Amren is dead. But he doesn’t want to be. He wants to go on living with his master. Still dead, Amren goes looking for him. When Amren finds him, he is pulled back into life in front of thousands of witnesses, and just in time to save his master from assassination. With Amren’s resurrection, the scientific and political worlds ignite in a battle for control over him. Amren learns that he can do things, but not even his master truly understands what is happening to him. Amren must discover who and what he is before he is torn from everything he loves.
Amren is an endearing and innocent alien protagonist. If Dobby from the Harry Potter series had a coming-of-age story set in a futuristic urban environment, it might look something like Amren: Life After.
Amren is dead. But he doesn’t want to be. He wants to go on living with his master. Still dead, Amren goes looking for him. When Amren finds him, he is pulled back into life in front of thousands of witnesses, and just in time to save his master from assassination. With Amren’s resurrection, the scientific and political worlds ignite in a battle for control over him. Amren learns that he can do things, but not even his master truly understands what is happening to him. Amren must discover who and what he is before he is torn from everything he loves.
Amren is an endearing and innocent alien protagonist. If Dobby from the Harry Potter series had a coming-of-age story set in a futuristic urban environment, it might look something like Amren: Life After.
“Little divril, come here. Sit on my knee.”
“With delight, my Master!”
Amren runs to the Master. He climbs onto the footstool and raises his arms for the gentle hands to lift him onto his favorite place. The Master settles into his chair as he has so many evenings before and places a hand on Amren’s back. “Do you know the meaning of thanatology?”
Amren knows correct answers always please the Master. “It is the study of death, my Master.”
The Master gives him a small pat. “I see you remember your reading from last week, which is no surprise. Scientists usually focus on the physical aspects of death, but tonight I’d like to dabble in the philosophy. Tell me, Amren. What happens when a divril dies?”
Amren looks into the Master’s face, whose raised eyebrows hint at curiosity. “I—I don’t know, my Master. Of all the reading you have assigned—”
“They only speak of humans, yes. I know. And even those sentiments vary wildly because nobody has ever returned from the experience. On this, the thoughts of a child are as authoritative as any expert.” The Master’s eyes shift to the side, his smile lingering. “So, my young divril. What do you think happens when a divril dies?”
Amren relaxes, trying to collect his thoughts, but he has little to collect. “When we die…we die?”
“You mean that it is your end,” the Master replies. “It is a good guess, a rational guess. But doesn’t it feel…empty?”
Amren nods, surprised to find that he agrees. It is almost as surprising as the Master’s choice of topic for the evening.
“What do you wish would happen when you die?”
Amren turns again, seeking the wonderful solace of the Master’s gaze. “To be with you, my Master.”
The Master chuckles, chin lifting. His hands drift to the armrests. “That’s wonderful. But let’s expand our thoughts a little. Say death is a door, and when you die, you step through it, and I’m still on this side. What do you see on the other side?”
Amren looks away. The Master is everything. He does not want to imagine it, but the Master has made a request, and so he must. “It…it is dark. And lonely? There’s nobody else there. But it’s the same as here. Only, nothing matters because you are not there.” Amren looks at the Master, wondering if he will be satisfied with the response.
The Master is looking past him, gaze on the wall. His hand rubs at the shadow of gray stubble on his chin. He settles, returning a hand to Amren’s back. “Interesting. I’m sure one of my students will say something similar tomorrow.”
“My Master, if death is like passing from room to room, how many rooms are there?”
“An excellent question for me to pose to the class!”
“And if death is a door, that means we could come back.”
The Master gives him a shrug. “It’s only a figure of speech.”
“And what if a room has multiple entrances? Maybe you can visit it twice.”
“Maybe! The only thing I know for sure is that, if we knew what came next, it would change how we live far more than how we die.”
Amren hesitates, unsure how this can be. He will serve the Master regardless of what comes next.
