Текст книги "UnSouled"

Автор книги: Neal Shusterman

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Part Four

The Scent of Memory

“FOUNDLING WHEELS” FOR EVERY ITALIAN HOSPITAL?

By Carolyn E. Price

Feb 28, 2007

Italy tests out the “foundling wheel,” a concept first introduced in Rome in the year 1198 by Pope Innocent III.

A well-dressed, well-looked after three– or four-month-old baby, maybe Italian, or maybe not, and in excellent health, was abandoned on Saturday evening in the “foundling wheel,” a heated cradle that was set up at the Policlinico Casilino. The foundling wheel was created for women to put their infants in when the child is unwanted or is born into seriously deprived conditions.

The baby boy is the first to be saved in Italy thanks to an experimental system that was devised to stop babies from being abandoned in the street. The baby “foundling” has been named Stefano in honor of the doctor who first took charge of him.

For health minister Livia Turco, the project is “an example to follow.” Ms. Turco’s colleague, family minister Rosy Bindi, wants a modern version of the foundling wheel “in every maternity ward in every hospital in Italy.”

The head of the neonatology department at the Policlinico Casilino, Piermichele Paolillo, notes: “We wouldn’t have been surprised to find a newborn in the cradle, but we didn’t expect to see a three– or four-month-old baby . . . . Who knows what lies behind this episode . . . ?”

Published with permission of

DigitalJournal.com

Full article at:

http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/127934

The Rheinschilds

Finally a time to celebrate! Tonight the Rheinschilds dine at Baltimore’s most expensive, most exclusive restaurant. This splurge is long overdue.

Sonia holds Janson’s hand across the table. They’ve already sent the waiter away twice, not wanting to be rushed with their order. Bubbles rise in their champagne flutes while the bottle of Dom Pérignon chills beside them. This night must not pass too quickly. It must linger and last, because they both deserve it.

“Tell me again,” Sonia says. “Every last bit of it!”

Janson is happy to oblige, because it was the kind of meeting worth reliving. He wishes he had found a way to record it. He tells her once more of how he went into the office of the president of BioDynix Medical Instruments and presented to him what he considers to be “his life’s work”—just as he had presented it to Sonia a few days before.

“And he had vision enough to see the ramifications right away?”

“Sonia, the guy was sweating with greed. I could practically see fangs growing. He told me he needed to speak to the board and would get back to me—but even before I left the building, he called me back in to make a deal.”

Sonia claps her hands together, having not heard that part before. “How perfect! He didn’t want you to show it to his competitors.”

“Exactly. He made a preemptive bid on the spot—and he didn’t just buy the prototype; he bought the schematics, the patent—everything. BioDynix will have the exclusive rights!”

“Tell me you went straight to the bank with the check.”

Janson shakes his head. “Electronic transfer. I confirmed it’s already in our account.” Janson takes a sip of champagne; then he leans forward and whispers, “Sonia, we could buy a small island with what they paid for it!”

Sonia smiles and raises her champagne glass to her lips. “I’ll be satisfied if you just agree to take a vacation.”

They both know it’s not about the money. As it was once before, it’s about changing the world.

Finally they order, their champagne flutes are refilled, and Janson raises his glass in a toast. “To the end of unwinding. A year from now it will be nothing but an ugly memory!”

Sonia clinks her glass to his. “I see a second Nobel in your future,” she says. “One that you don’t have to share with me.”

Janson smiles. “I will anyway.”

The meal comes—the finest they’ve ever had, on the finest evening they’ve ever shared.

It isn’t until the following morning that they realize something’s wrong . . . because the building in which they work—which had been named for them—is no longer the Rheinschild Pavilion. Overnight the big brass letters above the entrance have been replaced and the building renamed for the chairman of Proactive Citizenry.

30 • Hayden

Hayden Upchurch cannot be unwound. At least not today. Tomorrow, who can say?

“Why am I at a harvest camp if I’m overage?” he had asked his jailers after he had been deposited there along with the rest of the holdouts from the Communications Bomber at the Graveyard.

