And directly in front of her, a disembodied face opens its mouth and voices a perfect middle C.

Risa yelps and jumps back, right into Divan. He gently holds her by the shoulders, but she pulls free.

"Nothing to fear," he tells her. "I assure you the brains are elsewhere-probably helping rich Brazilian children to think better. Although the eyes do open from time to time, which can be disconcerting."

Finally Risa tries to voice her own opinion, and it's far from middle C. "This thing . . . this thing is . . ."

"Unthinkable-I know. Even I was taken aback when I first viewed it . . . and yet the more I looked at it, the more compelled I was to have it. Such lovely voices should be heard, yes? And I'm not without a sense of irony. The Lady Lucrezia is my Nautilus, and I, like the good captain Nemo, must have my organ."

Although Risa has turned away, she finds her gaze drawn back to it, compelled to look on it, terrified of the prospect that it might look back.

"Won't you play it?" he asks her. "I can't do it justice, and I understand you're quite the accomplished pianist."

"I'd cut off my hands before I touch that thing again. Get me away from it."

"Of course," says Divan, ever obliging, but noticeably disappointed. He directs her to a stairwell across the room. "The tour continues this way."

Risa can't get away from the Orgo Orgnico fast enough. Yet as Divan said, the image lingers, along with a strange compelling sensation, like standing on a high ledge and leaning over, tempting gravity to steal one's balance. As horrified as she is by the eighty-eight-faced monstrosity, she's more horrified by the thought that she might actually want to play it.

They leave the comfort of his flying chalet, moving to the nether regions of the behemoth aircraft, into corridors and gangways without polished wood or leather, only utilitarian aluminum and steel.

"The harvest camp takes up the front two-thirds of the Lady Lucrezia. You'll be impressed by the economy of space."

"Why?" she asks. "Why are you showing me all of this? What possible purpose could it serve?"

Divan pauses before a large door. "It is my belief that the sooner you get beyond your initial shock, the sooner you will reach a place of comfort."

"I'll never be comfortable with any of this."

He nods, perhaps accepting her statement, but not its validity. "If there's one thing I understand well, it is human nature," he says. "We are the pinnacle species, are we not? This is because we have a remarkable ability to adapt, not just physically, but emotionally. Psychologically." He reaches for the door handle. "You are a consummate survivor, Risa. I have every faith that you will adapt in glorious ways." Then he swings the door open.

Risa was, as part of her state home enrichment program, once taken to a factory that manufactured bowling balls, mainly because it was the only factory convenient enough to take state home kids. What impressed Risa most was the complete lack of human involvement. Machines did everything from extruding the rubber core, to polishing the outer layer, to drilling holes to computer-precise specifications.

The moment Risa crosses the threshold, she realizes that Divan does not run a harvest camp at all. He runs a factory.

There are no cheery dormitories, no high-energy counselors. Instead, there's a huge drum, at least twenty feet in diameter, lining the shell of the airplane, inset with more than a hundred niches. In those niches lie Unwinds, like bodies in a catacomb.

"Do not be deceived by appearances," Divan tells her. "They rest on beds of the highest-quality silk, and the machine tends to their every needs. They are kept well nourished and spotlessly clean."

"But they're unconscious."

"Semiconscious. They are administered a mild sedative that keeps them in a twilight state, perpetually at the moment between dreams and waking. It's very pleasant."

At the far end of the cylindrical space is a huge black box about the size of an old-world iron lung. Risa shuts her thought processes down before she can imagine its purpose.

"Where's Connor?"

"He's here," Divan tells her, gesturing vaguely to the chamber of Unwinds around them.

"I want to see him."

"Unwise. Another time, perhaps."

"You mean after he's been unwound."

"For your information, he will not be unwound for several days at least. Auctioning off the parts of the Akron AWOL is a major affair-it takes time to get all my ducks in a row."

She looks at the semiconscious Unwinds all around her and finds herself feeling weak at the knees again, as she did when she still had tranqs in her system. Meanwhile, Divan strolls through the space with carefree confidence.

"The Burmese Dah Zey represents the darkest end of what you call the black market. Slow unwinding without anesthesia, and in unsanitary conditions. Deplorable! I, on the other hand, strive for something better. I give these Unwinds a quality of treatment finer than any officially sanctioned harvest camp. Comfortable repose, electrical stimulation that painlessly tones their muscles, and a continual sense of euphoria as they await their unwinding. Many world leaders have purchased parts from me, although they would never admit it. Including several from your country, I might add."

The drum suddenly comes to life, and begins to rotate around them, repositioning the Unwinds. A mechanical arm reaches over to check on one of them with the gentle care of a mother's touch.

