UnBound (36 page)

Sonthi leans forward. “This war between us helps no one,” he begins. “It is our hope that we can pool our resources, and make a greater profit for all of us.”

Divan knows exactly where this is going. “You want UNIS.”

“It's no secret that your machine can perform an unwinding in only fifteen minutes. With this technology, we could downsize our harvest camps, while increasing our output. In return, we are prepared to offer you a generous percentage of our profits.”

“In other words, you propose to buy me out.”

“Think about it, Divan,” says Dagmara. “No more attacks from the Dah Zey, no need to fear for your life, and more money than we're pulling in now.”

Divan takes a sip of his espresso. “I will not surrender my business to an organization as bloody and barbarous as the Burmese Dah Zey. Not now, not ever.”

Then Dagmara finally shows her hand. “You forget, dear brother, that I control your ground operations. Without my distribution network, you can't move a single unwound part.”

“Are you threatening me, Dagmara?”

“I'm merely trying to get you to see reason.”

Divan turns to Sonthi, his decision made—but in truth it was made even before they began speaking. “When we land in Kamchatka, you will be put off my plane, Mr. Sonthi. I trust you'll be able to find your way home from there.”

Then Divan excuses himself, not wanting to be in either of their company a moment longer.

There's not much room in his tiny cabin to pace, but Argent can't keep still. Divan has entertained the likes of parts pirates and contract killers, but none have gotten under his skin the way Malik has. Perhaps because those others do what they do for money, not for pleasure. As Divan always says, it's strictly business, and no matter how illicit the business is, the joy comes more from the profit than from the act. Surely the black market is rotten with sociopaths, but Malik feels like a special case.

And Divan made Argent apologize!

There's little enough self-respect left in Argent, and that just about killed it.

There's a knock at his door. He suspects it's Divan come to lecture him on his place in the scheme of things, but it's not. It's Malik, the beast himself, come to pay a visit.

“Nice closet,” he says. “Can I come in?”

Argent knows if he denies him entry, he'll get in even more trouble. “I already apologized,” Argent says. “What else do you want from me?”

“I want to give you the chance to make it up to me.” Malik steps in, and Argent has no choice but to let him. “Things will be changing around here. You can either be part of the change, or be steamrolled by it.”

“Nothing's changing unless Mr. Umarov says it is,” Argent tells him.

Malik doesn't speak to that. Instead he says, “Show me my uncle's harvester.”

Argent wasn't expecting that. “I . . . I'm not allowed.”

“But you can get in, can't you? I want to see UNIS. I want to see how it works.”

“I told you, I can't.”

And then Malik reaches up and grips the biobandage that covers Argent's faceless half. “I could rip this off you right now.”

It's a terrifying threat—because a biobandage is more than just dressing: It grows into the surrounding tissue to protect the wound. If he rips it off, the pain will be unbearable.

Argent still remembers his martial arts moves. He could have Malik in a choke hold in an instant, cutting off his oxygen and rendering him unconscious. If he holds it long enough, Malik could be left with irreversible brain damage—which might be exactly what he needs. But who is Argent kidding? He'll just get rewound brain bits to replace the damage. On the other hand, perhaps those brain bits will be better than the ones Malik came with.

Argent never gets the chance to find out, because Dagmara comes to the door. “Am I interrupting?” she asks.

Malik takes his hand from Argent's bandage. “Just having a friendly chat,” Malik says, and saunters off, leaving his mother to talk business.

“I have a proposal for you, Skinner,” Dagmara says. “Listen carefully, because I'm about to make you very rich. . . .”

•  •  •

The instant Dagmara leaves, Argent goes to Divan's quarters, making sure that no one sees him. He knocks urgently, and Divan lets him in.

“I take it that this is important, or you wouldn't be disturbing me.”

“Very important, sir.”

Then Argent shows him the vial that Dagmara gave him. “She said she'd give me a million dollars to pour this into your espresso at breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Divan doesn't seem surprised, just disappointed. “You realize she wouldn't have given you a dime. Most likely she'd kill you.”

