UnSouled

Indignation rises in her like an ocean swell. “Oh, I’m a little more than that!”

“Are you going to tell me you’re my creator? Shall I sing psalms of praise to thee? Or better yet, why don’t I cut out my stolen heart and put it on an altar for you?”

“Enough!”

Cam slumps in his chair, a twisted rag of directionless anger.

Roberta puts down her napkin to help blot the tea, a task beyond the abilities of the tablecloth. Cam wonders if the tablecloth would resent the napkin’s absorbency were it legally granted personhood.

“There’s something you need to see,” Roberta says. “Something you need to understand that might give you some perspective on this.”

She gets up, goes into the kitchen, and returns with a pen and a blank piece of paper. She sits down beside him, folds back the tablecloth, and puts the paper down on a dry patch of wood.

“I want you to sign your name.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

Too disgusted to argue, he takes the pen, looks down at the paper, and writes as neatly as he can “Camus Comprix.”

“Good. Now turn the paper over and sign it again.”

“Your point?”

“Humor me.”

He flips the paper, but before he signs, Roberta stops him. “Don’t look,” she says. “This time look at me while you’re signing. And talk to me too.”

“About what?”

“Whatever is in your heart to say.”

Looking at Roberta, he signs his name while delivering an appropriate quote from his namesake: “The need to be right is the sign of a vulgar mind.” Then he hands the page to Roberta. “There. Are you happy?”

“Why don’t you look at the signature, Cam?”

He looks down. At first he thinks he sees his signature as it should be. But a switch seems to flick in his head, and the signature he sees is not his at all. “What is this? This isn’t what I wrote.”

“It is, Cam. Read it.”

The letters are a bit scrawled. Wil Tash . . . Tashi . . .”

“Wil Tashi’ne,” Roberta says. “You have his hands, and his corresponding neuro-motor centers in your cerebellum, as well as crucial cortical material as well. You see. It’s his neural co

Cam ca

Roberta regards him with infinite sympathy. “How can you sign a document, Cam, when not even your signature belongs to you?”

•   •   •

Roberta hates when Cam goes out alone, especially at night, but on this night, there’s nothing she can say or do that will stop him.

He strides fast, down a street still wet with the day’s rain, but feels like he’s getting nowhere. He doesn’t even know where he wants to go—only away from whatever spot he occupies at the moment, unable to feel right in his own skin. What is it the advertisements call it? That’s right—Biosystemic Disunification Disorder. A bogus condition that conveniently can be cured only by unwinding.

All his scheming, all his daydreams of bringing down Proactive Citizenry—of being the kind of hero Risa requires—it all amounts to nothing if he is just a piece of military property. And Roberta’s wrong. It’s more than just a legal definition. How can she not see that when you are defined, you lose the ability to define yourself? In the end he will become that definition. He will become a thing.

What he needs is some sort of proclamation of existence that trumps anything legal. Something he can hold on to in his heart in the face of anything they have on paper. Risa could give that to him. He knows she can, but she’s not here, is she?

But there might be other places he could find it.

He begins to scour his memory, seeking out moments that ring with a spiritual co

But which one will give him what he needs? He knows if he speaks to a rabbi or a Buddhist priest, he’ll get very wise responses that point to more questions instead of an answer. “Do we exist because others perceive our existence, or is, indeed, our own affirmation enough?”

No. What Cam needs is some meat-and-potatoes dogma that can give him a concrete yes or no.

There’s a Catholic church a few blocks away. An old one with impressive stained-glass windows. He puts together from his internal community a sizeable posse of believers—enough to give him a sense of reverence and awe as he steps into the sanctuary.

There are a few people present. Mass is over, and confessions are winding down. Cam knows what he has to do.

•   •   •

“Forgive me, Father, for I have si

“Tell me your sins, child.”

“I’ve broken things. I’ve stolen things. Electronics. A car—maybe two. I may have become violent with a girl once. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure? How could you not be sure?”

“None of my memories are complete.”

“Son, you can confess only to the things you remember.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Father. I have no complete memories. Just bits and pieces.”

“Well, I’ll accept your confession, but it sounds like you need something more than the sacrament of the confessional.”

“It’s because the memories are from other people.”

“ . . .”

“Did you hear me?”

“So you’ve received bits of the unwound?”

“Yes, but—”

“Son, you can’t be held responsible for the acts of a mind that isn’t yours, any more than you can be responsible for the acts of a grafted hand.”

“I have a couple of those, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Camus Comprix. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“ . . .”

“I said my name is—”

“—yes, yes, I heard you, I heard you. I’m just surprised you’re here.”

“Because I’m soulless?”

“Because I very rarely hear confessions from public figures.”

“Is that what I am? A public figure?”

“Why are you here, son?”

“Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I might not . . . be . . . .”

“Your presence here proves you exist.”

“But as what? I need you to tell me that I’m not a spoon! That I’m not a teapot!”

“You make no sense. Please, there are people waiting.”

“No! This is important! I need you to tell me . . . . I need to know . . . if I qualify as a human being.”

“You must know that the church has not taken an official position on unwinding.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s not. I know. I know.”

“In your opinion as a man of the cloth . . .”

“You ask too much of me. I am here to give absolution, nothing more.”

“But you have an opinion, don’t you?”

“ . . .”

“When you first heard of me?”

“ . . .”

“What was that opinion, Father?”

“It is neither my place to say, nor your place to ask!”

“But I do ask!”

“It is not to your benefit to hear!”

“Then you’re being tested, Father. This is your test: Will you tell the truth, or will you lie to me in your own confessional?”

“My opinion . . .”

“Yes . . .”

“My opinion . . . was that your arrival in this world marked the end of all things we hold dear. But that opinion was borne of fear and ignorance. I admit that! And today I see the awful reflection of my own petty judgments. Do you understand?”

“ . . .”

“I confess that I am humbled by your question. How can I speak to whether or not you carry a divine spark?”

“A simple yes or no will do.”