UnWholly (Unwind Dystology 2)

“Actually,” says Starkey, “I was talking about the arm. The way I figure it, if the guy who’s so against unwinding has an Unwind’s arm, it probably wasn’t by choice. I’d love to hear how it happened.”

Connor laughs, because no one’s ever asked the question so blatantly. It’s actually a relief to talk about it.

“There was this kid—a real tough guy. He tried to kill me once but couldn’t go through with it. Anyway, he was the last kid unwound at Happy Jack. I was supposed to be next, but that’s when the clappers blew up the Chop Shop. I lost my arm and woke up with this one. Trust me, it wasn’t my choice.”

Starkey takes in the story and nods, not offering any judgment.

“Badge of honor, man,” he says. “Wear it out loud.”

Connor tries to get to know every kid who arrives, at least a little bit, so they don’t feel like just a number waiting to be caught and unwound. So what does he know about Starkey? He’s got personality, and a smile that’s a little hard to read. He’s got wavy red hair that didn’t start that way, as evidenced by dark roots that have grown almost an inch since he arrived a month ago. He’s a little short, solid, not scrawny. Stocky, that’s the word—like a wrestler—and yet he has a confidence that makes him seem taller. There are also rumors that he killed a Juvey-cop or two while escaping, but they’re only rumors.

Connor remembers the day Starkey arrived. Every group of new arrivals has at least one kid who thinks blowing up harvest camps is a good idea. Actually, most of them probably think that, but most kids are too intimidated upon arrival to shout it out. The ones who do turn out to either be problems or overachievers. Starkey, however has kept a very low profile since his arrival. He’s assigned to mess duty as a food server, and in the evenings he goes around performing little magic tricks for anyone who’s interested. That makes Connor think back to his own first AWOL night. He was given shelter by a trucker who showed him an arm grafted on at the elbow. It was the arm of an Unwind that came with an ability to do card tricks.

“You’ll have to let me see some of your magic tricks, Starkey,” Connor says, and Starkey seems a little surprised.

“You know everyone’s name here?”

“Only the ones who make an impression. Here, let’s switch,” says Connor. “I’ll spot you.” They switch positions, and Starkey tries to lift the weight but can barely do two reps.

“I think I’ll pass.”

Starkey sits up, taking a long look at him. Most people can’t hold eye contact with Connor. It’s either the scars or his legend that are too intimidating for them. Starkey, however, doesn’t look away. “Is it true that you risked getting caught to save a storked baby?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Not one of my brightest moments.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Connor shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He tries to laugh it off, but Starkey’s not laughing.

“I was a storked baby,” Starkey tells him.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, it’s all good. I just want you to know I respect you for what you did.”

“Thanks.” Outside, someone calls for Connor in that my-problem-is-earth-shattering tone of voice that he hears on a regular basis. “Duty calls. Take it easy, Starkey.” And he leaves, feeling a little bit better than when he came in.

But what he doesn’t see is what happens after he’s gone: Starkey lying back on the bench press, doing twenty reps of that same weight without even breaking a sweat.

- - -

After the sun sets, Connor calls a meeting of his inner circle—a group of seven that Hayden has dubbed the Holy of Whollies, and the name stuck. They meet in Connor’s private jet at the north head of the main aisle, rather than the old Air Force One, which still reeks of his meeting with Call-Me-Joe, the resistance rep.

It wasn’t Connor’s idea to have his own private jet any more than it was his idea to wear blue camo. They were both Trace’s suggestions to help solidify Connor’s image as the fearless leader.

“What the hell kind of army wears blue camouflage anyway?” he griped when Trace first suggested it.

“It’s for air attacks by jetpack,” Trace told him. “Never actually attempted, but it works in theory.”

The idea was to set Connor apart from everyone else. The Admiral had his uniform, all festooned with war medals; Connor needed something to match his own leadership style, whatever that might be. Although he wasn’t too thrilled to be running the place like a boot camp, the Admiral had already set things up as a military dictatorship. It wasn’t broke, so Connor didn’t try to fix it.

ould have realized things with the ADR were not as they appeared as soon as they accepted the Admiral’s suggestion that Connor be the one to run the place, rather than installing a more experienced adult. If they were so willing to let a teenager manage their AWOL sanctuary, something was wrong somewhere.

There was a crazy time when kids were coming in every few days. The Graveyard boasted more than two thousand kids, and the ADR sent shipments of everything they needed on a regular basis. Then, when Cap-17 passed, Connor was ordered to immediately release all the seventeen-year-olds—who were a large percentage of the Graveyard population—but he made a command judgment to do it slowly, releasing them in increments, so they didn’t flood the city of Tucson with more than nine hundred homeless teenagers. The fact that they wanted him to just let all those kids go at once should have been another sign that the ADR leadership was faltering.

Connor had released them over a period of two months, but the ADR cut their supplies immediately, as if those kids had suddenly ceased to be their problem. Between the released seventeen-year-olds, kids sent out on work programs that had been set in place by the Admiral, and kids who deserted when there wasn’t enough food, the Graveyard population had dropped to about seven hundred.

“I see you’ve planted yourself quite a garden—and you’re raising chickens as well, yes?” Rincon says. “You must be fully sustainable by now.”