UnDivided

by Neal Shusterman

  56 • REM.

  Do the Unwound dream? There, in the chill twilight between being, and being part of another, does an Unwind’s fragmented mind struggle to bridge the distance? To the Unwound, that distance must be greater than the space between stars.

  Still, if they live, as the law insists they do, they must dream just like everyone else. Many of the “traditional living” insist they don’t dream, but that’s only because they refuse to remember their own surreal worlds of rewound hopes, fears, and memories.

  • • •

  For Risa, the night that follows Connor’s unwinding falls quickly due to the Lady Lucrezia’s eastward heading. Risa’s dreams that night are fitful and fraught with despair. She dreams that she’s having tea with Sonia in the middle of her shop, in the midst of earthquakes. Fragile porcelain figurines fall from their shelves and shatter, but Sonia pays no heed. Everywhere are age-old clocks of every shape and size, all of them ticking in anxious arrhythmia.

  “They’ve unwound him,” she tells Sonia between tremors. “They’ve unwound Connor.”

  “I know, dear, I know.” Sonia’s voice is sympathetic and comforting, but all of that comfort is swallowed by the pit of Risa’s distress.

  “Sometimes,” says Sonia, “the random events I spoke of work against us, and there’s nothing to be done.”

  “I have to get the printer!” Risa insists over the din of clocks and crashes. “It’s what he would want.”

  “Not your concern anymore,” Sonia tells her, “but rest assured, dear, I’ll fight the good fight as long as I have air left in these lungs.”

  And Risa finds herself filled with an even deeper anguish, for she suddenly realizes that there is no air left in Sonia’s lungs. She’s already dead. Their attacker was not the kind of man to leave witnesses.

  “Don’t forget that Connor is still counting on you,” dead Sonia reminds her. “It’s all up to you and Grace’s good-for-nothing brother. Connor had a plan. Come through for him!”

  The ground shakes again. Chandeliers overhead tinkle, threatening to plunge, and suddenly something else in the antique shop comes into focus. The eighty-eight faces of Divan’s dread instrument now loom behind Sonia.

  “Something the matter, dear?”

  But before Risa can speak, all the eyes open in unison, to stare her down in mute accusation.

  She bolts awake unable to catch her breath, finding herself alone in a dark airborne night, rife with turbulence.

  • • •

  Cam’s dreams, usually more disjointed than the dreams of others, coalesce tonight out of the meaningless memory snippets of his internal community, into something almost tangible. Before him is a marble staircase that seems to have no end. He climbs it until reaching a temple, a gleaming white Parthenon, its pillars evenly spaced and perfectly carved. The whole structure seems to be of one piece, as if it were hewn right out of the stone of the mountain. Inside, larger than life, are golden statues to the gods of Proactive Citizenry, and there, at the far end, is a statue of Roberta.

  “Lay yourself on my altar,” she commands. “The blood of many must be spilled, and you, Cam, hold the blood of many.” Her voice is so compelling, Cam doesn’t know how much longer he can resist it.

  • • •

  Grace dreams that she’s on the diving platform again—the one she refused to leap from as a child. Only this time, it’s so high, she’s at cruising altitude. Argent is down below, urging her to jump, but she can’t because she has a baby in her arms. Someone storked her a baby. Why would someone do that to her? She nears the edge of the platform, and as she does, she realizes it’s not a baby in her arms at all. She’s holding the organ printer.

  “Jump, Gracie,” yells Argent, too far away to be seen. “You’re ruining it for everybody.”

  And so, holding on to the printer, she leaps toward a pool so far below, it seems the size of a postage stamp.

  • • •

  Lev’s dream is far simpler than any of the others on this night. He finds himself in the yellowing treetops of an urban park, above the park bench on which he actually sleeps. In his dream, he leaps weightless from limb to limb until there’s nowhere left to go, because the trees give way to an expanse of water. So he holds tightly to the last tree, watching the light of the moon dance on the waters, his eyes drawn to the statue on its own little island in the harbor, knowing that dawn will come all too soon.

  57 • Broadcast

  “Friends, it is with deep, deep regret that I inform you that the Parental Override bill has just been passed by the House of Representatives, and is now on its way to the Senate, where it is also expected to pass. For those of you living under, hiding beneath, or being smashed in the head by a rock, this means that the Juvenile Authority is one step closer to being able to go into a home—any home—and round up anyone between their thirteenth and seventeenth birthdays, and have them unwound without parental consent. All they’ll need to do is prove ‘incorrigibility,’ by a loose legal definition.

  “The good news here—if any of this can be called good news—is that Parental Override is still just a bill. It still needs to pass in the Senate, and be signed into law by the president. But I assure you it will become the law of the land if we don’t do something to stop it.

  “Today I don’t speak to the supporters of Parental Override. I don’t speak to its opponents, either. I’m talking to those of you out there who are sitting silently, allowing this to happen. All of you out there who know it’s wrong, but are too terrified of clappers, and the angry kids on your corner, and maybe even your own kids to speak out against it. You think it’s out of your hands, but that’s not true! These things aren’t happening because of some government conspiracy. I mean, sure, big-money interests are trying to push it through, but there’s always big money lobbying for influence in Washington. That’s nothing surprising, and nothing new. No, if this happens, we made it happen. We chose fear over hope. We chose to beat our children into submission. Is that the world you want to live in?

