Skinned -1 (9 page)

I lay stil .

“You’l figure it out.” She shrugged. “I’m heading back up. You coming?”

“Later.”

Shooting me a wicked grin, Quinn sprinted back toward the building, her hair streaming behind her and shimmering under the fluorescent lights, her clothes abandoned in a pile by my head. She ran flat-out, ful -speed, running like she didn’t know how, arms flailing, feet stomping, rhythm erratic, running like little kids run, without pacing or strategy, running like nothing mattered but the next step. Running just to run. I wanted to join her, to race her, to beat her, and in that moment I knew the legs could do it. I knew I could do it.

I lay stil .

I’m not like her,
I told myself. Quinn’s life had sucked. Mine hadn’t. Quinn needed a new start. I didn’t. Quinn, if she wanted—
because
she wanted—was a different person now.

I wasn’t.

No wonder my father had treated me like a stranger that afternoon. I was acting like one. I was sulking in my room, I was snapping at people who were only trying to help. I was shutting myself off, shutting myself down; I was spewing self-pity. I was lying around, standing stil , wasting time wondering what I was going to do and who I was going to be, when the answer was obvious. I was the same person I had always been. I was Lia Kahn. And I was going to do what Lia Kahn always did. Get by. Get through. Work. Win.

I wasn’t a skinner. I wasn’t a mech-head. I was Lia Kahn. And it was about time I started acting like it.

One week later they sent me home.

“God made man. Who made you?”

S
omeone must have tipped them off, because when we got home, they were waiting.

Getting into the car was hard enough. When it lurched into motion I curled myself into a corner, shut my eyes, and tried to pretend I was back in my room on the thirteenth floor, standing stil . I wasn’t afraid of going home. Lia Kahn had nothing to fear from her own house. It was just the ride—the pavement speeding underneath the tires, the sat-nav whirring along, veering us around a corner, a tree, a truck…

I linked in, picked a new noise-metal song that I knew I would hate, turned the volume up too high, and waited for the ride to end.

Except that when the car stopped, we stil weren’t home. The music faded out, and a new voice shrieked inside my head. “An abomination! We shal al be punished for her sins!”

I cut the link. Opened my eyes. A sal ow face stared through the window, mouth open in a silent howl. When he saw me watching he extended his index finger, and his lips shifted, formed an unmistakable word. “You.”

My father, behind the wheel even though he wasn’t actual y using it, pounded a fist against the dash. The horn blared. My mother stroked his arm, more a symbolic attempt to calm him down than anything that actual y had a prayer of working. “Biggest mistake they ever made,” he muttered. “Programming these things not to run people down.”

“Honey…” That was symbolic attempt number two. Except in my mother’s mind, these things actual y worked; in the fantasy world she inhabited, her influence soothed the savage beast.

“I should plow right through you!” he shouted at the windshield. “You want something to protest? I’l give you something to real y protest!” They crowded around the car, pressing in tight, although not too tight. The legal y required foot of space remained between us and them at al times. They planted themselves in front of the car, behind it, al around it, blocking us in, so we had no choice but to sit there, twenty yards from the entrance to our property, waiting for security to arrive and, in the meantime, reading their signs.

“I’m sorry, Lee Lee,” my mother said, twisting around in her seat and reaching for me. I pul ed away. “I don’t know how they found out you were coming home today.” Their signs were hoisted over their shoulders, streaming in red-letter LED across their chests, pulsing on their foreheads. Jamming the network so we couldn’t cal in reinforcements.

GOD MADE MAN. WHO MADE YOU?

FRANKENSTEIN ALWAYS BURNS

BREATH, NOT BATTERIES

“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t care.”

My father cursed quietly, then loudly.

“Just close your eyes,” my mother suggested. “Ignore them.”

“I am,” I said, eyes open.

My favorite sign depicted a giant extended middle finger, with a neon caption:

SKIN THIS!

It didn’t even make sense. But it got the point across.

My father fumed. “Goddamned Faithers.”

“Apparently we’re the damned ones,” I pointed out. “Or I am.”

