by Emily Shore
“If you ever attack my brother again, rest assured you’ll regret it.”
As soon as she says the word “brother,” I ridicule myself for not connecting them in the first place. They’re so similar—from the elongated-seed shape of their eyes to the black silk of their hair. There’s a hyper-intenseness to her eyes and her tone. More than just protectiveness. When she blinks once, just the faintest betrayal, I know what lies beyond that intenseness—loss.
Wylder tugs up on his pants before squatting to trace a finger across my cheek. “I look forward to getting to know you more, Swan.”
Haven begins to relent, her focus shifting to her brother. “Tread carefully, Wylder. This one is different,” she adds, permitting me to rise.
His lips curve upward, changing his expression to one of sultry elegance. “Mmm…” he drawls, appreciating the notion. “Special treatment.”
“Yes.” I raise my left hand to wag the finger exhibiting my wedding ring. “He treats me special every night,” I quip with the marital reminder.
I wish I could say Wylder shrugged off my comment, let it roll off him like it was no big deal. Instead, his posture tightens, eyes straining, jaw muscle twinging. His beauty has turned savage.
“That’s enough flexing for one day.” Haven firmly ends the discussion, returning to her desk. “Over the next five days, you will rehearse with your husband to prepare for this weekend’s grand opening. And Wylder will book a few media spots for interviews.” She nods to her brother. “Wylder, go be useful and make the arrangements.”
He obeys without question. Her eyes follow him to the door, lingering in the space left by his departure. Undoubtedly, she is older than him. Her motherly relationship isn’t lost on me.
Turning back to Haven, I make my way to the desk and point out, “You’re forgetting one thing.”
“Oh?”
“The Syndicate. What guarantee do you have they won’t try to abduct or kill me once the world becomes aware of my resurrection?”
“I expect them to contact you.” Haven leans back in her seat, tapping her fingers together. “I even count on it. But they would be foolish to send anyone other than an emissary for more reasons than one.”
“Would you mind sharing the main reason?” I slide into the seat opposite of her.
She sighs, hands parting. “Not only have I done a considerable amount of work for them, but I also have old Syndicate blood in me. And by now, I’ve built up a reputation.”
Haven rises, then wanders toward the jellyfish tank wall to her left. “Did you know jellyfish are one of the ocean’s top predators?” She studies the angelic beauties. “Sharks and whales are the most imposing, but even they can be killed by a jellyfish sting. Even the predators at the top of the food chain won’t pick a fight with the jellies.”
Returning to her seat, Haven explains, “The same is no less true of me. I may seem delicate, but my skillset and reputation are my tentacles. As a woman in an elite world dominated by men, I must allow Wylder to retain the spotlight so I may preserve my authority as director.” She purses her lips as if considering her model brother. “Anonymity grants me a sense of mystery and privacy. At all costs, I must—and I will—preserve my reputation. Otherwise, this empire will come crashing down. Your partnership will aid in establishing my reputation.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“You being glad makes no difference to me,” she retorts. Again, she doesn’t disguise her honesty or bother to bait me with honeyed words unlike my previous director encounters. “All that matters to me is whether you respect my tentacles and perform according to our designated contract.”
“How long?” I ask.
Haven smiles. “The negotiation phase, yes. Most Museum contracts are five years. With your Immortal implant, it’s not such a lengthy stretch of time.” She raises a finger, preventing me from outright refusing since such a notion would mean a fair portion of the twins’ childhood would be in Museum. “However, under the circumstances, I am willing to compromise on two years.”
“You’ll release Lindy and Neil?” I ask.
“If it is their wish. Lindy has since requested to remain here. And due to those extenuating circumstances, I have offered them a vacation home with all the amenities at a complimentary rate.” She swipes a few times on her sprite-light screen, expanding a view of one of the Commons resorts I witnessed from the elevator windows. “They may transfer to the Resort Marina at any time. And yes, you may enlist Ms. Bodelo’s preparer skills, but only if she abides by the pre-programmed costumes.”
