• • •
Of the various people touched by the 1411 letters, some remain coldhearted, or just in adamant denial—but more than a thousand find reading the words of their lost son or daughter to be a life-changing event. In a population of hundreds of millions, such a small number of people is a mere drop in the bucket . . . but enough drops can make any bucket overflow.
61 • Nelson
More than a dozen small private jets wait on the taxiway of a remote airfield outside of Calgary, Canada. This far north, the leaves have fully turned and are beginning to fall. The forest around the airstrip ripples fiery orange, yellow, and red as the wind passes through. Then the air falls still. The wind itself seems to anticipate the arrival of lot 4832: Connor Lassiter, divided.
Out of place among the sleek jets is a Porsche, whose driver watches as Divan’s behemoth craft drops through the low-hanging clouds and toward the runway, looking massive even from far away.
Jasper Nelson anxiously awaits a fresh pair of eyes in the car that Divan gave him as a reward for capturing the Akron AWOL. Let the rest of Connor Lassiter be dispersed to various billionaires around the world; Nelson is happy to possess his vision. He knows it will bring everything full circle. Once he’s seeing the world through those eyes, he will be able to bring his life back from the septic fringe, to a respectable place at last. Today, the troublesome young man that was Connor Lassiter will go the way of turning forest leaves, but the long winter of Jasper Nelson’s discontent will be made glorious summer once he has the sight of the boy who took his life away.
The plane lands with the gargantuan roar of airborne armageddon, and the moment it rolls to a halt, Divan’s ground crew gets to work refueling, The side passenger hatch opens, and stairs fold out for Divan. This is only the second time Nelson has come to Divan’s North American airfield. Either business is so brisk Divan must stay on top of it, or he has reasons not to stay in one place for too long. Divan makes his appearance a moment later, along with his harvest medic, who carries a small medical stasis cooler. They come directly to Nelson.
“Use them in good health, my friend,” Divan tells him as the nose cone of the jet begins to grind open for the transfer of the remaining cargo. Even before it’s fully raised, it becomes clear that something is very wrong.
A flood of kids bursts from the cargo hold, sprinting, running, limping in every direction. Not just a few, but dozens of them. All of them!
Suddenly Divan has more important things to do than bother with Nelson. He points to his bodyguard. “Stop them! Now!” The beefy man fumbles with his tranq gun, running and firing at the same time, missing as often as he takes one down. Tranqing AWOLs is not this man’s job. But it is Nelson’s.
“I’ve got this,” Nelson tells Divan. He pulls out his own tranq pistol and takes aim. “I love a shooting gallery.” Sure enough, every one of Nelson’s shots hits its mark, and in ten seconds he’s taken down ten kids—but there are simply too many for even Nelson to stop.
“Who is responsible for this?” Divan demands, and he runs to get more help from his staff. It’s Nelson who sees the answer to that question. She’s easy to spot, because of all the escaping kids, she’s the only one who’s not in a gray bodysuit. Risa Ward is up to her old tricks. But not for much longer.
Nelson ignores the others, taking aim at the prize.
Then just as he pulls the trigger, he’s grabbed from behind. The shot flies wild as his attacker puts him in a skillful choke hold so tight that it cuts off blood to Nelson’s brain. Darkness squirms in from his periphery, his legs buckle beneath him, and before he loses consciousness, he gets a brief glimpse of the face of his assailant.
And to his own personal horror, he sees it’s barely a face at all.
62 • Argent
The medic still has no idea that Argent took his spare key to the harvester.
Divan has no idea that Argent knows the code to access the UNIS control panel, which he copied from a small notebook on Divan’s nightstand.
Argent has found many times in life that people are never so clueless as when they think you’re stupid.
Thirty minutes before the Lady Lucrezia landed, the medic left the cargo hold with a small stasis cooler labeled LOT 4832-EY-L/R. Argent couldn’t help but snicker to himself. As a grocery checker, he knows better than anyone that labels are only as good as the idiot doing the labeling.
