Thank you, too, Lev, she thinks. Like her brief time with Bryce, she now realizes that her tumultuous friendship with Lev is a gift. She can only hope he is still alive, so that she can someday repay him.
Sister Vitalis puts the tapestry into Miracolina’s lap, graciously allowing her to take over. Now she knows she doesn’t need to surrender her eyes to be the eyes of an old nun. And she doesn’t need to surrender her sense of self to connect with others.
Besides—she’s only fourteen. She has her whole life to be a martyr.
Rewinds
1 • 00039
Jigsaw. Rubik. Twist twist twist.
He chews on his thoughts like a piece of gum that has long since lost its flavor. 00039 still believes he might one day make sense of those thoughts. He has no choice but to believe, because losing the hope of having hope would be unimaginable. Almost as unimaginable as his existence.
“I know you all must be angry. Confused. You have every right to be.”
School of salmon. Gaggle of geese. Murder of crows.
There are many others here in this group of diced-and-sliced souls. All are like him. They are ugly. They are scarred. They pass their timeless days babbling their own particular incoherencies. And fighting. Always fighting. But with whose hands do they fight? Does anyone know?
“I’m here to ease you through this. To help you find yourselves—and you will, I promise you that.”
Pretty boy. Media star. First of his kind.
Different parts of 00039 remember the young man addressing them. He was the sparkling example of what could be. He was the dream before the nightmare. Camus Comprix. Unlike the dozens of rewinds gathered here on Molokai, Camus Comprix has gentle seams instead of jagged scars. Unlike them, his many flesh tones are well designed and symmetrical, expanding out from a dynamic sunburst in the center of his forehead. Unlike them, his hair, filled with textures and tints, redefines the very concept of style. He is a work of art. Unlike them. And yet he claims to be one of them.
00039 knows he is no work of art. Even though he has never seen himself in a mirror, he knows because he can see versions of himself reflected in the rewinds around him. All of them are in their teens, with no specific age. They are a mix of many ages. All of them are caught between what they once were and what they might become.
How did this happen? How did this terrible state of existence come to be?
Jigsaw. Rubik. Twist twist twist.
If only he could think more clearly. . . .
“I’ve been where you are,” insists Camus Comprix, the golden child. “I know how painful it is—but you will integrate. The pieces do come together if you keep working at it.”
It’s comforting to hear, but nothing 00039 has seen here proves it. The only rewind ever to fully reintegrate is the one addressing them. If only 00039 could be just a little bit of what Camus is, it will be enough. So instead of resenting him, the rewind makes a decision to admire him. Camus was rewound, just like them. Yes, with much greater care, but he was rewound from bits and pieces of others.
00039 remembers his unwinding. Or rather, he remembers echoes of dozens of unwindings. When he first awoke, and regained awareness, he thought that he was living in a divided state—that the Juvenile Authority’s propaganda must be true, and this is what it felt like to be alive, but divided. Soon, however, he came to realize that this was something very different. And when he realized what he was, he felt ashamed.
“What happened to you was a crime,” Camus Comprix says. “I can’t change that. What I can do is teach you to live with dignity.”
The rewind next to 00039 turns to him with disturbingly empty, mismatched eyes. “Snake,” he says pointing to Comprix. “Janus. Lucifer.” Then he smiles a twisted grin. “Lincoln, Kennedy, King,” he says. “Bang bang! Police have no leads.”
00039 doesn’t know what he means and doesn’t want to. Whatever it is, it’s unpleasant. He ignores the rewind beside him and turns his attention back to Camus Comprix, so sharp in his military uniform, so convincing in his eloquence. 00039 wants to believe everything he says is true.
Messiah. Communion. Hallelujah.
Yes—perhaps this first born rewind can save him.
2 • Cam
He leaves the ward sick to his stomach. Not from what he sees, but from what he feels. There is no level of hell deep enough for Roberta and her colleagues. Yes, Roberta was sentenced to life in prison, but it’s not enough. No punishment could ever be enough for having created these poor creatures.
No, Cam tells himself. Not creatures. They are human beings. Cam has finally come to see himself as human. It was a struggle to get there—to truly believe it. How much harder will it be for these rewinds, who do not have the advantages he had? They were not made from hand-picked parts. They were not created from the best of the best—they were hashed together from a random pool of Unwinds, without regard for anything other than their ability to hold a weapon. They were to be the start of a slave army—for when you’re a collection of parts, you’re not a person. You’re property.
At least that’s how General Bodeker saw it. Well, he’s in prison along with Roberta, and now the world has been left to deal with their prototype army of rewinds.
Cam, now a hero, volunteered to tend to them, and the military was more than happy to put them in his hands. Although Cam was just a cadet, everyone agreed that there was no one more suited to oversee the rewinds on Molokai.
The military sees him as a glorified babysitter—keeping the rewinds under guard and out of public sight. They don’t care if the rewinds ever find peace and purpose. But Cam does.
“That was a good speech,” says the military doctor catching up with him as he exits the rewind dormitory building. “I’m not sure they understood any of it, but it was very . . . inspirational.” They head for the main complex nearly half a mile away. A golf cart is available to take him, but Cam would rather walk.
