Dementia and Tahir are a few paces behind as we step from the sailboat that brought us here onto the cove’s sandy beach. “I am sorry you don’t like me, Farzad,” I say. I am not sorry, but my language abilities are programmed to respond appropriately and comfortingly to human verbal cues. “How shall I keep Dementia entertained?”
“I want to take Tahir out on some baby waves here. You stay with Dementia so she doesn’t bother us. I promised my aunt and uncle someone would keep an eye on Dementia if she was allowed to hang out with us today.”
“Tahir is not allowed to surf,” I remind Farzad. Actually, Tahir is supposed to say he is not allowed to surf or play Z-Grav, but only because that’s a logical course for someone with his First’s injuries. Clone Tahir can participate just fine.
“Tahir is not allowed to surf the gigantes,” Farzad asserts. “These waves here are nothing.”
“What if he does not want to surf?” I ask. The boys are carrying boards to the beach, but the intention (at least as promised to Tariq and Bahiyya) had been for Dementia and Farzad to go wave riding this afternoon, not Tahir and Farzad. Greer and Ivan did not join us this afternoon as their families are busy preparing for the upcoming Governor’s Ball.
“Of course he will want to. Tahir lives for the dare.”
“Lived for the dare,” I correct Farzad. “That was before. Maybe now he’s different. Maybe now he’d rather not.”
From behind us, Dementia and Tahir have stopped walking to remove some seaweed that’s attached to her feet, and so, out of their earshot, Farzad shoots me a look of pure hatred and says, “You don’t know him, Beta. How dare you be so bold? You’re nothing. Created to be some island whore. Don’t tell me what my cousin should and should not be doing.”
What I could tell Farzad: his Beta cousin and I have spent the last four days and nights wrapped up in each other through endless games of LoveStory. We’ve walked hand in hand with the earliest humanoids across the land bridge that once connected Asia to North America. We’ve climbed Mount Vesuvius in ancient Italy in the time before its mighty volcanic destruction. We’ve danced with kings and queens and chatted with the great philosophers in Renaissance-era parties. We’ve strolled along the Seine in Paris wearing berets and eating croissants, stopping to model for Jazz Age painters. We’ve thrashed in the mosh pit of CBGB’s in New York City while the Ramones played onstage. We’ve made out through the night while snuggled together in a sleeping bag inside an igloo perched on an ice floe that’s broken off from land and floated out into the ocean during the time of the Water Wars. We’ve gone night dune riding on the outskirts of Biome City as the stars in the sky above spelled out TAHIR + ELYSIA. We’ve merged the complicated LoveStory with the simplicity of Z-Grav as we’ve risen through space together for hours on end, the goal of the game changed not to reach the ground but for our hands and lips to attach to one another as much as possible, whether we are on the ceiling or floating through the middle of the room or while literally bouncing off the walls.
We are Betas, freaks of nature, but that’s okay, great even—because we share it. We reckon that since we are biological mates of a sort, we should therefore behave as physical ones too. And we accomplished all this without the bothersome courtship rituals that humans have to go through: Does he/she like me, or like-like me? Should I risk my heart letting him/her know how I feel? What if I’m no good at this? You’re pretty.
But something is still missing. I feel our connection; Tahir experiences it. Farzad will probably be in possession of the drug that could bridge that gap. I’ve counted on that today; it’s why I encouraged Tahir to accept Farzad’s invitation.
Why should I always be a good girl? That routine is old; boring. I was so stupid when I first emerged, so naïve and eager. Maybe it’s a sign I’m starting to turn Awful, but I plan to get Tahir to disobey his father’s order for him not to take ’raxia. It is time we took charge of our own destinies, like grown-ups. Tomorrow I will be returned to the Bratton household. Today, we must live.
More and more, I understand Tariq and Bahiyya’s desperate adult need for Tahir to feel the way they do. I want him to feel the way I do, not just mimic.
If we’re going to die, I want us to die sharing something real first.
I tell Farzad none of this. Instead, I look down at the sand and murmur, “Okay.”
Farzad quickly finds out what I could have told him to begin with: I was right.