As the plane began its descent, Argent snuck into the harvester, knowing that even though the hapless medic basically lived his life at thirty-seven thousand feet, he was a nervous flier, and always buckled himself into a chair in the crew lounge. That gave Argent a window to do what he had to do—what Connor Lassiter would have done, were he not in a gazillion pieces. Argent shut off the sedation system to all the Unwinds and twisted the security camera to face the wall, just in case someone got the bright idea to monitor it. He waited for the first one to wake up, an umber kid whose eyes got a little buggy when he found out where he was and what was happening to him.
“When the rest wake up, keep ’em quiet,” Argent said. “Don’t let ’em freak out. Then, when that nose cone opens, run like it’s the end of the world, because it will be if you don’t.”
Then he left the harvester, strapping himself in next to the medic like it was any other day.
But his job wasn’t over yet.
As soon as the plane had landed and Divan had gone down to the tarmac, he unlocked Risa’s room and led her to the harvester, telling her the same thing he’d told the umber kid. By then the entire hold was crawling with scared, wakeful kids, but Risa had a certain presence about her that kept them quiet and in control.
“What about Connor?” Risa asked him, but it was no time for questions.
“I’ve taken care of it—just trust me.”
“That’s the problem,” Risa said. “I don’t.”
“Well, too freakin’ bad.”
He couldn’t stay—any second, Divan would demand something from him. A glass of Pellegrino or sunscreen for his delicate complexion. Divan always wanted something.
“If you get free, and you see my sister,” he told Risa, “tell her I saved you. She’ll get a kick out of it.”
“Wait—you’re not coming with us?”
Argent left without answering the question, because the answer was obvious. He’d made a deal with Divan. Six months for a face. He doesn’t have to be Divan’s best friend, he just has to stick to his end of the bargain—and as long as Argent plays dumb lackey, Divan will never suspect he was behind what happened today. For Argent Skinner, stupidity is the best camouflage.
And with the AWOLs all going AWOL, Divan doesn’t even notice Argent putting Nelson in that choke hold.
63 • Divan
In his years in the flesh trade, Divan Umarov has had to face many nasty situations. Unsatisfied buyers with dangerous tempers. Unscrupulous competitors whom he’s had to take out—and of course, the Dah Zey, who are a constant threat to his business and personal well-being. Through all of these things, Divan triumphed and managed to remain a gentleman. When it comes to handling adversity, Divan knows that calm objectivity will always save the day. He lost his temper when Starkey died, but he is determined not to be ruled by his emotions today.
He takes in the big picture. Kids running everywhere. His ground crew chasing them. Half of the kids are already over the fence.
“Let them go,” Divan says. Then, louder: “LET THEM GO!”
His bodyguard turns to him confused.
“But they escape. . . .”
“Why chase silver,” Divan says, “when we have gold to move?”
He turns to his valet, who watches the spectacle with one-eyed impotence. It’s all Divan can do not to smack him. “Skinner! Go help collect the ones we managed to tranq, and put them back in the hold. The rest are no longer our problem.” Then he looks down to see Nelson in a heap on the ground. “What happened to him?”
“Don’t know,” says Skinner. ?
??Must have been hit by a tranq.”
Well, Nelson’s not his problem either. “What are you waiting for?” he asks Skinner. “Get to work!”
Skinner bounds off, and Divan focuses his full attention on the real business of the day. He supervises the removal of the active stasis coolers, paying close attention to the ones marked LOT 4832. His big-ticket items. The various and sundry parts of Connor Lassiter.
Only when all the crates have been loaded onto their respective planes bound for their buyers does he relax. Skinner reports that nineteen out of one hundred and seventeen Unwinds were recovered, and are back inside. As for the lost Unwinds, it may sting in the moment, but it’s barely a setback at all. One trip around the world, and his suppliers will fill up his harvester once more. Divan looks around. Everything seems to be in order. The smaller jets are lining up to take off, and although Nelson’s car is still there, Nelson is nowhere to be seen. Divan doesn’t trouble himself with it. His work is done here. He grasps Skinner on the shoulder. “Good work,” he says. “Now please draw me a bath.”
