UnDivided
Page 42
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“It’s just a pinna,” says Sonia. “The outside part of an ear. It has none of the functional parts of the organ.”
“It doesn’t look too healthy,” Risa points out. She’s right. It looks pale and slightly gray.
“Hmm . . .” Sonia pulls out her reading glasses, slips them on, and leans closer to observe the thing. “It has no blood supply. And we didn’t prepare the cells to properly differentiate into skin and cartilage—but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it does exactly what it was designed to do.”
Then she reaches out, picks the ear up between her thumb and forefinger, and drops it into the stasis container, where it sinks into the thick green oxygenated gel. Connor closes the box, it seals, and the light indicating hibernation goes green. Now it will be preserved for however long it needs to be.
“We’re going to have to get this to a place that can mass-produce it, right?” Connor says. “Some big medical manufacturer.”
“Nope,” says Grace. “Big is bad, big is bad.” She furrows her brow and rings her hands as she looks at the stasis box. “Can’t go too small, either. Kinda like Goldilocks, it’s gotta be just right.”
Sonia, who is rarely impressed by anything, is impressed by Grace’s assessment. “A very good point. It needs to be a company that’s hungry, but not so hungry that it carries no clout.”
“And,” adds Risa, “it has to be a company with no ties to Proactive Citizenry.”
“Does such a thing even exist?” asks Connor.
“Don’t know,” says Sonia. “Wherever we go, it will be a gamble. The best we can do is better the odds.”
The thought gives Connor an unexpected shiver that must be strong enough for Risa to feel because she looks to him. So much of his life these past few years has been a gamble. Somehow in spite of the odds, he’s managed to come through it all in once piece. What felt like bad luck at the time ultimately became good fortune, as evidenced by his continued survival. Which means he’s overdue for something truly unfortunate. He can’t help but feel that no matter what he does, he’s still just circling the drain. He silently curses his parents for pulling the plug on that drain to begin with. And with that anger comes a sorrow that he wishes he were strong enough to ignore.
“Something wrong?” Risa asks.
Connor withdraws his hand from hers. “Why do you always think something’s wrong with me?”
“Because something always is,” she says, a little miffed. “You’re a streaming meme of things that are wrong.”
“And you’re not?”
Risa sighs. “I am too. Which is why it’s so easy for me to know when something’s bothering you.”
“Well, this time, you’re wrong.” Connor gets up and goes to the trapdoor. The trunk is already pushed to the side, and the rug is rolled away, making an escape from Risa’s inquisition easy. He reaches down to pull open the trap door, and Connor feels something being pulled from his back pocket.
He turns to see Risa holding his letter. THE letter. From the moment Sonia gave it to him, he’s been keeping it in that pocket. He’s taken it out several times, each time determined to tear it up, or burn it up, or otherwise dismiss it from his life, but each time it winds up back in his pocket, and each time he feels a little angrier, and a little weaker for it.
“What’s this?” Risa asks.
Connor grabs it back from her. “If it were your business, I’d tell you about it, but it’s not.” He slips it back in his pocket, but she already saw who it was addressed to. She knows exactly what it is.
“You think I don’t know what’s been going on in your head? Why you almost crashed us when we were leaving Columbus?”
“That has nothing to do with anything!”
“It was your old neighborhood, wasn’t it? And you’re thinking of going back.”
Connor finds he can’t deny it. “What I’m thinking and what I’m doing are two different things, okay?”
Sonia struggles to her feet. “Keep your voices down!” she growls. “Do you want people in the street to hear you?”
Grace, a bit anxious at the storm brewing around her, slips past Connor in a hurry to remove herself from the equation. She grabs the printer. “I’ll take this back downstairs and hide it again. No point leaving it out in the open.”
Sonia tries to stop her—“Grace, wait!”—but she’s not fast enough.
The printer’s power cord, which is still plugged in, goes taut and the printer flies from Grace’s hands.
They all leap for it. Risa is closest. She gets a hand on it, but her momentum only serves to slap it away. It tumbles toward the open trapdoor, bounces once on the edge, and falls through. The cord goes taut again. And the printer dangles in the hole for a painful instant before the plug pulls free from the outlet.
Connor dives for that cord, knowing it’s the last chance to save it. He grasps it with both hands, but the cord is slick with spilled bioslime. It slips through his fingers, his hands close on empty air, and he hears with a deadly finality as horrific as a car crash their last hope for a sane future smashing to bits on the basement floor.
