Beta

by Rachel Cohn

  I have been called to Mother’s study.

  I enter the room as she is looking down at her desk, reviewing her guest list. She does not look up immediately at me but says, “So, pet. I guess you were a big hit at the Fortesquieus’.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I say.

  “It’s a shame, really. Now I’ll have no choice but to sell you to them. You have made me look good to the Fortesquieus, but at such cost—I was not prepared to let you go permanently. The Governor would not hear of me denying a request from that family.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Yes!

  Mother looks up from her desk. Her eyes go wide and her jaw drops. She points a finger at me. “I told you to ask Bahiyya to speak with me first if she wanted to alter you in any way.” She stands up and walks to me, and swipes her fingers through my newly shorn hair. While I am not yet free of this house, I am free of the hair that Mother so treasured. My new short cut is wild and unkempt, pixieish—so not the boring, refined Demesne clone aesthetic. Mother says, “My goodness, Bahiyya has horrendous taste. Is this supposed to be the new hair fashion in BC?”

  “I don’t have that data,” I say. I do know Mother will not protest about the haircut to a figure as socially powerful as Bahiyya; I may very well be living at the Fortesquieus’ before Mother even realizes I cut the hair myself.

  Mother sighs. “This new hair is not going to suit your ball costume, but nothing to do about that now.”

  “My ball costume?” I ask. “Am I to be a server there?”

  “I may have no choice but to sell you to Bahiyya. But if you are so special as to be purchased by no less than the Fortesquieus, well, then, I have convinced the Governor in turn that you are suitable to be my companion at the ball. You won’t be a guest, obviously. But you also won’t be a server. Rather, you will be on display. So everyone will know I was the early adopter. You were mine first.”

  I AM THE FIRST BETA INVITED TO THE BALL.

  I am neither guest nor servant here. I am a piece of performance art, seated on a white swing hung from the high ceiling, where I overlook the ceremonies from twenty feet above the floor to provide overhead aesthetic entertainment for the crowd.

  All of the families of Demesne have come to the island for its annual gala, held in the ballroom at Haven. The party is stocked not only with the most powerful people in the world, but with their human playthings, posing tonight as their guests—entertainment stars, politicians, world-renowned athletes—who have scored rare invites to experience this one-night-only chance to mingle on Demesne. In the crowd, I spy Mother’s mahjong friends, Ivan’s friends, the Fortesquieus, and many of the people from Tahir’s tutorial flash cards, including the king of Zakat and the world-renowned soccer player known as the Sphinx.

  For the richest and most powerful people in the world to gather for a party is no small occasion, and neither is their venue. The grand ballroom at Haven is designed in the style of the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles in ancient France, modernized with accents reflecting Demesne’s own distinctive culture. The ballroom is floor-to-ceiling spectacle. Like its predecessor, Haven’s Hall of Mirrors has seventeen grand arched windows separated by marble pilasters decorated in gilded sculptures. The windows face outside, allowing the 357 pieces of mirror inlayed into the arched windows to reflect the lavish outdoor display of coral-red cuvée torchflowers back into the room—a mesmerizing effect. Seventeen large crystal chandeliers and twenty-six smaller ones made of solid silver hang from the ceiling; from these chandeliers, a thousand candles light the room. The ballroom’s floor is patterned in Demesne’s distinctive Parquet du Nouveau Versailles, found in many of Demesne’s homes—large squares of bamboo parquetry, laid on the bias, with interlaced diagonal motifs representing Demesne’s fleur-de-lis symbol. While the artwork in Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors depicted the victories of Louis XIV and the symbolism of France, the frescoes lining the walls and ceiling at Haven’s ballroom depict Demesne in all its glory: the lapping violet ocean, oceanside cliffs, towering volcanic mountaintop, and interior jungle; homes like the Fortesquieu compound’s limestone-cliff pueblo and Governor’s House; an aerial view of the whole island with Io’s violet ring separating its perimeter from the rest of the world; sunrise over Haven; portraits of perfect faces tattooed with violet fleurs-de-lis at their temples.

