Текст книги "UnSouled"

Автор книги: Neal Shusterman

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

47 • Connor

Starkey. He should have known it was Starkey. The numbers of the dead reported from the crash in the Salton Sea didn’t match with the numbers he knew escaped. He was foolish enough to think that either Starkey had been among the dead, or would lie low, content with his petty principality of storks. As Connor prepares to leave Una’s apartment and continue the journey to Ohio, he can’t help but be drawn in by the news reports coming in on every station about the attack on MoonCrater Harvest Camp.

“You mean you know this guy?” Lev asks.

“He’s the one who stole the escape plane,” Connor explains. “You saw it take off from the Graveyard, didn’t you? He took all the storks and left the rest of us for the Juvies.”

“Nice guy.”

“Yeah. I was an idiot for not seeing his psycho factor before it was too late.”

The premeditated lynchings at MoonCrater is Starkey’s line in the sand, and it’s quickly deepening into a trench. Five staff members hung and a sixth one left alive to tell the tale. The media scrutiny is turning Mason Starkey into a swollen image much larger than his five-foot-six stature, and Connor realizes, as much as he hates to admit it, that they are in the same club now. They are both cult figures in hiding, hated by some, adored by others. Vilified and lionized. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone starts making T-shirts featuring both of them side by side, as if their renegade status makes them in any way comrades in arms.

Starkey claims to speak for storks, but people don’t differentiate when it comes to AWOLs. As far as the public is concerned, he’s the maniacal voice of all Unwinds—and that’s a big problem. As Starkey’s trench in the sand fills with blood, the fear of AWOLs will grow, tearing apart everything Connor has fought for.

He used to impress upon the Whollies at the Graveyard the importance of keeping their wits about them and using their heads. “They think we’re hopelessly violent and better off unwound,” he would tell them. “We have to prove to the world that they’re wrong.”

All it might take to destroy everything that Connor has worked for is Starkey kicking out five chairs.

Connor turns off the TV, his eyes aching from all the coverage. “Starkey won’t stop there,” he tells Lev. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“Which means there are three sides in this war now,” Lev points out, and Connor realizes that he’s right.

“So, if the first side is driven by hate and the second by fear, what drives us?”

“Hope?” suggests Lev.

Connor shakes his head in frustration. “We’re gonna need a lot more than that. Which is why we have to get to Akron and find out what Sonia knows.”

Then from behind him he hears, “Sonia who?”

It’s Cam, stepping out of the bathroom. He’s been locked in the basement for safekeeping, but Una must have sent him up on one of his regular bathroom runs. Connor feels fury rise in him, not so much at Cam, but at himself—for having given away two crucial pieces of information. Their destination and a name.

“None of your goddamn business!” Connor snaps.

Cam raises his eyebrows, causing the pattern of multiracial seams in his forehead to compress. “Hot button,” Cam says. “This Sonia must be important for you to react like that.”

Their plan has been to leave Cam in Una’s basement until Lev and Connor are too far away for him to pick up the trail. That way, although he knows where they’ve been, he won’t know where they’re going and can’t bring the information back to his creators—because in spite of his claims to have turned on them, there’s been no proof to back up the claim.

However, Cam now has a name as well as the city they’re headed to. If he does go back to Proactive Citizenry, it won’t take long for them to realize that this particular Sonia is the long-lost wife of their disavowed founder.

Connor realizes that everything has now changed, and their lives have become infinitely more complicated.

48 • Lev

More things have changed than Connor even realizes—but Lev is not about to hit him with his own big announcement just yet.

He watches as Connor grabs Cam’s arm a little too hard, but then Lev realizes that he’s using Roland’s hand to do it, so that’s understandable. He pulls him toward the stairs with troubling purpose.

“What are you going to do?” Lev asks.

Connor gives him a bitterly sardonic smile. “Have a meaningful discussion.” Then Connor pulls Cam down the stairs, leaving Lev alone with Grace, who had eavesdropped on everything from the safety of Una’s room. Grace, Lev knows, is another variable to be dealt with. Throughout all of this, she’s kept her distance from Lev, and they’ve said very little to each other.

“So is Cam coming to Ohio?” she asks.

“Why on earth would Connor take him to Ohio?”

Grace shrugs. “Friends close, enemies closer kind of thing,” she says. “Seems to me there’s three choices. Leave him, take him, or kill him. Since he knows too much, that brings it down to the last two, and Connor don’t seem the killing type. Even though he runned you down with a car.”

“It was an accident,” Lev reminds her.

“Yeah—anyways, best strategy is to bring him along. You watch. Connor’s going to come back and tell you that you’ve gained a travel buddy.” She hesitates for a moment, glances at him, then glances away. “When are you gonna tell him that you’re not coming?”

