Текст книги "UnSouled"

Автор книги: Neal Shusterman

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

13 • Cam

There are many Mirandas.

An endless glut of girls, all bored with the dull familiarity of ordinary boys, hurl themselves at Cam as if they’re hurling themselves off a cliff. They all expect his strong rewound arms to catch them. Sometimes he does.

They want to run their fingers along the symmetrical lines of his face. They want to lose themselves in the depths of his soulful blue eyes—and knowing the eyes really aren’t his at all makes them want to lose themselves even more.

Cam has very few events as fancy as the Washington gala, so a tuxedo is rarely required. Mostly it’s speaking engagements. He wears a tailored sports coat and tie, with slacks that are just casual enough to keep him from looking too corporate. Too much like the creation of Proactive Citizenry—who silently bankrolls everything he does.

Cam and Roberta are on a tour on the university lecture circuit. Fairly small events since most universities are quiet in the summer—but the upper faculty still have their research to oversee, and it’s those highly esteemed academics on whom they are focusing.

“We need the scientific community to see you as a worthwhile endeavor,” Roberta has told him. “You’ve already won the hearts and sympathy of the public. Now you must be respected on a professional level.”

The speaking events always begin with Roberta and her flashy multimedia presentation laying out in fine academic fashion the nuts and bolts of how Cam was created—although she doesn’t call it that. Proactive Citizenry’s spin doctors have decided that Cam was not created; he was “gleaned.” And his rewound bits and pieces are all part of his “internal community.”

“The gleaning of Camus Comprix took many months,” Roberta tells their audiences. “We first had to identify the high-level qualities we wanted his internal community to have. Then we had to find those qualities within the population of Unwinds awaiting division . . . .”

Like the opening act at a concert, Roberta primes the audience for the main event, and then—“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the culmination of all of our medical and scientific efforts: Camus Comprix!”

A spotlight appears, and he steps into it to the sound of applause—or snapping in the places where public applause has been banned due to clapper attacks.

At the podium Cam delivers his prepared speech, written by a former presidential speech writer. It is thoughtful, intelligent, and memorized word for word. Then comes the Q and A—and although both he and Roberta are on stage to receive questions, most are directed at Cam.

“Do you find you have problems with physical coordination?”

“Never,” he answers. “My muscle groups have all learned to get along.”

“Do you remember the names of any of the constituents of your internal community?”

“No, but sometimes I remember faces.”

“Is it true you speak nine languages fluently?”

“Da, no v moyey golove dostatochno mesta dlia escho neskolkikh,” he says. Yes, but there’s room up here for a few more. That brings chuckles from any Russian speakers in the room.

He has mastered all of his answers—even to questions that are intentionally belligerent and incendiary.

“Admit it—you’re nothing but a kit-car,” one heckler says during his appearance at MIT. “You’re just a model put together from parts in a box. How can you call yourself human?”

Cam’s response to questions like this is always tactful and puts the heckler in his or her place.

“No, I’m more like a concept car,” Cam tells the man, without any of the animosity with which the question was asked. “The sum of the imaginations of all the experts in the field.” Then Cam smiles. “And if by ‘model,’ you mean something worth striving toward, I agree.”

“What about those who gave their lives so that you might live?” someone shouts out from the audience of his UCLA event. “Do you feel any remorse for them?”

“Thank you for asking that,” Cam says in the charged silence that ensues. “Remorse would imply I had anything to do with their unwinding, and I did not. I’m just on the receiving end. But yes, I do grieve their loss—so I choose to honor them by giving voice to their hopes, their dreams, and their talents. After all, isn’t that what we do to honor those who came before us?”

When the time for questions ends, each event is wrapped up with music. Cam’s music. He brings out a guitar and performs a classical piece. His music is so flawless and so heartfelt, it often brings forth a standing ovation. Of course, there are those in the audience who will never stand—but their numbers are diminishing.

“Come fall, we should speak in bigger theaters,” he tells Roberta after one highly successful evening.

“Would you prefer a stadium?” Roberta offers with a twisted grin. “You’re not a rock star, Cam.”

