UnSouled (47 page)

“We know Proactive Citizenry was supposed to be a watchdog organization,” Connor says, “protecting the world against the abuse of biotech. What went wrong?”

“We let the genie out of the bottle,” Sonia says sadly. “And a genie is loyal to no master.”

From down below they can hear the grumbles of her hidden AWOLs arguing. Sonia bangs her cane on the trapdoor three times and they fall silent. Secrets below. Secrets above. Connor finds himself leaning closer as she begins to tell her tale.

“Janson and I pioneered the neurografting techniques that allowed every part of a donor body to be used in transplant. Every organ, every limb, every brain cell. The idea was to save
lives. To better the world. But there’s a road to hell for every good intention.”

“The Unwind Accord?” says Connor.

Sonia nods. “It hadn’t even been thought of when we perfected our techniques—but the Heartland War was raging, and with school systems failing all over the country, feral teens were filling the streets in massive numbers. People were scared, and people were desperate.” Sonia’s eyes seem to go far away as she drags back the memory. “The Unwind Accord took our lifesaving technology and weaponized it to use against all those kids that no one wanted to deal with. The board of Proactive Citizenry went along with it—pushing Janson out—because they saw more than just dollar signs: They saw an entire industry waiting to be born.”

Connor finds himself taking a deep, shuddering breath at the suggestion of unwinding being “born.”

“It happened so quickly,” Sonia continues. “When no one was looking. The Juvenile Authority was established without public outcries and without much resistance. Everyone was so glad just to end the Heartland War and get the feral teens out of sight and out of mind. No one wanted to consider where they were going. Now there was a supply of anonymous parts for anyone who wanted them. And even if you didn’t want younger hands or brighter eyes, there were advertisements everywhere to convince you that you did. ‘A new you from the inside out!’ the billboards said. ‘Add fifty years to your life.’ ” Sonia shakes her head bitterly. “They created want . . . and want turned to need . . . and unwinding became woven into the fabric of everything.”

No one says a word. It’s like a moment of silence for the many kids lost to that great unwinding machine. The industry, as Sonia had called it. A mill of commerce trafficking in flesh, working outside the realm of ethics yet within the law and with the complete consent of society.

But then Connor realizes something. “There’s more to the story, isn’t there, Sonia? There has to be—or else why would Proactive Citizenry still be afraid of the man they defeated? Why would Janson Rheinschild’s name still make them shake in their boots?”

Now Sonia smiles. “What word strikes fear into the heart of any industry?” And when no one answers, she whispers it like a dark mantra.

“Obsolescence . . .”

•   •   •

Out in the antique shop, in a dingy corner that generally doesn’t see much traffic, is a stack of dusty old computers stacked one on top of another, daring gravity to topple it, which it never does. This is where Sonia leads them. “I keep these because every now and then a collector comes in looking for older machines—but not too often—and when they do, they never pay very much.”

“So why are we here?” Connor asks.

She taps him more lightly than usual with her cane. “To illustrate a point. Technology doesn’t age well—not like a fine piece of furniture.” And she sits herself down on one of those fine pieces of furniture—a curvy wooden chair with a red velvet seat. The chair probably goes for more than all the computers combined.

“When they passed the Unwind Accord, I gave up. I was disgusted by my own unintentional role in making it happen. But Janson, he fought it down to the day he died. Now that people were hooked on parts, Janson knew the only way to end unwinding was to give them cheaper parts that you didn’t have to harvest. Take away the need for harvesting, and suddenly people would rediscover their consciences. Unwinding would end.”

“ChanceFolk use their spirit animals for transplant,” Connor points out. “That’s how they got around it.”

“I’ll do you one better,” says Sonia. “What if you could grow an endless supply of cultured cells, put them into a machine, like—oh, say, a computer printer—and print yourself out an organ?”

Everyone looks to one another. Connor’s not quite sure if she’s being rhetorical, making a joke, or if she’s just plain nuts.

“Like . . . an electronic nail builder?” Risa suggests.

“A variation on a theme,” says Sonia. “Similar technology taken a huge leap forward.”

“Uh . . . ,” says Connor, “a picture of a liver isn’t gonna help anyone much.”

Then Sonia gets a funny look in her eye. A hint of the scientist she once was. “What if it’s not just a picture?” she asks. “What if you could keep printing layer after layer of cells on top of one another, making it thicker and thicker? What if you were able to solve the blood flow problem by programming gaps in the printing sequence and lining those gaps with a semipermeable membrane that would mature into blood vessels?”

Now she moves her gaze, locking on each of them as she speaks. The passion behind her eyes is hypnotic. Suddenly she’s no longer an old woman, but an impassioned scientist filled with a fire she’s been holding within her for years.

“What if you invented a printer that could build
living human organs
?” Sonia rises from her chair. She’s a short woman, but right now Connor could swear she’s towering over them. “And what if you sold the patent to the nation’s largest medical manufacturer . . . and what if they took all of that work . . . and
buried
it? And took the plans and
burned
them? And took every printer and
smashed
it, and prevented
anyone
from ever knowing that the technology existed?”

Sonia’s whole body shakes, not out of weakness, but out of fury. “What if they made the solution to unwinding disappear because too many people have too much invested in
keeping things
exactly . . . the way . . . they are
.”