  In one corner of the room, a platform has been set up for the night’s musical entertainment—Demesne’s RSO, or Replicant Symphony Orchestra. The all-male symphony is comprised of every caste of island clones—from bamboo- to holly-vined, grunt worker to tennis pro—who wear black-and-white tuxedos. With their extremely fit bodies and aesthetically pleasing faces, they are possibly the best-looking orchestra in the world.

  But everyone’s a critic. Says Mother about the RSO’s sound: “Perfect pitch. No passion.” Mother fans a peacock feather across her unimpressed face as the RSO completes its Mozart piece.

  She stands below my swing in the corner of the room opposite the RSO, at the head of a procession where newly arriving guests greet the Governor and his family. This year’s gala has a Greek-gods theme, with Mother costumed as Hera, the goddess of home and marriage, the jealous and vengeful wife of Zeus, whose chariot was pulled by peacocks. The Governor is mighty Zeus, of course, while Liesel wears a rainbow-hued frock to symbolize the goddess Iris, the personification of the rainbow and messenger of the gods. Because he is about to enter the military, Ivan is dressed in formal military uniform, but with a cloned black vulture resting on his shoulder, to symbolize Ares, the Greek god of war. Vultures, which prey upon dead carcasses in the battlefield, were sacred to Ares.

  Not all families are attired in the Greek-gods theme. A gala event heralds peace and prosperity, but what was lost during the time of the recent Water Wars is not forgotten. Those families who still mourn wear traditional black to formal events. Among them are the Fortesquieus, who have chosen to bring Tahir after all. During my week at their house, they had debated whether Tahir was indeed ready to be reintroduced to society, so the flash cards—and perhaps his Beta companion—must have done their job satisfactorily to prepare him. Tahir’s shaggy bush of half-braided, half-wild hair is gone, replaced with neat cornrows lining his scalp in eight perfect rows. He and Tariq both wear custom-made black silk suits, simple and elegant, while Bahiyya, who perhaps lost more family than anyone else in the room, wears an outfit custom-designed for her queenly stature. Instead of a dress, she wears graceful, tailored black silk slacks similar to her menfolk’s, but with a feminine black jacket over a corset accented at the front with crepe trim, ornate embroidery, and lace decoration, made from pieces of one of Queen Victoria’s mourning dresses, which Tariq bought for Bahiyya at auction from a now defunct royal museum. Bahiyya’s long white hair, sweeping down to her waist, is interlaced with strings sparkling with small precious jewels—sapphires, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds—and offers stunning contrast to the black of her modest but stylish costume, which reveals a minimum of flesh.

  Such restraint of flesh was not provided for my costume. Mother decided my angelic appearance best befitted Artemis, the Hellenic goddess of young girls—i.e., virgins. For my outfit, she chose a short white frock designed as a maiden huntress’s costume. The dress leaves little to the imagination. Although it falls just above my knees, and is belted at the waist by a braid of gold, the bodice of the dress is cut with a plunging V-neckline that covers my breasts—barely—and is open down to just above my belly button. My newly shorn hair is not long enough for the upsweep Mother had planned for it, so she settled on a garland of white pearlflowers on my head, with blond tendrils framing my face. My lower eyelids have been lined with copper pencil, while my upper lids are accented with violet eye shadow. My eyebrows have been defined and shaped with light-brown pencil, and black extensions added to my eyelashes. My lips are tinted a pink-violet color.

  Mother’s Beta, soon to be bought by no less than the Fortesquieu family, was too prized a possession
to not show off this year. The whole island should be able to check out what the Fortesquieu family covets. Now that they can see me so vibrantly on display on the swing, everyone will want a teen Beta, and all because Mother started the trend. Or so Mother hopes. My early reviews from the night’s first set of guests have pleased her. The guests admire me up on the swing, and offer their commentary on my appearance: “Exquisite.” “The best Beta yet!” Chuckle chuckle titter titter.

  I merely swing overhead, neither a participant nor a worker at the festivities.

  I watch Tahir in the middle of the room as he is engaged in conversation by the king of Zakat. Over the music, I cannot hear their conversation, but I can see Tahir’s body language reacting with familiarity to the King, and Tahir throws his head back in laughter at something the King says, which causes Tariq and Bahiyya to have one of their shared glances, an approving one.

  All I ever get to do on this island is watch. But I have a pact with Tahir now. Soon, we are going to make things happen for ourselves. Soon, we are going to seek freedom. I can survive until then, I tell myself. Hold on just a little longer, Elysia.

