by Rachel Cohn
Why do we have clones, Zhara?
Here’s why, Dad: Climate change and global austerity measures sent the world into chaos. Rising sea levels caused major cities to sink, and prolonged drought severely drained water supplies. Fossil fuels became extinct. Modes of transportation suffered, severely disrupting the distribution of utilities, particularly water. This caused massive political and civil strife around the world. Billions of people died. Major cities were ruined by environmental and political destruction.
The chaotic era termed the Water Wars ended as environmental engineers devised ways to create energy and resources within the changed world. Some of the old cities were rebuilt on smaller scales, and new cities, like Biome City, were built on previously uninhabitable desert terrain. These new cities were built using cloud technology to modulate weather systems and bring rain.
How come we don’t have these cloud technologies in Cerulea, Zhara?
Because Cerulea’s primary employer, the Uni-Mil, prefers the harsh climate for training exercises at the Base, Dad. The Uni-Mil built an aquatics club in our town instead of letting us have rain. Yes, I know, Dad, the rest of the world gets the cool weather—but we got the only nice pool in the region, and because of the Uni-Mil’s generosity, I get to train to maybe one day dive in the Olympics, the human race’s one consistent connection to its ancient history. Whatever.
Having mastered how to modulate weather systems so that humankind could survive on Earth’s revised terrain, the humans next manufactured clones to usher in the post–Water Wars age, a time of hope and growth that—yes, Dad, I get it—my spoiled generation is too lazy to appreciate. We don’t know the suffering that came before. We grew up with clones to do our work. Clones were the primary labor force for reconstruction after the Water Wars.
“So we are a superior caste of clone?” Catra asks. She doesn’t sound vain—just curious.
“That’s a matter of opinion, not fact. Certainly you all are better-looking,” I acknowledge. “And way more feisty.”
There are so many questions I, in turn, want to ask the Emergents. Aidan was confined to the laboratory compound on Demesne and didn’t see anything else of the island paradise, so he’s useless—and completely lacks enthusiasm—when it comes to learning about how the rich people live on Demesne. But oh, how I want to know. Tell me about the luxury on Demesne! Tell me about the decadent meals, the amazing homes, the soothing sea, everything taken care of by an elite cadre of servants, and…Yeah, maybe these queries are not so appropriate questions to ask of liberated slaves.
A female Emergent who acts as one of the messengers from the mountaintop base the Emergents built on the tallest tip of the island arrives in the mess hall, looking for Aidan. She runs to Aidan’s side. “We’ve received a communication from M-X. The Uni-Mil soldier has been located.”
Aidan stands up to leave. “This is the sign we’ve been waiting for.”
“Will Insurrection be soon?” Catra asks, stabbing at the gizzard on her plate with a knife.
“I hope so,” says Aidan.
“Should I come with?” I ask him.
We both know he doesn’t need me. We both know he wants my companionship any time I offer it.
“Your choice,” says Aidan.
I stand up. “Let’s go. What’s the mission?”
“Race me to find out.”
When I run, there is no one on this island faster than me.
Aidan and I race through the jungle, then past the fields of cuvées, beacons that impel me to run even faster, reminding me: I must be stronger. To run wild—fast, hard, strong—is to be reminded of the privilege of being alive. When I was strung out on ’raxia, I could not run. I was listless, mute, bored. I’ll never allow myself to be that person again. I’ll never let my ’raxia problem cause someone else’s death. Deaths, plural. Never again.
Aidan tries to keep up with me, but the bulk of all his muscles works against him. He’s fast, but I’m more agile. I’m only five or six paces ahead of him, but I relish even that short distance.
I love being chased.
In my previous life, so centered on water sports, I used to let Xander chase me in the pool until I caught him. There’s no race I can’t win when there’s a hot guy in the game with me. But in my need for speed, I don’t notice the fallen tree branch in my path. I trip, and fall—hard—to the ground. Aidan doesn’t proceed with the race as Xander would have, whose genetic imperative was to win any physical challenge, at any cost. Aidan stops and stands over me. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I grunt. I’ll have a big bruise. Not a big deal. “Give me a second and I’ll get up. That was a hard hit.”
“You should return to the Rave Caves. You don’t need to be part of this mission.”
“I’ll at least go as far as the training camp with you. I’ll rest in the tree house after. So what is the mission?”
“We were led to believe a sympathizer from within the Uni-Mil would be coming to assist us. I’m going to round up some of the Emergents to retrieve him with me.”
“Why are you so sure the sympathizer is a he? Maybe it’s me. A she.”
Aidan extends his hand to me. I grab on to it and he pulls me up so I stand next to him, almost pressing against him. I look up into his fuchsia eyes, so pretty next to the black rose aestheticized at his temple. I avert my eyes from the fleur-de-lis burned into the temple on the other side of his face, the symbol of a Demesne clone’s servitude.
The knee I just slammed into the ground hurts like hell, but my heart feels like it’s swelling in another kind of hurt from Aidan’s nearness. The hurt of wanting. Longing, I think it’s called. I remember this knot in my heart so well, too well. It’s what I felt whenever Xander was near.
