Shattered

by Robin Wasserman

  Never about the messages I got daily from call-me-Ben, messages that were gradually turning into threats. He’d given me a deadline. Two weeks to choose: Give up Jude (with information I didn’t have), or let Ben give me up to the secops (for crimes I hadn’t committed). To decide whether I wanted to be a traitor or a martyr.

  I let Riley believe I had no secrets. I let the time slip by. I deleted the messages.

  We talked only about the past. I told him about Zo and Walker and my father and, after a week had passed and my hand felt empty without his hand pressed against it, about Auden.

  He asked more than he answered, and there were certain things I still wasn’t allowed to know. How he got shot, or why he blamed himself. Why he owed so much to Jude—and it was more than just the mutual protection he’d alluded to by the flood zone. There was something specific, some chain that bound them together—that was clear. We edged near it a few times, but then we drew too close, I asked one question too many, and he would shut down again.

  Sometimes it was better not to talk. Sometimes it was good just to lie there with him, under a tree, a cold wind blowing that neither of us could feel, my head against his silent chest, his arms curled around me. It was strange being with another mech. I could still close my eyes and remember the feel of Walker’s arms around me, his body cradling mine. I was used to Walker’s steady, even breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, his warm breath misting my cheek. When I lay my head on Riley’s chest, it rested there, completely still. When we looked into each other’s eyes, we didn’t blink.

  No one said anything to us about what we were, whatever it was. Not even Jude, who had something to say about everything. They all just accepted it as if it was old news. All except Ani, and she tried only once. “Remember when you asked me what Quinn and I had in common?” she asked. She never talked about Quinn anymore.

  “You said it didn’t really matter. That it wasn’t about that.”

  “Turns out it did,” she said. “And it was. Just so you know.”

  And maybe that was her admitting that she needed something, that she’d lost something and was ready to talk about it, if I’d just asked the right question and gave her space to answer. But maybe she just wanted to talk about me and Riley, and what was wrong with us being together—and so I didn’t ask. I smiled and pretended not to understand or care, then made a pathetic joke about Riley’s taste in shoes, or lack thereof, and then she was gone, back to wherever she went to get away. And I went back to Riley.

  We didn’t do anything more than kiss—nor did we talk about the fact that we weren’t doing any more than that. I didn’t ask how much he’d experimented since the download. In all the talking we did about the past, I didn’t tell him about the night with Walker, when we’d tried to go backward. When I’d touched him and felt nothing, felt nothing when he touched me. Cringed from his hands on my body and from the repulsion in his eyes.

  Sometimes I felt something when Riley touched me, when he ran a finger down my spine or his lips found a hollow at the base of my neck.

  Sometimes it was the same nothing as always.

  We were designed to simulate human life. Our brains were wired to emulate hormonal processes, neurotransmitters, all the bells and whistles of feeling, of pain, of pleasure. It wasn’t the same.

  But it was enough.

  I didn’t know if he wanted more. We didn’t talk about that.

  We had time.

  “We have a month,” Jude said, “then the new legislation passes, and that’s it, we’re not people, we’re property.”

  “There’s nothing about it anywhere on the network,” I said. Riley was sitting next to me on the couch, but we weren’t touching. Jude looked at Riley occasionally, but his eyes just skimmed over me like I was furniture. Most of the time he kept his gaze fixed on the screen just over our heads, playing a muted vid of an old concert, some what’s-his-name who’d long since dosed up and flamed out. Ani sat off to the side, rigid and upright on the edge of her chair, drumming her fingers against the armrest. Quinn’s invitation to the inner circle had been revoked; some kind of olive branch, as I understood it, from Jude to Ani. It didn’t seem to be working. Still, she’d come when he called.

  “I didn’t hear about it on the network,” Jude said. “But they know about it at BioMax, so I know about it too.”

  “Of course.” I rolled my eyes. “Your infamous ‘sources.’ If they even exist.”

  “They exist,” he snapped.

  “So you just don’t trust us enough to tell us who they are.”

  “Why would you care what his name is?”

  “I don’t.” It’s only a question, I assured myself. It doesn’t have to mean anything. “I just don’t like that you’re keeping us out of the loop.”

  Jude looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time, then lowered his gaze to the couch, where Riley’s hand rested flat against the fabric, a few inches from my own. We had nothing to hide. But we weren’t playing show-and-tell either. “There are a lot of loops,” he said. “No one can be in all of them.”

  “You done with the cryptic crap?” Ani snapped. “Some of us have places to be.”

  Riley’s eyes widened. I’d told him about the Quinn thing, but I could tell he hadn’t gotten it, not really. In his mind, Jude was the hero of every story, especially Ani’s—the poor little broken girl taken under his wing.

  “They’re calling it the Human Initiative,” Jude said, unflappable as ever. “Paid off a few senators so that the thing looks like a result of public outcry, but everyone knows it’s coming from the Brotherhood. From Auden, specifically, since Savona’s never known how to work the system like this.”

  “Who cares?” I said. “So we’re unpeople in the eyes of the government.”