Lev looks to her, a little shocked, a little angry. He had told no one of his decision yet. No one. How did she know?

“Don’t look at me so funny. It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain. You keep talking about Connor going to Ohio and his mission to find Sonia. You’ve already cut yourself out of that picture in your head. Which is why I gotta go with him. So there’s two of us to keep Cam in line.”

“You’re relieved that I’m not coming, aren’t you?”

Grace looks away from him. “I never said that.” Then she adds, “It’s because I know you don’t like me!”

Lev grins. “No, actually, you’re the one who doesn’t like me.”

“That’s because I keep thinking you’re gonna blow up! I know you say you can’t, but what if you can? People step on mines that aren’t supposed to work no more and blow themselves up, so what if you’re like one of those mines?”

Lev responds by swinging his hands together. Grace flinches, but nothing comes from Lev’s clap but a clap—and not even a loud one.

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“Actually,” says Lev, “there are a lot of people I’ve come across that think ‘once a clapper, always a clapper.’ But I didn’t blow us all sky-high when I got hit by the car, did I? If I was gonna blow, that would have done it.”

Grace shakes her head. “You’re still not safe. Maybe you won’t blow up, but you’re not safe in other ways. I can just tell.”

Lev isn’t exactly sure what she means, but he senses that she’s right. He’s not a clapper anymore, but neither is he the model of stability. He’s not sure what he’s capable of—good or bad. And it scares him.

“I’m glad you’re going with Connor,” Lev tells her. “And he’ll take good care of you.”

“I’ll take care of him, you mean,” Grace says, a bit offended. “He needs me, because you can’t win a thing like this without the brains. I know they call me low-cortical and all, but even so, I got this one corner of my brain that’s like Grand Central Station. Stuff that other people can’t figure out comes easy to me. Argent always hated that and called me stupid, but only because it made him feel stupid.”

Lev smiles. “Connor told me all about how you got him out during the raid at your house. You were the one who thought to send the Juvies looking elsewhere for us, and you also figured out the shooter wasn’t trying to kill us.”

“Right!” Grace says proudly. “And I even know who the shooter was—but like my mama always said, tellin’ all you know just gets your head empty. Anyways, I thought on it and saw no need to tell.”

Lev feels himself really warming to Grace for the first time. “I figured it out too. And I agree with you. No one needs to know.” But, thinks Lev, maybe there are things Grace needs to know. He thinks about the situation with Starkey and realizes that if Grace is the strategist she appears to be, perhaps the challenge should be put to her. “I have a train for you to run through Grand Central Station,” he says.

“Send it on through.”

“The question is: How do you win a three-sided war?”

Grace frowns as she considers it. “That’s a tough one. I’ll think on it and give you an answer.” Then she crosses her arms. “ ’Course I can’t give you an answer if you don’t come with us, can I?”

Lev offers her an apologetic smile. “Then don’t give the answer to me. Give it to Connor.”

49 • Connor

Holding tightly to Cam’s arm, Connor escorts him down the stairs. Una is in the back room of her shop, building a new guitar, escaping into her work.

“You sent him up there without warning any of us!”

Una looks up from her work with only mild interest, as if, in her mind, they’ve already left. “I sent him to the bathroom. It’s not like he was going to escape.”

Connor doesn’t bother to explain his anger. It’s a waste of his breath. He continues down to the basement with Cam, who doesn’t resist.

“So,” says Cam, with irritating nonchalance. “Someone named Sonia in Akron.”

Connor lets him loose. “We could have the Arápache lock you up as an enemy of the tribe, and you’ll rot in a tribal jail for the rest of your miserable life.”

“Maybe,” says Cam, “but not without a trial—and everything I tell them will become a matter of public record.”

Connor turns away from him, clenching his fists, growling in utter frustration—then turns back and finds Roland’s hand swinging, connecting with Cam’s jaw. Cam is knocked down, falling over a rickety wooden chair, and Connor prepares to hit him again. But then he looks at the arm. He holds eye contact with the shark. This might be satisfying, but it’s not helping the situation. If he lets Roland’s muscle memory rule that arm, then Connor loses more than just his temper. In a sense he loses a part of his soul.

“Stop,” he tells the shark. Reluctantly, the muscles of Roland’s fist relax. Cam is the prisoner here, not Connor. He has to remind himself that no matter how compromised he feels, he still has the upper hand in the situation. He reaches down, rights the chair, and backs away. “Take a seat,” he tells Cam, folding his anger back in on itself.

Cam gets up off the dusty ground and pulls himself into the chair, rubbing his jaw. “That grafted arm of yours has its own set of talents, doesn’t it? And is that someone else’s eye, too? That puts you two steps closer to being just like me.”

