Skinned -1 (25 page)

“You probably shouldn’t jump in the daylight. Too easy to get caught.” Like the waterfal , Jude looked different during the day. Every silver streak, every black line etched into his skin, stood out in sharp relief. And seeing him against the pastoral backdrop made him look al the more machinelike.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, jumping up as he sat down.

“I should ask you that,” he said. “Last I checked, this was my place.”

“Oh, so now you own the river?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t scare me. Fire away. I’m staying.”

“Enjoy,” I said. “I’m going.”

“After I came al this way? I would have thought a girl like you would come equipped with better manners.”

“So you’re stalking me now? How’d you know I was here?”

“I know al .” He smirked.

“I’m leaving.”

“Okay, wait!” He spread his arms wide in truce. “Your zone, okay? You posted the pic. I recognized the view.”

“You’ve been lurking on my zone?”

“What can I say? I have a lot of time on my hands,” Jude said.

“Use it for something else,” I snapped. “Stay out of my life.”

“Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I think you’re worth a little extra effort.”

I couldn’t believe it. Not another one. Not today. At least this time around I wouldn’t have to worry about letting him down easy. “Look, I’m flattered—Wel , I’m not, actual y, but let’s say I am. I’m not interested, okay? So—”

“You think
I’m
interested?” He burst into laughter. “You real y are an egomaniac, aren’t you? I mean, I knew you were spoiled and self-absorbed, that’s par for the course. But this? Please. Trust me, I’m not into the chase. When I want something, it chases
me
.”

And
I
was the egomaniac?

Stil , I sat down again. He had some kind of agenda, that was obvious. And if it wasn’t the expected one, that was interesting. Or at least interesting enough to distract me from the things that actual y mattered.

“So why are you here?” I asked.

“Brought you something.”

“What?” Like I cared.

“Just something to help you let go.”

“What makes you think I have any interest in doing that?”

He smiled. “Because letting go, that’s the key. If you’re too scared to let go, you’l never be in control. Not real y.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?” I asked. “Let go so I can get control? Do you even listen to yourself talk, or do you just spit out this crap at random?”

“It’s al connected,” he said, so disgustingly pleased with himself. So sure. “People only fear letting go because they fear they won’t be able to get the control back. That they’l keep going until their urges and instincts destroy them.”

“But
you
know better?”

“I know you’re afraid of what you’ve turned into, but only because you don’t know what it is, not yet. And because you don’t understand it, you think you can’t control it.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re a
machine
,” he said. “And that means absolute control—or, if you so choose, absolute release. You have the power to decide if you let yourself.” He pul ed something out of his pocket, smal enough to fit snugly in the palm of his hand. “You wanted to know why I came looking for you? To give you this.” He tossed the object at me, and I caught it without thinking. It was a smal , black cube with a tiny switch on one side and a slim, round aperture on the other. Harmless.

“It’s a program,” he said.

“For what?”

“For you. Or for your brain, at least. You can upload it wirelessly through your ocular nerve.”

“That’s not possible.” No one at BioMax had said anything about additional programming; no one had hinted that I might be able to…reprogram myself.

You have a computer inside your head,
the Faith leader had said.
Programmed by man.

Normal people—
human
people—didn’t adjust their programming. They didn’t rewire themselves with chips and wireless projections. They just changed. Or they didn’t.

“Anything’s possible if you know the right people,” Jude said smugly, like he said everything.

“What’s it do?”

“Let’s cal it a vivid il ustration of my point.”

I faked a laugh. “You want me to stick something in my brain based on
your
predictably vague recommendation?”

“I don’t care what you do,” Jude said, and the way he said it, I almost believed him. Not that it mattered. “Think of it as a dream.”

“We don’t dream.”

He gave me a knowing smile. “Yes. That’s what they told you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Only one way to find out. You say you’re not afraid, right? Prove it.”

I tossed his little black box back to him. “Just how stupid do you think I am?”

He smirked. “You real y want an answer to that?”