“Most of them understood,” Cam tells him.
The doctor dons shades to guard his eyes from the harsh Hawaiian sun. “Yes, I suppose you would know.”
Dr. Pettigrew clearly resents Cam’s presence here. Good. Let him resent it. The man’s orders were clear—he is to answer to Cam as if Cam is his superior officer. His resentment is a nuisance but not an obstacle. Cam will do what he needs to do here.
“The females seemed more attentive,” the doctor says as they take the path leading toward the mansion, which is still the center of operations.
“The girls,” corrects Cam. The doctor might see them as animals, but Cam won’t let that mentality take hold in the way he speaks of them. There are fewer girls among the rewinds, reflecting Proactive Citizenry’s bias in the creation of this prototype army. Cam is even more sympathetic to the girls than he is to the boys. Seeing them nearly brings him to tears each time. He has to remind himself that it could have been worse. Roberta could have created them all sexless.
Cam stops walking halfway between the rewind building and the mansion. Tall cane and bamboo rise behind him, hiding the rewind building from view. Before him are taro plants, to the edge of the cliffs—even from here he can hear the pounding surf. Molokai was once a leper colony, as isolated as a place could be. The world would be happy to make this a rewind colony and never think about it again. People can’t abide the thought of killing them—but they do want to make the rewinds go away. That won’t happen on Cam’s watch.
“Planning a picnic?” asks the doctor, impatient at Cam’s moment of reflection.
“I want you to set up appointments with each of the rewinds,” he tells the doctor, who stares at him as if he hasn’t heard correctly.
“Appointments? You can’t be serious. With all due respect, they have the cognitive capacity of chimpanzees right now.”
“And if we want to change that, we will start treating them as human beings, not a mob of apes.”
Still the doctor hesitates.
“Or maybe you don’t want that t
o change,” Cam suggests, reading the man more deeply than he’d want to be read. “Maybe it’s easier for you to see them as less than human.”
The man bristles. “Spare me the psychoanalysis.”
Cam smiles. The doctor is pushing forty, and he’s being given orders by someone half his age. Cam allows himself a moment—but only a moment—to gloat over his position. “Appointments with each of them,” Cam repeats, before continuing on to the mansion. “Beginning at nine tomorrow morning. And you’ll be there with me for each interview.” And he strides off, knowing the doctor has no choice but to make it happen.
• • •
Cam lives in the wing of the mansion where he first came to consciousness. Even with all the negative memories, this is, and has always been, home.
He finds Una out back, sitting in a lawn chair in the expansive yard overlooking the sea—the same place where he once looked at stars with the Girl He Can’t Remember. He’s learning to come to terms with that absence of memory. It’s a melancholy that is filled by the presence of Una.
He quietly comes up behind her. She’s just finished tuning one of his guitars and has begun to play it. She plays well, but never plays for others—and certainly not for him. She’ll only play when she thinks no one is listening. He waits a few yards behind her, listening, until she senses his presence and stops.
“The humidity here warps the wood,” she tells him. “Can’t get a single instrument to sound right.”
“Sounded fine to me.”
She huffs at that. “Then they must have gotten your ears from the bargain basement.”
He gives her an obligatory chuckle and sits beside her. “We should have brought one of your guitars with us. To show them how it’s done.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of my guitars on the islands,” she says proudly. “People have crossed oceans for my instruments.” Finally she takes a moment to assess him. “You spoke to the rewinds today, didn’t you?” she asks. “How did it go?”
“Fine, I guess,” Cam tells her. “No surprises.” And then he adds, “I wish you would have come.”
The air is too warm for a chill, but she shifts her shoulders and back as if she’s had one. “It wasn’t my place to be there. I would have been just one more thing to confuse them, and you know it.”
“We’re here to do this together,” he reminds her.
Then she looks him dead in the eye. “Then give me something to do. I’m not an accessory for you to wear on your arm.”
Cam sighs. “How can I give you something to do when I don’t really know how to play this myself?”
Una considers that, then gives the guitar a single decisive pat. It resounds with a gentle thud. “Tell you what. You work on your melody, and I’ll find my own harmony.”
“The perfect combination,” Cam says, then he reaches behind her, pulling the tie from her hair and letting her hair fall free.
“Stop that!” she says. “You know I hate that!”
But he knows she doesn’t. He knows she puts that tie there just for him to pull it out. He smiles and playfully says, “Tell me how much you despise me.”
“More than anything in the world,” she answers, clearly suppressing a grin.
“Tell me how sorry you are that you married me.”
She glares at him, but it’s all for show. “I didn’t marry you,” she points out. “I married your hands.”
“I’m sure there’s a hacksaw somewhere on the compound if those are the only parts of me you want.”
She puts the guitar down on the grass. “Just shut up, you stupid quilt.” Then she grabs him and kisses him, biting his lower lip just enough for it to hurt. She’ll never kiss him without first insulting him. He’s grown to enjoy that almost as much as her mildly painful kisses.
Then, as she lets him go, she says something she’s never said before.
“I don’t know whose lips I’m kissing, but I’m starting to like them.” Then she pushes him back in his chair so hard he almost falls over backward and thrusts the guitar at him.