Skinner trots up the stairs dutifully, but before Divan gets in the plane he takes a moment to consider the events that have just transpired. This was clearly sabotage by the Dah Zey. No question about it. That means there’s a traitor on his staff. As far as Divan is concerned, this is the last straw. If the Dah Zey want a war, they’ll get one. He’ll recruit a militia of skilled mercenaries and fight the Dah Zey to the death.
But in the meantime, Divan must deal with the traitor—and he’s pretty certain who it is. The medic was the only one with access to the harvester, both the day Starkey died and today. Divan prides himself on rewarding loyalty and hard work. Disloyalty and sabotage, however, must be met with swift and decisive action. No time to make a bonsai this time. And so before he boards the plane, he makes a request of his bodyguard. “I need you to release the medic from my employment, effective immediately.”
“Release from employment,” repeats his guard. “Use tranq?”
“Tranqs,” says Divan, “are for AWOLs and other naughty children. The medic requires something more permanent. What’s our next stop, Korea? We’ll pick up a new medic there.”
Then Divan, who abhors violence, gets on the plane, happy to let his guard take care of business, as long as it’s out of Divan’s presence.
64 • Nelson
The choke hold knocked him out for a good twenty minutes. Now he’s no longer on the airfield tarmac. Nor is he anywhere familiar at all. Nelson regains consciousness to find himself lying in a claustrophobic space larger than a coffin, but much, much worse.
“Hello, Jackass Dirtbag,” says a perky computer voice. “Welcome to your divisional experience! I am your fully automated Unwinding Intelli-System, but you can call me UNIS.”
“No! It can’t be!” He tries to lift his arms and legs, but they won’t move. He seems to be wearing that same gunmetal-gray bodysuit the Unwinds wore. Only now does he realize it’s made of metallic filaments, and he’s magnetically fixed in place.
“Before we get started, Jackass Dirtbag, I have a few questions to make this a smooth and positive transition into a divided state.”
“Is anybody out there! Somebody let me out of here!” He’s able to tilt his neck just enough to see someone peering in through the small window of the unwinding chamber. “Divan, is that you? Help me, please!”
“First, let me confirm your comfort level,” says UNIS. “Please rate your current level of comfort on a scale of one to ten, ten being least uncomfortable.”
And then he realizes with more than a little dismay who the observer is.
“Argent!” he yells. “Argent, you can’t do this!”
But Argent offers nothing but a stoic cyclops stare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that,” says UNIS. “Please rate your current level of comfort on a scale of one to ten, ten being least uncomfortable.”
“Argent, I’ll do anything! I’ll give you anything!” But Nelson knows what Argent wants. He wants the right half of his face back. Now.
“All right,” says UNIS, “I’ll assume you’re sufficiently comfortable. I see that my controls are set for an express unwinding without the use of anesthetic plasma. That means we can begin right away!”
“What? What was that?” Adrenaline panic makes his whole body begin to quiver. “Wait. Stop! Halt!”
“I regret, Jackass Dirtbag, that without anesthesia, you shall be experiencing extreme discomfort, beginning with your wrists, elbows, ankles, and knees, then quickly moving inward. This is perfectly normal for the machine’s current setting.”
As the process begins, Nelson locks on Argent’s impassive eye, and suddenly realizes that not only is Argent going to unwind him, but he’s going to watch every last minute of it. And he’s going to enjoy it.
“To take your mind off of your discomfort,” says UNIS, “I can project a variety of scenic vistas for you. Please choose from the following: mountain flyby, ocean tranquility, vibrant cityscape, or landmarks of the world.”
But all that comes from Nelson is a shrill, bloodcurdling wail.
“I’m sorry,” says UNIS, “that’s not a valid response.”
