“Fun? Yes, I guess that’s one word for her. First Tahir and his friends nicknamed her Dementia. It’s a horrible nickname, but I think they meant it lovingly. They were all very fond of her: First Tahir, Farzad, Greer, Ivan, Astrid. I promised Demetra’s parents that we would check on her occasionally. But she makes me uncomfortable, to be honest. After the security sweep is finalized, I’m guessing she will choose to leave the island rather than be subjected to surveillance, so I’ll be relieved of this obligation to her parents. I thought you and Alexander might visit her for me. Perhaps you’re eager to see more of the island. If you’d do me this favor, I could authorize the Aviate for you.”
“Sure,” I say, reminded that Xander and I are unacknowledged prisoners here, and can travel off the Fortesquieu compound only by the good graces of our “hosts.” And our window of opportunity to act is rapidly closing.
I’M EAGER TO MEET THIS DEMENTIA, and set off to retrieve Xander so we can go. The locator screen outside his quarters tells me he’s in the FantaSphere. I walk to the FantaSphere corridor of the compound, but the door is closed and the red illuminated sign says in use. I request entry to the room. Xander’s voice answers from the other side. “Go away, Zhara. I want to be alone.”
What happens in the FantaSphere should stay in the FantaSphere, I know. But I don’t feel like respecting Xander’s privacy. He’s been in there for hours, according to the time display on the console, which is very unlike him. FantaSpheres are indulgences, not habitats. An Aquine might have occasional use for one but would never linger there for so long. Something is wrong with Xander in there.
“Enter FantaSphere,” I tell the command console again.
No answer this time from Xander. “Pass code,” says the console.
“August twenty-sixth,” I say. Xander’s birthday.
“Denied,” says the console.
“Isidra,” I guess. His home place.
“Denied,” says the console.
I only have one try left, or the system will lock me out and deny me trying again for another hour, unless I break the security perimeter, which I shouldn’t do because I don’t want Bahiyya alerted to any security infraction, and because this isn’t an actual emergency. It just feels like one: my sudden need to find out why Xander is hanging out there for so long, and to get him out of there so we can escape this compound and Aviate toward somewhere else, already, while we still have the permission from Bahiyya.
Impulsively, I blurt out, “Jingjing?” The FantaSphere door opens. I’m stunned. Not by the entry, but that the sentimental pass code causes my heart to ache and not swell. It just makes me miss Aidan more. It’s like, when I see Xander in all his beautiful glory, my knees still buckle, but that’s muscle memory, a habit. A true romantic gesture without the vision of Xander to blindside me? I think of Aidan.
I step inside the FantaSphere, and immediately I’m standing on a beach. I see Xander in the distance, surfing, although not his preferred big-wave surfing. Instead, he’s lying on his stomach on a surfboard, paddle boarding over dark waves—the rough kind like off the coast of Isidra. The sky is overcast and the air chilly. There are empty beer bottles nestled in the sand. That’s weird. Aquines don’t consume alcohol. Then I hear a loud, uncharacteristic belch coming from the man in the water.
No way! “Are you drunk?” I call to Xander.
“Mildly tipsy. Enjoying my alone time, if you don’t mind.”
“I mind,” I say. “I’m coming in.” Immediately, I am wearing a wet suit and have a longboard set down for me on the suddenly cold, damp sand my feet are sinking into.
I pick up the surfboard and step into the rough and tumble water that’s the opposite of Demesne’s tranquil sea. I paddle out to a spot near Xander’s. The water is heavy and thick, and I can’t imagine why anyone would want to surf here, until it occurs to me that maybe this homing beacon of sorts is to Xander what gardening is to Bahiyya. Peaceful. Contemplative. He’s not even really trying to surf. He’s just bobbing up and down, coasting over waves.
“What’s going on?” I ask him. “You drink beer now?”
“Apparently.”
“Pretty unlike you to do something like that.”
“Exactly. That’s what I want. To be everything unlike me.”
“Why? You’re engineered for perfection.”
