The Sentient

by Nadia Afifi

  Lee finally faced Amira, his expression anxious and searching, and Amira immediately regretted teasing him moments ago. She patted his shoulder awkwardly.

  “She will be,” she murmured. “We’ll see to that, together.”

  Her promise delivered, she closed her eyes and surrendered to exhaustion.

  * * *

  Amira left in the early hours of the morning, before the ship began to stir. She couldn’t stomach Hadrian’s inevitable mockery over her behavior the previous night. She could barely stomach the bottle of water in her hand, each sip churning a tempest of nausea that overwhelmed her senses. Better to retreat and nurse the tattered shreds of her dignity alone.

  The window in Amira’s room at the Canary House was slick with the steady rainfall that blanketed Westport on spring afternoons. The low purr of the water against the glass was soothing, almost hypnotic, but did nothing to abate the cruel pounding in Amira’s head. Bottled Rehab, despite its assurances, failed to reverse the consequences of the previous night. The headache was minor compared to the sickening sensation of guilt over her fight with D’Arcy. D’Arcy’s room was empty when Amira returned in the early hours of the morning, so she had likely spent the night in Julian’s dorm on the third floor. Wherever she was, Amira would have an apology ready once she materialized.

  Amira sat cross-legged on her bed, against all the protests of her aching body. In front of her, a small hologram rose through her computer monitor, bearing Dr. Mercer’s face.

  “I doubt the great Valerie Singh is losing sleep over whatever comes out of that clown Harvey’s vacuous mouth,” Mercer said. “I wouldn’t overinflate last night’s debacle in your mind.”

  “I took it pretty hard,” Amira said drily, massaging her temples.

  “I’ll spare you the lecture,” Mercer said. “Let’s talk about more important things.”

  “Pandora.”

  “I’m thrilled that the crisis was averted on Pandora, no doubt in part due to your talents,” Mercer said. His voice rang out in static fits through the hologram, so Amira had to lean forward attentively to follow him. “But give me the real story, without the Aldwych spin – will this girl really give birth to the first human clone? Did you discover why the earlier attempts failed?”

  “Dr. Mercer, please promise me you won’t share this with anyone.”

  “I’ll take it to the grave. Henry, too.” Henry had made several brief appearances in the outer edges of the hologram, but to Amira’s relief did not participate in the conversation.

  Amira revealed the discovery of Rozene’s tampered memories.

  “Tampered? As in deliberately, maliciously tampered?”

  “Definitely tampered. I used waking Oniria therapy to resurface them.”

  “Ah, clever! Not a conventional approach.”

  “I got the idea from you. Advanced Holomentic Interpretation, in my fifth year.”

  “And when you uncovered these memories, did you reveal who the culprit may be?”

  Amira hesitated. To tell Dr. Mercer everything – the horrors of the Trinity Compound, the mysterious visitor at the Revival ceremony and the shadowy figure who hovered over Rozene in the night – would jeopardize his safety.

  “I don’t know who did it exactly,” she said. “But someone on Pandora must be helping, someone with access to the Soma. I don’t know who to trust.”

  “It’s Aldwych, my dear. Trust no one.”

  “I wonder if the Cosmics are connected to all of this somehow,” Amira said, recalling the heated exchange between Dr. Parrish and Tony Barlow at Infinity Park.

  “Interesting, although make sure you’re not mistaking their ubiquitous presence in Aldwych for complicity or involvement. But tell me, why do you think so?”

  “Alistair Parrish is one,” Amira said thoughtfully. “But he’s in charge of Pandora, so why would he sabotage his own project? Tony Barlow might be one as well. I’m not sure.”

  “Tony Barlow?” Dr. Mercer asked, surprised. “Barlow is on Pandora?”

  “He is, but I don’t know his role. Dr. Singh called him a consultant. Do you know him?”

  “From long ago.”

  When Mercer did not elaborate, Amira continued.

  “I’ve wondered about him. He said something that suggested a connection to the compounds.”

