BioMax had released its own official account of “the unpleasantries,” one in which Brotherhood fanatics had nearly slaughtered a building full of their own, not to mention a handful of innocent mechs. (Of course it was the mechs who had nearly massacred all those orgs. But that kind of truth was counterproductive, and so we all kept our mouths shut.)
“You have to weigh Brother Savona’s past behavior against his expressed willingness to repair the damage.” The script had been easier to memorize than it was to choke out. “Brother Savona’s voice obviously has a wide reach, and now that he’s had his revelations—”
“You’re referring, I assume, to his statements expressing regret for the way he treated the skinners, and his pledges of tolerance? You believe he means what he says?”
I believed that there was nothing anyone could do to Savona now that BioMax had decided he made a better savior than he did a martyr. He’d signed back on to the Brotherhood as an unofficial consultant—right-hand man to his former right-hand man—and the rest of us were supposed to forgive and forget.
“We prefer to be called mechs,” I told the interviewer. “‘Skinner’ is derogatory.” Out of the corner of my eye, and just beyond the camera’s sightline, I saw Kiri raise a hand in silent warning.
“Of course,” the interviewer said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” No one ever meant. “And to answer your question, Brother Savona and Brother Auden have a message of tolerance and equality that I’d like to think we can all believe in. All I want is to show people that mechs are no different from anyone else—we’re regular people. If the Brotherhood can help get that message out, then I’m all for it.”
“You’re a very big-hearted girl,” the interviewer said.
I could have reminded her about the wireless power converter nestled where my heart should be. But I didn’t.
Day seven.
Halfway there.
Not going to make it.
“You skank!” Cally shouted, and launched herself at Pria.
“Not my fault you couldn’t give him what he wanted!” Pria screeched, squaring off to face the charging blonde. She crouched and grabbed Cally around the knees, flipping her head over heels. Which put Cally in perfect position to gnaw on her thigh.
Pria went down.
Hands clutched at tangles of blond hair, yanked. Violet nails raked across pale skin. They hissed, they slapped; teeth were bared, backs were arched, saliva was sprayed. There was some very unladylike grunting. Soon the two interlocked, writhing bodies rolled across the mansion’s marble floor, a monstrous eight-legged beast.
Sometimes these fights ended at the hospital; sometimes they ended in bed. (Or in the closet, the pool, the shower, the rug—any and every conceivable surface.) Whatever the audience wanted.
Now, the voice commanded. Tell them.
“You’re both brainburned,” I said. “You want to kill yourselves over Caleb? Go for it.” The voice gave me the storyline, but—usually—I made up the words myself. A miniature measure of freedom in my zombie life. “You know who’ll really love that? Felicity. Because then she gets him all to herself.”
The writhing creature froze, then separated itself into two discrete bodies again, every eye, ear, and molecule trained on my next words.
“Of course, she’s already got him,” I said.
“That bitch!”
“That skank!”
“That tramper!”
“I’ll kill her.”
“Not if I kill her first.”
“I’ll kill you first, if you try that.”
The truth: Felicity had never touched Caleb. I didn’t know if I was lying because I wanted him for myself, because I wanted Cally or Pria for myself, or because I wanted trouble. The voice would tell me, soon enough, and then that would be the new truth.
The fight temporarily over, and Felicity marked for death, we were free to move on to more pressing concerns.
“Mini or maxi?” Pria demanded, hanging the two dresses over her curvy frame. “There’s a rage at Chaos tonight and we are there.”
“Maxi,” I said. “Definitely.” Because that day I was supposed to be hating on Pria, and the billowing black and white gown made her look like a pregnant cow.
“That’s my dress!” Cally spit, grabbing it out of her hand.
Pria looked clueless, but only for a moment. Then her face transformed—narrowed eyes, tensed muscles, slight upturn in her puffy lips. A masterful dose of pure spite. “So what if it is?” she snarled. “Looks better on me, anyway.”
It’s your dress, the voice decided.
So that’s what I said.
Then I added the part about the pregnant cow.
And then I was on the ground, with my hair in Pria’s hands and my artificial flesh beneath her nails.
Good luck breaking the skin, I thought, gifting her with a light sucker punch that would give her plenty of material for the cameras.
It had been made clear to me that the audience loved a fight.
Especially when the skinner lost.
“Every skinner—I’m sorry, mech—has an understandably conflicted relationship with the Brotherhood, but I think it’s safe to say that yours is more conflicted, or certainly more complicated, than most,” the interviewer said. “After all, its current leader, Auden Heller, is a former classmate of yours, isn’t that right?”
You know it’s right, you disingenuous bitch.
I should have known better than to believe Kiri when she said the interviewer had agreed to my terms. Easy to declare a subject off-limits when you’re backstage—so much the better to launch a sneak attack once the cameras are rolling.
I smiled.
“Yes. We were in school together for about ten years.”
“And you were close?” she said.
“Briefly.”
“Until that day at the waterfall—”
“I don’t talk about that.”
“That’s understandable,” she said, sounding sympathetic. She patted my knee.
I let her. I even let her regurgitate the story of the waterfall, and how Auden had nearly died trying to save me, the skinner who didn’t need saving. My fault, and so—in his mind, and the minds of the Brotherhood’s brainwashed masses—the fault of every skinner.
“It must be so hard for you,” she said. “I’m sure you wish you could talk to him, apologize for everything that’s happened. Is there anything you’d like to say to him now?” she asked, eyes hungry. “Anything at all?”
I wasn’t about to ruin everything by exploding on camera. Two weeks of misery were not going in the garbage just to give myself the luxury of self-pity. Or privacy. I’d given the latter up for fifteen days, and the former up for good. But I couldn’t play along.
I glanced off camera. Kiri’s lips were moving, and, like a ventriloquist’s dummy, the interviewer began to speak. “Looks like we’re out of time,” she said, stiffly. I was surprised the sweat running down her face didn’t harden to ice. “It’s been a pleasure to have you with us. Please come again.”
I smiled like I meant it. “Anytime.”
Maybe I was the better actor after all.
Day fifteen.
“You survived.” Kiri swept me off as the interview ended. That was code for You didn’t screw up. I didn’t know whether she meant the interview or the whole two weeks; I was too tired to care.
One more night and I was free.
I couldn’t thank her for the save—not without revealing her interference to the vidlife audience. So I just raised an eyebrow, and she mirrored the gesture with her own. You’re welcome.