Tahir does not want to ride the baby waves. He wants to kick a soccer ball around on the beach with the girls. He meant it when he told Farzad his surfing days were over, and not just because of doctor’s orders. “I’ve emerged a new guy since the accident,” Tahir says to Farzad, but looking at me. “I want a new sport. Football is the sport of the people. Surfing is for privileged, elitist boys.” He is repeating information from his database, but only I know this; the others think Tahir is expressing his opinion.
Dementia’s eyes seem to almost bug out of their eye sockets as she raises a fist in solidarity. “Yeah! I like the new Tahir!”
I like watching shirtless Tahir’s taut stomach muscles flex and ripple as he runs across the beach and kicks through the sand. If he were out in the water, my view of him would be nearly as good. I’ve gotten so used to having him so near. How will I survive once I return to Governor’s House?
Farzad glances at me as if Tahir’s new attitude must be my fault. “Whoa, Tahir. How much pain medication are you on, anyway?”
“None,” says Tahir.
“’Raxia to the rescue!” Dementia calls out, as she goes to pull out a few pills from her tote bag.
Finally, opportunity.
Farzad sulks. “He thinks he’s too cool for that too, now. And my aunt and uncle were very specific that Tahir was only allowed out with us today so long as no one—Dementia—indulges in the ’raxia those irresponsible teens love.”
“So what,” says Dementia. “Let’s have some fun. This is pure high-grade ’raxia, not that weirdo steroid mix Ivan makes. This is the good stuff.”
Tahir looks my way and we have one of those knowing moments that we’ve seen Tariq and Bahiyya share. I lean over to whisper in his ear. “If ’raxia can make us feel, maybe it can also guide us toward circumventing the Awfuls?”
Tahir nods at Farzad. “Yes,” Tahir says. “We shall try the pure high-grade ’raxia.”
Farzad throws his hands up. “Who do I appease here? My bro-man, who needs the ’raxia, clearly, or my aunt and uncle.”
Dementia says, “Your bro-man!”
Farzad says, “Let’s do this.”
I do not understand the human teens’ love for this drug. All it does is sedate them. Dementia and Farzad come from the most privileged families in the world. They lie on their sides on surfboards to stare at one another as they fall into ’raxia bliss; their tanned, beach-attired bodies reveal them to be healthy, fit, and beautiful. The world practically belongs to them. These teens could do anything they wanted instead of just what others tell them to do. Instead, they choose to lie still on the sand, their eyes half closed, their lips slightly upturned into contented smiles.
“Your aesthetic is awesome,” Farzad murmurs to topless Dementia.
“No, your aesthetic is awesome,” Dementia murmurs to Farzad, who has forsaken his usual board shorts for a tight pair of black swim briefs that reveal his endowment to be of an aesthetic Dementia apparently finds pleasing.
They latch index fingers from across the sand and soon fall into a lazy-hazy sleep.
Tahir and I sit on the sand nearby them, tossing the soccer ball back and forth. This pure high-grade ’raxia has had no effect on us. We each took a pill, but perhaps we are too Beta to respond to the real thing. So far.
Tahir reaches over to tickle my feet. “‘Your aesthetic is awesome,’” he mimics.
I lean over to press the funny bone on his knee, causing his foot to momentarily fly up. “‘No, your aesthetic is awesome,’” I say.
Some c
harge of something passes between us in this moment, something indefinable and untouchable but very real. I feel it, weirdly, in my heart. A pang of wanting. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he feels it too.
“Maybe the ’raxia really is working?” Tahir says. “Something feels different. I am not sleepy like them. I feel—something. Not mimic excited but truly excited. How strange. My heart, it is surging.”
“Mine too!” I am starting to feel so…alive. Tingly, awake, exuberant. This ’raxia that doesn’t have Ivan’s chemicals mixed in indeed feels like it’s awakening me to something bigger and brighter than anything I’ve experienced before. I feel more than so, so good. I feel great. I look at Tahir. I feel hungry. For boy.
Tahir’s hazel eyes light up again, as they were the last time he did ’raxia. I see in them: lust. This is no FantaSphere fake. His eyes reflect urgent want.
