Kele stomps away, and Lev gets back to the business at hand. The more he studies himself in the mirror, the less familiar his face seems, like pondering a word until the world loses all meaning.

Lev was always at his best when he had something to strive for. A clear-cut and discernible goal, where victory can be measured. Back in his innocent days, it was all about baseball. Catch the ball, hit the ball, and run. Even as a clapper he was an overachiever. A model representative of the cause. Until he chose not to detonate, that is.

With the granite intransigence of the Arpache Tribal Council, he knows he has lost his battle. The Arpache will not enter the war against unwinding. They will continue to object by merely closing it out, rather than taking it on.

Connor called him nave, and he was right. After all he had been through, Lev was still foolish enough to believe that reason and resolve would prevail. "You are only one boy, with one voice," Elina told him after his defeat in the Tribal Council. "If you keep trying to be a choir, you'll lose that voice, and then who will hear you?"

She hugged him, but he did not return the gesture. He didn't want consolation. It was his anger, and he wanted to own it. He needed to, because he knew that from that anger something new might grow. Something more effective than a pointless petition.

In the days since, Lev has given it much thought-all his thought, really-and has come to a conclusion. What he needs is a new approach that depends on no one but himself. He's done relying on the help of others, because others are too likely to disappoint. He must, once and for all, take matters into his own hands.

So he examines himself in the mirror, searching for a new resolve, even deeper than before. The things written on Lev's face are too complex to read. But he knows he can simplify them.

He reaches down to the counter and picks up the pair of scissors he brought into the bathroom. Without hesitation, he shears off his ponytail, dropping it to the ground. What remains is a ragged straggly blond mop. Then he grabs a lock of hair as close to the roots as he can get, and he shears it off. Then he grabs another lock, doing it again and again, until the floor is covered with hair, and his head looks like a hayfield that has just been reaped.

Again Kele bangs on the door.

"Lev, I gotta get in!"

"Soon," Lev tells Kele. "I'll be done soon."

Lev puts down the scissors and lathers up the short, uneven stubble on his head. Then he picks up a razor.

These days it's mostly young Arpache men planning to leave the Rez that get themselves tattoos. Those who have decided to go out into a larger world but want to take with them a permanent reminder of where they came from. A symbol that they can display with pride.

There are only a few tattoo artists on the Rez, and only one with real talent. The rest are more paint-by-numbers types. Lev visits Jase Taza, the talented one. He waits outside the shop until the last of Jase's customers leaves.

Jase looks him over as he enters, not sure whether to be troubled or amused. "You're the Tashi'nes' foster-fugitive, aren't you? The one who caught that parts pirate, right?" he says.

Lev shakes his head. "Didn't you hear? I'm not a foster-fugitive anymore. I'm a full member of the tribe."

"Glad to hear it." Then he points to Lev's shaved head. "What happened to your hair?"

"It became unnecessary," Lev tells him. It's the answer he gave the Tashi'nes, and anyone else who asks. His shaved head had troubled Elina, as he knew it would, but she allowed him his choice.

"What can I do for you?" asks Jase.

Lev presents him several pages and explains what he wants. Jase looks the pages over, then looks at Lev dubiously. "You can't be serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Jase looks at the pages over and over. "Are you sure you want this?"

"Positive."

"This much ink, all at once?"

"Yes."

"It's going to hurt. A lot."

Lev has already considered that. "It should hurt," he says. "It needs to hurt, or it doesn't mean anything."

Jase looks around his shop, pointing to his many original designs. "How about a nice eagle, or a bear instead? You're not Arpache-born, so you can choose your own spirit animal. Mountain lions look good in ink."

"I already have a spirit animal, and it's not what I want. I want this." He points to the pages in Jase's hand.

"It will take many hours over many days."

"That's fine."

"And you'll have to pay me for my time-I don't come cheap."

"I'll pay whatever it costs." The Tashi'nes gave Lev spending money, enough to last a while. It's more than enough to pay Jase for his talent and his time. After that, he won't need Arpache currency, because it's no good off of the Rez.