“But I’m a failure. I hurt you, the person I care about the most. Twice. Elysia doesn’t want or need me anymore. I’m a lousy commando. My first mission was a covert Uni-Mil op organized by clone rights’ supporters. I went AWOL to look for Elysia, and probably exposed the whole team in doing so. Your dad’s in a military prison right now, probably because of me.”
I search for the right words. I’ve never seen Xander in this state before. He’s supposed to be rallying the cause, not accepting defeat of it. I say, “First of all, you don’t know that. Second, you probably saved Elysia’s life. That’s meeting the mission, isn’t it? And you know that Dad never takes on a mission he’s not prepared to face the consequences of. If he recruited you into it, he understood the risk—for you, and for himself. He would never blame you.” This may be the first time in my life I have defended my father. For all his harsh ways, my dad was always there for me, for my mom, for Xander, for anyone he considered family. He’s flawed like all of us. That didn’t mean he loved us less. That didn’t mean I didn’t love him.
Xander reaches his arms toward me, like he wants to touch me. “We need to figure out a way out of here. To find your dad and help him.”
“I agree, but I don’t see how right now. We have more immediate issues here to sort out, if you remember?”
“It’s hopeless,” says Xander.
“You’re sure that’s not the beer talking? Just yesterday you were all fired up and ready to act. What happened?”
“I had a sleepless night, thinking too hard on all the messes I’ve made. I’m not up to the task of leading. Want to know the dirty truth about me? I trained to be a commando, but I was always better with technology than action. Programming a battle rather than fighting it.”
I look at his hulking biceps and laugh. Out of nowhere, I lean over and place an affectionate kiss on his arm. “So, you’re a closet nerd. That’s kind of beautiful.”
He takes the opportunity to pull my surfboard closer to his so that our faces are almost touching. He closes his eyes and turns his neck just so, expecting a kiss on the lips. I give him one—just a peck, for encouragement. I’m amazed by the relief I feel. My lips don’t want or need more in return.
I command the FantaSphere to summon the reaction Xander was hoping to receive from me. “Lightning strikes!”
Bolts of lightning light up the sky in the distance.
“What’s that for?” Xander asks.
“A wake-up call. Time to sober up and get out of here, buddy. We’ve got a Dementia to call on.”
Xander’s turquoise eyes brighten in recognition. “Demetra Cortez-Olivier?” I nod, startled by his positive reaction to the name of the girl that Bahiyya told me was basically a lunatic. “I met with her when I was stationed in Demesne for the Replicant Rights Commission. She’s still here?”
“Yes,” I say. “Why, are you already looking for a new girlfriend?” One step forward, two steps back, I guess. For every mature moment of self-actualization I experience, I can devolve just as easily back into jealousy and bitchiness. I don’t know whether to be disappointed in myself or applaud the acknowledgement of these instincts, and try to do better.
“No,” says Xander. “But I have an idea for how we can make the Insurrection happen through her.”
Twilight sets over Demesne as Xander and I Aviate over the island to pay a visit to Demetra. The sky has turned a perfect pink as the orange sun sets over Io’s lulling violet waves. “Isn’t this supposed to be your meditation time?” I ask Xander. Obviously we have more pressing concerns, but I’m surprised he hasn’t made a token effort to abide by his daily ritual.
“Meditation’s a lost cause for me right now,” says Xander. “My mind is elsewhere. I can’t focus.” He looks me straight in the eyes. “I have a question for you.”
“Ask me.” Once, I so ardently pined he’d ask me to be his forever mate. Rather than wait for him to ask, I jumped the gun and assumed it. I’ll never make that mistake again. I’m probably being egotistical. That’s not even what he wants to discuss.
His leg nervously twitches. “Just before I went into the FantaSphere, I found out my extradition back to Isidra has been authorized. Will you go back there with me, when it’s time?” He takes a deep breath, and then blurts out, “You know I will always love you, don’t you?”
Pat yourself on the shoulder, Zhara’s ego.