  “Who cares?” Jude repeated incredulously.

  “Yeah, it sucks, but who cares? It only matters what the corps think, and—”

  “Whatever the corps want to do, the letter of the law is still in our favor,” Jude cut in. “If we lose that …”

  “So we do something,” I said. “Instead of just sitting around here whining about it.”

  Jude scowled. “Funny, that’s exactly my point.”

  “We need to sway public opinion,” I said. “Maybe stop hiding on this estate, get out there. Talk to people. Show them they have nothing to fear.”

  “You’ll be great at that. As far as the orgs are concerned, your face is the definition of ‘scary.’”

  I stiffened.

  “Watch it,” Riley said.

  “No need to defend your girlfriend’s honor,” Jude drawled. “I’m just stating a fact.”

  “No one needs to defend me,” I said, touching Riley’s arm. He moved away. “And you’re right, it can’t be me. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get out there. Rally the people who believe in us. They do exist.” I thought of my father. “Maybe we can start some kind of petition—”

  Jude barked out a harsh laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Petition? What next, you want to write a manifesto that we can all sign? ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident that all mechs are created equal’? Brilliant. Let’s get right on that.”

  “I’m not hearing a better suggestion.”

  “We stop talking,” Jude said. “The orgs are never going to accept us. You heard your boy—I’m sorry, ex-boyfriend. We’re a threat to them just by existing. They see our strength, they know they’re weak. They know they’re going to weaken. Sicken. Die. We’re everything that they’re not, and we scare them. No one wants to be scared. They’d rather be angry.”

  “Thanks for the life lesson,” I said, “but I still don’t see how that translates into action.”

  “Action,” Jude said. “That’s exactly my point. We don’t ask for our rights. We take them.”

  “You want a war,” I said in a low voice.

  And he knew exactly what I was thinking.

 
“Not a war,” he said. “But I’m not afraid to fight.”

  “Fighting is something you do when talking doesn’t work,” I said. “It’s a last resort, not a first one.”

  “You learn a lot about fighting in your little org school, in your happy little org home?” Jude snarled. “You fight a lot of battles, defending your estate from the encroaching barbarians, the hordes trying to burn down your mansion and drain your indoor pool?”

  “So because I’m not from the city, I don’t get a vote? I don’t know what I’m talking about?” I turned to Riley. “Tell him there’s nothing wrong with trying to talk to people.”

  Riley tilted his head down, his chin skimming his chest. “Sometimes talking makes you look weak,” he said quietly.

  Thanks for backing me up.

  “Especially when no one wants to listen,” Jude said, smiling at his best friend. Obedient as ever, loyalties undivided.

  “I have a suggestion,” Ani said, voice sweet and timid again, almost like it used to be. “If anyone wants to hear it.”

  “Of course we do,” Jude said. There was something soft in his voice when he spoke to her. Like an apology. I wondered if he’d given her a real one or if this was the best she’d get.

  “It’s the corp-town attack,” Ani said. “That’s why they hate us, right?”

  Jude, always quick to shoot down a restatement of the obvious, just nodded approvingly.

  It fell to me: “So what?”

  “So we all know the Brotherhood had something to do with it,” Ani said.

  Do we? I thought, glancing at Jude. Do we know?

  Jude didn’t do anything that wouldn’t advance his cause, and the attack had, rather spectacularly, done the opposite. So I believed him that he was innocent. This time. But that didn’t make me feel much better. Because I had believed it was possible—and what was I doing here with someone who I believed capable of that? So he hadn’t attacked the corp-town. Probably. What would he do? I told myself that was a good enough reason to stick around: to stop him. But if it came to that, what’s to say I would get the chance?

  “It doesn’t matter what we ‘know,’” Jude said. “Not without proof.”

  “Exactly.” Ani looked pleased with herself. “So we get proof. I’ve heard things. I think I know where we can find what we need.”

  “You can get us evidence?” Jude asked.

  “If we go in at night, when no one’s around, and we can get into Savona’s office?” Ani paused, then grinned. “Yeah, I think I can. Their security’s pathetic, and it’s mostly biobased. Not set up to keep us out.”

  “That’s unexpected,” Jude said.

  More than unexpected, I thought. Unlikely. Savona was assembling an army—why wouldn’t he protect his power base from the enemy?

  “They’re all about being open to everyone, right?” Ani shrugged. “I don’t think electric fences really say welcome, you know? I’ve asked around—”

  “They talk to you?” I asked, remembering how the mob had nearly torn us to pieces at the rally.

  “They’re not so bad,” Ani said. “I mean, for orgs who hate us,” she added quickly. “They think they’ve convinced me I’m evil, and I’m going to … I don’t know. Get all my friends to just give up. So they’re pretty nice to me. They let me see things I shouldn’t, and what I’ve seen is that they’re planning something big. Maybe even bigger than the corp-town. They want to turn people against us once and for all.”

  Jude shook his head. “I knew it,” he said in disgust.

  “They lock everything up at night,” Ani said. “But I know the code to Savona’s office.”

