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!”
But Argent doesn’t move. “Can’t do it,” he says. “And even if we could get him loose, we won’t be on the ground long enough to get him out.”
“That’s no reason not to try!”
“Risa, stop,” Connor says quietly.
“If I had a sharp enough knife . . .”
“Risa, stop!” says Connor a little bit louder. “I need you to slow down and listen to me!”
But the tears she kept from her eyes seem to be flooding her thoughts instead, filling her with panic. “This isn’t going to happen to you! I won’t let it!” And she continues to fight against his bonds until Argent says, “I told you she’d be useless.”
That, more than anything else, clears her mind enough to listen to what Connor has to say.
“I have a plan, Risa.”
Risa takes a deep breath to calm herself. “Tell me. I’m listening.”
“The plan is . . . you stay whole, and I get unwound.”
“That’s not a plan!” she yells.
“Shh!” Argent says. “The whole plane’ll hear you!”
As if in response the whole plane shudders and emits a mechanical grinding.
“Risa, it is a plan. Not much of one, but at least it’s something. Argent knows the details. He’ll fill you in.”
“The nose cone is closing!” Argent whines. “Divan will be back on board any second, if he isn’t already. I can’t be caught in here!”
But Risa can’t leave yet. Not without saying those words that come so hard, but mean more than anything now. The words she fears she may never get to say again. “Connor, I—”
“Don’t!” Connor’s lower lip quivers. “Because if you say it, it’ll sound too much like a good-bye, and I don’t think I could take that.”
And so Risa doesn’t speak it aloud, but it’s there between them, more powerful than anything either of them can say.
She leans over, kisses him, then hurries to the door where Argent waits, his half-face red with fright. It’s just as they leave that Connor breaks down and utters the words he couldn’t bear to hear himself.
“I love you, Risa,” he says. “Every last part of me.”
53 • Connor
“I hope you’re hungry.”
Connor cranes his neck to see Divan coming into the room with a tray. Connor answers him with a glare.
“No, I suppose you’re not,” says Divan, “but I wish you to have this meal anyway. And I wish you to enjoy it.”
Divan sits in the room’s only chair, depositing the tray on a small desk and removing its silver dome, releasing a plume of steam toward the ceiling.
“Fine,” Connor says, “and then you won’t be able to unwind me for twenty-four hours, isn’t that right? I can’t be unwound on a full stomach.”
“Ah yes,” says Divan, unrolling silverware from a napkin, “the many rules and regulations of the Juvenile Authority. Well, we do things differently here.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The room now smells rich with butter and garlic. Connor finds his mouth watering in spite of himself, and he despises Divan even more for making his own senses rebel against him.
“Have you ever had lobster, Connor?”
“I thought they were extinct.”
“There are still private farms if one knows where to find them.”
Through the corner of his eye, Connor sees Divan perform surgery on a red shell, removing a fist-size lump of steaming white shellfish meat.
“You’re going to have to free my hands if you want me to eat.”
Divan chuckles slightly. “Freeing your hands would give you ideas, and ideas would give you hope in a hopeless situation. It would be cruel to give you hope at this point, so no, your hands remain as restrained as the rest of you.” Divan cuts the meat, then with a small fork, he proceeds to push a piece of the lobster toward Connor’s mouth. “I will feed you. Your only responsibility is to enjoy the experience.”
Although Connor keeps his lips pursed, Divan patiently waits, with the fork just above his mouth, saying nothing, just waiting. Like the unwinding itself, Connor realizes this meal is inevitable. After a few minutes, he opens his mouth, and allows Divan to feed him the most expensive thing he’s ever eaten.
“You need to understand I am not your enemy, Connor.”
That’s much harder for Connor to swallow than the lobster. “How do you figure?”
“Because in spite of what you cost me with Starkey, I have nothing in my heart but admiration for you. Nelson may have had a vendetta against you, but I do not. In fact, were you not worth so many millions to me, I would seriously consider releasing you.”
The idea of Connor’s unwound parts being worth millions is so unimaginable to him that he glances at Divan to see if he’s making a joke. But Divan keeps a straight face as he lowers another piece of lobster to Connor’s mouth.
“You seem surprised. You shouldn’t be. You’re a worldwide folk hero. In fact, your auction has garnered almost twice what I thought it would.”
“So I’ve already been auctioned?”
“It was finalized an hour ago. And to buyers on every continent.” And then Divan smiles, “The sun will never set on you, Connor Lassiter. Few people can say such a thing.” Then he strokes Connor’s hair like a doting parent. Connor turns his head, but that doesn’t stop him.
“I said you could feed me. I didn’t say you could touch me.”
