Starkey spends his days working his particular brand of magic-and he knows that the best magic tricks take practice, patience, and very careful misdirection. Undetectable sleight of hand. For more than a month he has not betrayed his ambitions. To have done so would have made Connor suspicious. Instead he networked among the Whollies, studying the alliances, the friendships, and the power structure-and at last, through careful planning, Starkey has inserted himself in the right place at the right time to gain Connor's favor without him ever knowing that it was all part of Starkey's long-term plan.

Now he's in the highest echelon of the Graveyard, and although it's only food service, it keeps him in direct contact with all seven hundred kids. He has more power, more access, and he begins to do things that previously might be thought of as suspicious, but now come with the territory of being one of the Holy of Whollies.

One afternoon Starkey wanders innocently into the Com-Bom, the Graveyard's computer and communications center, which Hayden runs. Its radio equipment was initially designed to pull in and decode enemy frequencies-which it still does, although now the enemy is the National Juvenile Authority. At any given time it's manned by half a dozen Whollies, who have been handpicked by Hayden for their computer skills.

"I'm not the tech geek everyone makes me out to be," Hayden tells him. "I'm just very good at taking credit for other people's work. I think I get it from my father-he was uniquely skilled at stomping on fingers as he climbed the corporate ladder." Hayden studies Starkey for a moment, and Starkey just smiles back.

"Something wrong?"

"No," Hayden says. "I was just wondering if you're thinking of stealing my position. Not that I care. I wouldn't mind working food service for a while, but it would help me to know what your intentions are."

"I just want to know how stuff works around here, that's all."

"Oh," says Hayden, "you're one of those." Starkey doesn't know what kind of "those" he's talking about, but he doesn't care as long as Hayden tells him what he wants to know.

"I have an ethnically diverse team here," Hayden tells him proudly, going around the room. "Tad is j.a.panese, Hailey is umber, Jeevan is Indian-and Esme is half-Hispanic. I think her other half must be extraterrestrial, because she's too d.a.m.n smart to be all human." Esme preens proudly for a moment, then gets back to work cracking coded communications. "We have Nasim, who's Muslim, working side by side with Lizbeth, who's Jewish, and guess what? They're in love."

"Bite me," says Nasim, then Lizbeth punches him just hard enough to make it clear that it's true.

Hayden points out the various monitoring consoles. "There's a communications monitoring program running on this one. It can pull keywords out of anything from e-mails to phone conversations. It can warn us if the Juvey-cops are up to something major. Kind of an early warning system originally developed to fight terrorism, but isn't it nice to know we can now use it for civilian purposes?"

"So what do we do if it says things are getting dangerous?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know," Hayden says. "That's Connor's department."

There's a console from which Hayden creates playlists and runs interviews for his Radio Free Hayden show.

"You realize that it doesn't broadcast any farther than you can shout," Starkey tells him with a smirk.

"Of course not," Hayden says. "If it did, then the Juvies could pick it up."

"If no one is listening, then who's it for?"

"First off," says Hayden, "your a.s.sumption that no one is listening is incorrect. I estimate I have at least five or six listeners at any given time."

"Yes," says Tad. "He means us."

"And second," Hayden says, not denying it, "it's preparing me for a career in broadcasting, which I plan to pursue once I turn seventeen and get out of this place."

"Not hanging around to help Connor, huh?"

"My loyalty has the half-life of unpasteurized milk," Hayden tells him. "I'd take a bullet for Connor, and he knows it. But only until I'm seventeen." It all seems pretty straightforward until Esme says, "I thought you already were seventeen."

Hayden shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. "Last year didn't count."

Next to Jeevan is a printout. A list of names, addresses, and dates. Starkey picks it up. "What's this?"

"Our good man Jeeves here is responsible for getting us a list of all the kids slated for unwinding from here all the way to Phoenix."

"These are the kids for your rescue missions?"

"Not all of them," Hayden says. "We pick and choose. We can't save everyone, but we do what we can." He points out the highlighted names-the ones chosen for rescue-and as Starkey looks over the list, he starts to get angry. There's information about each kid, including birth dates-except for the ones who don't have a birth date. Instead a stork date is listed. None of the storked kids are highlighted.

"So you and Connor don't like saving storked kids?" Starkey asks, not even attempting to hide the chill in his voice.

Hayden looks genuinely perplexed and takes the list to look at it. "Hmm, I hadn't noticed. Anyway, it's not part of our criteria. We look for only-children in dimly lit suburban neighborhoods. It means fewer people to squeal on us, and less of a chance of being seen. See, brothers and sisters can't keep their mouths shut, no matter what we threaten them with. I guess mothers who stork babies mostly give them to people who are parents already. Hard to find a storked only child."

