Anew: Book Two: Hunted (3 page)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, my muscles straining and my body damp with
sweat, I whirl through the final steps of a
grand adage
from
Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’. My stamina has surprised me but perhaps it
shouldn’t. The rigor of dance provides my only relief from thoughts of Ian.

“Good,” Sergei says over the last notes of the music. He
looks vindicated. “I knew the first time I saw you dance that you had great
potential. Miraculously, whoever trained you in the past didn’t muck it up.
Your technique is excellent, your interpretation natural, unfeigned. All you
need to do is focus, Amelia.”

Since I can hardly tell him that my ability is only a
reflection of the knowledge and skills Susannah gave to me, I remain silent.

Gracefully, he extends his long, muscular arms
en bas
as though to embrace the studio and all that lies beyond. “Focus and the world
can be yours.”

I want to believe him, not because I aspire to dance
professionally, I don’t. But I do need to find a purpose, something that will
give meaning and structure to my life. I’ve tried to tell myself that there is
some benefit in being forced to part from Ian. I am thrown back on my own
resources, compelled to become more independent and self-sufficient. Surely,
all that can only make me stronger. Yet the pain of being without him remains
anguishing.

I reach for a towel and drape it over the back of my neck.
Holding onto the ends, I say, “It isn’t that simple--”

He makes a dismissive sound. As much as Sergei embodies the
sublime complexity of dance, he sees human relationships in far starker terms.
For him, a man and a woman give each other what they need or they go their separate
ways.

But what happens when the only way to give what is needed is
to part? Does longing cease? Does yearning ever die? How much does the heart
have to shrivel before it no longer aches?

With a start, I realize why I don’t want to give up what I
feel for Ian. Not because I enjoy torturing myself, far from it. But the pain
that has taken up permanent residence inside me is a constant reminder that I
am alive. And where there is life, there is hope, however forlorn it may seem
at the moment. If I am nothing else, I am the living proof of that.

“Yet again your mind wanders,” Sergei says in exasperation.
“Where does it go, Amelia?” Shrewdly, he adds, “Or should I ask, who does it go
to? Who is this man who has cast a spell of enchantment over you?”

I can’t help but smile at such a whimsical thought. The
first time I saw Ian, moments after I awoke, he seemed so commanding that I
fancied he was a prince. I was not entirely wrong though he is a dark one to be
sure, hardened by adversity and haunted by his past. I can’t forget that he is
the man who left me, collapsed on the floor of his penthouse, stunned in equal
measure by his coldly calculated possession and the shattering revelation that
accompanied it.

Despite my pleas, that ruthless, implacable man is putting
his own life at risk hunting down the fanatics who endanger mine. As much as I
want to be strong, to take care of myself, I can’t deny how bereft I would be
without Ian’s protectiveness. Surely, I can do no less for him no matter what
the cost to me?

Sergei frowns. “You are tired. We will stop.”

I am about to insist that I can continue when I realize that
I should not. I have done this before--pushed myself too hard too fast--and
suffered the consequences. Given how anxious I am to make up for all the time I
lost adrift in the prison of sleep, a certain degree of impatience is
understandable. But if I am to survive the loss of Ian, I need to pace myself.

“I’ll do better next time,” I promise.

“Or you will think of
him
again. Go back to him or
forget him, Amelia. There is nothing in between.”

Only the chasm and myself hanging suspended above it. I turn
away toward the dressing room.

When I emerge half-an-hour later, having showered and
changed, another rehearsal is underway. Sergei truly is indefatigable. But he
breaks off as I head toward the exit and joins me. Holding the door open, he
says, “Are you being picked up?”

The question surprises me. I assume that I leave Sergei’s
mind the moment I leave the dance studio. That he would give any thought to my life
beyond there is unexpected.

“It’s a beautiful day. I prefer to walk.”

He frowns. “You should be careful.”

I look at him closely. His gaze reveals little but I have
come to know him well enough to realize that he is genuinely concerned. “Why?”

“You didn’t notice that there are more police than usual on
the streets?”

I was too busy thinking about Ian to do so but I’m not about
to admit that.“I’ve been here such a short time, I don’t really know what is
usual.”

“Then take my word for it. There are rumors…” He stops, as
though suddenly remembering himself. “It’s the Russian in me. We are bred to
suspicion. All the same, in this place caution is always called for.”

