Spare and Found Parts (8 page)

Nell had always been too worried to enjoy the same things that her peers enjoyed. Worried about being unable to invent anything, unable to contribute, about her mother, about her mother's being gone. She sounded like a machine and had a chest cavity full of steel, but she didn't have the privilege of turning herself off when she got too exhausted or too anxious. She kept ticking along.

Her brow knitted as she cycled down by the river and into the city's last center. The quays were dense with cleaners this morning, teams of folks tipping vats of purifying chemicals down into the water, as they did every day. There was a stench in the air around this hour that should have been clean but instead was overbearing, noxious. Dilapidated breweries and stone buildings (which Julian had once whispered were
museums full of art long ago) lined the grim wetness of the Livia, and Nell ducked into the skinny winding streets where some families still lived.

She picked up her pace; the vague color of tragedy still clung to these streets. At least in the greenery of the parklands there was dense, lush fauna to mask it. Out by the river the old water's chemical stench made for a good disguise. But here, among the houses where the epidemic had taken most of its victims, the air was thick and alive with their specters. Some days Nell couldn't feel the grief at all, but today the ghosts were all over her.

Clunking over old tram lines, Nell seared through the city at top speed. She set her jaw, intent to make it down to the market quickly; the air was strange today. Still, to get to the bustling hub, no matter what route she took, she would have to pass the hospital.

She eventually broached the center of the city, marked by the tall steel Needle that stood proudly in Main Street, a pathetic folly in the shadow of Kate's majesty, her long, cool shadow a relief against the heat of the morning. Julian had told her many times that the Needle was the last monument built before the country took the Turn. It shone in the tepid morning heat, silver and towering and almost endless. It had been the first thing protected by plastic during the Turn, wrapped in miles and miles of industrial clean
cellophane. It survived, untouched by the signature bloody red rust that ate metal all around it. The townspeople had unwrapped it to celebrate the end of quarantine. A tiny red light blinked at the peak when night fell, but nobody knew why. Nell didn't like to hear the stories and theories, especially not the ones that said it was somebody watching.

It had been left to stand, it was said, because it told no stories. It had no face, no body, no myth. It was just a needle, towering to the hot sky, too slim and smooth to climb, made of such stuff that nobody could even write histories upon its surface. The stone woman's incomplete face gazed past it, as if it wasn't even there.

Wrapping her fingers around her handlebars a little tighter, Nell looked up at the statue. She wished she had someone to talk to, someone to pour her concern out to. This, she imagined, was what mothers and sisters were for. Kate's incomplete blank stare didn't even touch Nell; she was a speck in the streets far below.

She didn't let this sudden gape of loss sink her for more than a moment. This was why she had to build a companion, build a boy with an electric voice, so she'd have someone to confide in when the people around her were too much for her to handle. Too flawed. Too human.

N
ell pressed on into the day, and it was upon her then: the shadow of Gonne Hospital. White stone columns, grand carvings, a proud aul dame. It was still romantic somehow: the disused department store, a large bronze clock jutting from its facade out onto the street, rows and rows of silent, caged windows that had once proudly displayed beautiful expensive things from places far away. Nell stopped to take it in despite herself.

She was just about to begin pedaling again when someone moving caught her eye: Oliver bloody Kelly, walking briskly down the street. Nell's gut twisted between disgust and curiosity. He had to be on his way to his dark storeroom full of stolen parts hidden somewhere in its labyrinthine belly. She'd been able to ignore Ruby, so for sure she could ignore him; she could just be on her way—

“Well, isn't this a surprise! Couldn't wait a few days. Don't blame you!” he called out to her, his voice jarring against the deserted streets. His smugness almost echoed across the road. His dress shoes slapped against the pavement as he bounded toward her, and then there he was, his eager hand on her arm. Nell was defeated, too tired now for the escape.

“Ruby must have told you I was working today. Finally come clean about the eye, has she?” Oliver smelled strong, soapy. “You look wonderful, given how distressed you were last night. Have you reconsidered? Will you let me show you the inventory? Give you the full tour?” Nell's skin crawled at his enthusiasm, but curiosity slipped its ugly tentacles around her again. She did truly want to know what was inside the room he kept, a history of the city in spare parts.

“I have not reconsidered anything, Oliver. I'm on my way to the market but”—she mustered a thin-lipped smile from somewhere—“I can come in for a bit.”

Nell dismounted her bicycle, the sleepless night landing on her. The hand in her satchel weighed a ton in unanswered questions, in unsolvable problems.

Oliver beamed, offering his arm to her. She stared, and he withdrew quickly.

“Was just being a gentleman.”

“If I ever want your arm, I'll take it, Oliver.”

