Liesel says, “I’ll be on your committee, Mother. I will not mock you.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” says Mother. She glares at Ivan.
“Ivan, don’t mock your mother about the most important social event of the year,” the Governor says as he takes his leave from the dinner table. As he follows Tawny and steps back into the house through the glass doors, I see the Governor’s hand subtly graze Tawny’s firm behind. Ivan notices too—and notices me noticing.
“Sorry,” Ivan mumbles.
Ivan interrupts Mother. “Elysia needs real athletic swimwear. Something that covers up more than Astrid’s old bikinis.”
Mother giggles. “Of course, dear. Did Farzad enjoy the view too much today?”
LATE THE NEXT MORNING, I RETURN TO MY bedroom after my early-morning workout with Ivan. Xanthe is tidying my room when I arrive. “Ivan dropped off this for you,” she says. A one-piece swimsuit lies on the bed for me.
I hold up the modest navy biketard that will cover me from my upper chest down to my midthighs. “This should fit,” I tell Xanthe. “Was it Astrid’s?”
“Astrid’s grandmother’s,” says Xanthe. “But it’s not for today. You’re to join Mrs. Bratton at the club this afternoon.”
“Ivan will be disappointed. He wanted me to play Z-Grav with him.”
“Ivan will go play with his human friends. He will be fine.”
If he does ’raxia, he will be more than fine. He will be in bliss.
Perhaps ’raxia is like chocolate. Should I ask Ivan if I may try ’raxia?
I want to delete the memory of the chocolate, but I can’t. The memory is too sensational; my mouth salivates again as I think of it.
To distract myself, I step out of my clothes to try on the unitard. “Do you swim?” I ask Xanthe.
“I don’t know,” says Xanthe. “I haven’t been instructed to try.”
“So what do you do, then?”
“When?”
“When you’re not working.”
“I go back to my quarters. I sleep. What else is there to do?”
I suspect sleep is her distraction, to make the time go faster, until…until what? Does she even think about her ultimate expiration?
Does she wonder about her First?
I set my voice to the tone called casual and ask Xanthe, “Do you know anything about your First?”
“I’m a Lamb,” Xanthe says. She takes a basket of folded clothes from the floor and begins putting the items away in my dresser drawers. “That’s all I know. I heard Dr. Lusardi say it to her assistant when I first emerged.”
“You were cloned from an animal?” I ask, shocked. If that’s the case, Dr. Lusardi did an outstanding job molding Xanthe’s aesthetic.
“Of course not. It’s a reference to what humans call sacrificial lambs.” She watches my face as I try to access the information. “Don’t bother, the clone meaning of Lamb is not in the database. Lambs here are created from the poorest people. They voluntarily sacrifice their lives to be turned into clones.”
“I can’t imagine why they would do that.”
“They do it to provide financially for their loved ones after their soul extractions.”
If a person could pay for their family to survive by offering to have their souls extracted so they could become clones, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. After all, the clone will get to live in paradise, and thereby provide for the loved ones they’ve left behind, who will suffer less, having access to the money the humans seem to crave even more than chocolate. This is logical.
Because of her sacrifice, somewhere back in the real world, the family of Xanthe’s First possibly now has a roof over their heads, or food on their table. All they’re missing is whoever she was to them—a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt?
Xanthe comes over to inspect my new swimsuit. “There’s a tear on the back. Take it off and I will mend it.”
“I’ll mend it,” I tell Xanthe. “I’m sure I can figure out how to sew.”
“Don’t be absurd. Take it off and return it to me. It will be fixed and ready for you this evening.”
“There’s no rush.…” I start to say, but she cuts me off.
“It’s better if you wear the modest costume when you are here.”
I remember the Governor touching Tawny’s behind. I ask Xanthe, “Isn’t it against Demesne laws to consort with a clone?”
“Technically, yes,” says Xanthe. “But they make their own rules here.”
Tawny walks into the room. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Xanthe. The Governor has changed his daily appointment time, and the massage room needs to be set up for him immediately.” She says this with great urgency, as if there were a raging fire about to burn the house down.
“Yes,” says Xanthe. She lifts her other basket of newly laundered clothes. She and Tawny begin to walk out of my room, in perfect lockstep.
