UnWholly (Unwind Dystology 2)

“Good. A leader should know things no one else does, and spoon out information on a need-to-know basis.”

“Spare me the military classroom,” Connor tells him. “So is that all you wanted to talk about?”

“There’s more.”

They reach the end of the aisle, and Trace stops before turning into the next one. He pulls out a slip of paper from his pocket and hands it to Connor. There’s a name on it, scrawled by hand. Janson Rheinschild.

“Is this someone I’m supposed to know?” Connor asks.

“No. He’s someone nobody’s supposed to know.”

Connor has little patience for this. “Don’t waste my time with riddles.”

“That’s the point,” Trace says. “He is a riddle.” He puts the Jeep in gear, and they turn down the next aisle.

“Do you remember the other week when I went up to Phoenix to get components for the Dreamliner’s electrical system?”

“You didn’t go to Phoenix,” Connor says. “You went to meet with your bosses at Proactive Citizenry. Don’t you think I know that?”

Trace seems a bit surprised, then a bit pleased. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know whether you trusted me.”

“I don’t.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, it was different this time. They didn’t just meet with me, they flew me out to their main headquarters in Chicago. They had me give a full report to a packed conference room. Of course I left out some key things, like our escape plan. I told them the Dreamliner is a new dormitory jet, and that the cockpit was dismantled and sold.”

“Oh, so it’s not just me that you lie to?”

“They’re not lies. It’s disinformation,” Trace says. “After the meeting, I did some snooping. There was a marble wall in the lobby commemorating former presidents of the organization—some names you’d probably recognize—giants of business both before and after the war . . . but there was one name missing. It had been gouged right out of the marble, with no attempt to patch it up. And then again, out in the garden there was a sculpture of the founders. Five of them, but clearly the pedestal was built for six. There were still rust stains from where that sixth statue had once been.”

“Janson what’s-his-face?”

“Rheinschild.”

Connor tries to work it out but can’t. “It doesn’t make sense. If they wanted to disappear him, why not patch the marble? Why not get a smaller pedestal?”

“Because,” says Trace. “They didn’t just want to disappear him . . . they wanted to make sure their members never forgot that they disappeared him.”

Connor gets a chill in spite of the desert heat. “So what does all this have to do with us?”

“Before they flew me back, a couple of the friendlier suits took me to their private club—a place that served the kind of alcohol you can’t even get on the black market. Real Russian vodka. Tequila from before the agave extinction. Stuff that must cost thousands of dollars a shot, and they were guzzling it like water. When they were fairly wasted, I asked about the missing statue. One of them blurted out the name Janson Rheinschild, then became worried that he had said it. After that, they changed the subject, and I thought it was over. . . .” Then Trace stops the Jeep so he can look Connor dead in the eye as he speaks. “But then, as I was leaving, one of them said something to me that I still haven’t been able to get out of my mind. He clapped me on the shoulder, called me his ‘friend,’ and told me that unwinding is more than just a medical process, it’s at the very core of our way of life. ‘Proactive Citizenry is dedicated to protecting that way of life,’ he said, ‘and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget you ever heard his name.’ ”

37 - Risa

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

“I was a ward of the state about to be unwound, so I went AWOL. That means I shouldn’t be here right now. You might think I’m lucky . . . but because I stayed whole, fourteen-year-old Morena Sandoval, an honor student with a bright future, died because she was denied the liver I would have provided. Jerrin Stein, a father of three, died of a fatal heart attack because my heart wasn’t available when he desperately needed it. And firefighter Davis Macy lost his life to pulmonary asphyxiation because my lungs weren’t there to replace his burned ones.

o;What do you want me to do? Just go on like it never happened? Like she never existed?”

The Admiral holds a steady demeanor, in spite of Connor’s frustration. “I hadn’t pegged you as the kind of young man who wastes his time feeling sorry for himself.”

“I’m not feeling sorry! I’m angry!”

“Anger is only our friend when we know its caliber and how to aim it.”

That makes Connor give out a sudden guffaw that’s loud enough for the driver to glance back. “Good one! Someone oughta quote you.”

“Someone did. It’s on page ninety-three of the Military Academy Freshman Ordinance Manual, fifth edition.” The Admiral turns to look out of the tinted windows at the activity of the Graveyard. “The problem with all you AWOLs is that you use your anger like a grenade, half the time blowing off your own hands.” Then he looks at Connor’s arm. “No offense.”