Hayden seems far too pleased by the fact. “What are you smiling about? SPAM sucks.”
“Are you kidding me? SPAM is my god. It’s the only deity that can be eaten raw or fried. The stuff of Holy Communion.”
The most annoying thing about Hayden is that Starkey can never tell if he’s being disrespectful or just habitually sarcastic. For a while Hayden had been a problem, refusing to do the computer legwork Starkey needed to choose their targets. Lately, however, Hayden seems to have gotten with the program. Now that he’s been demoted back to food service, he does his job with competent, if somewhat acerbic, cheer. Starkey still has no real trust of Hayden, but there’s no one else who’s organized enough to get food on the table three times a day for all six hundred of them. Hayden Upchurch is a necessary evil.
“You’ll be serving in ten minutes, or I’ll be looking for your replacement.”
“Ultimatum acknowledged,” Hayden says, and continues his work.
Starkey finds Bam in the weapons locker, unloading unmarked crates that were delivered in unmarked trucks. Their benefactors don’t scrimp when it comes to giving them best of the best in artillery.
“What have we got?” Starkey asks.
“See for yourself,” Bam says. “More assault rifles, submachine guns. And a whole bunch of Glocks. I guess they decided we need pistols for the littler kids.”
Her voice drips with attitude, a kind of vitriolic sarcasm much darker than Hayden’s. “Would you rather they go into a hostile environment unarmed?”
She doesn’t answer the question, but when the kids helping her leave for dinner, Bam says, “Doesn’t it bother you at all that we’re being bankrolled and armed by the same people who fund the clapper movement?”
He rolls his eyes. He’s never felt the slightest bit ambivalent about this. You never look a gift horse in the mouth, no matter where that gift horse has been. “C’mon—it’s not like we’re blowing ourselves up.”
“Not yet. But who knows what they’re going to ask in return for all they’re giving us?”
“Has it occurred to you that the more they fund us, the less of their money goes to clappers?”
Bam laughs bitterly. “That’s your best rationalization yet! ‘Mason Starkey: saving the world from clappers one dollar at a time!’ ”
She goes out for dinner, leaving Starkey furious that she got the last word. In spite of being the undisputed master of his domain, Starkey always feels slightly diminished after going head-to-head with Bam. There’s no question that she’s been an asset—she’s great at riding in his wake, keeping things running smoothly—but her insubordination has begun to cross the line, and that cannot be tolerated. Starkey knows he needs her for the next harvest camp takedown. But after that, there’s room for change. There are plenty of qualified storks who could do the work Bam does. Kids he can truly trust, who won’t second-guess him or give him snark.
The next harvest camp they’re taking on is a big one. Lots of security. Lots of firepower. Who’s to say if Bam will even make it back alive?
6 • Connor
Stagnation. It numbs him, dulls his senses and his response time. It saps his motivation. The task before them is so immense, he doesn’t know where to start. Now that they have the printer, they need to make plans, but Sonia’s basement is as it ever was, like a black hole drawing them back into the shut-in mentality of the safe-house AWOL. Risa tends to the various scrapes and medical woes, and does a good impersonation of a shrink for those kids who need someone to talk to, which is all of them, although not all of them are willing to talk. As for Connor, there are so many broken appliances, he finds his time is way too easily passed repairing them. It’s easier than being proactive with the printer, because the world out there is a minefield. A single misstep and it’s all over.
Proactive.
Connor knows while he’s treading water, Proactive Citizenry is casting their formidable spells out there. More ads to mystify and befuddle the public. Are people really such sheep that they can be fooled? Maybe. Or maybe with so much conflicting media, people just shut down. Maybe that’s the point. The movement to overthrow Cap-17 keeps gaining supporters. Measures calling for more harvest camps, and more ways to legally unwind “incorrigibles” keep gaining traction. The pundits are actually calling it the Starkey Factor. What’s been obvious to Connor now has now been officially defined. Starkey and his storks spread more and more terror with every harvest camp they take down, but rather than dealing a blow to unwinding, those brutal, bloody attacks drive the public to embrace anything and anyone who promises to make the Starkeys of the world go away. Forever.
These relentless wheels turn in the outside world, but in Sonia’s basement the days blend into nights, which blend back into days. It’s hard not to be drawn into lethargy when your sanctuary is a timeless limbo.
“Sonia’s been busy trying to find new safe houses for these kids,” Risa explains, as if it’s an excuse for doing nothing but waiting. “But the old network has fallen apart, and without the Graveyard, there’s no destination anymore.”
