by Rachel Cohn
“Hey,” I mimic back. I pick up my suitcase to bring to my quarters, but Tahir shakes his head and gestures to the butler.
“It’s not heavy, I’m fine,” I say.
But Tahir says, “No, that’s his job.” I loosen my grip on the suitcase so the butler may do his job. I guess letting his butler carry my bag is as gentlemanly a greeting as Tahir is capable of. My job is to be a companion to Tahir and I am hoping we will start right away, until Tahir says, “I have physical therapy now. See you at dinner.” He leaves as abruptly as he came in.
No I’m so glad you’re here, beautiful girl who makes me feel alive or Would you like to know the level of naughtiness I attained with Astrid, and how we might use your week here to surpass your predecessor? Just “See you at dinner.” Not even a Whoa.
I start to follow the butler down the hallway but stop when a husky voice at the top of the grand staircase calls out, “You’re here, darling! Stay there so I can come greet you.”
It is Tahir’s mother, and I watch as she steps down the staircase to approach me. I’m almost shocked when I see Bahiyya Fortesquieu’s face as she nears me. What’s different about Tahir’s mother in comparison to Mother’s other lady friends is not just that she’s richer than all of them combined; it’s that she actually looks her age. She’s beautiful in the way humans idealize, with a radiant, coffee-colored complexion punctuated by high cheekbones, thickly arched black eyebrows, full coral lips, and hazel eyes rimmed in thick eyelashes like Tahir’s. What’s startling about her face are the small crevices marking it—laugh lines around her mouth, crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, bold wrinkles indented into her cheeks. Even more astonishing is her hair—long and wavy, falling unrestrained to her hips, and completely, unabashedly gray. I’ve never seen such an aesthetic on a human. I didn’t know it was possible for a later-aged human to actually desire to look their years.
She reaches the bottom of the staircase and I stand before her for inspection. Like Mother when she first saw me for sale at the boutique, Mrs. Fortesquieu eyes me from head to toe, then circumnavigates me, touching my hair, testing the firmness of my upper arms, looking carefully at the features that define my aesthetic—my long neck and full lips, high cheekbones, the delphinium vining at my left temple. Mrs. Fortesquieu peers into my fuchsia eyes before quickly looking away and pronouncing, “A most exquisite Beta, indeed.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fortesquieu,” I say.
She holds her arms out to me and places her hands on my shoulders. “Please call us by our first names. I am Bahiyya. You will meet Tahir’s father later this evening. You shall call him Tariq. We will welcome you more properly at dinner.”
“Thank you, Bahiyya,” I say. “Which level of formal is dinner? I have many dresses.”
Bahiyya laughs softly. “We’re very informal here. Wear rags to dinner for all I care.”
Her hands pull me to her for a hug. She is as warm as her beautiful son is cold.
ON MY FIRST EVENING WITH THE FORTESQUIEUS, I learn that their family operates very differently from the Brattons’. The Governor and his wife communicate via argument, raised voices and threats, and they parent their children by negotiating with or berating them. The Fortesquieus seem to achieve an easier family ataraxia. Bahiyya and Tariq Fortesquieu compliment rather than taunt one another. She is vivacious and outgoing, with a dramatically beautiful aesthetic. He is a slight man, tall but gaunt, with thinning black hair, quiet brown eyes, and an introspective disposition, someone who would seem to prefer science to people, except when his wife and son are around, in which case his attention and affection are centered on them. Now retired from industry, he seems content to lavish his time and attention on his family. Tariq and Bahiyya Fortesquieu regard each other with constant tenderness and kindness, holding hands whenever they are in proximity, always aware of where the other is and how they could best serve their partner in any moment, repeatedly punctuating their speech with endearments that sound sincere: “Yes, my love,” “Whatever you wish, my darling.” (As opposed to the Governor and Mother, whose endearments such as “my darling” sound more like they mean to hiss my albatross or my most reviled enemy.)
