Beta

by Rachel Cohn

  “Then why is that bad news?” I ask. Why does my heart feel like singing, Hallelujah! A whole week with Tahir! And a week free of the Governor.

  Ivan’s face suddenly darkens, the way it sometimes does when he takes his special-blend ’raxia laced with the testosterone. He hisses, “Because you’re my Beta and I don’t appreciate the Fortesquieus’ thinking they can just take you away like that because they’re so powerful and important.”

  “It’s okay,” I try to reassure him.

  “It’s not okay. But nothing I can do about it, either. Careful, champ,” he warns, and I pull my hand away just in time for his hardest jab to hit the air and not me. He punched so hard I think he would have broken my hand.

  Ivan and I knock fists against each other. Game over. Time for lunch, and rest. I am confused why Ivan wouldn’t want his Beta on display at the best home in Demesne. If my week with the Fortesquieus goes well, it could only make the Brattons look better for having the foresight to purchase one.

  As we begin our climb up the stairs, I see from the empty crevices that Ivan’s bottles of cuvée seeds and steroidal components have been removed. “Where is your chemistry set?” I ask Ivan.

  “I moved the materials to a secret spot I carved behind my bedroom wall.”

  “Don’t you worry the Governor will discover it?”

  “Sure I do. But he doesn’t know I do ’raxia, so it’s doubtful he’d come looking. He’s too concerned that I be in great shape for the Base; he cares more about how many carbs I eat and how long I work out every day. Me doing ’raxia isn’t even on his radar. Ha-ha, stoked for me! And I am liking having easier access to my stash now. It’s gotten too risky to leave the materials out in the open here.”

  “Why so risky?”

  “Too many investigators poking around the island, looking for ’raxia. But they’d never look inside Governor’s House.”

  Everyone on this island wants something kept quiet.

  I want to roar.

  As Ivan and I finish the stair climb and head back toward the house, we hear a commotion coming from the grand manor. There is a shrill female scream, followed by what sounds like gunshots, and a flutter of motion—feet running, in our direction.

  It’s Xanthe. She’s being chased by the Governor and Mother’s bodyguards. “Defect!” the Governor yells at Xanthe. “How dare you rage in front of my little girl?”

  No! Liesel must have told her father about seeing Xanthe cutting herself.

  Xanthe whips past us, stopping at the edge of the cliff. I think she’s going to jump. But—

  “Don’t look,” Ivan says. His arm goes around my waist and he pulls my head to his shoulder.

  I still can see.

  The bodyguards surround Xanthe. She has nowhere to go.

  “In—sur—rec—tion!” she howls, dragging the word out into an epic battle cry.

  The Governor points a rifle at her. But he does not shoot.

  Instead, one of the bodyguard shoves Xanthe off the cliff.

  Her screams echo across the estate as she tumbles down the cliff, hitting its jagged surfaces on the way down.

  The screams cease before she hits the water.

  She must already be dead by then.

  My body goes numb. All I can think is, Surely the sunbathers down on the beach could hear her. That can’t be good for business.

  Alone that night in my room, I cannot control the depth of this sadness. I feel epic rage and despair, and guilt. I knew Liesel was frightened by Xanthe’s actions, and I should have realized she would go to her father with that fear. I should have told Liesel that Xanthe was only playing, lied to her and said that what she thought she saw was not what she saw. Why did my chip not self-modify for self-preservation, or to protect the preservation of my real sister, Xanthe? Maybe she was a Defect, but Xanthe was my friend, my protector, more kin to me than the Brattons ever could be.

  I taste the bitterness in my mouth. My body hunches into fetal position, to shut out the world. What I am feeling now affirms what I’ve always known but refused to acknowledge. I am not just a Beta with quirks.

  I am a member of the Brattons’ family, like Astrid, so long as I behave like a fake girl instead of a real one who has feelings, and desires, and darkness. Unlike Astrid, I am easily expendable to them.

