Anew: Book One: Awakened (7 page)

I’ve been thirsty for hours but
just then I realize how dry my throat really can be. He frightens me but at the
same time I’m swept by the memory of how he felt pressing me against the column
on the balcony as the rain washed over us both. In the bed when he slid up my
length to thrust my own taste into my mouth. And above all, how he felt inside
me, stretching and filling me. How my body clenched all around him and how I
soared, shattering into a thousand fragments before returning safely in his
arms.

My face flames. If he looks in
my direction, I am certain that he will know at once what I am thinking. I
needn’t worry. He ignores me completely and speaks to the leader.

I can’t hear what is said but
abruptly the armed men disperse, withdrawing back toward the tree line. Apparently,
they are his men, at his command.

My relief is short-lived. I have
just enough time to get myself under some semblance of control before he walks
toward me. I brace myself for whatever he may say or do.

His gaze rakes over me as he
asks, “Are you injured?”

I shake my head but that doesn’t
seem to satisfy him. My throat is so dry that the effort to speak is painful.
All I can manage is a faint, “No.”

He jerks his head toward the
vehicle. “Get in.”

My mouth tightens but I won’t
waste what little energy I have left arguing. As I settle into the seat, he
bends close to me, fastening the safety harness as though he doesn’t trust me
to do it for myself. His knuckles brush against my nipples. They are rigid with
fear, cold, and something more that I don’t want to admit even to
myself--arousal. He stares at me for a moment but says nothing.

We make the trip back to the
palazzo in silence. I gaze out the window at the rapidly passing landscape and
remind myself again and again that I can’t afford to show any weakness before
this man. He already thinks that I have no will of my own. The last thing I
should do is give him any more reason to believe that.

When we have finally
drawn to a stop in front of the main entrance, Ian
steps out, comes around the front and yanks open the passenger door before I
can get the safety harness undone. He unfastens it for me and steps back.

“Get out.”

I do so but the moment my feet
touch the ground, I keep going. Every instinct that I possess tells me to put
some distance between us.

Even so, I can’t resist the
impulse to say over my shoulder, “Thanks so much for calling your goons off.
When you’re in the mood, you can enlighten me as to why they’re here in the
first place. In the meantime, please tell Hodgkin that I’d like something to
eat. In my room. Alone.”

My voice is little more than a
croak but I think I’ve made myself clear. I don’t linger to see his reaction
but march straight toward the front of the palazzo--

The world suddenly revolves. I’m
no longer standing. Instead, I’m draped over one of Ian’s broad shoulders. His
arm is wrapped firmly around my upper thighs. When I cry out in mingled
surprise and outrage, I feel a sudden, sharp sting on my posterior.

He didn’t! He wouldn’t…!

“I don’t know what the hell
Susannah was thinking,” he says as he strides into and through the soaring
entry hall. “Or maybe I shouldn’t blame her. The whole replica process is so
new. Maybe something went wrong. What was supposed to produce a nice, compliant
female produced you instead.”

Apparently for no better reason
than his own frustration with this possibility, he delivers another stinging
slap to my bottom.

I cry out and kick at him but
before I can land a blow, we’re in the library and he’s dropped me
unceremoniously onto the large leather couch.

Standing over me, he says, “My
men aren’t goons.” He sounds truly offended on their behalf. “They’re an elite
security force and you’re damn lucky they were available to find you. What were
you thinking of, running like that?”

I straighten up quickly and
glare at him. No way is he going to put this on me.

“What did you expect me to do?
No matter what you want to believe, I’m a human being. I have a mind and a will
of my own.” With all the scorn I can muster, I add, “This idea you have that
I’m a piece of property is nothing short of repellant. You do not own me. No
one can. Not ever.”

He frowns, prompting a flicker
of hope that he might just possibly understand. It’s dashed a moment later when
he says, “We can debate the finer points of the law at another time. Lift up
your hair.”

“What?”

He reaches into a drawer of his
desk and pulls out what looks like a metal collar about two inches wide and set
with multi-colored diodes. At a press of his thumb, it springs open.

Instinctively, I recoil. “What
is that?”

“It’s a tracking device. I was
advised to use it for the first few days after you woke but I decided not to.
Clearly, that was a mistake.”

He comes closer, carrying the
thing.
I stare at it in horror.

“It will also monitor your
physical well-being. If you’re hurt, I’ll know and I won’t be left to wonder
how to find you.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “I could accomplish the same
with an implant which, with the benefit of hindsight, I should have done. But
this has an added feature. If you try to leave the grounds, you’ll be
temporarily disabled by an electrical shock.”

