Imitation (4 page)

“
Thank you, Gus,” he says
when my feet are still.

“
Sir.” The gray-haired
man—Gus—shuffles to the edge of the room with barely a sound
against the plush rug.

I wiggle my toes inside my shoes to
distract myself. In Twig City, the only carpet is the flat
lime-green stuff in the shower area. It’s scratchy underfoot and
smells of mold. I never walk barefoot there if I can help
it.

The man before me clears his throat.
“Thank you for being so cooperative on such short
notice.”

When he speaks, I shiver, and a
matching tremor runs through my insides. There is something about
the sharp-edged tenor of his voice, some familiarity that echoes
somewhere I cannot reach. A mental picture flashes in my mind, too
hazy to be real or remembered. It’s bottled far back in my memory.
I don’t know what it means or why his voice has triggered it. All I
know is it makes me afraid. Of him.

“
Are you feeling all
right?” he asks.

I tell myself I’m being ridiculous.
There is no possible way I’ve met this man before, nor do I have a
reason to fear him. I blink, forcing it away. He watches me, likely
waiting for a response.

“
It’s been an eventful
day,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.

“
Yes, well, I’m sure this
is more excitement than you’re used to, but you’d do well to
acclimate quickly. Things move much faster here than they do in the
City. I trust you can keep up?”

I whisper an agreement and he
continues. “The staff—with the exception of Gus here—believes you
to be my daughter. You will act accordingly, even within the
privacy of your new home.” There is a pause and then his expression
contorts. “Child?” he snaps, clearly losing patience with my lack
of response. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

“
Yes, sir,” I
mumble.

He throws a glance over my shoulder at
Gus. “Leave us.”

He doesn’t speak again until we’re
alone. I know we’re alone because my heart bangs against my chest
like a kettle drum. Something in me wants to hate this man. I’ve
never hated a person at first impression before. It feels unfair.
Then he is in my face and when he speaks, the malice behind his
words removes any guilt I feel at my unexplainable
reaction.

“
My name is Titus Rogen,
but you will call me ‘Father,’ do you understand me?”

I nod. He is so close, my nose almost
brushes his.

“
There is a lot to go over
but first and foremost, you are here because there is a threat
against my daughter, your Authentic. Until that threat is
neutralized, you are her. You will walk, talk, and act like her.
You will attend all of her functions and fulfill all of her
obligations. You’ll have a couple of days to get up to speed and
then we will begin the process of drawing them out.”

I say nothing.

“
I know you go by Ven in
Twig City. That will not be tolerated here. Henceforth, your name
is Raven Rogen and you will answer to only that name. Am I
clear?”

I nod a second time and manage, “Yes,
sir.”

It’s all I can do. My mission is
clear. They want me to draw out the killers. They are unconcerned
what happens to me as a result. Only that they apprehend the guilty
parties so life can resume as it always was.

I know as a trained Imitation, I
should show more initiative, a willingness to integrate myself as
Raven Rogen and do what I can to eliminate the danger against her.
It’s what I was made to do. But I cannot stop thinking how my own
existence matters so little to the very beings who should value
life so much.

He sighs. “Look at me.”

I do as he asks, raising my head and
letting my hair swing away from my face. He is surprisingly average
in stature considering the fear he evokes from the mere sound of
his voice. Slight and bald, his head shines like the granite walls
in the lobby. I think if I catch just the right angle, I will see
my own reflection in his cranium. A panicked laugh bubbles inside
me, lodging in my chest and sticking there. I cannot
laugh.

“
Do you speak coherently
at all or do they manufacture them mute now?” He speaks with an
edge that makes me want to back away.

“
I speak very well, sir,”
I say. My voice is small. I feel like Ida.

“
Good damn thing. Would’ve
been ironic, me of all people getting a defective piece of
equipment.”

I have no idea what he’s talking
about, so I remain silent and drop my attention back to the
floor.

“
Gus!” he shouts, and I
jump.

“
Boss?” a gruff voice says
behind me.

“
Show Raven to her room.
She’s had a long day.”

“
Yes, sir.”

Titus looks at me once more and then
turns on his heel and leaves through a side door. It shuts behind
him before I can see where it leads. I turn to Gus. He is waiting
for me, an impatient expression on his already scowling face. “Come
on, then,” he says.

I feel mildly better with him than I
did with Titus. Not much, but some.

We take a curving hallway and I wonder
if this apartment is rounded. If there’s a room somewhere that
makes a circle instead of cornered walls. I wonder if I’ll be
allowed to see it or if this place will be just as much a prison as
the home I’ve left behind.

Gus wears boots that clomp against the
flattened carpet of the hallway, so even with my head down, I hear
when he stops. He turns the knob on a blue door and shoves it
inward, flicking a switch before stepping aside. I stop, one foot
in the doorway, one foot on the honey-colored carpet, and stare at
my new accommodations. I was right to assume my Authentic is
accustomed to niceties.

The room is almost as big as the
sleeping room back in Twig City—a space that holds twenty bunks,
sixty girls. There are no fluorescent lights here, no pipes humming
with power, feeding Imitations as they slumber in incubators
underneath heat lamps and microscopes. The sleeping room in Twig
City is drafty and above all, loud. Other than my own intake of
breath and Gus’s impatient huffing, there is no sound
here.

The room has the same plush carpeting
as the one where I met Titus. Only this carpet is a rich brown,
like chocolate—a luxury item I’ve only heard of, never tasted. The
thick rug sweeps in all directions, uninterrupted until it
disappears underneath a bed with wooden columns rising from each of
its four corners.