“Would you rather be in prison?” was the camp director’s only answer. But eventually Director Menard couldn’t keep the truth to himself—the truth being so delectably sweet.

“About half the states in this country have a measure on this year’s ballot that will allow the unwinding of violent criminals,” he had told Hayden with an unpleasant yellow-toothed grin. “You were sent to a harvest camp in a state where it’s sure to pass and will go into effect most quickly—that is, the day after the election.” Then he went on to inform Hayden that he would be unwound at 12:01 a.m. on November sixth. “So set your alarm.”

“I will,” Hayden had told him brightly. “And I’ll make a special request that you get my teeth. Now that you good people have had my braces removed, they’re ready for you. Of course, my orthodontist would suggest you wear a retainer for two years.”

Menard had just grunted and left.

It boggles Hayden that he’s been labeled a violent criminal when all he tried to do was save his life and the lives of other kids. But when the Juvenile Authority has a grudge against you, it can spin things any way it wants.

A year and a half ago, when Connor had arrived at Happy Jack Harvest Camp, he was paraded before all the Unwinds, a humbled, broken prisoner. They thought it would demoralize the other kids, but instead it practically turned Connor into a god. The falling, rising Unwind.

Apparently, the Juvenile Authority had learned from its mistake, and for Hayden they went about things differently. With Hayden’s Unwind Manifesto still getting more hits online than a naked celebrity, they needed to damage his street cred.

Like Connor, they had immediately separated him from the other kids, but instead of making an example of him, Director Menard chose to treat Hayden to steak meals at the staff table and give him a three-room suite in the guest villa. At first Hayden was worried that the man was harboring some sort of romantic interest—but he had an altogether different agenda. Menard was spreading rumors that Hayden was cooperating with the Juvenile Authority and helping them round up the kids that escaped from the Graveyard. Although the only “evidence” was the fact that Hayden was being treated remarkably well, the kids at the harvest camp believed. The only ones who didn’t fall for it were kids like Nasim and Lizbeth, who knew him from before.

Now when he’s walked through the dining room, the kids boo and hiss, and his escort of guards—who at first were there to make sure he didn’t escape, or tell anyone the truth—now are there to protect him from the angry mob of Unwinds. It’s a masterful bit of manipulation that Hayden might appreciate were he not the butt of the joke. After all, what could be lower than a traitor to the traitors? Now, thanks to Menard, Hayden will leave this world shamed on all possible fronts.

“I won’t bother taking your teeth,” Menard had told him. “But I may put your middle finger on a key chain, to remind me of all the times you’ve flipped it at me.”

“Left or right?” Hayden had asked. “These things are important.”

But as summer pounds inexorably toward autumn and his postelection unwinding, Hayden finds it harder and harder to make light of personal impending doom. He’s beginning to finally believe his life as he knows it will end in the Chop Shop of Cold Springs Harvest Camp.

31 • Starkey

There’s an unwind transport truck on a winding road on a bright August day, and although it’s painted in pastel blues, pinks, and greens, nothing can hide the ugliness of its purpose.

The northern Nevada terrain is arid and rugged. There are mountains that seemed to see where they were headed and gave up before they were fully pushed forth from the earth, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. Everything in the landscape is the neutral beige of institutional furniture. Now I know why tumbleweeds roll, Starkey thinks. Because they want to be anywhere else but here.

Starkey sits shotgun beside the driver of the transport truck. Although today it should be called “riding pistol,” because that’s the weapon he has pressed to the driver’s ribs.

“You really don’t need to do this,” the driver says nervously.

“This thing is bigger than you, Bubba. Just go with it, and you might actually live.” Starkey doesn’t know the man’s name. To him all truck drivers are Bubba.

As they come down into the valley toward Cold Springs Harvest Camp, Starkey gets a good view of the facility. Like all harvest camps, its calculated attention to design is part of the crime, putting forth an illusion of tranquillity and comfort. At a harvest camp, even the building where kids go in and never come out could be as inviting as Grandma’s house. Starkey shudders at the thought.