“Most likely she'd have Malik kill me,” Argent says. Divan doesn't disagree.

Divan opens the vial and sniffs it, thinks for a moment, then replaces the stopper and hands the vial back to Argent. “Do it,” Divan says.

“You . . . you want me to poison you?”

“Certainly not. But I have no qualms about you putting it in someone else's espresso. Whoever you like. I trust your judgment.”

The idea that Divan trusts him with anything—especially something as serious as this—is a surprise to Argent.

“You're asking me to be your assassin.”

“The Eastern world calls such assassins ninjas. Many of them serve as personal aids to their masters. Is this a position you can rise to, Argent?”

It's the first time he can remember Divan calling him Argent instead of Skinner.

“Yes I can,” says Argent. “And you don't need to give me a million bucks, either.”

“Perhaps I will,” Divan tells him. Then adds. “In time . . . in time.”

Malik has to admit the plane is as amazing as he thought it would be, and his own prospects are even more thrilling. His brother, the philosopher, wants no part of the family business. That leaves Malik first in line to inherit it all. His mother knows Malik is the strongest link in the family chain, which is why she's brokered this deal with the Dah Zey.

If we play our cards right, you'll be running the Dah Zey one day,
she told him. Merging with them isn't a matter of surrendering, it's infiltrating, and these Burmese fools are too stupid to see it!

In the meantime, however, he'll settle for the
Lady Lucrezia
and its airborne harvest camp. But when he's in charge, things will be different. For one thing he'll have a proper staff—and his first order of business will be to jettison the half-faced freak right out the Sayonara Hatch into oblivion.

Such are Malik's musings when his uncle pays him a visit.

“Skinner tells me you have an interest in seeing UNIS in action,” Uncle Divan tells him.

Malik is cautious. “He told you that?”

“Yes—he doesn't have access, so he asked if I could do it. I'd be happy to.”

Malik sits up, unable to hide his excitement. “Thanks, Uncle Divan.”

“Don't mention it. But before we go into the harvest drum, you'll need to put these on.”

He tosses Malik a one-piece garment that looks like long underwear, only heavier. As Malik examines it, he sees that it's made of metal. A very finely woven chain mail.

“What for?”

“For your own protection, of course.”

Malik quickly dons the metallic one-piece and follows his uncle to the front of the jet, where the automated harvesting unit awaits.

“Can I watch an unwinding?”

“Of course,” says his uncle cheerily. “I think you'll find it an eye-opening experience.”

The
Lady Lucrezia
lands in Kamchatka at dawn. Several hundred stasis containers are unloaded—the result of twelve unwindings that took place in flight. There's only one small container that was not put up for auction. This box Divan takes to his personal quarters for safekeeping.

Although new AWOLs have been brought to the
Lady Lucrezia
from his Russian holding facility—enough to fill all the empty beds in the harvest drum—Divan takes none of them on board.

“Next time,” he tells his confused supply crew. “Pay the parts pirates what we owe them, and next time I'll take them on board.”

As for Sonthi, Divan does not put him off the plane. He tells his sister that he's had a change of heart and wants more time to consider their proposal. The
Lady Lucrezia
is refueled and airborne again in half an hour.

But shortly after reaching cruising altitude, Divan notices several things that could only be called red flags. His chef will not look him in the eye; Bula is mysteriously missing; and the portside windows bring in a spectacular sunrise—which means they're heading on a southerly course instead of due west, as is Divan's traditional flight plan. He doesn't need a compass to know that they're heading for Burma and that the pilots are now working for the Dah Zey.

All these things he keeps to himself at breakfast, playing his own hand very close to the vest. Even Skinner has a poker face this morning, although he does give Divan a surreptitious nod to indicate that they are in league.

Malik is late for breakfast. No one is concerned.

“You should send Skinner to get him,” Dagmara tells Divan. “Eggs Benedict is his favorite.”