  In the hologram, Mercer leaned back in his chair, his face wary and grim through the static blur.

  “Tony Barlow’s area of interest is consciousness, and in that area, he is exceptional. His interest in the compounds began years before when he studied the effects of human prayer on the mind. No doubt he has an agenda on Pandora, whatever it may be. But I would be shocked if he were involved in the unpleasantness you have uncovered.”

  “But who then?” Amira sat upright, reaching for a cold cup of coffee perched on the windowsill. “The compounds hate the idea of cloning more than anything else in the cities. I remember when there was first talk about legalizing human cloning. They thought the end times were coming. Women reproducing without men, and who knew if those cloned babies would be admitted to the Nearhaven? So whoever is doing all of this must be connected to the compounds, right? These girls all escaped the compounds and could have spoken publicly about life there. They were also part of a project that the Elders would do anything to stop. What if someone decided to kill them to take care of both problems together?”

  “A good theory.”

  “But what am I missing?”

  “Maybe nothing. But remember that it is not only the compounds that take issue with human cloning. You and I live in something of a bubble, Amira, and outside of it, there are many people from all walks of life who have anxieties about this project and what it means. And frankly, with these mysterious deaths and Valerie Singh’s myopic mishandling of public opinion, this project hasn’t done much to calm their nerves.”

  Amira nodded, thinking back to the fervid demonstrators she passed each morning, angry men and women with no connection to the compounds. No obvious connection, at any rate. But many Cosmics had come from the compounds, forging another way of living from its teachings, adapting them for the cities. They evolved into a new community. Just as D’Arcy had evolved from collecting scrap metal in Sullivan’s Wharf. Only she, Amira, remained an oddity within this chameleon-like city, unable to blend in or plant her drifting feet on solid ground.

  Amira shook herself back to the holo conversation.

  “Things have relaxed a lot at the Soma since Rozene’s health scare ended, but the protests haven’t stopped. They’re actually worse. A few people were even arrested yesterday.”

  “Yes, Henry and I have seen footage on the Stream when I bother to connect into it,” Mercer said. “In a way, the project is even more of a threat to its many critics now that it is actually succeeding. The concern for the girls was genuine for some and a bit of a red herring for others, an opportunity to show that cloning is a doomed endeavor. I hope there are still those wise enough in the Soma to see that Pandora is not out of the woods yet. Far from it.”

  As Amira readied to sign off, something pressed into her thoughts. Something she couldn’t ignore, that haunted her sleep and gnawed at her waking hours. Mercer, more than anyone else, might be able to help her.

  “Dr. Mercer, I’ve been having these strange dreams. The same dream over and over again. A house on fire. The house and the place always change, but it always ends the same way.”

  “What is your reaction when the house catches on fire?”

  “Fear,” she said. “Terrible fear, the sensation of heat, and then I wake up.”

  “Before your brain is forced to simulate pain, which almost never occurs in a dream – almost never.”

  “Am I going crazy?” she asked. “None of it makes sense.”

  “I know you,” Mercer said with a smile. “I know how your mind wor
ks. You’re wondering if these are preconjective dreams you’re experiencing.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “I don’t see why not,” he said. “But don’t let these questions and doubts consume you, Amira. Push the dreams aside and focus on the facts. I sense you’re keeping me at arm’s length, for whatever reason, but I urge you not to. You say you uncovered memories from this woman’s past – law prohibits you from sharing this outside of Pandora, of course, but if you can send me anything to investigate, I will. Henry and I will look into the Cosmics further, in case there is a connection. In the meantime, take care of yourself, my dear. You are never alone.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rock and Thunder

  The Soma building’s courtyard transformed into a place of celebration as Aldwych’s most prominent luminaries prepared for the clone’s arrival. The attendees included politicians, scientists, journalists and academics, sipping cocktails and exchanging pleasantries on a warm afternoon. Members of the Aldwych Council were all present, with the noticeable absence of Alistair Parrish, who had not been seen in public in recent weeks, and the head of the Volta station, Victor Zhang, whose disappearance was discussed less with each passing day. Life in Westport moved quickly, and with a lack of new developments on Zhang’s whereabouts, the story soon moved from a main headline into the bowels of the Stream, where conspiracists shared theories around kidnapping, staged kidnapping and other forms of Aldwych-based intrigue.

