Unwind (28 page)

“You had him unwound.”

“As one of the fathers of the Unwind Accord, I was expected to set an example.” He presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, stemming off tears before they can flow. “We signed the order, then changed our minds. But it was already too late. They had taken Harlan right out of school to the harvest camp, and rushed him through. It had already been done.”

It had never occurred to Connor to consider the toll unwinding had on the ones who signed the order. He never thought he could have sympathy for a parent who could do that—or sympathy for one of the men who had made unwinding possible.

“I'm sorry,” Connor says, and means it.

The Admiral stiffens up—sobers up—almost instantly. “You shouldn't be. It's only because of his unwinding that you're all here. Afterward, my wife left me and formed a foundation in Harlan's memory. I left the military, spent several years more drunk than I am now, and then, three years ago, I had The Big Idea. This place, these kids, are the result of it. To date I've saved more than a thousand kids from unwinding.”

Connor now understands why the Admiral was telling him these things. It was more than just a confession. It was a way of securing Connor's loyalty—and it worked. The
Admiral was a darkly obsessed man, but his obsession saved lives. Hayden once said that Connor had integrity. That same integrity locks him firmly on the Admiral's side, and so Connor holds up his mug. “To Harlan!” he says.

“To Harlan!” echoes the Admiral, and together they drink to his name. “Bit by bit I am making things right, Connor,” the Admiral says. “Bit by bit, and in more ways than one.”

Where Lev was between the time he left CyFi and his arrival at the Graveyard is less important than where his thoughts resided. They resided in places colder and darker than the many places he hid.

He had survived the month through a string of unpleasant compromises and crimes of convenience—whatever was necessary to keep himself alive. Lev quickly became street-smart, and survival-wise. They say it takes complete immersion in a culture to learn its language and its ways. It didn't take him very long to learn the language of the lost.

Once he landed in the safe-house network, he quickly made it known that he was not a guy to be trifled with. He didn't tell people he was a tithe. Instead, he told them his parents signed the order to have him unwound after he was arrested for armed robbery. It was funny to him, because he had never even touched a gun. It amazed him that the other kids couldn't read the lie in his face—he had always been such a bad liar. But then, when he looked in the mirror, what he saw in his own eyes scared him.

By the time he reached the Graveyard, most kids knew enough to stay away from him. Which is exactly what he wanted.

*   *   *

The same night that the Admiral and Connor have their secret conference, Lev heads out into the oil-slick dark of the moonless night, keeping his flashlight off. His first night there he had successfully slipped out to find Connor, in order to set him straight about a few things. Since then, the bruise from Connor's punch has faded, and they haven't spoken of it again. He hasn't spoken much to Connor at all, because Lev has other things on his mind.

Each night since then he's tried to sneak away, but every time, he's been caught and sent back. Now that the Admiral's five watchdogs have left, though, the kids on sentry duty are getting lax. As Lev sneaks between the jets, he finds that a few of them are even asleep on the job. Stupid of the Admiral to send those other kids away without having anyone to replace them.

Once he's far enough away he turns on his flashlight and tries to find his destination. It's a destination told to him by a girl he had encountered a few weeks before. She was very much like him. He suspects he'll meet others tonight who are very much like him as well.

Aisle thirty, space twelve. It's about as far from the Admiral as you can get and still be in the Graveyard. The space is occupied by an ancient DC-10, crumbling to pieces in its final resting place. When Lev swings open the hatch and climbs in, he finds two kids inside, both of whom bolt upright at the sight of him and take defensive postures.

“My name's Lev,” he says. “I was told to come here.”

He doesn't know these kids, but that's no surprise—he hasn't been in the Graveyard long enough to know that many kids here. One is an Asian girl with pink hair. The other kid has a shaved head and is covered in tattoos.

“And who told you to come here?” asks the flesh-head.

“This girl I met in Colorado. Her name's Julie-Ann.”

Then a third figure comes out from the shadows. It's not a kid but an adult—midtwenties, maybe. He's smiling. The guy has greasy red hair, a straggly goatee to match, and a boney face with sunken cheeks. It's Cleaver, the helicopter pilot.

“So Julie-Ann sent you!” he says. “Cool! How is she?”

Lev takes a moment to think about his answer. “She did her job,” Lev tells him.

Cleaver nods. “Well, it is what it is.”

The other two kids introduce themselves. The flesh-head is Blaine, the girl is Mai.

“What about that boeuf who flies the helicopter with you?” Lev asks Cleaver. “Is he part of this too?”

Mai gives a disgusted laugh. “Roland? Not on your life!”

“Roland isn't exactly . . .
the material
for our little group,” Cleaver says. “So, did you come here to give us the good news about Julie-Ann, or are you here for another reason?”

“I'm here because I want to be here.”

“You say it,” says Cleaver, “but we still don't know you're for real.”

“Tell us about yourself,” says Mai.

Lev prepares to give them the armed-robbery version, but before he opens his mouth, he changes his mind. The moment calls for honesty. This must begin with the truth. So he tells them everything, from the moment he was kidnapped by Connor to his time with CyFi and the weeks after that. When he's done, Cleaver seems very, very pleased.

“So, you're a tithe! That's great. You don't even know how great that is!”

“What now?” asks Lev. “Am I in, or not?”

The others become quiet. Serious. He feels some sort of ritual is about to begin.

“Tell me, Lev,” says Cleaver. “How much do you hate the people who were going to unwind you?”

“A lot.”

“Sorry, that's not good enough.”

Lev closes his eyes, digs down, and thinks about his parents. He thinks about what they planned to do to him, and how they made him actually want it.

“How much do you hate them?” Cleaver asks again.

“Totally and completely,” answers Lev.

“And how much do you hate the people who would take parts of you and make them parts of themselves?”