  “The bill won’t worm its way to a Senate vote until November, which means we will get a chance to have our say. Now, more than ever, we need to rally. Remember—we meet at dawn on Monday, November first—All Saints’ Day—on the National Mall, between the Capitol building and the Washington Monument. Whether we have ten in our uprising, or ten thousand, we need to make our voices heard. Or the next time someone hears your voice, it might be in someone else’s throat.”

  58 • Jersey Girl

  The ferry to Liberty Island has not changed much in a hundred years. Newer boats, perhaps, but even the new ones look like something from a bygone era. There was talk about building a subway line underneath the bay that connected the great lady to the mainland, but, for once, sanity prevailed, the project was killed, and the statue remained accessible only by overcrowded, overpriced ferry. It remained a key rite of the New York tourist experience.

  As in all high-profile locations, there are plenty of security measures in place—NYPD officers, Juvey-cops, and various rent-a-cops are all over Battery Park, where the ferries board, as well as on the ferries themselves, and, of course, on Liberty Island—but on the island, the NYPD is replaced by New Jersey police, since Miss Liberty is technically a part of the Garden State. It’s something New Yorkers are in denial about—that Liberty Island is really part of New Jersey. Regardless, there is no shortage of intimidating firepower, because liberty is not protected by tranquilizers. Mostly it’s protected by lethal ceramic bullets, the kind specially designed to kill clappers without blowing them up in the process.

  For years there have been fears of a clapper attack on the statue, but so far they’ve left her alone. The authorities hypothesize that by maintaining the fear of a clapper attack, the movement is creating more terror than if they actually did blow it up. The truth is that Proactive Citizenry considers itself too patriotic to ever do something so heinous as to turn Miss Liberty into shrapnel.

  There�
�s always one protest or another on the island. People gather there for countless causes. Usually they’re peaceful in nature. A few dozen people with banners and a bullhorn garnering a little media attention. The violent protesters know better than to bring their anger there. Violent folk tend to rage against the system in places that are less symbolic and more effective.

  On a sunny day in early October, a boy with a shaved head and names tattooed all over his body boards the three o’clock ferry to Liberty Island.

  59 • Lev

  From Battery Park, she seems much smaller and farther away than he thought she would. The ferry ride is also much longer than he had thought.

  He is asked to show his identification three times. Once in Battery Park, once before boarding the ferry, and a third time on board. Each time the officer backs off upon seeing the ID is of Arápache origin. None of them want to invoke the wrath of the tribe.

  As the ferry approaches, it circles Liberty Island, giving a nice 360-degree view of the statue. Photo ops for everyone. Lev has no camera to record the visit, but he takes in the view just like everyone else.

  From the green copper folds of her flowing robes extends a brand-new aluminum/titanium arm, shining silver-gray in the bright sun and holding a new torch. The new arm and torch is half the weight of the old one. The plan, Lev had read, was to spray the new arm with a copper oxide paint so the arm would match the rest of her body. However, tests proved that the paint was flawed. It wouldn’t bond with the alloy, and thus would quickly peel, leaving her arm looking like rotting flesh. It was decided to leave her arm with a stainless steel sheen until they could figure out a way to match it to the rest of her body, or until people got used to it the way it is. The alloy is designed to never rust, however, without the protective paint, the bolts holding the panels together are very susceptible to the corrosive sea air.

  As Lev’s ferry nears the island, he can see that those bolts already have begun to rust. Less than a month after installation, he can see discolored seams all the way up her arm, to her fingertips and to the torch. Engineers are probably hard at work trying to find a solution.

  The ferry docks, leaving the excited tourists to explore the island and wait in the long line to climb inside the statue, all the way up to the crown, and to the new torch—something that was off-limits for many years, due to the old arm’s instability. Lev joins the cattle march of tourists off the ferry.

  “Nice body art, freak,” says someone behind him, someone who’s protected by the anonymity of the crowd. Far too many people think they can get away with anything if they’re protected by anonymous masses. Well, let them deride him. Let them despise him. He stopped caring what people thought of him a very long time ago. Or at least, what strangers thought.

  There’s a protest rally today in the shadow of Miss Liberty. Fifty or so people are rallying for Albanian rights. Lev’s not quite sure who’s taken the rights of Albanians away, but someone must have. A small news crew is present. The reporter, still prebroadcast, has a lackey spray her hair with some sort of industrial megahold mist so that it can resist the constant wind that rips across the island. The lackey keeps spraying until the reporter’s hair has the rigidity of plastic.

  There’s a small stage for the rally’s key speakers. Lev weaves through the crowd toward the stage.

  He could be of no help to Connor. He was useless in his attempt to sway the Arápache council. But here, today, he will make his stand. He will make a difference. Today will be the culmination of all the forces at work in his life. He has neither fear nor anger. That’s how he knows this is right. As he pushes through the crowds, he is reminded of the kinkajou of his dreams bounding through the rainforest canopy, with joyous purpose.

