Anew: Awakened Part 4

"That's fine. When she's done, tell her I want to see her."

"Or I could ask the lady if she would be so kind as to join you in the library."

"Put it however you want," I growl. My temper isn't improved by the antic.i.p.ation of what I'm about to do. "Just get her in here."

Alone again, I wait. How long does it take to shower and throw on a few clothes? Awhile apparently. I have time to remember waking beside her in the middle of the night, feeling the sweet curve of her a.s.s against my hardening c.o.c.k, sliding my hand between her thighs-- I wasn't quite enough of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d to ignore how new she was to all this but even so it took every ounce of control I still possessed to get out of that golden bed and walk away. As much as I l.u.s.ted for her, I needed time to regroup.

Not that it seems to have made much difference. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what to say to her when Hodgkin returns. This time he has company.

Eyeing me gravely, he announces, "Miss Amelia, sir."

I stand and come around the other side of the desk, scanning her from head to toe. Whatever she's wearing barely registers with me. But I don't miss that she looks at once beautiful and wary, her hair tousled, face a little pale, those stunning blue eyes wide and watchful. Her lips are moist and slightly parted. Her breathing seems a bit ragged.

Smiling, I say, "Thank you, Hodgkin. That will be all."

He sighs but takes the hint and departs, closing the library door behind him. Deliberately, I move toward her. She starts to take a step back but catches herself and stands her ground. I'm surprised to discover how much I like that.

Even so, her wariness concerns me. When I'm close enough to smell the scent of her skin, I ask softly, "Are you all right?"

Her face flames. She glances away, takes a deep breath, and drags her gaze back to mine.

"Yes, I am. I'm just impatient to hear what you're finally going to tell me."

And that, it seems, is all she's going to say about last night. I should be relieved. Women who insist on a post-game play-by-play bore me. Still, I'm a little put out by how readily she dismisses what for me at least was an unforgettable experience.

"As you wish."

I indicate a chair on the opposite side of the desk. If we're going to get through this smoothly and efficiently, I need to keep some distance from her.

"Have a seat. Would you like coffee?" Hodgkin has thoughtfully provided two cups.

Amelia shakes her head. She sits, her hands gripped in her lap. The knuckles are white. It occurs to me that the kindest thing I can do is get this over with. I sit down behind the desk, lean back, press the tips of my fingers together and study her.

"Stop me at any point if you have questions, all right?"

She gives an almost imperceptible nod. I take a breath and begin.

"Last year, a woman I cared for a great deal died. Her name was Susannah McClellan."

Amelia shoots me a surprised look. I can't blame her. The last thing she could have expected was for me to tell her about a woman I'd been with in the past.

There was more I could have said--that Susannah had come into my life like a cool draft of water falling on parched ground. That despite the fact that neither of us could be entirely what the other needed, we were still good for each other.

In the year since her death, I've gone from helpless rage at my inability to save her to gradual appreciation of the time we had together. Or at least that was how I felt until a week ago.

"Bear with me," I say. "You won't understand what I have to tell you without knowing about Susannah."

I take a breath and run over again in my mind how to explain what I'm still struggling to grasp myself. The best that I can do is lay it out for her and hope that she'll be able to understand.

"When she was eleven years old," I begin, "Susannah was diagnosed with a hereditary illness, the result of a rare genetic mutation. Her parents, who were very wealthy, were determined to do everything possible to save her. Stem cell therapy worked up to a point but it couldn't cure her. To a.s.sure that a compatible source of organs, bone marrow, and anything else she might need to survive would always be available, her parents arranged for the creation of a genetically healthy clone."

I watch Amelia carefully, gauging her reaction. She frowns and says, "Human cloning is illegal."

"Not everywhere and even where it's been outlawed, it's still happening. For those wealthy enough to afford it, the authorities have always been willing to look the other way."

She shows no surprise that this is the nature of the world we live in. Hopefully, that means she'll be better able to accept the reality of her own situation.

I continue, anxious to get this over with and move on. "Although Susannah's illness went into remission, her parents decided to keep the clone alive in case it was ever needed. It remained their property until Susannah turned twenty-one, after which ownership was transferred to her. When the illness struck again a little more than a year ago, her doctors wanted to harvest the clone in a last ditch effort to save her. Instead, she decided on a different course. The technology that she chose to make use of has only recently become available but it's the result of developments that began decades ago."

I don't question Susannah's right to do what she did. But whatever her motives, she left me to deal with the consequences.

"Beginning in 2013," I continue, "the governments of the United States and the European Union sponsored a project to map the human brain, much as the human genome had been mapped a few decades before. The goal was to learn exactly how our brains work--how they manage our bodies, shape our emotions, acc.u.mulate knowledge and memories, develop consciousness and personality, basically to understand everything they do. Technology was developed to make a precise digital copy of an individual's brain for purposes of study and a.n.a.lysis."

I can't help reflecting that as a goal, the Human Brain Project was rock solid. Thanks to it, mental disorders that had reached epidemic proportions in modern society--depression, bipolarism, addiction, and the like--became imminently treatable. Uncountable human suffering has been eliminated or completely prevented.

But if a little of something is good, a lot of it is bound to be better, right? Being human, we just don't know when to stop.

"As with every other technology we develop," I continue, "brain mapping had unintended consequences, especially once someone got the bright idea of applying it to clones. It didn't take long to discover that the entire neural map of an individual can be imprinted onto a suitably receptive brain, one that because of the circ.u.mstances in which it has developed is essentially a blank slate. The process creates a new biological version of the original person called a 'replica'."

I could add that replica technology--the creation of not just a physical copy of an individual but one that contains everything that makes us uniquely ourselves--is raising fundamental questions about what it means to be human. But I don't want to overload her any more than I have already.

Amelia has gone very pale. As my words and their meaning sink in, her pupils begin to dilate. Even without touching her, I'm sure that her skin is chilled. She has all the symptoms of someone struggling with profound shock.

We all go through stages when we have to deal with something that's too traumatic to accept head on, beginning with denial. Given that my priority is to get her to the last stage, acceptance, as quickly as possible, I press on relentlessly.

"Replica technology is highly controversial. We haven't even begun to come to terms with its implications. But Susannah didn't let that discourage her. Before she died, she arranged for her clone to receive her neural imprint. It took awhile to accomplish everything that had to be done but a week ago, I got a call. That's when I learned of your existence."

She stares at me across the span of the desk. Her eyes are wide and luminous. I can't even begin to guess what's going on behind them. More to the point, she's utterly still. I don't think she's even breathing.

Softly, I say, "The inst.i.tute 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 pa.s.s 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 Inst.i.tute 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 pa.s.sion 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 cla.s.sified as property. As part of Susannah's posthumous instructions, t.i.tle to you was transferred to me."

"t.i.tle?"

"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 rea.s.sure 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 antic.i.p.ated and still don't know what to do about--I understand that she needs time to adjust to her circ.u.mstances. 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 ident.i.ty.

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 circ.u.mstances.

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 att.i.tude 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 h.e.l.l 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.

Chapter Seven.

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 ch.o.r.eography 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 pa.s.ses, 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.