Anew: Book One: Awakened by Josie Litton

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