The Fortesquieu parents can’t hug, kiss, and dote on Tahir often enough. They may have all the wealth in the world, but their son is clearly their most precious accomplishment. Tahir does not appear to return their physical affection, but Mrs. Fortesquieu informs me that’s because he’s a hormonal boy. The teen he is now, she says, can be prone to sullen moods and wants to keep to himself, but he’s a good sort who has struggled since his accident. She’s sure that once Tahir becomes a man he will more closely resemble the boy he once was: tender, affectionate, sweet.
On our first night together, I join them for a quiet meal on a terrace that juts out from the compound at such a distance that it feels like a deck floating several stories over Io. Farzad and his family do not join us this evening. Ivan has told me that Farzad’s father is a drunk and his mother, Tariq Fortesquieu’s sister, suffers from depression and rarely leaves their private apartment. That wing of the family lives on Demesne year-round because they have no income or desire to assimilate back in the real world.
I have worn the last dress Mother picked out for me, which indeed looks as if it were made of rags, with asymmetrical pieces of fabric quilted together to form a frock that offers a plunging reveal of my cleavage, but Tahir does not notice my finery. He sits at the dinner table focusing on what’s on the table instead of the feminine flesh exposed by my dress. “Would you like another strawberry shake?” he asks after I finish the shake that’s been set out for me. “Or do you consume human food?”
“I consume it,” I say. His parents have been so warm and welcome to me; I can’t help but offer sincerity in return, even if my sincerity is probably a Defect’s trait. This home presents an opportunity for me to reinvent myself, as my real self. I am tired of pretending I’m someone I’m not. I admit, “I particularly love the chocolate. It is delicious.”
“You taste?” Bahiyya asks me. She looks pleased rather than shocked.
“Yes,” I say, emboldened.
The Brattons would think I was joking to charm them, but the Fortesquieus take me at my word. “Something new to Beta models? Excellent innovation by Dr. Lusardi,” says Tariq.
“Marvelous!” Bahiyya agrees. “We will have chocolate every night for dinner, then!”
“Thank you!” I say enthusiastically.
Tahir has barely touched the food on his plate, preferring the green superfood shake that’s been prepared for him. His mother chides him, “Tahir, darling. Try to eat something on your plate. It will make you feel good, I promise.” She informs me, “Since his accident, Tahir has had a hard time getting food down, so cook prepares liquid calories for him so at least he gets nourishment. We’re hoping his appetite and digestion will improve in the superior air here. Perhaps you can work out with him as you have with the Bratton boy, and help Tahir gain back some appetite.”
That seems weird. A young man, once so athletically inclined, with so little appetite? Before his accident, his lust for life probably equaled a similar lust for taste. If he wants so much to improve his health now, wouldn’t sampling some of this delicious food help?
“Yes,” I say. To Tahir, I ask, “Shall we go running later?”
“That would be satisfactory,” Tahir replies.
“You should really try some of the osso buco,” I tell him. “It’s amazing.”
“I will,” says Tahir. His fork spears a piece of the tender meat on his plate, and Tahir takes a bite. “Yes, that is pretty good.”
His parents nod at each other knowingly, satisfied. “Good boy!” says Tariq.
“I am not a boy. I am eighteen. A man,” says Tahir.
Bahiyya smiles affectionately at her son, perhaps trying to stifle a laugh. “Indeed you are, Tahir.”
Tahir calls over to the butler standing in the corner and tells the clone, “Could you bring us
some chocolate ice cream for Elysia?” Tahir turns to me. “Have you had ice cream before?”
Score! as Ivan would say. I shake my head. “I have not had ice cream before.”
“Tonight you will,” says Tahir.
Bahiyya says, “Tahir, wouldn’t you like to ask Farzad to join us for dessert? I know he longs to spend more time with you now that you’re back on Demesne.”
“Maybe not tonight,” Tahir mumbles.
His parents share a concerned look.
“Tomorrow, maybe,” says Bahiyya. “Tomorrow we’ll try to have Farzad over.”
“Whatever,” says Tahir. “I have decided what we will do after dinner.”
“What?” his parents exclaim eagerly.