  “This is perfect,” Jude said, beaming at Ani. She looked away. “We’ll send a few people in, dig up the dirt on Savona—I say we go tomorrow.”

  “Just like that?” I said. “No more discussion?”

  “What’s to discuss?” Jude said. “It’s a good plan. Unless you have a problem with it because it’s not your plan.”

  “Maybe I have a problem with breaking the law,” I retorted.

  “Savona kills forty-two people and you get squeamish about a little unlawful trespassing?” Jude asked. “Aren’t you worried about what he may do next? Or maybe you don’t care who dies, because they’re ‘just orgs,’ is that it?” He smirked, knowing that was exactly the same accusation I’d been silently leveling at him.

  I didn’t take the bait. “You don’t think it’s all a little too easy? Ani just happens to stumble onto rumors about the corp-town attacks, just happens to hear about security details? That doesn’t make you wonder?”

  Ani stood up, her posture rigid. “Are you accusing me of something?” she asked stiffly.

  “Ignore her,” Jude said. “None of us would ever question your judgment.”

  “Shut up!” she snapped. “I don’t need you to protect me anymore. I’m a big girl now, aren’t I? And if Lia wants to accuse me of something, she can go ahead. But say it to me, Lia. Not him.”

  “I know you’re trying to help,” I said slowly. “But what if they’re just showing you what they want you to see?”

  Ani sucked in her lip like she was biting down hard to stop herself from spitting out the first thing that came to mind. When she spoke again, her voice was low and deliberate, laced with anger. “So you’re just accusing me of being a moron,” she said.

  “No, of course not—”

  “You think I’m oblivious, is that it? I just see what I want to see. I don’t understand what people are really like. I’m too stupid to know what’s really going on?” She shook her head, hard. “Whatever.” Glaring at me, she stalked to the door. “Let me know when you’re ready to make a plan,” she said, and although she refused to look at Jude, it was clear the words were for him. “Or listen to her if you want. I don’t care anymore.”

  By the time she slammed the door behind her, I was already halfway across the room, determined to go after her and make things right. Not just the fight but the last several weeks, the conversations I should have forced her to have but didn’t, because it was easier just to leave her alone.

  “Don’t,” Jude said. “Trust me, it’s better you don’t. Not right now.” He jerked his head at Riley. “Can you?”

  Riley nodded. He flashed me an apologetic look, then slipped out the door after Ani.

  “What?” I snapped at Jude. “You’d rather she hate me?”

  “I know her better than you,” he said. “Give her some time.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing?” I asked. “Giving her time? Hoping she’ll forgive you for—”

  “Shut up.” It wasn’t like Jude, always so restrained, every word measured, calculated for maximum impact. That one had just slipped through the defenses, popped out. And we both knew it. “Besides,” he said, returning to an even tone. “We’re not done here. You want to convince me that raiding the Temple is a bad idea? Go ahead. Convince.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t think it’s possible that Ani’s being misled? Or …”

  “Or misleading us?” he said.

  “I didn’t say that …” I couldn’t look at him. I felt too guilty to even be saying it out loud. Especially with Ani thinking I didn’t trust her. “Tell me you don’t think it’s possible.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible,” he said without hesitation. “And like I say, I know her better than you do. If she says she’s sure, if she says she can do this, then she can.”

  “Jude, she’s …” I flicked my eyes to the door. “Fine, you know her. You don’t think she’s acting a little … erratic?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “And you accuse me of denying reality?”

  “I trust her,” he said, loud and slow. “And if you trust me, that should be enough. But that’s the problem, am I right? You don’t.”

  “I … trust that you think you’re doing what’s best,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

  “No, you think I’m still hiding things from you,”
he said. “Even after I told you the truth about the trackers. And about everything else you ever wanted to know. I may keep some things from some people, but all I’ve ever told you was the truth.”

  I had to acknowledge that, as far as I knew, he was right. I’d never thought to wonder why. “I think I’m tired of you telling me what I think.”

  “Reagan Wood,” he said.

  “Are your language circuits malfunctioning?” I asked. “Because that wasn’t a sentence.”

  “The name of my source at BioMax. That’s what you’ve been burning to know, right?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He smiled so fakely that he couldn’t have intended it to look sincere. It was a game for him, just like everything else. “Think of it as an act of good faith.”

  “My faith in you?” I asked. “It’s dwindling.”

  “My faith in you,” he said. “No secrets. Starting now.” He flicked a hand through the air and grinned, knowing how much I hated the fearless-leader thing. It made him all the happier to act the part. “You may go.”

  I gave Ben a name.

  It just wasn’t the name he wanted.

  It wasn’t until I had the real name, Ben’s zone keyed into my ViM, staring at his ugly, lifelike av, that I finally decided what to do: lie.

  So I sent Ben the information. William Dreyson, the name of the doctor who’d first treated me after the download, the one responsible for transplanting my brain into a new body. He had personal contact with all the mechs he worked on, and the technical skills to know which upgrades were test-run ready. The perfect candidate for a rat—and, added bonus, he even looked like one.