Anew: Book One: Awakened (16 page)

“How’s it going?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Pretty good.” She
gives me a quick rundown on current projects both in the lab and the field.
Unlike me, Gab stuck to the academic route, earning a master’s in
cyber-engineering from M.I.T. before putting in several years with Army Intel.
She’s sharp, tough, and takes no guff from anyone, which is why I recruited
her. Her name’s on the very short list of people who I know I can trust.

As she wraps up, she says,
“Everything okay, boss? You look…different.”

I haven’t slept in thirty-six
hours but I know that isn’t what she means. Both of us have gone a lot longer
without sleep in the field.

“Just some things I need to work
through, nothing for you to worry about,” I tell her. “Anything else I should
know?”

“The usual…only more of it.”

I shoot her a hard look. “How
much more?”

“Can’t say for sure. Right now
it’s mostly rumblings. There were a couple of attempted incursions while you
were away. One through the old subway tunnel under the East River. The other
through a sewage conduit coming south from Yonkers. Neither group made it.”

“What about the coyotes?” I ask.

 Coyotes used to be the guides
who brought illegal immigrants across the border from Mexico. Now they smuggle
the poor and desperate into Manhattan and a handful of other privileged
enclaves. Same idea, different world. For the ever-growing number of people who
have been convicted of one crime or another, often on the flimsiest evidence,
and are therefore denied government benefits, even living like rats in the
bowels of the city, fighting for crumbs, beats trying to survive most anywhere
else.

Gab shakes her head. “At the
first sign of trouble, they ditched the poor schmucks and hightailed it. But
they’ll be back. They always are.”

And the city authorities will be
waiting for them, with no compunction about however many they have to kill in
order to keep the ‘dregs’--as our local media invariably refers to them--from
threatening our pristine island paradise.

Except that here and there a few
will be allowed to slip through, enough to assure that more will keep trying.
So long as they do, the good citizens intent on sleeping soundly in their beds
will look the other way as what remains of individual rights is further
shredded in the name of law and order.

The callousness with which human
beings are deliberately pitted against each other by those with the power to
make that happen disgusts me but a whole lot has to change before that will.

“Anything else?” I ask.

She hesitates but at a look from
me says, “Your name came up at last week’s city council meeting.”

I’m not surprised. Something
about me irks the city’s leaders. It can’t be my charming personality or
congenial nature so it must be my tendency to treat them like the pompous,
self-serving scumbags that they are.

“Let me guess. They know I have
a birthday coming up and they want to throw me a surprise party.”

She snorts. “Only if it’s the
kind that involves tar, feathers, and you getting run out of town on a rail.”

“Sounds uncomfortable. What
then?”

“You gave an interview last
month in which you were quoted as saying that the concentration of wealth and
power in the hands of so few amounts to a form of class warfare. Some on the
council are saying that's incitement to the masses to wake up and fight back.”

“That’s bullshit. The last thing
I want is for more innocent men, women, and children to die just because
they’re trying to improve their lives.”

“I know that, boss, and so does
the council but they don’t care. If they can paint you as a big enough danger
to the status quo, they’ll embolden anyone who wants to take you down.”

“They’re welcome to try,” I say
with a shrug. That’s not bravado. I don’t underestimate threats but I don’t
obsess over them either.

She nods but I can see the
questions lingering in her eyes. Before she can voice them, I say, “I’m going
to hit the pool, then I’ll be in the labs.”

I need to stay busy, otherwise
I’ll go nuts dwelling on the pain of losing Amelia. She’s left me feeling
hollowed out but that doesn’t matter. I’ve done the right thing.

Now all I have to figure out is how to live with it.

Amelia

T
he
woman in the triple full-length mirror looks different from the one I saw
reflected in the golden room. I’ve lost weight since arriving in the city five
days ago. My cheekbones are sharper and there are faint shadows under my eyes.

The palazzo was a refuge of
serenity compared to this island city filled to bursting with places, people,
impressions, and experiences. Every waking moment, I am bombarded by new
sensations. Belatedly, I realize how much my fascination with Ian centered me,
making it possible to cope in a way I didn’t fully appreciate until I had to
manage without it. Without him.

But there are undeniable
benefits to having to rely on myself. I’m slowly discovering my own strength
and learning to trust my own judgment. As confused and lost as I feel at times,
I wouldn’t give that up for the world.

Ouch!

The sharp little pain darts
under my skin, drawing my attention back into the moment.

At once, the young woman
kneeling beside me to pin yet another garment murmurs a quick apology even
though it’s my own inability to stand completely still for hours on end that is
at fault. I manage a smile that I hope reassures her and anyone else who is
watching that she isn’t to blame. Inwardly, I’m having fantasies of running
away to a tropical paradise where all I ever wear is a sarong.

