Part 10 (1/2)
Bam throws a glare at Trace, who never says much at these meetings. ”What does he think?”
”I think you should do whatever Connor tells you to do,” Trace says.
Bam snorts. ”Spoken like a true army boeuf.”
”Air force,” says Trace. ”You'd be wise to remember that.”
”The point is,” says Connor, coming between them before Ashley can launch into her anger management speech, ”that we all need to be thinking about how to kick out of here on a moment's notice if we have to.”
The rest of the meeting deals with the minutiae of management. Connor wonders how the Admiral could stomach conversations about sanitary napkin supply, when the threat of harvest camp was a clear and present danger every minute of every day. ”It's all about delegation,” Trace has said-which is the real reason why Connor had called this meeting.
”You can all go,” Connor finally tells everyone, ”except for Bam and John-we still have things to talk about.”
Everyone files out, and Connor has John wait outside, while he talks privately to Bam. Connor knows what he must do, he just doesn't want to do it. Some people take joy in dis.h.i.+ng out bad news, but Connor was never like that. He knows what it's like to be pulled up short, to be told that you're useless, that you're better off unwound.
Bam stands with arms folded, sweating att.i.tude. ”So, what's up?”
”Tell me about the tainted meat loaf.”
Bam shrugs like it's nothing. ”What's the big deal? The generator to one of the refrigerators blew out. It's fixed now.”
”How long was the power out?”
”Don't know.”
”So you had no clue how long the thing was without power, and you still served the food inside?”
”How was I supposed to know people would get sick? They ate it, so it's their problem.”
Connor imagines the punching bag and makes a fist with his right hand. Then he looks at the shark, and forces his hand to relax. ”More than forty kids were down for over two days-and we're lucky it wasn't worse.”
”Yeah, right, so I won't let it happen again.” Bam says it in such a rude tone of voice, Connor can imagine her saying it that same way to her teachers, her parents, the Juvies, every authority figure in her life. Connor hates the fact that he's one of those authority figures now.
”There won't be a next time, Bam. I'm sorry.”
”You're getting rid of me just because of one stupid screwup?”
”No one is getting rid of you,” Connor tells her. ”But you won't be running food service anymore.”
She burns him a long, hateful glare, then says, ”Fine. To h.e.l.l with you. I don't need this c.r.a.p.”
”Thank you, Bam,” he says, having no idea what possessed him to thank her. ”Send John in on your way out.”
Bam kicks the jet hatch open and storms out. She turns to John, who waits nervously outside, twisted in a full body flinch from her angry exit.
”Go on in,” Bam growls at him. ”He's firing you.”
That night Connor finds Starkey doing close-up magic for a bunch of Whollies beneath the recreation jet.
”How does he do that?” kids ask as he makes bracelets disappear from wrists and appear in other people's pockets. When he's done, Connor approaches him.
”You're pretty good. But as the guy in charge, I should ask you to tell me how it's done.”
Starkey only smiles. ”A magician never reveals his secrets, not even to the guy in charge.”
”Listen,” says Connor, cutting to the chase, ”there's something I want to talk to you about. I've decided to shake things up in the Holy of Whollies.”
”A change for the better, I hope,” Starkey says, gripping his stomach. Connor chuckles because he already knows Starkey sees where this is going, but that's okay.
”How would you like to be in charge of food?”
”I love food,” Starkey says. ”And I'm not just saying that.”
”Do you think you can handle a team of thirty and get food on the tables three times a day for everyone else?”
Starkey waves his hand and makes an egg appear out of thin air, then hands it to Connor. He saw the egg trick a few minutes earlier, but now its relevance makes it even more entertaining.
”Great,” says Connor. ”Now conjure up seven hundred more for breakfast.” And he walks away, chuckling to himself, knowing that Starkey does have what it takes to make things happen, and make them happen right.
For once Connor's sure he's made the right decision.
8 * Risa
In the early evenings, when the desert begins to cool, Risa plays piano beneath the left wing of Air Force One. She plays pieces that she knows by heart and pieces from sheet music that have found their way into the Graveyard.
As for the piano itself, it's a black baby grand Hyundai-which made her laugh when she first saw it. She didn't think Hyundai made pianos-but then, why should that surprise her? Multinationals can make anything they want if people will buy it. She once read that Mercedes-Benz had gotten heavy into artificial hearts before the Unwind Accord made such technology pointless. ”The Pulsar Omega,” the advertis.e.m.e.nt went. ”Take luxury to heart.” They invested a fortune in the product, only to lose every penny once unwinding began, and artificial hearts went the way of pagers and CDs.
Tonight she plays a forceful yet subtle Chopin sonata. It pours out like a ground fog, echoing within the hollow fuse-lages where the Whollies live. She knows it comforts them. Even those kids who claim to despise cla.s.sical music have come asking her why she isn't playing when she's skipped a night. So she plays for them, but not really, because it's herself that she's playing for. Sometimes she has an audience sitting before her in the dust. Other times, like tonight, it's just her. Sometimes Connor comes. He'll sit beside her, yet somehow be distant, as if afraid to invade her musical s.p.a.ce. The times Connor comes are her favorite, but he does not come often enough.
”He's got too much on his mind,” Hayden has told her, making the excuses that Connor should make for himself. ”He's a man of the people.” Then he added with a smirk, ”Or at least of two people.”
Hayden never pa.s.ses up a chance to throw a verbal barb about Connor's uninvited appendage. It ticks her off, because some things are no laughing matter. Sometimes she catches Connor looking at the arm with an expression that is so opaque, it frightens her. Like maybe he's going to pull out an ax and chop the thing off right in front of everyone. Even though he also bears a replacement eye, the match is perfect, and the source unknown. It holds no power over him . . . but Roland's arm is different, holding heavy emotional baggage in its powerful grasp.
”Are you wondering if it'll bite you?” she once asked as he gazed at that shark. Startled, Connor went a little bit red, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't. Then he just shrugged it off. ”Nah, I was just wondering when and why Roland got this stupid tattoo. If I ever come across the person who got that particular brain cell, maybe I'll ask.” Then he walked away from her, ending the conversation.
If it weren't for those daily leg ma.s.sages, Risa would think that Connor has forgotten about her completely. But even those ma.s.sages aren't the same. They feel perfunctory now. Like the only reason he's there is because he made a promise to himself that he would be-not because he truly wants to be.