A year ago I would have cried tears of joy and thrown myself into his arms for saying these words to me. Now, his words mean nothing to me other than relief. I wasn’t crazy. What Xander and I shared together was real, at least on that day we gave ourselves to each other. It was so real he took up with my clone after he thought I’d died.
I can’t pretend to return the sentiment when I don’t feel it. “You’re in no shape to make that pronouncement.”
“You’re right.” His leg twitches harder, and I place my hand on it to settle him, but he pushes my hand away. “Our lives are a mess right now.”
“Yours is a mess,” I clarify. “Mine has confusing circumstances, but for the first time, I feel pretty clear, actually.”
I’m going to see this Insurrection through, and I’m going to steal back Elysia’s baby and raise it as my own. I’m going to send Elysia off to the best possible future she could have, despite its uncertainty.
I’ve already survived death once, so why shouldn’t I dream big and impossible? Back in Cerulea, my big, impossible dream was to make the Aquine my mate. Now I know better than to attach my ambitions to a guy. My dreams should be about what I can accomplish for me and the people in my life first. Those dreams may or may not include a guy. They should always come from a place of love.
I UNDERSTOOD, CONCEPTUALLY, THAT THE Fortesquieu compound is considered to be the jewel in the crown of Demesne’s architecture, but I see now that the critics called it wrong. The true architectural masterpiece on Demesne is clearly Demetra Cortez-Olivier’s home, which is straight-up bonkers.
Xander and I step out of the Aviate and onto the landing pad, where we have a view of two homes. On one end of the property, facing the bluff, is a stately home that looks like a smaller-scale version of the limestone Fortesquieu palace. Gaudy, opulent, whatever. On the other end of the property is, literally, a spaceship lifted into the sky on stilts.
“Demetra calls her house ‘the Zeppelin,’” Xander informs me, pointing at the catamaran-shaped spaceship that sits on top of two clear stilts, which also serve as lifts. “Her parents built it for her as a playroom when she was a child. Eventually she just started living there, instead of in the grand house.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I had some bizarre visits with her when I was interviewing residents about their clones for the report to the Replicant Rights Commission. She’s not like anyone you’ve ever met. You’ll see.”
Since no butler has come to greet us, we walk over to one of the elevator shafts inside the stilts and press an intercom button. “Yay!” a female voice squeals to us. “Humans! Come on up!”
The elevator door opens and we step in. We are lifted up into the base of the house-ship. The elevator door opens again and there stands Demetra. I don’t know what I expected from all the hype in advance, but at first she looks pretty normal. She has long, smooth, raven hair, highlighted with strands of gold and violet that fall in front of her face, and she wears a simple, short white tank dress over her olive-toned skin. Then she sweeps her hair back from her face, and I start to get it. She has a deep scar at her temple, where she appears to have once tried to razor-cut a fleur-de-lis design onto her face, like the ones all her Demesne servants must have. And like them, her eyes are fuchsia-colored. She points to her eyes and tells Xander, “New contacts! Do you like them?”
“Sure,” he tells her. He turns to me. “Zhara, this is Demetra. Demetra, this is Zhara.”
“Call me Dementia!” she tells me. “Everyone does. I don’t mind. That name feels more like home to me than the one my bios gave me.”
“Your bios?” I ask.
“Biological parents.” She pulls me to her for a nearly suffocating hug. “I can’t believe you’re a First who’s alive. But I’m freaking touching you and it’s so freaking true. And that other miracle, our little murderess Elysia, is still alive too! When do I get to see her?”
Dementia lets me loose. I say, “Elysia’s pretty attached to Tahir. Good luck scheduling time in between their make-out sessions.”
Dementia sighs. “Lucky lucky lucky Betas! I knew Tahir was a Beta, by the way. I totally sensed it. Like, his pheromones were off or something. So sad that First Tahir had to die to make Beta Tahir, but let’s be real here. Beta Tahir is so much nicer. First Tahir was a total dawg. He’d make a girl feel like she was the center of his universe just so he could get inside her panties, but once he did, he’d dump her and move on. I know. First Tahir was my first. Ha-ha, get it? I’m telling a First about my first with a dead First. Hilarious!”
