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Divan looks to the tray and puts the fork down. “Congratulations, Co
Co
When he opens his eyes again, Divan is leaning closer, a strange hint of an Unwind’s desperation in his eyes. “I don’t want you to think ill of me, Co
And of all the emotions Co
Divan leans away, his veneer of aloof sophistication replaced with a despair as cold and empty as the air outside. Co
“We’re done here,” Co
As Divan stands, his perfect posture and larger-than-life presence seem hobbled. He looks away from Co
54 • Risa
An hour later, Risa sits before the Orgão Orgânico, with a Mozart étude playing in her head. Keeping her hands to her side, she clings to her last threads of hope, while behind her Divan reclines on a sofa, watching her. The plane shudders with a tremor of turbulence.
“Is it happening now?” she asks. She won’t look at Divan. Nor will she look up at the accusation of faces before her. She looks only at the keys. Black and white in a world of unrelenting gray.
“He’ll be in the chamber soon, if he’s not already,” Divan tells her. “Try not to think about it. Play something cheery.”
Her voice is barely a whisper when she says, “No.”
Divan sighs. “Such pointless resistance. This moral high ground of yours is nothing but quicksand.”
“Then let it take me under.”
“It won’t. You won’t let it—and you will play. Maybe not today, but tomorrow, or the day after that. Because it is in your nature to survive. You see, Risa, survival is a dance between our needs and our consciences. When the need is great enough, and the music loud enough, we can stomp conscience into the ground.”
Risa closes her eyes. She knows the dance. She did it for Roberta at Proactive Citizenry when she agreed to speak out in favor of unwinding. Yes, Risa was blackmailed, and she did it to protect the kids at the Graveyard, but still she joined the dance.
“It’s the way of the world,” Divan continues. “Look at unwinding, society’s grand gavotte of denial. There will, no doubt, come a time when people look to one another and say, My God, what have we done? But I don’t believe it will happen any time soon. Until then, the dance must have music; the chorus must have its voice. Give it that voice, Risa. Play for me.”
But Risa’s fingers offer him nothing, and the Orgão Orgânico holds the obdurate, unyielding silence of the grave.
55 • UNIS
The black box is bright on the inside. So bright that Co
“Hello, Connor Lassiter. Welcome to your divisional experience! I am your fully automated Unwinding Intelli-System, but you can call me UNIS.”
The voice is genderless. Guileless. UNIS truly wants to make this the happiest day of Co
“Before we get started, Connor Lassiter, I have a few questions to make this a smooth and positive transition into a divided state. First, let me confirm your comfort level. Please rate your current level of comfort on a scale of one to ten, ten being least uncomfortable.”
Co
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please rate your current level of comfort on a scale of one to ten, ten being least uncomfortable.”
His heart races out of his control. He tries to calm it by reminding himself he’s just one of many others to go this way. That he survived more than two years after the order to unwind him was signed. That’s more than most can say.
“All right, I’ll assume you’re sufficiently comfortable. Within the next few moments you’ll feel slight pricks on either side of your neck as I administer the anesthetized synthetic plasma to facilitate your division, and so that you do not suffer any pain. While I’m doing this, let’s take the time to personalize your experience. I can project a variety of scenic vistas for you. Please choose from the following: mountain flyby, ocean tranquility, vibrant cityscape, or landmarks of the world.
He wants to deny the fear, but he can’t. He thought he was stronger. He wishes he had someone to do for him what he did for Starkey. Take him out before UNIS could get its claws into him.
“Would you like me to repeat the choices? Please say yes or no.”
“Shut up!” Co
“I’m sorry, that’s not a valid response. Since you seem to be having trouble selecting, I’ll select for you. Your choice is . . . landmarks of the world.”
Images soar before him, changing with a slow, relentless rhythm. Mount Rushmore. The Eiffel Tower. Golden Gate Bridge. The anesthesia blurs the line between what’s part of him and what’s not. The images invade his mind as if they’re being projected inside his head.
“You may now begin to feel a flurry of activity in your extremities, most noticeably in your wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. This is entirely normal, and no cause for alarm.”
Great Wall of China. Rock of Gibraltar. Angkor Wat. The sun never sets on Co
“I can also play your choice of musical genre. Please make your selection now, Connor Lassiter. You can say things like ‘techno-dance’ or ‘prewar rock.’ ”
All hope is now with Argent, and with Risa.
Risa . . .
He holds on to the image of her, projecting it out, even as the world is projected in. Back in the room where Divan had him, he was bound so tightly to that bed, Co
“Please make your musical selection now. . . .”
He knows that his life was a life worth living, and he lived it remarkably well these past two years, in spite of the bleak cards he was dealt. He knows what it means to save countless lives. He knows what it means to end a life. But more than anything he knows what it means to love. He has to believe he will take that with him, wherever it is he now goes, whether it be oblivion, or the proverbial “better place,” or an impossible web of global destinations.
“All right, I can choose for you. Your musical genre is . . . twentieth-century disco.”
He must leave the battle now. Let others take over for him. All this time he recoiled at being called the Akron AWOL. Now he embraces it, and in defiance of his unwinding, he shifts his identity from himself, to his legend. His absence will only make his presence greater.
“Won’t you take me to . . . FunkyTOWN?”
Co