The atelier of Society’s
currently reigning couturier is a tribute to the classical methods of fashion
design and fabrication. No laser fitting machines are to be found in its work
rooms. Instead, they are filled with long wooden tables where earnest men and
women labor diligently under slanting skylights.

No holographic projections show
clients how they would look in this style or that without the need to endure
marathon fittings. Here everything is done in the old way with the disregard of
both time and money that only the most privileged can afford.

Yet it isn’t all bad. I can
appreciate the preservation of classical skills and techniques in a world where
almost everyone wears cookie-cutter garments churned out in robotic factories
where no human input is required. I only wish that I didn’t have to be so
intimately involved in the process.

As though in answer to my wish,
Adele finally calls a halt.

“Enough!”

My grandmother, who has been
observing the proceedings from the comfort of a nearby chaise longue addresses
the man with spiked red hair and extremely pale skin surrounded by a bevy of
assistants, fitters, and general gofers.

Having stood before them for days
in little but my underwear, I’ve become accustomed to their presence. But I
would still be delighted to see the last of them.

“Zosimo,” Adele says, rising,
“everything is exquisite, a true testament to your genius and vision. But
surely we are ready?”

Zosimo--I can’t believe that’s
his real name--heaves a sigh. He walks toward where I am standing on display.
His gait is the distinctive heel-to-toe walk that many of the elite favor. It,
along with the affected lisp that is also considered fashionable, annoy me no
end.

All the same, Zosimo is a
brilliant designer, as he is the first to acknowledge. Taking both my hands in
his, he raises them to his lips.

“Bellithima. Thuch beauty,
beyond compare. My ultimate achievement.” He gives me a glowing smile.

The bevy coos in agreement while
I sag with relief. I have been groomed, dressed, instructed and prepared to
within an inch of my life. My back aches, my feet hurt, and I’m on sensory
overload but I’m
done
. After endless hours of preparation, I am ready to
face Society. With a capital S.

Or am I?

I dress again in the navy blue
suit with a flared skirt and snugly fitted jacket, one of the elegant day
ensembles that Zosimo conjured for me shortly after my arrival in the city. The
final touch is a matching pillbox hat complete with a short veil that arches
over my eyes and just touches the tip of my nose.

I am pinning it in place when
Adele says, apropos of nothing in particular, “Never forget, dear girl, that Society
is a landscape filled with pitfalls and traps for the unwary. The plain fact is
that no one acquires as much as we have without being scheming and ruthless.
And those are our good qualities. You’ll encounter plenty of others far
nastier.”

She imparts this wisdom
matter-of-factly, as she has other morsels over the past few days, not
bombarding me with information but not allowing me to remain in ignorance
either. Little by little, she has built up a picture of the world I am about to
enter that is more than a little ominous. I appreciate her intent but I am
troubled all the same.

“Surely not everyone is like
that?” I suggest.

Edward and Adele certainly are
not but beyond them I remember Ian’s dedication to finding better ways to grow
food in order to prevent conflict, the flashes of tenderness he showed, his
horror at the idea of hurting me--

But I have resolved not to think
of him. As I remind myself several dozen times a day. And even more often at
night when the determination not to think of Ian contains within it the seeds
of its own defeat, leading me from one thought to the next, memories piling
upon each other, my body twisting in the sheets, seeking but unable to find the
relief that it seems only he can provide.

What did he say in the spa? That
before he was done, it wouldn’t be Susannah I was imprinted with, it would be
him? I shiver with the fear, delicious and otherwise, that he is right.

“There are exceptions,” Adele
admits. “But they come wrapped in their own challenges.” She shoots me a look
that makes me wonder how much she has guessed of what happened at the palazzo.

My grandmother has not mentioned
Ian. Not once, not a word. He might as well not exist. Yet he and Susannah were
together for more than two years, as I have learned from Edward. Even if Adele
isn’t aware of my precise legal status, she must have guessed why I awoke in
Ian’s presence.

She is either a paragon of
discretion or she simply sees no purpose in revisiting what she considers to be
a closed chapter in my so far brief but tumultuous life.

At the thought that I may never
see Ian again, my eyes burn. He has not called or contacted me in any way. His
message couldn’t be clearer--he had me and he’s done. I have to accept that and
move on or risk being ground down and destroyed.

Pride is my refuge. I will be
damned if I will waste a moment of the precious life that I have been given
pining for him. To the contrary, I intend to live it to the fullest.

“You have time for a nap before
the performance,” Adele says as we are leaving the couturier. "I suggest
you get some rest.”

I nod but absently. As we
approach the car waiting for us at the curb, I remain preoccupied with my
thoughts, so much so that I don’t immediately notice when a scuffle breaks out
nearby.

A young man darts from between
the passersby, his thin, unshaven face taut with equal measures of fear and
desperation. I have a moment to notice how raggedly he is dressed before the
shrill shriek of whistles followed quickly by the bark of a siren pierce the
quiet of the elegant avenue.