It was clear to Connor even before he left the Graveyard that the Anti-Divisional Resistance couldn’t resist anything anymore. The ADR seems to have broken down completely. Key players in the resistance have been disappearing. Rumor has it that a number of them have been killed in “random” clapper attacks. It makes Connor wonder if the chaos and anarchy that clappers espouse have a deeper agenda that’s anything but chaotic. And if he’s wondering, there must be others who are too. Many others. But how does he find them . . . or, more to the point, how can he mobilize them to action?
“We’re not going to save these kids by shuttling them around,” he tells Risa. He can’t help but look to the organ printer that sits so innocuously covered by a rag in the corner near where they sleep. There’s the answer, but an answer means nothing if the world doesn’t first hear the question.
They’re going to need help. Help from the outside.
It’s Grace, with her keen head for strategy, who gives them food for thought. “Of course, if you ask me, which you didn’t,” she says, “what ya gotta do is find someone connected in a wireless sort of way.”
“A viral grassroots media kind of thing?”
“More like fertilizer to get those roots growing in a healthy kinda way,” says Grace.
It immediately gets Connor thinking about Hayden. He’d be the first to call his “Radio Free Hayden” broadcasts fertilizer. After all, the range of his “station” never got beyond the boundaries of the airplane graveyard, but his little manifesto upon his arrest has become an iconic meme among the disenfranchised. If he broadcast now—or even shouted from the top of a building—people would listen. Unfortunately Connor has no idea where he is, or if he’s even still alive.
When they bring the question of their next move with the organ printer to Sonia, she has the same advice every day.
“Sleep on it,” Sonia tells them—and it’s infuriating. Could it be that she’s just as terrified as the rest of them about this powder keg on which they sit?
* * *
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* * *
Connor fixed the broken basement TV on his second day there. Beau insists it be tuned only to entertainment, and never the news.
“We know what’s going on out there, and none of it’s good,” says Beau. “Better we should all laugh and try to forget for a little while.”
Well, screw that. It’s the one time when Connor flexes his muscles and refuses to get with the program. Beau is wise enough not to fight. Instead he permits it, using it to show what a magnanimous leader he is.
The news doesn’t make anyone feel good—but as far as Connor is concerned, that’s how it should be. When you’re a prisoner of society, you shouldn’t play at escape. At least until you really can escape it.
It’s September now. Less than two months to election day, and the politicians who traditionally waffle on the unwinding issues are beginning to take sides that transcend all party lines, for the parties are divided. Connor watches a congressman on a Washington talk show speak of “the sociological necessity of unwinding undesirables.”
Although the basement is warm, Connor notices that Risa crosses her arms as she watches, rubbing them like she’s shielding herself from the wind. “I’ll never understand how they’re able to spin murder into social consciousness.”
“It’s not murder, didn’t you know?” says Connor, and convincingly mimics the wholesome voice of a trustworthy announcer. “ ‘It’s the kindest thing we can do for troubled youth with biosystemic disunification disorder.’ ”
Grace, who seems to hear everything between him and Risa, just stares at him. “You’re kidding. Right?”
If it were anyone else, Connor wouldn’t justify the question with a response, but for Grace he winks, and she laughs in relief.
“We need to move on this,” Connor says. They should be out of here seeking out the people who can actually use the printer—or at least trying to find out if it even works. He’s taken the lead, but has yet to take action. It’s not like him, and he wishes he knew what was holding him back.
“Move on what,” Beau asks, adding his nose into the conversation. They’ve told none of the kids down in the basement about the printer because trust among AWOLs must be earned. There’s no telling where these kids will ultimately end up and what bargains they’ll strike to save their own lives.
“Lunch,” says Connor. “Are you cooking today?”
Beau knows he’s lying, but also doesn’t push, probably because he also knows he won’t get any information from Connor that Connor does not want to give. Better to avoid pushing than to push and fail. Beau chooses his battles well: only the ones he stands a good chance of winning. Connor actually finds that admirable; the kid doesn’t waste his time in futile pursuits. He could actually be a decent leader if he ever gets over himself.
When Sonia comes down to deliver cold cuts and fairly stale bread for supper that night, Connor manages to talk to her alone, while Beau and the other kids are occupied scarfing down their sandwiches.
“You do realize that we need to get our hands on some of those stem cells you were talking about, and make sure the printer still works before we go public.”
“Fine,” says Sonia, glaring at him. “I’ll pick some up at Walmart tomorrow.” And when Connor doesn’t back down, Sonia sighs. “You’re right. But it won’t be easy. There are only a few research universities in the Midwest that still do that sort of research. Major organizations won’t fund it, because people think stem cell research has something to do with embryos, and people are terrified it might reignite Heartland War issues. Even the mention of it brings protests and negative publicity. Of course, adult pluripotent stem cells have nothing to do with embryonic stem cells, but facts never prevent the ignorant from jerking their knees into the groin of science.”
