Anew: Book One: Awakened

by Litton, Josie

  “Your body is your instrument,” he says sternly. “If you fail to care for it properly, you cannot expect it to do as you wish.”

  I take that to heart and I do try but as one day fades into the next, the world takes on a gray sameness that makes me feel as though I am moving through a sea of static, unable to really think or act.

  Finally, I’m reduced to seeking news of Ian on the private link. As soon as I start searching, I’m bombarded by photos and videos taken at a slew of social events. None has drawn more attention than the polo match. It is still the subject of excited comment and debate.

  I briefly view one of the many videos but stop when I realize that I can’t bear witnessing Ian’s barely controlled aggression yet again. Instead, I look at the photos, searching in particular for images of him after I left the reception.

  Unfortunately, I find them. In photo after photo, he is shown in conversation with a variety of young women, all vying for his attention. He looks relaxed, somewhat amused, not at all tense and angry as he was with me.

  I move on quickly, looking at pictures taken during the game of people in the stands. Adele and I are in many of these. In most, I’m controlling myself well enough to appear calm. But in several, it’s starkly evident how dismayed I was.

  Only gradually do I look at the people who were seated around us. Because of the intensity of the game, I really hadn’t noticed them before. To my surprise, I discover that Davos was sitting just one row back and slightly to the right of me. In none of the pictures is he watching the action on the field. Instead, he’s looking at me.

  I want to believe that I’m mistaken but there are dozens of the photos and they all carry the same message. As repellant as the thought is, Davos gives every sign of having transferred his interest in Susannah to me.

  But why? How much does he suspect? What does he know?

  As much as I don’t want to do anything to worry my grandmother or brother, I can’t keep this to myself. The anxiety is simply too great. Unfolding myself from the couch where I’ve been sitting, I go in search of Edward.

  Despite the late hour, he’s in his office toward the back of the house overlooking the garden. The global financial markets never sleep, which means that Edward often doesn’t either. He looks as handsome as ever sitting behind the large burled chestnut desk but I can’t help noticing that he also appears weary and tense.

  When he sees me standing at the door, he gestures for me to enter. A few moments later, he ends the call he was on and gives me his attention.

  “I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he says. “Or did this evening’s engagement leave you with an excess of energy?”

  Since I intervened to stop the officers from beating the young man, Edward has been a bit wary of me. I can’t blame him. The experience still haunts me but even more, it has raised my awareness to a degree that I cannot ignore.

  Only this evening, returning to the house with Helene, I noticed the drones flying low in the sky over the northern part of the city. I have seen them before, of course. They are always on patrol overhead. But there were more than usual and they were more concentrated, suggesting that an incident was underway.

  I can’t help but wonder if more people were being beaten or even worse. I could check the link for news but what passes for that is so shaped and spun as to be nothing more than propaganda. Useful for those who want to know how they are supposed to think. Not at all helpful to those of us who prefer to think for themselves.

  “The recital,” I reply as I take the chair across from my brother, “was exceedingly boring. It turns out that I have a low tolerance for Victorian oratorios. After awhile, they all sound alike.”

  “Then I don’t regret missing it,” he says with a smile. Leaning back in his chair, he studies me for a moment before he asks, “Who else was there?”

  “The usual.” I pause a beat before adding, “Marianne asked after you.”

  Edward raises a brow. “Did she?”

  He’s silent for a moment. His eyes take on a thoughtful light in which I glimpse what might be a hint of wistfulness.

  Softly, he says, “She’s very young.”

  I can’t resist the urge to tease him a little. “She’s twenty-two, the same age as me. But I can understand why you consider that young given that you’re an ancient twenty-eight.”

  He shoots me a chiding look. “She’s led a very sheltered life.”

  “At the center of a decadent society.” As new as I am to the city, I have no illusions about its nature. “She is hardly ignorant or naïve. That she chooses to be selective in what she experiences is a testament to her character and judgment, both of which I believe to be exemplary.”

  My brother’s smile deepens. “You are her advocate.”

  “I am her friend,” I say.

  Whatever has happened between Ian and me doesn’t change that. Marianne is a lovely young woman, more than worthy of my brother’s attentions. But he’s going to have to come to that realization for himself.

  “If you want to know what Marianne is thinking or feeling,” I continue, “why not ask her yourself?”

  He shrugs. “Why not indeed? But enough of that. What has you awake at this hour?”

  I push the link across the desk to him. It’s still open to the photographs of Davos in the stands.

  “These. Would you take a look and tell me what you think?”

  He barely glances at them before he shrugs. “Don’t worry about this. Ian and I are keeping tabs on him.”

  My heart gives a little lurch at the mention of that name. I do my best to conceal it but I can’t hide my surprise. “Does that mean there’s cause for concern?”

  “There is cause to take reasonable precautions,” Edward counters. “Davos has an unsavory reputation and the fact that he appears to have had some interest in Susannah is troubling. But it would be a mistake to read too much into this. He’ll realize quickly that you are well protected and beyond his reach.”

  I can’t shake the impression that my brother is minimizing the situation in an effort to reassure me. But I’m far more focused on Ian’s involvement.