"Well," says Starkey, "maybe we need to change the criteria."

Hayden shrugs like it's nothing, like it doesn't really matter, and it just makes Starkey angrier. "Take it up with Connor," he says, then goes on with his grand tour of the communications center, but Starkey's not listening anymore.

The revelation in the ComBom gives Starkey a game-changing idea. One by one he singles out all the storked kids in the Graveyard. It's not an easy task, because most storks want to keep their storking a shameful secret. Starkey, however, makes no secret of his own doorstep arrival, and soon the storked kids begin to seek him out, seeing him as their champion.

As it turns out, a full fourth of the Graveyard population are storks. He keeps that information to himself.

The girl named Bam, who at first hated him because he took her place in the Holy of Whollies, warms to him quickly because she's a stork as well. "If you want your revenge on Connor, be patient," he tells her. "It will come." She reluctantly takes his word for it.

One day Starkey catches Connor when he's busy supervising the dismantling of an engine.

"Is there a buyer for it, or are they gonna put it up for sale?" Starkey asks pleasantly.

"They asked for it in the front office, that's all I know."

"The engine says Rolls-Royce-I thought they only made cars."

"Nope."

Starkey keeps chatting about pointless stuff, until he's sure that Connor is irritated at having to divide his attention between the engine and Starkey. That's when Starkey pulls out what he's been hiding up his sleeve.

"Listen, I've been thinking . . . you know I was storked, right? And well, you know, it's nothing big, but I thought it might be nice to make some special reserved time just for storked kids at the Rec Jet. Just to show them they won't be discriminated against anymore."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Connor says, as he stares at the engine, happy to be ending the conversation. He never even realizes what he's just given away.

Starkey calls his little group the Stork Club and stakes out the hour between seven and eight every evening. While everyone's looking somewhere else, a new cla.s.s distinction rises within the Graveyard. The Stork Club is the only minority with special members-only time at the Rec Jet. It's a taste of privilege that these kids have never had before-and Starkey wants them to gobble it up. He wants them to get used to it. He wants them all to expect it-and to know that Starkey can deliver.

Since Starkey runs food services, members of the Stork Club start replacing others in serving positions, and dole out larger servings to other storks with a wink. In the Holy of Whollies, the only ones who seem wise to these little creeping alliances are Ashley, whose job it is to root out social flare points, and that obnoxious Sherman kid who replaced John as head of waste and sanitation. It turns out Ralphy was easily bribed to look the other way, and as for Ashley, Starkey pretty much has it under control.

"What if giving storks special treatment creates resentment in the general population?" Ashley asks him as he supervises dinner one night.

"Well," Starkey tells her with a mildly seductive smile, "the general population can kiss my a.s.s."

It makes Ashley blush just a little bit. "Just try to keep a low profile, okay?"

Still beaming charm, he says, "It's what I do best," and serves her a nice heaping portion, all the while calculating how she might secretly play into his plans.

"You're a hard guy to read," she tells him. "I'd really like to get inside your head."

To which he responds, "The feeling's mutual."

Each night, during "the stork hour" at the Rec Jet, Starkey plants tiny seeds of discontent over games of pool and Ping-Pong. Nothing so blatant as fomenting a revolution, just innocent suggestions to encourage certain directions of thought.

"I think Connor's done a good job for a guy who's not all that smart," he tells them offhandedly. Or, "I really like Connor. He's not much of a leader, but isn't he a great guy?"

Starkey never shows any open defiance; that would be counterproductive. It's not about tearing Connor down, it's about rotting out his roots. He won't even suggest that he should be the one taking Connor's place. That suggestion will eventually come from other storks-and all on their own, without any prompting from him. He knows it will happen, because he knows that every storked kid, deep down, dreams of a world where they're not considered second-cla.s.s citizens. That makes Starkey more than just the leader of a club. It makes him the hope for storked salvation.

Part Three.

Windows of the Soul.

Collected on the Internet, October 2011:.

Kidney and other organ prices on the global criminal markets are based upon publicly available reports and are quoted in U.S. dollars. The price represents the amount either paid to the seller of the organ or the price paid by the buyer for the organ.

Average paid by kidney buyer: $150,000.

Average paid to seller of kidney: $5,000 Kidney broker in Yemen: $60,000.

Kidney broker in the Philippines: $1,000 to $1,500 Kidney buyer in Israel: $125,000 to $135,000 Kidney buyer in Moldova: $100,000 to $250,000 Kidney buyer in Singapore: $300,000 Kidney buyer in United States: $30,000.