“Your turn,” she says. “Play something.” And then gentler. “It’ll relax you. Maybe give your mind a break from the rewinds.”
He holds the guitar, which has grown warm from the midday sun. “Should I play something of Wil’s?” he asks.
She looks at the hands that had once belonged to her fiancé, Wil Tashi’ne, and says gently, “No. Play something of yours.”
And so he pulls together a brand-new tune for Una from the random fabric of this multitextured day. A tune that feeds and underscores the growing bond between them, without forgetting the ominous tone of the task before them.
3 • 00039
The rewind is escorted to a room down a winding hallway that he knows isn’t winding at all. It’s straight. It’s only his mind that sees it otherwise. He knows that now. He knows that walls that seem crooked are not, and that oddly angled windows are actually perfect rectangles. The more he tells his mind this, the more his mind begins to accept it. Even his muscles are learning to cooperate when he walks. Camus Comprix was right. Integration will come, if he makes it happen.
They lead him to a room, and in that room sits none other than Camus and the doctor, who has never talked directly to him, just around him. About him. As if he’s not present. While the doctor looks at his tablet, tapping in notes, Camus rises and smiles warmly, extending his hand in a gesture of greeting. 00039 puts his hand out to shake, but realizes he’s thrust forth the wrong hand.
“Red mark. Fumble. Typo,” he says.
Still, Camus smiles and waits for him to switch hands, which he does. He shakes 00039’s hand. “The word you’re looking for is ‘mistake,’ ” Camus says without an ounce of judgment.
“Mistake,” repeats the rewind, owning the word and taking pride in that ownership. Good word. Meaty word. He’ll remember it.
“You’ll make a lot of them,” Camus says. “And that’s okay.”
00039 nods and points to his own head. “Jigsaw. Rubik. Twist twist twist.”
“Ha!” says Camus Comprix. “Tell me about it! Being rewound is like a puzzle in four dimensions!” He sits and gestures for the rewind to sit as well. The doctor continues taking notes, looking up occasionally, content to be excluded from the conversation.
Still not knowing what this is all about, the rewind says the only thing he can get out. “Riddler? Riddle me this?”
Camus takes a moment to decipher it, then finally gets it. “Ah! Big question mark on his chest, right? You’re asking me ‘why.’ Why are you here.”
00039 nods, but then realizes he shook his head instead. Still Camus knows what he meant.
“You’re here so that we can get to know each other. And for me to help with anything you’re having trouble with.”
00039 takes a deep shuddering breath. Is there anything that he isn’t having trouble with? It’s not only a matter of where to begin but how to express it. First are the Enemies. The Enemies have been troubling him since he noticed them. He holds his hands up so Camus and the doctor can see the Enemies for themselves.
“Left-right,” he says, looking from one hand to the other and back again. “This”—he raises his left hand, which is pale sienna—“hates this,” he says, raising his other hand, which is a deep shade of umber brown.
The doctor looks to Cam, and Cam nods in understanding.
“Okay,” says Cam. “So you’ve got one umber hand, and one of your brain bits is racist. Well, that brain bit is just going to have to learn to deal with it.”
00039 nods, not entirely sure that’s possible, but willing to let Camus take him for the ride.
“Think of it this way,” Camus says. “There are a hundred men inside a submarine. They come from different places, different backgrounds. Some are decent, some are creeps, but they all have to work together or that submarine goes down. You’re the submarine. The crew will learn to work together—trust each other, even—because they have to.”
/> 00039 nods. The only submarine that comes to mind is yellow, but he knows that doesn’t matter. It’s the function Camus Comprix is talking about, not the form.
“There’s one more reason you’re here,” Camus says. “If you ask me, I think it’s the most important one.” Then he leans forward, giving more weight to what he’s about to say. “You’re here to find your name.”
The rewind can’t fully comprehend the thought. The brand on his ankle says 00039. That’s the only designation he knows. The concept of being anything else makes the various parts of his brain chafe and itch.
“I’ll bet there are lots of names kicking around your internal community,” Camus says.
It was something that 00039 never considered before, but now that it’s been suggested to him, the names come dropping out of his mouth. “Sean Ethan Armando Ralphy Deavon Ahmed Joel—”
The doctor looks up, raising his eyebrows. “Remarkable!”
Camus puts two pages in front of the rewind. On those pages are lists of names. “These are the kids who were unwound to create all of you. Find a first name, a middle name, and then a last name that really speak to you. Rewind your own name from this list, and that’s who you’ll be.”
00039 furrows his brow as he concentrates, enough to make the seams on his face ache. He knows this is important. The first important thing he’s been asked to do since being rewound. A number of names on the list have been crossed out. Names that other rewinds must have already taken. But more than half of them still remain. As he looks over the list, some names leap out at him as if rising off the page. With the name Keaton comes a flash of a blue room covered in posters and draped with dirty clothes that rarely made it to a hamper. With Miguel comes the memory of Christmas. And the last name Shelton almost makes him stand up and shout, Here!
He points to those three names. The doctor taps them out on his tablet, and Camus crosses them off the list. No one would have those names but him.
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