The idea that tranq bullets could be controversial sets Connor reeling. They’re just an accepted part of life, aren’t they?

Hayden scrolls down. “The article says they’re protesting school closings.”

That also throws Connor for a loop. What kid in their right mind would protest their school closing? “There,” he says, pointing to a link that says “Fear for the Future.”

Hayden clicks on it, and it brings up an editorial clip by some political pundit. He talks about the struggling economy and the collapse of the public education system. “A nation of angry teenagers with no jobs, no schools, and too much time on their hands? You bet I’m scared—and you should be too.”

More reports—those same angry kids calling for change, and when they don’t get it, they hit the streets, forming random mobs, burning cars, breaking windows, letting loose a kind of communal fury. In the midst of the Heartland War, President Moss—just a few weeks before his assassination—calls an additional state of emergency, this time ordering a curfew on everyone under the age of eighteen. “Anyone caught breaking curfew will be subject to transport to juvenile detention camps.”

There are reports of kids who have either left or been thrown out of their homes. “Ferals,” the news calls them. Like stray dogs. Then comes a shaky video of three kids swinging their hands together. A sudden white flash, and the image becomes static. “Apparently,” says the news anchor, “these feral suicide bombers have altered their blood chemistry, so that bringing their hands together triggers detonation.”

“Holy crap!” says Hayden. “The first clappers!”

“All this was going on during the Heartland War,” Connor points out. “The nation was tearing itself apart over pro-life and pro-choice but completely ignored the problems of the kids who were already here. I mean, no schools, no work, no clue if they’d even have a future. They just went nuts!”

“Tear it all down and start over.”

“Do you blame them?”

Suddenly it was obvious to Connor why they don’t teach it. Once education was restructured and corporatized, they didn’t want kids knowing how close they came to toppling the government. They didn’t want kids to know how much power they really had.

The various links lead Connor and Hayden to an image that’s much more widespread and familiar: hands being shaken at the signing of the Unwind Accord. In the background is the Admiral as a much younger man. The report talks about peace being declared between the Life Army and the Choice Brigade, giving everyone hope for domestic normalization. Nowhere are the teen uprisings mentioned—yet within weeks of the Accord, the Juvenile Authority was established, feral detention centers became harvest camps, and unwinding became . . . a way of life.

That’s when the truth hits Connor so brutally he feels light-headed. “My God! The Unwind Accord wasn’t just about ending the war—it was also a way to take down the terror generation!”

Hayden leans away from the computer like it might start clapping and blow them all up. “The Admiral must have known that.”

Connor shakes his head “When his committee proposed the Unwind Accord, he never believed people would actually go for it, but they did . . . because they were more terrified of their teenagers than their consciences.”

Connor knows that Janson Rheinschild, whoever he was, must have played into this somewhere, but Proactive Citizenry was extremely thorough in wiping him off the face of the earth.

40 • Starkey

Mason Starkey knows nothing of Janson Rheinschild, the terror generation, or the Heartland War. If he did, he wouldn’t care. The only teen uprising he has any interest in will involve the Stork Club.

His motives are a complex weave of self-interest and altruism. He truly wants to raise his storks to glory, as long as they all know he’s the one who’s done it. Credit where credit is due, and honor to the trickster whose illusions finally become real.

Starkey’s hoping for a silent coup, but is prepared for anything. It will either be gracious, and Connor will see the wisdom of stepping aside for a more able leader . . . or he’ll be steamrolled. Starkey will bear no guilt if it comes to that. After all, Connor, in spite of all his pretenses of fairness, still refuses to rescue storks from their unwindings.

“We save the kids we’re most likely to get away with saving,” Connor told him. “It’s not our fault that storks are in bigger families and more complicated situations.” It was the same excuse that Hayden had given him, but as far as Starkey is concerned, that’s no excuse at all.

“So you’re happy just letting them be unwound?”

“No! But there’s only so much we can do!”

“So little, you mean.”

Connor lost his temper then, which he does more and more often now. “If it was up to you, we’d be blowing up harvest camps, wouldn’t we? That’s not how this battle is going to be won! It will just make them come down harder on every Unwind, every AWOL.”

Starkey wanted to take his argument all the way to the wall and nail Connor to it for letting storks go unsaved, but instead, Starkey backed down.

“I’m sorry,” he told Connor. “You know I get passionate when it comes to storks.”

“Your passion’s a good thing,” Connor told him, “when you keep it in perspective.”

He could have slammed Connor for that, but instead he just smiled, agreed, and left—secure in the knowledge that someday soon Connor would be faced with an entirely new perspective.

•   •   •

While Connor has a history lesson with Hayden in the Com-Bom, Starkey relaxes at the Rec Jet, teaching kids simple card tricks and dazzling them with close-up magic he could do in his sleep. It’s Stork Hour. Seven to eight p.m. Prime time. There’s a nice breeze blowing under the Rec Jet. It’s a perfect time of day. He has one of the storks bring him a drink so he doesn’t have to get out of his comfortable chair. It’s been a hard day dishing slop—and although he doesn’t actually do the dishing, supervision can be a bitch.

Drake, the farm boy who runs the Green Aisle, passes and gives them a dirty look. Starkey glares back and makes a mental note. When he takes over, the new Holy of Whollies will be made up of all storks. Drake will be demoted to picking beans, or cleaning chicken crap. Many things will change when Starkey takes over, and God help anyone who’s not in his good graces.

“You gonna get off your ass and play me a game of pool?” Bam asks, pointing her cue at him like a harpoon. “Or do my superior skills challenge your masculinity?”

“Watch it, Bam,” Starkey warns. He will not play her, because he knows she’ll win. First rule of competition—never accept a losing proposition. He loses when he plays Connor, of course, but that’s different. It’s intentional, and he makes sure the other storks know it.

Farther down the main aisle, Connor comes down the stairs of the ComBom with Hayden.

“What do you think that’s all about?” Bam asks.

Starkey keeps his opinion to himself.

“I think they’re hot for each other,” says one of the other storks.

Starkey turns to him. “You’re the only one I know who keeps checking out Connor’s butt, Paulie.”

“That ain’t true!” But by the way Paulie goes red, it’s clear that it is.

Finally Starkey stands up to get a better look at the situation. Connor and Hayden say their good-byes. Hayden heads toward the latrine, and Connor goes back to his own little jet.

“He’s been having private meetings with Trace, too,” Bam points out. “But he hasn’t been sharing any secrets with you, has he?”

Starkey hides his fury at being left out of whatever Connor is plotting. “He must be happy with food service.”

“A regular fatted cow,” Bam says with a grin. “Just about ready for slaughter.”

“I will not have you bad-mouthing our commander in chief.”