The furniture is similarly colored and
cut, a matching suite. Above me, illuminating the entire space is a
chandelier dripping with what looks like icicles, though I’m almost
positive they can’t be made of real ice, since the temperature in
the room is comfortably warm compared to the air
outside.

I’ve never seen amenities so
luxurious. It takes me a full minute to realize it is meant for
only me. I will sleep in a room alone for the first time since I
awoke from the incubator. I’m awed and nervous at the thought. For
a second, I miss the humming pipes and the room full of even
breathing and sleepy mutterings.

“
Is there a problem?” Gus
asks when I don’t move.

“
No—no problem,” I
say.

“
Good. Someone will come
get you in the morning. Sleep tight.” He shuts the door and there
is a decided click as a lock only accessible from the outside is
turned.

I am a prisoner.

I am Raven Rogen.

I am here to die.

A maid brings me dinner on a rolling
tray. Other than her, I see no one. I hear nothing outside the door
of my room. I can only assume that means they have some device set
up to monitor me from inside. I’m not surprised. Or deterred. Being
watched is inevitable in Twig City; it’s no different
here.

After eating, I spend a full hour
reveling in the silkiness of the sheets on the bed that I’m sure
would sleep five comfortably. When I sit up, a carving made in one
of the posts catches my eye. I lean closer and run my fingers over
it, trying to identify the shape. The lines are rough and jagged
close up, as if they’ve been carved by hand with a dull knife or
some other blunt instrument. Small shavings come away when I brush
my hand over it, and I wonder how recently this cut was made. It
looks like a version of my own mark but this tree is different,
with branches sprouting into the trunk instead of around
it.

I change into the pajamas laid out—a
silky, smooth fabric that feels amazing against my abdomen and
arms. I am reminded of the chafing cotton I wore just last night
and try to take comfort in the benefits, small as they are, of my
new life.

The luxuries of this place, combined
with the utter silence that rings in my ears, has me wide awake. I
decide to explore my expensive prison. I find a refrigerator
stocked with bubbly water that sighs when you twist open the lid
and some sort of creamy frozen treat in the freezer. The box says
“ice cream,” though it tastes nothing like any ice I’ve ever
had.

After eating the entire container of
pecan ice cream, I lie down and pretend with all my might that I
really am Raven Rogen and there is no danger here. It doesn’t work
but I succeed in sleeping.

The morning comes too fast.

I feel sluggish and slow when the lock
clicks and the door opens. I don’t bother raising my head as Gus
pokes his head into the room. He is already frowning.

“
Get dressed. I’ll be back
in ten minutes.”

In Twig City, ten minutes is twice the
time we’re expected to take for showering and dressing, but here,
where nothing is familiar, I’m almost positive I should demand
longer. He is gone before I can argue.

I scavenge the dresser and closet—and
discover the latter is large enough to stand inside and stretch my
arms out to both sides and still not touch the clothes hanging on
the racks around me. This makes me almost smile. I pass by silk
gowns and chiffon skirts and gawk at the shelves of shoes that I
can only hope I’ll live long enough to wear. Ida would love
this.

Near the back, I find tailored pants
and a blouse. Not exactly the bland jeans and T-shirt look that we
all share in Twig City, but then I don’t expect Raven Rogen owns a
pair of jeans, especially ones with holes in the knees. I used to
fuss at Lonnie for purposely ripping her pants but after a while, I
caught myself doing it too. In a sea of sameness, I needed to do
something to feel individual. I suspect that was Lonnie’s reason
also, although she would say she just liked the ventilation. Twig
City’s lower levels can be stuffy.

Upon mirror inspection, I find that my
blond locks have graduated from bedhead to zoo animal. I do my best
to smooth it and then decide I don’t care. According to Titus, no
one but staff is going to see me today. While I’m still playing a
part, the pressure feels lessened within the confines of these
walls.

Gus is waiting for me when I emerge
from the bathroom. I follow him out, refusing to allow myself to be
afraid of Titus this morning. I am prepared this time. I tell
myself that makes a difference.

I follow Gus down the circular hallway
and find myself once more in the plush room with the fireplace.
Someone has lit a fire and it roars and crackles, giving a sharp
cheerfulness to the place that feels forced. Titus stands off to
the side so I don’t see him until I’m almost in front of him. I
feel the same jolt and then crawling of my skin as I did the night
before.

“
Raven,” Titus says and
gives me a look that demands response.

“
Father.” I shove the word
out of my mouth. I feel funny for saying it, not just to him, but
to anyone. Imitations don’t have mothers and fathers. We don’t have
family. We just are.

Until we’re not.

“
How did you sleep?” he
asks.

“
Very well,” I
say.

“
Good. We need to discuss
this arrangement if it’s to work out. Sit.”

I lower myself to a leather couch that
seems miniature compared to the ones at home. Home. My chest hurts
because this is my home now. With this man.

“
First, Rogen Tower is
your home now,” he says.

The words, an echo of my own thoughts,
jar me so that I jerk my eyes up to his. His are sparkling with
something—laughter? No. Challenge.

He continues. “You can go anywhere you
like except my private offices. Those are off limits even to my
daughter.”

“
Where is she? Your
daughter?” I ask before I can stop the words from leaving my mouth.
That is not a question a trained Imitation should ask.

His cheeks harden. “You do not get to
ask me questions,” he snaps. Then his features smooth out and he is
the charming viper once again. “I would like this arrangement to be
mutually beneficial. For that to happen, there are certain rules
that must be followed. Boundaries, if you will.”

“
Mutually beneficial?” I
echo. I am thoroughly confused as to how I can benefit from dying
for someone I’ve never met.