UnDivided (31 page)

There is a small table across the room with food for her. Light fare: Danish and such. She eats in spite of her resistance to accept anything offered her.

When the black marketer returns, he's pleased to see she's eaten, which makes her just want to throw it all up in his face.

“I can give you the grand tour if you like,” Divan offers.

“I'm a prisoner,” she reminds him flatly. “Why would you give a prisoner a tour?”

“I do not have prisoners,” he tells her. “I have guests.”

“Is that what you call the kids you unwind? Guests?”

He sighs. “No, I don't call them anything. If I did, it would make my work all the more difficult, you see.”

He holds out his hand to help her up, but she will not take it. “Is there a reason why I'm a ‘guest,' and not one of them?”

He smiles. “You'll be pleased to know, Miss Ward, that the clients of mine who are interested in you are only interested in you
corpus totus
. That is, in your entirety. Isn't it nice to know that of all the souls on board, you are the only one worth more whole than divided?”

Somehow that doesn't give her much comfort. “What sorts of clients buy someone
corpus totus
?”

“Wealthy ones with a penchant toward collecting. There's
a Saudi prince in particular who's been obsessed with you. He's made overtures in the millions.”

She tries to hide her revulsion. “Imagine that.”

“Don't worry,” Divan tells her. “I'm less motivated to make a deal than you might think.”

He holds his hand out to her once more, and again she refuses to take it. She does stand up, however, and moves to the door.

“You'll find the tour very eye-opening, to say the least,” Divan says, unlocking the door. “And on the way you can entertain yourself by scheming ways to escape, and ways to kill me.”

She makes eye contact with him for the first time, a bit shocked, because that is exactly what she was thinking. The look he returns is much warmer than she wants it to be.

“Don't be so surprised,” he says. “How could I
not
know what you'd be thinking right now?”

Aside from the constant drone of the engines and the occasional turbulence, it is hard to believe that all this is crammed into a single airplane. The bedroom opens up into a vaulted living area, its geometry determined by the plane's width and the dome of the fuselage. There are sofas, a dining table, and a multiscreened entertainment center.

“The kitchen and pantry are below,” Divan says. “My chef is world-class.”

At the far end of the room, dominating the space, is something Risa needs time to wrap her mind around. It's an instrument. A pipe organ—however, instead of gleaming brass pipes, this one has faces. Dozens of faces.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Divan says with pride. “I purchased it from a Brazilian artist, who has apparently made a career working in flesh. He claims his artwork is to protest unwinding, but I ask you, how much of a protest can it be if he uses the unwound for his art?”

Risa is drawn to the thing like a spectator to a car accident. She's seen this before. In a dream, she thought. A dream that kept recurring. Only now does she realize that the dream had a grounding in reality: something she once saw on TV, although she can't place exactly when.

“He calls it ‘Orgão Orgânico.' ‘The Organic Organ.' ”

Each shaved head rests inert, symmetrically placed above the keyboard, on multiple levels, connected to it by tubes and ducts. It's the very definition of abomination. Risa finds it too grotesque to even trigger the proper emotion. Too horrifying to feel. Slowly she reaches forward and pushes down on a key.

And directly in front of her, a disembodied face opens its mouth and voices a perfect middle C.

Risa yelps and jumps back, right into Divan. He gently holds her by the shoulders, but she pulls free.

“Nothing to fear,” he tells her. “I assure you the brains are elsewhere—probably helping rich Brazilian children to think better. Although the eyes do open from time to time, which can be disconcerting.”

Finally Risa tries to voice her own opinion, and it's far from middle C. “This thing . . . this thing is . . .”

“Unthinkable—I know. Even I was taken aback when I first viewed it . . . and yet the more I looked at it, the more compelled I was to have it. Such lovely voices should be heard, yes? And I'm not without a sense of irony. The
Lady Lucrezia
is my
Nautilus
, and I, like the good captain Nemo, must have my organ.”

