UnDivided (44 page)

Connor stays awake late into the night with Risa in his arms, wishing he could unwind time, so he could experience this night from every possible angle—not just passing through the moment, but living in it.

He holds on to the feeling until morning, when the authorities come to take them away.

ANONYMOUS RALLIES AGAINST HORRIFIC, ABUSE-RIDDLED “TROUBLED TEEN” INDUSTRY

By Roy Klabin, March 27, 2013 PolicyMic.com

A faction within the exceedingly diverse “Anonymous” online collective has begun targeting the Troubled Teen Industry—trying to expose cases of extreme child abuse, sexual misconduct, psychological torture, and even deaths, at various facilities which claim to “correct bad behavior.”

The sales pitch is simple: “If your teen has emotional issues, abuses drugs, or is promiscuous, help is just a phone call away. Our programs promise to fix bad behavior by teaching your child life skills and building self-esteem.” . . . Sometimes you get taken to these facilities in the middle of the night, grabbed from your bed by camp employees your parents have let into your home.

Exposure of the behavior modification industry is slowly gaining traction. . . . But it seems parents all over the country are still falling for the misleading assurances offered by these companies—even though every corporate site that promises sunshine and happiness has shadow sites full of survivor's horror stories.

. . . [i]n a world of webcams, victims can no longer be hidden away. . . . But there are places where no cell phones or Internet are permitted. Places isolated in the wilderness miles from any form of civilization, where children are taken to correct their behavior—and suffer a wide array of vicious torments.

#OpTTIAbuse represents hackers, activists, victims, parents, and survivors who are trying to expose horrific abuses being suffered by children across this country at various facilities hidden away from public scrutiny. . . .

Cases where children have died from mistreatment, medical neglect, or starvation have rarely led to any consequences. This is partly due to the lack of any regulatory oversight, as well some states not even requiring any licensing system for these programs to exist. . . .

The prison-like design of some of these facilities further limits the children's ability to report abuse. . . . The children rarely have access to telephones, and when they do utilize these connections, their conversations are watched carefully. If they were to say anything “negative” to their parents, like “I miss you, I want to come home” they would be punished for being “manipulative.”

Anonymous groups continue to try and expose the survivor stories from within the system, but with limited attention from the press their success has been marginal. Some of the major companies involved have
even managed to lobby and block reform on private residential “treatment” centers. . . .

The full article can be found at:
http://www.policymic.com/articles/31203/anonymous-rallies-against-horrific-abuse-riddled-troubled-teen-industry

The raid comes just after Connor and Risa shuffle down for breakfast. All is quiet, then out of nowhere, the house is flooded with a tactical unit that's beyond overkill. It happens so fast, Connor finds himself surrounded while still holding his cereal spoon. There's no time to panic, or to resist. Too many guns are drawn for him to count. He locks eyes with Risa across the table, who returns the same shocked gaze. He should have known it wasn't safe coming here. CyFi and his fathers might be trustworthy, but with all the wedding grooms, and the various parts of Tyler Walker living in the commune, someone was bound to turn them in for the reward.

“What took you so long?” he says to the gaggle of gunmen. They don't answer. They don't make a move to apprehend him. They just wait. Then in walks the man in the dark suit. For once, Connor wished these people could find a more inspired wardrobe.

“Looks like we've got a twofer!” says the suit. He gestures for his unit to lower their guns, which they do.

In response, Connor puts down his spoon. “I'll come peacefully if you leave her.”

“Connor, don't you dare!” says Risa.

The suit stays focused on Connor. “You're not really in a negotiating position.”

Then Risa leaps up and lunges for him.

“Risa, no!”

She's tranq'd by one of the gunmen before she gets halfway there, and is caught by another before she falls to the ground.
This is her way of making sure that wherever Connor goes, she goes.
Damn her!

CyFi and his fathers are brought downstairs. The one who happens to be a lawyer argues over the violation of their rights.

“We don't have time for this,” says the suit, then he turns to Connor. “You want a deal? How's this? You and sleeping beauty come peacefully, and
they
don't get arrested for harboring known fugitives.”

And although Connor doesn't believe for an instant that they're going to leave CyFi and his dads alone, his only other option is to fight and get tranq'd like Risa. What chance would he have to negotiate for her then? Besides, there's something that he senses in this man. He's trying to be efficient, even a little nonchalant, but there's an uneasiness in him. The man in the suit is scared. Why is he scared?

They turn Connor around to handcuff him, pulling his arms behind his back. He grimaces. “Careful! My seams!”

“Your what?” the suit says. “Forget it, I don't want to know.” He has them turn Connor around again, cuffing him in front instead of behind.

They lead him and carry Risa to a jet that's sitting in a weedy field across the road, without the benefit of anything resembling a runway. Connor had seen planes like this at the Graveyard.

“A Harrier Whisper-Bomber?”

“You know your machines,” the suit says. “Workhorse of the Heartland War. Vertical takeoff and landing. Completely silent.”

“Then Risa and I must be the bombs.”

The suit shifts uncomfortably. “That remains to be seen.”

They're loaded inside, the three of them in a forward compartment separate from the tactical team. The intimidating boeuf carrying Risa puts her down gently and actually takes the time to put on her seat belt.

“Will you be coming back with the beverage cart?” Connor asks as he leaves to join his comrades.

The jet rises like a helicopter, its engines emitting only the faintest whine, then the craft accelerates, heading into the rising sun. Risa, still unconscious, slumps limply in the seat beside Connor, her seat belt and Connor's shoulder the only things keeping her from falling. Across from them, the suit seems very pleased with himself. Connor considers how he might, even in handcuffs, throw the man out of the plane. But then the suit says:

“Congratulations—you're in the protective custody of the federal government. We've taken you as a precaution, just in case the bee in the Juvenile Authority's bonnet buzzes in your direction.”