“I could fold those for you, Xanthe,” I call out. She has so much to do, and I don’t.
Tawny and Xanthe both turn to face me, their heads cocked at the same angle, their faces set to the same expression I recognize as horror.
“That’s not your job,” they both say. They leave my room.
THE SCANDAL!
The ladies who lunch have informed me of the most shocking depravity. The coca beans from which chocolate is made are in short supply on the Mainland—such short supply that cocoa is rationed elsewhere. Here on Demesne the chocolate is in abundant supply, because the island harvests its own cacao beans, which are not allowed for export to the rest of the world. The native chocolate concoctions produced here are even calorically stabilized, to cause only minimum pudge in the case of overconsumption. The humans here shall not have to make do with only one chocolate bar per week like the poor people on the Mainland.
I will not indulge.
We are seated on the back garden of the Haven main house, on a patio overlooking Nectar Bay. I keep score as Mother plays mahjong with the ladies after lunch. The ladies wear light tunic dresses patterned in bright mosaic and floral prints with strappy heeled shoes on their pedicured feet. They are of late human middle age, but their Demesne-oxygenated faces give them a youthful glow, with rosy yet taut complexions brightened by Io’s cool breeze. Near the thatched parasol over our table, which protects the ladies’ delicate skin from the sun, server clones hover, discreetly keeping their wineglasses full so that it seems the ladies are daintily sipping at their drinks instead of tossing back full carafes. Each lady has a small bowl of tropical berries dipped in chocolate to nibble with her wine, as well as a fleet of masseuses, bodyguards, aestheticians, and sport instructors waiting in the wings to serve them after their board game.
A few hundred yards away behind us, at an empty lot in a corner of the property, I see workers whose faces are vined in bamboo, which represents strength and sturdiness. These lower-caste clones, manufactured for physical labor such as sanitation and construction work, are laying the foundation for a new addition to the Haven’s main complex. We can faintly hear them grunt as they use heavy machinery to lower the concrete slabs into place for the foundation.
“What are they building?” I ask Mother.
“Oh, the noise they make,” Mother whines over the lightly audible sound of a distant power tool. “It’s insufferable. They are building a new guest wing at Haven. Silly nuisance laws requiring more outsiders be allowed in for visits. They’ll need more accommodations.” Discreetly built beyond a thick stand of trees behind the construction workers is the service clones’ own housing—bamboo huts, furnished with bedding and not much else.
“Certainly the outsiders are not staying in our houses,” says the lady sitting opposite Mother. Now that I’ve learned what sarcasm is and that it cannot cause physical injury, I have privately renamed this lady Mrs. Red Whine for the amount of pinot noir she drinks while complaining about pretty much any topic up for discussion.
“Yes,” I say, nodding in agreemen
t, supporting the team as a good companion should do.
Mother’s friends beam. Says the lady to Mother’s left, whom I call Mrs. Linger because she drags out her words and her eyes seem to linger longingly on the sight of the shirtless male grunts in the distance, “Your Beta is so-o-o-o-o much more fun than Astrid! That girl just moaned a-a-a-all the time about e-e-e-e-equality and susta-a-a-a-ainability and di-i-i-i-istribution of wealth. Bo-o-o-ring!”
“Astrid’s contempt for Demesne was a real downer,” says Mother’s friend on the right, Mrs. Former Beauty Queen, who would like me to know she still wears the same size as when she won Miss Teen Mainland “only ten years ago, ha-ha-ha!”
Mrs. Linger says, “A-a-a-and your Beta wears the pre-e-e-ettiest things!” Mother wanted me to dress like her for the ladies, so I am wearing a bright pink-and-yellow paisley print tunic cover-up dress identical to hers. I am taller than Mother, so the dress only just covers my rear. I wear one of Astrid’s bikinis underneath. Mother prefers me not to wear a one-piece swimsuit and look like her mother-in-law when she’s showing me off to her friends.
“She’s just such a delight,” says Mother.