Connor grins. “Well, once we get this thing to work, and into the right hands, we can redirect that knee, hitting the Juvenile Authority and Proactive Citizenry where it counts!”
“I hope I live to see that day,” Sonia says, and pats him on the cheek like a grandmother might. Connor, usually a bit of a touch-me-not, finds it curiously comforting. “I’ll find us a place that has a supply of cells,” she tells him. “The tricky part will be getting them.”
• • •
“What the hell are you doing? Stop that! Do you have any idea what those are?”
Sonia has left the trapdoor open a bit longer than usual to help air out the basement, which has gotten noticeably rank. Connor, who takes every chance available to escape the cage, has come upstairs to find Grace at the old steamer trunk. She’s opened it and envelopes are spilling out everywhere.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it!” Grace frantically tries to put them back in, but the trunk is so full, they just topple out again. It’s like trying to get toothpaste back in the tube.
Connor immediately regrets having yelled at her. He kneels down beside her. “Calm down, Grace.”
“I just wanted to see what was inside, and they all started falling out. I didn’t mean it!”
“I know you didn’t. It’s all right. Go downstairs, and I’ll take care of it.”
Grace doesn’t need a second invitation. “I gotta stop touching things. Curiosity killed the cat. I gotta stop touching things.”
Grace bounds down the stairs away from the situation, leaving Connor once again alone with the trunk, only this time Pandora’s box is wide open. He has no idea where Sonia is, and what she’d say if she saw it like this.
There are hundreds upon hundreds of envelopes, many more than were there when Connor deposited his. The envelopes are mostly white and eggshell, but there is also the occasional colored one, as if Sonia got bored and started giving out brighter stationery to the kids. Each envelope is addressed by hand.
Now that he’s begun, Connor finds he can’t stop himself. He begins riffling through the sea of envelopes looking for a familiar address, in familiar handwriting. His envelope was simple white, and is hard to dig out of this snowstorm of correspondence.
“You’ll never find it in there,” Sonia says, coming up behind him, as he’s elbow-deep in the trunk.
He takes his hands out, feeling almost as guilty as Grace had, and sits back on the dusty floor. “Haven’t you mailed any of them?”
“Not a one,” Sonia says sadly. “Never had the heart to do it.”
“Did any kids who survived come to take their letter back?”
“Not a one,” Sonia says again. “Guess they had more pressing things to do. If any of them did survive.”
“A lot of them did,” Connor reassures her. “I know because I sent a lot of them on their way when they reached a safe age.”
“You sent them?” says Sonia. “I guess I should ask what you’ve been up to all this time, but I figure you’d rather not talk about it.”
Connor smiles. She’s got that right.
“You’re not mixed up with that awful Starkey person, are you?”
Connor grimaces and can’t hold her gaze. “He’s actually my fault. My own little wind-up psychopath.”
“Hmmph,” says Sonia, and mercifully doesn’t ask for details. “You may have wound him up, but he’s not following anyone’s marching orders but his own. We all have our accidental monsters.”
Connor looks back to the letter-filled trunk and finally understands why he’s still here. What’s been holding him back.
“Will you ever send them out?” he asks.
Sonia sits at her desk, leaning forward on her cane. “I suppose if the time is right to unveil the
printer, the time might be right for a postal run.” Then she pauses, checks to see that no one is coming up from the basement, and proceeds to read Connor’s mind.
“But you don’t want me to mail yours, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Because you’re thinking you might deliver it yourself.”
Connor takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “Is that just me being self-destructive again?”
“I can’t say . . . but it would seem to me that wanting to bring closure is anything but self-destructive.”
He looks to the trunk one more time. “What’s the use? Like you said, I’ll never find it in there anyway.”
“No, you won’t.” Then she opens her top desk drawer and pulls out a single envelope. “Because it’s right here.”
Had she pulled out a stick of dynamite, it couldn’t have felt more dangerous.
“I went fishing for it the night you came back. I thought you might want it eventually.”
She hands it to him. His handwriting. The address where he grew up. On the back is the ripple of dried saliva where he licked it closed two years ago. He cannot yet tell if this letter is an enemy or a friend.
But now that he’s holding it in his hand, there’s something he knows beyond the shadow of any doubt.
God help me . . . before this is all over, I’m going to face them. I’m going to confront my parents. . . .
Part Two
* * *
Here Be Dragons
From The Telegraph:
GIRL SMUGGLED INTO BRITAIN TO HAVE HER “ORGANS HARVESTED”
By Steven Swinford, Senior Political Correspondent 10:00 PM BST 18 Oct 2013
The first case of a child being trafficked to Britain in order to have their organs harvested has been uncovered.
The unnamed girl was brought to the UK from Somalia with the intention of removing her organs and selling them on to those desperate for a transplant. . . .