Connor knows Cam is trying to goad him into losing control again, but Connor won’t let it happen. He brings the focus back to the matter at hand.

“You have nothing but a name and a city,” Connor says, with relative calm. “It’s more than I want you to know, but even if you bring it back to the people who made you, it won’t make a difference. And Sonia’s just a code name, anyway.”

“A code name, huh?”

“Of course.” Connor shrugs it off like it’s nothing. “You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to say a real name when anyone could hear.”

Cam gives him a Cheshire smile. “Like a rug,” he says. “I believe there’s a brain bit in my right frontal lobe that’s a BS detector, and it’s pinging in the red.”

“Believe what you want,” Connor says with no choice but to stick to his story. “Una will keep you locked in this basement as long as she feels like it, and when she lets you go—if she lets you go—you can tell Proactive Citizenry whatever you want; they still won’t find us.”

“Why are you so convinced I’ll crawl back to them? I already told you, I hate them just as much as you do.”

“Do you expect me to believe you’d bite the hand that made you?” says Connor. “Yes, maybe you’d do it for Risa, but not for me. The way I see it, you’ll go to them, and they’ll take you back with open arms. The prodigal son returns.”

And then Cam asks a question that will linger in Connor’s mind for a long, long time. “Would you ever go back to the people who wanted to unwind you?”

The question throws Connor for a loop. “Wh—what has that got to do with anything?”

“Being rewound was a crime every bit as heinous as unwinding,” Cam tells him. “I can’t change the fact that I’m here, but I owe nothing to the people who rewound me. I would uncreate my creators if I could. I was hoping Risa would help me do that. But in her absence, it looks like I’ll have to rely on you.”

Although Connor doesn’t trust him, there’s a deep and indelible bruise to his words. His pain is real. His desire to bring down his creators is real.

“Prove it,” Connor says. “Make me believe you want to tear them down as much as I do.”

“If I do, will you take me with you?”

Connor has already realized they have little choice but to take him, but he plays this hand close. “I’ll consider it.”

Cam is silent for a moment, holding emotionless eye contact with Connor. Then he says “P, S, M, H, Y, A, R, E, H, N, L, R, A.”

“What?”

“It’s a thirteen-character ID on the public nimbus. As for the password, it’s an anagram of Risa Ward. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

“Why should I care what you have stored on the cloud?”

“You’ll care when you see what it is.”

Connor looks around the cluttered basement, finding a pen and a notepad among the debris on a table. He tosses them to Cam. “Write down the ID. Not all of us have photographic memories stitched into our heads. And I’m not guessing at passwords, so you’ll write that down too.”

Cam sneers at him, but obliges the request. When Cam is done, Connor takes the paper, putting it in his pocket for safekeeping, then locks Cam in the basement and returns to Una’s apartment.

“I’ve decided to take Cam with us,” he tells Lev and Grace, neither of whom seem surprised.

50 • Lev

He breaks the news to Connor in the morning—just a few hours before Pivane is due to take them to the car that’s waiting for them outside the north gate. He thinks Connor will be furious, but that’s not his reaction. Not at first. The look on Connor’s face is one of pity—which Lev finds even worse than anger.

“They don’t want you here, Lev. Whatever fantasy you’ve got in your head about staying here, you’ve gotta lose it. They don’t want you.”

It’s only half-true, but it hurts to hear all the same. “It doesn’t matter,” he tells Connor. “It’s what I want that matters, not what they want.”

“So you’re just going to disappear here? Pretend you’re a ChanceFolk kid, living the simple life on the rez?”

“I think I can make a difference here.”

“How? By going hunting with Pivane and reducing the rabbit population?” Now Connor’s voice starts to rise as his anger comes to the surface. Good. Anger is something Lev can deal with.

“They need to start listening to outside voices. I can be that voice!” he tells Connor.

“Listen to yourself! After all you’ve been through, how can you still be so naive?”

Now it’s Lev’s turn to get angry. “You’re the one who thinks talking to some old woman is going to change the world. If anyone is deluding themselves, it’s you!”

That leaves Connor with nothing to say, maybe because he knows Lev is right.

“How can you walk away,” Connor finally says, “when they’re about to overthrow the Cap-17 law?”

“Do you really think anything you or I can do will change that?”

“Yes!” Connor yells. “I do. And I will. Or I’ll die trying.”

“Then you don’t need my help. I’ll just be an anchor around your neck. Let me do something useful here instead of just tagging along.”

Connor’s expression hardens. “Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I don’t care.” Which he obviously does. Then he tosses a card at Lev, which he fumbles a bit before catching.

“What’s this?”

“Read it. It was supposed to be your new identity once we left the rez.”