The other ladies nod. I cannot imagine why I am a delight other than that I agree with the ladies’ every statement, I smile prettily at them, and I don’t blabber on about equality, sustainability, and distribution of wealth the way Astrid did. Apparently all the ladies’ offspring are part monster, part angel—privileged children whom the ladies have so deeply embedded in luxury and the idea that ataraxia is their right that these children have no discipline and find their mothers major drags to deal with. Luckily, the ladies have each other, their bottles of wine, their mahjong sessions, and their full complements of staff ready to ease their pain when the pursuit of ataraxia occasionally leads to disappointment or ungrateful children.
“Show them what you can do, Elysia,” Mother requests of me.
“Like what?” I ask. The floating pool in the middle of the bay is too far away from our perch and would not give the ladies a very good view of my dives.
“A good diver must also be a good gymnast. Try some back handsprings.”
I stand up and comply. I know Mother wants me to distract the ladies so she can slyly look at their tiles and figure out how best to cheat. Mother very much likes to win. I think she likes it more than chocolate.
As I flip back and over, I hear Mrs. Red Whine comment, “Can you imagine ever getting one of our spoiled daughters to perform on command?”
They all tut-tut in agreement and applaud when my feet land back on the ground. I hear their wineglasses clink as Mrs. Linger exclaims, “I wa-a-a-ant a Beta too-o-o-o!”
“Come here, dear,” beckons Mrs. Beauty Queen to me. She is the tipsiest of the bunch so far this afternoon. I go to her. She presses her hands around my waist and proclaims, “Oh, this tiny waist is a dream. This Beta’s First could have been such a contender on the pageant circuit, I bet. Do you know how to pageant-strut, dear?”
I access my database and determine, “Yes.”
She claps her hands. “Goody! My daughter used to play pageant strut with me all the time when she was little, but by the time she was twelve—mercy, by then it was impossible to get her to perform at all for her mummy. Let’s see you pageant-strut.”
I set my face to confident and walk a pageant strut past the ladies’ table, swaggering, swaying my hips and shoulders, and beaming a magnificent smile toward the ladies.
They applaud enthusiastically. “My Beta!” Mother exults in her breathy voice. She gulps down the remainder of her wine and points to the ladies around the table. “Don’t you all forget. I got one first.”
Mrs. Linger says, “Ta-a-a-alent competition?”
Mrs. Red Whine rolls her eyes. “Please, let her sing ‘Children of Hope.’ No pageant can be won without that trite piece of nonsense.”
“‘Children of Hope’ is a beautiful song!” Mrs. Beauty Queen counters. “My daughter used to love singing that song with me when we played beauty pageant in the FantaSphere.” Mrs. Beauty Queen looks at me. “Do you know the song ‘Children of Hope,’ Elysia? Say yes!”
Again I access the database and again say, “Yes.”
Mrs. Beauty Queen says, “Then sing it. My little brat never will anymore.”
I’ve never sung before. I don’t know what my voice will sound like. But I do know the words and melody to this power ballad–style song, a comforting favorite that’s been popular since the time of the Water Wars.
I sing, adjusting my voice for pageant setting, strong and sincere, using my face to emote with exaggerated bravado and making grand flourishes with my hands:
“In these troubled times of darkness and fright,
From them we receive the gift most sublime.
They are our dreams, our loves,
Our children of hope.”
The ladies squeal with delight as they clink their wineglasses to toast my pageant performance.
Turns out, I can carry a tune.
Tipsily, Mrs. Beauty Queen mutters, “That Beta’s no defect for sure.”
The other ladies gasp, and Mrs. Red Whine makes it her duty to chide Mrs. Beauty Queen for whatever transgression has just happened. “Don’t even speak the word,” says Mrs. Red Whine.
“Amen,” says Mother.
The ladies are all sufficiently drunk and ataraxic. It has been a successful afternoon of game playing and they are ready to wind down their get-together. But not before commenting on the arrival of Dementia, who comes outside from the main house and begins walking toward our table.
“O-o-o-h dear, the wi-i-i-ild chi-i-i-ild,” says Mrs. Linger.
Mrs. Beauty Queen whispers, “Well, you would be too if your own parents couldn’t tolerate you and stranded you on Demesne to be raised by clones.”
Says Mrs. Red Whine, “It’s so sad. You know, the day she tried to carve the tattoo on her face was the same one that the nanny who’d raised her since was she was a baby reached its term of service.” I presume that the nanny must have reached forty-five years in human age, her aesthetic and skills no longer valued or needed by Dementia’s parents.
