It’s all still so new to me. My impulse is to drink in every sight and sound but I try to control that. I’ve learned from harsh experience that the sensory overload that results leaves me confused and exhausted.
Although thoughts of Ian are never far from my mind, my mood lightens as I walk. It’s a relief to lose myself in the anonymity of the passing crowd, however briefly. I’ve paused to wait for a light to change when I feel a prickling between my shoulder blades. The familiar sense of being watched descends on me. I experience it regularly yet I can never discover what is causing it. We are all watched virtually all the time both outside and in public buildings but this is different. This feels personal.
Glancing around, I see only residents, who are far too involved with themselves to take any notice of me, and workers. Many of the former are dressed in the fashion of the moment--glaring neon colors, lush fabrics, plumes, and spangles displayed in styles intended to shock, amuse, or titillate. Any reaction is acceptable so long as attention is paid. The fashion faddists affect a pose of aloofness while keeping a sharp eye out for admiring glances. In contrast, the workers are dressed in utilitarian liveries that designate which household or corporation they serve. They keep their faces blank and their gazes averted as they scurry along.
I tell myself that I’m merely jumpy but the sensation of being watched continues until I step inside the elegant building on the other side of the park where Sergei has his studio. As I do so, I hear the soft thud of feet on the floor above accompanied by the sharper rap of the staff that the ballet master uses to beat out time and, when necessary, correct an errant dancer.
I slip into the communal dressing room, take off my outer garments and tuck them away in a locker. I’ve just finished tying on my toe shoes when a gaggle of young dancers enter. They are from the corps de ballet of Sergei’s company and are preparing for a special performance to be given the first night of Carnival. Flushed and sweating in their leotards after what has no doubt been a strenuous work out, they eye me covertly. I can’t really blame them. As Sergei’s only private pupil, I’m bound to attract their curiosity.
My previous attempts at friendliness having failed, I smile at no one in particular and leave the dressing room. Sergei is waiting in the sun-filled studio. The young, intense Russian dance master is almost too good looking with a long, sinewy body packed with muscle, dark golden hair tied at the back of his neck in a small ponytail, and harshly beautiful features. He is brilliant, mercurial, and volatile. None of that troubles me but he is also far too perceptive.
Narrowing his gaze, he says, “Still brooding, I see. If I were staging ‘Anna Karenina’, I would cast you in the lead.”
Ignoring the reference to Tolstoy’s tragic heroine who plunged into a doomed affair that drove her to suicide, I say, “How fortunate then that you’ve settled on ‘Medea’ instead.”
He’s planning a bloody extravaganza--stage blood, I hope--to showcase the fury of history’s most legendary scorned woman. The Russian dance master has a rare ability to hold an audience spellbound while compelling it to witness the consequences of abused powers and broken promises. It’s a favorite theme in his work, one I fully support despite the fact that Sergei himself admits that it’s only a matter of time before he’s made to pay for his candor.
He tilts his head to one side and studies me. “You should be over him by now, whoever he is. If you were properly focused, you would be dancing professionally but instead--” He waves a hand in frustration.
The assertion startles me. I’ve only known Sergei for a few weeks, hardly much time for him to assess my ability. Yet he seems certain.
Positioning myself at the barre, I say, “Thank you but I doubt that’s true.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
What can I say? That however physically adept I may be, I lack the emotional experience that is as vital to dance as are music and movement?
Sergei would rightly want to know how any twenty-two year old could have lived as little as I have. I can hardly explain to him that when I woke a few weeks ago in the garden of Ian’s estate two hundred miles north of the city, I had no idea who I was and only the most scant memories of the time that had gone before, memories I would prefer not to have at all.
Putting that aside, I say, “Don’t you think I’m too pampered and privileged to be capable of the discipline that would require?”
