Anew: Book One: Awakened (6 page)

Softly, I say, “The institute
that Susannah turned to is on the cutting edge of the most advanced replica
technology. Because of refinements to the process that are only available there,
she was able to select just those parts of her neural map that she wanted you
to have. The neural imprint you received included knowledge and perhaps also
abilities. We’ll find out more about that as we go along. What she didn’t give
you were her memories. She wanted you to develop your own. She also left it to
me to explain all this to you. That’s why you woke up with no idea of your name
or where you were.”

Still nothing. If she doesn’t
breathe soon, she’s going to pass out. I stand up quickly, go over to the small
fridge built into one of the bookcases, and get a bottle of water. Standing
beside her, I say, “Drink.”

She obeys, I’m relieved to see,
but she has difficulty swallowing and can manage only a few sips. As I retrieve
the bottle from her and set it on the desk, she takes a shuddering breath. Her
head and shoulders slump under the weight of what I have told her.

I hesitate but the need to touch
her, if only to offer comfort, proves irresistible. Carefully, I move the silky
fall of chestnut hair to one side and let my fingers curl around the nape of
her neck, stroking her lightly.

“I know this is a lot to deal
with,” I say softly. “But you did want to know and I didn’t think you’d be
satisfied with anything less than the truth.”

She stiffens at my touch but she
doesn’t pull away. I can’t help but smile. As shocked as she is, a part of her
recognizes and accepts my possession.

And another part apparently
doesn’t. Scornfully, she says, “The truth? You want me to believe that I’m
a--what did you call it--replica of a dead woman?”

I frown but continue stroking
her, willing her to relax. “It’s not a matter of what I want. It’s what you
are.”

She turns her head suddenly and
looks up at me. The dark pools of her eyes swim with confusion and
more…anger…rejection. Defiance.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” she
says. “I’m a person. I have thoughts, feelings… I have a name.” Her voice
chokes.

“When Susannah was little, she
had an imaginary friend she called Amelia. That’s where your name comes from.
As for the rest…”

I shrug, not callously, of
course this is hard for her but it’s also how things are. For her own sake, the
sooner she comes to terms with that the better.

“Essentially, you are what she
chose for you to be.”

She is very pale. Her breathing
has become ragged. Faintly, she asks, “What is that, exactly?”

There’s no sugar coating the
truth. Better I just lay it out for her.

“You’re the ultimate make-over.
A version of Susannah free of the illness that overshadowed her life and which
she believed affected every aspect of who she was. In essence, you’re her
fantasy of the perfect woman. The person she thought she could have been
without the genetic malfunction.”

Cool, restrained Susannah was
surprisingly explicit about that in the letter from her given to me at the
Institute a week ago. She was convinced that I had suppressed an inherently
dominant nature because of the fragility we both recognized in her. Further,
she believed that I needed a woman whose passion would match my own and whose
nature would incline her to submit to my every desire, a woman she regretted
that she couldn’t be.

It made me regret that I hadn’t
been forthcoming with her about my own baggage. But I couldn’t say that she’d
been entirely wrong either.

Amelia straightens in the chair.
Not for the first time I notice that she has the graceful posture of a dancer.
Pressing her hands against the armrests, she stands slowly, as though wanting
to make sure than her legs will hold her. I reach out to steady her but she
steps away, eluding me.

Her eyes glitter and a flash of
color chases the paleness from her face. Staring at me, she asks, “Even if what
you’re saying is true, why am I here with you?”

“Under international law,” I
say, “a clone is classified as property. As part of Susannah’s posthumous
instructions, title to you was transferred to me.”

“Title?”

“Ownership.”

The word with all its
connotations hangs in the air between us. A look of dismay sweeps across her
face.

I’m about to reassure her that I
understand perfectly well that although a replica, she is still a living,
breathing, feeling being. Despite the intensity of my response to her--
something I hadn’t anticipated and still don’t know what to do about--I
understand that she needs time to adjust to her circumstances. She’ll live
surrounded by every luxury and comfort, wanting for nothing.

Moreover, there’s an argument to
be made that as a replica designed for a clearly intended purpose, she has an
advantage over mere humans, too many of whom go through their lives without any
real sense of meaning or identity.

But before I can try to explain
any of that, her soft, beguiling mouth hardens. Abruptly, she turns away, yanks
open the library door, and walks out of the room.