The Master yawns. “Well. I think that’s enough for tonight. I have no engagements in the late afternoon tomorrow, so I will be home before supper. You did lay out my clothes, did you not?”
Amren sidles off the Master’s lap and bows, thoughts of life after death lingering in the back of his mind. “Yes, my Master. I will do my utmost to complete my tasks before your return tomorrow.”
Amren,
Please find the time in your day to render the grout of the entry tile to a perfect white before you wash and wax the tile. Please also rid the oven from every perceptible taint of grease and sort through the produce in the cellar. I believe there is a potato going bad.
Master
In the morning, Amren sits next to the kitchen sink. The Master’s note of instructions, which is on the kitchen counter every morning, is unremarkable. The Master’s square handwriting is precise. With practiced agility, Amren climbs down the rungs that allow him easy access to the tall kitchen counters and descends the stairs to the cellar, where the Master’s assortment of tools is maintained in exquisite order. He retrieves several pieces of coarse sandpaper and carries them to the entry. He has cleaned the beige tiles often enough that they are nearly spotless, and he moves to the corner nearest the door hinges and begins sanding.
By the time he has sanded around the third tile, his back and arms have already begun to burn. He pays them little attention and continues, even as his grip on the sandpaper weakens and his knees ache. After the twelfth tile, there is nothing left of the first piece of sandpaper. He throws it behind him and grabs another. He calculates that he has just enough sandpaper to complete the remaining two hundred and fifty-four tiles. He glances at the work he has already done, and seeing the gleaming white grout between the beige tiles, feels a tingle of satisfaction. The Master will be pleased.
He sands doggedly. He does not stop, not even once. Even when he aches something terrible and his muscles begin to lock, he continues in some other position. His hands blister and bleed. His knees throb. His back burns.
After four hours, he staggers to his feet, his limbs shaking and pain lacing through his body so that he cannot even stand straight. He has created a masterpiece that will transform the entry into something near perfection once he sweeps up all the dust, washes, and applies the wax.
But his elation is sapped by the fire in his body. Blood seeps from his blue hands and drips red onto his masterpiece. He stoops to wipe it up for the hundredth time, but his body buckles, and he collapses. He does not understand why, but his eyes water and tears dribble down his cheeks. He grits his teeth, and with great effort, regains his feet.
It takes him most of the afternoon to sweep, mop, and wax the floor. When the Master returns home an hour before supper, Amren is far behind schedule. Shoulders-deep in the oven and surrounded by a foaming vortex of cleaning goop, his trembling limbs fail him just as the Master enters the kitchen. Amren’s hands plunge into the volatile mix. He gives an agonized cry and leaps backward, landing on the Master’s foot.
The Master’s words are distant. “Amren! What are you…you’re cleaning with this…and your hands look like that? Ancuell’s walls, Amren!”
The Master plucks him from the floor and sets him on the edge of the sink, his bare feet tucked away from the drain. “Brace yourself.”
Amren grits his teeth once more, but he cannot stop the tears. The Master plunges his hands into the cold, streaming water and works the cleaner out of Amren’s wounds. The Master quickly bandages Amren’s bleeding hands and carries him to a chair. “Amren. I know your hands feel like fire, but I need you to listen to me. Can you listen? Think. Always think. Think before you clean. Use your mind before your hands.”
The Master pauses and gives his familiar shifting of shoulders when he is thinking. “The entry looks like it was built yesterday. Better, maybe. But as I’m sure you’ve realized, your method of scouring the tile was not ideal. No good will come of dedication that needlessly damages you. Careful analysis of your tasks is more important than dogged determination.”
Amren nods, the pain in his hands the most intense, prolonged pain he has ever endured.
“You are still young, and you show great promise. I want more from you. Not more cleaning, that’s not what I mean. You are different from every other divril, and I need you to show that by thinking about your responsibilities. Here, let me show you.”
The Master retrieves Amren’s list from the counter. Amren sits limply in the chair until he returns. “Does that I listed the entry tile before the oven mean you must accomplish them in that order?”
