highly
controversial. We haven’t even begun to come to terms with its implications.
But Susannah didn’t let that discourage her. Before she died, she arranged for
her clone to receive her neural imprint. It took awhile to accomplish
everything that had to be done but a week ago, I got a call. That’s when I
learned of your existence.”
She stares at me across the span
of the desk. Her eyes are wide and luminous. I can’t even begin to guess what’s
going on behind them. More to the point, she’s utterly still. I don’t think
she’s even breathing.
Softly, I say, “The institute
that Susannah turned to is on the cutting edge of the most advanced replica
technology. Because of refinements to the process that are only available there,
she was able to select just those parts of her neural map that she wanted you
to have. The neural imprint you received included knowledge and perhaps also
abilities. We’ll find out more about that as we go along. What she didn’t give
you were her memories. She wanted you to develop your own. She also left it to
me to explain all this to you. That’s why you woke up with no idea of your name
or where you were.”
Still nothing. If she doesn’t
breathe soon, she’s going to pass out. I stand up quickly, go over to the small
fridge built into one of the bookcases, and get a bottle of water. Standing
beside her, I say, “Drink.”
She obeys, I’m relieved to see,
but she has difficulty swallowing and can manage only a few sips. As I retrieve
the bottle from her and set it on the desk, she takes a shuddering breath. Her
head and shoulders slump under the weight of what I have told her.
I hesitate but the need to touch
her, if only to offer comfort, proves irresistible. Carefully, I move the silky
fall of chestnut hair to one side and let my fingers curl around the nape of
her neck, stroking her lightly.
“I know this is a lot to deal
with,” I say softly. “But you did want to know and I didn’t think you’d be
satisfied with anything less than the truth.”
She stiffens at my touch but she
doesn’t pull away. I can’t help but smile. As shocked as she is, a part of her
recognizes and accepts my possession.
And another part apparently
doesn’t. Scornfully, she says, “The truth? You want me to believe that I’m
a--what did you call it--replica of a dead woman?”
I frown but continue stroking
her, willing her to relax. “It’s not a matter of what I want. It’s what you
are.”
She turns her head suddenly and
looks up at me. The dark pools of her eyes swim with confusion and
more…anger…rejection. Defiance.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” she
says. “I’m a person. I have thoughts, feelings… I have a name.” Her voice
chokes.
“When Susannah was little, she
had an imaginary friend she called Amelia. That’s where your name comes from.
As for the rest…”
I shrug, not callously, of
course this is hard for her but it’s also how things are. For her own sake, the
sooner she comes to terms with that the better.
“Essentially, you are what she
chose for you to be.”
She is very pale. Her breathing
has become ragged. Faintly, she asks, “What is that, exactly?”
There’s no sugar coating the
truth. Better I just lay it out for her.
“You’re the ultimate make-over.
A version of Susannah free of the illness that overshadowed her life and which
she believed affected every aspect of who she was. In essence, you’re her
fantasy of the perfect woman. The person she thought she could have been
without the genetic malfunction.”
Cool, restrained Susannah was
surprisingly explicit about that in the letter from her given to me at the
Institute a week ago. She was convinced that I had suppressed an inherently
dominant nature because of the fragility we both recognized in her. Further,
she believed that I needed a woman whose passion would match my own and whose
nature would incline her to submit to my every desire, a woman she regretted
that
controversial. We haven’t even begun to come to terms with its implications.
But Susannah didn’t let that discourage her. Before she died, she arranged for
her clone to receive her neural imprint. It took awhile to accomplish
everything that had to be done but a week ago, I got a call. That’s when I
learned of your existence.”
She stares at me across the span
of the desk. Her eyes are wide and luminous. I can’t even begin to guess what’s
going on behind them. More to the point, she’s utterly still. I don’t think
she’s even breathing.
Softly, I say, “The institute
that Susannah turned to is on the cutting edge of the most advanced replica
technology. Because of refinements to the process that are only available there,
she was able to select just those parts of her neural map that she wanted you
to have. The neural imprint you received included knowledge and perhaps also
abilities. We’ll find out more about that as we go along. What she didn’t give
you were her memories. She wanted you to develop your own. She also left it to
me to explain all this to you. That’s why you woke up with no idea of your name
or where you were.”
Still nothing. If she doesn’t
breathe soon, she’s going to pass out. I stand up quickly, go over to the small
fridge built into one of the bookcases, and get a bottle of water. Standing
beside her, I say, “Drink.”
She obeys, I’m relieved to see,
but she has difficulty swallowing and can manage only a few sips. As I retrieve
the bottle from her and set it on the desk, she takes a shuddering breath. Her
head and shoulders slump under the weight of what I have told her.
I hesitate but the need to touch
her, if only to offer comfort, proves irresistible. Carefully, I move the silky
fall of chestnut hair to one side and let my fingers curl around the nape of
her neck, stroking her lightly.
“I know this is a lot to deal
with,” I say softly. “But you did want to know and I didn’t think you’d be
satisfied with anything less than the truth.”
She stiffens at my touch but she
doesn’t pull away. I can’t help but smile. As shocked as she is, a part of her
recognizes and accepts my possession.
And another part apparently
doesn’t. Scornfully, she says, “The truth? You want me to believe that I’m
a--what did you call it--replica of a dead woman?”
I frown but continue stroking
her, willing her to relax. “It’s not a matter of what I want. It’s what you
are.”
She turns her head suddenly and
looks up at me. The dark pools of her eyes swim with confusion and
more…anger…rejection. Defiance.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” she
says. “I’m a person. I have thoughts, feelings… I have a name.” Her voice
chokes.
“When Susannah was little, she
had an imaginary friend she called Amelia. That’s where your name comes from.
As for the rest…”
I shrug, not callously, of
course this is hard for her but it’s also how things are. For her own sake, the
sooner she comes to terms with that the better.
“Essentially, you are what she
chose for you to be.”
She is very pale. Her breathing
has become ragged. Faintly, she asks, “What is that, exactly?”
There’s no sugar coating the
truth. Better I just lay it out for her.
“You’re the ultimate make-over.
A version of Susannah free of the illness that overshadowed her life and which
she believed affected every aspect of who she was. In essence, you’re her
fantasy of the perfect woman. The person she thought she could have been
without the genetic malfunction.”
Cool, restrained Susannah was
surprisingly explicit about that in the letter from her given to me at the
Institute a week ago. She was convinced that I had suppressed an inherently
dominant nature because of the fragility we both recognized in her. Further,
she believed that I needed a woman whose passion would match my own and whose
nature would incline her to submit to my every desire, a woman she regretted
that
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