You’re not trying hard enough! I never get what I want!”
Matter-of-factly, Tahir says, “Elysia made a baby. It was removed from her.”
Her face set to shocked, Tamsin runs over to stand before me. “How is that even possible? Clones can’t replicate.”
“I was the exception, I guess,” I say.
Tamsin begins pulling out her hair, screaming, “GET OUT OF HERE! NOW! I HATE YOU! I WILL KILL YOU!”
Tarquin jumps to her side to attempt to soothe her, but she’s like an animal that can’t be contained. “GET OFF ME! I HATE YOU ALL! I HATE EVERYTHING!”
The entrance doors open and Dr. Gaddis and the two android sentinels come inside the Terrible Ts’ cage. “I think this visit is over,” Dr. Gaddis says to Tahir and me.
Resolutely, quietly, Tamsin walks toward the sentinels. She offers them her wrists. They cuff her.
“I’m ready to be expired now, Dr. Gaddis,” Tamsin announces.
So that’s the vision of my future with Tahir. We go so crazy that we demand to be expired.
Or, we flee.
Better to die trying.
AS WE RETURN TO THE hallway corridor outside the Terrible Ts’ prison, Dr. Gaddis tells Tahir, “Your father requested you stop by to see him before your visit with Tarquin and Tamsin.”
“I don’t want to see Tariq right now,” says Tahir.
“That’s not your choice,” says Dr. Gaddis. “When the boss requests to be seen, he is seen.”
We sit in the mobile cart and Dr. Gaddis maneuvers us to the executive wing of the company headquarters, where a worker is installing a placard bearing the name “Tariq Fortesquieu” on the outer glass door to the reception area leading to the executive offices. Dr. Gaddis holds open the door for us and ushers us into the reception area.
The Governor is in the area, sitting alone on a couch.
Dr. Gaddis tells him, “You received my message. Excellent. The expiration orders are being authorized for Tarquin and Tamsin. You may handle it.” Dr. Gaddis retrieves a tablet from his coat pocket. “Read this manual before the procedure.”
Ivan’s father, who once lorded over the island but now is demoted to essentially an errand boy, looks directly at me, taunting. “The procedure will be excellent practice for me.”
Dr. Gaddis scoffs at the Governor. “You will observe. You’re still in training. You may handle the bureaucratic filings necessary for the Replicant Rights Commission. Anything beyond that…” Dr. Gaddis laughs. “I hardly think you’re ready for that.”
If it’s possible to measure the temperature of a room by the level of fuming exhibited by one particular human’s presence in it, I’d say the Governor could easily set this reception area on fire. At first I thought the “coincidence” of his presence here just as Tahir and I arrived was meant to intimidate me. Maybe it was. But I’m also sure that Dr. Gaddis arranged this encounter to intimidate the Governor as well. Or humiliate him. Same difference, perhaps.
The Governor shoots me a glare that’s both hateful and a promise: We’re not finished.
I agree, and return the same glare to him.
Insurrection will liberate the clones on Demesne. Seeing the Governor’s ruin completed will be my personal little victory.
I’m mad and I want answers.
Dr. Gaddis ushers Tahir and me into Tariq’s office. It’s an expansive space with clear walls that look like windows with different views over Demesne. The people inside the frames start to move, and I realize the walls are live surveillance views over the island: inside the laboratories at HQ where researchers in white coats are monitoring data machines; construction workers laying a foundation for the new building at Haven; ReplicaPharm employees relaxing on the shore at Nectar Bay; Zhara’s room at the Fortesquieu compound, where Bahiyya supervises the chestnut-haired maid looking under Zhara’s bed—looking for what, I don’t know—but the maid emerges empty-handed.
Tariq stands up from his desk and comes over to greet us. He tries to give Tahir a hug, but Tahir is stiff in Tariq’s embrace.
“How was your visit with Tarquin and Tamsin?” Tariq asks us, gesturing for us to sit down at the chairs opposite his desk. He sits down at his executive’s desk and nods to Dr. Gaddis, who leaves the room.
Tahir says, “The Ts are at their end. Ready to be expired.” He doesn’t sound upset, but I sense he is. We both are. We just witnessed our future. Tahir must not want to give his father the satisfaction of knowing how unnerved we are. His parents gave us this visit as a cautionary tale to encourage us to cooperate with them, to do as they say in the face of hormonal chaos converging in our bodies.
Tariq says, “I feared as much. But their time here has not been for nothing. We’ve been able to cull excellent hormonal samples from their Beta chemistry.”
“For the Mimetic project?” I ask. “Or were the Ts lying about that?” Please say they were crazy. Please say they were lying.