“Excuse me for not just buying al your crap without question, like one of your brainwashed groupies.”

“I don’t have to brainwash them,” Jude said. “They know the truth when they hear it.”

“Unlike me?”

“Apparently.”

“So that’s what this is?” I asked. “You’ve made it your own personal mission to convert me?”

He laughed. It made him look like a different person. No, that’s not quite right. It made him look like a
person
. “See what I mean?” he said. “Total egomaniac. You should real y get that checked out.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” I pointed out. “Fol owing me?”

“Maybe I was just in the mood to talk.”

“To me?”

He looked around at the wilderness. “Seems like my only viable option.”

I shrugged. “So talk.”

“Let’s start with: What’s wrong?” he asked.

He almost sounded like he real y wanted to know. Not that it mattered. “No. I’m not talking about me.”

“Because?”

“Recovering egomaniac,” I reminded him.

He grinned. “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

“And the second step is acknowledging that other people do too. So let’s start with you. Why are you fol owing me?
Really.
” He shook his head. “No cheating. That’s stil about you.”

“Fine. How about: Where do you live? What do you do al day when you’re not stalking me? How did you end up a mech—”

“I told you before,” he said, the joking tone gone from his voice. “The past doesn’t matter. Al that matters is what I am now, and that’s everything I want to be.”

“Come on, how can you say that?”

“Easy. It’s true.” His eyes flashed.

Everything I wanted to be had died in that car crash.

“You real y don’t miss it?” I asked. “Not at al ?”

He smiled wryly. “There’s not much to miss. We weren’t al like you.”

“What’s ‘like me’?”

“Rich,” he said, ticking it off on his fingers. “Treasured. Sheltered. Deluded.”

“Is this fun for you? Insulting me every time you open your mouth?”

“A little.”

I started to get up again, but he grabbed my arm. “Okay, I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t go. Please.” I glared, and after a moment he let go. But I sat down again.

“You think this is some kind of punishment,” he said. And again it almost sounded like he cared. Or at least that he understood.

“I don’t—”

“You
do
,” he said. “Because you don’t let yourself see the possibilities. Al you can see is what you’ve lost.” Everything.

“Some of us didn’t have that much to lose,” he continued with less intensity than usual.

“You do realize you’re being ridiculously vague, right?”

“You want something concrete?” he asked. “How about the way it feels to walk for the first time?”

There was something new in his voice, something ragged and unrehearsed, like he’d gone off his script and wasn’t sure how to find his way back. He sounded like I felt: lost.

“Or to know that nothing can ever hurt you again, not for real?” he continued. “How about never having to be afraid?” I was afraid al the time.

If he knew how that felt, if he could understand that and had found a way to fight back, maybe I’d been wrong about him. About it al .

“That’s why, isn’t it?” I said softly. “Why you don’t talk about before.”

He looked away. “I told you. The past is irrelevant for us.”

“I’m not talking about
us
. I’m talking about
you.
” Without knowing why, I wanted to touch him, to rest my hand on his hand, his knee, his shoulder. I wanted contact. “I’m talking about whatever happened to you. Want to talk, Jude?” I said. It wasn’t a question, it was a chal enge. “Talk about that. Talk about how you ended up here. How you’re just like the rest of us.” I paused, not sure I should keep going. And when I did, it was in a whisper. “Broken.”

He raised his eyes off the ground and looked at me. “I’m
not
broken. And I don’t need your pity.”

Pity hadn’t even occurred to me. Why would it when we were the same? “I’m not—”

“Save it for yourself,” he said, his eyes flashing again, a yel ow-orange that looked like flame. “Drown in it, for al I care.
I
don’t need it. I know what I am. I’m
proud
of what I am.”

“So that’s why you did
this
to yourself?” I asked. “Turned yourself into some kind of…”

“Freak?”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Because you’re a coward,” he said.

“Shut up.”

“Afraid to say what you think. Afraid to do…
anything
. Afraid to accept the truth.”

“Shut up.”

