Connor climbs the stairs with a bag of tools, hoping that whatever it is, he can get in and out quickly. Like everyone else, he has a morbid curiosity about the man, and he wonders what an old presidential jet looks like on the inside. But being under the Admiral’s scrutiny scares the hell out of him.
He steps through the hatch to find a couple of kids tidying up. They’re younger kids that Connor doesn’t know; he thought the Goldens might be in here, but they’re nowhere to be seen. As for the jet, it’s not nearly as luxurious as Connor had expected. The leather seats have tears, the carpet is almost worn through. It looks more like an old motor home than Air Force One.
“Where’s the Admiral?”
The Admiral steps out from the deeper recesses of the jet. Although Connor’s eyes are still adjusting to the light, he can see the Admiral is holding a weapon. “Connor! I’m glad you could make it.” Connor winces at the sight of the gun—and at the realization the Admiral knows him by name.
“What do you need that for?” Connor asks, pointing at the gun.
“Just cleaning it,” says the Admiral. Connor wonders why he would still have a clip in a gun he was cleaning, but decides it’s best not to ask. The Admiral puts the gun into a drawer and locks it. Then he sends the two kids off and seals the hatch behind them. This is exactly the kind of situation Connor feared most, and he can feel a rush of adrenaline begin to tingle in his fingers and toes. His awareness becomes heightened.
“You need me to fix something sir?”
“Yes, I do. My coffeemaker.”
“Why don’t you just take one from the other planes?”
“Because,” says the Admiral calmly, “I prefer to have this one repaired.”
He leads Connor through the jet, which seems even larger on the inside than out, filled with cabins, conference rooms, and studies.
“You know, your name comes up quite often,” the Admiral says.
This is news to him, and not welcome news, either. “Why?”
“First, for the things you repair. Then for the fighting.”
Connor senses a reprimand on the way. Yes, he’s had fewer fights here than usual, but the Admiral is a man of zero tolerance. “Sorry about the fighting.”
“Don’t be. Oh, there’s no question that you’re a loose cannon, but more often than not you’re aimed in the right direction.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“From what I can see, each fight you’ve engaged in has resolved one problem or another. Even the fights you lose. So, even then, you’re fixing things.”
He offers Connor that white-toothed smile. Connor shudders. He tries to hide it, but he’s sure the Admiral sees it.
They come to a small dining room and galley. “Here we are,” says the Admiral. The old coffeemaker sits on a counter. It’s a simple device. Connor’s about to pull out a screwdriver to open up the back when he notices that it’s not plugged in. When he plugs it in, the light comes on, and it starts to gurgle out coffee into the little glass pot.
“Well, how about that,” says the Admiral, with another of his terrible grins.
“I’m not here for the coffeemaker, am I?”
“Have a seat,” the Admiral says.
“I’d rather not.”
“Have one anyway.”
That’s when Connor sees the picture. There are several photos up on the wall, but the one that captures Connor’s attention is of a smiling kid about his age. The smile looks familiar. In fact, it looks exactly like the Admiral’s smile. It’s just like Roland had said!
Now Connor wants to bolt, but Risa’s voice is in his head again, telling him to scan his options. Sure, he can run. Chances are, he can get to the hatch before the Admiral can stop him—but opening the hatch won’t be easy. He could hit the Admiral with one of his tools. That might give him enough time to get away. But where would he go? Beyond the Graveyard there’s just desert, desert, and more desert. In the end, he realizes his best choice is to do as the Admiral says. He sits down.
“You don’t like me, do you?” asks the Admiral.
Connor won’t meet his gaze. “You saved my life by bringing me here. . . .”
“You will not avoid answering this question. You don’t like me, do you?”
Connor shudders once more, and this time doesn’t even try to hide it. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“I want to know your reasons.”
Connor lets out a single rueful chuckle as his answer.
“You think I’m a slave dealer,” says the Admiral. “And that I’m using these Unwinds for my own profit?”
“If you know what I’m going to say, why ask me?”
“I want you to look at me.”
But Connor doesn’t want to see the man’s eyes—or, more accurately, doesn’t want the Admiral seeing his.
“I said look at me!”
Reluctantly, Connor lifts his eyes and fixes them on the Admiral’s. “I’m looking.”
“I believe you are a smart kid. Now I want you to think. Think! I am a decorated Admiral of the United States Navy. Do you think I need to be selling children to earn money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think! Do I care about money and lavish things? I do not live in a mansion. I do not vacation on a tropical island. I spend my time in the stinking desert living in a rotting plane 365 days a year. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know!”
“I think you do.”
Connor stands up now. In spite of the Admiral’s tone of voice, he feels less and less intimidated by him. Whether it’s wise or whether it’s foolhardy, Connor decides to give the Admiral what he’s asking for. “You do it because of the power. You do it because it lets you keep hundreds of helpless kids in the palm of your hand. And you do it because you can pick and choose who gets unwound—and which parts you’ll get.”
The Admiral is caught off guard by this. Suddenly, he’s on the defensive.
“What did you say?”
“It’s obvious! All the scars. And those teeth! They’re not the ones you were born with, are they? So, what is it you want from me? Is it my eyes, or my ears? Or maybe it’s my hands that can fix things so well. Is that why I’m here? Is it?”
The Admiral’s voice is a predatory growl. “You’ve gone too far.”
“No, you’ve gone too far.” The fury in the Admiral’s eyes should terrify Connor, but his cannon has come loose, and it’s beyond locking down. “We come to you in desperation! What you do to us is . . . is . . . obscene!”
“So I’m a monster, then!”
“Yes!”
“And my teeth are the proof.”
“Yes!”
“Then you can have them!”
Then the Admiral does something beyond imagining. He reaches into his mouth, grabs onto his own jaw, and rips the teeth out of his mouth. His eyes blazing at Connor, he hurls the hard pink clump in his hand down on the table, where it clatters in two horrible pieces.
Connor screams in shock. It’s all there. Two rows of white teeth. Two sets of pink gums. But there’s no blood. Why is there no blood? There’s no blood in the Admiral’s mouth, either. His face seems to have collapsed onto itself—his mouth is just a floppy, puckered hole. Connor doesn’t know which is worse—the Admiral’s face, or the bloodless teeth.
“They’re called dentures,” the Admiral says. “They used to be common in the days before unwinding. But who wants false teeth when, for half the price, you can get real ones straight from a healthy Unwind? I had to get these made in Thailand—no one does it here anymore.”