Behind Divan, Argent fumbles to clean a dining table, clearly too terrified for his own life to even make eye contact with Connor. Does he really think Connor will give him away for waking him, and lose the closest thing he has to an ally right now?
“Wait a second,” says Connor, as if it’s a total shock. “Is that Argent Skinner?” He looks at Argent with feigned incredulity. “What the hell is he doing here? And what happened to his face?”
“You shut up!” Argent says, playing into Connor’s little theatrical, although a bit less convincingly. “I’m here because of you, so just shut up.”
Divan apparently knows their unpleasant history together—as Connor hoped he would—and accepts that this is the first Connor is aware of Argent’s presence on the plane. Argent’s breath of relief would have been suspicious if anyone paid him the slightest bit of attention.
Divan looks Connor over. “Am I right in assuming that you dispatched Mason Starkey prior to his unwinding?” And when he doesn’t answer Divan says, “Come now, don’t you have anything to say?”
Connor shrugs and obliges. “Nice socks,” he says with a satisfied smile.
Divan never breaks eye contact. “Indeed they are. Cervelt. New Zealand deer fiber, a bargain at a thousand dollars a pair.” He returns Connor’s smile, leaving Connor feeling far less satisfied.
“Skinner! Bring Connor something to drink. Lemonade.”
Argent, dusting a piano keyboard flinches and hits a few of the keys. On the wall behind him three adjacent faces open their mouths and voice a dissonant chord. Connor swallows, and tries to convince his rational mind that he didn’t just see that.
“I’ll confess,” says Divan, “I was hoping to spend perhaps a week to build hype among my customers for your auction . . . but now, in light of your interference with Mr. Starkey, I just want to be rid of you.”
He gestures to the boeuf and the medic to take him away, and they step forward, grabbing him. “Where’s Risa?” demands Connor. “I want to talk to her. If you’re going to unwind me, at least let me say good-bye.”
“Unwise,” he says. “No need to compound her grief.”
Argent brings the lemonade but is literally blindsided by a chair. Bumping into it, he drops the glass on the floor, which calls forth a long-suffering sigh from Divan.
“I’m sorry, sir! I’m sorry!”
“Apologize to Connor; it was his drink.”
“I’m sorry, Connor.”
“It’s all good, Argent,” Connor says. “All good.” And he turns his head just enough to hide from Divan the wink he gives Argent.
Divan orders that Connor be not only restrained but kept in isolation.
“Should we now to tranq him?” asks the boeuf in something resembling English, with an accent much stronger than Divan’s.
“No,” Divan tells him, “I can think of no greater punishment than leaving him alone with his own thoughts.”
48 • Argent
In his twenty years on this earth, Argent Skinner could never connect his life’s aspirations to anything real. As a child, he wanted to be a football star, but lacked the physique, so he lowered his expectations and became a vocal spectator. As an adolescent, he wanted to be a basketball star, and although he had some talent, he lacked the drive to see it through. So he lowered his expectations and accepted the chance to warm the bench for the one season he actually made the team.
It was more than two years after almost finishing high school that Connor Lassiter showed up in his checkout line. During that time, Argent had gotten no closer to his adult life goals than he ever got to his childhood goals. Argent wanted to be rich. He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be surrounded by beautiful women who adored him. But as with everything else, he lacked the vision required to manifest these things, so once more he lowered his expectations. Now all he wanted was a job that gave him enough money to keep his car running, and enough beer so he could hang out with other low-expectation friends and bad-mouth the types of people who got a piece of their dream.
Then Connor showed up, and Argent truly believed, if he could only win Connor over, he could hitch himself up to Connor’s shooting star, and blast himself out of mediocrity.
It didn’t work out.
Then Argent figured hitching himself up with a seasoned parts pirate might provide him with a life of intrigue and purpose. After all, he’d already been doing some under-the-table dealing with groceries he’d been pilfering. That could be considered black-market experience, couldn’t it? His hopes were high for a future in parts pirateering.
That didn’t work out either.
And now he’s here. He supposes there are worse things than being in domestic service to a wealthy flesh trader, and once Argent regains face, perhaps Divan will promote him to a less thankless position. But who is he kidding? He has watched Divan and knows how he operates. If Argent screws up badly, he’ll be unceremoniously unwound. Otherwise, Divan will do the honorable thing and deliver what he promised Argent—but no more. He’ll be left, after his indentured servitude, at some airport somewhere with a new face, a handshake, and the same lack of a future he began with.
How amazing, then, to think that his entire life could change with a single wink.
He was terrified when Connor was brought in to Divan, and was certain that Connor would point the finger at Argent for having woken him in the first place. After all, that’s what Argent would have done: deflected the blame. Spread the misery. At first he didn’t understand Connor’s choice to protect him. He thought it might be a setup for something worse.
Then Connor winked at him as he was being led out, and the wink explained it all. Argent had dreamed of teaming up with the Akron AWOL. He thought there was no hope of that, but that wink says otherwise. It says that they aren’t just a team, they’re a secret team, and that’s the best kind. In that instant, Argent went from a flesh dealer’s valet to being the inside man! A high-level spy disguised as a flunky! I need you, Argent, that wink said. I need you, and I’m trusting my life to you.