His mother asks, “Shall we go for a long walk together on the beach? Remember how we used to do that when you were younger?”
Like any ripe, exquisite teenage boy—make that man—he ignores his mother’s nostalgic request. “I shall take Elysia up in the hovercopter after dinner.”
His father starts to say, “I suppose we could all do that tonight—” but Tahir interrupts him.
“I meant just Elysia and me. We’re fine on our own.”
Mrs. Fortesquieu touches her fingertips to stroke Tahir’s arm, but he pulls his arm away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, my darling,” she says.
“It is a matter of record that I’m a certified pilot,” says Tahir.
Tariq says, “That was before the accident. You haven’t been up since.”
“I’m ready now,” Tahir states.
Bahiyya and Tariq exchange another concerned glance, and then seem to telepathically acknowledge how they’ll respond.
Bahiyya says, “You may go.”
Tariq says, “But you must take the instructor to pilot the plane.”
Bahiyya adds, “I’ll Relay the club to have them send the instructor over.”
“If you say so,” says Tahir. “This dinner is a waste.” He places his napkin onto the table, and stands up—the meal is clearly over for him. And we haven’t even had our chocolate ice cream yet. He looks at me. “Let’s go.”
Perhaps this is the scoundrel Dementia and Greer promised. I couldn’t imagine having any desire to resist his sullen request, even if it means sacrificing dessert. But I must wait for his parents—my temporary owners—to excuse me from the table. I look toward Tahir’s mother, but her bright countenance is gone. She cries out, “Why must you be so hurtful to me? I’m your mother! You used to love me.”
“So you tell me,” Tahir says. He returns inside the house.
Tariq grabs his wife’s hand and places a kiss on her palm. “He still loves you,” he promises her. “He will find that again.”
But there shall be no hovercopter ride tonight.
Tariq, displeased with Tahir’s attitude, has decided our evening would be better spent giving Tahir a refresher course on what kind of boy he was before the accident. Dessert is brought into their entertainment arena, where we sit on plush lounge chairs formed in a circle. In the middle of our circle, a 4-D composite of footage from Tahir’s surfing glory days beams for our entertainment.
Perhaps it would have been interesting to take an air ride tonight, but this experience is also rather excellent. I get to watch a wet, shirtless Tahir ride monster waves while I gulp down spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream slathered in hot butterscotch sauce. I might be in girl-clone ataraxia. We watch as pre-accident Tahir surfs through the barrel of a modest twenty-foot wave; he looks so near to us I expect to feel a splash. We watch as he rides down the slope of an eighty-foot wave, a feat so daring to observe at close range that I feel as if my body crests the danger along with him. We encounter Tahir, regal in a formal tuxedo suit at a gala event, shaking the hands of a head of state but distracted by a beautiful girl walking by, causing him to turn his sweet half smile and say, “Hey, beautiful” to her while the president grins. We see shirtless Tahir being draped in championship ribbons as he smiles brightly and holds on tightly to his beaming parents, standing on either side of him. In one shot, his mother leans over to place a kiss on his cheek, but he does not push her away; instead, he crooks his arm beneath her chin and affectionately reaches his fingers to rub her cheek as she kisses the side of his face in motherly pride. An interviewer asks him how he maintains his focus while riding the waves. Self-assuredly, he says, “I believe in my own talent. And I know my parents are always right here supporting me.”
At this sound bite, Mrs. Fortesquieu gazes over at her son expectantly, as if to say, You remember now, right? She reaches over to touch Tahir’s knee, but he recoils from her touch and stands up. It is hard to believe the quiet but beautiful boy watching his holographic former self, so alive with arrogance and exuberance, could possibly be the same person.
In fact, I don’t believe it.
Tahir has stared in silence at the presentation, but it’s as if he was looking straight through the beam to the wall in the distance behind the images, completely uninterested in his previous glory—bored by it, even.
“Are we done for the night?” Tahir asks his father.
His mother flees the room. Weeping.
Tahir’s father sighs. “I suppose so. I will go comfort your mother. Tomorrow, Tahir, you will do better. Try harder with her.”