“Don’t you listen to them.” My mother flicked her hand across her console and my window darkened, blotting out the signs. But it wasn’t the signs I’d been watching, it was the faces. I’d never seen a Faither, not up close. Before the accident, I hadn’t even seen much of them on the network. But after…Somehow my name had ended up on a Faither hit list. Until I fixed my blockers, they’d flooded my zone with al the same crap about how I was a godless perversion, I was Satan’s work, I didn’t deserve to exist. But I hadn’t expected them to come after me in person.

Religion went out of style right after the Middle East went out in a blaze of nuclear glory. Not that some people, maybe lots of people, didn’t keep privately believing in some invisible old man who gave them promotions when they were good and syphilis when they were bad. If you had the credit, you could even snag enough drugs for a one-on-one chat. You sometimes heard rumors about people—especial y in the cities, where it’s not like there was much else to do—actual y gathering together for their God fix, but as far as most people were wil ing to admit in public, God was dead. The Faith party was for al those leftover believers who—even after the nukes and the Long Winter and the Water Wars of the western drought and the quake that ate California and the wave that drowned DC—refused to give up the ghost. They were for life, for morality, for order, for gratitude, and, until recently, not against much of anything. Except reason, my father was always quick to point out. Then BioMax unrol ed its download process, and the Faithers found their cause.

Now they’d found me.

My window was stil blocked, but I could see them through the front windshield, silent now, al of them pointing.

“That’s it, we’l go manual,” my father said, gunning the engine. “I’m going through them.”

My mother shook her head. “It won’t let you.”

“You have a better idea?”

She didn’t.

“Come on, Ana, we’re listening.”

She sighed.

He put his hands on the wheel, switched to manual. “I’l find a way.”

“Wait.” I leaned forward, touching his shoulder without thinking. He didn’t flinch. I glanced out the windshield, and he fol owed my eyes, saw the man at the center of the crowd, the one with close-cropped blond hair and black-brown eyes, who had his hands in the air. It was a signal, and his fol owers—for it was obvious who was leading and who was fol owing

—fel back, clearing a path for the car. The man bowed low, but kept his face raised toward the car, his eyes fixed on me. He swept his arm out, his meaning clear.
You may go. For
now.
And then it was our turn to fol ow.

It was Thursday, and Thursday meant Kahn family dinner. Even if one-fourth of the family no longer ate. They probably would have let me out of it, just this once let me sneak off to the room I hadn’t seen in nearly three months, close the door, start my new-life-same-as-the-old-life on my own, but that would have meant asking, and I didn’t. The food arrived before we did, and Zo, who usual y showed up to family dinner an hour or two late, if at al , waited at the table, playing the good girl. “I got steak,” she said instead of “hel o” or “welcome home” or “I missed you.” “And chocolate soufflé. Al your favorites.”

And so we sat in our usual spots, and I watched them eat al my favorites.

“But what happens if you
do
?” Zo asked, stuffing the meat into her mouth. She didn’t even like steak. “Does it screw up the wiring? Or would it just sit there and, you know, rot?

Like you’re walking around with chewed-up bits of moldy bread and rotten meat inside you?”

“Zoie!” My mother’s fork clattered to her plate.

“She’s just curious,” my father said. “It’s only natural.”

“It’s
rude
. And it’s not appropriate at the dinner table. Not while we’re eating.”

“We’re not
all
eating,” Zo pointed out.

I did not ask to be excused.

“There’d be nowhere for the food to go,” I said. “There’s a grating over the vocal cavity. Air goes out when I talk. Nothing goes in. Want to see?” I opened my mouth wide.

Zo shirked away. “Ew,
gross.
Dad!”

“Not at the table, please,” he said mildly.

To
me
, not to Zo.

“We thought you might want to take tomorrow off, dear,” my mother said. “Maybe do some shopping, spruce up your wardrobe?” Unspoken: Because my old clothes, custom-tailored for my old measurements, wouldn’t fit my new body. Another factoid she’d neglected to mention: I hadn’t shopped with my mother since I was nine years old. Now, for Cass, Terra, and me, it was a tradition—or, as Cass cal ed it, a fetish—first the ful -body scan, then the designer zones, ignoring the pop-ups for crap we would never wear, sending our virtual selves on fashion model struts down virtual runways, knowing that whatever we selected would, automatical y and immediately, become the new cool, the new
it
, and savoring the responsibility.

