Forbidden Love - Fragments of Forgotten Love

Chapter 19

"Rest now," Dr Thorne said, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic quality. "When you wake up, you'll be in a place designed specifically for your comfort and rehabilitation. No more difficult choices, no more overwhelming stimuli. Just peace."

As consciousness faded despite my efforts to resist, I felt the tracking bracelet pulse once against my wrist, a final signal to Elena that we were moving into the unknown. Whatever Dr Thorne had in store for us, I had no doubt we weren’t going to like it. However, seeing Dr Thorne now, he almost looked familiar, as if at some point we could have been related. My Father was one of the founding members of the Council, and he wasn’t much less than a man slut. I was sure that there were many more half-siblings that Eliot and I never knew about.

The darkness swallowed me completely, but unlike the dreamless void of preservation, this sleep was filled with fragmented images, echowisps dancing through my subconscious, whispering warnings I couldn't quite grasp. When awareness finally returned, it came in layers, each sense awakening separately.

Touch first: soft fabric beneath me, not the clinical hardness of a pod.

Sound next: gentle music playing somewhere nearby, reminiscent of the Le Glow Club but more measured, deliberate.

Smell: clean air with subtle floral notes, manufactured pleasantness.

I opened my eyes to find myself in what appeared to be a bedroom, tastefully decorated in pale blues and soft whites. Sunlight, or something that looked convincingly similar, streamed through large windows overlooking a garden. For a disorienting moment, I wondered if I had dreamed everything, the awakening, Haven's Gate, our plan.

"Costa?" I called, sitting up carefully.

The door opened immediately, as if someone had been waiting for my voice. Costa entered, dressed in clothing that resembled what he might have worn six centuries ago, finely tailored, subtly royal without being ostentatious.

"You're awake," he said, his voice carrying the perfect note of relief. But his eyes, those green eyes I knew better than my own, flashed a warning. We were being watched.

"Where are we?" I asked, playing my part as I scanned the room for surveillance devices.

"Sanctuary Prime," he replied, coming to sit beside me on the bed. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining in our familiar pattern, three squeezes, a silent code we'd developed during our brief courtship six centuries ago. Danger. Follow my lead.

"Dr Thorne calls it a transitional environment," Costa continued. "Designed to ease our adjustment. It's... quite remarkable, actually."

As if summoned by his name, Dr Thorne entered without knocking. He had abandoned his protective mask, revealing a face that was unnervingly youthful for someone who had overseen our imprisonment for centuries.

"Miss Jackson," he said warmly. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused," I admitted truthfully. "This place..."

"It is designed to bridge the gap between your original time period and the present," he finished for me. "We've found that radical environmental shifts compound temporal displacement stress. This facility recreates elements from your era while gradually introducing contemporary features."

I looked around more carefully, noting the subtle anachronisms: furniture that resembled early 21st-century styles but was constructed from materials that hadn't existed then. These lighting fixtures mimicked antique designs but produced an illumination quality impossible with older technology.

"It's... thoughtful," I said cautiously.

Dr Thorne smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "We've had centuries to perfect our methods. The crude preservation chambers were only the beginning, necessary but primitive steps toward something far more sophisticated."

Costa's hand tightened almost as if he had noticed the same thing I had. Dr Thorne was related to me somehow, at least one thing I was right about. He couldn’t keep it in his pants.

"Dr Thorne," I said carefully, studying his features with new understanding. "Forgive me, but... have we met before? Beyond the preservation facility, I mean. You seem familiar."

His smile faltered slightly, a flicker of something, pride? Guilt? Crossing his features before the clinical mask reasserted itself. "An astute observation, Miss Jackson. I wondered when you might notice the resemblance."

Costa's grip on my hand became almost painful, his body tensing beside me.

"Your father, Thomas Jackson, was indeed... prolific in his personal relationships," Dr Thorne continued, moving to the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "I am Dr Marcus Thorne-Jackson, though I've found it professionally expedient to use only the maternal surname."

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. Another half-brother, one who had dedicated his existence to perfecting the very system that had imprisoned us.

"You're my..."

"Half-brother, yes," he confirmed without turning around. "Born three years after you entered preservation. Father was quite distraught about your... disappearance. He threw himself into his work with the Emergency Preservation Committee, determined to perfect the process that had claimed his rebellious daughter."

"Claimed?" Costa's voice was dangerously quiet. "She wasn't claimed. She was taken."

Dr Thorne finally turned, his expression one of patronising patience. "Semantics, Your Highness. The important thing is that Father's grief drove remarkable innovations in consciousness preservation. Every technique we've developed, every breakthrough in neural mapping, it all stems from his desire to bring his children home safely."

I felt sick, the room's manufactured comfort suddenly oppressive. "How many others?"

"Others?"

"Half-siblings. How many of us are there?"

His smile returned, colder now. "You're looking at the only one who survived to contribute meaningfully to the cause. Elliot was too idealistic and died fighting windmills. The others..." He shrugged dismissively. "Genetic potential doesn't always manifest as expected."

The casual way he discussed the elimination of our family members sent ice through my veins. Costa shifted beside me, and I could practically feel the royal authority radiating from him despite his careful facade.

"And what exactly is the cause now, Dr Thorne?" Costa asked. "The Council has fallen. The preservation program is defunct. What are you hoping to accomplish?"

"Evolution," Dr Thorne replied simply, moving to a wall panel that shimmered to life at his touch. Images appeared, brain scans, neural maps, complex diagrams I couldn't decipher. "The old methods were crude attempts at physical preservation. But consciousness, true consciousness, is information. And information can be... edited."