  “Is that all Ian’s been doing?” I ask. “Looking into Davos?”

  Edward hesitates. I understand that he doesn’t want to hurt me but he manages to make matters worse when he says only, “Among other things.”

  I frown as I am left to wonder what that means. Before I can ask, Edward says, “It’s late, Amelia. If you’ll forgive me, I have some work that can’t wait.”

  I take the hint but before I rise to go, I hear myself asking, “Did you know Marcus Slade?”

  Edward frowns. His eyes, as blue as my own, darken. “I encountered Ian’s father on occasion but we were hardly well acquainted. Why do you want to know?”

  “Ian didn’t get along with him. Do you know why?”

  “Marcus was a poor excuse for a husband, intolerable really. I imagine that put Ian off him.”

  “There was nothing else?”

  “Not that I know of.” More gently, Edward adds, “You could follow your own advice and ask Ian yourself.”

  I swallow against the lump in my throat and summon a false bravado. “I would but he’s gone to ground. And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why that is either?”

  My brother rises and hands me back the link. “I think it’s something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself.” In a rare burst of candor, he adds, “When it comes to matters of the heart, that seems to be the case for all of us.”

  I hope that he is thinking again of Marianne but I don’t ask. My brother has shared as much as he’s going to for now.

  I bid him goodnight and leave but I can’t help reflecting that both Ian and Edward keep far too much to themselves. However well-intentioned their motives, that needs to change.

  Whether they accept it or not, my life is ultimately my own responsibility. I am not about to sit back passively and let others decide my fate.

 
~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Adele sleeps in the next morning as usual and Edward is off to the office. I breakfast alone, then decide to take a walk.

  It’s a beautiful day, the sky cloudless and bright. A soft breeze carries the scent of the nearby ocean that, hidden though it is by the soaring walls of the city, still makes its presence felt. I step out the door determined to shake off the dark mood that has stalked me since the events at the polo club.

  Lifting my face to the sun, I close my eyes for a moment and just breathe. Being able to perform that simple act still strikes me as miraculous. I wonder if I will ever be able to take it for granted.

  To awaken to the world as an adult, gifted with knowledge but not experience, swamped by sensation, overwhelmed by desire, left to find my way as best I can--all that has challenged me to the utmost.

  Although I’ve deliberately chosen not to dwell on my origins, I am all too aware that I am a new kind of being in this world, born both of human tragedy and technology that can be considered inhuman, calling into question as it does what has been the one certainty in human life--death.

  What meaning does the death of the body have when so much beyond it can be preserved through the replica process--knowledge, will, desire, memory, experience, entire identities continuing on? We are copies, to be sure. Soulless, those who fear us would say. But what does that mean? Are we not real? Do we not dream? Yearn? Even love?

  If you prick us, do we not bleed?

  I don’t feel like a threat to anyone. On the contrary, I am all too vulnerable--physically, emotionally, in every possible way.

  My arrival in the world seems so unlikely, depending as it did on decisions made by people I will never know going back decades. Might I not leave this existence just as capriciously?

  On this sun-warmed day, when last night’s rain has washed every leaf and blossom clean, I refuse to dwell on such dark thoughts. They may skulk after me toward the avenue as I begin my walk but I will not so much as glance over my shoulder to acknowledge them.

  I have just set out when I notice a young man approaching the staff entrance. He is drably dressed in a brown uniform rather than the dark blue with burgundy piping that is worn by McClellan retainers. But it’s not his clothing that draws my attention.

  Workers in general strive to remain inconspicuous. They walk at a purposeful but decorous pace, keep their expressions blank, avoid eye contact, and so on. This young man is the exception. He is clearly in a hurry and appears agitated.

  As I watch, he waits at the entrance off to the side, bobbing from one foot to the other as he is scanned. When the door opens, he looks relieved. Quickly, he reaches into an inner pocket of his tunic and withdraws a slim white envelope. With a quick exchange of words, he hands it to a man who I recognize as Edward’s valet.

  The encounter lasts less than a minute before the door closes again and the young man departs. By the time he reaches the avenue, he has regained control of himself enough to blend in with the other workers. I follow him with my eyes but quickly lose him in that mass of anonymous figures.

  Briefly, I wonder why in an age of instantaneous electronic communication, anyone would be delivering a message by hand. But the question slips from my mind as I stroll along the avenue and into the park.

  Without consciously intending to, I gravitate back to the playground. It is a school day so the older children I saw before are absent. Only the youngest are there.

  Watching a little boy not more than two years old laughing gleefully as he pours sand out of a bucket, I feel a strange tugging at my heart. He’s there with his mother. She smiles at him adoringly as he grins up at her.

  Someday I hope to be able to watch mothers and their children together without experiencing such hollow yearning but for the moment, I need to keep moving. A little beyond the playground, I stop as I hear the trumpet call of an elephant resounding among the trees. I’ve heard it before, starting my first day in the city, but now I’m determined to find the source.