He hasn't told Elina and Chal that he's leaving. He hasn't told anyone, because anyone he tells will try to talk him out of it or, at the very least, try to discover where he's going. It's crucial that no one knows that.

He pulls the money from his wallet and flashes it before Jase. Like everywhere else in the world, money talks.

Their first session begins a few minutes later. He allows Jase full creative expression.

"Where do you want to start?"

"Start at the top and work your way down," Lev tells him. Then he leans back in the chair and closes his eyes, mentally preparing himself for the ordeal to come. . . .

43 * Risa

Risa wakes to the breathy drone of some machine-a hiss that's both muffled and loud at once. She's on a king-size bed in a bedroom finished in polished redwood and brass. She's dizzy. Queasy. She feels as if the bed itself is shifting beneath her but she knows it's only the tranqs.

"Take your time," says an unfamiliar male voice. "You've been tranq'd eight or nine times in succession. It will take you longer than usual to recover. Had it been me, I would have done it differently. I would have made it easier on you."

The man speaks with a pearly lilt and an Eastern European accent. Russian perhaps. No, not quite, but something close.

As her eyes begin to focus, she sees him standing across the room, adjusting his hair in a full-length mirror. Slender, dark hair, well dressed. Risa pulls her knees up protectively, wondering what has transpired during her lapse of consciousness.

He glances over at her, and reading her body language, he chuckles.

"Do not worry," he says. "No one has harmed you while you slept off the tranquilizers."

Her head feels full of foam-fizz with no substance. She can only ask the obvious question. "Where am I?"

"Lady Lucrezia," he answers. "My harvest camp."

She has enough of the pieces now to pull at least some of it together. The man at the antique shop was a parts pirate, and she is now in the hands of a black marketer. The parts pirate killed Jack-whom Risa promised she'd protect-whom she put directly in harm's way. And what of Sonia?

"I'm in a harvest camp . . . ," she repeats, hoping to get more out of him.

"Yes, you and your friend Connor."

She was not expecting to hear that. She shakes her head, not wanting to believe it. "You're lying! Connor wasn't there!"

Her captor looks at her curiously. "No? I thought you were captured together. But then, Nelson didn't explain the specific circumstances when he left you both with me."

Nelson? Not the same Nelson . . . But as she thinks of the parts pirate, she realizes that she knew that face-or at least half of it. Suddenly the entire room seems to heave, moving one way while Risa's stomach moves another. Without warning she's retching over the edge of the bed onto the floor.

The foreigner sits beside her, gently rubbing her back, and she doesn't even have the strength to recoil from him. "My name is Divan, and no harm will come to you while you're in my care." He gives her club soda to sip from a minibar beside the bed. "So much to take in. No surprise there are things that can't be held down." He leaves her with the club soda. "I'll have someone come and clean it up, not to worry. In the meantime, I have business to attend to. Sleep, Risa. We'll talk again when you're up to it."

He goes to the door, but turns back just before he exits. "If you feel ill again, I find that looking out of a window helps."

Once he's gone, Risa moves across the bed, and reaches for a curtain. Pulling it back reveals a window, but not the sort she was expecting. It's an oval window, and beyond it clouds. Nothing but clouds.

44 * The Lady Lucrezia

Simply put, the Antonov AN-225 Mriya is the largest flying object ever built. The six engines of the massive cargo jet boast more horsepower than Napoleon's entire cavalry, and when people talk of moving mountains, this is the plane that could do it. Only two of them were ever built. The first is in a Ukrainian air museum. The second is owned by wealthy Chechen entrepreneur Divan Umarov. Currently he is in negotiations to acquire the other one.

From the outside it looks like a 747 with glandular problems, but standing inside the jet's cavernous cargo hold can be a religious experience, because it rises around you with the breathtaking drama of a cathedral, but can get about eight miles closer to heaven.