They crossed the street quietly. Oliver was barely able to contain the smile on his face, but for Nell each step forward was a fight against the pulling current of her distaste.

She focused all her thoughts on the hand in her bag as they wound down a side street that led behind the huge, desolate building. The smell of fire was shocking, and her eyes started to water. The building held some massive, unspeakable power; she hadn't been this close to it in years. The things that had happened inside the gray walls were unspeakable: this house of failure. And Nell was following Oliver Kelly inside.

She'd known her route passed the hospital. Had a part of her wanted this excuse? Wanted to bump into him, longed for coincidence? Her ticking escalated again.

In the ashen shadow of the alley, they approached a huge steel fire exit, with no apparent handle or release. Oliver dropped to his knees and snaked his bony hand under the slightest crack between the door and the pavement, rustled around for a moment, and then click, the door opened onto the darkness of the hospital.

Oliver flipped on a light switch, and in two blinks the corridor was illuminated. Nell preferred the shield of darkness to the sudden arrival of scorch-marked white tiles, the eerie buildup of filth and dust and ash
where the floor met the wall, and the seemingly endless depth of the hallways before them. A disquieting whir emanated from the sickly blue lights above them, as though they were struggling to stay aglow. Oliver marched confidently on, his footsteps echoing out into the labyrinth of the building.

They passed doorways upon doorways upon doorways upon doorways, each with a small square that should have been a window where one could have peeked in had it not been so filthy. Most were charred to a solid black.

Those had been the wards. Some remaining doors even still had toxicity signs on them, bright red, warning visitors to stay out. Some were open only a few inches; some sealed shut, framed by iron welding and painted an alarming, screaming red. Some had blown open completely and were just frames leading to pitch-black rooms. The morning light streamed into other wards they passed, illuminating scorched steel bed frames and the remains of chewed-away curtains.

Nell scurried along after Oliver fascinated and appalled by the horrors around her. She wanted to
explore
. But before she knew it, darkness was upon them again. They had arrived in an atrium, and Oliver halted her, then left her alone for a paralyzing moment, disappearing into the blackness.

Suddenly, with three flickers, then a bloom of light, the enormous hall was illuminated. The remains of reception areas littered the sprawling hub, and it was clear, in the very center of room, that this is where the biggest fire had been lit. There were the remains of a pyre, black and broken, like a crooked skeleton of an unknowable, featureless animal. For a moment Nell blinked and saw an elephant in flames, but she knew this was no creature's remains; this was a man-made solution to a man-made problem. Fire for the disease. Fire to scorch it clean. The ceiling, far above them, had been burned almost all the way through, and stray wires hung, crackling, down into the room.

“It's over here,” Oliver called. “We have to hurry. I can't leave these lights on for long.”

Nell scampered across the tiles to a bright green, hastily painted door where her unlikely guide stood. Oliver fumbled with his keys, then swung the door open, triggering a light inside.

“Wait here. I'm going to shut off the electricity behind us. I've nearly burned this place down again too many times forgetting it. Those loose wires are the bane of my life.”

“Aren't they dangerous?” whispered Nell, but Oliver was already dashing back across the room. She shook her head and walked into the workshop, each footfall
landing in time with the now enormous ticking from her chest.

It wasn't a big room at all, but it didn't need to be. The fire smell seemed to fade as she stepped out of the atrium. The windows were covered by clean, whitewashed wooden panels, and the false light wasn't blue tinted or flickering, just cool and clear. The ceiling was unexpectedly high. Had she ever been in a place this clean, this untouched by the ancient grime of the city? A table stood in the center of the room: long and silver and almost mirrorlike in its shine. And the walls . . . Nell's ticking suddenly changed from a steady march of uncertainty to the flutter of a baby bird; there were so, so many parts in all shapes, sizes, colors. So many limbs.

Some were just plastic; others, wood. Many were painted exquisitely: looping, grand signatures along forearms, family crests on calves. Bright gouache flowers grew across limb after limb, the red lick of flames on one or two. Arms, legs, hips, feet, hands, all of different sizes, in neat, organized racks, behind set panes of clear new glass. There were cabinets with keyholes, displaying sets of dentures and single teeth, false eyes, wooden and porcelain fingers, steel and plastic toes. Nell peered down at the eyes, wondering which Ruby would choose for herself. Some were mechanized and
wired; others, just crescent moons of painted glass. Oliver had really found an incredible stash. These would be worth a fortune.

She wanted all of it. She wanted every single thing, to inspect it and play with it and see what she could make it do. This was what her father's lab must be like, a mechanical menagerie of limbs all spread out on the walls like specimens or pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She was transfixed. How—

“It's stunning, isn't it?” Oliver broke her reverie, gazing at her expectantly, knowing he'd impressed her.