My first instinct is to stop her
but I reconsider. Letting her go now means that inevitably she will have to
return. When she does, it will be of her own volition, however reluctant that
may be. Giving her at least that much control at this crucial moment can bring
her closer to accepting the reality of her circumstances.

Even so, I call after her,
“Don’t go far. Stay on the grounds.”

She glances back just long
enough for me to be sure that she’s heard.

The palazzo is large, the
manicured grounds surrounding it even more so. She can’t come to any harm in
either place. Beyond lies the nature reserve that makes up the bulk of the
estate, filled with untouched woodland, hills, lakes, and a handful of hiking
trails. I’ll take her there myself before too long. There’s a waterfall I think
she’d enjoy with a secluded pool under it where we--

With an effort, I return to my
desk and focus on the field testing report for a new surveillance system my
company is developing. Despite my best efforts to concentrate, my mind keeps
drifting to Amelia--her beauty, her exquisite responsiveness, how rapidly my
attitude toward having her in my life is changing.

When I finally finish the report
an hour later, I buzz Hodgkin. “Would you be so good as to let my guest know
that I’d like her to join me for lunch in the garden?”

My effort at courtesy earns a
snort of approval. “Certainly, sir.”

I pick up another report and
manage to get through most of it before Hodgkin appears at the library door.
He’s alone and his expression is even more dour than usual.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I am unable
to locate Miss Amelia.”

“Try the music room or the
studio.” However distraught she is, she’s bound to be curious about her new
home. “If she isn’t there, she’s probably in one of the gardens.”

Hodgkin sniffs. “I did manage to
think of that, sir. The staff and I have searched everywhere. There doesn’t
appear to be any sign of her.”

Before he finishes speaking, I’m
on my feet. Belatedly, I realize that as much as I’ve accepted that she’s
different in some ways from Susannah, I’ve underestimated just how far those
differences go.

I distinctly told her to remain
on the grounds. Right then I would like someone to explain to me what the hell
the point is of creating a replica who is far more defiant than her original
would ever have been.

With a low curse, I punch the code for Security. The fear I
feel at the thought that she may actually be in danger ignites into anger. My
orders are blunt and explicit. Find and secure her. By any means necessary.

Amelia

I
have to keep moving. If I stop, I will think, and if I think I will break, as I
almost did in the library. In front of him.

What Ian claims cannot be true.
It simply can’t. I am not a puppet dancing to the choreography of a dead woman,
being made to feel, yearn, delight and even, heaven help me, come on command.
The mere idea is beyond repugnant.

I am a human being with a mind
and a will of my own.

Who awakened with no knowledge
of who or where I was. Strangely compliant at first and still helpless to control
my response to a man who by all rights is a stranger, for all that he has the
insane idea that he owns me. A man to whom I have an instinctive sense of
belonging.

No! He can own a house, a car, a
pet. He cannot own me, no matter what he believes.

What was last night? Ian
deciding to try out his new possession?

My stomach heaves at the thought
but there is worse. Does he know about the Cabinet of Secret Delights, about
the dark intermingling of erotic pain and pleasure for which it is intended?
Does he expect to take me there? Will I be able to refuse?

How helpless am I?

They are there again outside
my chamber. I can see them through the clear walls but they don’t look at me.
They’re watching the machines. One of them spins a dial. I know what is coming
and try to brace myself but there is no preparation for the pain that lances
through me. My whole body convulses, my spine arching, my head thrown back.
Soundlessly, I scream.

The vision comes without
warning. By the time it passes, I’m on my knees, the palms of my hands pressed
into ground softly covered with pine needles. My throat is so tight that I can
scarcely breathe.

Get up! Keep moving!

I try but I don’t get far before
memories that aren’t supposed to exist thrust upward from the darkest corners
of my mind.

They come again, the usual
half-dozen or so who are always there, not the others who appear only when
something especially tormenting is about to happen. They stare at me but their
eyes never meet mine. No matter how desperately I long for just one of them to
acknowledge that I am there, I exist, I am real, none ever does. There is only
the chamber and the pain, and my screams that no one but myself ever hears.

My fingers claw into the ground,
holding on frantically as the truth rains down on me, blow after remorseless
blow until at last I can no longer resist it.

Ian was right--I am what he
said.

And he was wrong--I was never a
blank slate. In all the years that I waited, growing from embryo to infant to
child to woman adrift in the gestation chamber, I had terrifying moments of
lucidity that will destroy me if I let them.