“Forgive me,” Divan says, feeding him some vegetables that are all texture and garlic. “I feel a closeness to my Unwinds that I don’t think you could understand. Do you know I occasionally sit beside them, comforting them as they’re brought into the unwinding chamber? Mostly they’re inconsolable. But once in a while they will look at me with eyes of acceptance and understanding. There are few things more gratifying.”
“What about the others you auctioned today? Will the sun set on them?”
“Every Unwind divides differently,” Divan explains. “There were five today, and all sold quickly.” Then he adds. “The boy before you sold piece by piece to only three buye
rs. They’ll be reselling, of course, but as long as they pay my price, what they do with the merchandise is their business.”
Connor takes a deep, shuddering breath. He hopes Divan doesn’t notice it. He doesn’t—he’s more interested in the meal, as he feeds Connor another chunk of chewy white pulp.
“How do you find the lobster?”
“Like shrimp with an attitude,” Connor says, then adds, “but in the end, in spite of all its airs, it’s nothing but a bottom-feeder.”
Divan blots Connor’s lips with a silk napkin. “Well, even we bottom-feeders have our place in the ecosystem.”
Logically, Connor knows the longer the meal takes, and the longer he keeps Divan talking, the longer it is until he’s unwound. Yet he finds his curiosity about Divan to be real. How can a man do what this man does and believe himself to be anything but Satan incarnate?
“I abhor violence, you know,” Divan says. “I grew up surrounded by it. I come from a family of arms dealers. But when it came my turn, I determined to rechannel my legacy, shifting away from the making of death to the sustaining of life.”
“You’re still an arms dealer,” says Connor. “And legs. And everything else.”
Divan nods, no doubt having heard it before. “I’m glad you’re able to keep your sense of humor in these penultimate moments.” He feeds Connor again, blots his mouth again, and then folds the napkin with compulsive precision. “I want you to know that you don’t have to worry about Risa. She will be well taken care of.”
“Taken care of,” Connor mocks. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you’re taking care of her?”
“There are worse things.”
To which Connor says, “Higher levels of hell are still hell.”
Divan looks to the tray and puts the fork down. “Congratulations, Connor. You’ve cleaned your plate. Your mother would be proud.”
Connor closes his eyes. My mother. How many yards was I from the front door before I was taken? How close did I come to knowing whether she’d see me with anything but shame? Now I’ll never know.
When he opens his eyes again, Divan is leaning closer, a strange hint of an Unwind’s desperation in his eyes. “I don’t want you to think ill of me, Connor.”
And of all the emotions Connor feels, anger is the one that rises to the surface. “Why would you care what I think? You’re about to tear me apart and sell me. Do you think if I forgive you—if any of us forgive you—it makes you worthy of forgiveness? Sorry, it doesn’t.”
Divan leans away, his veneer of aloof sophistication replaced with a despair as cold and empty as the air outside. Connor sees it only for a moment, but he sees it all the same—and in that moment, he realizes he has something that this man can only grasp at but can never capture: self-respect.
“We’re done here,” Connor says, realizing it will hasten the inevitable, but finding that he honestly doesn’t care anymore. “I’m tired of looking at you. Unwind me.”
As Divan stands, his perfect posture and larger-than-life presence seem hobbled. He looks away from Connor, not even able to hold his gaze. “As you wish.”
54 • Risa
An hour later, Risa sits before the Orgão Orgânico, with a Mozart étude playing in her head. Keeping her hands to her side, she clings to her last threads of hope, while behind her Divan reclines on a sofa, watching her. The plane shudders with a tremor of turbulence.
“Is it happening now?” she asks. She won’t look at Divan. Nor will she look up at the accusation of faces before her. She looks only at the keys. Black and white in a world of unrelenting gray.
“He’ll be in the chamber soon, if he’s not already,” Divan tells her. “Try not to think about it. Play something cheery.”
Her voice is barely a whisper when she says, “No.”
Divan sighs. “Such pointless resistance. This moral high ground of yours is nothing but quicksand.”
“Then let it take me under.”
“It won’t. You won’t let it—and you will play. Maybe not today, but tomorrow, or the day after that. Because it is in your nature to survive. You see, Risa, survival is a dance between our needs and our consciences. When the need is great enough, and the music loud enough, we can stomp conscience into the ground.”
Risa closes her eyes. She knows the dance. She did it for Roberta at Proactive Citizenry when she agreed to speak out in favor of unwinding. Yes, Risa was blackmailed, and she did it to protect the kids at the Graveyard, but still she joined the dance.