“I’m just doing a reorder,” I said. Same look, new size. It’s what you did after an al -body lift-tuck or a binge vacation, when you didn’t want anyone to notice your new stats. It was il -advised—no, that was too mild; it was potential y disastrous—to do a reorder with an al -new body. New hair, new face, new coloring. Fashion logic demanded a new look, especial y for a fashion leader. But I preferred the old one. The masses would deal.

“Express it,” my father said. “So you’re ready for Monday.”

“Monday?”

“School. You’ve missed enough.”

“I thought…” I didn’t know what I had thought. I had, in fact, tried not to think. I stil hadn’t peeked out from behind the priv-wal on my zone. As far as anyone knew, I was stil missing in action. Although obviously, they’d seen me on the vids. They knew what I’d become. “Sascha, the counselor, said maybe I should take things slow.”

“Things?”

“Readjustment…things. Like, school. I figured, maybe I could link in for a while, and then—”

“You know how your father feels about that,” my mother said.

I knew.

School was the “crucible of socialization.” School was where we would be molded and learn to mold others. Meet—and impress and influence and conquer—our future col eagues. We were, after al , preparing to take our place behind the reins of society. There’d be time enough for linked ed when we finished high school and started specialization. And when we did we’d beat out al the asocial losers who’d spent their formative years staring at a ViM. So he’d said when I was six, desperate to escape day one and al the days that fol owed; so he’d said when Zo got caught cutting, when Zo got caught dosing, when Zo got caught scamming a biotech lab for one of her zoned-out friends and almost got kicked out for good. I didn’t want to make him say it again.

Zo stared down at my empty plate. “If she’s too scared to go to school, I don’t think you should make her.” Thanks a lot, Zo.

“I’m not scared.”

Zo rol ed her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m
not
.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Zoie!” That was our mother again, trying, always trying, to keep the peace.

“What? I’m just saying, if it were me, I’d be afraid people would think I was, you know.”

Say it.

“You’ve been gone for a long time,” Zo said, like a warning.

I looked at my father. “Long enough. So, fine. Monday.”

I was ready.

Or I would be.

No one was linked in, no one but Becca Mai, who didn’t count, not even in an emergency, which this wasn’t, not yet. Of course no one was there. It was Thursday night, and Thursday night meant Cass’s house—not her parents’ neo-mod manor of glass and steel, but the guesthouse they’d built by the lake, even though they had no guests and never would.

I voiced Walker, who never went anywhere without a flexiViM wrapped around his wrist, set to vibrate with incoming texts and to heat up when I voiced. But he wasn’t there, and I pussed out. I couldn’t let him hear the new voice for the first time in a message. So instead I texted:

I’m home.

I flicked on the mood player, but no music played.

Right. Because the selection was keyed to biometrics, body temp, heart rate, and al the other signs of life I didn’t have anymore. So I skimmed through the playlist, chose at random, a soulsong from one of those interchangeable weepers we’d al worshipped a couple years before, when they’d first engineered the musical algorithm that would make you cry.

It didn’t.

But it was more than a lack of tear ducts. Or tears. It just wasn’t music for me, not anymore, not in the same way. I’d tried it a few times back in rehab, putting on a favorite track, something guaranteed to sweep me out of myself, and it had just been rhythmic noise. Song after song, and I heard every note, I tracked the melodies, I mouthed the lyrics—but it didn’t mean anything. It was noise. It was vibrating air, hitting the artificial eardrum with a certain frequency, a certain wavelength, resolving into patterns. Meaningless patterns.

It wasn’t a download thing, Sascha said. It was a
me
thing. Plenty of mech-heads stil got music. I just wasn’t one of them. “There are some things about the brain even we don’t understand,” Sascha had admitted. “Your postprocedure brain is functional y identical to the organic model, but many clients encounter minor—and I can’t emphasize that enough,
minor
—differences in the way they process experiences. Finding themselves indifferent to things they used to love. Loving things they used to hate. We don’t know why.”