The interior of the Lady Lucrezia, as Divan christened her, bears no resemblance to its original hollow shell, however. It was meticulously redesigned to be both a lavish residence as well as a fully functioning harvest camp, landing only to take on fuel and fresh Unwinds from Divan's international network of parts pirates, as well as to offload the various and sundry products of unwinding, worth so much more than the kids themselves.

Lately, he's spent more time airborne. Considering the ruthlessness of his enemies, it's safer to stay mobile as much as possible, and the current cargo, rare as to be almost priceless, requires his personal attention. It is a feather in his cap that he caught Connor Lassiter before the American Juvenile Authority or the despicable Dah Zey. He will remain on board, closely overseeing his business until such time as Connor Lassiter is sold at auction and his parts distributed to satisfied customers.

45 * Risa

When Risa wakes again, she feels a bit stronger. Strong enough to explore and test her immediate surroundings. The bedroom is, of course, locked from the outside. A view from the window reveals that they are still at a high altitude, and it's the trailing end of twilight, or dawn-Risa has no concept of the actual time, or how many time zones they've flown through.

There is a small table across the room with food for her. Light fare: Danish and such. She eats in spite of her resistance to accept anything offered her.

When the black marketer returns, he's pleased to see she's eaten, which makes her just want to throw it all up in his face.

"I can give you the grand tour if you like," Divan offers.

"I'm a prisoner," she reminds him flatly. "Why would you give a prisoner a tour?"

"I do not have prisoners," he tells her. "I have guests."

"Is that what you call the kids you unwind? Guests?"

He sighs. "No, I don't call them anything. If I did, it would make my work all the more difficult, you see."

He holds out his hand to help her up, but she will not take it. "Is there a reason why I'm a 'guest,' and not one of them?"

He smiles. "You'll be pleased to know, Miss Ward, that the clients of mine who are interested in you are only interested in you corpus totus. That is, in your entirety. Isn't it nice to know that of all the souls on board, you are the only one worth more whole than divided?"

Somehow that doesn't give her much comfort. "What sorts of clients buy someone corpus totus?"

"Wealthy ones with a penchant toward collecting. There's a Saudi prince in particular who's been obsessed with you. He's made overtures in the millions."

She tries to hide her revulsion. "Imagine that."

"Don't worry," Divan tells her. "I'm less motivated to make a deal than you might think."

He holds his hand out to her once more, and again she refuses to take it. She does stand up, however, and moves to the door.

"You'll find the tour very eye-opening, to say the least," Divan says, unlocking the door. "And on the way you can entertain yourself by scheming ways to escape, and ways to kill me."

She makes eye contact with him for the first time, a bit shocked, because that is exactly what she was thinking. The look he returns is much warmer than she wants it to be.

"Don't be so surprised," he says. "How could I not know what you'd be thinking right now?"

Aside from the constant drone of the engines and the occasional turbulence, it is hard to believe that all this is crammed into a single airplane. The bedroom opens up into a vaulted living area, its geometry determined by the plane's width and the dome of the fuselage. There are sofas, a dining table, and a multiscreened entertainment center.

"The kitchen and pantry are below," Divan says. "My chef is world-class."

At the far end of the room, dominating the space, is something Risa needs time to wrap her mind around. It's an instrument. A pipe organ-however, instead of gleaming brass pipes, this one has faces. Dozens of faces.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Divan says with pride. "I purchased it from a Brazilian artist, who has apparently made a career working in flesh. He claims his artwork is to protest unwinding, but I ask you, how much of a protest can it be if he uses the unwound for his art?"

Risa is drawn to the thing like a spectator to a car accident. She's seen this before. In a dream, she thought. A dream that kept recurring. Only now does she realize that the dream had a grounding in reality: something she once saw on TV, although she can't place exactly when.

"He calls it 'Orgo Orgnico.' 'The Organic Organ.'"

Each shaved head rests inert, symmetrically placed above the keyboard, on multiple levels, connected to it by tubes and ducts. It's the very definition of abomination. Risa finds it too grotesque to even trigger the proper emotion. Too horrifying to feel. Slowly she reaches forward and pushes down on a key.