Unwind: UnWholly Part 15

-Paid for by the Consortium of Concerned Taxpayers Cam is in full mental and emotional regression. All kinds of theories for his backward slide are postulated and debated. Perhaps his rewound parts are rejecting one another. Perhaps his new neural connections are overloaded with conflicting information and have begun to collapse. The fact of it is that he has simply stopped talking, stopped performing for them-he's even stopped eating and is now on an IV.

All nature of tests have been done on him, but Cam knows the tests will show nothing, because they can't probe his mind. They can't quantify his will to live-or lack of will.

Roberta paces in his bedroom. At first she showed great concern, but over the past few weeks, her concern has mildewed into frustration and anger.

"Do you think I don't know what you're doing?"

He responds by tugging his IV out of his arm.

Roberta comes to him quickly and reconnects it. "You're being a stubborn, obstinate child!"

"Socrates," he tells her. "Hemlock! Bottoms up."

"No!" she shouts at him. "I will not allow you to take your own life! It's not yours to take!"

She sits in a chair beside him, calming herself down. "If you won't live for yourself," she begs him, "then do it for me. Thrive for me. You've become my life, you know that, don't you? If you die, you'll be taking me with you."

He won't look her in the eye. "Unfair."

Roberta sighs as Cam watches the relentless drip, drip, drip of the feeding tube that's keeping him alive. He's hungry. He's been hungry for a long time, but it's not enough to motivate him to eat. What's the point in maintaining your life when it's in question whether you're even alive at all?

"I know the press conference was a mistake," Roberta admits. "It was too soon-you weren't ready-but I've been out there doing some pretty effective damage control. The next time you face the public, it will be different."

Only now does he meet her eyes. "There won't be a next time."

Roberta smiles slightly. "Ah! So you can put together a coherent thought."

Cam squirms and looks away again. "Of course I can. I just choose not to."

She pats his hand, her eyes moist. "You're a good boy, Cam. A sensitive boy. I will make sure we don't forget that. I'll also make sure you get whatever you want-whatever you need. No one will force you to do anything you don't want to do."

"I don't want the public."

"You will when it's yours," Roberta tells him. "When they're trampling one another just to get a look at you. Not as some oddity, but as a star. A celebrated star. You need to show the world what I know you're capable of." She hesitates for a moment, preparing to tell him something. Perhaps something she's afraid he's not ready for. "I've been giving this a great deal of thought, and I believe what you need is someone to go out there with you. Someone who has completely accepted you and can draw the public's curiosity in a more positive way. Dampen their judgment."

He looks up at her, but she dismisses the idea before he can even propose it. "No, it can't be me. I'm seen as your handler. That won't do. What you need is a pretty little planet revolving around your star. . . ."

The idea intrigues him. It makes him realize that he hungers for more than mere sustenance. He hungers for connection. He's seen no one his age since his creation. His age, he's decided, is sixteen. No one can tell him any different. To have a companion-one who was born, not made-would bring him one step closer to being truly human. Roberta has calculated right this time. This gives him a fair measure of motivation. Once more he reaches for his IV line.

"Cam, don't," pleads Roberta. "Please, don't."

"Don't worry." He disconnects the IV and gets out of bed for the first time in weeks. His joints ache almost as badly as his seams. He walks to the window and peers out. He wasn't even aware of the time of day until now. Dusk. The setting sun hides behind a cloud just above the horizon. The sea s.h.i.+mmers, and the sky is a brilliant canvas of color. Could Roberta be right? Could he have as much of a claim on this world as anyone else? Could he have more?

"Self-determination," he decrees. "I will make decisions for myself now."

"Of course, of course," Roberta says. "And I'll be here to advise you."

"Advise, not order. Not control. I will choose what I do, and when I do it. And I will choose my own companion."

Roberta nods. "Agreed."

"Good. I'm hungry," he tells her. "Have them bring me a steak." Then he reconsiders. "No . . . have them bring me lobster."