Get up! Keep moving!

Whatever
they
did to me,
at least I am not weak. My legs are strong and supple. I can run flat out over
hard ground, dodging gnarled roots, heart pounding but steady, run and run and
run. The exertion is a release that at last, in a rush of endorphins, calms me.

Even then I don’t stop but keep
moving, just more slowly. Dragging in breath, I smell the scent of evergreens
mingling with that of unfolding ferns and the first wild flowers. I hear
rustling nearby and turn in time to see a startled deer bound gracefully away.
Apart from that, the silence is absolute. It sinks into me, stilling my
clamorous thoughts.

I close my eyes for a moment and
open them to see columns of sunlight descending through the branches of trees
dotted with the swelling buds that will become soft green leaves. A sense of
reverence creeps over me. Whatever I have to face, there is no denying that the
world is astonishingly beautiful. Every tiny leaf-to-be, every scent on the
wind, every dancing mote of light wrings joy from me.

But alongside it is anguish.
What was the word that Ian used--harvest? I have a sudden image of myself
splayed open and gutted, bleeding out into the liquid that filled the chamber,
the life in me taken for the sake of another.

Abruptly, I double over as dry
heaves wrack me. Under my clothes, a fine sheen of sweat coats my skin. A
passing gust of wind makes me shiver.

Belatedly, I realize that I am
desperately thirsty. Except for the few sips of water in Ian’s office, I’ve had
nothing to eat or drink all day. My mouth and throat are dry to the point of
discomfort. My stomach is hollow and, as though that isn’t enough, the muscles
in my calves are beginning to cramp.

As fit as I apparently am, I
know that last symptom can be a warning sign of dehydration. Others will
follow--fatigue, weakness, and mental confusion, none of which I can afford in
my present circumstances.

The thought flickers that I
could have planned my mad rush into the wilderness a little better, packed a
knapsack with a few supplies…water, a compass, a bag of trail mix, maybe a
granola bar or two, definitely a sweater. The absurdity of that wrings a wan
smile from me but not for long.

According to the position of the
sun, I’m heading east. The lake I glimpsed from the palazzo was in that
direction but it’s too far off and I can’t risk surface water in any case. It’s
too likely to be contaminated by the natural run-off from local wildlife. I’m looking
for a small spring ideally bubbling up from underground. There’s a much better
chance of that being cleaner and safer to drink.

I pause for a moment,
considering that I must know how to find safe water because Susannah did. Does
that mean she enjoyed the outdoors? Did she and Ian go hiking together? Did
they camp under the stars, making love beside a blazing fire and--

He said that she was eleven
years old when I was cloned from her which means she would have been only
thirty-three when she died. Older than him but not by all that much.

I’m jealous of a dead woman.
Sickeningly, horribly envious of what she shared with him. He cared for her, at
best he lusts for me. She was the woman he chose to be with whereas I am, by
his own account, someone he knew nothing about until a week ago. Her fantasy,
not necessarily his.

Yet still someone, not some
thing
.
At all costs, I have to remember that.

I keep moving, my senses alert
for any sign of water. There is a hill ahead and I climb it in the hope of
glimpsing the palazzo. I’m under no illusion about not going back; the
circumstances leave me no choice. But I would prefer to do it before I’m
missed. Ian did say to stay on the grounds and while I have no compunctions
about disregarding his orders, I don’t feel up to dealing with the inevitable
fallout. Instinctively, I don’t want to find out just how angry he can be.

Surmounting the hill, I turn in
all directions and stare out over pristine woodlands interspersed here and
there with patches of open ground and glittering lakes. The view is
breathtaking but also alarming. I’ve traveled even farther than I thought.
Wherever the palazzo is, I can’t see any sign of it.

Panic flares in me but only for
a moment. I need to keep calm. If I can remember what direction I went in when
I fled, I can retrace my steps.

I stay on the hilltop until the
wind picks up and I realize how cold I am. Going down turns out to be harder
than climbing up. I lose my footing on the damp ground, slipping and sliding
until I finally reach the bottom in less than dignified fashion. My blouse is
torn in several places from encounters with sharp branches and my pants are stained
with dirt.

Glancing down at myself, I
realize that I’m no longer the pristine woman I saw in the mirror in the golden
room. For better or worse, I am finally living. That, at least, provides some
consolation.