Following the view, Haven opens a file containing the contract document, which I pour over, reviewing the conditions. Three shows a day. One private interaction a night—accompanied by Skylar Storm only.
“What’s this line here?” I gesture to the sentence. “Must agree to pop-up exhibits heretofore stipulated by the director.”
“Your lower level shows are for an adult audience,” Haven elaborates, sweeping her hand across the screen to bring up a detailed sprite light of the Aquarium’s main tower while enhancing the Commons levels. “You’ll notice designated exhibits on various main levels.” She points to one just beyond a cluster of shops. “These are considered pop-up exhibits. They will feature a different attraction each month. Mermaids. Water nymphs. Twice a year, I plan for you to be a pop-up exhibit. It will always be a water feature, but it will exist outside the realm of the show with your husband. One example, if you’ll notice…I arranged for an old friend of yours to be transferred here.”
As soon as the familiar gray figure glides through the water of the pop-up tank, I can’t help but smile. “Sharky,” I murmur. It’s my old pet. I cock my head at Haven. “Just twice a year?”
“Yes. And if you notice byline, you and your family will have access to all Aquarium amenities. During your stay here, your twins will have the time of their lives.”
“And just three shows per day on the weekends?”
“Yes, but you will likely be kept busy every night on the weekends. This is a vacation destination. Your interactions are costly, but clients will pay the price. But only one on those nights, which is very generous,” she reminds me.
“How will that work if multiple clients have requested them?” I dig deeper for the fine print.
“They will be recorded and televised to the paying client’s room of choice.”
Now I understand.
My father did the same thing with my Yang interaction in the Temple. Except back then, I wasn’t the one on display. And sex wasn’t involved.
“And what about the details?” I press. “The devil’s always inside them. Has been for a long time. Sky and I don’t work like that.” No couple should, but graphickers spread the falsehood generations ago. The younger ones believed the lie. A hundred years ago, it highlighted culture. Now, it defines it.
Haven folds her hands on the table. “You won’t be able to satisfy all fantasies, so why would I make you try? Certainly, I will be creative in regard to your interaction environments and give you sprite-light tutorials as instructions, but I don’t imagine clients will mind a departure from the norm. Just the chance to witness the Swan in action. Actually, it will be the mer-king and his sea star. Do you have more questions or are you ready to sign the contract? Your husband has already signed.”
“And our twins?” I ask.
Haven reveals a set of profiles. Nurses and nannies. “I will allow you to screen each one prior. They will only monitor and interact with the children during your performances.”
Picking up the digital pen on the table instead of using my finger, I sweep my silver signature below my printed name, vowing this will be my last Museum ever.
After we’ve finished the contract business, I flip on my wrist cuff, which Haven has allowed me to keep, unlike Sky. Since it only responds to my DNA, he can’t use it for hacking purposes. Good. He’s still sleeping. Once in the elevator, I press the number for the Commons level two. By no
w, Neil and Lindy should have transferred to the Resort Marina. I need to see them. I need to see her.
The resort lobby is impressive with tropical plant life, exotic flowers, and moving mermaid statues that interact with patrons upon motion to give instructions for booking rooms or amenities information. Awestruck when I discover the moving-wave display in the center of the room, I’m almost tempted to pause to watch it frolic, expand, contract, and crash together. Sprite-light ads showing various models enjoying everything from a stroll on the manmade beach with the solar backdrop to couples’ massages to the Oceana restaurant with a 360 panorama of the ocean.
Once I reach the front desk, I request Neil’s room and the concierge rings him.
She smiles, eyes sparkling in more ways than one since her digitized irises mirror the ocean with waves crashing onto a foamy shore.
“Mr. Bodelo informed me to tell you “It’s about time”.”
