Undivided

“Ah,” says Divan. “That’s the interesting part. You see, the concept was so thoroughly thought-out, and the instructions so precise, that people were intrigued—and what began as a sick joke became all too real.” He finishes his espresso, puts the cup down on the saucer with a delicate clink, and zeroes his eyes on Argent in a way that makes him want to squirm. “That hideous practice of growing potted felines—do you know where it first took root as a commercial endeavor?”

“No.”

“Burma,” Divan tells him. “And as the black-market business grew, it shifted to something more profitable. The organization began to dabble in the illicit sale of human flesh.”

Argent finally co

“Precisely,” says Divan.

Argent has been intrigued by the Burmese flesh market since he was a child. Their unwinding practices make everything else look tame. There are stories of how anesthesia is rarely used, if ever. Stories of how they only sell a part of you at a time. Today they’ll take your hands, tomorrow your feet, the next day a lung, keeping you alive through all of it, down to the moment the last part of you, whatever it happens to be, is sold and shipped out. To be unwound on the Burmese Dah Zey is to die a hundred times before death truly takes root.

“And so,” continues Divan, “what began as one man’s Internet hoax not only became real, but evolved into the most heinous organization in the world. Here is a lesson to be learned: We must always be careful of the actions we take, for there are always unintended consequences. Sometimes they are serendipitous, other times they are appalling, but those consequences are always there. We must tread lightly in this world, Argent, until we are sure of foot.”

“Are you sure of foot, sir?”

“Very.”

Then he touches a button on a remote, bringing up the lights in the atrium. As the space illuminates, the plants grow bright and beautiful. Truly breathtaking. And there in the corners stand four large ceramic vases about five feet high. Argent noticed them before, but not what they contained. Protruding from the tops of the ceramic jars are four human heads. It only takes a moment for Argent to realize that they are alive, and the rest of their bodies are trapped within the ceramic vases, which taper so that the openings are like tight collars around the prisoners’ necks. Argent gasps, both horrified and amazed.

Divan rises and gestures for Argent to do so as well. “Don’t be afraid, they won’t hurt you.”

They are all male, with bronze skin and Asian features. Argent tentatively approaches the nearest one. The man eyes Argent with a sort of dull disinterest, a look that must be the residue of evaporated hope.

“These men were sent by the Dah Zey to kill me.” Divan explains. “You see, I am the Dah Zey’s only real competition, and so if they take me out, they control the world’s black-market flesh supply. Once I caught these assassins, I followed the Dah Zey’s own bonsai process as best I could with grown men, and sent the Dah Zey a nice thank-you note.”

Then he grabs a bowl of small brown cubes from the table. Argent had thought they were sugar cubes. “Nutritional chews,” Divan tells him. “I hired a dietitian to make sure I could provide them a healthy diet, appropriate for their unique condition.” He brings a cube toward the potted assassin, and the man opens his mouth, allowing himself to be hand-fed by Divan. “They put up a fuss at first, but they adapted, as people do. There’s a Zen-like peace to them now, don’t you think? Like monks in perpetual meditation.”

Divan goes from vase to vase. He talks to them gently as one might talk to a beloved pet. The men don’t speak at all; they just wait to be fed. Argent wonders whether their vocal cords have been removed, or if it is simply that when you’ve been turned into a houseplant, you’ve got nothing left to say. Argent is relieved that Divan doesn’t ask him to help feed the bonsai men.

“I have relatives who believe I should join with the Dah Zey,” Divan says, with more than a little bitterness, “but I refuse to ever become the kind of monster who would subject children to the inhumane practices of the Dah Zey. Their way is not, nor will it ever be, my way.” He keeps feeding his prize “plants” until the bowl of chews is empty. Argent finds his legs shaky and has to sit down. “This is a business, yes, but it must be humane,” Divan insists. “More humane, even, than your Juvenile Authority, or the European Jugenpol, or the Chinese Láng-Få. This is my wish. It is, I believe, a battle worth fighting for.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Divan sits across from him once more. “Well, you have something important to tell me, do you not? I feel it’s only fair for me to share something important with you first. So we might be on even ground.” Then he leans back and crosses his arms. “So, shall we discuss your sister?”

Argent had it all worked out. He was going to ask for money before giving away the code to access Grace’s tracking chip. And maybe a car. He was going to ask for a supply contract with Divan so he could go out on his own as a parts pirate.

But Divan’s ope

“R-O-N-A-E-L-E-one-two-one-five,” Argent says. “It’s Grace’s middle name spelled backwards, and her birthday. Code that into the InStaTrac website, and if the chip is still active, it’ll give you her location down to the inch. When you find her, I guarantee you’ll find Co

Divan pulls out a pen and pad, writes the information down, then calls for a servant to come take it, instructing him to give it to Nelson immediately.

“Once we’ve got a location, Nelson and I should leave right away,” Argent suggests.

“Ah, well—I’m afraid the unintended consequences of your own actions preclude that,” Divan says. “I’m speaking of that picture you posted of yourself and Co

Argent grimaces. He’s done stupid things in his life, but that may have been the stupidest—but who could blame him: He was starstruck by being in the presence of his then-hero.

“Your actions resulted in alerting the world that Lassiter is still alive, and has made tracking him down a race between the Juvenile Authority and our friend Jasper. Then, of course, there’s fact that you withheld this information about your sister from him, which he is very sore about. It makes a continued partnership between the two of you untenable.”

Argent swallows hard. His hands shake a bit, and he tells himself it’s because of the espresso.

“Fine, so I won’t go with him. I’ll go out alone—I’ll bring you back tons of AWOLs. You saw how good I am at it, right? I could be one of your best suppliers!”

Divan sighs. “I’m sure you could be. However, my arrangement with Jasper makes that impossible as well.”

“Wait—what arrangement?”

But the sympathetic look on Divan’s face makes the truth all too clear. Whatever that arrangement is, it doesn’t involve things ending well for Argent. He tries to rise—as if there were somewhere to run—but he can’t get up. He can’t even feel his legs. He tries to lift his arms, but they just hang scarecrow-limp by his side. It takes all his effort just to remain upright in the chair.

“Never trust espresso,” Divan tells him. “Its bitter taste can mask a multitude of things. This time, it masked a powerful muscle relaxant—a natural compound—designed to calm you and ease your handling.”

Argent glances to the dull-eyed bonsai over Divan’s shoulder. “Are you going to make me one of them? I won’t make a good potted boy,” Argent pleads.