I decide to head west for no
better reason than it’s the opposite direction from where I was going. The
chances that I kept moving in a straight line from the palazzo are vanishingly
small but I don’t have a better alternative. At least there are more hills to
the west, which means I’ll be able to reach high ground again and take another
look around. Assuming that my strength holds out.

Another hour or so passes. I’m
moving much more slowly. The visions from the gestation chamber continue to
surface, coming in quick flashes as though illuminated by a pulsing strobe
light going off in my brain. The effect is painful physically as well as
mentally. To be trapped as I was, to be so helpless, my mind so starved for
stimulation, for purpose, for simple human contact. How could anyone condemn a
person to suffer like that?

The answer is all too clear.
Kept in an artificial womb, denied the chance to be ‘born’, I had no legal
rights. I could be treated as a commodity to be grown and maintained in good
working order against the day when my various parts would be needed. A lab
animal would have been given more consideration. I taste blood and realize that
I’ve bitten the inside of my mouth.

Hardly aware of what I’m doing,
I sink to the ground and lean my back against the rough bark of a tree. As much
as I need water, I need rest more. But the moment I close my eyes, the visions
return, more vivid and detailed than ever.

The tinted glass of the
chamber gives the liquid within it a blue-green hue. I am floating in a sea as
ancient in its composition as the vastly larger one where life itself began.
Long, undulating ribbons run from my body to points around the walls of the
chamber. Nourishment passes through then, oxygen is provided, waste is removed,
muscles are stimulated--painfully. Time passes, endless, empty, tormenting
time.

I force myself to stand and push
away from the tree. Stumbling a few feet, I straighten up and keep going. I
need to see the sun, to feel it on my face but also to be sure I’m still
heading west. Exhaustion presses down on me and with it come tears. I wipe them
away, angry at weakness I cannot afford, and see through my blurred vision a
clearing not far ahead.

Encouraged, I hurry toward it.
I’ve gone perhaps twenty yards, not more when I stop suddenly. There is
movement in the trees on the far side of the clearing. Deer? Such beautiful
animals, so graceful. I don’t really see how anyone can hunt them but--

No, not deer. Men. Half-a-dozen
of them. Big, broad-shouldered, dressed all in black, wearing helmets, their
faces obscured by visors. Heavily armed, they are spread out in an arc and
closing rapidly on me.

Oh, crap, crap, crap!
I
turn all around, looking for a way out but there is none. Nowhere to run, no possibility
of getting away.

The men move rapidly, sighting
down the barrels of their weapons. My knees quake. It’s all I can do to stay
upright. In the space of a few heartbeats, I am encircled.

I can’t breathe. Who are they?
What are they going to do to me? Why did I ever leave the palazzo?

I want to scream but I can’t, my
throat is too tight. A horrible, deadening sense of helplessness engulfs me and
with it comes a strange calm. I’m retreating into myself, the only place left
to go. But whatever is about to happen, that won’t be enough. I’ll still be
aware. I’ll still feel.

“Miss,” one of the men says. “Is
anyone pursuing you?”

Aside from the men who have just
caught me? I have to assume that’s what he means. Dumbly, I shake my head.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

Not daring to take my eyes from
him but vividly aware of the others all around me, I nod.

He gives a signal, no more than
a flick of his hand, and abruptly the weapons are lowered. I’m still surrounded
but at least I’m no longer in imminent danger of being shot.

He speaks again but not to me.
Staring at him, I realize he’s wearing a head mike.

“We have her, sir. I’m sending
the coordinates.”

He taps something on a wide band
wrapped around his left forearm. When he’s done, he looks at me again.

“Please don’t move, miss. Just
stay right where you are.” Perhaps he notices how frightened I am because he
adds, “No one’s going to touch you. Just please don’t move.”

Something in his tone makes me
realize that he’s not merely telling the truth. He and the other men
really
don’t want to touch me. In fact, they’re going to great lengths to avoid doing
so.

Why?

We stay as we are, none of us
speaking, for several minutes until suddenly a black all-terrain vehicle comes
out of the trees and skims quickly across the clearing, stopping a few yards
from the circle of men. The driver’s side door opens.

Ian gets out.

He looks as he did in the
library--black jeans and a black T-shirt, apparently his preference when he
isn’t in a perfectly tailored business suit or wearing low-slung pajama
bottoms. Or nothing at all. But his appearance doesn’t fool me. The hard line
of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, the way he moves with coiled strength
all tell me that he is furiously angry.