“It’s the way of the world,” Divan continues. “Look at unwinding, society’s grand gavotte of denial. There will, no doubt, come a time when people look to one another and say, My God, what have we done? But I don’t believe it will happen any time soon. Until then, the dance must have music; the chorus must have its voice. Give it that voice, Risa. Play for me.”
But Risa’s fingers offer him nothing, and the Orgão Orgânico holds the obdurate, unyielding silence of the grave.
55 • UNIS
The black box is bright on the inside. So bright that Connor must squint, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
“Hello, Connor Lassiter. Welcome to your divisional experience! I am your fully automated Unwinding Intelli-System, but you can call me UNIS.”
The voice is genderless. Guileless. UNIS truly wants to make this the happiest day of Connor’s life.
“Before we get started, Connor Lassiter, I have a few questions to make this a smooth and positive transition into a divided state. First, let me confirm your comfort level. Please rate your current level of comfort on a scale of one to ten, ten being least uncomfortable.”
Connor resolves to not give the machine the benefit of his response.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please rate your current level of comfort on a scale of one to ten, ten being least uncomfortable.”
His heart races out of his control. He tries to calm it by reminding himself he’s just one of many others to go this way. That he survived more than two years after the order to unwind him was signed. That’s more than most can say.
“All right, I’ll assume you’re sufficiently comfortable. Within the next few moments you’ll feel slight pricks on either side of your neck as I administer the anesthetized synthetic plasma to facilitate your division, and so that you do not suffer any pain. While I’m doing this, let’s take the time to personalize your experience. 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.
He wants to deny the fear, but he can’t. He thought he was stronger. He wishes he had someone to do for him what he did for Starkey. Take him out before UNIS could get its claws into him.
“Would you like me to repeat the choices? Please say yes or no.”
“Shut up!” Connor yells, unable to control himself. “Just shut the hell up!”
“I’m sorry, that’s not a valid response. Since you seem to be having trouble selecting, I’ll select for you. Your choice is . . . landmarks of the world.”
Images soar before him, changing with a slow, relentless rhythm. Mount Rushmore. The Eiffel Tower. Golden Gate Bridge. The anesthesia blurs the line between what’s part of him and what’s not. The images invade his mind as if they’re being projected inside his head.
“You may now begin to feel a flurry of activity in your extremities, most noticeably in your wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. This is entirely normal, and no cause for alarm.”
Great Wall of China. Rock of Gibraltar. Angkor Wat. The sun never sets on Connor Lassiter. Thousands of miles between every part of me. Western Wall. Leaning Tower. Niagara Falls. Will I be going to those places? Not if I can help it.
“I can also play your choice of musical genre. Please make your selection now, Connor Lassiter. You can say things like ‘techno-dance’ or ‘prewar rock.’ ”
All hope is now with Argent, and with Risa.
Risa . . .
/> He holds on to the image of her, projecting it out, even as the world is projected in. Back in the room where Divan had him, he was bound so tightly to that bed, Connor couldn’t touch her. He’d have given anything to have brushed her cheek one last time. He didn’t care whether it was his hand or Roland’s.
“Please make your musical selection now. . . .”
He knows that his life was a life worth living, and he lived it remarkably well these past two years, in spite of the bleak cards he was dealt. He knows what it means to save countless lives. He knows what it means to end a life. But more than anything he knows what it means to love. He has to believe he will take that with him, wherever it is he now goes, whether it be oblivion, or the proverbial “better place,” or an impossible web of global destinations.
“All right, I can choose for you. Your musical genre is . . . twentieth-century disco.”
He must leave the battle now. Let others take over for him. All this time he recoiled at being called the Akron AWOL. Now he embraces it, and in defiance of his unwinding, he shifts his identity from himself, to his legend. His absence will only make his presence greater.
“Won’t you take me to . . . FunkyTOWN?”
Connor doesn’t know what became of the organ printer. He can only hope that it will be repaired and find its way into the right hands. And that Cam will bring down Proactive Citizenry, and that Lev will find his peace. All the things worth hoping for. He’s amazed that even here, in the bowels of the beast, he finds a way to hope.
“You may feel unsettled by a sudden inability to breathe. Do not be alarmed; the need for you to breathe is no longer required.”
Perhaps it’s the anesthesia, but a sense of calm begins to come over him. Instead of the despair of things slipping away, Connor feels the empowerment of letting things go.
“We will soon be ending the audiovisual portion of your experience. Let me take this opportunity to say what a pleasure it has been to serve you, Connor Lassiter, on your special day.”
He stops imagining the parts of himself that he can no longer feel, and focuses on what he still can, living within each moment until the moment is gone. Until the beat of his heart is a memory. Until the memory is a memory. Until the core of all that he is, is split like an atom, releasing its energy into a waiting universe.