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 estimates it will take him twelve minutes to euthanize all fifty.