I know they weren’t.
Tariq shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He sighs. “I guess I couldn’t have prevented them telling you about it. I wanted to tell you myself.” He didn’t. He wanted us to know, and the Terrible Ts revealing it to us was part of the scare tactic. I know it. “Mimetic is certainly no lie. It’s the most important scientific advancement of the last decade. It’s a prime reason I agreed to forego retirement and come back to work here. Getting that project to market will be one of my proudest accomplishments.”
“It will make you richer than ever,” says Tahir dryly.
“Yes,” Tariq agrees. “But it’s not about the money. We already have more than the combined per capita income of half the world.”
So share it, I think.
“Mimetic is the rare pharmaceutical compound that will make the world a better place. Save teenagers from themselves.”
“It could have saved First Tahir,” says Tahir.
“Exactly,” says Tariq. “We’re pleased with you, son. Of course. But Mimetic could spare other parents throughout the world from the disastrous consequences of their teenagers’ wild behavior.”
“It’s a terrible idea,” says Tahir, who looks to me for affirmation. I nod.
“Nonsense,” says Tariq. “You two have no real knowledge of the world.” How could we? You’ve trapped us here. “You couldn’t possibly understand the need for such a vaccine.”
“What did you mean by the hormonal compounds of Betas?” I ask Tariq. There’s no use arguing the ethics of inoculating teens against their basic natures. ReplicaPharm will try to bring Mimetic to market regardless of any “opinions” the two powerless Betas sitting in the chairman’s office might have. It’s up to us to stop it.
Tariq answers, “Teen Betas, because they’ve been replicated at the juncture of adolescence into adulthood, have unusual hormones we’ve been able to use to create Mimetic. And I’ve just learned that cells extracted from the womb machine incubating Elysia’s fetus may hold the key to finally perfecting Mimetic.”
That thing doesn’t even exist yet, and already they’re abusing it. Typical, hateful humans. “Are the Beta hormones why I was able to get pregnant?” I ask Tariq.
“We don’t think so,” says Tariq. “Ivan, as you know, had experimented with various compounds of ’raxia, including batches laced with potent amounts of testosterone. We believe that’s why you got pregnant. Not because of your hormones, but because of his. It was a fluke, but beneficial for our research. Clones created from Firsts have been outlawed, and those in existence will die out naturally. But at least now we know the factors that could allow the Demesne brand of clones to procreate. It’s a nonissue, really. Would you like to see the new brand of Betas?” he asks us eagerly.
“More clones?” Tahir says, rising from his chair. “That’s an outrage, Father!” Tariq just laughs, and tamps his hand to encourage Tahir to sit back down.
Tariq says, “Flesh-and-blood clones are old wave. Meet the new.” He presses a button on his desk, and a new person enters the room.
It’s an adult male, dressed in a butler’s uniform, only the male is a 4-D holo-composite. Yet it holds a physical tray in its hand, balancing three glasses of water. The butler approaches Tahir and me. “May I?” the new and improved Beta asks us politely. We extend our hands, and he places a glass of water in each hand for us.
“Excellent, Jeeves!” says Tariq. “That’s what we’ve named the new Beta. A bit obvious, of course. But we’re very fond of him. Soon all the clones will be just like Jeeves. Better even than android machines. Truly soulless, because he doesn’t actually exist. He’s just a computer model made to look like flesh and bone.”
“Do you require anything else, sir?” asks Jeeves.
“That will be all,” says Tariq. “You may leave the tray here.” The hologram butler places the tray on Tariq’s desk and then vanishes into thin air. Tariq beams at Tahir and me. “Spectacular, right?”
I don’t answer because I’m distracted by the surveillance wall behind Tariq’s head, where a frame flashes what appears to be a prison cell, with cement walls and laser bars separating the room from the hallway. A lone male figure sits on the floor, being guarded by android soldiers outside the confines of his cell. One of his hands has been amputated. For a moment, he looks up, and I see his olive-skinned, black rose–vined face.
It’s Aidan. He’s alive.
ONCE AGAIN, I HAVE DAD’S mantra in my ear: Hold your friends close and your enemies closer. Bahiyya Fortesquieu is a strange combination of both. She’s gracious and generous. But she clearly wants to either control our every move, or give us genuine privacy. I learned that while I hid in the wardrobe while she was having the maid look under my bed for a ring she said she’d lost that she wanted to give to Elysia. She’s just like any typical intrusive parent, I guess—but the stakes feel so much higher, with an Insurrection to pull off. She could be our unlikely ally (because ultimately she wants what’s best for Tahir—whatever makes him happiest), or our worst foe (because ultimately she thinks only she can determine what’s best for Tahir). The only way to gauge is to get to know her better.