65 • Broadcast
“This is Radio Free Hayden broadcasting live once more, until we get chased away from the station. Today I have something special to share with my listeners. This comes from an article in a major national newspaper. Other articles just like it popped up in print and online everywhere this morning. Of course, some papers buried the story on page twelve beside mattress sale ads, but kudos to those who ran it front page, with a nice headline, like this one:
ARÁPACHE TO GIVE ASYLUM TO UNWINDS
By a unanimous vote of the Arápache Tribal Council yesterday, the nation’s wealthiest and most influential Chancefolk tribe has officially announced it will give protective sanctuary to all Unwinds seeking to remain whole. A spokesperson for the Juvenile Authority has stated that they do not recognize the tribe’s right to grant sanctuary to AWOLs, and vows to retrieve any fugitive Unwinds from Arápache territory. Chal Tashi’ne, an attorney for the tribe, responded by saying, “Any incursion by the Juvenile Authority on sovereign tribal land shall be seen as an act of war against the Arápache people, and will be met with deadly force.
“Regardless of what side you’re on, you’ve got to admit it took a lot of guts for a Chancefolk tribe to spin the wheel and go all in. If the Juvenile Authority thinks a tribe of once-great warriors is going to blink, they’re in for a surprise.
“And so, this week’s song—you know the one—goes out to our Arápache friends. Hopefully, we’ll see one or two of you at our rally in November. But until then—
“I’ve got you . . . under my skin. . . .”
66 • Cam
Pretty purple monkshood accents the ornamental gardens of Proactive Citizenry’s Molokai complex. The gardeners wear gloves, not only to protect themselves from the thorns of the rosebushes, but because of the monkshood, which they know is chock-full of aconite, a deadly poison that shuts down the respiratory system. It’s the roots of the plant that are the most dangerous, especially when boiled and distilled down into a concentrated toxin.
Once more, Camus Comprix defeats the security system of the Molokai complex by tapping the security computer on the wrong shoulder and making it look the other way. It’s night now. Not too late, just about ten o’clock, but late enough that activity in the medical research building is at a minimum. They never figured out how he compromised the video surveillance system that first time, so he does it again—now toward a different end. He’s delayed the signal by fifteen minutes. That’s how long he has to do the job before anyone sees what’s going on.
He slips into the ward of preconscious rewinds unobserved, carrying in his hands a bag with syringes and vials of his special aconite elixir. When it’s injected directly into the port of their intravenous PICC lines, they’ll die within a minute. Once he gets into a rhythm, he est
imates it will take him twelve minutes to euthanize all fifty.
Cam thinks he has it all under control. He’s sure his plan can’t go wrong. But then he makes a crucial mistake. Rather than beginning at the far end of the chamber, where the freshest rewinds lie, still heavily bandaged and nowhere near consciousness, he begins closest to the door, where the bandages have been removed and the rewinds are further along. Much further along.
As he fills the first syringe with the deadly liquid, he happens to glance down at the rewind.
And the rewind is looking back.
He studies Cam with a kind of vigilant terror, like a rabbit a moment before it bolts. Cam is hypnotized by two entirely mismatched eyes. One green, the other so dark brown it’s almost black. The lines of scars across his face are like the roads of an old city—random, and senseless. His hands—one sienna, one umber—test the bonds that tie him to the bed.
“The fly?” he says, pleading. “The fly? In the web? The fly?”
It would make no sense to most, but Cam knows the way a rewind thinks. He understands the strange connections its patchwork brain must make in order to communicate, leaping over the concrete, grasping only upon impressions. Metaphors. Of the many languages Cam knows, this one came first. The inner language of the rewound mind.
Cam knows the reference. An old movie. The head of a man on the body of a fly. It said, “Help me,” as it struggled in the spider’s web. “Help me, help me,” and then it was devoured.
“Yes,” Cam tells him. “I’m here to help you. In a manner of speaking.” He presses air out of the syringe, the muddy poison fluid squirting just a bit from the needle tip. He finds the injection port and readies himself to end this poor rewind’s life.
“Hike in the woods,” the rewind says. “I told you to wear long pants. Pink lotion everywhere.”