In that wink, both Argent and his hero were redeemed.
Argent carries on his duties for the rest of the day with an uncharacteristic spring in his step, because he knows something that Divan doesn’t. He’s part of something even larger than this massive aircraft.
As much as Argent hated Connor Lassiter for ruining his face, now he loves him like a brother—and if Argent plays this right, his life, his story will be forever intertwined with Connor’s. That’s certainly enough for Argent to risk everything!
49 • Broadcast
“This is Radio Free Hayden on the air for your listening pleasure, broadcasting from somewhere where the farm smells are pungent.
“So much going on out there! Clappers and AWOLs and storks, oh my! We have heaping mounds of new intel to report on the Juvenile Authority, as well—such as, how their newly announced budget increases the size of their street force by twenty percent. That’s the largest single peacetime law enforcement personnel spike in modern history. It makes you wonder if this is ‘peacetime’ at all.
“But enough about the Juvies, let’s talk about Mason Michael Starkey, political dissident, freedom fighter, sociopathic mass murderer. Whatever you want to call him, and whatever your personal opinion of him, here are some objective facts for you.
“Fact number one: His last two missions before he vanished from sight were funded by the people who brought you self-destructive teenagers. Not run-of-the-mill ones, but the kind who actually blow themselves up. Yes, folks, Mason Starkey didn’t just use clappers in his harvest camp attacks, he was funded by them.
“Fact number two: Public support for the Juvenile Authority has actually increased since Starkey’s harvest camp liberations. Imagine that. The more harvest camps he frees, the less the public wants free teenagers!
“Fact number three: This year there is a record number of measures on the ballot and bills in Washington to determine the future of unwinding. Do we u
nwind prisoners? Do we allow the voluntary unwinding of adults? Do we give the Juvenile Authority the right to unwind kids without parental permission? Those are just a handful of the issues we’re being asked to make decisions on.
“So what does all that have to do with the price of parts in Paraguay? Well, we’ve all been laboring under the belief that clappers want to destabilize our world. Create chaos for chaos’s sake. But they made a crucial mistake when they put their muscle behind Mason Starkey, because it tipped their hand. It gave us a glimpse of their true motives.
“Funny how the more frightened people are, the more they turn to the Juvenile Authority to solve the problem. ‘Unwind the baddies!’ ‘Protect my children from those children.’ ‘Make the world safe for law-abiding citizens.’
“Y’know, if I wanted to make sure that the Juvenile Authority had greater and greater support, I would trick angry teenagers into blowing themselves up, and then blame the angry teenagers! No mess, no bother. Well, quite a lot of mess, but you get my point.
“I put this before you right here, right now: Clapping is not chaotic or random—it is a well-organized effort by the medical grafting industry to ensure the future of unwinding now and forever.
“If you don’t believe me, look for it yourself. Follow the money. Who gets rich if the Juvenile Authority gets strong? In the long run, who profits from clapper attacks? The smoking guns are hard to find, but they’re out there—and if you find something, let us know at
[email protected].
“Well, with the approach of distant sirens, I’m sorry to say that our time together has run out, but here’s a tune just right for finger snapping, as we sign off until next week! And remember, the truth will keep you whole!
“I’ve got you . . . under my skin. . . .”
50 • Lev
Denver Union Station. Eighteenth stop of the eastbound Zephyr, one of the few transcontinental passenger trains still running on a regular schedule. Lev pays for his ticket in cash. The ticket agent spares him a glance, then double-takes and shakes his head in clear disapproval. Still, the agent passes the ticket through the little hole at the base of the glass window. Only after leaving the line does Lev hear the agent say to the next customer, “We get all types here.”
There are Juvey-cops in the station. AWOLs always try to take trains. They rarely make it on board. One Juvey eyes Lev suspiciously and heads him off before he can get to the train.
“Can I please see some identification, son?”
“I’ve already been cleared by security. The Juvenile Authority doesn’t have the right to ask for identification without probable cause.”
“Fine,” says the Juvey-cop. “You can file a formal rights violation complaint with the Juvenile Authority after you show me your ID.”
He pulls out his wallet and hands an ID card to the cop. The ID has a new picture, reflecting how he looks now. The cop studies it, clearly disappointed that he can’t make an instant arrest.
“Mahpee Kinkajou. Is that Navajo?”
Trick question. “Arápache. Doesn’t it say so?”
“My mistake,” the cop says, handing him back the ID. “Have a nice trip, Mr. Kinkajou.” The cop knows better than to mess with him now. The Arápache are very litigious when it comes to their off-Rez youth being harassed by the authorities.
Lev glances at the officer’s name tag. “I’ll make sure to file that rights violation report when I get where I’m going, Officer Triplitt.” Lev won’t do it, but the officer deserves a little heartache.
Lev finds his train and gets on board, ignoring the glances and stares of strangers, although sometimes he stares back until the strangers are so uncomfortable, they look away. No one recognizes him. No one will. His new look guarantees that.
