Robin Wasserman - Shattered

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.