The Master’s expectant gaze requires a response. “No, my Master.”
“What is the one phrase I leave you with every morning? The one phrase of your instructions that never changes?”
“‘Please find the time in your day.’”
“My only condition to your tasks is that you finish them by the end of the day. You have always done that, and I am most thankful. Now it is time for you to begin analyzing your tasks, for as you mature, my tasks will become more challenging.”
Amren manages a small nod, even though he feels like sinking into a pool of tears. “Yes, my Master.”
“Good! You did well today. I believe you have learned an important lesson, and that means more than a completed list.” The Master gives him a stern look. “And no, you may not finish the oven today. I will tend to it. Instead, I will assign you several passages on the concept of altruism. As you read, keep in mind that when one sacrifices for the betterment of all, he can make his sacrifice more meaningful if he sacrifices intelligently.”
For several days, the Master asks nothing of Amren but reading, memorization, and recitation. By the end of the third day, Amren can recite thirty-eight sonnets, one epic ballad, six of the Master’s theses, forty-five geometrical theorems, the Ancuellan declaration of sovereignty, the names and specializations of the seventeen districts within Ancuell, every known element and their atomic mass, and the chemical structure of coffee. The one about coffee seems most sensible because the Master partakes of the substance most every morning.
In the evening of the third day, the Master beckons Amren into the library, a two-story room with bookshelves that extend almost to the ceiling on two sides. The room is modestly sized despite its height. Amren follows the Master, whose slippers tap noisily against the polished wooden floor, into the warm, amber hue radiating from the western-facing window above them. The Master pulls out a tall stool from the table and sits, motioning Amren forward. Amren complies, and the Master lifts him onto the table, where a map is spread.
“It occurred to me,” the Master begins, “that despite your broad education, I don’t believe you have ever seen a map of our city.”
It is true. Amren has seen maps of the continent and oceans, but never the city-state of Ancuell.
“This is Ancuell,” the Master says, his finger tapping the map. “Everything from the city walls…” he traces a finger from the edge of the city to its center, “…to the Core is governed by the will of the citizens. What do you know about our government?”
The Master’s eyes are on him. It is a difficult question because there are so many answers. “Ancuell is a democracy, my Master, in which every citizen’s vote is equal.”
“Good enough, for the moment. And what can you tell me about the city's construction, based on what you see in this map?”
The city is unusual in its symmetry. The outside border is perfectly round, or very nearly, and the main thoroughfares running in and out are evenly spaced. The seventeen districts, Magrum, Carnisus, Thelley, Oster, all of them are outlined in dark blue, but their outlines do not share the same symmetry as the city’s physical structure. Amren ventures, “It is round, my Master, if the cartographer has remained truthful. Except the districts are all squiggly.”
Some secret amusement seeps into the Master’s eyes. “The border is, indeed, perfectly round, with great walls that encircle it. The districts reflect the more typical, organic growth of a city. Do you know why the border wall exists?”
It is puzzling. The map indicates several portions of the city are still undeveloped, and the wall has existed for several decades. It was built around enormous sections of empty land, with the citizens expecting to expand the city in the future. “It must have been the will of the citizens?”
“Correct as usual, but not the answer I was looking for. I should have asked, why would the citizens of Ancuell want a circular wall around their city?”
“Could there be some danger outside the city? Wild animals or invaders?”
The Master smiles. “Your reasons are sound, but no. It’s a trick question because there is no rational reason behind Ancuell’s walls. Ancuell is wealthy, and the citizens boast by decorating their city in extravagance. The land south and west of Ancuell is arid and empty, a desert of wind and rock, and to the east, beyond our farmland, lie the cliffs that plunge into the ocean, but the approach from the sea is made impossible by the great slices of rock that have fallen into the water. To the north is Ancuell Mountain, likewise impassable. Only by crossing a vast desert can Ancuell be reached by land, yet the citizens erect a wall as though plagued by enemies on all sides.”