It takes a moment for Connor to replay that in his mind and process it. “Wait—you're not the Juvies?”

“If we were, you wouldn't be alive right now.”

Connor's still not ready to buy. “If I'm in protective custody, why am I in handcuffs?”

The suit smirks. “Because I trust you even less than you trust me.”

He introduces himself as Supervisory Special Agent Aragon, reflexively flashing his FBI badge, as if it means anything to Connor at this point.

“We are not the enemy,” he says.

“That's what the enemy always says.”

He regards Connor, studying him like maybe he wants the eyes that Nelson never got.

“Do you believe in democracy, Connor?”

Not the kind of question Connor was expecting. “I used to,” Connor tells him. “I believe in the way it's
supposed
to work.”

“It always works the way it's supposed to work,” Aragon says. “A lot of bitching and moaning until somebody gets their
way.” Then he pulls out a tablet and strokes the screen until he finds whatever it is he's looking for. “As of this morning, forty-four percent of the American people are ready to reject the idea of unwinding.”

“It's still not a majority.”

Aragon raises his eyebrows. “That's only because you're not seeing the whole picture.” Then he turns the tablet so Connor can see it. On-screen is a simple pie chart. “This morning, support for unwinding hit an all-time low of thirty-seven percent, with nineteen percent undecided. And I have news for you—that nineteen percent will ALWAYS be undecided. Which means, Connor, after all the bitching and moaning, it looks like you're the one who got his way.” Aragon forces a smile and winks at him.

Connor has no faith in anyone who winks. “So it's that easy?”

“You of all people should know it wasn't easy at all.”

He's right about that. The thought of all Connor has been through makes his seams begin to ache inside and out.

“A lot of people know you're not Mason Starkey—so, as psychotic as that bastard is, he did you a service. Now you're the lesser of two evils.”

The thought of Starkey makes Connor want to lose what little cereal he got down before he was captured. “Starkey's dead,” Connor tells Aragon. “I killed him.”

He studies Connor, not sure if Connor is joking. “Really. How disappointing for all the people who wanted to do it themselves.”

Risa stirs against his shoulder, but he suspects she'll be out for at least an hour or longer, depending on the strength of the tranqs. Connor shifts his shoulder awkwardly to keep her sitting upright, then holds out his hands to Aragon, hoping he'll take off the cuffs so Connor can hold Risa properly.

“They'll come off when they need to come off,” Aragon
tells him, and once more Connor feels the man's tension. “You have no idea what's in front of you, do you?”

“I never know. Two weeks ago I was in forty pieces, and now I'm whole. Ten minutes ago I was sitting in a kitchen, and now I'm flying across the sky. Tell me I'm going to the moon, and I wouldn't be surprised.”

“Oh, farther than that,” says Aragon. “With Proactive Citizenry completely torpedoed, and organ printers on the horizon, everything changes. If you make it through today, you and Miss Ward will be your own constellations out there. And you'll be amazed how many friends in high places you'll suddenly have.”

“I don't want those kinds of friends.”

“Yes, you do, because there are still plenty of haters calling for your head. But the parasites can protect you from the carnivores.”

It's too much to take in. He can feel it deep in his skull, as if the various lobes of his healing brain are trying to reject one another. “Who
are
you?”

“Like I said, I'm just your run-of-the-mill field officer with the FBI. But like everyone else, I aspire to bigger things.”

“You're my first parasite.”

Aragon gives him that annoying wink again. “Now you're catching on.”

They hit some choppy air, and Connor glances out of a window to see that the ground has disappeared beneath a blanket of clouds.

Aragon checks his watch. “It's nine a.m. where we're going. We should get there by eleven.”

“Where are we going?”

Aragon doesn't answer him right away. The fear that Connor sensed in him begins to rise to the surface. He wouldn't be surprised if the man began to sweat. “I don't know if you're aware, but the Arápache, along with every other Chancefolk tribe are prepared to declare war. Riots have broken out over unwinding
in every major city. We're on the verge of something that could make the Heartland War look like a domestic spat.”

“So where are we going?” Connor asks again.

Aragon takes a deep breath and removes Connor's handcuffs. “You're paying a visit to an old friend.”

She awakes in Connor's arms and for a moment she thinks things are as they should be . . . until her focus clears, and she sees where she is and remembers what happened. They've been caught, and yet Connor's arm is around her. He smiles when he sees she's awake. What could he possibly have to smile about?

“Almost there,” says the man sitting across from them. The man who captured them. “Have a look.”

She turns slowly, knowing the tranqs will make her suffer if she turns too fast, and peers out of the window.

The first thing she sees is the unmistakable white spire of the Washington Monument. She had thought they were in a plane, but the speed and trajectory of their approach is more like that of a helicopter—yet she doesn't hear the pulse of rotor blades. As they get closer, she realizes something isn't right. The grassy lawn of the National Mall, which extends east to the Capitol, and west to the Lincoln Memorial, should be green or, at worst, yellow this time of year. Instead it's filled with color and movement, like snow on an old-fashioned tube TV. It takes a few moments for her to realize that there are people crowding the two-mile-long park. Thousands upon thousands of people!

“Hayden's rally,” Connor tells her.

“Hayden?” she says, still unable to stretch her mind around the entire National Mall. “
Our
Hayden?”

Connor introduces her to Agent Aragon, whose hand she is
not quite ready to shake, and quickly explains what's going on, but it's too much for Risa to hold on to so soon after coming out of sedation. Connor shows her a letter. At first she thinks it's the same letter he was carrying around in Sonia's shop—but it can't be. She looks a little closer and sees that it's stamped with an official-looking seal.

“The announcement will be made at noon,” Aragon says. “But these people need to hear it now, and they need to hear it from both of you.”