“Since time immemorial, mankind has dreamed of creating life,” Roberta begins, her voice amplified and larger than life. Flashes of light reach the top of the stairs. Cam can’t see the images from her presentation, but he knows them. He’s seen it all before.
“But the great mystery of life itself has been elusive,” Roberta continues, “and every dream of creation has ended in humbling failure. There’s a good reason for that. We can’t create what we don’t understand, so until we understand what life is, how can we ever create it? No—instead it is the task of science to take what we already have and build on it. Not create life, but perfect it. So we put forth the question, how can we recombine both our intellectual and physical evolution into the finest version of ourselves, the best of all of us combined? As it turns out, the answer was simple once we knew the right question.” She pauses to build the suspense. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Camus Comprix, the world’s first fully composite human being!”
At the sound of applause, Cam begins his descent down the spiral staircase, posture proud but gait casual. The audience is still in shadows as he descends, and all the lights are focused on him. He can feel the heat of the spotlights, and although he’s in a familiar place, it’s as if they’ve transformed the living room into a theater. He hesitates halfway down, takes a deep breath, and continues, making it seem that his pause was intentional—a photo-op tease, perhaps, because this is one press conference where no cameras are allowed. His presentation to the public is being carefully orchestrated.
The applause gives way to astonishment as the crowd gets a good look at him. There are gasps and whispered chatter as he descends to the microphone. Roberta steps aside, giving him the floor, and by the time she does, there is absolute silence in the room as they all stare at him, trying to process what they’re seeing: a young man who is, as Roberta put it, “the best of all of us.” Or at least the best of various unwound teens.
In the charged silence, he leans toward the microphone and says, “Well, I have to say, you’re a very well put-together group.”
Chuckles all around. He’s surprised by the amplified timbre of his own voice, a resonant baritone that sounds more confident than he actually is. The lights come up over the group of reporters, and with the ice broken, the first hands rise with questions.
“Pleased to meet you, Camus,” says a man in a suit that’s seen better days. “I understand you’re made up of almost a hundred different people—is that true?”
“Ninety-nine to be exact,” Cam says with a grin. “But there’s room for one more.”
The group of reporters laughs again, less nervously than the first time. He calls on a woman with big hair.
“You’re clearly . . . um . . . a unique creation.” Cam can feel her disapproval like a wave of heat. “How does it feel to know you were invented rather than born?”
“I was born, just not all at the same time,” he tells her. “And I wasn’t invented, I was reinvented. There’s a difference.”
“Yes,” says someone else. “It must be quite a weight to know that you’re the first of your kind. . . .”
ands there with his hands in his pockets, looking around, although she knows his attention is on her. Finally he says, “The ADR says they’ll send those medical supplies you asked for in the next few days.”
“Should I believe it?”
“Probably not.”
She knows this is not the reason why he came over to her, but she doesn’t know how to coax things out of him anymore. She knows she has to do something before this distance between them gets ingrown.
“So what’s the problem of the week?” she asks.
He scratches his neck and looks off, so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye. “Sort of the same, and sort of you-don’t-want-to-know.”
“But,” says Risa, “it’s big enough for you to tell me that you can’t tell me.”
“Exactly.”
Risa sighs. It’s already getting hot, and she’s not looking forward to pushing her way to the infirmary jet in the heat. She has no patience for Connor being enigmatic. She’s about to tell him to come back when he actually has something to say, but her attention is snagged by the grumble coming from the crowd around the TV, which has grown since she last looked. Both she and Connor are pulled closer by the gravity of the crowd.
The news report is an interview with a woman, rather severe-looking, and even more severe-talking. Coming in the middle, Risa can’t make heads or tails of what she’s talking about.
“Can you believe it?” someone says. “They’re calling this thing a new life form.”
“Calling what a new life form?” Connor asks.
Hayden is there and turns to both of them. He looks almost queasy. “They’ve finally built the perfect beast. The first composite human being.”
There are no pictures, but the woman is describing the process—how bits and pieces of almost a hundred different Unwinds were used to create it. Risa feels a shiver go as far down her spine as she can feel. Connor must have the same reaction, because he grasps her shoulder, and she reaches up to grasp his hand, not caring which hand it is.
“Why would they do such a thing?” she asks.
“Because they can,” Connor says bitterly.
Risa can feel the heaviness of the vibe around her, as if they’re all watching some awful global event unfolding before their eyes.
“We need to get the escape plan ready,” Connor says. Risa knows he’s talking more to himself than to her. “We can’t do a dry run, because the spy sats will pick it up, but everyone needs to know what to do.”