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The nausea is a small price to pay for being healthier. It is my destiny, I'm told, to be one of the oldest beings to live on Earth. With the right technology, humans can have lifespans of up to a hundred-and-fifty years. My masters are working on that for themselves, and the man I am to marry in three weeks needs a wife with a lifespan that matches his.
My telomeres must be long. My body must be supremely healthy. We are optimal humans leading the way to a new era.
“My husband,” I whisper, the words so familiar and yet so painful now. For years I’ve turned two words into a mantra, a balm, a way to persevere through difficult times, to proceed through discomfort and fear. Knowing he was at the end of this long journey, our transition to a better world in his hands with me by his side, has been the only thing keeping me sane.
And now – now there’s Cam.
“Cam,” I say so softly I can barely hear it, but pushing the word out of my throat makes my whole body turn to fire, the flame between my legs desperate and wanting.
The refrigerator beckons, I'm not eating right now, and the vitamins will wait.
First, I pour the water—exactly eight ounces—and then I find the Icelandic lake salt. One quarter of a teaspoon poured in and stirred until it dissolves is what the recipe says in the manual. I drink it. I close my eyes. I let my stomach settle.
I rinse the cup in the sink and put it back on the wooden drying rack, and I go into my bedroom. I sit on the floor facing north, legs crossed, forearms resting on my knees, pants loose, palms down.
A large infrared light panel is in front of me with a small set of eye coverings. I put the eye coverings on and turn on the switch. My masters say that red light therapy is good for my skin and penetrates the cells to make certain that I have as little inflammation in my body as possible.
It's so touching, how much they care for me.
Every advantage is given to me. They want me perfect.
Especially my skin.
But then again, I am a goddess. Of course I'm given the best.
During the twenty minutes of light therapy, I am to chant a mantra inside my head. It is one line: I am here to serve others.
I am here to serve others.
I am here to serve others.
It goes through my head as if on a racecar track, looping in an oval over and over and over. Without the eye covering, the red light would be unbearable, but as I sit a couple of feet away from it, it warms me. Not too much, but enough to feel loved, even if only by waves and particles from a machine.
Cam’s touch is one thousand times better. Incomparable, really.
At the ten-minute mark, a small beep tells me to turn around so that my back can gain the benefit of the red light as well, but I'm not at the ten-minute mark yet.
I am here to serve others…I am here to serve others…I am here to serve others.
Once, a few years ago, I told the head of my security detail—even before Jason—that my mind split in two during these sessions. One part of me chanted the mantra and the other part wandered to trivial things, worrying that my dog didn't have enough water, wondering about a television show I had glimpsed while waiting at the doctor's office for a gynecological visit, thinking about the itchy spot on my thigh.
A new page appeared in the manual the very next day, and it said:
You are betraying your destiny when you think of anything but the mantra.
And suddenly, Jason was my new head of security.
Shame filled me then, for I thought I was asking for help and not revealing a weakness in me. After that, I learned to push any thought but the mantra out of my head.
I often failed.
I also learned something else—never, ever to speak of what went on inside my mind.
With an obligation to confess any thought that could jeopardize my mission, that has meant that I live in constant conflict inside my soul. Confession is required as part of my life; it's designed to weed out all of the impurities in me.
Once, I asked, if I am the pinnacle of nearly a millennium of evolution, how could I have impurities?
I was told that my body was perfect, but my mind was tainted.