But he knows otherwise.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR

With regards to your recent editorial “THE CONTROVERSY OF CAMUS COMPRIX,” forgive me, but I don’t see anything that should be controversial at all. Indeed, I think the members of the media have, as usual, stirred up a tempest in a teapot. I attended one of Mr. Comprix’s presentations, and I found him to be eloquent, personable, and respectful. He appears both intelligent and humble—the kind of young man I wish my daughter could, for once, bring home instead of the string of miscreants that continue to grace our doorstep.

Your editorial implied that his parts were gleaned without permission, but I ask you—other than tithes, what Unwind ever gives permission to be unwound? It’s not a matter of permission. It’s a matter of social necessity, as unwinding has always been, since its inception. So why not avail ourselves of the finest attributes of these Unwinds to build a better being? If I, in my youth, had been designated for unwinding, I should think I’d be honored to know that a part of me was worthy to be chosen for inclusion in Mr. Comprix.

Proactive Citizenry, and Dr. Roberta Griswold in particular, are to be commended for their vision and for their selfless commitment to the betterment of the human condition. Because, if even our most incorrigible youth can be rewound into such a fine young specimen, it gives me hope for the future of mankind.

Every event has its greenroom—a guarded space designed for the comfort of those about to go on stage, or to relax after the blare of spotlights and barrage of questions. Roberta always busies herself with the bigwigs in the theater lobby, shaking hands and making those critical personal connections. This has allowed Cam to become the master of the greenroom, picking and choosing who gets to keep him company as he winds down after an event. His guests are almost always female. An endless parade of Mirandas.

“Play something just for us, Cam,” they would say with a gentle pleading lilt to their voice as if their hearts hang on his answer. Or they would invite him to some party he knows he can’t attend. Instead he tells those girls that the party is right here. They always like the sound of that.

He entertains three such girls in the greenroom after his successful MIT presentation. Now he sits between two of them on a comfortable sofa, while a third occupies a chair nearby, giggling and starstruck as she awaits her turn, like a little kid waiting for Santa’s lap. Cam has, at the request of his guests, removed his shirt to show his curious seams. Now one of the girls explores those seams and the varied skin tones of his chest. The other girl snuggles with him and feeds him Jordan almonds, sweet and crunchy.

Eventually Roberta pops in, as he knew she would. It is, in fact, something he counted on. It has become their pattern.

“Look, it’s my favorite party pooper!” Cam says jovially.

Roberta glowers at the girls. “Playtime is over,” she says coldly. “I’m sure you young ladies have places to be.”

“Not really,” says the one with her hand on Cam’s chest. In the nearby chair, the giggler giggles some more.

“Aw, please, Grand Inquisitor,” says Cam. “They’re so cute—can’t I take them home?”

Now all three girls giggle as if they’re drunk, but Cam knows the only thing they’re drunk on is him.

Roberta ignores him. “You girls have been asked to leave. Please don’t make me get security.”

As if on cue, the guard steps in, looking guilty but ready to throw them out in spite of the cash Cam paid him to let them in.

Reluctantly, the girls get up. They all leave in their own personal manner, one strutting, another strolling, and the third sneaking, trying to suppress her unending case of the giggles. The guard follows to make sure they don’t linger and closes the door behind him. Now Roberta’s glare is aimed at Cam. He tries to hide his smirk.

“Spanking? Time out? Bed without supper?” Cam suggests.

But Roberta is certainly not in a teasing mood. “You should not be objectifying those girls.”

“Double-edged sword,” Cam says. “They objectified me first. I was just returning the favor.”

Roberta growls in exasperation. “Did you believe anything you said out there about being a ‘model’ for others to strive for?”

Cam looks away. The things he tells audiences is certainly what Roberta believes—but does he believe these things himself? Yes, he is made of the best and the brightest—but those are just parts, and what do parts truly say about the whole? What he wants more than anything is to make the question go away.

“Sure I believe it.”

“Then show some common comportment.” She takes his shirt and tosses it to him. “You’re better than this. So act it.”

“And what if I’m not better?” he dares to suggest. “What if I’m nothing more than ninety-nine compounded adolescent lusts?”

“Then,” says Roberta, taking the dare, “you can slice yourself back down into ninety-nine pieces. Shall I give you a knife?”