Tahir crawls closer to me and places his hands on my shoulders. He strokes. I put my hands around his head to pull his face closer to mine. I feel my pulse rate rapidly rise and my heart clench—fluttering is the word I believe the humans use. Suddenly, I need Tahir next to me, on me, now. The urgency is unexpected and visceral. Tahir must feel it too, because his lips press into mine, but this time his kiss is hard and needy instead of soft and exploratory. It’s as if we are back inside another game of LoveStory all over again, except now we’re out in the world, and time and space are real, and this time there are stakes involved way beyond mere experimentation.
Tahir’s tongue finds its way into my mouth, lightly tracing my teeth before sweetly coiling itself around my tongue. Wow wow wow! For a quick second, he pries his lips from mine and murmurs aloud what I am thinking—“Wow!”—and then his lips reattach to mine. I want this moment to never end, but I also need it to accelerate. I need more than a kiss. Tahir presses his torso into mine as I surrender into the sand, loving the feel of his weight on mine. I trace my hands through the parts between the braids that run along his scalp before my hands venture down, softly scraping his bare back with my fingernails. Something else is different from our FantaSphere LoveStory sessions this time. For all our kissing and caressing during the previous week, the bodily sensations have never progressed to this point.
And then came pure high-grade ’raxia.
His hands reach behind my back to untie the string of my bikini top. Once untied, I fling the top off and onto the sand and then immediately return my hands to his body. My fingers go beneath his board shorts, wandering below his chest for the first time, toward his pelvis. His bare chest presses against my breasts and I now understand how and why the humans try for that aesthetic of two hearts beating as one. We’ve found it. Thump-thump. Such sweetness, it’s almost unbearable!
But Tahir stops. He removes himself from my body and falls onto his back next to me. His beautiful face looks flustered. He reaches to touch my hand.
“It’s weird with Farzad and Dementia right there,” he whispers.
I pull his palm to my lips to kiss it. Then I stand up, pulling him up to his feet along with me. “Come on!”
I run down the beach to the water and dive in. Tahir follows.
We swim and swim, not stopping until we’re nearly out of sight range of sleeping Farzad and Dementia. For the first time, I understand the humans’ obsession with Io’s water. It is pure magic gliding over my skin, luxurious and exquisite. I could understand the compulsion to kill, to protect access to this heaven-sourced water.
Our feet sink into the shallow seabed while the violet water laps over our bodies and our lips lead us back to each other. Tahir’s hands press against my bottom as he lifts my body. I wrap my legs around him as our bodies press together. I hold on to him tight and cannot seem to stop kissing him—his neck, his cheek, his forehead, his eyelids that close over First Tahir’s eyes. I want to drink in every inch of his flesh. My thirst feels unquenchable.
Yes, the ’raxia definitely has a different effect on Betas than on the comatose humans lying on the distant sand. My body feels different, and somehow my brain does too. It’s as if a locked door inside the neural pathways inside my head has not just opened, but has flung wide to let flow into it a whole new level of experience and understanding. Deeper, purer, real.
Then Tahir’s hand is there, between my legs, and my back arches in pleasure as Tahir’s lips find my neck.
Tahir pulls my back upright so that our chests press hard against one another. He stops the kissing madness long enough to ask me, “Do you want this?”
I experience a feeling of gratitude, sharing this moment with a being who would seek assurance of my consent—unnecessary as it may be from a manufactured servant. “Yes! Please!”
I need to know what this is before it all goes away.
He presses his precious lips against my ear. “I love you, Elysia,” he says.
“I love you too,” I say back.
This time: He means it. I mean it.
There’s no turning back. We are both fully awakened now.
THE FIRE HAS BEEN LIT. NOW IT CAN ONLY GROW.
An interesting thing happens after some ’raxia indulgence causes a Beta prince boy to proclaim his love for a store-bought Beta girl.
He’s nicer to his parents.
It could just be that Bahiyya asked the chef to prepare a chocolate dinner for my final night at the Fortesquieu compound, where Tahir and I have joined Tariq and Bahiyya for a last supper. Any kindness extended to me seems to brighten Tahir. The first course was white chocolate with caviar, followed by a spinach salad spritzed with a dark chocolate vinaigrette. The main course is venison stew prepared with shavings of bittersweet chocolate.
