Shattered (30 page)

We backed away. But not quickly enough to avoid the attack of Mama Bear.

“What'd you do to her?” The woman was just as chubby as her child. She snatched the girl's hand, yanking her away from us.

“Nothing,” I stammered. “She just dropped her doll, and we—”

The woman grabbed the doll away from the kid, who started sobbing again. “Who knows what they did to it,” she snarled. “We'll get you a new one.” She glared at us. “Skinners don't belong here—this place already stinks of death. Or is that why you're here? Come to laugh at our grief?”

I opened my mouth—nothing came out.

“Well?” she snapped, shaking the doll in my face. “Are you getting out of here, or should I call the secops?”

The thought of the secops was enough to get my voice working again. “Why don't you shove that doll up your—”

“We're leaving,” Riley said quickly, slipping his hand into mine.

Her eyes widened, and her face paled. I saw it: She'd recognized me from the vids.
“You,”
she said in a weak, shuddering voice. “It's
you
!” That wasn't so weak. I could tell she was gearing up for a scream.

“Now,”
Riley hissed, pulling me away.

He didn't let go of my hand until we reached the car.

“I feel sorry for that kid,” I said, reluctant to get in. Surely the woman wouldn't go to all the trouble of calling the secops. And I refused to let her ruin the calm that had descended over the day. Besides, we'd parked far enough from the crowds that the lot felt empty. Riley was right, there was something about this place, the wide open space, the heavy sky . . . I wasn't ready to leave.

“I almost feel sorrier for the mom,” Riley said. “Having to listen to that screeching all day.”

He was right. Getting stuck with a kid like that would be a nightmare. Any kid would be a nightmare—now, at least. But there was supposed to be a later. A later when we weren't seventeen, when we would want all that crap. The screaming. The diapers. The kid.

We were supposed to grow up.

Riley leaned against the car, arms crossed. He tipped his head back, gazing up at the swirling clouds. It was clearer here, since the wind blew most of the crap inland, and I wondered if at night you might actually be able to see the moon. “I chose this,” he said wonderingly. “I chose to live like this.”

“You chose to
live
,” I corrected him. “Anyone would.” I joined him at the car, my back resting on the metal, our arms almost touching.

“Would you?” Riley asked. “If you could go back? If you'd had a choice?”

“I'd choose for the accident not to happen,” I said. “After that, there were no more choices.”

“Jude loves it. Being a mech.”

“You're not Jude.”

“He hates talking about this stuff. Thinks we should forget all about it. That we're lucky now.”

“You're not him,” I said again.

“Yeah.” He turned to face me. “He's right, though. It's hard. Talking about it.” He shook his head. “So I just don't. But you're different. You get it, right? You miss it too, you know?”

No,
I thought. Because that was the answer I gave everyone, including myself. “I miss home,” I admitted. “I miss who I used to be. I don't . . .” But that was enough truth telling for the day. I couldn't say it out loud.
I don't want to live like this.

I didn't say it because there was no point. It didn't
matter
what I wanted. This was reality. This was life.

“Thank you,” he said. “For not lying.” He leaned forward,
raised his fingers to my jaw, grazing the skin midway between my cheek and chin. So lightly I could barely feel it. “It's good talking to you. Like I can say anything.”

I should tell him about Ben,
I thought. Riley would know what to do. Whether I should give call-me-Ben what he wanted, whether it my was job to keep Jude's secrets.

I should tell him, because not telling him is a lie.

But telling him would be like telling Jude. Telling him meant no more choices.

Riley rested his other hand at my waist. Drew me toward him. “I don't know who you used to be. But this version isn't so bad.”

“Because you don't know me.” But I let him hold on, and I let him believe. And when his fingers traced the line of my jaw, down my neck, I pressed my hand over his. Flesh to flesh.

“You don't know me either,” he said.

His lips were soft and fit perfectly against mine, as I fit in his arms, huddled against his chest.

His lips were soft, and his kiss was soft, and if I didn't feel it in my body, if it didn't rip me open, leave me trembling, torn out of myself, if the sensors on my lips, my back, my chest, my fingertips registered the pressure of his skin, the temperature, and not the electric shock of raw desire, it didn't matter.

Because we fit together. Because his lips were soft but his arms were strong and they held me up.

And when he let go, I held on, his hand in mine, our fingers linked. And I wasn't alone.

“Sometimes talking makes you look weak.”

A
s always: Things got back to normal.

As always: Nothing got back to normal.

But this time, in a good way.

This time, Riley was there.

We spent hours, whole days, walking through the orchards, watching apple blossoms flutter to the ground as we walked, hands linked, sometimes silent but often, more often than I would have expected, talking. Never about Jude, who had barricaded himself in the vidroom, searching for a clue about how to turn the tide of public opinion in our favor; never about Ani, who was rarely around anymore and rarely wanted to talk when she was; never about the Brotherhood-inspired crowds camped out at the estate borders, shouting, spray painting the gate, throwing things over
the electrified fence, usually things like rocks and fiery wads of paper and rotted fruit, sometimes things like pig intestines, and once a thing set to explode, a homemade thing with a timer and a defective fuse.

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.”