His gaze hardens. Quietly, he says,
“You’ll want to avoid that.”

A wave of nausea moves through
me. Without taking my eyes from what instantly becomes the gleaming metal
symbol of the helplessness that I am determined to never experience again, I
say, “You aren’t putting that on me.”

Weighing the collar in his hand,
he says with lethal softness, “You must know that you can’t stop me.”

I do know and because I do, I shudder.
He’s far bigger and stronger than I am. Worse yet, whatever imprinting or
conditioning I received predisposes me to want to accept his control over my
body, to yield everything to him. But I’m more than the sum of all that, as he
is about to discover.

“Perhaps I can't,” I acknowledge.
My mouth curls in disgust. “But you should know that I won’t make it easy.
Before I give in, you’ll have to seriously damage what you think of as your
property.”

I spit the last word, leaving no
doubt as to how profoundly wrong he is to regard me in any such way.

I tell myself that I’m prepared
for any reaction from him but that turns out not to be the case. A shadow moves
behind his eyes and as it does, he transforms. The ruthless anger and
determination that truly frighten me vanish. In their place, I see a man who
looks genuinely appalled, even horrified by the prospect that he will have to
hurt me in order to get what he wants.

I can’t help but gape. The
change is as dramatic as it is inexplicable but there is no doubting that it is
real.

His hand lowers. He takes a deep
breath, drops the revolting collar on his desk as though it is suddenly burning
him, and goes over to the small fridge under the bookcase. He returns with a
bottle of water.

“Drink.”

I don’t even think of refusing.
As parched as I am, the water is beyond delicious. I finish the entire bottle
without pausing to breathe. At the same time my mind is racing.

I’ve just learned something
important. Ian isn’t simply adverse to hurting me. The mere thought of doing so
almost literally sickens him.

A little of the coiled tension
that has held me on a knife’s edge all day eases.

He stares at me with a look of
intense wariness before he appears to come to a decision. Taking a deep breath,
he says, “I’ll forego the collar if you’ll give me your word that you won’t run
again or do anything else to endanger yourself.”

I can’t conceal my shock.
“You’ll take my word?” How does that fit with the idea that I have no will of
my own?

“Is there some reason why I
shouldn’t?”

“No,” I assure him quickly.
Sensing that I have the advantage, I add, “I’ll give you my word not to run
provided I have your word that you won’t give me any reason to want to do so.”

I’m thinking not of what passed
between us in the night but of the Cabinet of Secret Delights. Distantly, in
the back of my mind, I feel a dark, erotic pull in its direction but I am not
remotely ready to confront that.

Ian stares at me for a long moment. Slowly, he nods.

Ian

T
hud!
Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

The punching bag shudders under
my fists. Sweat flies in all directions. My heart is pounding, my lungs burn.
Normally, I would have stopped before now but nothing has been remotely normal
since the moment Amelia awoke yesterday.

What the hell was I thinking?
That I could tell her so bluntly who she is and she’d be fine with it? ‘You’re
a replica, you have no free will, and by the way, I own you’.

Why didn’t I anticipate how
traumatized she’d be and what she might do as a result? I have a responsibility
to protect her. So far I’m doing a piss poor job.

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

The two thousand acres of
untouched nature preserve that surround the palazzo are a rare treasure but
they contain more than a few dangers. Now that it’s spring, migratory black
bears, Canadian wolves, and bobcats are passing through, most of them
aggressive young males looking for mates. If she’d had an encounter with any
one of those--

Then there are the cliffs and
steep ravines, the swiftly running rivers and streams that can topple anyone
trying to ford them, the endless opportunities to trip over a gnarled root or
rock and twist an ankle, becoming incapacitated-- She could so easily have been
hurt or worse.

And that’s before I even get to
the potential threat from the greatest danger of all--humans.

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

A backlash against the existence
of clones and replicas is growing, made all the greater by the fear that
technology is challenging the essence of what it means to be human. Anger has
ratcheted up among those from whom the march of progress has brought only a
crushing sense of no longer being either needed or relevant. Not surprisingly,
some want to destroy what they regard as a threat not merely to themselves but
to the very existence of humanity.

If Amelia had encountered any of
them--

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

I close my eyes, still punching,
and see her standing in the clearing, surrounded by my men. She was obviously
terrified--how could she be otherwise when she had no idea who they were or
what they intended? But she kept her head up and she didn’t give an inch.