She gives me the room number, and I don’t waste any time. In the elevator, I roll my eyes because sprite lights even equip the walls with a various ads, including the grand opening to my show—eighteen and over only.
As soon as Neil opens the door, it’s obvious he’s hammered—or close to it. Thanks to his lack of a shirt, it’s obvious he hasn’t taken advantage of the CellGen yet.
“There she is,” he welcomes me, tugging me inside by my arm. “Our little rising mermaid star. Can’t wait to see your show, sis.”
I search for Lindy. Out here, it’s just the kitchen and sitting room with accompanied balcony. Only when the door to the bedroom opens does Lindy appear, hand stationed on the slight swell of her belly.
“Serenity…” She blows out a relieved breath. “Thank goodness. He’s driving me crazy. Do something!”
I take one step toward Neil, who automatically jerks back, no doubt intimidated by my icy stare.
Defensively, he holds up his hands. “I’m drinking for two.”
“He’s in pain,” Lindy says in exasperation, brows furrowing to create shadows that almost swallow her eyes. “One of his wounds got infected, but he won’t leave me alone.”
“Neil, get your ass down to the Commons clinic now,” I order, directing him to the door.
“Just my ass?” he tries to quip, but it’s not going to take. And I make it clear. “Hey,” he shouts from outside the door. “She kicked me.”
“Get to the clinic, dummy.” I slam the door in his face, roll my eyes, and then make my way to Lindy.
“Thank you,” she breathes right before I pull her in for a hug.
“How are you?” I ask, checking her over for any signs similar to Neil, but Lindy squeezes my hands.
“I’m fine. They kept me in some sort of sleep chamber. When I woke up, Neil was gone, but they said you’d both arrive soon. What’s going on?”
After directing Lindy to sit on the nearby couch, I design and 3-D print some cupcakes, get us tea, and fill Lindy in on all the details. She mostly rubs her hands up and down her legs, but I enjoy the cupcakes for her, shedding sprinkles all over the couch. Sprinkles are a great coping mechanism.
Lindy lowers her head, raising her hand to pass on a cupcake when I offer. “Baby doesn’t like cupcakes.”
“I’ll just have to reform him or her later on,” I joke and lean back on the couch, flipping on the sprite-light screen on the opposite wall to scan the stations.
“Why are you so calm?”
“I’m not. Don’t you know? I’m in denial.”
Devouring another cupcake, I pinch my eyes shut and cringe, wishing there were still safe filters. After much searching, I finally give up and just put on a virtual background of the ocean.
“No, there’s something else about you. You’re about to become a new exhibit, yet you’re not throwing a fit or shrinking into yourself. Sure, you’re trying to get a sugar high, but you’re different.”
“I have to be.”
My family is here. Just like when Bliss was pregnant with the twins—I had to keep them from my father and become Yang in the Temple. I’ll become who I need to be in the Aquarium for my family, too. Even if it’s a different version of Serenity.
“Boy or girl?” I ask, changing the subject.
“I don’t want to know.”
Shaking my head, I state, “Party pooper. Are you going to stay here?”
“In the Aquarium?” She looks down, framing her hands over the slight swell in her belly. “It makes sense to. At least we’re more protected. We could go to the Temple, but once you’re announced to the world…”
She’s right. It would make them vulnerable. And I have to wonder if it will be this way for our whole lives. If the world will always use my family against me. If someone will always be vulnerable because of me. Not even the Sanctuary was safe for us. Only a home for two small years. Maybe if we could escape to some primitive, remote region, but I’d bet the Syndicate could find us there, too.
Will we ever be free?
8
R e S u r r E c t I o n
* * *
Interviews aren’t something I’m used to.
Haven wanted to keep my makeup and costuming simple for this one—save the ostentatious ones for the shows and pop-up exhibits. Simple blue highlights for my hair. Soft pastel makeup hue. Some shimmer dust for my skin. It makes me look even younger. As if I needed any more help with that.