  The subject of the party herself, naturally, remained on the 235th floor, far removed from the festivities. After less than an hour of polite small talk with vaguely familiar faces, Amira grew restless. Before long, she found herself back in the ward, sitting awkwardly on the foot of Rozene’s bed while her black cocktail dress crawled up her thighs. D’Arcy and Naomi joined them as well, and the four women shared slices of cake and stories while Sparkes dreamily paced the length of the ward’s entrance.

  “Are you allowed?” Rozene asked as Amira handed her a slice of cake. “Wait, of course you are.” She flushed.

  “No more rationing for me,” Amira said with a smile. She turned to D’Arcy and Naomi, smiling at their perplexed faces. “Non-pregnant women on the compounds are usually subject to a strict diet once you turn thirteen. We use Nutrient-Sensors, like they have here in the cities, to track calories, macronutrients and expended joules. Keeps girls thin for the Elders, but also gives an incentive for married women to be pregnant as much as possible.”

  Naomi shuddered, zealously attacking her own slice of cake. D’Arcy glanced at Amira and raised her glass of wine with a tight, apologetic smile. No, D’Arcy and Julian had no idea what compound life was like. Maybe D’Arcy was beginning to understand. With that concession, Amira tilted her own glass in a silent toast, burying their argument.

  Rozene cast nervous smiles at her new guests but appeared grateful for the company. D’Arcy had not yet met Rozene, being confined to unrelated programming work on the first floor, and Amira watched with quiet pleasure as they developed an easy rapport. Rozene spoke little, however, listening with growing amusement while Naomi animatedly recounted the story of a demonstrator outside of the Soma who caused a scene by breaching the security perimeter. Like Amira, Naomi had already worked her way through several glasses of wine, punctuating her story with high-pitched giggles and pauses for recollection.

  “So once he breaks through the barrier, he runs in right through the door – big guy, six-foot-four and scary looking. He’s holding this picture of a little baby with two heads and something like hooves for feet, the works! They’ve gotten more creative with their posters the last few months. Anyway, everyone in the lobby freaks out, of course, and he sees Dr. Singh in line for coffee and goes right for her. I’m standing by the elevator, thinking she’s in trouble and wondering where security is and if we even have real security. He’s charging at her, his face all red and angry, and she turns around and gives him this look.”

  Naomi straightened up and did her best impression of Valerie Singh’s most contemptuous expression, sending Amira and Rozene into fits of laughter. D’Arcy, less familiar with Dr. Singh, stifled a giggle. Amira finished her glass. Memories of her last tangle with alcohol fresh in her mind and stomach, Amira had started the evening with Bottled Tolerance, the less popular cousin of Bottled Rehab, to dull the effects of the wine.

  “And he just freezes. Here’s this giant man, holding this awful picture in his hands, and she says ‘Yes?’ and he slouches over like he’s a kid being scolded for stealing cookies! They stand there like that for a minute and the entire lobby is just silent. It’s never that quiet – even when we leave here at midnight! After a while, he says something to the effect, ‘You’re doing the Devil’s work’, throws the picture at her, and runs back outside.”

  “And what did Dr. Singh do then?” Amira asked, still chortling.

  “Oh, she just grabbed her coffee, kind of raised one eyebrow like she does, and walked on by like nothing had happened.”

  “She’s officially become my hero,” D’Arcy said. “That interview with Harrison Harvey was a start, but this seals the deal.”

  “What would it take to get a reaction out of that woman?” Amira mused, relieved to be back on comfortable terms with D’Arcy.

  Rozene looked at them with a conspiratorial smile. “I wouldn’t want to find out,” she said.

  As Naomi and D’Arcy left to get more cake downstairs, Rozene’s mood turned introspective.