The builders of Cold Springs Harvest Camp tried to take architectural cues from its surroundings, attempting a natural Western look—but a huge oasis of green artificial turf in the midst of stucco buildings is a glaring reminder that there is nothing natural about this place at all.

Bubba sweats profusely as they approach the guard gate. “Stop sweating!” says Starkey. “It’s suspicious.”

“I can’t help it!”

To the guard at the gate, it’s business as usual. He checks the driver’s credentials and reviews the manifest. He seems not to care, or just doesn’t notice the driver’s perspiration. Nor does he pay attention to Starkey, who is dressed in the light gray coveralls of an Unwind transport worker. The guard goes back into his booth, hits a button, and the gates slowly swing open.

Now it’s Starkey’s turn to sweat. Until this moment it’s all been hypothetical. Even coming down the valley toward the camp seemed surreal and one step removed from reality, but now that he’s inside, there’s no turning back. This is going down.

They pull up to a loading dock, where a team of harvest camp counselors wait to greet their new arrivals with disarming smiles, then sort them and send them to their barracks to await unwinding. But that’s not going to happen today.

As soon as the back doors of the transport truck are swung open, the staff is met not with rows of restrained teenagers, but with an army. Kids leap out at them, screaming and brandishing weapons.

The instant the commotion begins, the driver leaps from the cab and runs for his life. Starkey doesn’t care, since the man has done his job. The shouts give way to gunfire. Workers race away from the scene, and guards race toward it.

Starkey gets out of the cab in time to see some of his precious storks go down. The east tower has a clear view of the loading dock, and a sharpshooter is taking kids out. The first couple of shots are tranqs, but the sharpshooter switches rifles. The next kid to go down, goes down for good.

Oh crap this is real this is real this is—

And then the sharpshooter aims at Starkey.

He dodges just as a bullet puts a hole in the door of the truck with a dainty ping. Panicked, Starkey leaps behind a boulder, smashing his bad hand on the way down, spitting curses from the pain.

The storks are spreading out. Some are going down, but more are gaining ground. Some use the counselors as human shields.

I can’t die, Starkey thinks. Who will lead them if I die?

But he knows he can’t stay crouched behind a boulder either. They have to see him fighting. They have to see him in charge. Not just the storks, but the kids he’s about to set free.

He pokes his head up and aims his pistol at the shadowy figure in the tower, who is now firing at kids running across the artificial turf. Starkey’s fourth shot is lucky. The sharpshooter goes down.

But there are other guards, other towers.

In the end, salvation for all of them comes from the kids of the camp itself. The grounds are filled with Unwinds going about their daily activities—sports and dexterity exercises all designed to maximize their divided value and physically groom them for unwinding. When they see what’s happening, they abandon their activities, overpower their counselors, and turn an attack into a revolt.

Starkey strides into the midst of it, amazed by what he’s witnessing. The staff running in panic, guards overpowered, their weapons pulled from them and added to the storks’ growing arsenal. He sees a woman in a white coat race across the lawn and behind a building, trying to use a cell phone—but the joke’s on her. Even before the storks ambushed the transport truck, Jeevan and a team of techies had jammed the two wireless towers feeding the valley and took out the landline. No communication of any sort is getting in or out of this place unless it’s running on two feet.

The rebellion feeds itself, fueled by desperation and unexpected hope. It grows in intensity until even the guards are running, only to be tackled by dozens of kids and restrained with their own handcuffs. It’s like Happy Jack! thinks Starkey. But this time it’ll be done right. Because I’m the one in charge.

Overpowered by sheer numbers, the staff is subdued, and the camp is liberated in fifteen minutes.

Kids are overwhelmed with joy. Some are in tears from the ordeal. Others tend to dead and dying friends. Adrenaline is still high, and Starkey decides to use it. Let the dead be dead. He must focus them now on life. He strides out into the middle of the common area, beside a flagpole poking out of the artificial turf, and draws their attention away from the human cost of their liberation.