He narrows his gaze. “Are you? That had not occurred to me. But if you think so… “ His staff raps against the bare wooden floor. “Let’s see what you’re really capable of.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
An hour later, my muscles straining and my body damp with sweat, I whirl through the final steps of a grand adage from Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’. My stamina has surprised me but perhaps it shouldn’t. The rigor of dance provides my only relief from thoughts of Ian.
“Good,” Sergei says over the last notes of the music. He looks vindicated. “I knew the first time I saw you dance that you had great potential. Miraculously, whoever trained you in the past didn’t muck it up. Your technique is excellent, your interpretation natural, unfeigned. All you need to do is focus, Amelia.”
Since I can hardly tell him that my ability is only a reflection of the knowledge and skills Susannah gave to me, I remain silent.
Gracefully, he extends his long, muscular arms en bas as though to embrace the studio and all that lies beyond. “Focus and the world can be yours.”
I want to believe him, not because I aspire to dance professionally, I don’t. But I do need to find a purpose, something that will give meaning and structure to my life. I’ve tried to tell myself that there is some benefit in being forced to part from Ian. I am thrown back on my own resources, compelled to become more independent and self-sufficient. Surely, all that can only make me stronger. Yet the pain of being without him remains anguishing.
I reach for a towel and drape it over the back of my neck. Holding onto the ends, I say, “It isn’t that simple--”
He makes a dismissive sound. As much as Sergei embodies the sublime complexity of dance, he sees human relationships in far starker terms. For him, a man and a woman give each other what they need or they go their separate ways.
But what happens when the only way to give what is needed is to part? Does longing cease? Does yearning ever die? How much does the heart have to shrivel before it no longer aches?
With a start, I realize why I don’t want to give up what I feel for Ian. Not because I enjoy torturing myself, far from it. But the pain that has taken up permanent residence inside me is a constant reminder that I am alive. And where there is life, there is hope, however forlorn it may seem at the moment. If I am nothing else, I am the living proof of that.
“Yet again your mind wanders,” Sergei says in exasperation. “Where does it go, Amelia?” Shrewdly, he adds, “Or should I ask, who does it go to? Who is this man who has cast a spell of enchantment over you?”
I can’t help but smile at such a whimsical thought. The first time I saw Ian, moments after I awoke, he seemed so commanding that I fancied he was a prince. I was not entirely wrong though he is a dark one to be sure, hardened by adversity and haunted by his past. I can’t forget that he is the man who left me, collapsed on the floor of his penthouse, stunned in equal measure by his coldly calculated possession and the shattering revelation that accompanied it.
Despite my pleas, that ruthless, implacable man is putting his own life at risk hunting down the fanatics who endanger mine. As much as I want to be strong, to take care of myself, I can’t deny how bereft I would be without Ian’s protectiveness. Surely, I can do no less for him no matter what the cost to me?
Sergei frowns. “You are tired. We will stop.”
I am about to insist that I can continue when I realize that I should not. I have done this before--pushed myself too hard too fast--and suffered the consequences. Given how anxious I am to make up for all the time I lost adrift in the prison of sleep, a certain de
gree of impatience is understandable. But if I am to survive the loss of Ian, I need to pace myself.
“I’ll do better next time,” I promise.
“Or you will think of him again. Go back to him or forget him, Amelia. There is nothing in between.”
Only the chasm and myself hanging suspended above it. I turn away toward the dressing room.
When I emerge half-an-hour later, having showered and changed, another rehearsal is underway. Sergei truly is indefatigable. But he breaks off as I head toward the exit and joins me. Holding the door open, he says, “Are you being picked up?”
The question surprises me. I assume that I leave Sergei’s mind the moment I leave the dance studio. That he would give any thought to my life beyond there is unexpected.
“It’s a beautiful day. I prefer to walk.”
He frowns. “You should be careful.”
I look at him closely. His gaze reveals little but I have come to know him well enough to realize that he is genuinely concerned. “Why?”
“You didn’t notice that there are more police than usual on the streets?”
