winter.
The dark-skinned man beside her—whose eyes didn’t burn and one was made of glass—made sounds with his mouth, and she repeated those sounds, although they had no meaning. The only meaning in her life was the child he held, and Rachel instinctively understood the man’s only value was in his care of the child.
“Hello, Rachel Wheeler,” Kokona said, and the voice was like warm water poured out and bathing her.
Rachel knew that name. She turned her head from side to side, flexing stiffened cords of muscle. Soft cloth on either side, a satin pillow under her head.
Why am I lying here? I’m not sleepy at all.
She sat up, looking around the strange platform and the rows of padded chairs around the room, its odd podiums bedecked with artificial flowers, thick red curtains hanging as if waiting to be drawn down at the solemn close of a stage play. This was a place for endings. Not New People.
“Careful, honey,” DeVontay said, gripping her shoulder with a clumsy, dark hand. She comprehended his words now—their language was simplistic, it was stored in the nebulous computers inside her—and she understood his crude term of endearment.
Affection. And his face…so serious.
She wanted to laugh, in an imitation of Kokona’s gleeful giggle. His good eye rolled down to the center of her body, and she reached for the itching, wet spot on her chest. She wiped at it, and then concentrated so that the energy flowing through the rest of her swelled to a silent crescendo. She lifted the damage away—the memory of it, the fantasy of it—and tossed it into the air where the world absorbed it. The fabric covering her still bore a hole, as well as the red stains of leakage, but the flesh was now whole.
DeVontay’s lone eye widened, and Kokona said, “Don’t be so surprised. This is what you wanted.”
Rachel felt a ripple of something she identified as jealousy—not of DeVontay’s attention on her, but rather Kokona’s attention on DeVontay. Even though she recognized it as an old emotion, she was aware she would carry two worlds inside her: The human past and the mutant New.
She didn’t want to be in this cushion-lined chamber any longer. She pushed her legs over the side and wriggled down until she was standing. DeVontay nearly dropped the child as he struggled to help her, not realizing she was perfectly capable. More than capable. More of everything.
“How do you feel?” DeVontay asked.
Feel? Feelings don’t matter anymore. You recognize them for what they are. They are fantasy and memory, and neither of those are real unless you make them so.
Feelings aren’t fact. Feelings aren’t truth.
Feelings ultimately fail.
She accepted these truths, but something inside her tumbled and flipped like butterflies over wet grass.
“Where are the others?” she asked Kokona.
“Waiting.”
DeVontay suddenly embraced her in a hug, Kokona pressed between them. He shook with a sob. “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m here. I’m found.” She didn’t hug back. She couldn’t explain with words, because he would never understand. She wasn’t his to lose. She belonged to the New People.
“I found Stephen,” DeVontay said, and that name tugged at her, too, summoning up fantasies and memories. “Franklin’s bringing him. But we need to get away from here. Hilyard and the others will probably kill you. Both of you.”
Of course they would. The old Rachel thought New People and Old People could live together, but now she saw that was another fantasy. The only way After could work was if the Old People were removed. Old must always make way for New.
But Stephen…
You promised. You said you would be there for him and take care of him.
Because of Chelsea…
“How is he?” she asked DeVontay.
“He carried me,” Kokona said. “He helped me fix some broken people. But the soldiers shot them again.”
“Not all of them,” DeVontay said. “I mean, not all of you .
The dark-skinned man beside her—whose eyes didn’t burn and one was made of glass—made sounds with his mouth, and she repeated those sounds, although they had no meaning. The only meaning in her life was the child he held, and Rachel instinctively understood the man’s only value was in his care of the child.
“Hello, Rachel Wheeler,” Kokona said, and the voice was like warm water poured out and bathing her.
Rachel knew that name. She turned her head from side to side, flexing stiffened cords of muscle. Soft cloth on either side, a satin pillow under her head.
Why am I lying here? I’m not sleepy at all.
She sat up, looking around the strange platform and the rows of padded chairs around the room, its odd podiums bedecked with artificial flowers, thick red curtains hanging as if waiting to be drawn down at the solemn close of a stage play. This was a place for endings. Not New People.
“Careful, honey,” DeVontay said, gripping her shoulder with a clumsy, dark hand. She comprehended his words now—their language was simplistic, it was stored in the nebulous computers inside her—and she understood his crude term of endearment.
Affection. And his face…so serious.
She wanted to laugh, in an imitation of Kokona’s gleeful giggle. His good eye rolled down to the center of her body, and she reached for the itching, wet spot on her chest. She wiped at it, and then concentrated so that the energy flowing through the rest of her swelled to a silent crescendo. She lifted the damage away—the memory of it, the fantasy of it—and tossed it into the air where the world absorbed it. The fabric covering her still bore a hole, as well as the red stains of leakage, but the flesh was now whole.
DeVontay’s lone eye widened, and Kokona said, “Don’t be so surprised. This is what you wanted.”
Rachel felt a ripple of something she identified as jealousy—not of DeVontay’s attention on her, but rather Kokona’s attention on DeVontay. Even though she recognized it as an old emotion, she was aware she would carry two worlds inside her: The human past and the mutant New.
She didn’t want to be in this cushion-lined chamber any longer. She pushed her legs over the side and wriggled down until she was standing. DeVontay nearly dropped the child as he struggled to help her, not realizing she was perfectly capable. More than capable. More of everything.
“How do you feel?” DeVontay asked.
Feel? Feelings don’t matter anymore. You recognize them for what they are. They are fantasy and memory, and neither of those are real unless you make them so.
Feelings aren’t fact. Feelings aren’t truth.
Feelings ultimately fail.
She accepted these truths, but something inside her tumbled and flipped like butterflies over wet grass.
“Where are the others?” she asked Kokona.
“Waiting.”
DeVontay suddenly embraced her in a hug, Kokona pressed between them. He shook with a sob. “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m here. I’m found.” She didn’t hug back. She couldn’t explain with words, because he would never understand. She wasn’t his to lose. She belonged to the New People.
“I found Stephen,” DeVontay said, and that name tugged at her, too, summoning up fantasies and memories. “Franklin’s bringing him. But we need to get away from here. Hilyard and the others will probably kill you. Both of you.”
Of course they would. The old Rachel thought New People and Old People could live together, but now she saw that was another fantasy. The only way After could work was if the Old People were removed. Old must always make way for New.
But Stephen…
You promised. You said you would be there for him and take care of him.
Because of Chelsea…
“How is he?” she asked DeVontay.
“He carried me,” Kokona said. “He helped me fix some broken people. But the soldiers shot them again.”
“Not all of them,” DeVontay said. “I mean, not all of you .
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