UnDivided (34 page)

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!

“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 unwind 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. . . .”

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.

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.

She watches the off-loading activity from the guest room window, getting only a small glimpse of it. This is the third time they've landed since she's been conscious. The first two times had them on the ground for less than ten minutes before accelerating down the runway once more, and she imagines this will be the same. Divan dispatches his cargo even faster than he unwinds them.

She turns at the sound of someone at the door, expecting to see Divan. Maybe he sold her after all, and the buyer is waiting on the tarmac to appraise the merchandise. She wonders if a swift kick to the groin would diminish her value in the bulging eyes of the recipient. Instead of Divan at the door, however, its Grace's half-faced brother.

“Unless you're here to spring me, I'm not interested.”

“Can't do that,” Argent says, “but I can take you to see Connor.”

And suddenly Argent's her new best friend.

“Gotta be quiet, and gotta be quick,” Argent tells her as he leads her out of the room, sounding a little bit like Grace. “Divan's outside supervising the off-load, but he'll be back in just a few minutes.”

Argent leads her farther back in the plane to another guest bedroom almost as richly appointed as hers. At first appearance, Connor's merely tucked into a well-made bed, until she realizes those aren't blankets, but dozens of thick canvas straps wrapping around him, locked into steel screw eyes in the floorboards, on either side of the bed. Those straps aren't just keeping him from escaping, they're keeping him from moving.

Yet in the midst of all this, Connor is still able to smile at her and say, “So I'm beginning to think this spa isn't what the brochure promised.”

Risa swore to herself that she wouldn't let him see tears, but she doesn't know how long she can hold to that.

“We're getting you out of here,” she says, kneeling to see how the bands are secured. “Argent, help me!”