Amren remains silent, unsure how to respond.
“Here.” The Master points to the center of the map. “This is the Core. Tell me what you know of it.”
Such big questions. The Master usually asks smaller things. Amren begins reciting facts from the census report the Master required he review nearly a year ago. “As of last year’s census, the Core contains fifty-seven percent of the city’s population and seventy-one percent of the city’s jobs. It also has the tallest buildings on the continent and the largest suspended tram system. It contains the headquarters of twenty-nine of the continent’s largest one hundred corporations. It also has internationally recognized museums of art, performance theaters, and universities.”
“It does not include,” the Master interjects, laying a finger just south of the Core in the southwestern quadrant, “the internationally recognized university where I work, Gamfont University. It is just about here, halfway between the Corpus and the Anterior Border.”
Amren has heard the name of the university several times, but the Master has never been so specific about its location. The Master continues, “I need spend only nineteen minutes on the tram to get there, and with only two connections. After that, it’s a short walk. It is a remarkable feat for a transit system, and a great convenience for all citizens.”
The Master glances at a clock on the wall. It is still early in the evening, but something must be nagging at him. “I have more I wish to discuss, but I must attend to several things before I retire. In your unallocated time, study this map. You never know when knowledge of our geography may come in handy.”
“Amren,” the Master prods the next morning, “what are you thinking about?”
The Master is peeking in from the door of the study, where Amren has several dozen piles of paper laid out across the floor. The Master had brought him a stack of pages so large that it reached Amren’s waist. It was entirely out of order. Assembling it properly will consume several hours. He has been walking between the rows of paper, dropping sheets into stacks of fifty, which he will sort individually and then collate at the end. “I was contemplating the rituals practiced at the end of a human’s life, my Master.”
The Master’s eyebrows rise. With the hint of a smile, he says, “Should I be worried?”
If the Master intends levity, Amren is unsure what might be amusing. “I do not think so, my Master. Our conversation from four days ago made me believe this would be good to think about.”
The Master steps more fully onto the threshold and leans against the jamb, crossing his arms. “We spoke of death, yes, of course. A worthwhile topic.”
Amren resumes traversing between his piles of paper, dropping sheets as he passes. “I was puzzling. Some humans bury their dead while others immolate them or drop them into the sea. Some cultures celebrate death while others mourn it. Some religions deny that death exists, much like your own theories of death being a door, but always the human comes back to this same place, either as another human or in some other form.”
“I see you found the books on thanatology. The ones that I have not yet assigned for reading.”
Amren nods. “I did not expect so many different opinions, but they do all treat death as a farewell, even if the culture believes the dead will return.”
Amren turns the corner at the end of the row and grabs another handful of pages. The Master’s hands have found their way to the pockets of his loose, linen tunic. Amren continues, “There was one culture where death is viewed as a severing, not a farewell. The repetitions of the theme are consistent, though one verse seems to indicate the severance is a mercy killing.”
“Some religions view death as a mercy, though none of them advocate homicide or suicide.”
Amren pauses with a sheet hovering over its pile. It is a difficult concept. If death is a mercy, why does the religion still have practitioners?
The Master says, “What made you start thinking about this?”
“This task is simple and requires no further analysis. I enjoyed our brief conversation on thanatology and my extra reading yesterday. It…it seemed like it adhered to your command that I always be thinking, yet it was also…fun.”
Was that a good thing? Is he allowed to have fun? The Master does not seem perturbed. In fact, his smile is wide. The Master nods. “Well done. But a question for you. What are you collating?”
Amren glances up, but then his gaze returns to the sheets in his hand. They are filled with text and have elegant horizontal rules in the header and footer, but no other distinguishing characteristics. He glances at the piles all around. They are the same. The page number is all he has been paying attention to. He looks back to the Master. “I do not know.”
“Have you read any of it?”
Amren shakes his head.