• • •
Grace is inconsolable.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” She wails desperate apologies while her eyes let loose a typhoon of tears with no sign of clear skies any time soon. “I’m so stupid, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t look too healthy,” Risa points out. She’s right. It looks pale and slightly gray.
“Hmm . . .” Sonia pulls out her reading glasses, slips them on, and leans closer to observe the thing. “It has no blood supply. And we didn’t prepare the cells to properly differentiate into skin and cartilage—but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it does exactly what it was designed to do.”
Then she reaches out, picks the ear up between her thumb and forefinger, and drops it into the stasis container, where it sinks into the thick green oxygenated gel. Connor closes the box, it seals, and the light indicating hibernation goes green. Now it will be preserved for however long it needs to be.
“We’re going to have to get this to a place that can mass-produce it, right?” Connor says. “Some big medical manufacturer.”
“Nope,” says Grace. “Big is bad, big is bad.” She furrows her brow and rings her hands as she looks at the stasis box. “Can’t go too small, either. Kinda like Goldilocks, it’s gotta be just right.”
Sonia, who is rarely impressed by anything, is impressed by Grace’s assessment. “A very good point. It needs to be a company that’s hungry, but not so hungry that it carries no clout.”
“And,” adds Risa, “it has to be a company with no ties to Proactive Citizenry.”
“Does such a thing even exist?” asks Connor.
“Don’t know,” says Sonia. “Wherever we go, it will be a gamble. The best we can do is better the odds.”
The thought gives Connor an unexpected shiver that must be strong enough for Risa to feel because she looks to him. So much of his life these past few years has been a gamble. Somehow in spite of the odds, he’s managed to come through it all in once piece. What felt like bad luck at the time ultimately became good fortune, as evidenced by his continued survival. Which means he’s overdue for something truly unfortunate. He can’t help but feel that no matter what he does, he’s still just circling the drain. He silently curses his parents for pulling the plug on that drain to begin with. And with that anger comes a sorrow that he wishes he were strong enough to ignore.
“Something wrong?” Risa asks.
Connor withdraws his hand from hers. “Why do you always think something’s wrong with me?”
“Because something always is,” she says, a little miffed. “You’re a streaming meme of things that are wrong.”
“And you’re not?”
Risa sighs. “I am too. Which is why it’s so easy for me to know when something’s bothering you.”
“Well, this time, you’re wrong.” Connor gets up and goes to the trapdoor. The trunk is already pushed to the side, and the rug is rolled away, making an escape from Risa’s inquisition easy. He reaches down to pull open the trap door, and Connor feels something being pulled from his back pocket.
He turns to see Risa holding his letter. THE letter. From the moment Sonia gave it to him, he’s been keeping it in that pocket. He’s taken it out several times, each time determined to tear it up, or burn it up, or otherwise dismiss it from his life, but each time it winds up back in his pocket, and each time he feels a little angrier, and a little weaker for it.
“What’s this?” Risa asks.
Connor grabs it back from her. “If it were your business, I’d tell you about it, but it’s not.” He slips it back in his pocket, but she already saw who it was addressed to. She knows exactly what it is.
“You think I don’t know what’s been going on in your head? Why you almost crashed us when we were leaving Columbus?”
“That has nothing to do with anything!”
“It was your old neighborhood, wasn’t it? And you’re thinking of going back.”
Connor finds he can’t deny it. “What I’m thinking and what I’m doing are two different things, okay?”
Sonia struggles to her feet. “Keep your voices down!” she growls. “Do you want people in the street to hear you?”
Grace, a bit anxious at the storm brewing around her, slips past Connor in a hurry to remove herself from the equation. She grabs the printer. “I’ll take this back downstairs and hide it again. No point leaving it out in the open.”
Sonia tries to stop her—“Grace, wait!”—but she’s not fast enough.
The printer’s power cord, which is still plugged in, goes taut and the printer flies from Grace’s hands.
They all leap for it. Risa is closest. She gets a hand on it, but her momentum only serves to slap it away. It tumbles toward the open trapdoor, bounces once on the edge, and falls through. The cord goes taut again. And the printer dangles in the hole for a painful instant before the plug pulls free from the outlet.
Connor dives for that cord, knowing it’s the last chance to save it. He grasps it with both hands, but the cord is slick with spilled bioslime. It slips through his fingers, his hands close on empty air, and he hears with a deadly finality as horrific as a car crash their last hope for a sane future smashing to bits on the basement floor.
• • •
Grace is inconsolable.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” She wails desperate apologies while her eyes let loose a typhoon of tears with no sign of clear skies any time soon. “I’m so stupid, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
