Anew: Book One: Awakened
Page 6
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 something. 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.
I’ve been thirsty for hours but just then I realize how dry my throat really can be. He frightens me but at the same time I’m swept by the memory of how he felt pressing me against the column on the balcony as the rain washed over us both. In the bed when he slid up my length to thrust my own taste into my mouth. And above all, how he felt inside me, stretching and filling me. How my body clenched all around him and how I soared, shattering into a thousand fragments before returning safely in his arms.
My face flames. If he looks in my direction, I am certain that he will know at once what I am thinking. I needn’t worry. He ignores me completely and speaks to the leader.
I can’t hear what is said but abruptly the armed men disperse, withdrawing back toward the tree line. Apparently, they are his men, at his command.
My relief is short-lived. I have just enough time to get myself under some semblance of control before he walks toward me. I brace myself for whatever he may say or do.
His gaze rakes over me as he asks, “Are you injured?”
I shake my head but that doesn’t seem to satisfy him. My throat is so dry that the effort to speak is painful. All I can manage is a faint, “No.”
He jerks his head toward the vehicle. “Get in.”
My mouth tightens but I won’t waste what little energy I have left arguing. As I settle into the seat, he bends close to me, fastening the safety harness as though he doesn’t trust me to do it for myself. His knuckles brush against my nipples. They are rigid with fear, cold, and something more that I don’t want to admit even to myself--arousal. He stares at me for a moment but says nothing.
We make the trip back to the palazzo in silence. I gaze out the window at the rapidly passing landscape and remind myself again and again that I can’t afford to show any weakness before this man. He already thinks that I have no will of my own. The last thing I should do is give him any more reason to believe that.
When we have finally drawn to a stop in front of the main entrance, Ian steps out, comes around the front and yanks open the passenger door before I can get the safety harness undone. He unfastens it for me and steps back.
“Get out.”
I do so but the moment my feet touch the ground, I keep going. Every instinct that I possess tells me to put some distance between us.
Even so, I can’t resist the impulse to say over my shoulder, “Thanks so much for calling your goons off. When you’re in the mood, you can enlighten me as to why they’re here in the first place. In the meantime, please tell Hodgkin that I’d like something to eat. In my room. Alone.”
My voice is little more than a croak but I think I’ve made myself clear. I don’t linger to see his reaction but march straight toward the front of the palazzo--
The world suddenly revolves. I’m no longer standing. Instead, I’m draped over one of Ian’s broad shoulders. His arm is wrapped firmly around my upper thighs. When I cry out in mingled surprise and outrage, I feel a sudden, sharp sting on my posterior.
He didn’t! He wouldn’t…!
“I don’t know what the hell Susannah was thinking,” he says as he strides into and through the soaring entry hall. “Or maybe I shouldn’t blame her. The whole replica process is so new. Maybe something went wrong. What was supposed to produce a nice, compliant female produced you instead.”
Apparently for no better reason than his own frustration with this possibility, he delivers another stinging slap to my bottom.
I cry out and kick at him but before I can land a blow, we’re in the library and he’s dropped me unceremoniously onto the large leather couch.
Standing over me, he says, “My men aren’t goons.” He sounds truly offended on their behalf. “They’re an elite security force and you’re damn lucky they were available to find you. What were you thinking of, running like that?”
I straighten up quickly and glare at him. No way is he going to put this on me.
“What did you expect me to do? No matter what you want to believe, I’m a human being. I have a mind and a will of my own.” With all the scorn I can muster, I add, “This idea you have that I’m a piece of property is nothing short of repellant. You do not own me. No one can. Not ever.”
He frowns, prompting a flicker of hope that he might just possibly understand. It’s dashed a moment later when he says, “We can debate the finer points of the law at another time. Lift up your hair.”
“What?”
He reaches into a drawer of his desk and pulls out what looks like a metal collar about two inches wide and set with multi-colored diodes. At a press of his thumb, it springs open.
Instinctively, I recoil. “What is that?”
“It’s a tracking device. I was advised to use it for the first few days after you woke but I decided not to. Clearly, that was a mistake.”
He comes closer, carrying the thing. I stare at it in horror.
“It will also monitor your physical well-being. If you’re hurt, I’ll know and I won’t be left to wonder how to find you.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “I could accomplish the same with an implant which, with the benefit of hindsight, I should have done. But this has an added feature. If you try to leave the grounds, you’ll be temporarily disabled by an electrical shock.”
His gaze hardens. Quietly, he says, “You’ll want to avoid that.”
A wave of nausea moves through me. Without taking my eyes from what instantly becomes the gleaming metal symbol of the helplessness that I am determined to never experience again, I say, “You aren’t putting that on me.”
Weighing the collar in his hand, he says with lethal softness, “You must know that you can’t stop me.”
I do know and because I do, I shudder. He’s far bigger and stronger than I am. Worse yet, whatever imprinting or conditioning I received predisposes me to want to accept his control over my body, to yield everything to him. But I’m more than the sum of all that, as he is about to discover.
“Perhaps I can't,” I acknowledge. My mouth curls in disgust. “But you should know that I won’t make it easy. Before I give in, you’ll have to seriously damage what you think of as your property.”
I spit the last word, leaving no doubt as to how profoundly wrong he is to regard me in any such way.
I tell myself that I’m prepared for any reaction from him but that turns out not to be the case. A shadow moves behind his eyes and as it does, he transforms. The ruthless anger and determination that truly frighten me vanish. In their place, I see a man who looks genuinely appalled, even horrified by the prospect that he will have to hurt me in order to get what he wants.
I can’t help but gape. The change is as dramatic as it is inexplicable but there is no doubting that it is real.
His hand lowers. He takes a deep breath, drops the revolting collar on his desk as though it is suddenly burning him, and goes over to the small fridge under the bookcase. He returns with a bottle of water.
“Drink.”
I’ve just learned something important. Ian isn’t simply adverse to hurting me. The mere thought of doing so almost literally sickens him.
A little of the coiled tension that has held me on a knife’s edge all day eases.
He stares at me with a look of intense wariness before he appears to come to a decision. Taking a deep breath, he says, “I’ll forego the collar if you’ll give me your word that you won’t run again or do anything else to endanger yourself.”
I can’t conceal my shock. “You’ll take my word?” How does that fit with the idea that I have no will of my own?
“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”
“No,” I assure him quickly. Sensing that I have the advantage, I add, “I’ll give you my word not to run provided I have your word that you won’t give me any reason to want to do so.”
I’m thinking not of what passed between us in the night but of the Cabinet of Secret Delights. Distantly, in the back of my mind, I feel a dark, erotic pull in its direction but I am not remotely ready to confront that.
Ian stares at me for a long moment. Slowly, he nods.
Chapter Eight
Ian
Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!
The punching bag shudders under my fists. Sweat flies in all directions. My heart is pounding, my lungs burn. Normally, I would have stopped before now but nothing has been remotely normal since the moment Amelia awoke yesterday.
What the hell was I thinking? That I could tell her so bluntly who she is and she’d be fine with it? ‘You’re a replica, you have no free will, and by the way, I own you’.