“You were in the Uni-Mil?” Aidan asks me. I almost think there’s a glint of flirtation in his fuchsia eyes.
It’s so long—close to a year, maybe—since Xander. I want to kiss a guy again. Hold and be held. So much has happened since, but I’ll remember how to do it. Surely kissing a clone is the same as kissing a regular guy. Oh, wait. I’ve never kissed a regular guy. Xander was the only guy I’ve ever been with, and he was a superhuman. Literally. He was an Aquine, genetically engineered for perfection. Xander’s unseen strings of master DNA manifested in physical form through his intoxicating height, sandy blond hair layered by the sun with streaks of white gold, a rock-hard body, and turquoise eyes so deep and pure it was hard to believe they belonged to a mortal man. He was like the living definition of the word swoon.
But I’ve died and been resurrected since Xander. I’ve developed whole new skill sets since then. If I can nab an Aquine, how hard could it be to seduce a freaking clone? Tonight, I decide, after Aidan’s mission—tonight is the night I get back into action. Indoor-sport variety.
“Race you to the training ground,” I say to Aidan and take off, forgetting all about my bruised knee and wounded heart.
The Emergents’ war games are being played in a swamp. Alerted to their location by the sounds of their grunts, Aidan and I find the group of male Emergents covered in mud. They are former construction workers from Demesne, a group of large, imposing men who speak little and fight hard in training. It’s like they live for combat and nothing else. As four men crawl through the swamp, they hoist the body of the fifth member of their mock infantry unit on their shoulders. Their mission: to practice removing a dead or wounded soldier from the battlefield.
I seriously doubt that if an Insurrection happens on the paradise of Demesne—so tranquil it doesn’t even have its own security forces—it would require swamp combat. But these Emergents like to play their games. All they knew on Demesne was the discipline of work, so it’s natural that now that their time is their own, they should transfer that programmed work ethic from construction to sport.
If my drill instructor father were here, he’d throw an obstacle into the soldiers’ path, to make them fall out of formation and drop their uplifted soldier. The
distraction would create chaos, forcing them to foster teamwork, to reassemble and solve the problem. Dad used those same obstacle tricks during my diving training. But the sound of an empty-shelled gun blast did not actually train me to keep my composure during a dive; it taught me to lose it, to never trust—myself, or him.
Aidan pulls aside Cesar, the drill leader. “The Uni-Mil officer we’ve been waiting for is on Mine.”
Mine is an island further down the archipelago. An Emergent who is a healer lives there, alone. In exchange for having the island all to herself, she provides care to escaped clones. On the condition that they leave as soon as they are healed.
“What’s the plan?” asks Cesar.
Aidan says, “We’ll take a boat there to retrieve the officer. All I know about him is that he was serving on Demesne as the Uni-Mil’s representative to the Replicant Rights Commission.”
Cesar says, “He’s helping us? I met him on Demesne. He came to interview us about our working conditions. What was his name…Blackburn, I think? Alexander Blackburn?”
WHAT?
“I’m coming with,” I inform Aidan and Cesar.
One thing I learned from Dad: when you want a mission, truly want it, don’t ask permission.
Just go.
Alexander Blackburn—Xander—is the man who broke my heart back in Cerulea. How the hell did he get to this godforsaken corner of the world?
There can only be one reason.
Xander must have realized the huge mistake he made.
Xander’s come for me!
WHAT’S PAST IS PAST, RIGHT?
Wrong.
My pounding, nervous heart lets me know: I cannot forget the past. I can’t forgive it, either.
This always happens to me. I think I want an epic dare, and then I do it and immediately regret the choice.
Why did I have to volunteer for this retrieval mission?
I should have waited on Heathen for Xander, given myself some time to prepare for seeing him again.
“You’re very quiet,” Aidan says.
“Seasickness,” I lie. Heartsickness. “How much farther?”
“The wind is good,” says Cesar. “We should sight M-X’s island soon.”
I forgot, spending my days in the jungle and my nights in caves, how open the ocean looks and feels. There’s nothing and no one else to be seen, for miles and miles. It’s exhilarating and horrifying. Too much possibility. I know what this ocean can do to stranded travelers, to fools. I know how it can turn on you. I’m so sorry, Reggie and Holly. Will the sadness and terror I feel every time I remember you ever go away?
In the distance, an island comes into view, a small landmass swathed in a forest of trees, giving me an idea of how secluded and remote Heathen must appear from the outside. A speck on a map that no one back in the world cares about.
As our boat approaches the small island, we see a lone figure waving to us from the shore. “There’s M-X,” says Aidan.
“What’s her story?” I ask, desperate for distraction.
Aidan answers, “She was a Demesne clone who had gifts for healing. She was labeled a Defect and subjected to torture instead of expiration. She escaped and chose to remain here. Mine is hers, alone. Her choice.”
“She tended the Uni-Mil officer?” asks Cesar.
“I assume,” says Aidan.
“What happened to him?” I ask. “Was he hurt?” My journey to this reunion—from wilderness camp to the death party, from Demesne to Heathen—has been insane. I can only imagine what could have happened to Xander to land him here, now. He’s been aiding and abetting the clones? He deserted the Uni-Mil? What the hell?
