The woman nods again, and Starkey pats her arm with his good hand, giving her a measure of comfort, and leaves her there on her chair, unharmed.
Then he goes to the five others, and one by one kicks the chair out from beneath them.
Part Five
* * *
A Murder of Storks
CHARLIE FUQUA, ARKANSAS LEGISLATIVE CANDIDATE, ENDORSES DEATH PENALTY FOR REBELLIOUS CHILDREN . . . .
The Huffington Post | By John Celock
Posted: 10/08/2012 1:29 p.m. Updated: 10/15/2012 8:08 a.m.
In . . . Fuqua’s 2012 book, the candidate wrote that while parents love their children, a process could be set up to allow for the institution of the death penalty for “rebellious children,” according to the Arkansas Times. Fuqua . . . points out that the course of action involved in sentencing a child to death is described in the Bible and would involve judicial approval. While it is unlikely that many parents would seek to have their children killed by the government, Fuqua wrote, such power would serve as a way to stop rebellious children.
According to the Arkansas Times, Fuqua wrote:
The maintenance of civil order in society rests on the foundation of family discipline. Therefore, a child who disrespects his parents must be permanently removed from society in a way that gives an example to all other children of the importance of respect for parents. The death penalty for rebellious children is not something to be taken lightly. The guidelines for administering the death penalty to rebellious children are given in Deut 21:18–21: This passage does not give parents blanket authority to kill their children. They must follow the proper procedure . . . . Even though this procedure would rarely be used, if it were the law of the land, it would give parents authority . . . and it would be a tremendous incentive for children to give proper respect to their parents.
Full article: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/08/
charlie-fuqua-arkansas-candidate-death-penalty-rebellious-children_n_1948490.html
“I think my views are fairly well accepted by most people.”
—Charlie Fuqua
The Rheinschilds
Janson and Sonia Rheinschild have been asked to resign from their positions at the university. The chancellor cites “unauthorized use of biological material” as the reason. They could either resign or be arrested and have their names—and their work—dragged through the mud.
BioDynix Medical Instruments has not returned Janson’s calls for weeks. When he demands to know why, the receptionist, a bit flustered by his surliness, claims that they have no records of his previous calls, and in fact, they have no record of him in their system at all.
But the worst is yet to come.
Janson, unshaven and unshowered for maybe a week, shuffles to answer the doorbell. There’s a kid there, eighteen or so. It takes a moment for Janson to recognize him as one of Austin’s friends. Austin—Janson’s research assistant, rehabilitated from the streets—has been living with them for the past year. Sonia’s idea. They had converted their basement into an apartment for him. Of course, he has his own life, so the Rheinschilds don’t follow his comings and goings, and he’s been known to be away for days at a time when there’s no work to be done. That being the case, his current absence hasn’t been cause for alarm—especially now that Janson has neither an office nor research lab anymore.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it,” the kid says. “Austin was taken away for unwinding last night.”
Janson stammers for a moment in protective denial. “That can’t be. There must be some mistake—he’s too old to be unwound now! In fact, he celebrated his birthday just this past weekend.”
“His actual birthday’s tomorrow,” the kid says.
“But . . . but . . . he’s not a feral! He has a home! A job!”
The kid shakes his head. “Don’t matter. His father signed an unwind order.”
And in the stunned silence that follows, Sonia comes down the stairs. “Janson, what’s wrong?”
But he finds he can’t tell her. He can’t even repeat the words aloud. She comes to his side, and the boy at the door, wringing a woolen hat in his hands, continues. “His dad, see—he’s got a drug problem—that’s the reason Austin was on the streets to begin with. From what I hear, someone offered him a lot of money to sign those papers.”
Sonia gasps, covering her mouth as she realizes what has happened. Janson’s face goes red with fury. “We’ll stop it! We’ll pay whatever we have to pay, bribe whomever we need to bribe—”
“It’s too late,” says the kid, looking to the welcome mat at his feet. “Austin was unwound this morning.”
None of them can speak. The three stand in an impotent tableau of grief until the kid says, “I’m sorry,” and hurries away.
Janson closes the door and then holds his wife close. They don’t talk about it. They can’t. He suspects they’ll never speak of it to each other again. Janson knows this was intended as a warning—but a warning to do what? Stay quiet? Embrace unwinding? Cease to exist? And if he tries to rattle his saber at Proactive Citizenry, what good will it do? They haven’t actually broken the law. They never do! Instead they mold the law to encompass whatever it is they wish to accomplish.
He lets go of Sonia and goes to the stairs, refusing to look at her. “I’m going to bed,” he tells her.
“Janson, it’s barely noon.”
“Why should that make a difference?”
In the bedroom, he draws the shades, and as he buries himself in the covers, in the dark, he thinks back to the time Austin broke into their home and hit Janson in the head. Now Janson wishes that the blow would have killed him. Because then Austin might still be whole.