“Yes,” she murmured, still scanning the inventory.

The door clicked behind him, and they didn't say anything for what felt like an awfully long time. Nell walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, examining each wall. How full of genius each prosthetic was. Each of these strange inhuman things had lived a human life of its own. What must one feel like? She placed her hand to her chest, still thrumming. What must it look like in there? There was such beauty in these augmented human shapes. And so many of these contributions were in her family's name.

She would hold on to Julian's augmented arm for a moment longer next time they embraced.

From nowhere then she was brave. Here, in the room adorned with limbs—some analogue from
before her father's creations, some of Julian's marvels—here in the charred museum, she decided to tell Oliver about the hand. She wanted to show him. She wanted to talk about it. Oliver was the only one who had the same vocabulary as she and her father, who spoke the language that existed on the strange border between machine and human. She hated that Oliver would understand, but he would.

“I'm about to show you something, Kelly,” said Nell, quiet, dangerous, “and if you ever tell another living soul that you saw this, or if you take the piss out of me in front of Antoinette or Ruby, I'll take you apart.”

His eyes flashed, and his mouth opened ever so slightly. Did he think she was flirting?

“I am under no circumstances flirting with you.” Nell's voice was dry. “Do you understand?”

Oliver flushed slightly and nodded.

“Good.”

Nell reached into her satchel and felt around for the hand. She fished it out from the depths, brought it into the light, and presented it to Oliver across her palms. He knitted his brow.

“Is that a hand?”

“Yes,” Nell began, “and it's the best thing I've ever found.”

“Why?” Oliver peered closer. “It's . . . a mannequin
if I'm not mistaken? Never would have been worn by a survivor of the epidemic, even in the worst of it. It's a display piece.”

“It's beautiful,” Nell said. A blush prickled at her cheeks.

“What a strange piece to hang on to, Crane. Do you mind if I take a look at it?” Oliver wasn't teasing her now; their swords were down. No combat. Just conversation.

She hadn't a moment to protest before he was holding it up to the light, examining it closely. He removed an eye loupe from his coat pocket and placed it between the lids of his right eye to get a better look, clearly scanning it for some distinctive marking or other. She considered him for a moment: his keen eye, his imagination for building things, his absurd dedication to courting her. Nell then thought of her drawings, her boy drawn out on cream paper on her desk. The hand's specter, the boy that it wasn't—the boy that it could be. His eyes, his nose, his hair billowing back from the invisible breezes in her paper world. Her choices were this possible boy, or Oliver.

Her ticking spoke to her body in a low metronome. Oliver was all wrong. She should cut him loose. Being useful wasn't justification for keeping him hanging on. It wasn't fair.

“If you pulled it apart at each joint,” he was saying,
“each knuckle, then each mound, then hollow out the palm, hide a battery in the center so nobody could see it, run a wire down the center of each finger, and attach the smallest hinges you have, I think you could make it walk.”

Nell laughed despite herself. “Yeah, and what use would that be? I can hardly stand up in front of the council and present the Incredible Walking Hand. I've enough tiny machines to be toying with.”

“I don't envy you, Crane. You've a lot to live up to. I mean, Cora and the statue was one thing, but what Julian makes”—Oliver whistled, low—“they're something else. I mean, just look at the walls. Look, you can see his marksmanship all over them; the rudimentary wooden home-brewed parts up there look like something a child made in comparison. His pieces are so intuitive. If they didn't need a charge to sustain their movement, they could definitely move on their own; the sheer detail of their mechanics is, just . . . your father is a genius. I figure, if you got enough of these things together, you could make a whole person.”

As the last words escaped Oliver's mouth, Nell gasped as though she had come up for air after years underwater. Despite her best efforts, she beamed, almost laughing with joy.
If you got enough of them together, you could make a whole person.
The possible boy
was right here in front of her, not whole yet. She could almost just take him.

“You're right actually, Oliver. A whole person. That's so interesting,” Nell replied, taking the hand back from him and turning it over in hers again and again. She could see wires growing from its wrist, kinetic hinges, and clever sockets. If she set it up just right, she could get these spare parts to speak to one another, to work together. These old prosthetics that had lived entire lifetimes with people: they were beautiful and familiar; they were the opposite of the hard alien lines of the computers her city feared. These spare parts would make an excellent costume; they'd make an excellent boy. She could almost feel it whirring and pulsing to life, almost see the arm and the shoulders and neck and face—almost.

“No idea how you'd do it, though,” said Oliver.

“Neither do I,” Nell lied.