Dementia approaches us. Mother tells her, “Demetra, darling, how are you?”
“Fine. Whatever.” Dementia seems to be trying to ignore the ladies as her eyes settle on me. “Tutoring’s done for the day. Can the Beta come play with me?”
Quietly to Mother, Mrs. Red Whine mutters, “Perhaps not such a good idea?”
But Mother says, “Of course, Demetra. Take Elysia to play.” I start to stand up, but Mother has more to say to Dementia. “I sent your mother an invitation several weeks ago, asking her to be part of the planning committee for the annual Governor’s Ball, but I haven’t heard back from her. Do you know if she received it? The most important social event of the season should have the input of Elaine Cortez-Olivier’s impeccable taste, right?”
Dementia grabs my hand and pulls me from my chair. “Don’t know if Mom received it and so sorry, Mrs. B, but don’t really care.” Dementia is so excellent at the sarcasm. “The parents are in BC right now. Relay Mom there.”
I know Mother has already Relayed Mrs. Cortez-Olivier to follow up on the invitation, but she has not received an answer. She will not dwell on this slight. Mother snaps her fingers and a server clone appears to set up her nap chaise while the masseuse materializes to tend to her tired feet.
“Let’s go hit some ’raxia,” Demetra says to me. To the ladies’ shocked expressions, she adds: “Kidding!” Under her breath, she mutters, “Sorta.”
Dementia leads me by hand from the Haven patio to the beach. We step onto the dock and walk the long plank that leads to the floating pool in the middle of Nectar Bay.
“Will your parents be returning to Demesne soon?” I ask her.
She shrugs. Her index finger scales the side of her face, poking at the scar from her aborted attempt at cutting a fleur-de-lis into her temple. “The clone overseers, I mean babys
itters, have alerted my parents to recent, um, incidents. So maybe they’ll make an appearance soon. I wish they’d take me back to Biome City with them.”
“I have heard that Biome City is epic party.”
Dementia laughs. “Yeah. It’s real and weird but kinda wild. Like, sometimes when the desert storms get too intense, you can’t even go outside, you have to stay home and, like, play in the FantaSphere. But it’s a regular-people place so, say, if you were a regular girl…”
“I would like to be a regular girl!” I exclaim.
“No, I mean if you really were a regular girl in BC and not just a Demesne clone mimicking the desire to be normal. Life as a regular girl can be harsh and not all epic party. If there’s a desert storm, you’ll have to stay home and hang out with your parents till it passes. ’Cause not everybody has a FantaSphere in their house. That’s only on Demesne. In BC, regular people have to go to the Space Needle Arcade and pay to play in a FantaSphere.”
“Wow,” I say.
We’ve reached the pool. Dementia looks out over the vista beyond the floating pool—palm trees, white sand, violet-hued sea—and gulps in a generous dose of Demesne oxygen. She then opens her arms wide and yells out, “I’m so bored here!”
I open my arms too, in solidarity. “Me too!”
“You’re so freaking cool,” says Dementia. “Doc Lusardi did a great job programming your chip. I totally wish I could get a Beta, but my parents would never go for it.” Dementia’s olive eyes home in on my tunic dress, identical to Mother’s. “Dear gawd, please take that monstrosity off.”
I take it off, so I am now wearing only a bikini.
“Race you!” Dementia exhorts.
She dives into the pool for a head start. I dive in after her, luxuriating in the smooth water that feels like home. I should have no problem catching up with Dementia and beating her time easily, but beneath the water, it happens again, that jolt passing through my skin, and there he is. I see his face more distinctly in this clear, docile water, his high cheekbones and gleaming white teeth, the dark tan of his skin. His turquoise eyes stare intently at me, as if he could see straight through me. The nearness of him sends quivers of excitement through my body. His dirty-blond hair swishes upward as his rock-hard body swirls, treading through the water. He has a large, muscular frame, like the bamboo-vined construction workers, like he could carry the world on his shoulders. You know you own me, Z, his voice says, and my heart leaps, and my loins feel suddenly alive. His voice, so gravelly, strikes directly at a lustful drive I didn’t know I possessed. The voice is a sensual stroke that tingles my skin. You know you own me, Z.