UnWholly (21 page)

She hopes the tears plus the ditz can scramble anyone’s BS detectors as effectively as Hush Puppy once scrambled radar. There are rumors that the Juvies have started using DNA decoders in the field. She can only hope that they haven’t trickled down to hospitals yet.

Emergency room staff drop whatever they’re doing and rush to their aid. In a second Dylan’s on a gurney, being wheeled through the
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
doors.

“Is he going to be okay?” asks Risa, in panic that’s only partially feigned. “Because our parents are out of town? And we didn’t know what to do?”

“We’ll take care of him, honey,” says a nurse in a comforting tone. “Don’t you worry.” The nurse glances at Kiana, who has Dylan’s blood on her clothes, then heads off into the emergency room.

The doors swing closed, and Risa rolls over to the admissions desk, with a carefully planned wallet of false information, organized to appear disorganized, and intentionally designed to make Risa appear helpless and flustered.

“We’ll sort this all out later,” the admissions clerk says, giving up and getting on to the next person in line.

•   •   •

An hour of waiting with no word. Kiana’s been pacing, no matter how much Risa tells her to calm down, but perhaps being nervous just plays into their cover story. Finally the same nurse comes out into the waiting room. The woman is slightly teary-eyed, and Risa feels a pit in her stomach, as if Dylan, who she didn’t know before today, really is her brother.

“Honey, I’m afraid the news isn’t good. You’re going to have to prepare yourself.”

Risa grips the wheels of her chair, feeling a well of emotion beginning to bubble from deep inside her. Kiana puts her head in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says, “but your brother was just too badly injured. We did everything we could. . . .”

Risa just looks at her in disbelief and shock. The nurse puts her hand on Risa’s, patting it gently. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now, but we’re going to have to notify your parents. We’ve been trying, but no one picks up at the numbers you gave us. Do you have any other way of contacting them?”

Risa, her hair dangling in front of her face, shakes her head.

“Well then,” says the nurse, “we’ll have to keep trying. In the meantime, if there’s anyone else you can call . . .”

“Can you give us a few moments?” Risa asks quietly.

“Of course, dear.” The nurse squeezes her hand reassuringly and goes back through the emergency room doors, where Dylan’s body waits to be claimed by parents that don’t exist.
Risa wipes her tears away, trying to find comfort in the fact that she did the best that she could.

And then Kiana says, “It’s just like the other times.”

That makes Risa look up, and something occurs to her. She wonders
how
similar it is.

“Kiana . . . you
do
know we’re supposed to go to a different hospital each time, right?”

By the look on Kiana’s face, Risa can tell she never learned that particular protocol. “Shouldn’t it be the closest hospital in an emergency?” Kiana asks.

The sudden dread that Risa feels is balanced with an equal amount of hope. “The other times you were here, did you see that same nurse?”

“I think so. At least once. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes and no. I’ll be back.”

Risa rolls herself toward the
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
doors and pushes her way through. She finds herself in a hallway that’s more starkly lit and even less inviting than the waiting room.

While hundreds of people flow through an emergency room, there aren’t many teenage kids with parents who mysteriously can’t be reached, and whose “siblings” vanish upon pronouncement of death. This nurse must have recognized Kiana—there is no question in Risa’s mind. Which means there’s more than one level of deception here.

“Excuse me,” someone says from farther down the hall, “you’re not supposed to be in here.”

But Risa doesn’t care. She rolls into a large room marked
RECOVERY
. It’s subdivided by curtains into cubicles with hospital beds, and she begins to pull back each curtain one by one. An empty bed. An old woman. Another empty bed, and finally, Dylan Ward. His wound has been dressed; an IV leads into his arm. He’s unconscious, but a monitor shows a steady heartbeat. He’s anything but dead.

Just then the nurse comes up behind Risa and turns her chair around. The woman is nowhere near as teary-eyed as before.

“You need to leave right now, or I’ll call security.”

Risa locks the brake, so the chair can’t be wheeled away. “You told me he was dead!”

“And you told me he was your brother.”