I go looking for her in the garden, which Elysia has told me is Bahiyya’s sacred spot. I’ve gotten so used to being surrounded by hard-bodied, hardworking, too-attractive clones with vined faces and fuchsia eyes that it’s surprising to see a gardener in these parts who has long gray hair, a slight pudge around her hips, and human brown eyes over a gently wrinkled face. “You do your own gardening?” I ask Bahiyya. At the periphery of the rows of coral-red torchflowers that surround the Aviate landing pad at her family’s home, she’s on her knees, wearing gardening gloves, and holding weed scissors.
She smiles at me. She gives a great mom smile—warm and welcoming. “Indeed,” Bahiyya says. “I enjoy gardening. I find it very peaceful and contemplative.”
“Be careful those torchflowers don’t make you too peaceful,” I say, instantly regretting my comment. Is it okay to joke with such a fancy and important lady?
Luckily, she laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t be making any ’raxia from these seeds. But if I did, you can be assured these flowers would only produce premium-quality opiate. Not like the inferior grade that boy Ivan made, which made him so crazy. These torchflowers are grown with more care than the ones at Governor’s House.”
“Ivan, the boy who hurt Elysia? He made his own ’raxia?”
“His parents didn’t discover it until after his death, but yes. Everyone knew he was mentally disturbed; certainly, his experiments with different grades of homegrown ’raxia didn’t help. He was an addict, I believe. Once you become an addict, you lose the peacefulness that ’raxia is supposed to elicit. Instead, you become violent and crazy.”
“I know. That’s how I died—but didn’t. Too much ’raxia and I went crazy. Totally lost any semblance of good judgment.”
I want her to feel as comfortable with me as she seems to want me to feel with her. Are we both just being honest, or walking a tightrope?
“You won’t make that mistake again, I assume?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No way.” I believe it when I say it. But I know: The best I can do is try. Every day. My heart clenches, remembering Aidan, who cared about me so much he tried to ensure that all temptation for me to fall back into addiction was removed from me. Aidan. He deserved so much better than losing his life to a failed Insurrection. He deserved a real mate. I should have been that to him. His lover, and his fighter. His true companion, and not just a bunk mate using him for survival. I don’t dare to hope he still lives. Do I?
“Would you be willing to do me a favor?” Bahiyya asks.
“Of course,” I say, wanting to appear cooperative and helpful. When my dad used to ask me to do anything for him, the best response from me was a roll of my eyes,
a resigned shrug, some choice curse words muttered on the down-low. Now my dad suffers in a Uni-Mil prison—if he’s even still alive—while I’m stranded in paradise. I’d give up every breath of this heavenly air if I could just go back to miserable, rotting Cerulea so I could tell my dad: I know it seemed like I didn’t like you, but I appreciated you. And I know that in your overbearing, controlling way, you felt the same for me. Thanks, Dad.
Bahiyya says, “There’s a holdout from one of the original Demesne families still living here. Her name is Demetra Cortez-Olivier. She was always a troublemaker. A delightful one, to be sure, but a wild child.”
“I didn’t realize there were still families living here.”
“Demetra’s the only one, and it’s just her, not her family. She’s bizarrely obsessed with clones and with Demesne. But what can you expect when you abandon your child here to be raised by clones? She refused to leave when the other families sold their stakes on the island to ReplicaPharm.”
“So she lives on Demesne alone?”
“She lives with her clones in her family’s home. Cut off from the world, by choice. Or so her parents claim. The truth, I’m sorry to say, is that they don’t know how to handle her. They’d prefer their own child to be hidden away here so they don’t have to deal with her. It’s unconscionable parenting, in my opinion. But they were never interested in parenting. They wanted a doll, not a person.”
“They wanted an Elysia,” I surmise. “Or, at least what Elysia was originally programmed to be.”
“I never thought about it that way, but yes, you’re right, like that.” Proudly, she adds, “Soon, because of Tariq’s work with ReplicaPharm, parents will finally have the comfort of having that kind of teenager. They won’t have to program a clone anymore.”
“How?” I ask.
“Pharmaceutical innovation” is her only explanation. “Tariq will be a hero to the world a second time. Until then…the Cortez-Oliviers are stuck with Demetra. Or, I should say, their clones are stuck with her.”
“Demetra sounds fun, actually.” She sounds different. On this island where the clones were all crafted to look great but essentially be the same, and where the humans now lording over the place are essentially corporate drones, Demetra sounds like a refreshingly toxic whiff amid this place’s purified air.