"Whatever makes you happy, Cam." And Roberta hurries off to do his bidding.

18 * Risa

Risa is woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of feet pounding up AcMac's ramp. She's hoping this late-night visitor isn't for her, but it always is. No one comes here in the middle of the night unless there's some kind of medical emergency requiring her attention.

Kiana pulls back the curtain and barges in. "Risa, a couple of kids just got brought in. It's bad, real bad."

Kiana's a sixteen-year-old who works the infirmary's night s.h.i.+ft, lives for drama, and always blows everything out of proportion. Having been purged from a family of doctors, she has a chip on her shoulder when it comes to proving what a good junior medic she is, so her exaggerations are usually just to make herself look better when she solves the emergency. The fact that Kiana has come to get Risa and isn't trying to take all the glory herself means the situation must truly be serious.

"A couple of kids were messing with an engine turbine," Kiana tells her, "and the whole engine came down. . . ."

Risa pulls herself out of bed and into her chair. "What were they doing messing with an engine turbine in the middle of the night?"

"I think it was some sort of dare."

"Incredible." Half the injuries Risa sees are either self-destructive or just plain stupid. She often wonders whether it's just the nature of Whollies, or if it's the same in the outside world.

When she arrives at the infirmary jet, every medic, both on and off duty, is already there. While a couple are older teens who stayed behind when they reached seventeen, the rest are just kids who have been trained to treat minor injuries, nothing more. The sight of blood doesn't scare Risa anymore. What scares her are her own limitations-and from the moment she rolls in, she knows she's way out of her depth.

In the corner one kid grimaces and groans with an obviously dislocated shoulder-but he's getting only minimal attention, because the kid on the table is much worse off. His side has a huge, jagged wound through which Risa can see at least one protruding rib. He quivers and moans. Several kids frantically try to stem the bleeding, applying pressure to key arteries, and one kid with shaking hands tries to fill a syringe.

"Lidocaine or epinephrine?" Risa asks.

"Lidocaine?" he says, like it's a question.

"I'll administer. There are epinephrine injectors already prepared."

He looks at her like he got caught in the school hallway without a pa.s.s.

"Adrenaline!" she says. "It's the same as adrenaline."

"Right! I know where those are!"

Risa tries to focus in, not allowing herself to be overwhelmed by the larger picture, and gives the injured boy the first shot, which will ease the pain.

"Did anyone call the doctor?" Risa asks.

"Like three times," says Kiana.

There's a doctor who comes out to the Graveyard when they have something on their hands they can't handle. He does it free of charge, no questions asked, since he's sympathetic to the resistance; however, he takes their calls only when he wants to. Even if they're able to reach him, however, Risa knows what he'll say.

"We have to get him to a hospital."

Once she says it, all the kids there are visibly relieved, because now this boy's life will not be in their hands. With all the injuries at the Graveyard, only twice before have they had to send a kid to a hospital. Both times the injured kid died. Risa is determined that it will not happen again.

"Hurts bad," the kid says, between gasps and grimaces.

"Shh," says Risa, and she sees his eyeb.a.l.l.s begin to roll. "Stay focused on me." She gives him the epinephrine shot, which should slow his bleeding and hopefully keep him from going into shock. "Tell me your name."

"Dylan," he says. "Dylan Ward."

"Really? I was a ward too. Ohio State Home Twenty-Three."

"Florida Magnolia. Florida state homes don't got numbers. They're named after flowers."

"Figures."

Dylan Ward is thirteen, maybe fourteen. He has a bad cleft lip, and looking at it makes her angry, because like her, he was a ward of the state-and while parents won't unwind a kid on his looks alone, the state homes have no problem unwinding kids they don't want to look at. For Risa, saving him now is a matter of honor. She tells Kiana to get the ambulance.

"It has a flat," Kiana tells her.

Risa growls in frustration. "Fix it!"

"Don't leave," Dylan says, putting all his trust in her.

"I won't," she rea.s.sures him.