“Aren’t you curious?”
It had not occurred to him. This was simply a task that needed doing. “I am now.”
The Master gives him a nod, and Amren begins reading, but he does not recognize any of the words. “What language is this?”
“It is not a language. It is filler text. It just gives the impression of language.”
It reads like a real language, kind of. Or at least, it reads like Amren would expect a foreign language to. He glances at another pile and recognizes several of the words from the previous page. In fact, entire sentences are identical. Amren looks at a third page and realizes that there are only a few paragraphs of unique content. “You asked me to collate thousands of pages of duplicate filler text?”
“I did,” the Master replies, posture easy and head cocked. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I will later be collating content that is unsuitable to be read?”
The Master chuckles and shakes his head. “I wanted to see how inquisitive you would be. I can see that you are analyzing your tasks and methods, but have you ever considered that a task need not be done?”
A task from the Master that need not be done? It is almost painful to think about.
“Being curious about the things around you is a good thing. You will learn more about the world and your surroundings, and that will help you when my commands become less specific. Eventually, you will need to discern when a thing is not worth doing, even if it something that I have commanded in the past.”
Amren knows he is staring, but he cannot help it. Analyzing his daily tasks is a nearly thoughtless exercise compared to this. How can he possibly know when one of the Master’s commands is no longer valid?
The Master’s brows furrow in concern. “Had you the complexion of a human, I think you would be pale. Don’t over-think it, Amren. I will ease you into this.”
Amren’s breath comes easier. “Will you be adding invalid tasks to my morning list, then?”
The Master laughs. “No. Just focus on being curious for now. Your reading on last rites is a good example of how you are already doing it. Expand that. Just be sure it doesn’t impede the work that is essential. For example, you have several other tasks to accomplish today, yes? There is value in pondering last rites, but in this case, perhaps the time could have been better used to prepare.”
Amren nods. After this collation, he must prove out several equations. “Yes, my Master. I shall begin balancing the equations from my fourth task while I gather the pages here for disposal.” He looks tentatively at the Master. “I need not continue the collation?”
The Master nods. “A good idea. But don’t forget about the mock debate this evening. You could also prepare arguments for that. Try to guess all the things I might say and prepare counterpoints for them.”
Amren’s heart sinks. The Cartascan debate model is nuanced. He is sure to be a disappointment. But the Master is right. He could probably fill an entire day guessing at the Master’s line of argumentation and developing counterpoints. Regardless of his tasks, every conscious moment can and should be filled, even if his body is still. It is both overwhelming, and somehow, invigorating.
The Master steps toward him and kneels, his face kind. “You have learned to always think, but what you think will mold you as much as I do. Be sure to think on what matters most.”
“I understand, my Master.”
The Master gives him a pat and stands. “That is pretty interesting about the mercy killing. What religion did you say that was?”
“I did not. The texts I read are from Idrulia.”
“Ah, the cousins of the Cartascans! That should make tonight’s debate even more riveting. I’ll be the Cartascan, you be Idrulian. Deal?”
The Master is smiling, but Amren cannot return the smile. He needs to prepare, and there is not enough time in the day for it.
That evening, Amren assists the Master in rearranging the library so that they can face each other behind mock podiums. The Master stands behind his chair with the footstool on top of it and several thick books on the footstool. His hands are folded on the books as he calmly talks through the third set of rebuttal formalities required before legally rebutting Amren’s second set of counterpoints. It has been a harrowing thirty-five minutes, but the Master’s use of a staccato Cartascan accent has made for several moments of hilarity.
The Master’s amusement vanishes after Amren’s first presentation. Amren stands behind his makeshift podium, three small, wooden crates that had held potatoes and onions in the cellar not an hour earlier. His hands are folded on the podium in imitation of the Master. Shame suffuses his mind with lethargy and his cheeks feel warm. He cannot remember the requirements for the final negative assessment, which he must begin once the Master stops talking. He has even forgotten the requirements for hand placement and gestures at the podium. He must have been distracted when he read the latter third of the book on Cartascan debate etiquette. He just hopes his imitation of the Master’s hand placement is not some unknown insult by Cartascan rules in an Ancuellan court, the setting for their debate.