Although Risa has turned away, she finds her gaze drawn back to it, compelled to look on it, terrified of the prospect that it might look back.

“Won't you play it?” he asks her. “I can't do it justice, and I understand you're quite the accomplished pianist.”

“I'd cut off my hands before I touch that thing again. Get me away from it.”

“Of course,” says Divan, ever obliging, but noticeably disappointed. He directs her to a stairwell across the room. “The tour continues this way.”

Risa can't get away from the Orgão Orgânico fast enough. Yet as Divan said, the image lingers, along with a strange compelling sensation, like standing on a high ledge and leaning over, tempting gravity to steal one's balance. As horrified as she is by the eighty-eight-faced monstrosity, she's more horrified by the thought that she might actually want to play it.

They leave the comfort of his flying chalet, moving to the nether regions of the behemoth aircraft, into corridors and gangways without polished wood or leather, only utilitarian aluminum and steel.

“The harvest camp takes up the front two-thirds of the
Lady Lucrezia
. You'll be impressed by the economy of space.”

“Why?” she asks. “Why are you showing me all of this? What possible purpose could it serve?”

Divan pauses before a large door. “It is my belief that the sooner you get beyond your initial shock, the sooner you will reach a place of comfort.”

“I'll never be comfortable with any of this.”

He nods, perhaps accepting her statement, but not its validity. “If there's one thing I understand well, it is human nature,” he says. “We are the pinnacle species, are we not? This is because we have a remarkable ability to adapt, not just physically, but emotionally. Psychologically.” He reaches for the door handle. “You are a consummate survivor, Risa. I have every faith that you will adapt in glorious ways.” Then he swings the door open.

•  •  •

Risa was, as part of her state home enrichment program, once taken to a factory that manufactured bowling balls, mainly because it was the only factory convenient enough to take state
home kids. What impressed Risa most was the complete lack of human involvement. Machines did everything from extruding the rubber core, to polishing the outer layer, to drilling holes to computer-precise specifications.

The moment Risa crosses the threshold, she realizes that Divan does not run a harvest camp at all. He runs a factory.

There are no cheery dormitories, no high-energy counselors. Instead, there's a huge drum, at least twenty feet in diameter, lining the shell of the airplane, inset with more than a hundred niches. In those niches lie Unwinds, like bodies in a catacomb.

“Do not be deceived by appearances,” Divan tells her. “They rest on beds of the highest-quality silk, and the machine tends to their every needs. They are kept well nourished and spotlessly clean.”

“But they're unconscious.”

“Semiconscious. They are administered a mild sedative that keeps them in a twilight state, perpetually at the moment between dreams and waking. It's very pleasant.”

At the far end of the cylindrical space is a huge black box about the size of an old-world iron lung. Risa shuts her thought processes down before she can imagine its purpose.

“Where's Connor?”

“He's here,” Divan tells her, gesturing vaguely to the chamber of Unwinds around them.

“I want to see him.”

“Unwise. Another time, perhaps.”

“You mean after he's been unwound.”

“For your information, he will not be unwound for several days at least. Auctioning off the parts of the Akron AWOL is a major affair—it takes time to get all my ducks in a row.”

She looks at the semiconscious Unwinds all around her
and finds herself feeling weak at the knees again, as she did when she still had tranqs in her system. Meanwhile, Divan strolls through the space with carefree confidence.

“The Burmese Dah Zey represents the darkest end of what you call the black market. Slow unwinding without anesthesia, and in unsanitary conditions. Deplorable! I, on the other hand, strive for something better. I give these Unwinds a quality of treatment finer than any officially sanctioned harvest camp. Comfortable repose, electrical stimulation that painlessly tones their muscles, and a continual sense of euphoria as they await their unwinding. Many world leaders have purchased parts from me, although they would never admit it. Including several from your country, I might add.”