“Machete,” he answers. “Much more dramatic.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “If you wish to impress General Bodeker, this type of behavior won’t fly.”

“Ah yes, General Bodeker.”

Cam isn’t quite sure what to make of the man and his intentions, but he can’t deny that he’s intrigued. Cam knows he would be shepherded through his training directly into officership, like some American prince. Then, once he was wearing the crisp, sharp dress of an officer, all pressed linen and brass buttons, the bitter voices that suggest he has no right to exist would be silenced. No one can hate an honored Marine. And he’d finally have a place to belong.

“Irrelevant,” Cam says. “The general won’t care about my personal downtime adventures.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Roberta tells him. “You need to be more discerning about your choice of companions. Now get your shirt on. The limo is waiting.”

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Cam jolts awake at thirty-six thousand feet. For a moment he thinks he’s in a dentist’s chair, but no. He had fallen asleep before extending the chair to its full reclining position.

Proactive Citizenry has provided this richly appointed private jet for his speaking tour, although it’s not all that private. Roberta slumbers in her own sleeper chair in the alcove behind his, her breathing steady and regulated, just like everything else in her life. There is a concierge—which is the private aircraft equivalent of a flight attendant—but he is also asleep at the moment. The time is 3:13 a.m., although Cam is not sure what time zone that’s reflecting.

He tries to bring back his dreams for analysis, but can’t access them. Cam’s dreams have never made sense. He has no idea how much sense the dreams of normal people make, so he can’t compare. His dreams are plagued by snippets of memories that lead nowhere, because the rest of those memories are in other heads, living different lives. The only memory that is clear and consistent is the memory of being unwound. He dreams of it way too often. He dreams not of just one unwinding, but many. The bits and pieces of dozens of divisions blend together into one unforgettable, unforgivable whole.

He used to wake up screaming from those dreams. Not from the pain of it, for unwinding is, by law, painless. But there are things worse than physical pain. He would scream from the terror, from the sheer helplessness each of those kids felt as the surgeons moved closer, limbs tingled and went numb, medical stasis coolers were carried away in their peripheral vision. Each sense shutting down and each memory evaporating, always ending with a silent cry of hopeless defiance as each Unwind was shuffled into oblivion.

Roberta is in the dream, for she was there at each unwinding—the only person in the room not wearing a surgical mask. So you would see me, hear me, and know me when the parts were united she had told him—but she hadn’t counted on how horrible that knowledge would be. Roberta is part of the terror. She is the author of hopelessness.

Cam has learned to bite back the scream in his dreams, holding it inside until he drags himself from the rancid soup of his nightmare and into the living, breathing world, where he is himself and not the particulated bits of his “inner community.”

Tonight he is alone. He knows there are people around him, but in a private jet soaring through an icy black sky, he cannot help but feel alone in the universe. It is in these moments of profound loneliness that the questions posed by the more judgmental audience members haunt him, for their questions are his own.

Am I truly alive? Do I even exist?

Certainly he exists as organic matter, but as a sentient being? As a someone rather than a something? There are too many moments in his life when he just doesn’t know. And if, in the end, each individual faces judgment, will he stand to face it too—or will the constituents of his inner community return to their true owners, leaving a void where he once stood?

He curls his hands into fists. I am! he wants to shout. I exist. But he knows better than to voice these concerns to Roberta anymore. Better if she thinks his weaknesses lie in youthful lust.

This is the fury that fills him when no one is watching. Fury that the hecklers in the audience may be right and he may be nothing more than medical sleight of hand. A trick of the scalpel. A hollow shell mimicking life.

In these dark nihilistic moments when the universe itself seems to be rejecting him the way people’s bodies used to reject transplanted organs, he thinks of Risa.

Risa. Her name explodes into his mind, and he fights the urge to put his mind in lockdown. Risa did not despise him. Yes, at first she did, but she came to truly know him and to see him as an individual who is more than the sum of his parts. In the end, she came to care for him in her own way.

When he was with Risa, Cam felt real. When he was with her, he felt more than a patchwork of science and hubris.

He cannot deny how much he loves her—and the pain of that longing is enough to make him know that he lives. That he is. For how could he feel such anguish if he had no soul?

Yet in many ways he feels as if she took his soul with her when she left.