The Master’s voice always comes out a little higher when he attempts to speak in accents. “…it is therefore irrefutable that my honorable adversary’s mixture of political and social tropes as a means to justify the negative case undermine standard religiosity and practices of faith within the greater regions of Cartasca and the surrounding peninsula and island holdings. The harms of the affirmative, though adequately proven to exist in non-religious households, still cannot be argued as significant because of the overwhelming participation in the state religion.”
The Master finishes his speech and lays both hands flat on his makeshift podium. He clamps his mouth closed and looks intently at Amren, his features grim. Not only does Amren have no idea how to counter the counterargument, he has no idea how to begin the speech. He dissolves under the Master’s stern gaze. “I am so sorry, my Master! I do not know what to do. I have not been attentive to my assignments on this subject.”
Amren’s pitiful exclamation does not soften the Master’s gaze. In his normal voice, the Master says, “Yes, that much is clear. We will continue regardless. Keep your mind here. You have time. Rebut the argument.”
Amren throws his head back and stands as straight as he can, just as the Master taught him, and speaks through his feelings of inadequacy. “I must offer rebuttal, but I am unsure as to Cartascan methods when breaching topics of religion, my Master.”
The Master’s sigh is quiet. “Do not tell me what you must do. Do it. Rebut the argument.”
Amren’s arms feel like lead. Why had he not paid more attention? Why is the Master so insistent on continuing to test him when he has failed so completely? “Fair sir,” Amren says, “your tactics are unsuitable for rebuttal. As per Ancuell’s code of conduct within the courts of law, religion cannot be used as a justification for policy unless that religion has been recognized by the People and registered with the Corpus.”
Amren sniffles under the Master’s scrutiny. The Master taps his podium books with a finger. “Huh. Good job. I didn’t expect that. What did you mean by ‘recognized by the People’?”
Amren begins to shuffle his feet but catches himself. “I could not find words of brevity to express that Ancuell’s customs of debate exclude religious influences, my Master. It may be a Cartascan debate, but the court is in Ancuell.”
The Master smiles. “In the setting, your non-rebuttal is effective. I can’t imagine the citizens ever endorsing the Cartascan state religion.”
Amren feels lighter, but the Master will surely assign him much more work on this topic. The Master begins dismantling his podium, and when his chair is in place, he falls into it with a groan. “You know, few of my best students could complete a Cartascan debate, and you were most of the way through.”
Amren looks up, hardly believing what he heard.
The Master continues, “You performed better than most human adults can, and you are but several months beyond your fifth birthday. It is a remarkable achievement. You should be proud of yourself.”
Pride? In a performance that failed so utterly?
The Master gestures for Amren to sit on his lap and Amren complies, still wrestling with taking pride in failure, even if he did better than others may have. The Master lays a hand on his back, as he so often does during their nightly conversations. “Advanced rhetoric is difficult. I know this was hard for you. I was hard on you. While you are more capable than most humans on this topic, we can both see that you could have done better. Right?”
“Yes, my Master. My performance was ill, indeed.”
The Master leans forward to look Amren in the eyes. “I pressure you not to make you fail, but to discover in how much you can succeed.”
The next morning, with the Master away to lecture, Amren reviews the Master’s note:
Amren,
Please find the time in your day to dust every surface of the house that lies one degree or more out of perpendicular to the floor. I mean, of course, only those surfaces that lie with an upward inclination.
Master
Amren assumes his standard seated position next to the sink. There was a time when he sat in the sink rather than next to it. It had been a comfortable place for a being of his size and stature. He is too big now. Part of him misses it.