“You can’t face facts about what you’ve become, and so you’re missing it.”

I had never met anyone so disgustingly smug. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” he said. “I know al you care about is what people think, and whether you look
cool.
Guess what? You don’t. Not to
them
.”

“Why are you so obsessed with al this us-and-them crap? There is no
them
. There is definitely no
us.
”

“Why are you so determined to lie to yourself?” he retorted. “
They
know you’re not one of them. When are you going to wake up?”

“What the hel do you want from me?” I shouted. It was too much. It was too much for one day, too much on top of everything. I couldn’t deal. I shouldn’t have to. “You want me to walk away from everything, to pretend the past never happened and that I’m not the person I know I am?”

“That would be a start!”

“I’m not going to destroy myself.” I tried to make my voice as cool and cutting as his. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”

“That job’s done. You don’t have to do anything. Just acknowledge the wreckage and walk away.”

I stood up—and this time, although he grabbed my arm again, I didn’t hesitate. His fingers wrapped tight around my wrist. He was the only mech I’d ever touched. “Don’t come looking for me again,” I said.
“Ever
.”

“Trust me,” he said coldly. “I won’t have to.”

“I’m going now.” I didn’t move.

“I’m waiting.” He was stil holding my wrist.

“Screw you.” And then, somehow, my hand was on his chest. His fingers tightened on my wrist. He yanked me toward him. Or I lunged. He grabbed my waist. Or I dug my hips into him. Whatever he did. Whatever I did. Our faces col ided.

Our lips col ided.

I clawed at his shirt, digging into the fabric, struggling for the fake, silvery skin that lay below. His lips were rough; his kiss was rough. Hard and angry, or maybe that was me, hating him,
wanting
him, wanting his hands on my body—anyone’s hands on my body—even if it didn’t feel the same, it felt right, it
felt
, for the first time since the accident and the fire and the darkness, I
felt
, and I sucked at his lips, and he bit down, a sweet, sharp pain, and I imagined I could taste the iron-tanged blood on my tongue.

But there would be no blood.

I shoved him away.

For the second time that day I wished I could throw up.

He came toward me; I jerked away.

“
Don’t
touch me.”

I couldn’t believe I had done it.

I wanted to do it again.

I had to get away.

“Don’t do this,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Don’t question it, not now, not when you’re so close.”

“To what?” I spat out. But I knew. To him. To grabbing him again. To his body. To our bodies, together.

To
feeling.

I took another step back.

“To letting go,” he said. I couldn’t believe he was back to that, spewing his bul shit, like I was a dutiful member of his flock. “I told you, it’s the key to accepting what you are—”

“Spare me.” I hated him. This wasn’t about me, I realized. Not for him. This wasn’t about need, about raw
want
. Not for the high and mighty Jude, who’d risen oh so far above al those nasty org instincts. This was just about his stupid campaign. His pathetic philosophy. This was just about him being right. About me being wrong.

“Don’t do this,” he said again, closing his hands over mine. But I was done.

“Go.” I felt as cold as I sounded.

“You don’t want that.”

I met his eyes. They were, as always, unreadable. Like mine. “You. Don’t. Know. What. I. Want.” Nice and slow, so he would understand.

“Maybe not.” Jude shook his head. “But neither do you.” He pressed something into my palm—the sharp-edged cube, the one he’d cal ed a dream. “Not yet.” I looked down at the tiny black box, turning it over and over in my hands.

When I looked up again, he was gone.

I’m not stupid.

I wasn’t stupid then, either.

I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust his little black box or his mysterious “program” or his unshakable convictions. Least of al those.

On the other hand, I didn’t have much to lose. And I had too much I wanted to forget.

I uploaded the program.

There was a brief burst of flickering light, then nothing.

For several long minutes, nothing.

Then the world started to glow.

Pain first. Pain everywhere. Nowhere. I was nowhere. It burned. I burned. Pain like the fire, pain like the flames peeling away my skin. Hot, searing hot. Then cold, like ice. Steel.