“We’re taking him and leaving,” Risa says, with authority enough in her voice to make it stick if she had any leverage whatsoever. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.

“He’s in no condition to travel—and even if he was, I would never turn an AWOL Unwind over to anyone but the Juvenile Authority.”

“Is that what you did with the others? Gave them to the Juvey-cops?”

“That’s my business,” the nurse tells her, as cold as can be.

“At least give me the courtesy of knowing if the other two are still alive.”

The nurse looks at her hatefully, then says, “They’re alive. But probably in a divided state by now.”

Risa wishes she could get out of her wheelchair and slam this woman into the wall. Burning gazes fry the air between them like microwaves.

“You think I don’t know what goes on down there at the Graveyard? I know; my brother’s a Juvey-cop. It’s a wonder they don’t round you all up and send you off where you belong!” And she points off, as if knowing the exact direction of the nearest harvest camp. “People out there are dying for lack of parts, but you and your selfish friends in the resistance would rather let good people die.”

So here it is,
thinks Risa. The rift between two completely different versions of right and wrong. This woman sees Risa as a filthy outlaw, and nothing will ever change that.

“Are you really doing this to help society,” Risa snaps, “or is it for the reward money?”

The woman breaks her gaze, and Risa knows the truth. The woman’s moral high ground has split beneath her, and she’s fallen into the chasm.

“You go back and tend to your dirty horde,” the nurse says. “Do that and I’ll pretend you were never here.”

But Risa can’t go. She can’t leave Dylan to be unwound.

Just then a Juvey-cop comes into the emergency room.

“Over here,” calls the nurse, and looks back to Risa. “Leave now, and I’ll let you and your friend in the waiting room go. Maybe you can’t be unwound, but you most certainly can be locked up.”

But Risa is not going anywhere.

The nurse greets the cop, who by his looks is very obviously her older brother. He spares a long, curious glance at Risa before looking at the boy in the bed.

“This him?” he asks.

“We’ve stabilized him, but he’s lost a lot of blood. He won’t be ready for transport for a while.”

“Keep him sedated,” says the cop. “Best that he doesn’t wake up until he’s at the harvest camp.”

Risa grips her chair, knowing what she’s going to do at least ten seconds before she does it. Ten seconds of silent personal terror, but no indecision whatsoever.

“Take me,” she says. “Take me instead.”

She knows Connor won’t approve. She knows he’ll be furious, but she can’t muddy her resolve with thoughts of him now. This is about saving Dylan Ward.

The cop studies her—clearly he knows exactly who she is and exactly what her offer means.

“From my understanding, you’re seventeen, Miss Ward, and seeing that you’re in a wheelchair, we couldn’t unwind
you anyway. So what possible value do you have?”

She smiles, finally having the upper hand. “Are you kidding me? A notorious member of the Anti-Divisional Resistance who knows exactly what happened at Happy Jack that day?”

He takes a moment to consider her point. “I’m not an idiot,” he says. “You’ll never cooperate. You’d rather die than cooperate.”

“Perhaps,” admits Risa, “but why should that matter to you? No matter how uncooperative I am, you’ll still get credit for bringing me in, won’t you?”

She can practically hear his mind clicking and whirring. “What’s going to stop me from capturing both you and the kid in the bed?”

“If you try,” Risa says calmly, “then you lose the prize. I have a subcutaneous cyanide pill in my palm.” She holds out her hand for him to see. “It’s right under the skin. All I have to do is bring my hands together to crack it open.” Then she mimes a wide clap, stopping just short of her palms touching. “You see,” she says with a grin, “there’s more than one type of clapper.”

There is, of course, no such pill under her skin, but he doesn’t have to know that. Even if he suspects she’s bluffing, he’s not sure enough to risk it.

“If I die right here, right now,” Risa says, “you won’t be known as the cop who brought me in, but the cop who let me die while in your custody.” Then she smiles again. “That’s almost as bad as getting shot in the leg with one’s own tranq pistol, isn’t it?”

The man frowns at the thought of being associated in any way with that other unfortunate Juvey-cop.