He pushes the longing away and focuses on his task. The Master’s request is challenging. How will he reach the high places? What of the chandelier in the entry and the six Idrulian vases atop the library bookshelves? The ladder in the cellar is heavy and will take some time to drag up the stairs. Merely setting it up under the chandelier will be difficult.
He leaves the ladder in the cellar, for now. He begins in the library, as it is the highest place in the house, and an excellent duster always works from the top down. The two-story bookshelves are equipped with rolling ladders; in addition to their usefulness to his current task, they are a delight to push oneself around upon.
After a brief interlude of rolling himself back and forth, he climbs the ladder with a dusting cloth in one hand and a spare draped over his shoulder. As he gets higher, the angle of the ladder forces his feet closer to the bookshelves, making the prospect of dusting the large vases above him more awkward than he anticipated. When his feet reach the top rung, he swallows. The ladder is designed for humans. He will be unable to reach the two top shelves, let alone the decorative vases that rest on top of each section. How did he not anticipate this? Did he not spend enough time reviewing his task? Nothing in the room seems like it might help solve the problem. The ladder in the cellar is shorter than the built-in that he is on. He doubts he could stick the dusting cloth on the end of a broom.
With no other option, he grips the bookshelf with his hands and gingerly places both feet on the shelf just above the top rung of the ladder. The distance to the next shelf is uncomfortable. Amren wedges a knee onto it where the books are smaller, and from there, carefully lifts himself to the next level.
With only one more shelf to go before he can touch the bottom of the vase, he still needs to find a way to dust its top, which is covered by a domed lid. The openings of the vases are wide, and the lids are large as a result. The vases are round in the front, with a flat back pressed against the wall, and the mouths overhang the bookshelf. The Idrulians must take pride in their pottery. The vases are large enough in which to plant a small tree, and yet they reside atop a two-story bookshelf.
He heaves himself upward as a trickle of sweat dribbles down his temple. He begins the slow, careful climb to stand atop a small corner of the bookshelf next to the vase. His heels hang off by several inches, and he presses his body into the gold filigree surface. By stretching his body to its limit, he is just able to set the dusting cloth at the highest point of the lid. With a mixture of relief and elation, he whips a clean path across the surface. Years of dust swirl through the air. He clamps his eyes shut. He crinkles his nose, holds his breath, then sneezes.
His nose slams into the lid, knocking it askew. It falls into the vase with a weighty thud and cracking sound. The vase begins to tip forward. Amren clamps his arm around its mouth and pushes to set it right, but he has no leverage. It topples into him. He falls backward, the vase plummeting after him.
As I began to read Amren: Life after, I had many questions spring up. Who, and what, is Amren? Is he a slave or a servant? Why is he blue? Throughout the book, my questions were answered and left me wanting more.
Amren: Life After tells the story of Amren, a miniscule servant who throughout the story finds himself with many questions about himself, his role in society, and what he is. He finds himself embroiled in politics and science as different parts of society want him for their own personal gains. Amren must figure out who he is, and fast.
I enjoyed reading Amren's story. His plight was one of constant changes, abuse, and turmoil. As the synopsis suggests, he was similar to Dobby from Harry Potter, only smaller, younger, and bluer. The action was fast paced, and once it started it never really stopped. Like Amren, I never really had a chance to catch my breath; things happened quickly and often rolled off one another. There was politics, bureaucracy, creepy cults, and scary scientists. Amren led the other characters in a whirlwind of action as he grew more and more into himself. By the end of the story, Amren has become a completely different person thanks to his brilliant character development. There was one part of the story that even produced the same type of horror and disgust that Upton Sinclair's The Jungle provoked from me.
This was a story that kept me engaged throughout the entire plot. The more I read, the more I longed for more. Once one question was answered, another sprung up and took its place immediately.
This is a book that I'd recommend to anyone who wants to read something a little bit different. It has a dystopian, futuristic society, intrigue, and most of all an endearing protagonist that has all come together to create a unique story that many will enjoy.