  I can barely contain my desire to jump off this swing, take hold of Tahir, and run away with him this very instant. I wish for Tahir to look up at me, to acknowledge me up here on this swing on my own, to acknowledge our pact so that I may be reassured during my vacant performance art swing ride, but his eyes do not find mine.

  Perhaps he is too embarrassed to look up. Or too angry.

  There’s no music playing, but Dementia has a dance in her heart. She can’t not perform it. And so, alone on the middle of the floor, she slithers her arms around in sylphlike movements while gyrating her bare belly and pelvis up and down, back and forth. Dementia’s dance is notable not only because of its lack of musical accompaniment and her solo stature on the floor, but also because of the way her costume moves (or rather, doesn’t) with her gyrations. Tonight Dementia is dressed as Aphrodite, the goddess of love who rose from the sea. For her costume, Dementia crafted an outfit involving no fabric whatsoever. Instead, she “wears” (if it can be called that) a stiff chemical concoction made to resemble sea foam, sprayed to cover her private parts and not much else. Dementia’s Aphrodite is all flesh and foam, and exactly no dress. The pink-hued white of the sea foam plays off beautifully against Dementia’s olive skin.

  Greer, standing below my swing with Ivan and Farzad at her side, mutters, “In five…four…three…two…one…and, yes, there they are, right on schedule.” Dementia’s shipping-baron parents, the Cortez-Oliviers, who made their fortune developing tankers strong enough to withstand the ocean’s new might, make their late arrival into the ballroom just in time to witness their daughter’s brazen show for the whole room. Greer says, “By the look on their faces, Mom and Dad didn’t check Dementia’s costume for themselves before they left for the ball.”

  “Demetra!” Mrs. Cortez-Olivier cries out. “Come here this instant! This is completely inappropriate!”

  Dementia’s father takes matters into his own hands rather than yell at his daughter. He motions to a nearby security clone, who races over to Dementia, takes off his jacket to place over her near-naked body, then sweeps a kicking and screaming Dementia into his arms and whisks her away from the ballroom.

  Apparently Demesne social code requires some semblance of modesty.

  “Dementia strikes again,” says Ivan.

  “I think you will miss Dementia most when you desert us for the Base,” Greer teases Ivan. Tonight Greer is dressed as Selene, the goddess of the moon, who was often depicted riding a pair of serpentine dragons. Greer wears a white robe with a half-moon on her head of flowing red hair, and carries a talon carved in the shape of a serpentine dragon. “At least she makes things more interesting here on Boring Island.”

  “Elysia is the one who I will miss the most,” says Ivan as I swing above him.

  “She’s not even yours anymore, practically.”

  Farzad glares up in my direction, looking at me in unrestrained disgust.

  “Bloody damn!” Greer says, suddenly distracted. “Dementia’s going to be so sad she missed this.”

  “What?” asks Farzad.

  “My beautiful Aquine!” Greer sighs as a new arrival enters the ballroom.

  “Who?” Farzad asks.

  I see a few officers, guests from the Base on the Mainland wearing formal military uniform, stopping to speak with the Governor and Greer’s father.

  Greer says, “That guy in the middle? The really tall one. That’s the Aquine. This must be his final hurrah. His assignment on Demesne is ending. I am so going to weep when he leaves this island.”

  I strive to locate this Aquine, the man who Xanthe informed me is supposedly on Demesne to protect clones’ rights, but who is in fact a direct threat to our kind. Because of him, Becky was sent back to Dr. Lusardi for “experiments.” Because of him, rumors of the Insurrection have grown more rampant…and Xanthe was shoved to her death from a cliff. Because of him, Xanthe’s lover was expired. But before my eyes spot the Aquine, they settle on Tahir, and linger. I only want to take in Tahir, now in conversation in the distance with the Sphinx, who is playfully (or not) shoving Tahir, trying to get some reaction from him. Whatever is said between them causes the Sphinx to cry out, “You’re a fake, Tahir Fortesquieu!” before the king of Zakat interjects to calm down the athlete. Tariq and Bahiyya look less than calm; they quickly escort Tahir out of the ballroom, out of my view.