I was too busy thinking about Ian to do so but I’m not about to admit that.“I’ve been here such a short time, I don’t really know what is usual.”
“Then take my word for it. There are rumors…” He stops, as though suddenly remembering himself. “It’s the Russian in me. We are bred to suspicion. All the same, in this place caution is always called for.”
One of the municipal drones that are constantly on patrol passes overhead, at a level with the upper floors of nearby buildings. It hovers for a moment and moves on. I watch it go as a cloud drifts across the sun, chilling me.
“What kind of rumors?” I can’t help wondering if they have anything to do with Ian. The power he commands and his refusal to use it in blind support of the elite has made him enemies among those who hold high office in the city and beyond. But in the final analysis they aren’t much more than puppets. The real danger lies with those behind the scenes, pulling the strings.
“Most are the usual fear mongering,” Sergei says. “But there are others--” He cocks his head toward the floor and what lies beneath. “Claims of unrest below,” he murmurs, “ alarming our illustrious citizenry and prompting calls for a crackdown.”
I tense at the thought. Life is hard enough for the scavengers without subjecting them to even greater deprivation. Too vividly I recall seeing a young man beaten for no greater offense than having the misfortune to be caught above on the street.
“Surely it won’t go that far,” I say even as I know that I may very well be wrong.
Sergei shrugs. “Just be careful, all right? Stay alert. Don’t let your mind wander.”
“Yes, maître,” I say with a smile, employing his title with only a hint of teasing. I have enormous respect for Sergei even if we don’t see eye-to-eye on the nature of human relationships.
He’s still standing at the door watching me as I go down the steps and outside. While I’ve been inside, the wind has picked up but the day remains invitingly bright. I decide to walk back through the park. On the way to it, I can’t help noticing that Sergei was right, there are more police around. Never mind that they’re referred to as the “protection services” and wear blue uniforms rather than black or camo. Their faces are concealed behind helmeted visors and they grasp deadly weapons positioned across their chests, always at the ready.
I’m relieved to step inside the park, an oasis in the center of the city that is the exclusive preserve of residents. Only a handful of workers--nannies, landscapers, and the like--are permitted here. The almost eight hundred acres encompass lawns, ponds, riding paths, and playing fields including the polo club where Ian and I had a passionate encounter that I recall all too vividly.
Despite my assurances to Sergei, I can’t help thinking about Ian. He’s foremost in my thoughts as I cross the stone Bow Bridge that arches over a picturesque pond. To the south, the magnificent skyline of the city rises but I see only the silver and black spear that is Pinnacle House, the headquarters of Ian’s defense tech company. Is he there now? Does he think of me?
Suddenly feeling shaky, I stop for a moment and lean against the sun-warmed stone of the bridge. A turtle slides off a nearby rock into the water. Ducks glide by. In the distance, children are laughing.
The sound pierces me, evoking thoughts of the childhood I never had even as I am swept by longing I cannot bear to acknowledge, involving as it does a future with a man I long to love with all my heart and the children we cherish together.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. When I open them again, the world glistens behind a sheen of tears.
How absurd! I have far better things to think about. The Crystal Ball, what I’ll be wearing, all the fascinating people I’ll be meeting with their inane chatter and calculated smiles. The men I will dance with because it’s expected and fend off because I have no interest in any of them. The relief I will feel when I can finally leave and crawl back into my empty bed.
My gaze turns once again in the direction of Pinnacle House. I’m entertaining the thought that I am doomed to long for Ian forever when a flutter of movement nearby catches my eye. A metal grate concealed by bushes rises with a soft creak, followed quickly by two small heads. Children. Dirty, ragged, and definitely not laughing.
As I stand, frozen in place, they scamper out, run to a nearby trash bin, and begin searching through it. They move quickly, pulling out a half-empty bag of popcorn, a partially eaten hotdog, and, to their apparent glee, a box that rattles with a few stray candies. One of them is a boy of perhaps seven and the other a girl several years younger. They look enough alike to be brother and sister, although it’s hard to be sure given the layers of grime.