The bittersweet part for me is that the chef could have tossed all the nonessential ingredients such as caviar, spinach, and venison and simply served course after course of chocolate. Before the ’raxia, I found the taste of chocolate delightful. Now, post-’raxia, it tastes incredible at an epic level. But the bittersweet part of the meal is the recognition of the inevitable. Soon I will leave the sweet freedom of the Fortesquieu home and return to the dysfunctional Bratton one.
I don’t know how I will survive at Governor’s House after this week away. Having Tahir to myself. Becoming one with him.
“Won’t you eat some stew?” Bahiyya asks Tahir. “It used to be your favorite. Taste it. Perhaps you’ll remember?”
Tahir truly does not care for human food, but he knows she’s had the meal prepared to somehow honor me, and he gulps down a spoonful.
“Delicious, Maman,” he says, using First Tahir’s term of endearment for Bahiyya. Her face glows, hearing the word.
“My darling Tahir, you are coming back to us. I know it. I see it!” Bahiyya turns to smile beneficently at me. “Elysia, my divine angel. How can we ever live without you now?”
Tariq says, “It’s true. Tahir is happier with Elysia here.”
Softly, Tahir reminds his father, “I cannot experience happiness, Papa.” But Tahir’s eyes meet mine when he says this; Tahir knows now that happiness is not to be an entirely elusive emotion for us.
Tariq’s face falls slightly, saddened by his son’s words. “Of course you can, Tahir. Elysia is proof that it’s possible. Give it time.”
Tahir takes another gulp of stew. “But…” Tahir pauses, as if to make sure he should say what he’s about to say. Then he proclaims: “I want to experience happiness.”
Tariq’s face lights back up as Bahiyya lets out a small cry. She says, “That’s all I could ask for you, my darling. That’s all.” The emotion of the moment gets the better of us as her hands move to cover her face; she needs a full-on cry. Once it passes, she wipes the tears from her eyes and looks to her husband. They seem to share another of their telepathic decision glances. Tariq nods at Bahiyya, and then she turns to me. Bahiyya says, “It’s settled, then. I will be calling the Brattons after dinner and making an offer.”
“An offer on what?” I ask.
“On who?” Tahir asks.
r /> Bahiyya nods as her face brightens again. “On you, Elysia. I shall purchase you from the Brattons and then you may bring happiness to my son all the time. You will have to return to their household tomorrow until we can settle on the terms, but once the Governor’s Ball has passed, I’m sure we can reach a quick agreement with the Brattons.”
Bahiyya reaches over to place her hand over Tahir’s. He does not pull back but instead takes her hand and places it to caress his cheek. As she touches his face, he dips into her hand like a cat, rubbing his face sweetly across her hand.
She beams.
And then suddenly, her face falls as her hand finds something of concern. She gasps, then rubs her hand more aggressively over Tahir’s chin.
“Stubble,” Bahiyya says to Tariq, as if Tahir weren’t even there.
Their faces, a moment ago so excited and pleased, have paled. No one is in the mood for more dinner, judging by the looks on their faces.
Except me.
I’m starving.
This boy said he loved me. We are mates. Now we can be together for however long our Beta hormones will allow us to survive. We may be robbed of long lives, but we won’t be robbed of precious time together.
His stubble will either make him a man or make him Awful.
Either way, he’ll get there with me.
“Tahir is due to see Dr. Lusardi tomorrow,” says Tariq. “She can test a sample of the stubble.”
“Yes,” agrees Bahiyya.
But.
“No,” Tahir says.
“What?” his parents both exclaim.
“No,” Tahir repeats. “I am finished seeing Dr. Lusardi.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” Bahiyya says.
Tahir gives her the same loving look he’s seen on First Tahir’s face in the family’s holographic family album, and for the first time I’ve ever seen—that his parents have probably ever seen—he flashes his First’s megawatt grin, gleaming white teeth and pure charisma. “Maman. Please. I get terrible headaches after Dr. Lusardi’s treatments. There is nothing more she can do for me.” He leans over to nuzzle his cheek against his mother’s.