The drum suddenly comes to life, and begins to rotate around them, repositioning the Unwinds. A mechanical arm reaches over to check on one of them with the gentle care of a mother's touch.

“Is the tour over? If it's not, I don't care. I've seen enough.”

Divan takes her back to the living area, and she casts her eyes away from the organ, although she catches its reflection in a mirror. When they reach her bedroom, someone's there making her bed. He begins to work faster when he sees them.

“Almost done, sir.”

The man seems frail, and a bit fearful, as if he were caught doing something he shouldn't. He doesn't appear to be much older than Risa. When he turns to glance at her, she's taken aback by his appearance. Part of his face is missing, and in its place is a formfitting biobandage, a paler pink than actual skin, covering his eye socket and most of his right cheek. He looks somewhat like the Phantom of the Opera with only one eye. The left side of his face doesn't
look much better, having several scars that seem somewhat fresh.

“Your henchman, I presume,” Risa says.

Divan is actually insulted. “I am not so arch as to have henchmen. This is Skinner, my valet.”

Risa gives up a bitter grin in spite of herself. “How appropriate that you call him Skinner.”

“Mere serendipity,” Divan says. “That's his actual name.”

Skinner leaves quickly, obsequiously, closing the door behind him. Then it occurs to Risa that Skinner is also Grace's last name. Could this be the troublesome brother she kept talking about? The more she pictures the half of his face that she could see, the more she's convinced there's a resemblance.

“What do you want from me?” Risa asks Divan, although she's afraid to hear the answer.

“Something simple,” he tells her. “At least for you. I wish you to play the Orgão Orgânico for me. I have no talent for it, and it begs to be played by one with the skill.”

He lets the proposition hang in the air. Risa can't dare to imagine herself sitting before the thing.

“No matter how well I play, you'll tire of the music, and of me,” Risa tells him. “What happens to me then?”

“If our arrangement proves no longer viable, I shall let you go.”

“In how many pieces?”

Divan rolls his eyes at her skepticism. “Risa, I am not a bad man. My business may be unsavory, but I am not. Consider the cattle farmer who raises Kobe beef. Is he to be condemned because his stock must be slaughtered? Of course not! I am no different; I just provide a different nature of product . . . and I provide it in a manner far more humane.” He begins to walk toward her. “Unlike my associate who captured you, I have been able to separate myself from my work.”

She sidesteps, refusing to be made to back up, but still maintaining a safe distance between them.

“Your choices are simple,” he tells her. “You can choose to stay here, or you can choose to be auctioned. Here, I can promise you peace, patience, and respect. Which is more than I can say for the Saudi prince.”

The veiled threat has the desired affect, and in spite of herself, Risa feels a sense of claustrophobia closing in around her. Still, she pulls forth the courage to make her own proposition.

“I'll do what you want under one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You let Connor go.”

Divan claps his hands together, overjoyed. “Excellent! The mere fact that you've entered negotiations is a step in the right direction. Unfortunately, freeing Connor is not an option.”

“In that case, you can go to hell.”

Divan is not offended, only amused. “I'll give you time to reconsider. In the meantime, I have another high-profile Unwind to auction off.”

Risa can't help but ask, “Who is it?”

“America's most wanted,” he answers. “I paid Proactive Citizenry a small fortune for him, but the profit I'll make will be worth it. There are many people out there who would like to own a piece of Mason Michael Starkey.”

He must be smart. He must be shrewd. But more than anything else, he must be obedient.

“I pitied you,” Divan told him after the good half of his face had been harvested and given to Nelson. “Anyone else would have unwound the rest of you, but it's rare that I feel true pity, so I chose to act on it.”

Pity, however, was not accompanied by charity. Rather
than replacing the missing half of Argent's face, Divan had it patched with the biobandage, like spackle over damaged drywall.

“What you need is too expensive to give away for free,” Divan had said. “But if you work for me for six months, you will earn your choice of faces from my supply. Then you can choose to either continue as my valet, or return to the life you led.”