“I'm sure he'll be along shortly,” Divan assures her. It's as Skinner brings the morning espresso that Divan turns to Sonthi. “Now, let us discuss the terms of your proposal.”

Both Dagmara and Sonthi watch with interest as Divan takes his time squeezing his lemon rind around the edge of his espresso cup.

“The terms,” Sonthi says, “have already been negotiated. There is nothing left but for you to accept them.”

Sonthi takes a sip of his espresso. Dagmara takes a sip of hers.

“In that case, there's nothing more to discuss, is there?” Divan says, and brings his own espresso to his lips.

He pours juice. He takes away plates. He watches and listens, all the while his heart pounding so painfully in his chest, he fears it may explode. Did he confuse the cups? He doesn't trust his own memory. What a time to be uncertain.

Divan has taken a sip. All three have. How strong is the poison? How much of it must be ingested, and how long does it take to work? What sort of ninja is this clueless about his own methods?

He doesn't need to wait long for an answer. Sonthi begins to gag and froth at the mouth and falls face forward. His head smacks the table with a thud. His eyes remain open. He's dead.

Dagmara gasps, then throws an accusing glare at Argent. “You imbecile! What have you done!”

“Precisely what I expected he would do,” Divan says. “Well played, Skinner.”

“Do you have any idea what the Dah Zey will do when they find out he's dead?”

“That,” says Divan, “is no longer your concern.” Then he pulls out a gun and fires.

It's a tranq. It hits Dagmara squarely in the chest. She mumbles something in Chechen—most likely a curse—and her head rolls back instead of forward.

“I searched everywhere for Bula,” Argent tells Divan once Dagmara is unconscious. “He's not on board anymore. They must have killed him when we landed.”

“Or sent him out the Sayonara Hatch.” Divan shakes his head. “Pool Bula, he deserved better.”

“What do you want me to do now?” Argent asks.

Divan smiles. “You would do anything I asked, wouldn't you, Argent? Such loyalty is a rare commodity in this world.”

Would he do anything for Divan? Argent wonders. This man who cut off the good half of his face and gave it to Nelson—then turned him into an indentured servant in order to earn back the right to have a face again? Argent finds that his answer is yes. He would do anything Divan wished of him. Argent wonders if that makes him broken, or noble.

Divan leans back, as if he has no care in the world. “Go tell the chef that we'll all be having lamb for lunch. That will keep him busy for a while. And while you're at it, please bring me another espresso.”

She awakens to find herself staring at a sea of soulless faces. For a moment she thinks it's a dream, until she realizes where she is. She is sitting before the Orgão Orgânico. Her head is still a bit hazy, but she remembers what happened.

To the left a single male face has its mouth open, intoning a deep bass
aaaaaaaaaah.
She sees a single finger depressing the lowest B-flat key and follows that finger to her brother, who sits beside her.

“Stop that,” she says wearily, because the sound resonates in her aching head.

“I'm afraid that would be a mistake,” Divan says, then removes his finger. Immediately Dagmara can feel the plane begin to lose altitude.

Divan puts his finger on the key once more. The voice sings again. The plane stops dropping. “You see? When I installed the organ, I made sure it was wired into the autopilot circuit, on the chance that this day might come. A mere flick of a switch has sent the control here. Now as long as the Orgão Orgânico is being played, the autopilot is engaged.”

“Autopilot . . . ,” mumbles Dagmara, still struggling to get her wits back as the tranq wears off.”

“Yes. I'm afraid I had to kill both the pilot and his copilot. They proved themselves to be traitors. The chef as well. Pity. I doubt I'll ever find one with such talent.”

Dagmara groans. What a mess things have become. Leave it to her brother to spite everyone, including himself. And then something occurs to her that brings on a wave of nausea.

“Malik . . . Where's Malik? Where's my son?”

“No longer on board. Mostly. He was put off in Kamchatka.”

“You left him alone?”

“No, of course not. He's in the company of your distribution network. You'll be pleased to know that his parts fetched us more than three hundred thousand dollars.”