  Like Xanthe: I am a Defect.

  Grief [greef]: Keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.

  Retaliate [ri-TAL-ee-ate]: To return like for like, especially evil for evil.

  I dedicate these words to Xanthe.

  I MUST REMAIN A TOY IN ORDER TO STAY ALIVE.

  “Poor, dear Xanthe,” I overhear Mother explain to the Aquine, who is interviewing her in the Governor’s study. “She had a terrible sense of balance. I always begged her not to stand near the stairs because of it. Such a shame.”

  If I am drowned by these people because I am a Defect, will Mother tell the Replicant Rights Commission that I simply never learned how to swim?

  The conversation I am trying to eavesdrop on is itself being drowned, by the noise from the gardener’s power tools outside the study window. I can distinguish the words between Mother and the Aquine but not their tone.

  “You’re sure she wasn’t suicidal?” the Aquine asks. Along with not being able to hear the tone of his voice too clearly, I am disappointed not to see his face, which Dementia and Greer and all the other ladies on the island find so striking. From my peeking spot inside the closet, I can only see his backside. I want to see the face responsible for sending Becky back to Dr. Lusardi. I want to remember it.

  “Clones don’t get suicidal, young man,” says Mother. “They are not like real people. Do you know anything at all about them?”

  What’s better, I wonder—to be a toy for the humans, or to control your own destiny, even if the only way to do so is suicide? What kind of message would taking one’s own life send them? Probably none at all. The humans on Demesne thrive because of their culture of disposability; a clone is easy enough to replace. They would not grieve over objects unless the objects had some material or monetary value.

  There’s no way Xanthe would have chosen the path of suicide. She had a dream of emancipation. She hinted that she was involved with the Insurrection; she was part of something big, something hopeful. I never got the chance to find out more about what she was doing in secret. But I will.

  “Actually, Mrs. Bratton,” says the Aquine, “with all due respect, there are quite a lot of data showing that clones are not the unfeeling automatons we’ve tried to believe they are. In fact, much of the latest research suggests—”

  “Nonsense,” interrupts Mother.

  The Aquine says, “For the record, then, can you confirm to me that the expired Lamb, Xanthe, fell to her death in an unfortunate accident?”

  “Yes! I told you that already! Now, leave me. I have a headache.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bratton. I hope you feel better.”

  He stands up, shakes Mother’s hand, and leaves. I never even got to see his face.

  By the time Xanthe reached the ocean, her face was probably smashed and bloodied to bits.

  My sister-friend was killed in cold blood, while I could only watch, helpless.

  He should know that.

  One day, I will look into the Aquine’s face, and I will tell him.

  Later, while Mother lies in bed with her headache, I pull down the silk shades in her room, darkening the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in her bedroom. As I close the last one, I look out the window at the bluff overlooking Io, to the exact spot where Xanthe was pushed off.

  Her screams echo in my memory.

  Screams equal suffering, is my understanding.

  It’s probable another girl suffered too. Whatever happened to my First that caused me to be made from her, she very likely experienced great pain. Could she have been killed like Xanthe? Ivan has told me that pirates roam the open seas in the perimeter many miles
outside Demesne, where the ocean is particularly violent and unpredictable because the ice caps at the bottom and top of the planet melted away and caused the sea levels to rise and churn in anger. He said that thrill seekers risk their lives to venture onto those seas to attempt illegal entry to Demesne, or just to reach the Rave Caves, and many are captured by pirates and killed—then sold to Dr. Lusardi. Is that how I came to exist? Because my First was murdered, her body duplicated but its soul extracted, so that a family on Demesne could have a plaything?

  The humans create life, and senselessly cause death. For nothing. I can’t let Xanthe’s and my First’s deaths be in vain. How do I fight back? Can I, even?

  The thought of their pain—Xanthe’s and my First’s—sears my brain, making me dizzy, buckling my knees. I did not ask to be emerged. I did not ask to understand human feelings of rage and unfairness. Their pain is my pain. It thunders through my skull and ripples across my body. It suffocates and overwhelms me. I fall to the ground as the room spins before my eyes. I lose consciousness.