The ADR keeps promising to permanently station a doctor at the Graveyard, but that has yet to happen. She knows the resistance has other priorities, but when a kid is bleeding out, it's a pretty lame excuse.

"Am I gonna die?" Dylan asks.

"Of course not," she tells him. In truth, Risa has no idea whether he'll live or die, but that's not very comforting to hear, and no one wants the truth when they ask that question.

Risa rolls her way over whatever debris is on the floor and down the plane's rear ramp, where a bunch of kids have gathered to fret.

One kid comes forward. It's Starkey. Ever since Connor put him in charge of food service, he thinks his nose belongs in everything. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not unless you have powers of teleportation and can get us to a hospital."

"Sorry," he says, "my tricks are just tricks."

That's when Connor runs up.

"I heard about the accident. Is everyone okay?"

Risa shakes her head. "One kid we can take care of, but the other"-again a s.h.i.+ver of memory-"has to go to a hospital."

Connor's lips go thin, and his legs start to shake like they did back when he was in the safe houses. He stops his fear response by pounding his fist into his hand, and he nods. "Okay," he says, "okay, we'll do what has to be done." Only then does he seem to notice that Starkey's there. "Is Starkey helping you?"

"Not really," says Risa. Then, just to get rid of him, she says, "He can help fix the flat on the ambulance."

Starkey looks insulted for a moment, then smiles. "Right, no problem." And he trots off.

The ambulance is a seatless minivan, jury-rigged with medical equipment. Dylan is rushed down the stairs and loaded inside. One of the other medics will drive, and Kiana will tend to Dylan in the back. The boy calls for Risa, but she can't get in with him. Once more she silently curses her wheels.

Starkey still lingers. He turns to Connor. "You mean you're not going?" Starkey asks.

"The Admiral never left the Graveyard until he was carried out," Connor tells him. "I lead by his example."

Starkey shrugs. "It makes you look like a coward."

Connor throws a quick glare at him.

"Hey, I'm just saying."

"I don't care what it looks like," Connor says forcefully. "I do what I have to keep this place alive."

"Sorry, I mean no disrespect, I guess I just have a lot to learn about being in charge."

Starkey nods respectfully to Risa and leaves, but what he said sticks in her mind like gum on her shoe-or at least how it used to get on her shoe when her feet actually touched the ground. Connor is right, of course. If he went to the hospital, it would be a foolhardy show of bravado-the sign of an arrogant leader, not a responsible one. But Risa, on the other hand, has nothing holding her back but her wheelchair. And when has she ever let that stop her?

"I'm going this time," she tells Connor.

Connor throws up his hands. "Risa, no one expects you to go. No one is going to think you're a coward if you don't." He looks over at the minivan. "And getting you there, it's too much-"

"Too much of a burden?" Risa finishes.

"I was going to say too much effort when every second counts for this kid."

But her mind is set. "After what happened the other times," she tells him, "I have to go."

"It won't change the outcome either way," Connor points out.

"I know," she tells him, even though she's not entirely sure he's right. He backs away as two of the medics lift her chair into the van.

"Even if they catch me, they can't unwind me," she reminds him. "I'm seventeen. And besides, the disabled can't be unwound."

"What if they recognize you?"

"Oh, please," Risa says. "It's our names that people know, much more than our faces. I'll be fine." Then she offers him a slim but sincere smile, and he reluctantly returns it. It doesn't bridge the gap between them, but at least it marks the spot where the bridge might be built. She closes the van's back door without saying good-bye, because they share a secret superst.i.tion, never saying good-bye to each other. Risa will soon regret that she didn't.

It's a b.u.mpy ride out of the Graveyard with no paved roads, just the hardpan desert flattened by the wheels of jets. There's more than a mile to the gate. In the back, Dylan moans with every b.u.mp. As they approach, the guards on duty, notified of the emergency, quickly open the gate.

Once they're on paved roads, the ride is easier, and Dylan quiets down. Risa comforts him and monitors his vital signs.