“Yes, Father,” says Tahir.
Like my room adjacent to Astrid’s bedroom at Governor’s House, my quarters are in a room adjacent to the study in Tahir’s quarters. A bed has been made up for me on a long ottoman decked with silk pillows in bright purple, gold, and fuchsia. Tahir has been silent while leading me to where I will sleep. He’s not the most engaging fellow, which is not at all distracting from his appeal, and might just heighten it.
I try to make conversation by asking him, “Was it outstanding to ride waves so big?” I know from my own diving experience since I emerged that there’s a weird sense of connection I feel in the water, to something so totally more powerful and volatile than anything I can comprehend, and also something that must have felt simultaneously welcoming, and natural, and fulfilling to my First. Surely his human experience was similar?
Tahir answers in a nonanswer. “Yes.”
Could scoundrel possibly also mean bore? For a gorgeous Prince Chocolate, he’s most disengaging. How can this even be the same boy who held me on his lap and kissed me on his birthday, who told me that I make him feel alive?
This boy can often seem dead.
I try another question. “Do you have fond memories of Astrid? I am her replacement.”
He answers in facts instead of feelings. “So you have stated already to me. Astrid and I shared time romantically when I was on Demesne, but it was not a serious relationship. As the daughter of an employee of Demesne, she was not an appropriate mate for me. Astrid scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on her university entrance exam. Gaining admission to her top-choice school was her primary concern, not a relationship.”
If Greer and Dementia were here, they would share a moment of sadness for their friend Astrid, who has just been easily dismissed by the boy they claim broke her heart. I will waste no time mourning her loss. I determine to be remembered more fondly by this boy. My mission is clear: to break down whatever barrier has risen within him since his accident that causes him to be so aloof and removed where once he was charismatic and gregarious. I have a deep suspicion it’s a barrier that only I know best how to handle.
We reach my quarters, and I sit down on the bed, from which I can see through the study to Tahir’s bedroom. In this compound where there are dozens of luxurious bedrooms, and likely dozens of huts for clone sleeping quarters, I wonder why they want me so near to Tahir.
I ask him, “Am I here for your mother to try a Beta, or to be your toy? I have made an excellent workout companion to Ivan. He will be leaving soon for the Base in the best shape of his life.”
“You are here so they can watch how a teen Beta behaves.”
“Because they are wor
ried I might be a terrorist?” I ask.
I worry I might be a terrorist.
“No,” says Tahir.
“Shall I guess why?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I have felt sure of nothing in my short life so far—except this gut feeling. The data are all there: His long absence from Demesne. His indifference. He eats liquid foods because he probably can’t taste regular food and has no desire for it. He appears to go through the motions of his life, reciting facts from his past but seeming to make no connection to his present, or a desire for what his future might bring.
The data may be circumstantial, but my Defect’s instincts aren’t wrong, I suspect. If I am wrong, I will have posited something so scandalous there’s no way I won’t be labeled a Defect for identifying its truth. But if I’m right, perhaps I’ll gain something for myself—my own companion.
I can’t resist this leap. It could lead to my premature expiration, or to a new world of possibility, both frightening and exciting. I say, “I am here because you are also a teen Beta, and your parents want to see how you will interact with one of your own kind.”
Tahir says, “Correct. My First, the real Tahir, died in that accident on the gigantes. I am his clone.”
“MY PARENTS HOPED YOU WOULD FIGURE IT out,” says Tahir. “That is why they brought you here.”
“Did you hope?” I ask.
“Hope is still a vague human concept to me. I am different from Dr. Lusardi’s other clones because I was created to continue my First’s life, not to just be cloned for a fresh start. His parents wanted—”
“Your parents,” I correct him. Already I am working in support of Bahiyya and Tariq.
“Yes, they keep telling me that. My parents wanted every factual detail of my First’s life to be embedded into my chip. It is their hope that I will also know how First Tahir actually felt, but I experience no such desire. I feel no connection to his life. I am living out someone’s else life. Perhaps with you here, I could experience my own.”