Again in the library, she faced
me down, refusing the collar, letting me know what I can do with any idea of
her being my property. I haven’t seen very many displays of courage to equal
that. She is brave but she is also maddeningly stubborn and defiant…not to
mention beautiful, passionate, incredibly responsive… My groin tightens. I
ignore it and keep up the hard, relentless rhythm.

Don’t give her any reason to
run.

At least not any more reason
than I’ve already done.

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

Finally, I’ve had enough.
Stripping off the gloves, I head for the shower. The down rush of ice cold
water helps. So do fresh clothes and a shave. I feel marginally more in control
of myself as I return to the library intending to take refuge in work. The strands
of Debussy’s
Reverie
coming from the music room stop me.

For a moment, I’m catapulted
back in time. The piece was one of Susannah’s favorites. She played it often.
But it isn’t Susannah sitting at the polished black grand piano in the
high-ceilinged music room flooded with late afternoon light.

Amelia’s long, exquisite legs
extend beneath the hem of the short pleated black skirt she’s wearing with a
softly draped ivory silk blouse. I can’t help but be struck by her natural
elegance. She is the personification of a particular male fantasy to which I am
definitely not immune. A perfect lady in the drawing room, or in this case the
music room, and a perfect--not whore, she’s not remotely that--but a perfect
sexual partner behind closed doors.

Inevitably, my body hardens yet
again. That’s getting to be my perpetual state whenever I’m around her. Oh,
hell, why not admit it? I don’t have to be anywhere near her. Just a stray
thought about her is enough to get me going.

Her head is tilted to one side,
the fall of her chestnut hair partially obscuring her features. But I can see
that she looks pensive and somewhat sad as her fingers move over the keys. She
plays beautifully, imparting genuine feeling to the dreamlike piece. I have to
wonder why she isn’t enjoying it more.

As though sensing my presence,
she looks up. Her cheeks flush softly, affording me a small measure of
satisfaction. She may reject certain aspects of our relationship but she isn’t
by any means immune to the intensity of whatever this is between us.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I
say, walking farther into the airy, high-ceilinged room. “You play
beautifully.”

She shakes her head. “Susannah
played beautifully, that’s obvious. I’m just some sort of recording.”

Her bitterness is unmistakable
but beneath it I sense an undercurrent of fear. For all her insistence to the
contrary, she still harbors doubts about herself as an individual able to make
her own choices.

I don’t question my sudden need
to comfort and reassure her. “Perhaps with that piece but what about with
another? Something that Susannah didn’t play?”

She looks at me, her eyes filled
with need so stark that it makes the underused organ in my chest constrict.
“What are you saying?” she asks.

I lean against the side of the
piano and study her. The tips of my fingers hold the memory of how it felt to
stroke her all over from the softness of her lips parting when I thrust my
thumb into her mouth and told her to suck to the hot, enticing wetness between
her legs that made me shake with the need to be inside her. I swear that I can
still hear her breathy moans, feel her arch under me, smell her arousal…

Fucking her senseless should
have taken the edge off. Instead, all it’s done is make me want her more. I
grit my teeth against the sudden image of her spread out on the piano, that
silky little blouse ripped open, her skirt hitched up around her waist, my cock
thrusting into her.

“You’re staring,” she says.

Her blush deepens as she speaks,
drawing me up short. I have to hope that she’s still too innocent to have any
inkling of what’s going on in my head. I sure as hell don’t want her to know
how susceptible I am to her. After only one night in her bed, I’m up against
the stark reality that she effects me as no other woman has ever done.

The differences between her and
Susannah are striking. Aside from the dissimilarities in their natures, the
play of expression across her face, her body language, even the timbre of her voice
make it impossible to confuse her with the woman she’s supposed to be a copy
of. I don’t understand how that can be but neither can I deny how uniquely
herself she is.

Determined not to let her see
how bewildered she makes me feel, I shrug. “It’s hard not to stare. You’re very
lovely. But to answer your question, Susannah only played classical music. Why
don’t you try something different? Jazz or blues or the fusion of techno and
neo-classical that’s popular these days? Choose a piece and make it your own.”

I can that see the idea appeals
to her. She’s suddenly brighter, even hopeful and that in turn pleases me. I
show her the link on a nearby table.

During my years in the Special
Forces, I had a miniaturized version implanted in the mastoid bone directly
behind my right ear, always ready to spool operational data, report my life
signs, and so on. When I came out, so did it. Having that thing in my head was
just too intrusive. Plus there was always the risk of being hacked.

