Argent has found many times in life that people are never so clueless as when they think you’re stupid.

Thirty minutes before the Lady Lucrezia landed, the medic left the cargo hold with a small stasis cooler labeled LOT 4832-EY-L/R. Argent couldn’t help but snicker to himself. As a grocery checker, he knows better than anyone that labels are only as good as the idiot doing the labeling.

As the plane began its descent, Argent snuck into the harvester, knowing that even though the hapless medic basically lived his life at thirty-seven thousand feet, he was a nervous flier, and always buckled himself into a chair in the crew lounge. That gave Argent a window to do what he had to do—what Connor Lassiter would have done, were he not in a gazillion pieces. Argent shut off the sedation system to all the Unwinds and twisted the security camera to face the wall, just in case someone got the bright idea to monitor it. He waited for the first one to wake up, an umber kid whose eyes got a little buggy when he found out where he was and what was happening to him.

“When the rest wake up, keep ’em quiet,” Argent said. “Don’t let ’em freak out. Then, when that nose cone opens, run like it’s the end of the world, because it will be if you don’t.”

Then he left the harvester, strapping himself in next to the medic like it was any other day.

But his job wasn’t over yet.

As soon as the plane had landed and Divan had gone down to the tarmac, he unlocked Risa’s room and led her to the harvester, telling her the same thing he’d told the umber kid. By then the entire hold was crawling with scared, wakeful kids, but Risa had a certain presence about her that kept them quiet and in control.

“What about Connor?” Risa asked him, but it was no time for questions.

“I’ve taken care of it—just trust me.”

“That’s the problem,” Risa said. “I don’t.”

“Well, too freakin’ bad.”

He couldn’t stay—any second, Divan would demand something from him. A glass of Pellegrino or sunscreen for his delicate complexion. Divan always wanted something.

“If you get free, and you see my sister,” he told Risa, “tell her I saved you. She’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Wait—you’re not coming with us?”

Argent left without answering the question, because the answer was obvious. He’d made a deal with Divan. Six months for a face. He doesn’t have to be Divan’s best friend, he just has to stick to his end of the bargain—and as long as Argent plays dumb lackey, Divan will never suspect he was behind what happened today. For Argent Skinner, stupidity is the best camouflage.

And with the AWOLs all going AWOL, Divan doesn’t even notice Argent putting Nelson in that choke hold.

63 • Divan

In his years in the flesh trade, Divan Umarov has had to face many nasty situations. Unsatisfied buyers with dangerous tempers. Unscrupulous competitors whom he’s had to take out—and of course, the Dah Zey, who are a constant threat to his business and personal well-being. Through all of these things, Divan triumphed and managed to remain a gentleman. When it comes to handling adversity, Divan knows that calm objectivity will always save the day. He lost his temper when Starkey died, but he is determined not to be ruled by his emotions today.

He takes in the big picture. Kids running everywhere. His ground crew chasing them. Half of the kids are already over the fence.

“Let them go,” Divan says. Then, louder: “LET THEM GO!”

His bodyguard turns to him confused.

“But they escape. . . .”

“Why chase silver,” Divan says, “when we have gold to move?”

He turns to his valet, who watches the spectacle with one-eyed impotence. It’s all Divan can do not to smack him. “Skinner! Go help collect the ones we managed to tranq, and put them back in the hold. The rest are no longer our problem.” Then he looks down to see Nelson in a heap on the ground. “What happened to him?”

“Don’t know,” says Skinner. “Must have been hit by a tranq.”

Well, Nelson’s not his problem either. “What are you waiting for?” he asks Skinner. “Get to work!”

Skinner bounds off, and Divan focuses his full attention on the real business of the day. He supervises the removal of the active stasis coolers, paying close attention to the ones marked LOT 4832. His big-ticket items. The various and sundry parts of Connor Lassiter.

Only when all the crates have been loaded onto their respective planes bound for their buyers does he relax. Skinner reports that nineteen out of one hundred and seventeen Unwinds were recovered, and are back inside. As for the lost Unwinds, it may sting in the moment, but it’s barely a setback at all. One trip around the world, and his suppliers will fill up his harvester once more. Divan looks around. Everything seems to be in order. The smaller jets are lining up to take off, and although Nelson’s car is still there, Nelson is nowhere to be seen. Divan doesn’t trouble himself with it. His work is done here. He grasps Skinner on the shoulder. “Good work,” he says. “Now please draw me a bath.”

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.