Passengers already settled in their seats glance his way as he moves down the aisle. One woman quickly deposits her purse in the empty seat beside her. “This one’s taken,” she says.
He passes through three coach cars until coming to one a little less crowded and finds a place where he can sit by himself. Across the aisle, however, is a girl who seems to have almost set up camp in the two seats she’s commandeered. She has a cobalt-blue streak in her black hair, and fingernails in various unmatching colors. She’s seventeen, maybe eighteen. Perhaps an AWOL who survived long enough to be legit, or a legit girl playing at nonconformity. One look at him, and she thinks she’s found a kindred spirit.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” he echoes.
A moment of awkward silence then she asks, “So who are they?”
He plays dumb. “Who are who?”
“Zachary Vazquez, Courtney Wright, Matthew Praver,” she says, reading them right off of his forehead, “and all the rest.”
He has no reason to lie to her. He had the names tattooed there so that they could be seen. His days of hiding are over. “They’re Unwinds,” he tells her. “They had no one to mourn for them. But now they have me.”
She nods in unconditional approval. “Very cool. Nervy, too. I like it.” She shifts from the window seat to the aisle seat. “So are they everywhere?”
“They’re head to toe,” he tells her.
“Wow! How many names are there?”
“Three hundred and twelve,” Lev says, and adds with a grin, “any more and it would look cluttered.”
That makes her laugh. She ponders his face and his clean-shaven head, then says, “You know, your hair will eventually grow back. You’ll have to keep shaving it if you want people to see the names.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
The train pulls out, and she moves across the aisle to sit next to him. Taking his hands, she examines the many names on his forearms, hands, and fingers. He lets her, enjoying the positive attention as much as he enjoyed the negative attention from the disapprovers.
“I like the color choices, and the fact that you didn’t spare your face. It was a bold choice.”
“None of them were spared, so why should any part of me be?”
He made sure that there wouldn’t be a single part of his body not covered by the names of the Unwound. His only regret is that there aren’t more. Jase was right. So much ink so fast hurt to the point of tears, and several sleepless nights. Even now it hurts, but he bore the pain, and he’ll bear it still. The simple lettering of the names in red, black, blue, and green looks like war paint from a distance. Only when you get close enough to see Lev’s eyes do the patterns resolve into the names of the Unwound. Jase is a true artist.
“I think it’s beautiful,” says the girl with the cobalt streak. “Maybe I’ll follow your lead.” She looks at her right arm. “I could ink an Unwind right here. Just one, though. There are times when less is more.”
“Sabrina Fansher,” he suggests.
“Excuse me?”
“Sabrina Fansher. She would have been number three hundred and thirteen if I’d kept on going.”
The girl frowns. “Who was she?”
“I wish I knew. All I have are their names.”
She sighs. “Her memories are scattered to the wind. Sad beyond sad.” Then she nods. “Sabrina Fansher it shall be.”
She introduces herself as Amelia Sabatini—her Italian last name making him think of Miracolina. Then she asks him his name. He hesitates before he tells her, still not entirely used to his new alias. “Mahpee,” he tells her. “Mahpee Kinkajou.”
“Interesting name.”
“It’s a Chancefolk name. You can call me Mah.”
“Better than Pee. Or Kinky.” She giggles. He decides he likes her, which could be a problem. His plans do not leave room for friendship.
“How far are you going?” he asks her.
“Kansas City. How about you?”
“All the way to the end of the line.”
“New York?”
“Or bust.”
“Well, I hope you don’t do that,” Amelia says, giggling again, this time a bit nervously. “What’s there in the Big Apple
for you?”
Her questions are probing. Invasive. With each one he’s liking her less and less. Instead of answering, he puts it back on her. “What’s for you in Kansas City?”
“A sister who can stand me,” Amelia says. “You have family in New York? Friends? Are you running away there?” She waits for his answer. She will not get one.
“It’s nice that you have someone in your life who can stand you,” he says. “Not everyone has that.”
Then he turns to look out of the window, and keeps looking out of the window until she’s moved across the aisle again.
51 • Tarmac
There are more than three thousand abandoned airfields in the world. Some are the relics of war, abandoned during peacetime. Others were built to handle air traffic in places where the population has declined. Still others were built by misguided investors, banking on a growth boom that never arrived.
Of those three thousand airfields, about nine hundred are still viable. Of those nine hundred, about one hundred and fifty have long enough runways to accommodate a craft the size of the Lady Lucrezia. Of those hundred and fifty, twelve are regular stops for the Lady—and they are spread out on every populated continent.
Today’s itinerary features northern Europe.
Six small private jets are already on the weedy tarmac of Denmark’s Rom Airfield, lined up like chicks awaiting the return of the mother hen. It’s a ritual repeated several times a month in each airfield, with no fear of government interference, thanks to some well-placed palm greasing.
Distribution is a procedure much simpler than the actual unwindings. The Lady Lucrezia lands, her hinged nose rises, opening her voluminous cargo hold, and the crates, already sorted to their various destinations are loaded upon the smaller craft, representing buyers anxiously awaiting their purchases. No worldwide delivery service is more efficient. No businessman is prouder of his operation than Divan Umarov.
52 • Risa