Kidney buyer in China: $87,000 Kidney buyer in Saudi Arabia: $16,000 Kidney seller in Bangladesh: $2,500 Kidney seller in China: $15,000 Kidney seller in Egypt: $2,000 Kidney seller in Kenya: $650.

Kidney seller in Moldova: $2,500 to $3,000 Kidney seller in Peru: $5,000 Kidney seller in Ukraine: $200,000 Kidney seller in Vietnam: $2,410.

Kidney seller in Yemen: $5,000 Kidney seller in the Philippines: $2,000 to $10,000 Liver buyer in China: $21,900 Liver seller in China: $3,660.

Courtesy of www.havocscope.com.

11 * Smoker.

The boy is certain he's going to die.

He sprained his ankle falling into the pit, maybe even broke it. Now it's swollen and blue, and has been that way for days. It's bad, but it's not the worst of his problems.

The pit is more than ten feet deep, and even if his ankle were fine, he'd never be able to climb out. For five days he's been screaming for help, and now his voice is nothing but a dry rasp.

And all because of those stupid cigarettes.

It had been weeks since he had a smoke. His supplier had been arrested again, and although there were kids at school who bragged about smoking, no one would offer him a cigarette, or even give him the name of a dealer. That's why he came to this part of town-a warehouse district of unused, rotting buildings, many of which were condemned, but no one wanted to waste the money or energy it would take to tear them down.

He knew if he was ever going to score himself some smokes again, this was the place to do it. Even if it was just one or two from some s.k.a.n.k nic addict, it would be worth it. That day was the third time he detoured through the warehouse streets on the way home from school, and nothing. No one. It seemed not even the nic addicts found the warehouse district worthy of their attention.

So imagine his surprise when he saw an open door, and cigarette b.u.t.ts strewn on the ground in front of it, like they had no better place to be.

He stepped into the rotting building. The huge s.p.a.ce smelled of evolving mold, and paint chips littered the ground like a fall of leaves.

Then he saw it-way at the back of the warehouse was a mattress. It was dirty, shredded, probably the digs of some homeless dude. Nothing was remarkable about it. What was remarkable was the unopened carton of cigarettes sitting on the mattress.

He couldn't believe his luck! He looked around to make sure there was no one there, then hurried to the mattress, and, stepping onto it, reached for the cigarette carton.

Even before he touched the carton, the mattress fell out beneath his feet and plunged into the pit. Although the mattress had mostly broken his fall, his right ankle hit the ground unprotected. He almost blacked out from the pain, and when his vision cleared he realized what had happened.

He was furious. His initial thought was that this was some sort of practical joke-as if his buddies from school would be looking down at him at any moment, pointing and laughing, calling him an idiot. But he quickly came to understand that this was not a joke at all. This was a trap.

But if this was a trap, why had no one come for five days?

There had been a jug of water and a box of crackers at the bottom of the pit on the day he fell in, along with a ceramic pot to relieve himself in. Whoever set the trap didn't want him to starve, but he did not do well with the rationing. The food and water was gone in three days, and now there's nothing left but a lousy carton of cigarettes, which he can't smoke because there aren't any matches. At one point he tried to eat the tobacco right out of the wrapper, figuring it might have some nutritional value, but it only made him dry-heave.

Now, with day five coming to an end, he's convinced no one's coming for him. No one's going to find him until it's too late.

Then, just before dark, he hears footsteps crunching the paint chips on the warehouse floor.

"Hey," he tries to yell, "over here!" His voice is barely a hiss, but it's enough. A face appears, looking down at him.

"My G.o.d, what are you doing down there? Are you okay?"

"Help . . ."

"Hold tight," says the man. He goes away and comes back a few moments later with an aluminum ladder, which he lowers into the pit. Although the boy has no strength to even stand, some secret reserve of adrenaline fuels his climb and helps him bear the pain of putting weight on his ruined ankle. In half a minute he's out of the pit, throwing his arms around the stranger who saved him.

The man sits him down. "Here, have something to drink," he says and hands the boy a water bottle. The boy guzzles it like it's the only water in the world. "How long have you been down there?"

"Five days." He gags as he tries to swallow the water, almost throwing it up, but he manages to keep it down.

The man kneels to him, shaking his head. "AWOL Unwinds are always getting themselves into trouble. You gotta be more careful."

The boy shakes his head. "I'm not an Unwind."

The man grins and nods knowingly. "Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say. Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

Then the boy feels a sudden p.r.i.c.k on his arm.