The civilian fad for such
implants took a big hit following the mass suicides of 2031 triggered by a
virus transmitted in a routine software update. Lawsuits from that incident are
still wending their way through the courts.

Neither one of us is surprised
to discover that Amelia already knows how to use this particular piece of
technology, the most ubiquitous in our civilization. Within minutes, she’s called
up a wide range of sheet music from a variety of genres.

“You can print out whatever you
want,” I remind her. “But you’ll probably find it more convenient to just
project it.”

She nods but I can tell that her
attention is already elsewhere. I’ve lost out to Dizzy Gillespie, George
Gershwin, Paul McCartney, Balo Kensa and the like but I don’t mind. Her smile
is recompense enough--for the moment.

Leaving her to it, I return to
the library where, a short time later, I hear the opening notes of a jazz syncopation.
I can’t help but grin. The piece is utterly unlike anything that Susannah ever
played. Clearly, technical ability was part of Amelia’s imprinting but the
sensibilities she brings to the music are entirely her own. Something more to
ponder.

By evening, she’s tried out
numerous genres but seems to have settled on 20
^th
century jazz. I
interrupt long enough to suggest that she join me for dinner but when she
declines I don’t press it. Hours later, when I stretch out on the couch in the
library, she’s still in the music room, lost in what she’s discovering about
herself.

I don’t expect to sleep. Just
knowing that she’s nearby is enough to give me a perpetual hard-on. I could do
something about that but the idea of interrupting her doesn’t seem right and jerking
off has zero appeal. Despite my uncomfortable state, I drift off listening to
the melodic twists of another jazz piece.

I wake in a cold sweat. It’s
late, the music has stopped, the only light comes from a small shaded lamp near
the couch. But I can still see Amelia, broken and anguished, staring at me with
pain-filled eyes.

The nightmare is so vivid that
for a horrible moment I’m afraid it’s real. It doesn’t fade until I rise,
forcing myself to breathe deeply, and throw open the doors leading out to the
gallery. Fresh, cool air helps to clear my head but makes my thoughts all the
darker.

The images in my mind won’t let
go. If I had tried to force the collar on her, she would have fought me with
all her strength. I want to believe that faced with such resistance, I would
have relented before she could have come to any harm. But I don’t have the same
trust in myself that I had a day ago. As much as I loathe admitting it, the
control that I’ve fought half my life to achieve has been shaken simply by her
existence.

Deep inside, the thought stirs
that the right thing to do for both our sakes would be to make other
arrangements for her. But the instant that crosses my mind a rush of fierce
possessiveness burns it away. However all this happened, she is mine and she is
damn well going to stay that way. I’ll just have to make sure that I keep her
safe, including from the darker aspects of my own nature.

I go back to work. It’s been my
salvation since I was old enough to figure out what I’m good at. In the hours
that follow, I consider a range of projects that will further strengthen my
company’s position in a world where no amount of technological progress seems
able to stop the endless struggles for power and resources.

Fortunately, that seemingly
unchangeable fact of human nature creates opportunities for those ruthless
enough to seize them. I may even manage to do some good along the way.

I lose track of the passing
hours and scarcely notice when morning comes. I’m on a video call with Shanghai
when Hodgkin appears.

He stands at the door of the
library and says, “I thought you should know, sir. Miss Amelia is awake but she
declined breakfast. I believe she has gone to the studio.”

The studio, not the music room?
I take that to mean she is continuing her efforts to discover what Susannah
gave to her. But she isn’t eating. That won’t do.

“Thank you, Hodgkin. I’ll check
on her.”

“Very good, sir.”

I delay a few minutes because I
don’t want to admit to myself how urgently I need to see her. But the sun has
barely edged over the red-tiled roofs of the palazzo when I cross the garden to
the wing where the studio is located.

The room was designed to
resemble the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, a long rectangular space with a
high, frescoed ceiling, polished parquet floors and a mirrored wall looking out
over the gardens. As I near it, I hear the soft thud of feet.

Amelia is dancing. She’s wearing
a pale pink leotard and white tights that together hug almost every delectable
inch of her. Her hair is wound into a bun pinned at the back of her long,
slender neck. Every movement she makes is graceful, ethereal, perfect. She
looks intent and--I am infinitely glad to note--not in the least sad.

I step back from the door,
unwilling to disturb her but I stay where I can see her reflection clearly. As
she spins into a series of quick rotations that carry her part-way down the
length of the studio, I am held spellbound.