47 • Connor
Starkey. He should have known it was Starkey. The numbers of the dead reported from the crash in the Salton Sea didn’t match with the numbers he knew escaped. He was foolish enough to think that either Starkey had been among the dead, or would lie low, content with his petty principality of storks. As Connor prepares to leave Una’s apartment and continue the journey to Ohio, he can’t help but be drawn in by the news reports coming in on every station about the attack on MoonCrater Harvest Camp.
“You mean you know this guy?” Lev asks.
“He’s the one who stole the escape plane,” Connor explains. “You saw it take off from the Graveyard, didn’t you? He took all the storks and left the rest of us for the Juvies.”
“Nice guy.”
“Yeah. I was an idiot for not seeing his psycho factor before it was too late.”
The premeditated lynchings at MoonCrater is Starkey’s line in the sand, and it’s quickly deepening into a trench. Five staff members hung and a sixth one left alive to tell the tale. The media scrutiny is turning Mason Starkey into a swollen image much larger than his five-foot-six stature, and Connor realizes, as much as he hates to admit it, that they are in the same club now. They are both cult figures in hiding, hated by some, adored by others. Vilified and lionized. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone starts making T-shirts featuring both of them side by side, as if their renegade status makes them in any way comrades in arms.
Starkey claims to speak for storks, but people don’t differentiate when it comes to AWOLs. As far as the public is concerned, he’s the maniacal voice of all Unwinds—and that’s a big problem. As Starkey’s trench in the sand fills with blood, the fear of AWOLs will grow, tearing apart everything Connor has fought for.
He used to impress upon the Whollies at the Graveyard the importance of keeping their wits about them and using their heads. “They think we’re hopelessly violent and better off unwound,” he would tell them. “We have to prove to the world that they’re wrong.”
All it might take to destroy everything that Connor has worked for is Starkey kicking out five chairs.
Connor turns off the TV, his eyes aching from all the coverage. “Starkey won’t stop there,” he tells Lev. “It’s only going to get worse.”
“Which means there are three sides in this war now,” Lev points out, and Connor realizes that he’s right.
“So, if the first side is driven by hate and the second by fear, what drives us?”
“Hope?” suggests Lev.
Connor shakes his head in frustration. “We’re gonna need a lot more than that. Which is why we have to get to Akron and find out what Sonia knows.”
Then from behind him he hears, “Sonia who?”
It’s Cam, stepping out of the bathroom. He’s been locked in the basement for safekeeping, but Una must have sent him up on one of his regular bathroom runs. Connor feels fury rise in him, not so much at Cam, but at himself—for having given away two crucial pieces of information. Their destination and a name.
“None of your goddamn business!” Connor snaps.
Cam raises his eyebrows, causing the pattern of multiracial seams in his forehead to compress. “Hot button,” Cam says. “This Sonia must be important for you to react like that.”
Their plan has been to leave Cam in Una’s basement until Lev and Connor are too far away for him to pick up the trail. That way, although he knows where they’ve been, he won’t know where they’re going and can’t bring the information back to his creators—because in spite of his claims to have turned on them, there’s been no proof to back up the claim.
However, Cam now has a name as well as the city they’re headed to. If he does go back to Proactive Citizenry, it won’t take long for them to realize that this particular Sonia is the long-lost wife of their disavowed founder.
Connor realizes that everything has now changed, and their lives have become infinitely more complicated.
48 • Lev
More things have changed than Connor even realizes—but Lev is not about to hit him with his own big announcement just yet.
He watches as Connor grabs Cam’s arm a little too hard, but then Lev realizes that he’s using Roland’s hand to do it, so that’s understandable. He pulls him toward the stairs with troubling purpose.
“What are you going to do?” Lev asks.
Connor gives him a bitterly sardonic smile. “Have a meaningful discussion.” Then Connor pulls Cam down the stairs, leaving Lev alone with Grace, who had eavesdropped on everything from the safety of Una’s room. Grace, Lev knows, is another variable to be dealt with. Throughout all of this, she’s kept her distance from Lev, and they’ve said very little to each other.
“So is Cam coming to Ohio?” she asks.
“Why on earth would Connor take him to Ohio?”
Grace shrugs. “Friends close, enemies closer kind of thing,” she says. “Seems to me there’s three choices. Leave him, take him, or kill him. Since he knows too much, that brings it down to the last two, and Connor don’t seem the killing type. Even though he runned you down with a car.”
“It was an accident,” Lev reminds her.
“Yeah—anyways, best strategy is to bring him along. You watch. Connor’s going to come back and tell you that you’ve gained a travel buddy.” She hesitates for a moment, glances at him, then glances away. “When are you gonna tell him that you’re not coming?”