At once, all the workers in their
various monotone uniforms stop moving. As though they have been trained to do
so, they stand frozen in place with their eyes downcast. A large, armored
vehicle bristling with antennae and emblazoned with the words “Municipal
Protection Services” hurtles around a corner. Men in blue uniforms leap from
it.

Several of the more garishly
dressed people who, unlike the workers are under no restraint, shriek and dart
about in an excess of excitement. But most of them only watch with evident
satisfaction as the young man is quickly surrounded, stunned with an electric
prod, and thrown to the ground.

No sooner is he down and
restrained than the police begin kicking him with their steel-tipped boots. He
doubles over, trying to protect himself but to no avail. Hard blows land all
over his body, aimed at his chest, stomach, groin, and head. Bone crunches
sickeningly as blood spurts from his mouth, spraying in droplets through the
air to land only a few feet from where I stand. He cries out in pain.

At the sight of him, the
sheltering cocoon of privilege in which I have existed ever since awakening
tears. The dark reality beneath the glittering façade of the city is suddenly
in front of me, impossible to ignore. Horrified, I step forward.

“What are you doing?” I cry out.

One of the uniformed men turns
toward the sound of my voice but I doubt that he really even sees me, driven as
he is by the unrestrained impulse to lash out at anyone who defies him.

In the same moment, a flicker of
movement draws my attention back to the young man on the ground. Huddled in his
own blood, bruised and battered, he nonetheless lifts his head and stares at me
intently. Unlike his assailants, he does actually see me. For a moment, I look
into brown eyes filled with surprise but also with keen, intelligent
assessment.

“That is quite enough!” My
grandmother’s voice rings out, calmly but with clear authority. Addressing the
officers, she says, “You have your prisoner. Unless you wish to answer to
McClellan Holdings, you will do nothing further to endanger him or anyone
else.”

The name appears to have an
almost magical effect. Abruptly, the officer who an instant before appeared
intent on chastising me, takes in my appearance--the beautiful clothes, the
waiting limousine, and the liveried driver who has reached into his jacket to
draw a weapon, preparing to protect me.

A scowl darkens the officer’s
face. He mutters something under his breath and turns away, barking an order.
The prisoner is hauled to his feet, dragged to the police van, and tossed
inside. Moments later, the vehicle vanishes around the same corner where it
appeared. Except for the spray of blood on the pavement, there is no evidence
that anything happened.

Almost at once, activity in the
vicinity returns to normal. The workers begin moving again, their faces
carefully blank. Excitement still ripples among the others, several of whom
glance at me with mingled curiosity and censure.

I am shaking as I join Adele in
our car. The aftereffects of what I have seen are only just beginning to make
themselves felt. I’m vaguely nauseous and glad that I had only a little
breakfast.

As we pull away, my grandmother
says, “Edward will check on the young man and make sure that he is all right.
In all likelihood, he will be released without charges and just dropped off
somewhere outside the city.”

Staring down at my hands, I take
a deep breath, fighting against a wave of panic. As shocking as it was, what I
have seen is all too familiar.

If there is anything that I
understand, it is that people with unchecked power will inflict pain on others
without a flicker of hesitation or compassion. Yet I still struggle against
accepting that this is the inevitable reality of the world in which I find
myself. Is there truly no escape from it?

Faintly, I say, “Why did those
men act so brutally? Surely, behavior like that shouldn’t be tolerated?”

My grandmother sighs. “You’re
right, of course, it shouldn’t be. But if they hadn’t responded as they did,
you can be certain that some residents who were at the scene would have wasted
no time filing complaints against them. Those police officers could very well
have lost their jobs. They and their families would have suffered.”

Am I hearing her correctly? She
can’t seriously believe that they beat another man almost into unconsciousness
because they were
coerced
into doing so by the presence of witnesses?

“Most of the people at the
scene,” I point out tightly, “were doing their damndest to make themselves
invisible. I can’t imagine any of them daring to file a complaint.”

With a weary nod, my grandmother
says, “I am speaking of residents, my dear, not workers.”

When I continue to look at her,
she explains. “Residents are property owners. They have a considerable
financial stake in the city, both in the investment that they have made in
order to live here and in the taxes they pay. As such, they expect their
interests and well-being to be of the highest priority. Incidents such as the
one you witnessed are deeply troubling to them. They demand a rigorous
response.”

“How was that poor man any sort
of threat?” I ask. “For that matter, why is anyone in this city so ragged and
dirty? With so much wealth, how could anyone be left in such need?”

My grandmother sighs. She is
clearly reluctant to discuss the subject but finally she says, “The young man
you saw is a scavenger. Unlike residents and workers, he and the others of his
kind have no legal right to be in the city. They live in the shadows, surviving
on the food, clothing, and the like that are routinely thrown away. So long as
they remain out of sight, most people prefer not to think about them.”