"Is the tour over? If it's not, I don't care. I've seen enough."

Divan takes her back to the living area, and she casts her eyes away from the organ, although she catches its reflection in a mirror. When they reach her bedroom, someone's there making her bed. He begins to work faster when he sees them.

"Almost done, sir."

The man seems frail, and a bit fearful, as if he were caught doing something he shouldn't. He doesn't appear to be much older than Risa. When he turns to glance at her, she's taken aback by his appearance. Part of his face is missing, and in its place is a formfitting biobandage, a paler pink than actual skin, covering his eye socket and most of his right cheek. He looks somewhat like the Phantom of the Opera with only one eye. The left side of his face doesn't look much better, having several scars that seem somewhat fresh.

"Your henchman, I presume," Risa says.

Divan is actually insulted. "I am not so arch as to have henchmen. This is Skinner, my valet."

Risa gives up a bitter grin in spite of herself. "How appropriate that you call him Skinner."

"Mere serendipity," Divan says. "That's his actual name."

Skinner leaves quickly, obsequiously, closing the door behind him. Then it occurs to Risa that Skinner is also Grace's last name. Could this be the troublesome brother she kept talking about? The more she pictures the half of his face that she could see, the more she's convinced there's a resemblance.

"What do you want from me?" Risa asks Divan, although she's afraid to hear the answer.

"Something simple," he tells her. "At least for you. I wish you to play the Orgo Orgnico for me. I have no talent for it, and it begs to be played by one with the skill."

He lets the proposition hang in the air. Risa can't dare to imagine herself sitting before the thing.

"No matter how well I play, you'll tire of the music, and of me," Risa tells him. "What happens to me then?"

"If our arrangement proves no longer viable, I shall let you go."

"In how many pieces?"

Divan rolls his eyes at her skepticism. "Risa, I am not a bad man. My business may be unsavory, but I am not. Consider the cattle farmer who raises Kobe beef. Is he to be condemned because his stock must be slaughtered? Of course not! I am no different; I just provide a different nature of product . . . and I provide it in a manner far more humane." He begins to walk toward her. "Unlike my associate who captured you, I have been able to separate myself from my work."

She sidesteps, refusing to be made to back up, but still maintaining a safe distance between them.

"Your choices are simple," he tells her. "You can choose to stay here, or you can choose to be auctioned. Here, I can promise you peace, patience, and respect. Which is more than I can say for the Saudi prince."

The veiled threat has the desired affect, and in spite of herself, Risa feels a sense of claustrophobia closing in around her. Still, she pulls forth the courage to make her own proposition.

"I'll do what you want under one condition."

"Yes?"

"You let Connor go."

Divan claps his hands together, overjoyed. "Excellent! The mere fact that you've entered negotiations is a step in the right direction. Unfortunately, freeing Connor is not an option."

"In that case, you can go to hell."

Divan is not offended, only amused. "I'll give you time to reconsider. In the meantime, I have another high-profile Unwind to auction off."

Risa can't help but ask, "Who is it?"

"America's most wanted," he answers. "I paid Proactive Citizenry a small fortune for him, but the profit I'll make will be worth it. There are many people out there who would like to own a piece of Mason Michael Starkey."

46 * Argent

He must be smart. He must be shrewd. But more than anything else, he must be obedient.

"I pitied you," Divan told him after the good half of his face had been harvested and given to Nelson. "Anyone else would have unwound the rest of you, but it's rare that I feel true pity, so I chose to act on it."

Pity, however, was not accompanied by charity. Rather than replacing the missing half of Argent's face, Divan had it patched with the biobandage, like spackle over damaged drywall.

"What you need is too expensive to give away for free," Divan had said. "But if you work for me for six months, you will earn your choice of faces from my supply. Then you can choose to either continue as my valet, or return to the life you led."

Although Argent didn't say it, he had no intention of ever returning to the life he had led. A new life, perhaps, in a new city, with a new face . . . but having settled in on the Lady Lucrezia, Argent's beginning to think his will to live will be so sapped in six months time, he'll choose to stay. He tries not to think about it; instead, he just busies himself doing his daily tasks, which consist of cleaning messes, washing clothes, and being Divan's audience for lectures about life. Divan loves nothing more than to hear himself pontificate, and Argent is the perfect audience because he never disagrees, nor does he ever have an opinion of his own. In fact he's come to see "lack of an opinion" as a key element of his job description.

The arrival of Connor Lassiter, however, has been a major monkey wrench in Argent's mental gear work.