While still searching the trash, they begin stuffing food into their mouths, swallowing without hardly pausing to chew. They’re gulping it down as though they know it can disappear at any moment.
I’m wondering what I can do, how I can help them when they suddenly become aware of my presence.
At once, the boy steps in front of the little girl. Clearly intent on protecting her, he glares at me and raises his small fists.
I stare at the children. They are so thin! And so frightened. Under the grime, their skin is pale, as though too rarely exposed to the sun. Yet despite all that, they are defiant, not yet ground down by their cruel circumstances. The thought that they see me as any kind of threat is horrifying.
I do the only thing I can think of and press a finger to my lips in what I hope they will recognize as both a warning and a promise to keep silent.
For a long moment, the children gaze at me in wary disbelief. Only when I remain unmoving, not calling for help or sounding an alarm, do they finally act. Grasping the little girl’s arm, the little boy runs for the safety of the tunnel they emerged from. As they disappear back into the darkness, the metal grate clangs shut behind them. No sign remains of their presence except the abandoned bounty from the trash bin.
My legs are shaking. I have to lean against the side of the bridge. Waves of shock and disgust surge through me. I’ve been in the city for a month. I’ve seen enough to know what is going on. But nothing, not even the beating that I witnessed, has hit me like this. Children! There are children down there, which means there are probably also babies. I cannot bear to think of that but I can’t turn away from it either.
I know what it’s like to be trapped and helpless. To be subjected to cruelty made all the worse for being coldly impersonal. To be denied even the most basic humanity. But in my case at least I was assumed to have some value, even if it was only to be gutted and harvested so that another could live.
Odd how things worked out. The woman I was supposed to save is dead and I am here, Susannah’s version of the ultimate make-over, struggling to adapt to this strange new world.
The tinted glass of the chamber gives the liquid within it a blue-green hue. I am floating in a sea as ancient in its comp
osition as the vastly larger one where life itself began. Long, undulating ribbons run from my body to points around the walls of the chamber. Nourishment passes through then, oxygen is provided, waste is removed, muscles are stimulated--painfully. Time passes, endless, empty, tormenting time.
Bile rises in the back of my throat at the memory and the others like it that I’m not supposed to have yet cannot escape. I wrench my inner gaze from the nightmare that still lives in me and stare at the remnants of discarded food that the children abandoned. In this perfect world where nothing matters more than appearance that evidence of their presence is likely to attract attention. Rather than risk anyone discovering the grate and sealing it--or worse tossing a grenade down it--I pick the trash up and put it back in the bin before I move on.
Chapter Two
Ian
There’s blood on my hands. I thought I’d been more careful than that but hell, it’s not as though it’s the first time. It wouldn’t have happened if the idiot head of the Human Preservation Front hadn’t surfaced from his drug-enhanced stay in a sensory deprivation tank, mistaken me for some monster from his twisted id, and made a move on me. Last one he’ll be managing for awhile.
Apparently, you don’t need much in the way of brains to run a terrorist organization responsible for killing well over a hundred people and blowing up billions of dollars worth of scientific research. All in the name of preserving humanity, of course.
Asshole’s lucky I didn’t wring his neck, I’m in that foul a mood although I shouldn’t be. Everything’s gone well. Hunt down the HPF crazies who declared an all-out war on replicas. Check. Stress them with a combination of drugs and deprivation until they tell me everything I want to know. Check. Clean up whatever’s left. Check.
Staying busy and productive has kept me from thinking about Amelia as much as I would otherwise. As it is, she doesn’t go through my mind more than a thousand or so times a day. Each and every memory of her is a punch to my gut. In the ten days since we were last together, the pain of missing her has become as constant as breathing. Weirdly, I’m glad of it. In a strange way, it makes me feel as though we are still connected. Pathetic, I know, but it’s all I’ve got.
Anew: Book Two: Hunted Page 2