One of the municipal drones that are constantly on patrol
passes overhead, at a level with the upper floors of nearby buildings. It
hovers for a moment and moves on. I watch it go as a cloud drifts across the
sun, chilling me.

“What kind of rumors?” I can’t help wondering if they have
anything to do with Ian. The power he commands and his refusal to use it in
blind support of the elite has made him enemies among those who hold high
office in the city and beyond. But in the final analysis they aren’t much more
than puppets. The real danger lies with those behind the scenes, pulling the
strings.

“Most are the usual fear mongering,” Sergei says. “But there
are others--” He cocks his head toward the floor and what lies beneath. “Claims
of unrest below,” he murmurs, “ alarming our illustrious citizenry and
prompting calls for a crackdown.”

I tense at the thought. Life is hard enough for the
scavengers without subjecting them to even greater deprivation. Too vividly I
recall seeing a young man beaten for no greater offense than having the
misfortune to be caught above on the street.

“Surely it won’t go that far,” I say even as I know that I
may very well be wrong.

Sergei shrugs. “Just be careful, all right? Stay alert.
Don’t let your mind wander.”

“Yes, maître,” I say with a smile, employing his title with
only a hint of teasing. I have enormous respect for Sergei even if we don’t see
eye-to-eye on the nature of human relationships.

He’s still standing at the door watching me as I go down the
steps and outside. While I’ve been inside, the wind has picked up but the day
remains invitingly bright. I decide to walk back through the park. On the way
to it, I can’t help noticing that Sergei was right, there are more police
around. Never mind that they’re referred to as the “protection services” and
wear blue uniforms rather than black or camo. Their faces are concealed behind
helmeted visors and they grasp deadly weapons positioned across their chests,
always at the ready.

I’m relieved to step inside the park, an oasis in the center
of the city that is the exclusive preserve of residents. Only a handful of workers--nannies,
landscapers, and the like--are permitted here. The almost eight hundred acres
encompass lawns, ponds, riding paths, and playing fields including the polo
club where Ian and I had a passionate encounter that I recall all too vividly.

Despite my assurances to Sergei, I can’t help thinking about
Ian. He’s foremost in my thoughts as I cross the stone Bow Bridge that arches
over a picturesque pond. To the south, the magnificent skyline of the city
rises but I see only the silver and black spear that is Pinnacle House, the
headquarters of Ian’s defense tech company. Is he there now? Does he think of
me?

Suddenly feeling shaky, I stop for a moment and lean against
the sun-warmed stone of the bridge. A turtle slides off a nearby rock into the
water. Ducks glide by. In the distance, children are laughing.

The sound pierces me, evoking thoughts of the childhood I
never had even as I am swept by longing I cannot bear to acknowledge, involving
as it does a future with a man I long to love with all my heart and the
children we cherish together.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. When I open them again,
the world glistens behind a sheen of tears.

How absurd! I have far better things to think about. The
Crystal Ball, what I’ll be wearing, all the fascinating people I’ll be meeting
with their inane chatter and calculated smiles. The men I will dance with
because it’s expected and fend off because I have no interest in any of them.
The relief I will feel when I can finally leave and crawl back into my empty bed.

My gaze turns once again in the direction of Pinnacle House.
I’m entertaining the thought that I am doomed to long for Ian forever when a
flutter of movement nearby catches my eye. A metal grate concealed by bushes
rises with a soft creak, followed quickly by two small heads. Children. Dirty,
ragged, and definitely not laughing.

As I stand, frozen in place, they scamper out, run to a
nearby trash bin, and begin searching through it. They move quickly, pulling
out a half-empty bag of popcorn, a partially eaten hotdog, and, to their
apparent glee, a box that rattles with a few stray candies. One of them is a
boy of perhaps seven and the other a girl several years younger. They look
enough alike to be brother and sister, although it’s hard to be sure given the
layers of grime.

While still searching the trash, they begin stuffing food
into their mouths, swallowing without hardly pausing to chew. They’re gulping
it down as though they know it can disappear at any moment.

I’m wondering what I can do, how I can help them when they
suddenly become aware of my presence.

At once, the boy steps in front of the little girl. Clearly
intent on protecting her, he glares at me and raises his small fists.