Argent watched from a window as Nelson made the transfer right there on the runway. The sight of Nelson wearing the good half of Argent's face as his own was such a violation, it made Argent's loins feel weak. He thought he hated Connor for what he had done to him, but that pales in comparison to how much he hates Nelson.

He was afraid that Nelson would be invited on board along with his catch, but Divan didn't do that.

"Nelson is a fine parts pirate-perhaps the best," Divan told Argent, "but that doesn't mean I care for his company."

Even so, Divan promised to personally deliver him Connor's eyes. As the harvester is fully automated, members of Divan's staff rarely go inside-even the medic charged with caring for the kids awaiting unwinding rarely goes in, because the machine does all the work.

Lyle, the medic, doesn't know that Argent replaced his spare key with the spare key to Divan's private bath. Occasionally, when he knows the harvester isn't being monitored, Argent sneaks off with his pilfered key and goes down to look at the Unwinds there, imagining their stories, and what their lives were like. Imagining what it might be like to have one of their faces for his own. He's only three years beyond legal unwinding age, but feels so much older. It will be nice when he can get himself a youthful face again.

Today, however, when he comes to the harvester, he has a different objective.

While Divan lines up bidders from around the world on the screens of his entertainment center, Argent slips into the harvester, locates Connor within the cylindrical grid of Unwinds, and rotates the drum until he's right there beside Argent. Then Argent disconnects him from the machine's monitoring system, and shuts off the constant sedative drip that keeps him in that blissful semiconscious state.

"This is all your fault! You hear me?"

Connor's response is just some lazy, incoherent babbling, but that will pass.

"Nelson did this to me on the way to you. He would never have done it if you didn't do what you did first!" He smacks Connor hard enough to make him stir. "Why'd you have to do it? We coulda been a team!" He hits him harder this time. "We coulda done great things! Outlaws with style. But now I don't even get to have a face! Just a scarred mess on one side, and a whole lotta nothing on the other."

Then he grabs Connor and shakes him. "Where's my sister, damn it?"

Connor turns to face him, blinking, yawning, seeing him for the first time. "Argent?"

"Where's Gracie? If you let Nelson hurt her, I swear I'll kill you!"

Connor doesn't seem to process everything he's saying yet. "If you're here, I must be in hell," Connor says.

"Yeah, you could say that."

Connor tries to sit up and bumps his head on the roof of his narrow niche. Argent hopes it hurt.

"I woke you to tell you that you've been caught, and are gonna be unwound. Not that I care, but you deserve to know. Divan's got Risa, too, but by the looks of it she'll stay whole."

"Risa's here? He's got Risa? Who's Divan?"

Argent feels no need to repeat himself. He punches Connor in the side, hard. Connor is still too weak to defend himself, and that suits Argent just fine. "Thought you were so smart smashing my face like you did. Well, how smart are ya now, huh? And where's my sister?"

"Antique shop," mumbles Connor. "That's where I last saw her." Connor lifts his arms weakly. "What am I wearing? It feels like I'm covered in spiderweb."

"It's an iron microfiber bodysuit. Kind of like long underwear, but you can be unwound in it. We call them 'long divisions.'"

Suddenly the drum of Unwinds grinds into life on its own accord, and Connor is rotated away. It makes a quarter turn and stops, then a pair of mechanical arms unfold, and, like an old-fashioned jukebox choosing a record, they lift an unwind and place her on a short conveyor belt leading to the door of the unwinding chamber, a place that Argent hopes he never sees the inside of. Argent knows what comes next. She'll regain consciousness, find that she can't move, and she'll cry for help, but no one will answer. Then, once the machine deems she's fully conscious, the door of the unwinding chamber will open, and the conveyor belt will roll her in.

"They must be fully conscious, or it isn't unwinding," Divan once told him. "It must be painless and humane, but they must be aware of what's happening to them every step of the way." Argent once stood beside a kid, trying to calm him down. Telling him his parents really loved him after all, and all that kind of comforting crap, but the kid just panicked, and in the end went into the chamber just like the rest of them. Argent didn't try talking to any of them after that.

Once the drum comes to rest, Argent locates Connor again and manually rotates him back.

"What's happening?" Connor asks, speaking a little more clearly than he had just a few moments ago.

"Today's auction," Argent explains. "Four kids go on the block today-fewer than usual, but number four is where the big money is. Divan'll auction off the first three to get the bidders all hot for the main event-and it'll be the same for you, when it's your turn! You're even more screwed than I am now. I hope you like it!" Then he shoves Connor for good measure, starts the sedative drip, and leaves.

It never occurs to him that Connor is still awake enough to pull the IV out of his arm.