Do you know what that feels like, Risa? he wants to ask her. Do you know what it’s like to be un-souled? Is that how you felt when your precious Connor died at Happy Jack Harvest Camp? Cam knows beyond a shadow of a doubt he could fill that void in her, if only she loved him enough to let him. It would be the one thing that would make him feel whole.

Mild turbulence rattles the jet, sounding so much more ominous than it really is. He hears Roberta stirring, then settling back into the depth of sleep once more. The woman has no idea how fully she has been duped. She, so clever, so shrewd, so aware, and yet so blind.

He knows she will see though any pretense he puts forth, so all his deceits must be thickly coated with truth, like the candy coating of a Jordan almond.

Yes, it’s true Cam does enjoy the attention of pretty girls who are drawn to his unique gravity. And yes, it’s true that in his more glorious moments Cam does feel inebriated by his own existence, drunk on a heady brew of human ambrosia—the humanity that was unwound to create him. He has learned how to summon that feeling—to draw it like a bath and luxuriate in it when he needs to. It is the candy coating on the kernel of truth that only he knows, but shares with no one.

I am nothing without Risa.

So he will play the role of the spoiled star, allowing Roberta to think his hedonistic ways are real. And he will enjoy himself just enough to fool her and make her think arrogance and excess are all she needs to wrangle.

The plane begins its descent to wherever it is they’re going next. More audiences. More Mirandas. A pleasant way to bide his time. Cam smiles, remembering the secret pledge he made with himself. If the one thing that Risa wants more than all else is the utter destruction of Proactive Citizenry, then Cam will find a way to provide it for her. More than just undermining Roberta, he will wedge himself in the gears of the entire Proactive Citizenry machine. He will find a way to shut it down, and Risa will know that he was the one who did it.

Then she will truly love him, returning every last bit of his affections. And she will restore to him his soul.

14 • Manager

The Redwood Bluff Campground is sold out.

The manager of the Northern California campground should be happy, but he’s troubled in the worst way. For him, the worst way means in his wallet.

A huge portion of the campground is taken up by Camp Red Heron—a summer camp for underprivileged kids. The bright crimson camp shirts are everywhere.

The afternoon before they’re scheduled to leave, the manager comes into the midst of the campground of teens, who all admittedly look underprivileged. There are at least a hundred of them. They seem a little stressed when they see him, but quickly get back to their business. Mostly they act like kids on vacation, throwing balls, climbing trees—but there’s a fear in their eyes and a sense of distrust in their actions. It betrays something their camp T-shirts are trying to hide.

“Excuse me. Who’s in charge here?”

A girl who could have been a bouncer in a previous life comes forward. “He’s busy,” she tells him. “You can talk to me.”

“I’ll talk to the person in charge,” the manager insists. “And I’ll talk to him in private.”

The big girl sneers. “You won’t get much privacy among our campers.” She folds her arms in defiance of his request. “I’ll tell him you came by.”

“I’ll wait,” he says.

Then from behind the girl, he hears, “It’s okay, Bam. I’ll talk to him.”

From a gaggle of kids, emerges a teen—couldn’t be any older than sixteen. He’s short, but well built. Red hair with substantially long brown roots. He, like the girl, wears a red polo shirt with a logo indicating camp staff. He also wears a leather glove on one hand, but not the other. For all intents and purposes, he appears like a fine young man—but appearances are often deceiving.

He gestures to the manager. “Walk with me.”

They leave the clearing, taking a path through the redwoods. The massive, ancient trees never cease to amaze the manager—one of the reasons why he took the job, even though it pays so little. Today, however, he’s confident his fortunes will change.

He knows the path by heart and takes it only as far as the nearest campsite that’s not occupied by Red Herons. A large family with lots of toddlers running around in diapers. He makes sure to keep the campsite, and the people there, in sight, because he suspects it’s not a good idea to go any deeper into the woods alone with this young man.

“If you’re worried about us cleaning up the campsite,” the kid says, “I promise it will be done.”

“I didn’t get your name,” the manager says.

He smirks. “Anson.” The smirk is so blatant and broad, it’s clear that this isn’t his real name.

“Awfully young to be in charge of all these kids, aren’t you?”

