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Una glares at him, then storms back toward the sweat lodge. The Rewind isn’t as quick to move. Connor trains the rifle on him. “Move it,” he says. “Or I’ll turn you back into the pork and beans you were made from.”
The Rewind gives him a condescending glare from his stolen eyes, then heads back toward the sweat lodge.
• • •
Connor knows his name, but calling him by a name implies too much humanity for Connor’s liking. He’d much prefer to just call him “the Rewind.” As the three of them sit in the sweat lodge, they are both reluctant to tell Connor anything—as if they resent him for cutting into this dark dance they’ve been doing.
“He has Wil’s hands,” Connor prompts, having already figured that much out. “Let’s start there.”
Una explains the details of Wil’s abduction—or at least what she was told by Lev and Pivane. The Tashi’ne family never got any answers as to what happened to their son and never expected to. Kids who are taken by parts pirates rarely turn up at harvest camps; they’re sold piece by piece on the black market. But apparently Wil Tashi’ne was a special case. Connor can’t imagine the kind of pain Una must feel, knowing this creation before them has the hands of the boy she loved and has his talent literally woven right into its brain. His talent, his musical memory, and yet no memory of her. It could drive anyone mad—but to hold him prisoner like that?
“What were you thinking, Una?”
“Una!” The Rewind smiles triumphantly. “Her name is Una!”
“Quiet, Pork-n-beans,” Connor says. “I’m not talking to you.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Una admits quietly, looking down at the dirt floor of the sweat lodge. “I’m still not.” Instead of talking about the Rewind, she talks about Wil again. How he would tune and test all of her guitars before they were sold. “He put his soul into his music. I always felt that a tiny bit of him was left resonating in the instrument after he played it. Once he was gone, the guitars never felt the same. Now when they play, it’s only music.”
“So you thought you’d make our friend here your little guitar slave.”
She raises her eyes to burn him a glare—but she doesn’t seem to have the strength for it anymore. She casts her eyes down again.
Connor turns to the Rewind, to find his eyes locked on Connor, practically drilling into him. Connor tightens the grip on the rifle in his lap.
“Why are you here?” Connor asks. “How did you even know to come here?”
“I have enough of Wil Tashi’ne’s memory to know that this is where your friend the clapper would run to hide,” he says. “And I think you know why I’m here. I’m here for Risa.”
Hearing her name coming from his mouth brings Connor’s blood toward a boil. She hates you, Connor wants to tell him. She wants nothing to do with you. Ever. But he sees and smells the Rewind’s urine-stained pants and remembers the helplessness of the Rewind’s captivity, so much like his own in Argent’s basement. Sympathy is the last thing Connor wants to feel, but it’s there all the same, undermining his hatred. Desperation just about oozes out of the Rewind’s seams, and as much as Connor wants to add to this creature’s pain, he can’t find it in himself to do it.
“So, you’re going to blackmail her into being with you, like before?”
“That wasn’t me! That was Proactive Citizenry.”
“And you want to bring her back to them.”
“No! I’m here to help her, you idiot.”
Connor finds himself mildly amused. “Careful, Pork-n-beans—I’m the one with the rifle.”
“You’re wasting your time,” pipes in Una. “You can’t reason with him. He’s not human. He’s not even alive.”
“Je pense, donc je suis,” the Rewind says.
Connor doesn’t speak French, but he knows enough to decipher it.
“Just because you think, doesn’t mean you are. Computers claim to think, but they’re just mimicking the real thing. Garbage in/garbage out—and you’re just a whole lot of garbage.”
The Rewind looks down, his eyes glistening. “You don’t know a thing.”
Connor can tell he’s struck a nerve in the Rewind—this whole subject of life. Of Existence with a capital E. Again, Connor feels that unwanted wave of sympathy.
“Of course, Unwinds aren’t legally alive either,” Connor says, making Cam’s argument for him. “Once an unwind order is signed, as far as the law is concerned, they’re nothing but a bunch of parts. Like you.”
The Rewind lifts his eyes to him. A single tear falls, absorbed by the knee of his jeans. “Your point?”
“My point is, I get it. Whether you’re a pile of parts, or a sack of garbage, or a full-fledged person has nothing to do with what I, or Una, or anyone else thinks—so do us all a favor and stop making it our problem.”