He grabs a machine gun from one of his storks and fires it into the air until everyone is looking his way.

“My name is Mason Michael Starkey!” he announces in his loudest, most commanding voice, “and I’ve just saved you from unwinding!”

Cheers all around, as it should be. He orders them to separate into two groups. Storks to his left, the rest to his right. They are reluctant at first, but his storks wave their weapons and make the order stick. The kids divide themselves. There seem to be about a hundred storks and three hundred other kids. No tithes, thankfully. This is a titheless camp. Starkey addresses the nonstorks first, gesturing to the main entrance.

“The gate is wide open. Your path to freedom is there. I suggest you take it.”

For a moment they linger, not trusting. Then a few turn and head toward the gate, then a few more, and in an instant it becomes a mass exodus. Starkey watches them go. Then he turns to the storks who remain.

“To you I give a choice,” he tells them. “You can run off with the others, or you can become part of something larger than yourselves. All your life you’ve been treated like second-class citizens and then handed the ultimate insult. You were sent here.” He gestures wide. “We are all storks here, condemned to be unwound—but we’ve taken back our lives, and we’re taking our revenge. So I ask you—do you want revenge?” He waits and receives a few guarded responses, so he raises his voice. “I said, do you want revenge?”

Now primed, the answer comes in a single chorus blast. “Yes!”

“Then welcome,” Starkey says, “to the Stork Brigade!”

32 • Hayden

Shortly before the liberation, Hayden takes a shower—which he now does almost obsessively three times a day, trying to wash off the filth of his situation. He knows no amount of scrubbing can do it, but it feels good all the same. The other Unwinds there hate him as much as they hate their jailers because they believe he’s one of them. So smooth was Camp Director Menard in creating the spin—in making everyone there believe that Hayden had been turned and was now working for the Juvenile Authority. He would rather die, of course, than ever do anything to help the Juvenile Authority, but it’s all about perception. People believe what they think they see. No, he’ll never wash away Menard’s lies, but they can’t stop him from trying.

When he steps out of his shower today, however, he discovers that his world has completely changed.

He immediately hears the gunfire—round after round of staccato, arrhythmic blasts that seem to be coming from multiple directions. Although his lap-of-luxury suite has a veranda, he’s not allowed on it, so it’s locked. Still, he can see what’s going on. The harvest camp is under attack by a team of kids with weapons—and each time a guard falls, a new weapon is added to their arsenal. Unwinds from the camp have joined with them, turning this into a full-scale revolt—and Hayden allows himself a glimmer of hope that perhaps the date set for his unwinding might be wrong after all.

A bullet catches the corner of the sliding glass veranda door, but leaves little more than a ding. It’s bulletproof glass. Apparently the builders decided that anyone who would be invited to the visitor’s suite of a harvest camp might be the kind of person likely to get shot at. His only way out is the door to the suite, but it’s locked from the outside.

The sound of gunfire diminishes, until it’s gone entirely—and the sight of kids still running outside tells Hayden that the invading force was victorious.

He pounds on his door over and over again, screaming at the top of his lungs, until someone comes.

It’s a kid at the door, and he looks familiar. Hayden quickly recognizes him as a message runner from the Graveyard.

“Hayden?” the kids says. “No way!”

•   •   •

He is led by three fugitives he knew from the airplane graveyard out into the common area, where the artificial turf swelters in the midday sun. There are bodies strewn everywhere. Some are tranq’d; others clearly dead. Most are kids. A few are guards. To the left, the harvest camp workers are being bound and gagged. To the right, there are vast numbers of kids racing out the camp’s gate, claiming their freedom. But not everyone is leaving.

The rest are being addressed by someone wearing the pastel-gray coverall uniform of an Unwind transport worker.

Hayden stops short when he realizes who it is.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was holding out hope that it was Connor come to rescue them. Now he wonders if it’s too late to go back to his guest suite.