  When I awake, I am lying facedown on the floor. I can hear snoring coming from the bed next to me. Mother still sleeps.

  I must have passed out. My brain must have needed escape from so many thoughts of suffering.

  Escape.

  Like Xanthe, maybe that’s what my First was trying to do, when her ending came.

  I clench my fists and wiggle my toes to reawaken. I make a promise to myself. When the time is right, when these feelings of rage and unfairness once again overcome me, I will not faint. I will fight.

  IT’S A SHORT DISTANCE TO AVIATE FROM Governor’s House to the Fortesquieu compound, and Mother has used every second of the journey to instruct me on how to behave with my temporary new owners. I am to do as they say, wear what they want, and be who they want me to be. But I am to be returned the same as I am delivered. If they want to change my hair or aestheticize me in any new way, I am to remind them to please contact Mother first.

  Mother and I sit facing each other from opposite seats in the back of the Aviate, with an antique trousseau trunk opened on the floor between us. She still hadn’t decided what I should pack by the time we had to leave Governor’s House, so she brought along the trunk to pillage while we transport. The trunk is filled with dresses Astrid never wore but that Mother saved in case one day Astrid became not a grungy peacenik but instead a fashionista with a taste for vintage. Mother pulls out a champagne-pink frock from the trunk and holds it up against her body. “I’d have to stop eating for a month to get into this dress,” Mother sighs. “But you will look exquisite in it. Yes, let’s add it to your suitcase. You can wear it to dinner with the Fortesquieus.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I wish clones had Relays so you could tell me everything that happens there, as it happens,” Mother chirps.

  Ivan says I am lucky not to be able to Relay. Clones don’t need that much live information: everything we need to know is on our chips, which must be such a relief, according to Ivan. He says Astrid had her Relay disabled when she left for university because being at Mother’s constant Relay was Astrid’s worst nightmare. Mother adds, “Although it’s possible Tahir’s mother will want to dress you up herself instead of having you wear what I’ve sent over with you. She’ll have access to all the best designers. But, knowing Bahiyya, she will abstain from the newest trends in favor of frump. People who grew up poor can be like that. No sense for the finer things.”

  “Tahir’s mother was poor?” The Fortesquieu prince is descended from poverty? I never realized humans on Demesne could come from anything less than elite backgrounds.

  Mother says, “Such a tragic and inspiring story. Both parents—Bahiyya and Tariq—were poor. Can you even imagine, such grand people came from total squalor? They grew up together in the slums in one of the old floody cities. They’re both descended of a common French-Tunisian ancestry, I believe. They were childhood sweethearts who were torn apart as teenagers when the wars came.”

  “So how did Tahir’s parents form a love story, then?” LoveStory is Liesel’s favorite FantaSphere game. Apparently it is based on human truths and possibilities.

  “They found one another again years later in Biome City. The story goes that Bahiyya had gone to BC to seek a new life after losing the husband she’d married as a young woman, and the children they’d had together. Her entire family was wiped out in the Water Wars. Horrible. But losing her first family opened her up to rediscovering her childhood love, who had become one of the richest men in the world. Bright side! Tariq Fortesquieu was a confirmed workaholic before Bahiyya, married to his science. But once they reconnected, she became his whole life.”

  I datacheck Tariq Fortesquieu. The biographical reference interface reveals that he was the mastermind behind the development of Biome City. He was a science prodigy as a child, who left home to study astrophysics on scholarship at the Biome Institute, the precursor to Biome University. At the Institute, he developed the mechanism that eventually brought some semblance of peace back into the world fractured by environmental warfare. He created artificial clouds that brought rain and water to previously uninhabitable lands. Because of him, the barren desert could be harnessed for urban development. This invention allowed millions of war refugees to build and populate the new desert cities such as BC, the brightest jewel in Tariq Fortesquieu’s crown. With new cities came new economies, and new hope.