  The path I take winds around through a copse of white birch until it comes to a high brick wall divided by a wrought iron gate. Immediately to the left of the entrance is a sign that reads: “The Zoological Gardens”. Hours of admission are listed below.

  I’ve never been to any such place. For that matter, the only live animals I’ve seen are those in the wilderness beyond the palazzo and the pampered pets of all varieties who appear on the city streets, invariably better dressed than any of the worker class.

  Excitement fills me as I hurry through the gates. This could be exactly the diversion that I need.

  My eye is caught first by an octagonal stone enclosure open to the air and topped by a jetting fountain set atop tiers of stonework over which water cascades. A strange sort of barking arises from it.

  I approach but stop suddenly as a long, sleek body speeds through the pool below the falls. Another quickly follows. I’m at the edge of the enclosure when a dark shape suddenly hurls itself into the air, clambers on top of one of the stone terraces, and wiggles its whiskers at me.

  A sea lion! I can put a name to the creature but the actual sight of it is astonishing. What an improbable animal, so graceful in the water, so ungainly on land. And so adorable as it rears back on its tail and claps its flippers as though inviting me to give it a treat.

  I’m tempted to stay and see what it will do next but the rest of the zoo beckons. For more than an hour, I wander among puffins and penguins, snow monkeys and red pandas, elephants and polar bears, all real, all there right in front of my eyes. The sights and sounds are fascinating but the smells… Whew! The grassy scent of hay in the elephants’ huge enclosure is pleasant enough but it’s overwhelmed by the sour musky aromas of oil and urine that more than a few of the residents use to mark their territories.

  I back away hastily from the fox habitat but not before the smell brings tears to my eyes. The flood of sensory input is beginning to wear me out. I’m in search of a free bench near the sea lion enclosure when a ripple among the mothers and nannies redirects my attention.

  The Norse god from the polo match is standing nearby, watching the cavorting animals. Without making any effort whatsoever, he’s attracting a great deal of female attention. I suppose that’s inevitable given his looks. But I’m only interested in the strange sensation that I had when I noticed him in front of the club house.

  I’ve encountered him before. I just have no idea where or why it could conceivably matter. Yet it seems to all the same.

  As though in response to my gaze, he turns in my direction. His quick start of recognition mirrors my own. He hesitates only a moment before crossing the distance to where I am standing.

  Inclining his head graciously, he asks, “Miss McClellan is it?”

  He’s as tall as Ian and equally broad through the shoulders. Sunlight dances off hair that looks like spun gold. His features are classically handsome--square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, and a mouth that looks as though it’s made for temptation. I can understand why the women are staring.

  Surprised that he knows my name, I nod. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mister--”

  “Hayden Carstens.” His smile is disarming. “You were at the game last week.”

  Flushing at the thought that he might have seen Ian dragging me off toward the Rolls, I nod. “Yes, that’s right. You were guarding Ian’s back when he made the winning goal.”

  Hayden looks pleased that I noticed but he also shrugs. “He’s done the same for me. Although to be honest, I have enough regard for my own safety these days that I would have done almost anything to stop that game from going into overtime.”

  “These days? You didn’t always?”

  He looks rueful at what he has let slip. “Let’s just say that I’m newly emerged from my wild child phase. Admittedly, it ran a little long and involved some seriously stupid shi-- excuse me, nonsense on my part but I survived and that’s what counts.”

  I’m wondering what was riskier than a polo match pl
ayed so aggressively that it drove a jaded crowd to a screaming frenzy when he asks, “What brings you to the zoo?”

  “Curiosity. I’ve never been here before. How about you?”

  “I grew up a block away. This was pretty much where I hung out when I was a kid. I have so many memories--”

  He frowns as though troubled by something but a moment later his mood lightens again.

  “This morning,” he says, “I suddenly got to thinking about the scotch bombs they sell here. I don’t know why they popped into my head but I loved those things. The problem is I can’t remember what they taste like so I thought I’d come over and find out. Care to join me?”

  I can’t resist his grin. He seems so simple compared to Ian, so uncomplicated. Still, I hesitate. “That depends. What are scotch bombs?”

  He looks at me in mock dismay. “You’re kidding? You’ve seriously never had one?”

  “Never. What have I missed?”

  “Only the best thing ever. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Five minutes later, I’m sitting on a bench across from the large musical clock near the main entrance to the zoo as Hayden pours part of the contents of a red-white-and-blue box into my palm.

  “There are two ways to do this,” he says. “You can just toss it in your mouth all at once and get the full experience right away. Or you can pick pieces out and enjoy them one by one.” He sits back and waits to see what I’ll do.

  I decide to go all in and toss. The combination of butterscotch-coated popcorn and peanuts dusted with coconut and red pepper flakes is definitely unique in my experience. Not to mention extremely chewy. But it’s also crunchy, sweet, sticky, spicy and altogether enjoyable even if I am coughing before I’ve barely swallowed.

  Hayden laughs and hands me one of the bottles of water he had the foresight to also buy at the concession stand.

  “You can tell a lot about people by how they eat scotch bombs,” he says. His gray-blue eyes gleam with amusement.