I send a wish across the water: Please let Xander be okay.
Aidan asks, “I don’t know. Why? Were you hoping the human would rescue you from Heathen?” He raises a black eyebrow at me.
“I don’t need rescuing,” I say.
“Of course you do,” says Aidan. His fuchsia eyes assess my frown and he adds, “Not because you can’t care take of yourself. But because when you are wild and impetuous, you allow yourself to end up dead.”
We never land on Mine. From the shore as we approach, the woman called M-X shouts to us, “They’re on the atoll on the other side of this island. You can find them there.”
“They?” Cesar says to Aidan. My question exactly.
Aidan shrugs. “Maybe the officer has more escaped clones with him. We’ll find out when we retrieve him. We don’t have enough daylight hours left to ask M-X more questions now.”
To M-X, Cesar calls back, “We’ll go there now. Are you in need of supplies?”
“I’m in need of not being bothered unless necessary,” M-X calls back. She turns around and walks away, quickly disappearing into the thicket of trees behind the shore.
It’s another half hour sail to the atoll island on the other side of Mine. We know we’ve reached the right place when we see a canoe berthed on the shoreline of a perfect little microparadise of a tropical island: pristine white sand, swaying palm trees in the distance, smooth and relaxing waters.
I feel immediately relieved. Xander’s not wounded. He came here to swim! I know it. The place is too perfect for him to resist.
My hurting heart feels suddenly brighter, happier, pounding with excitement. I hate him, but I’ll never stop loving him, and now he’s here. After all I’ve been through. After all he’s been through. We have so much to discuss, to figure out. Our lives are completely different from the last time we saw each other, but surely our hearts are the same: joined.
I can’t believe I ever entertained the idea of seducing a clone tonight, when my superhuman is about to be returned to me today.
The sailboat approaches the atoll shore and I can’t even wait for Aidan and Cesar to pull the boat onto the sand. XANDER! I SEE HIM! This is not a dream! He’s emerging through the trees, lean and gorgeous, just as I knew he would be. I could not miss that tall, beautiful, genetically perfect man anywhere. I leap out of the boat into the shallow water and run as if my life depended on it, run toward the man who took my heart away once but now is going to give me my heart—and life—back.
“Xander!” I call out.
Wait.
What?
I’m too late. He’s found someone else. He’s holding the hand of another girl.
I run until I meet them at the shore, and then I stop, dead cold, in front of Xander and the girl.
I stare at her.
The girl is me.
The girl whose hand Xander is holding is my clone.
I HAVE TO KILL HER.
That’s my first thought. She’s exactly me, only not me. A fake, an imposter. An outrage I want to see destroyed, immediately.
By the symbols aestheticized on her face—a violet fleur-de-lis on her right temple and a plumed, purple-blue flower vined onto the left side of her face—she’s clearly a Demesne-brand clone. My human emotion right now, boiling in every cell of my still very much alive soul:
RAGE.
MURDEROUS RAGE.
I didn’t die! The ’raxia-induced death party caused my heart to stop, but I woke up! My body was retrieved by pirates and sold as a First, but the attempt to clone me on Demesne failed because I’m a teenager and they don’t make teen clones. Aidan told me so!
So why is my clone standing right here? Her fuchsia eyes—the primary physical distinction between a First and a clone—reflect the anguish I feel. Shock. Confusion.
“Zhara!” Xander exclaims. He drops the girl’s hand and stares at me, equally joyful and horrified. “You’re alive! How is this even possible?” He tries to pull me to him, to hug me, I think, but I recoil from his touch.
I’m not sure whom I want to kill more—him or her.
I can’t even say anything to him, I’m so stunned by the sight of her. My clone has nothing to say, either. The sight of me must be equally as shocking.
“You look so different, Zhara,” says Xander. “What happened? Are you all right?�
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I barely hear him because I can’t stop staring at her. The worst part of my clone’s face? It’s so pretty, so soft in comparison to the horror show I know I must look like by now. Since the last time I’ve seen Xander, I’ve been to hell and back. We made love and then he left me, and I retaliated by becoming a hellbeast to everyone except the one who’d hurt me and gone away. I failed at Olympic trials, got kicked off the cheerlords, and then my own father sent me away when my ’raxia problem got out of hand. I had a death party, was resurrected, and escaped a mad scientist’s compound, taking refuge with escaped clones on an island so feral even the outlaws call it Heathen.
Sorry if I look like crap now. Different. I’ve been busy.
I’ve had no mirror to see myself, but I can feel the leatheriness of my overexposed skin and the brittleness of my overgrown hair, matted and wild from sun and wind. I must look more like a monster than a seventeen-year-old girl by now. Hey! I had a birthday sometime in the last few months. Did anyone back in Cerulea even celebrate? Remember me?
The instinct to murder my clone, who looks so much sweeter and more innocent than I could ever be, temporarily fades as a bizarre thought occurs: My clone and I could make the freakiest synchronized diving pair ever. At last, the gold could be mine.
A sense of appropriateness at times of crisis has never been my strength.
What is the appropriate thing to say to the worst nightmare you didn’t even know you had?