It’s a fake Arápache ID, with a bad picture of him he doesn’t remember taking. The name on the ID is “Mahpee Kinkajou.” It makes Lev smile. “I like it,” Lev says. “I think I’ll keep my new identity. What name did they give you?”

Connor looks at his own ID. “Bees-Neb Hebííte,” Connor says. “Elina says it means ‘stolen shark.’ ” He looks at the shark on his arm for a moment and opens his fingers, releasing his fist.

“Thank you for getting me out of the Graveyard,” he tells Lev, his anger resolving into a reluctant acceptance of the situation and maybe a begrudging respect for Lev’s choice. “And thanks for saving me from the parts pirate. I’d probably be shipped around the world in pieces by now if it weren’t for you.”

Lev shrugs. “It’s nothing. It wasn’t so hard.” Which they both know isn’t true.

51 • Una

Una thought she’d be relieved that her obligation to Pivane was now over and her uninvited house guests would be leaving. However, the prospect of being alone with the knowledge of where Wil’s hands have gone and where all his talent resides—a knowledge she can share with no one—is a difficult burden to bear. Things may go back to the way they were, but for Una, they will never be normal again.

She wishes her parents were here, or Elder Lenna, her mentor who left her the luthier shop—but they have all retired to Puerto Peñasco, a resort town on the Sea of Cortez that caters to ChanceFolk retirees. Perhaps Una could retire at nineteen—just pick up and move down there, spending her days like an old widow who never actually had the chance to marry.

The Tashi’nes are expected to come at nightfall, removing her guests and leaving her in ambivalent solitude. Now Cam will be going as well. She had thought she would be asked to sequester him a little while longer before flinging him back into the world, but he’ll be gone with the others.

She busies herself that afternoon working on a new satinwood guitar, bending and bracing the sides by hand; then just before dark, she hears music coming from the basement. She knows it must be Cam, and try as she might, she cannot bring herself to ignore it. She unlocks the door and slowly descends.

Cam sits in a chair, playing an old flamenco guitar he must have found in some forgotten corner and tuned on his own. The music coming from that old guitar seems to suck the oxygen out of the room. Una can’t catch her breath. It’s a powerful tune he plays, laden with rage and regret, but also with peaceful resolve. This is nothing Wil had ever played in his life, but is most definitely of Wil’s unique composition.

Cam is too absorbed in the music to look up, but he knows Una is there. He must know. She doesn’t want to speak, for words will break the spell woven by Wil’s fingers on the strings. Cam crescendos, holds on the penultimate chord, then allows the song its conclusion, those final tones resonating in every hollow of the basement, including the hollow that Una knows resides within her. The silence that follows feels as important as the music that came before it, as if it’s also a part of the piece. She finds she can’t break that silence.

Finally Cam looks to her. “I wrote that for you,” he says. The expression on his face is hard to read, for, like her, he is filled with the many emotions the song carried.

In some inexplicable way, Una feels violated. How dare he push so deeply into her with his music? His music, because Cam has layered his own soul upon Wil’s. Something new, built upon the foundation laid down by the monsters who created him.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

How can she answer that question? That piece of music wasn’t just for her; it was her. Somehow he distilled every ounce of her being into harmony and dissonance. He might as well ask if she likes herself—a question that has become just as complicated as the tonal qualities of the song.

Instead of answering, she says, with her voice catching in her throat, “Promise me you will never play that again.”

Cam is surprised by her request. He considers it and says, “I promise that I will never play it for anyone but you.” Then he puts down the guitar and stands. “Good-bye, Una. Knowing you has been”—he hesitates in search of the word—“necessary. For both of us, maybe.”

Una finds herself drawn by his gravity, as she has been since he first appeared in her shop. Now she finds herself unable to resist it. She steps close to him. Looking to his left hand, she clasps it and caresses it. Then she looks to his right hand and takes it as well. Never looking up from those hands, she intertwines her fingers with his.

“You’re not going to hit me with a rock again, are you?” he asks.

She closes her eyes, basking in the feel of those hands, which she loves still. She brings his right hand to her face, and he caresses her cheek. She feels that old shiver again, and this time she embraces the feeling, all the while hating herself for it.

Finally she looks into his eyes, unexpectedly shocked to see the eyes of a stranger. And as she kisses him, she knows she’s kissing the lips of a stranger as well. How can his music be so in tune with her soul and the rest of him so disconnected? So out of joint? She should never have allowed this to happen, but she can’t let go of his ill-gotten hands. And she finds it almost as hard to break away from the kiss.

“Once you leave here,” she tells him, “never come back.” And then she whispers desperately, passionately into his ear, “I despise you, Camus Comprix.”