“Looks are deceiving,” he says. “I got the job because I look closer to their age.”

“I see.” He looks down at the young man’s left hand. “What’s with the glove?”

The kid holds up his hand. “What’s the matter? You have a problem with Louis Vuitton?”

The manager notes that the fingers of that hand don’t seem to move. “Not at all. It just seems like an odd accessory for a camping trip.”

The kid puts down his hand. “I’m a busy man, Mr. Proctor. It is Proctor, isn’t it? Mark Proctor?”

The manager is caught off guard that this kid knows his name. Most people who book campsites at Redwood Bluff barely know he exists, much less know his name.

“If it’s about payment,” the young man says, “we already paid in full, and we paid in cash. I’m sure that’s better than most people.”

The manager decides to get to the point, because he’s beginning to feel that the longer he draws this out, the more likely this kid will find a way to squirm off the hook.

“Yes, you did. One problem, though: I did some checking, and there is no Camp Red Heron. Not in this state or any other.”

“Well,” says the kid in a slick, condescending tone, “you obviously haven’t been looking in the right place.”

Mark Proctor will not be mocked. “As I said, there is no Camp Red Heron. What there are, however, are reports of a gang of renegade Unwinds. And one of them is an AWOL cop killer named Mason Michael Starkey. The picture looks an awful lot like you, ‘Anson.’ Without the red hair, of course.”

The boy only smiles. “How can I help you, Mr. Proctor?”

Proctor knows he’s in the driver’s seat now. He’s got this Starkey kid by the short hairs. He gives the kid back his mocking, condescending tone. “I would be shirking my civic responsibility if I didn’t turn you and your little menagerie over to the Juvenile Authority.”

“But you haven’t done it yet.”

Proctor takes a deep breath. “Maybe I could be persuaded not to.”

He has no idea how much money these kids have, or where it comes from, but clearly they have enough to keep their little charade going. Proctor doesn’t mind relieving them of some of that cash.

“All right,” says Starkey. “Let me see if I can persuade you, then.” He reaches into his pocket, but instead of producing a billfold, he produces a photograph. He deftly flips it in the fingers of his ungloved hand like a magician presenting a playing card.

The picture is of Proctor’s teenaged daughter. It appears to have been taken recently, from right outside of her bedroom window. She’s in the middle of doing her evening aerobic exercises.

“Her name is Victoria,” Starkey says, “but she goes by Vicki—did I get that right? She seems like a nice girl. I sincerely hope nothing bad ever happens to her.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, not at all.” The picture seems to vanish before Proctor’s eyes as Starkey moves his fingers. “We also know where your son goes to college—he’s there on a swimming scholarship, because you certainly can’t afford Stanford on your salary, can you? It’s sad, but sometimes the best of swimmers have been known to drown. They get a little too sure of themselves, from what I understand.” Starkey says nothing more. He just smiles with false pleasantness. A bird high above in the redwoods squawks as if amused, and a toddler in the nearby campsite begins to cry, as if mourning the loss of Mark Proctor’s dignity.

“What do you want?” Proctor asks coldly.

Starkey’s smile never loses any of its warmth. He puts his arm around Proctor’s shoulder and walks them back the way they came. “All I want is to persuade you not to turn us in—just as you suggested. As long as you say nothing about us—either now or after we’ve left—I can personally guarantee that your lovely family will remain just as lovely as ever.”

Proctor swallows, realizing that the sense of power he had only a few moments ago was nothing but an illusion.

“So do we have a deal?” Starkey prompts. He holds out his gloved hand for Proctor to shake, and Proctor grabs it, shaking it with conviction. Starkey grimaces as Proctor pumps his hand, but even the grimace is a show of strength rather than weakness.

“As you said, you’re paid in full,” Proctor says. “Nothing more is needed at this time. It was a pleasure to have Camp Red Heron here, and I hope to see you next summer.” Although both of them know that’s the last thing he wants.

As Proctor leaves, his legs a little wobbly, he realizes something. The picture of his daughter that seemed to have vanished during their conversation has now appeared in his shirt pocket. As he gazes at it, tears come to his eyes. Rather than feeling anger, he feels gratitude. Gratitude that he was not so much of a fool as to bring harm to her or to her brother.