  I should be with him, to help him.

  Farzad follows the Fortesquieus out of the room, leaving Greer standing idly below me.

  “Come to me, Aquine,” she murmurs sexily, as if practicing her most seductive pickup line. She looks up at me. “Sounded ridiculous, didn’t it? Help me think up something better to say.”

  “Point him out to me and I will try to datacheck something clever to say to him,” I say.

  Greer says, “The tall blond guy in the center of the room, surrounded by the gaggle of panting middle-aged women.”

  Without Tahir to distract me, my eyes quickly hone in on the Aquine. It’s hard to get a good look at his face, but I can see that he has buzz-cut blond hair and a studly build. When he finally gazes up from his admirers, his eyes catch mine for a split second. His eyes, so turquoise. His look at me: it registers recognition. A lightning strike hits directly into the core of my being, that same electric current I’ve felt when I’m submersed in water.

  It’s him. The Aquine is the man who belonged to my First, the lover whose heart she owned.

  THE GOVERNOR STANDS BELOW MY SWING. “Elysia, come down at once. Take Mother to her suite to rest. She’s had too much to drink.”

  “Yes, Governor,” I say, as I climb down the ladder the server clones have attached to the swing.

  I try to look over my shoulder for another glance of the Aquine while I have the benefit of height, but he has disappeared. Did I dream him?

  The Governor leads me to Mother, who is arguing loudly with Ivan, and sloppily slurring her words. “Yew are just a mean, mean boy. Yew can’t tell me what I can dew wif my own property-y-y-y, Eye-van-n-n.”

  The Governor intones, “Time for a rest now, dear. I reserved a suite for you at Haven for tonight so you can sleep it off.”

  Mother hiccups. “Don’t wanna miss the sunrise cocktails. Tradition!”

  “We will wake you in time for morning cocktails,” the Governor reassures his drunk wife.

  “And a liter of coffee,” Ivan adds.

  Mother places her hands on my cheeks. “My precious Beta-a-a. Are you to put me to rest?”

  “Yes, Mother,” I say.

  She slurs as she tells me, “Such a sweet girl. I shall mees you sooo when those snobs take yew away.” She is too tired to protest her leaving; she yawns, eager—or relieved—for me to guide her away from the biggest night of the year on Demesne.

  Mother passed out cold within moments of me bringing her to her suite. No one will come look
ing for me for hours. They will be expecting me to tend to Mother.

  Opportunity.

  I must find him. If I am right about him, and if he wants to seek me out in private, there is one place I know he will go—to the pool. I head toward Nectar Bay.

  I sneak outside Haven and take cover behind a thick hedge rimming the gardens. Am I being disloyal to Tahir, seeking out the Aquine? No, I’m not. I need some answers, is all. The Aquine can tell me about my First. Tahir already has the luxury of knowing everything about his. I want the same. I have a pact with Tahir. Nothing—and no one—can interfere with that. Tahir and I will die together rather than fail to achieve it.

  I sprint past the gardens and down to the beach inlet at Nectar Bay. I walk the long dock that leads to the floating pool in the middle of the bay. The plank is festively lit with hundreds of tangerine-colored votive candles lining its edges, giving the violet-blue water below a serene glow. No guests have found their way this far from the club yet. Haven is far enough away that I can only hear the faint murmur of the party going on in the distance, but not so close that the festivities extend this far. I remove my costume’s huntress sandals, sit down at the dock’s edge, and dangle my feet and calves into the pool.

  At last, my body starts to relax, as it always does when it meets the water.

  I wait. He will turn up. I know it.

  I listen to the water lap. I’m trying to think about Tahir and our imminent escape, but my mind keeps wandering back to the Aquine. My imagination decides to go buck wild—buck-naked wild. I envision the Aquine swimming in the pool, a robust butterfly stroke. He swims nude, a vision of glistening male perfection, bronzed and muscled, gliding across the water, swimming the stroke named for an insect, but this chiseled, blond-haired man has the speed and strength of a dolphin. This vision is not my imagination, I feel sure; at some point, my First saw him swim like this.

  Oh, my. Oh! My! That now familiar, never not exquisite shiver passes through my body, a remembrance of what I’ve experienced with Tahir. An extra petite petite mort.