I stare at the children. They are so thin! And so
frightened. Under the grime, their skin is pale, as though too rarely exposed
to the sun. Yet despite all that, they are defiant, not yet ground down by
their cruel circumstances. The thought that they see me as any kind of threat
is horrifying.

I do the only thing I can think of and press a finger to my
lips in what I hope they will recognize as both a warning and a promise to keep
silent.

For a long moment, the children gaze at me in wary
disbelief. Only when I remain unmoving, not calling for help or sounding an
alarm, do they finally act. Grasping the little girl’s arm, the little boy runs
for the safety of the tunnel they emerged from. As they disappear back into the
darkness, the metal grate clangs shut behind them. No sign remains of their
presence except the abandoned bounty from the trash bin.

My legs are shaking. I have to lean against the side of the
bridge. Waves of shock and disgust surge through me. I’ve been in the city for
a month. I’ve seen enough to know what is going on. But nothing, not even the
beating that I witnessed, has hit me like this. Children! There are children
down there, which means there are probably also babies. I cannot bear to think
of that but I can’t turn away from it either.

I know what it’s like to be trapped and helpless. To be
subjected to cruelty made all the worse for being coldly impersonal. To be
denied even the most basic humanity. But in my case at least I was assumed to
have some value, even if it was only to be gutted and harvested so that another
could live.

Odd how things worked out. The woman I was supposed to save
is dead and I am here, Susannah’s version of the ultimate make-over, struggling
to adapt to this strange new world.

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.

Bile rises in the back of my throat at the memory and the
others like it that I’m not supposed to have yet cannot escape. I wrench my
inner gaze from the nightmare that still lives in me and stare at the remnants
of discarded food that the children abandoned. In this perfect world where
nothing matters more than appearance that evidence of their presence is likely
to attract attention. Rather than risk anyone discovering the grate and sealing
it--or worse tossing a grenade down it--I pick the trash up and put it back in
the bin before I move on.

Ian

T
here’s blood on my
hands. I thought I’d been more careful than that but hell, it’s not as though
it’s the first time. It wouldn’t have happened if the idiot head of the Human
Preservation Front hadn’t surfaced from his drug-enhanced stay in a sensory
deprivation tank, mistaken me for some monster from his twisted id, and made a
move on me. Last one he’ll be managing for awhile.

Apparently, you don’t need much in the way of brains to run
a terrorist organization responsible for killing well over a hundred people and
blowing up billions of dollars worth of scientific research. All in the name of
preserving humanity, of course.

Asshole’s lucky I didn’t wring his neck, I’m in that foul a
mood although I shouldn’t be. Everything’s gone well. Hunt down the HPF crazies
who declared an all-out war on replicas. Check. Stress them with a combination
of drugs and deprivation until they tell me everything I want to know. Check.
Clean up whatever’s left. Check.

Staying busy and productive has kept me from thinking about
Amelia as much as I would otherwise. As it is, she doesn’t go through my mind
more than a thousand or so times a day. Each and every memory of her is a punch
to my gut. In the ten days since we were last together, the pain of missing her
has become as constant as breathing. Weirdly, I’m glad of it. In a strange way,
it makes me feel as though we are still connected. Pathetic, I know, but it’s
all I’ve got.

I come out of the bathroom still drying my hands to find
Edward stretched out on the couch in my private office on the penthouse floor
of Pinnacle House. He’s my age, twenty-eight, and has the same aquamarine eyes
and chestnut hair as Amelia. Otherwise there isn’t much resemblance between
them. Not surprising since she’s exquisitely beautiful and he’s just a guy.

The real surprise is how little Amelia resembles Edward’s
older sister and my former lover, Susannah McClellan, the woman for whom she
was supposed to be nothing more than a source of replacement parts. The moral
and ethical issues of human cloning are tough enough but the replica technology
that allows the digitized pattern of one individual’s brain to be imprinted on
another has introduced a whole new level of controversy. So far we’re not
handling it well.

Except for Susannah who made a selfless decision in her last
days before the disease that had overshadowed her life finally took her. Not
only did she choose to forego any further chance to extend that life, she
sought out the most cutting-edge replica technology so that she could give
Amelia only knowledge and abilities rather than her entire neural imprint. By
doing so, she made her unique among replicas--free to be her own self, form her
own memories, and live her own life.

