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“So much going on out there! Clappers and AWOLs and storks, oh my! We have heaping mounds of new intel to report on the Juvenile Authority, as well—such as, how their newly announced budget increases the size of their street force by twenty percent. That’s the largest single peacetime law enforcement personnel spike in modern history. It makes you wonder if this is ‘peacetime’ at all.
“But enough about the Juvies, let’s talk about Mason Michael Starkey, political dissident, freedom fighter, sociopathic mass murderer. Whatever you want to call him, and whatever your personal opinion of him, here are some objective facts for you.
“Fact number one: His last two missions before he vanished from sight were funded by the people who brought you self-destructive teenagers. Not run-of-the-mill ones, but the kind who actually blow themselves up. Yes, folks, Mason Starkey didn’t just use clappers in his harvest camp attacks, he was funded by them.
“Fact number two: Public support for the Juvenile Authority has actually increased since Starkey’s harvest camp liberations. Imagine that. The more harvest camps he frees, the less the public wants free teenagers!
“Fact number three: This year there is a record number of measures on the ballot and bills in Washington to determine the future of unwinding. Do we u
nwind prisoners? Do we allow the voluntary unwinding of adults? Do we give the Juvenile Authority the right to unwind kids without parental permission? Those are just a handful of the issues we’re being asked to make decisions on.
“So what does all that have to do with the price of parts in Paraguay? Well, we’ve all been laboring under the belief that clappers want to destabilize our world. Create chaos for chaos’s sake. But they made a crucial mistake when they put their muscle behind Mason Starkey, because it tipped their hand. It gave us a glimpse of their true motives.
“Funny how the more frightened people are, the more they turn to the Juvenile Authority to solve the problem. ‘Unwind the baddies!’ ‘Protect my children from those children.’ ‘Make the world safe for law-abiding citizens.’
“Y’know, if I wanted to make sure that the Juvenile Authority had greater and greater support, I would trick angry teenagers into blowing themselves up, and then blame the angry teenagers! No mess, no bother. Well, quite a lot of mess, but you get my point.
“I put this before you right here, right now: Clapping is not chaotic or random—it is a well-organized effort by the medical grafting industry to ensure the future of unwinding now and forever.
“If you don’t believe me, look for it yourself. Follow the money. Who gets rich if the Juvenile Authority gets strong? In the long run, who profits from clapper attacks? The smoking guns are hard to find, but they’re out there—and if you find something, let us know at [email protected]
“Well, with the approach of distant sirens, I’m sorry to say that our time together has run out, but here’s a tune just right for finger snapping, as we sign off until next week! And remember, the truth will keep you whole!
“I’ve got you . . . under my skin. . . .”
50 • Lev
Denver Union Station. Eighteenth stop of the eastbound Zephyr, one of the few transcontinental passenger trains still running on a regular schedule. Lev pays for his ticket in cash. The ticket agent spares him a glance, then double-takes and shakes his head in clear disapproval. Still, the agent passes the ticket through the little hole at the base of the glass window. Only after leaving the line does Lev hear the agent say to the next customer, “We get all types here.”
There are Juvey-cops in the station. AWOLs always try to take trains. They rarely make it on board. One Juvey eyes Lev suspiciously and heads him off before he can get to the train.
“Can I please see some identification, son?”
“I’ve already been cleared by security. The Juvenile Authority doesn’t have the right to ask for identification without probable cause.”
“Fine,” says the Juvey-cop. “You can file a formal rights violation complaint with the Juvenile Authority after you show me your ID.”
He pulls out his wallet and hands an ID card to the cop. The ID has a new picture, reflecting how he looks now. The cop studies it, clearly disappointed that he can’t make an instant arrest.
“Mahpee Kinkajou. Is that Navajo?”
Trick question. “Arápache. Doesn’t it say so?”
“My mistake,” the cop says, handing him back the ID. “Have a nice trip, Mr. Kinkajou.” The cop knows better than to mess with him now. The Arápache are very litigious when it comes to their off-Rez youth being harassed by the authorities.
Lev glances at the officer’s name tag. “I’ll make sure to file that rights violation report when I get where I’m going, Officer Triplitt.” Lev won’t do it, but the officer deserves a little heartache.
Lev finds his train and gets on board, ignoring the glances and stares of strangers, although sometimes he stares back until the strangers are so uncomfortable, they look away. No one recognizes him. No one will. His new look guarantees that.
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?”