The nurse is not happy with any of this. She crosses her arms. “What about my reward money?” she asks.

Then her brother turns to her like an older brother should and says, “Shut it, Eva, all right? Just shut it.”

And with that, the deal is done.

Dylan’s chart will remain marked with his bogus records, and when he’s fit to travel, he’ll be released to Kiana, no questions asked.

But as for Risa, her life now lies on a different path.

A suitable partner for Camus Comprix—one with all the right qualities—is not easy to find. More than two hundred girls go through the interview process. All of them have strong credentials. There are actresses and models, scholars, and high-society debutantes. Roberta has left no stone unturned in drumming up the perfect planet for her star.

The final twenty are brought to Cam for his assessment in a cushy fireside interview in the grand living room. They are all well-dressed, pretty, and smart. Most of them talk about their résumés as if applying for an office job. Some look at him with no qualms, while others can’t look him in the eye at all. There’s one girl who fawns all over him, putting off more heat than the fireplace.

“I would love to be your first,” she says. “You can
do
that, can’t you? I mean you’re . . .
complete
, right?”

“More than complete,” he tells her. “In fact, I have three.”

She just stares at him dumbfounded, and he decides not to tell her he’s joking.

He finds himself attracted to some, left cold by others—but in none of them does he find the spark of connection he has hoped for. By the time he gets to the last girl, a Boston scholar with New York fashion sense, he just wants to get this day over with. The girl is one of those who is intrigued by his face. She doesn’t just look at him, though, she studies him like a specimen under a microscope.

“So what do you see when you look at me?” he asks.

“It’s not what’s on the outside—it’s the inside that matters,” she responds.

“And what do you think is inside?”

She hesitates, then asks, “Is this a trick question?”

Roberta is exasperated when he refuses to accept a single one of them. Dinner between the two of them that night is all clattering silverware and intense cutting of meat. They barely look at each other across the table. Finally Roberta says, “We’re not looking for your soul mate, Cam, just someone to fill a role. A consort to help ease you into public life.”

“Maybe I’m not willing to settle for that.”

“Being practical is not the same as settling.”

Cam slams his fist down. “My decision! You will not force me.”

“Of course I won’t—but—”

“Conversation over.” Then the meal goes back to severe silverware. Deep down he knows she’s right, which just makes him furious. All they need to make Roberta’s scheme work is an attractive, personable girl holding his hand, convincing the public that there’s so much about Cam to love. But he finds no bit of actor in him. Perhaps he can feign it, but he dreads the moments alone when he has to face the emptiness of a false relationship.

Emptiness.

That’s what people believe is inside him. A great void. And if he can’t find a soul mate among the girls paraded before him, does that mean they’re right, and he has no soul?

“Incomplete,” he says. “If I’m whole, why do I feel like I’m not?” And as usual, Roberta has a calming platitude intended to ease his mind, but as time goes on her rote wisdom leaves him flat and disappointed.

“Wholeness comes from creating experiences that are
solely yours, Cam,” she tells him. “Live your life and soon you’ll find the lives of those who came before won’t matter. Those who gave rise to you mean nothing compared to what you are.”

But how can he live his life when he’s not convinced he has one? The attacks in the press conference still plague him. If a human being has a soul, then where is his? And if the human soul is indivisible, then how can his be the sum of the parts of all the kids who gave rise to him? He’s not one of them, he’s not all of them, so who is he?

His questions make Roberta impatient. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, “but I don’t deal in the unanswerable.”

“So you don’t believe in souls?” Cam asks her.

“I didn’t say that, but I don’t try to answer things that don’t have tangible data. If people have souls, then you must have one, proved by the mere fact that you’re alive.”

“But what if there is no ‘I’ inside me? What if I’m just flesh going through the motions, with nothing inside?”

Roberta considers this, or at least pretends to. “Well, if that were the case, I doubt you’d be asking these questions.” She thinks for a moment. “If you must have a construct, then think of it this way: Whether consciousness is implanted in us by something divine, or whether it is created by the efforts of our brains, the end result is the same. We
are
.”