“Totally and completely.”

“And how much do you want to make them, and everyone else in the world, pay?”

“Totally and completely.” Someone has to pay for the unfairness of it all.
Everyone
has to pay. He'll make them.

“Good,” says Cleaver.

Lev is amazed by the depth of his own fury—but he's becoming less and less frightened of it. He tells himself that's a good thing.

“Maybe he's for real,” says Blaine.

If Lev makes this commitment, he knows there's no turning back. “One thing I need to know,” Lev asks, “because Julie-Ann . . . she wasn't very clear about it. I want to know what you believe.”

“What we believe?” says Mai. She looks at Blaine, and Blaine laughs. Cleaver, however, puts his hand up to quiet him. “No—no, it's a good question. A real question. It deserves a real answer. If you're asking if we have a cause, we don't, so get that out of your head.” Cleaver gestures broadly, his hands and arms filling the space around him. “Causes are old news. We believe in randomness. Earthquakes! Tornados! We believe in forces of nature—and
we
are forces of nature. We are
havoc. We're chaos. We mess with the world.”

“And we messed pretty good with the Admiral, didn't we,” says Blaine slyly. Cleaver throws him a sharp gaze, and Mai actually looks scared. It's almost enough to give Lev second thoughts.

“How did you mess with the Admiral?”

“It's done,” says Mai, her body language both anxious and angry. “We messed, and now it's done. We don't talk about things that are done. Right?”

Cleaver gives her a nod, and she seems to relax a bit. “The point is,” says Cleaver, “it doesn't matter who or what we mess with, just as long as we mess. The way we see it, the world doesn't
move
if things don't get shaken up—am I right?”

“I guess.”

“Well, then,
we
are the movers and shakers.” Cleaver smiles and points a finger at Lev. “The question is, are you one too? Do you have what it takes to be one of us?”

Lev takes a long look at these three. These are the kinds of people his parents would hate. He could join them just out of spite, but that's not enough—not this time. There must be more. Yet, as he stands there, Lev realizes that there
is
more. It's invisible, but it's there, like the deadly charge lurking in a downed power line. Anger, but not just anger: a will to act on it as well.

“All right, I'm in.” Back at home Lev always felt part of something larger than himself. Until now, he hadn't realized how much he missed that feeling.

“Welcome to the family,” says Cleaver, and gives him a slap on the back so painful, he sees stars.

Risa is the first to notice something's wrong with Connor. Risa is the first to care that something's wrong with Lev.

In a moment of selfishness, she finds herself aggravated by it, because things are going so well for her now. She finally has a place to be. She wishes this could remain her sanctuary beyond her eighteenth birthday, because in the outside world she'd never be able to do the things she's doing now. It would be practicing medicine without a license—fine when you're in survival mode, but not in the civilized world. Perhaps, after she turned eighteen, she could go to college, and medical school—but that takes money, connections, and she'd have to face even more competition than in her music classes. She wonders if maybe she could join the military and become an Army medic. You don't have to be a boeuf to be in a medical unit. Whatever her choice ends up being, the important thing is that there could
be
a choice. For the first time in a long time she can see a future for herself. With all these good thoughts in her life, the last thing she wants is something that will shoot it all down.

This is what fills Risa's mind as she makes her way to one of the study jets. The Admiral has three of his most accessible and well-appointed jets set aside as study spaces, complete with libraries, computers, and the resources to learn anything you want to learn. “This is not a school,” the Admiral told them shortly after they arrived. “There are no teachers, there are no exams.” Oddly, it's precisely that lack of expectation that keeps the study jets full most of the time.

Risa's duties start shortly after dawn, and it has become her habit to begin her day at one of the study jets, since at that time of the morning she's usually the only one there. She likes
it that way, because the things she wants to learn make other kids uncomfortable. It's not the subject matter that bothers them, it's the fact that Risa's the one studying it. Anatomy and medical texts, mostly. Kids assume that just because she works in the medical jet, she knows all there is to know. It disturbs them to see her actually having to learn it.

When she arrives today, however, she discovers Connor already there. She stops at the hatch, surprised. He's so absorbed in whatever he's reading that he doesn't hear her come in. She takes a moment to look at him. She's never seen him so tired—not even when they were on the run. Still, she's thrilled to see him. They have both been so busy, there hasn't been much time to spend together.

“Hi, Connor.”

Startled, he looks up quickly and slams his book closed. When he realizes who it is, he relaxes. “Hi, Risa.” By the time she sits down beside him, he's smiling, and doesn't seem quite so tired. She's glad she can have that kind of effect on him.

“You're up early.”

“No, I'm up late,” he says. “I couldn't sleep, so I came here. He glances out one of the little round windows. “Is it morning already?”

“Just about. What are you reading?”

He tries to push it out of view, but it's too late for that. He has two books out. The bottom volume is a book on engineering. That's no surprise, considering the interest he's taken in the way things work. It's the book on top—the one his nose was in when she arrived—that catches her by surprise, almost making her laugh.

“Criminology for Morons?”

“Yeah, well, everyone needs a hobby.”

She tries to take a long look into him, but he looks away. “There's something wrong, isn't there?” she asks. “I don't need
to read
Connor for Morons
to know that you're in some kind of trouble.”

He looks everywhere but into her eyes. “It isn't trouble. At least not for me. Or maybe it is in some ways, I don't know.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“That,” says Connor, “is the
last
thing I want to do.” He takes a deep breath and shifts in his chair. “Don't worry, everything will be fine.”

“You don't sound too sure.”

He looks at Risa, then looks at the hatch, making sure they're still alone. Then he leans in close to her and says, “Now that the Goldens are . . . no longer around, the Admiral's going to be looking for replacements. I want you to promise me that if he asks you to help him, you'll turn him down.”