  Mother continues, “Tahir’s surfing accident was particularly cruel for his parents. They had lost so much already, and struggled so hard to create him.”

  “Struggle is very nonataraxic?” I ask.

  “Absolutely, pet. That’s why Demesne is such a respite for those who’ve earned it. Certainly, Bahiyya and Tariq struggled to produce Tahir. You see, they were both in their late forties by the time they found one another again in BC. They immediately married, and desperately tried for a child. But she was near menopausal, and her body was weakened from years of war and hardship. She was not able to carry a pregnancy to term, and not even her husband’s money or his cherished science could help. Their time was running out. So they did what comes naturally. Tahir was born to them via a surrogate.”

  “Is Tahir their biological child?” I ask, suddenly curious as to whether their prince could be a different human entirely from what I’d been led to believe.

  “Yes. But poor Bahiyya was too old to be farmed for another child, and after the children she’d already buried in her previous life, she did not want to be greedy. She said one child with her first true love was all she could hope for, and she got her wish. Tahir is his parents’ shining light. I mean, I love my children, of course. But they love Tahir with a fierceness I won’t even pretend to know. It’s no wonder they retreated into privacy in BC after the accident.”

  “They needed to have quick access to the best medical experts and facilities available to make sure their beloved son recovered and had the best care possible.”

  “Right. You are so perceptive, precious. Demesne provides paradise, but not medical miracles like you can get in BC. Now that the Fortesquieus are returned here, it can only mean that Tahir is safely on the mend. What a relief. The Fortesquieus are Demesne’s wealthiest residents; the Governor says their tax money alone could sustain the island. Our whole way of life here could be altered if they weren’t property owners on Demesne. You must be the very best Beta you can be with them, Elysia. It is important that you represent to them how special this place really is.”

  The Aviate begins to make its landing on the grounds at the Fortesquieu compound as Mother’s bodyguards in the front seat communicate our arrival to the Fortesquieu staff on the ground. “Will Bahiyya be coming out to greet me?” Mother calls to the front seat.

  “We’ve been instructed to drop your companion in front, Mrs. Bratton. The butler will take possession of her,” is the answer.

  Mother’s face falls; she’s either disappointed or angered that the lady of the house will not be co
ming out to greet her. She looks wistfully at the party frock still draped over her body. “You will be such a comfort to Bahiyya. The Fortesquieus deserve to have a Beta on loan for a week after all they’ve been through. Be a good girl. You’ll miss all the excitement at home as we prepare for the Governor’s Ball, but you can report back to me everything that happens at the Fortesquieu compound once they return you. As you can see, they can be snobs, but…I suppose they’ve earned the right to be.” Has Mother earned that right, I wonder? Is snobbery even a “right”? Mother leans over to me so her cheek is near my face. “Give Mother a kiss good-bye.” I place a kiss on her cheek. “Tell me you will miss me, Elysia.”

  “I will miss you, Mother.”

  I feel. I want. I lie.

  A clone butler ushers me into the main foyer after Mother passes me off to him and takes her leave in the Aviate. The foyer’s floors and winding staircase are made from the finest marble, its walls gilded and lined with masterwork paintings depicting gods and goddesses from ancient myths. Tahir arrives in the room wearing wrinkled shorts and a tee, the braids lining the front top of his head loose and unkempt, his casual attire a direct contrast to the formal state of the room.

  “Hey,” he says. Perhaps the floor has radiant heat, because when I look at him, I think I will melt. But his glance at me suggests only remote interest, and for the first time I understand why girls sometimes fawn over boys who are unattainable or unknowable—because they can’t help themselves; the reaction is involuntary. Luckily, the momentary warm sensation from the sight of him is my private satisfaction. I am physically incapable of fawning and therefore will not have to experience that unfortunate nuisance called unrequited love. I am here to serve.