“Hey,” the kid who unlocked his door shouts. “Look who we found!”

When Starkey lays eyes on Hayden, there’s a moment of fear in Starkey’s eyes, which is quickly engulfed by steel. He smiles a little too broadly. “What was it you always said at the Graveyard, Hayden? ‘Hello. I’ll be your rescuer today.’ ”

“He’s one of them!” someone shouts before Hayden can come up with a clever response. “He’s been working for the Juvies! They even let him pick who gets unwound!”

“Oh, is that the latest news? You know you can’t trust a thing the tabloids say. Next I’ll be giving birth to alien triplets.”

Bam is there—she looks at Hayden, somewhat amused. “So the Juvenile Authority made you their bitch.”

“Nice to see you too, Bam.”

Shouts of “Leave him,” and “Tranq him,” and even “Kill him,” spread through the crowd of Cold Springs Unwinds, but the kids who knew him rise to his defense enough to spread at least a few seeds of doubt. The crowd looks to Starkey for a decision, but he doesn’t seem ready to make one. He’s spared, though, because three strong storks approach with the struggling camp director.

The crowd parts, and someone has the bright idea to spit on Menard as he passes, and pretty soon everyone’s doing it. Hayden might have done it if he had thought of it first, but now it’s just conformism.

“So this must be the guy in charge,” Starkey says. “Get on your knees.”

When Menard doesn’t obey, the three kids manhandling him push him down.

“You have been found guilty of crimes against humanity,” Starkey says.

“Guilty?” wails Menard desperately. “I’ve had no trial! Where’s my trial?”

Starkey looks up at the mob. “How many of you think he’s guilty?”

Just about every hand goes up, and as much as Hayden hates Menard, he has a bad feeling about where this is going. Sure enough, Starkey pulls out a pistol. “There’s twelve in a jury, and that’s definitely more than twelve people,” Starkey tells Menard. “Consider yourself convicted.”

Then Starkey does something Hayden was not expecting. He hands the gun to Hayden.

“Execute him.”

Hayden begins to stammer, staring at the gun. “Starkey, uh—this isn’t—”

“If you’re not a traitor, then prove it by putting a bullet in his head.”

“That won’t prove anything.”

Then Menard doubles over and begins to pray. A man who kills kids for a living praying for deliverance. It’s enough to make Hayden aim at Menard’s hypocritical skull. He holds it there for a good ten seconds, but he can’t pull the trigger.

“I won’t,” Hayden says. “Not like this.”

“Fine.” Starkey takes back the gun, then points to a random kid in the crowd, who looks to be no older than fourteen. The kid steps forward, and Starkey puts the gun in the kid’s hand. “Show this coward what it means to be courageous. Carry out the execution.”

The kid is clearly terrified, but all eyes are on him. He’s been put to the test and knows he must not fail. So he grimaces. He squints. He puts the muzzle of the gun to the back of Menard’s head and looks away. Then he pulls the trigger.

The pop is not loud; it’s just a pop. Like a single stray firecracker. Menard crumples, dead before he hits the ground. It’s quick and clean. Just an entrance wound in the back of the head and an exit wound right beneath the chin, with the bullet itself claimed by the artificial turf. There are no exploding brain bits and pieces of skull—Starkey and the crowd seem disappointed that an execution, in the end, is far less dramatic than the buildup.

“All right, move out!” Starkey orders, giving instructions to commandeer any vehicle for which they can find keys.

“What about him?” Bam asks, sneering at Hayden.

Starkey spares Hayden a brief glance and the tiniest hint of a superior grin before saying, “We’ll take him with us. He still might be useful.” Then he turns back to all those gathered and says in a powerful voice, “I hereby announce that this harvest camp is officially closed!”

Starkey gets the cheers and adulation he’s craving, and Hayden, looking at the dead director . . . and the dead guards . . . and the dozens of dead kids littering the grounds . . . wonders whether he should be cheering or screaming.