The truth is that I can’t imagine what it’s been like for
Amelia, awakening into the world as she did. I’d say that she suffers from
amnesia except a person has to be allowed to live before she can have anything
to forget. However much she knows, and that appears to be a great deal, she has
no context of memory or experience. Everything--every sight, sound, taste,
every touch is entirely new to her.

If I were any kind of decent guy, I would have backed the
hell off and given her time to find her own way. Instead--

I close my eyes for a moment against the image of Amelia
that first night on the balcony in the rain and later under me in the golden
bed. In the aftermath, I couldn’t evade the sickening possibility that I had
taken advantage of a vulnerable young woman who had no ability to deny me. To
my infinite relief, the truth turned out to be otherwise. Amelia possesses free
will in abundance. She is in every sense her own person, able to make her own
choices. I’m the one who can’t resist her. Or at least I couldn’t until I
realized what a danger I am to her. Now I’ll deny myself what I want more than
anything else in this world before I’ll compromise her safety for an instant.

Yet despite all that, she still has no existence in the eyes
of the law except as property.

My property, to be precise, according to the terms of
Susannah’s will. That’s something I try very hard not to think about.

My cock stirs at the reminder. He and I used to get along
great but these days we’re definitely on the outs.

“There’s some useful stuff here,” Edward says, indicating
the intel we’ve squeezed from the HPF fuckers. “Enough to get me started at
least.”

Amelia’s brother may look like he was born for the boardroom
and the polo field but he’s shown yet again in the last few days that he
doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. At least not where protecting his sister
is involved.

I toss the towel aside, glad that he has no idea what’s
going through my head--and other parts. “Good. I want to know who the money is.
Find him or her and I’ll be able to finish this once and for all.”

That’s my real goal. As much as I have sympathy for people
who feel threatened by the sweeping changes that technology is bringing to all
our lives, I have zero tolerance for the fanatics who want to kill anyone they
decide isn’t sufficiently human. Until the source of the money that made the
HPF’s activities possible is found and crushed, the whole sorry mess could
start up again. Amelia would never be safe.

Not for the first time, I wonder how Susannah’s parents
managed to love one child enough to take such desperate measures to save her
while being willing to deny her clone--essentially her identical twin only
younger and even more vulnerable--the most basic human rights. Maybe I’ll just
never understand how we decide who’s one of ‘us’, worthy of being valued and
respected, and who isn’t.

Edward levers himself off the couch and stretches. His hair
is a mess, he needs to shave, and there are shadows under his eyes. I don’t
look any better. We’ve been at it hard for a week, ever since my team and I
brought the HPF leaders back to Pinnacle House. I’m not going to dwell on what
was involved in capturing them except that all my people came home safe.

 “You going tonight?” Edward asks.

“Going where?”

“The Crystal Ball. It’s tonight.”

I’d forgotten about that, not surprising given that I’d have
a hard time choosing between an ocular probe straight through the eye into the
cerebral cortex and an evening spent in the company of the city’s ‘elite’.

“I’ve got a headache,” I say, smirking.

 “Lucky bastard. So are your mother and sister going?”

The question sounds casual but the mere fact that he’s
asking gets my attention. Marianne--my twenty-two-year-old, beautiful, and very
sheltered sister--seems to have a thing for Edward. So far I haven’t seen any
sign that he returns her interest but I’ve been distracted.

Eyeing him, I say, “Yeah, they’re going. What about you?”

He nods. “I’m escorting Amelia and our grandmother.”

On the one hand, I’m relieved to hear that. Adele is a
feisty grand dame who I happen to really like. But it’s good that Edward isn’t
letting Amelia go into the shark tank without him. On the other hand, now that
I know where she will be this evening, I have to fight the temptation to drop
by just to catch a glimpse of her. Our paths are bound to cross again in public
at some point. What’s the harm if I just make that happen sooner rather than
later?

There wouldn’t be any if I could trust myself where she’s
concerned. The problem is that I can’t. I want her too damn much. She’s a fire
in my blood that refuses to be extinguished.

“My father’s son.” The words I hurtled at her the last time
we were together haunt me, not in the least because they are true. Marcus Slade
was a monster who got his kicks hurting women in the very exclusive BDSM club
that he founded and to which he lured select members of the city’s elite. He
initiated me into his practices when I was fifteen. A year later, I broke free
but the damage was done.