Then in the shivering silence that follows, comes a single unpretentious, unassuming voice.

“And what if there’s still one organ printer left,” says Grace, “hiding in the corner of an antique shop?”

Sonia’s rage resolves into the most perfect grandmotherly smile.

“And what if there is?”

Epilogue: The Widow Rheinschild

Years before Connor, or Risa, or Lev are even born, Sonia batters the bitter cold of a February day to carry a heavy cardboard box from her car to a storage unit—just one among many anonymous units in a large complex.

Her husband’s funeral was only a week ago, but Sonia’s not the kind of woman to wallow in self-pity for long.

Her storage unit is the largest one offered. Big enough to fit all the furniture, knickknacks, and objects of desire she and her late husband had collected over the years. Truth be told, it was mostly her collection. Janson was not a materialistic man. All he ever wanted was a comfortable chair and a place in history. Well, he was robbed of one and died in the other.

The lock on the unit is covered in frost. Only a week since the movers piled everything in, and already it has the semblance of something ancient. She tries to fit the key into the lock, but her gloves are too thick. In the end she must remove them and bear the cold on her fingers as she inserts the key, turns it, and tugs on the lock.

Everything has been moved to this storage unit. Her house is now empty—but it won’t be for long. It’s been sold to a lovely family, or so she was told by the Realtor. Sonia priced it way under market to make sure it would sell quickly.

As for all the money that was paid to Janson for the rights to the organ printer, she’s chosen to give the bulk of it to Austin’s friends. They say they’re starting a secret organization to fight unwinding. The Anti-Divisional Underground, or something like that. Well, if they can use that money to save as much as a single Unwind from going under the knife, it will be worth it.

With a grunt, Sonia raises the rolling door and is faced with the trappings of her life, everything placed with puzzlelike precision so it all will fit. How odd that the objects of one’s world can all be squeezed into such a compact space. The neutron star of life’s tenure.

Looking on it brings her a moment of despair—but like the snow flurries outside, she doesn’t let it stick. If there’s one lesson she has learned from her late husband, it’s that one cannot let the events of one’s past murder one’s future. And future is all that Sonia has now that her past has been so effectively erased. She actually had to purchase a counterfeit passport and driver’s license, since her real ones were now invalid. She kept her first name, though, choosing to maintain a shred of her identity to spite those who would happily send her sailing into nameless oblivion.

While not bound for oblivion, Sonia is leaving, however. She doesn’t care where—but when purchasing an airline ticket one must have a destination—so before the movers came, she had gone to the globe in Janson’s study. She spun it, closed her eyes, and jabbed her finger at it. Her finger came down in the Mediterranean, on the island of Crete, so that is where she will go. She speaks no Greek, but she will learn, and the island will be the alpha and omega of her life for a good long while.

She searches the jam-packed storage space for a safe spot to leave the heavy box she carries. Its contents are too sensitive to have allowed the movers to handle. This is something she wanted to do for herself. Janson would be glad that she’s doing it, too. She can feel him smiling at her the way he did on that wonderful night of giddy fantasy, when they ate the city’s most expensive meal, drank champagne, and dared to dream that they were moving from the darkness back into the light.

Sonia is wise enough to know that she’s moved through times of light and darkness all of her life. Now is a time of intense darkness—but she cannot let it consume her, as it consumed Janson. In time, perhaps she’ll find herself in a place of light again with the courage and resolve enough to take a stand. To rise up and do something about the road to hell their good intentions have paved—or more accurately, the road that others had paved for them. But that’s for a distant tomorrow. For now she’s tired, and broken and just needs to run away.

At last she finds a suitable spot in the storage unit for the box and sets it down gently, making sure it’s in a place where it can’t fall and nothing will fall on it. Then she looks at the stacks of belongings around her.

“So much stuff,” she says aloud. She could open up an antique shop with all the junk she’s collected! If she ever does come back to the States someday, perhaps she will.

Satisfied, she wends her way to the entrance of the unit, pulls down the rolling door, and locks away her old life for ten, maybe twenty years.

As she drives away, she’s surprised to find herself smiling in spite of everything. Yes, the very organization Janson founded ultimately turned on them to destroy their lives and tried to destroy every last glimmer of hope.

But that’s where they failed.

Hope can be bruised and battered. It can be forced underground and even rendered unconscious, but hope cannot be killed. The blueprints to the organ printer are gone. So are all the large prototypes. Smashed and melted and buried in some unmarked grave of scuttled technology.

But no one knew about the smaller prototype. The one that gave Austin back his missing fingers—the one that Janson kept hidden in a cardboard box in his study.

Sonia gets on the highway, heading for the airport, and as she does, she turns on the radio, finds a station playing classic rock from her childhood, and she sings along, ignoring the icy winds that rattle the car.

There’s no doubt about it; Janson’s dream is dead . . . but when the time is right and the winds begin to change, even the deadest of dreams can be resurrected.

NEAL SHUSTERMAN

is the author of many critically acclaimed novels for young adults, including the Skinjacker Trilogy,
Downsiders
, the Scorpion Shards Trilogy, and the earlier books in the Unwind Dystology,
Unwind
and
UnWholly
. He also writes screenplays for motion pictures and television shows. The father of four children, Neal lives in Southern California. Visit him at
storyman.com
.

Simon & Schuster, New York

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