UnSouled

Months before that stargazing night in Molokai. He’s massaging her legs as she sits in a wheelchair in the shade of a stealth bomber in the Arizona desert. She ca

The Graveyard.

Now true to its name. Violently emptied of its occupants as thoroughly as a World War II ghetto. All those kids were either killed or sent off to harvest camps to their eventual unwinding—or “summary division,” as the paperwork officially calls it. And where is Co

And it is dusk once more in the barn. The coyote comes back again, this time with a mate to share in the feast. Risa yells so as to not appear weak and to remind them that she still has some strength left, although it’s waning quickly. They don’t bother with her. Instead they tear cruelly at the dead man, and as they do, Risa realizes something. From where she’s caught—even when she stretched herself as far as she could—she was still two feet away from the dead man.

But the coyotes have pulled him away from the wall.

With all the energy that she has left, she stretches herself across the ground toward him. Reaching with her left hand, she manages to snag the cuff of his pant leg with her forefinger.

She begins to tug him closer, and as he begins to move, the coyotes realize that tomorrow’s meal has become a threat to today’s. They bare their teeth and growl at her. She doesn’t stop. She pulls on him again. This time one of the animals bites her arm, clamping down. She screams and uses her old trick of gouging its eye. The animal is hurt enough to loosen its grip, and Risa breaks free long enough to pull the dead man closer. She can reach the edge of his pocket—but the other coyote leaps for her. She has only a second. She reaches into the dead man’s pocket hoping, for once, that luck is in her favor, and she finds what she’s looking for just as the second coyote grabs on to her upper arm. But the pain is only secondary to her now. Because she has his phone.

Risa pulls away and withdraws into the corner. The coyotes yap and snarl angry warnings. She stands on shaky legs and they back off, still intimidated by her height. Soon they’ll realize that there’s no fight to this foe and they’ll do to her what they’ve done to the parts pirate. Her time is limited.

She turns on the phone to find it has only a tiny bit of battery life left, which means her life now depends on the capricious whim of a lithium battery.

Who does a fugitive call? There’s no one she personally knows who would take such a call, and the standard emergency numbers will rescue her right into a world worse than death. There is one number she knows, however. It’s a number she thinks she can trust, even though she’s never called it before. She dials. The battery holds out for one ring . . . two rings. Then a man answers on the other end.

“The Tyler Walker Foundation. Can I help you?”

A deep breath of relief. “This is Risa Ward,” she says. Then she speaks the three words she despises above all others. “I need help.”

13 • Cam

There are many Mirandas.

An endless glut of girls, all bored with the dull familiarity of ordinary boys, hurl themselves at Cam as if they’re hurling themselves off a cliff. They all expect his strong rewound arms to catch them. Sometimes he does.

They want to run their fingers along the symmetrical lines of his face. They want to lose themselves in the depths of his soulful blue eyes—and knowing the eyes really aren’t his at all makes them want to lose themselves even more.

Cam has very few events as fancy as the Washington gala, so a tuxedo is rarely required. Mostly it’s speaking engagements. He wears a tailored sports coat and tie, with slacks that are just casual enough to keep him from looking too corporate. Too much like the creation of Proactive Citizenry—who silently bankrolls everything he does.

Cam and Roberta are on a tour on the university lecture circuit. Fairly small events since most universities are quiet in the summer—but the upper faculty still have their research to oversee, and it’s those highly esteemed academics on whom they are focusing.

“We need the scientific community to see you as a worthwhile endeavor,” Roberta has told him. “You’ve already won the hearts and sympathy of the public. Now you must be respected on a professional level.”

The speaking events always begin with Roberta and her flashy multimedia presentation laying out in fine academic fashion the nuts and bolts of how Cam was created—although she doesn’t call it that. Proactive Citizenry’s spin doctors have decided that Cam was not created; he was “gleaned.” And his rewound bits and pieces are all part of his “internal community.”

“The gleaning of Camus Comprix took many months,” Roberta tells their audiences. “We first had to identify the high-level qualities we wanted his internal community to have. Then we had to find those qualities within the population of Unwinds awaiting division . . . .”

Like the opening act at a concert, Roberta primes the audience for the main event, and then—“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the culmination of all of our medical and scientific efforts: Camus Comprix!”

A spotlight appears, and he steps into it to the sound of applause—or snapping in the places where public applause has been ba

At the podium Cam delivers his prepared speech, written by a former presidential speech writer. It is thoughtful, intelligent, and memorized word for word. Then comes the Q and A—and although both he and Roberta are on stage to receive questions, most are directed at Cam.

“Do you find you have problems with physical coordination?”

“Never,” he answers. “My muscle groups have all learned to get along.”

“Do you remember the names of any of the constituents of your internal community?”

“No, but sometimes I remember faces.”

“Is it true you speak nine languages fluently?”

“Da, no v moyey golove dostatochno mesta dlia escho neskolkikh,” he says. Yes, but there’s room up here for a few more. That brings chuckles from any Russian speakers in the room.

He has mastered all of his answers—even to questions that are intentionally belligerent and incendiary.

“Admit it—you’re nothing but a kit-car,” one heckler says during his appearance at MIT. “You’re just a model put together from parts in a box. How can you call yourself human?”

Cam’s response to questions like this is always tactful and puts the heckler in his or her place.

“No, I’m more like a concept car,” Cam tells the man, without any of the animosity with which the question was asked. “The sum of the imaginations of all the experts in the field.” Then Cam smiles. “And if by ‘model,’ you mean something worth striving toward, I agree.”