  The stiff breeze is chilly, but still he removes his shirt, ignoring the rise of goose bumps as he reveals another hundred and sixty names on his shoulders, chest, and back. As he nears the stage, he kicks off his sneakers and unbuttons his jeans, taking a moment to slip them off without tripping. Now the people he pushes past notice that there’s an illustrated kid stripping and heading toward the stage. No one knows what to make of it yet. Perhaps it’s part of the protest.

  By the time he reaches the stage, he’s down to his underwear, and most, if not all, of the 312 names written on his body are exposed to the world, and to the camera crew, which has taken a sudden interest in him, filming him as he climbs to the stage. The Albanian rights speaker halts in midsentence. People in the audience laugh, or gasp, or mutter to one another . . . until Lev holds his hands out wide. He says nothing. Just holds out his hands . . . and swings them together.

  The reaction is instantaneous. The crowd panics and begins to bolt.

  He spreads his hands once more, and, like a bird beating its wings against the wind, he swings them together again, and again. People are screaming now, climbing over one another. They can’t get away fast enough.

  He keeps swinging his hands together—but nothing happens. Because there is nothing in his blood but blood. No chemicals, no explosives. He does not explode—but that doesn’t stop the security forces from taking action, just as he knew they would.

  The first gunshot blasts out from one of the Juvey-cops protecting the island. The ceramic bullet rips through the right side of Lev’s chest, spinning him around. He doesn’t know who fires the second and third shots, because they both hit him in the back. His knees buckle beneath him. He goes down. A fourth bullet hits him in the gut, and a fifth whizzes past his ear, missing, but that’s all right, because the first four have done the job.

  The world will know what happened here today. That an unarmed boy was shot in broad daylight before hundreds of witnesses. And when they learn who that boy was, it will stop everyone in their tracks for a long painful moment.

  WHY, LEV, WHY? the headlines will read once more—only this time people will know the answer, and the answer shall be the names written on his flesh. Then people’s fury will turn on the ones who shot him beneath the unblinking eyes of liberty. And his sacrifice will change the world.

  With blood pouring from his wounds, he lies on his back, eyes wide from the pain, looking up at the sky. High above him, the torch of the great statue points toward the moon, a pale specter almost directly overhead.

  He reaches for it, his fingers sticky with blood. It seems to swell as he focuses his fading attention on it.

  And Lev is happy . . . because he knows he’s finally grabbed the moon, and has pulled it from the sky.

  60 • Mail

  2162 letters were in Sonia’s trunk. 751 of them were lost in the fire, but 1411 were stamped and mailed by Grace Skinner, then delivered dutifully by the postal service from coast to coast—because the AWOLs who passed through Sonia’s basement over the years hailed from everywhere.

  • • •

  A woman in Astoria, Oregon, opens the letter with no return address, not recognizing the handwriting because it’s been almost three years since her daughter found the unwind order and went AWOL.

  She begins to read, and from the very first line, the woman knows who wrote it. As much as she wants to run from the room, she is glued to her kitchen chair, unable to stop reading. When she’s done, she sits there in silence, not sure what to do next, but knowing she must do something.

  • • •

  A man in Montpelier, Vermont, arrives home before his wife today. He scans through the various bills and solicitations, until coming across a curious envelope, and he recognizes his son’s handwriting—a son who was sent off for unwinding almost five years ago. Although the Juvenile Authority wouldn’t officially admit it, the man and his wife found out that he escaped before arriving at his assigned harvest camp.

  The man stands the envelope up against a vase in the dining room, and sits there staring at it a full ten minutes before summoning the nerve to open it.

  When he first begins to read, he thinks the letter was written recently—but no, there’s a date written on the first page. His son wrote this m
ore than three years ago. He’s still out there somewhere. Maybe. Afraid to come home? Refusing to come home? Or did they catch him after all? For a time, the man and his family had considered moving for fear that he’d return and exact retribution on them. How ashamed he now feels for even thinking that.

  His wife will be home from work any minute now. Should he show her the letter? Should he show his daughter when she’s home from swim practice? He doesn’t even know if she remembers her brother.

  Although there’s no one in the room but the dog, he covers his eyes as he cries, shedding grief he’s denied since the day they came to take his son away.

  • • •

  A couple in Iowa City sits by the fireplace, and the two share the task of opening mail that accumulated while they were traveling. The man comes across a seemingly innocuous letter. He opens it, begins reading, then suddenly stops, folds the letter, and puts it back in the envelope.

  “What is it?” asks his wife, having seen the way he’s suddenly gone pale.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Junk mail.”

  But she reads the truth in his face as clearly as if she had opened the letter herself. She knows there’s only one thing to be done. “Throw it into the fire,” she says.

  And so he does, ending the matter once and for all.

  • • •

  In Indianapolis, the letter arrives on the very day a woman’s divorce is final. She reads it, her hands unable to keep from shaking. She signed the unwind order after her son’s awful fight with her husband—his stepfather. It took nearly two years for her to realize she had taken the wrong side of that fight. But this letter gives her hope. It means her son might still be whole, and out there somewhere. If he is, she’d welcome him back in a heartbeat, shark tattoo and all.