  “I’m afraid I’m not ready for all of this,” she said, running her hand along her belly.

  “Oh, Rozene, don’t worry,” Amira said. “This is one of the best places in the world to give birth, despite everything. Now that you’re better, the labor will be fine.”

  “No, it’s not the labor that bothers me. I’ve seen plenty of them in the Trinity. I know what’s coming. It’s what happens afterward – what if there’s something wrong with it? What if it isn’t normal?”

  “The baby? Of course it will be!”

  “You don’t know that,” Rozene said quietly. “I saw stories on the Stream when I was looking up names…. No one knows what she’ll be like because this has never happened before. And what if…what if my problems have hurt her somehow?”

  Amira took a pausing breath, formulating her words carefully.

  “You’re right,” Amira said, noting how Rozene described her impending child as ‘her’ for the first time. “We don’t know for sure. But I have faith in Dr. Singh on this. And if she isn’t normal, would you love her any less?”

  Rozene shook her head. “I know I signed up for it,” she said. “And I knew she wouldn’t live a normal life. But I’m worried about all the tests she’ll go through, now that I’ve been through them. I want her to be happy. Jessica and Nina – the other two girls – talked about that a lot. Did you know them?”

  Amira shook her head.

  “They were from the Trinity as well,” Rozene said. “But I didn’t know them back on the compound. They had escaped before me, so of course I only heard terrible things about them. Harlots, spies, the usual. We became friends on Hadrian’s ship, but they both joined Pandora a week after I met them. I signed up later, when things got too hard. As bad as it was, I’m glad I got to spend time with them again, before…summer happened. I think they’d be happy to see me better. They would have liked you.”

  They sat in silence, air shuttles traversing Westport through the expansive window. Amira would have liked them, too, if they were anything like Rozene. Smoke and fog choked the sky that day, countless lights from the panorama of buildings blinking through the haze. No matter what the elements threw at Westport, the city embraced it, made it a character in the landscape.

  Before Amira took the elevator to the ground floor, leaving Rozene with Sparkes for company, she noticed that neither D’Arcy nor Naomi had returned yet. Perhaps Dr. Singh had forced them to remain at
the party.

  Amira considered whether it was worth the risk to refill her wine glass. But given all that she had overcome with Rozene in the last few weeks, small talk with a few Aldwych dignitaries seemed like a benign challenge. Especially in exchange for another drink. She called the elevator.

  Halfway to the ground level, an alarm sounded.

  The elevator came to an abrupt halt. Amira jolted violently. Her raised hands hit the wall. The main lights went out and a small emergency light flickered on above the elevator buttons. She pulled the circuit box back, hoping desperately for a manual override. She fumbled for several seconds, and then found a narrow lever that opened the doors. She pried them apart. The elevator had stopped halfway between floors, so she slid out to exit, cursing her tight dress and heels.

  The alarms stopped.

  She stood on the mezzanine just above the main ground floor. The vast, echoing room was completely silent. The hairs on Amira’s arms and neck stood to attention and a dizzying wave of apprehension washed over her. Only minutes ago, they had laughed over a security breach. But something was seriously wrong.

  Rozene. Amira had left her alone with Sparkes upstairs. She needed to get back to her. She crept toward the railing that overlooked the ground floor, stepping as quietly as possible.

  The silence was broken by a low, strangled sob, followed by a chorus of frightened voices all speaking at once.

  “Everyone calm down!”

  “Stand back!”

  “Let her go!”

  “Whatever you want, we have nothing to do with it, so please lower your weapons.”

  Amira inched closer and peered over the railing. The party guests were now inside and crowded at one end of the wide floor. On the other side, a group of men fanned out across the room, their faces covered by ski masks. Several held electromagnetic guns and large knives. One of them clutched D’Arcy, his knife glinting as he pressed its tip against her pale throat.

  Time froze, leaving an agonizing space between seconds. Amira’s knees buckled. Her hands caught the railing before she fell, her gaze locked on the sharp point of the blade pressed to the fragile skin of her best friend’s throat.