I’ve spent every day of my life since then fighting his
legacy only to have Amelia come along and shatter all my hard-won control.
Through absolutely no fault of her own, she’s awakened the demons inside me.
I’ll tear out what passes for my heart before I let them hurt her.

“You okay?” Edward asks. He looks concerned. We’ve known
each other since we met at school more than a dozen years ago. He’s gone on to
become a pillar of the community, head of his family’s financial empire. While
I’m…hell, if I know.

“I’m good,” I say.

He nods but he doesn’t look convinced. Indicating the intel,
he says, “Let’s go over this again.”

We do, looking into every nook and cranny that might provide
a lead. I’m impressed by Edward’s breadth and depth of knowledge. He’s a
totally honorable guy who I’d trust with my life--and maybe even with my
sister--but he still understands the shadow world of money manipulation better
than almost anyone. I’m as above board as I can be given my line of work but I
sure as hell wouldn’t want him coming after me.

“So you think the source of HPF’s funds has been
deliberately hidden?” I ask when we’re done.

“No question,” Edward replies. His confidence is unshakable.
“Only thing I’m not sure of is how many layers I’ll have to dig through to get
to it. But don’t worry, we will find out who’s behind this.”

“Good to know. I’ll have a team on standby.”

He glances at me but he doesn’t say anything. We both know
that when he comes up with irrefutable proof of who was funding the HPF, he’ll
be signing that man or woman’s death warrant. In a world where wealth can
corrupt any court, the only justice is personal.

Edward leaves a short time later. When he’s gone, I wander
out onto the terrace that wraps around the entire floor. The building is tall
enough that on many days I’d be looking down on a cloud bank but today the
weather is clear.

I stand, hands driven into the pockets of my jeans, and
stare out over the wide swath of the park that splits the upper east and west
sides of Manhattan. I’m so high up that the people down below are no more than
tiny specks but I can make out the curve of the pond tucked into the southeast
corner of the park. Not far from it are some of the city’s most exclusive
residences including the McClellans’. I wonder if Amelia is there now, getting
ready for the ball.

I could find out. All it would take is a quick call to the
security that I’ve had on her ever since she arrived in the city. Although the
HPF effectively no longer exists, I’m not about to ease up on her protection.
Not until I know who was behind the threat in the first place. And why.

I’m still contemplating the question of who was really
responsible for the recent destruction of the Institute where the customized
replica technology that made Amelia possible was developed when the link in my
pocket chimes. I step through the nearest door before answering, into the art
gallery that divides my apartment from the reception and meeting rooms on the
other half of the penthouse floor.

I’m standing in front of a holographic image of men on
patrol in a narrow street, taking fire from adjacent buildings yet continuing
to advance. This side of the gallery is devoted to images of war. The real
thing, no chest-beating triumphalism, just the horror of it coupled with the
courage and decency to uphold values that, however fragile they may be, are
still the best hope for humanity.

I worry about that more these days, wondering where my own
country is going and whether I’ll find myself fighting on home ground
eventually. I’ll move heaven and earth to prevent that. This thing with the HPF
could give me an edge but I’m a long way from figuring out what that might be.

My gaze drifts down the length of the gallery to the side
that could be said to represent the nature of eroticism that can be as powerful
and dangerous in their own way as war itself. The statues of the bound
ballerina that were on display as a favor to a friend are gone. I couldn’t bear
to have them around after my last encounter with Amelia.

I can still see her pleading with me to believe that I could
only hurt her by letting her go. She went on thinking that up to the moment
when I coldly and deliberately fucked her all but senseless even as I revealed
the truth about how much she really had to fear from me.

In the end, crouched on the floor staring at me with those
huge eyes that are windows into her soul, she accepted that we really don’t
belong together.

I haven’t been back in the gallery since. If I’d been
thinking straight, I wouldn’t be there now. The way I’m feeling, it’ll be a
cold day in hell before I set foot in it again.

The link chimes once more.

Answering it, I snap, “What?”

“Thought you might be grabbing a little shut-eye,” Brad
Hollis says, arching a brow at my curt response. He was my commander in the
Special Forces, recruiting me shortly after I enlisted in the military in
defiance of my father’s plans for me. Hollis saved my sanity and quite possibly
my life. I owe him more than I’ll ever be able to repay.