Undivided

Passengers already settled in their seats glance his way as he moves down the aisle. One woman quickly deposits her purse in the empty seat beside her. “This one’s taken,” she says.

He passes through three coach cars until coming to one a little less crowded and finds a place where he can sit by himself. Across the aisle, however, is a girl who seems to have almost set up camp in the two seats she’s commandeered. She has a cobalt-blue streak in her black hair, and fingernails in various unmatching colors. She’s seventeen, maybe eighteen. Perhaps an AWOL who survived long enough to be legit, or a legit girl playing at nonconformity. One look at him, and she thinks she’s found a kindred spirit.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he echoes.

A moment of awkward silence then she asks, “So who are they?”

He plays dumb. “Who are who?”

“Zachary Vazquez, Courtney Wright, Matthew Praver,” she says, reading them right off of his forehead, “and all the rest.”

He has no reason to lie to her. He had the names tattooed there so that they could be seen. His days of hiding are over. “They’re Unwinds,” he tells her. “They had no one to mourn for them. But now they have me.”

She nods in unconditional approval. “Very cool. Nervy, too. I like it.” She shifts from the window seat to the aisle seat. “So are they everywhere?”

“They’re head to toe,” he tells her.

“Wow! How many names are there?”

“Three hundred and twelve,” Lev says, and adds with a grin, “any more and it would look cluttered.”

That makes her laugh. She ponders his face and his clean-shaven head, then says, “You know, your hair will eventually grow back. You’ll have to keep shaving it if you want people to see the names.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

The train pulls out, and she moves across the aisle to sit next to him. Taking his hands, she examines the many names on his forearms, hands, and fingers. He lets her, enjoying the positive attention as much as he enjoyed the negative attention from the disapprovers.

“I like the color choices, and the fact that you didn’t spare your face. It was a bold choice.”

“None of them were spared, so why should any part of me be?”

He made sure that there wouldn’t be a single part of his body not covered by the names of the Unwound. His only regret is that there aren’t more. Jase was right. So much ink so fast hurt to the point of tears, and several sleepless nights. Even now it hurts, but he bore the pain, and he’ll bear it still. The simple lettering of the names in red, black, blue, and green looks like war paint from a distance. Only when you get close enough to see Lev’s eyes do the patterns resolve into the names of the Unwound. Jase is a true artist.

“I think it’s beautiful,” says the girl with the cobalt streak. “Maybe I’ll follow your lead.” She looks at her right arm. “I could ink an Unwind right here. Just one, though. There are times when less is more.”

“Sabrina Fansher,” he suggests.

“Excuse me?”

“Sabrina Fansher. She would have been number three hundred and thirteen if I’d kept on going.”

The girl frowns. “Who was she?”

“I wish I knew. All I have are their names.”

She sighs. “Her memories are scattered to the wind. Sad beyond sad.” Then she nods. “Sabrina Fansher it shall be.”

She introduces herself as Amelia Sabatini—her Italian last name making him think of Miracolina. Then she asks him his name. He hesitates before he tells her, still not entirely used to his new alias. “Mahpee,” he tells her. “Mahpee Kinkajou.”

“Interesting name.”

“It’s a Chancefolk name. You can call me Mah.”

“Better than Pee. Or Kinky.” She giggles. He decides he likes her, which could be a problem. His plans do not leave room for friendship.

“How far are you going?” he asks her.

“Kansas City. How about you?”

“All the way to the end of the line.”

“New York?”

“Or bust.”

“Well, I hope you don’t do that,” Amelia says, giggling again, this time a bit nervously. “What’s there in the Big Apple for you?”

Her questions are probing. Invasive. With each one he’s liking her less and less. Instead of answering, he puts it back on her. “What’s for you in Kansas City?”

“A sister who can stand me,” Amelia says. “You have family in New York? Friends? Are you ru

“It’s nice that you have someone in your life who can stand you,” he says. “Not everyone has that.”

Then he turns to look out of the window, and keeps looking out of the window until she’s moved across the aisle again.

51 • Tarmac

There are more than three thousand abandoned airfields in the world. Some are the relics of war, abandoned during peacetime. Others were built to handle air traffic in places where the population has declined. Still others were built by misguided investors, banking on a growth boom that never arrived.

Of those three thousand airfields, about nine hundred are still viable. Of those nine hundred, about one hundred and fifty have long enough runways to accommodate a craft the size of the Lady Lucrezia. Of those hundred and fifty, twelve are regular stops for the Lady—and they are spread out on every populated continent.

Today’s itinerary features northern Europe.

Six small private jets are already on the weedy tarmac of Denmark’s Rom Airfield, lined up like chicks awaiting the return of the mother hen. It’s a ritual repeated several times a month in each airfield, with no fear of government interference, thanks to some well-placed palm greasing.

Distribution is a procedure much simpler than the actual unwindings. The Lady Lucrezia lands, her hinged nose rises, opening her voluminous cargo hold, and the crates, already sorted to their various destinations are loaded upon the smaller craft, representing buyers anxiously awaiting their purchases. No worldwide delivery service is more efficient. No businessman is prouder of his operation than Divan Umarov.

52 • Risa

She watches the off-loading activity from the guest room window, getting only a small glimpse of it. This is the third time they’ve landed since she’s been conscious. The first two times had them on the ground for less than ten minutes before accelerating down the runway once more, and she imagines this will be the same. Divan dispatches his cargo even faster than he unwinds them.

She turns at the sound of someone at the door, expecting to see Divan. Maybe he sold her after all, and the buyer is waiting on the tarmac to appraise the merchandise. She wonders if a swift kick to the groin would diminish her value in the bulging eyes of the recipient. Instead of Divan at the door, however, its Grace’s half-faced brother.

“Unless you’re here to spring me, I’m not interested.”

“Can’t do that,” Argent says, “but I can take you to see Co

And suddenly Argent’s her new best friend.

“Gotta be quiet, and gotta be quick,” Argent tells her as he leads her out of the room, sounding a little bit like Grace. “Divan’s outside supervising the off-load, but he’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

Argent leads her farther back in the plane to another guest bedroom almost as richly appointed as hers. At first appearance, Co

Yet in the midst of all this, Co