“Ha-ha,” I say, not laughing, even though it is kind of funny.
She leads us into the main room, which is a living room with plush, purple velvet sofas and chairs, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and a glass ceiling. With the view out to violet-rippled Io from all sides, the effect is like being suspended midair in a sky dome over the sea. As dusk falls into night, the ceiling twinkles with stars in the sky overhead. Dementia pauses a moment to appraise Xander. “I so wanted to jump your bones last time you were here. You are a fine specimen of a man. It’s unholy how beautiful you are.”
“Thank you?” Xander says, blushing. I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed him being so blatantly objectified, or seen his chiseled cheeks redden from anything other than a workout. I’m enjoying the show! “I can’t take credit for my Aquine genes; my looks were not my choice.”
“So you’re saying you’d prefer to be ugly, if given the choice?” Dementia asks him.
“I’d prefer to be plain. Unremarkable,” says Xander.
“Maybe your good looks give you unremarkable character,” Dementia says, as if she’s trying to comfort him. “Like, you’re so beautiful, you’re boring. Your physical looks swallow your soul’s potential.”
“Thank you, again,” Xander says, laughing now. “That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever gotten.” His turquoise eyes appear to shine. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him completely disarmed—relaxed, even. Maybe what he’s needed all along was a truly crazy girl to call him like he is: beautiful, but boring. Unremarkable, but with potential.
Maybe he’d like to be someone different than the steadfast Aquine. He tells Dementia, “I like to think I’m not all predictably boring. I did try to subvert your clones into rebelling, you know. I tried to enlist them in the Insurrection.”
“I know,” Dementia tells him affably. “But they’re my family. We stick together. If they went, I would have had to go with them. They knew my presence would ruin your little Insurrection because then my parents would come looking for me out of the bios’ misplaced sense of obligation—or ownership—of me. Like, they don’t want to deal with me, but if I’m kidnapped, they’d have to put on a show of concern. But their show would have been hiring the Uni-Mil to privately annihilate the Defects trying to have an Insurrection. It would have been cool to go along for the ride with my clones, though.”
“Would you like to be part of the Insurrection still?” Xander asks Dementia.
“The Insurrection is dead,” she says.
“It doesn’t have to be,” says Xander. He points to the ceiling. “This ceiling also serves as a planetarium, yes? Because I have an idea for how we can use it to t
ake control back from ReplicaPharm.”
Dementia claps her hands gleefully. “Dazzle!” she screams. When there is no immediate response to her call, she shrieks again. “DAZZLE! Please come in here. NOW!”
An elegant male clone enters the room and walks to Dementia’s side. He has a medium-height body with narrow hips, a thin face with meticulously arched black eyebrows, and neck-length black hair styled in the manner of a female bob cut. He’s vined on his left temple in blue dahlia, but his blue dahlia has been enhanced with cosmetics to heighten its stark beauty, its outline deepened by a black pencil, and sparkle glitter added to the flower petals. His eyelids are colored in a blue shadow that accentuates the blue dahlia at his left temple, and his thin lips are defined in a berry-colored gloss.
“Claude?” Xander asks him. “Good to see you again.”
“Claude was their name for me,” Dazzle says. “I prefer Dazzle. Are you here to try to enlist me for a lost cause again, Aquine?” He turns to Dementia. “Don’t purse your lips like that or you’ll develop worry lines like your mother.” He tenderly rubs an ointment around her mouth.
“What took you so long?” she pouts.
“I was here in less than a minute. I was rearranging Nanny Adeline’s hair as you requested.”
I raise an eyebrow at Xander. He leans over and mutters in my ear. “In her playroom, Dementia has a taxidermy collection of her favorite household staff who were expired once they reached human equivalent of age forty.”
Xander was right. Dementia is definitely like no one else I’ve ever met.
“I changed my mind,” Dementia tells Dazzle. “Leave Nanny’s hair in the long braid.”
“I already loosened it—”
“PUT IT BACK!”
“As you wish,” says Dazzle. “Is that why you called me in here?”