However, the studio BODY device attaches a pair of swan wings to my back via Insta-latex. And the silver-and-lace accents infuse the white gown, reminding me of something I would have worn in the Aviary, especially with its voluminous train.
Once the studio BODY device finishes, I lower myself into the plush chair in the center of the studio just next to the one intended for Wylder. The studio itself is lackluster. Only the two chairs. The walls are black, but I imagine the creators have something different planned.
Wylder enters from the opposite door. His outfit is sharp yet artistic. Red leather jacket. A coral-designed shirt with digitized accents that animate to motion so the coral swings from side to side or fans in and out. Snug black pants that make his legs seem longer.
“Ready for your resurrection?” His hand covers the back of mine when I rest it on the armchair, but I retract it.
“I wasn’t aware I was dead.” I curl my fingers, squeezing them together. His hand was cold and clammy, eel-like. Electric shock and everything.
“It’s gonna take the world by storm. Might as well be.” Smiling, he taps the armrest, flicking his ponytail over one shoulder.
“Just keep your hands to yourself.”
He chuckles, then taps a finger to his ear. “One-minute countdown. Remember the guidelines?”
I nod.
The studio transforms. Our chairs move, floating up by some force whether centrifugal or magnetism as theme music plays in the background. The studio turns into a planetarium of sorts. What I thought were walls were really dormant sprite-light screens. They project an audience below us, the host to my left, so it feels like we are sitting inside the nation’s top talk show: The Vision.
Except they can’t see me yet, though Wylder and I can witness everything else that occurs. The audience standing, roaring to life for the host. Jewell Vision glides in on a moving walkway shrouded in fog. Her skin is luminous like heated caramel with her black hair spiced red at the ends swaying to her generous hips.
“Thank you!” She presses her fingers to her mouth to shoot invisible kisses to her audience before raising her finger. Judging by how quiet the audience gets, I’m guessing this is a routine when she grins, cheeks plumping up so her dark eyes sparkle like obsidian, and pronounces, “I’ve got my eye on you.” She taps the side of her head twice and the audiences laughs, eating up the inside joke.
The volumetric technology is so advanced I can’t read any pixilation as Jewell walks whatsoever. It’s easy to believe I could reach out and touch her.
The Vision is a new show, but it has soared overnight to its top network spot sinc
e Jewell made her name as a journalist going undercover into the Glass Districts to expose the heinous practices there, which prompted legislation for better treatment. Whether girls get it or not is still a mystery since there were already parameters in place that managers, security, and sex buyers three-fold would ignore. That was her foundation, but she took her journalism into Museums all over the world and reported the cold, hard truth. For that alone, I can respect her. Now that she’s older, she’s making a name for herself as a show host, interviewing popular Museum girls.
Jewell makes her way back and forth across the stage for her announcement. “So…” Jewell fans her arms out, gathering everyone’s attention. “We have a special, high-profile guest who will appear on the show today. Some of you may have seen the most recent ad from the up and coming Museum, the Aquarium.”
The audience practically leaps to their feet, erupting into applause that thunders the room with random shrieks and whistles. In the background, the ads circulate with my image in the background.
“She took the world by storm, didn’t she?”
Jewell incites the crowd even more. There are even children clapping in the audience. It all makes me conflicted. On the one hand, I was never truly pimped out. Exploited, yes. Displayed, yes. Even my wedding was one giant exhibit at my father’s whim. But they became part of it. Just as anyone becomes part of sprite-light films, shows, digital books, and more. Classic reality shows were no different. Entertainment. Spectacle.
Jewell fans her hands out, slender fingers tipped with gold-plated nails. “Today, we will be the first ones to get to see the unveiling of the girl who became the Swan, the Skeleton Flower, the Undine, and countless other personas during her time as the Face of the Temple, including her most renown—Yang. She thrilled the world with her spontaneity, her childlike intensity, and her savage innocence.”
