"Only because I knew it would make him cold."
"And when he offers you his food, you take it."
"Because it means he goes hungry."
It's coolly logical. Connor finds it amazing that she can put her emotions aside and be as calculating as Roland, beating him at his own game. Another reason for Connor to admire her.
* * *
"Work call!"
It happens about once a week beneath the meeting canopy—the only structure in the entire graveyard that isn't part of a plane, and the only place large enough to gather all 423 kids. Work call. A chance to get out into the real world. A chance to have a life. Sort of.
The Admiral never attends, but there are video feeds from the meeting canopy, just as there are feeds all over the yard, so everyone knows he's watching. Whether or not every camera is constantly monitored, no one knows, but the potential for being seen is always there. Connor did not care for the Admiral the first day he met him. The sight of all those video cameras shortly thereafter made Connor like him even less. It seems each day there's something to add to his general feeling of disgust with the man.
Amp leads the work call meeting with his megaphone and clipboard. "A man in Oregon needs a team of five to clear cut a few acres of forest," Amp announces. "You'll be given room and board, and taught to use the tools of the trade. The job should take a few months, and at the end you'll get new identities. Eighteen-year-old identities."
Amp doesn't let them know the salary, because there is none. The Admiral gets paid, though. He gets paid a purchase price.
"Any takers?"
There are always takers. Sure enough, more than a dozen hands go up. Sixteen-year-olds, mostly. Seventeens are too close to eighteen to make it worth their while, and younger kids are too intimidated by the prospect.
"Report to the Admiral after this meeting. He'll make the final decision as to who goes."
Work call infuriates Connor. He never puts his hand up, even if it's something he might actually want to do. "The Admiral's using us," he says to the kids around him. "Don't you see that?"
Most of the kids just shrug, but Hayden's there, and he never misses an opportunity to add his peculiar wisdom to a situation. "I'd rather be used whole than in pieces," Hayden says.
Amp looks at his clipboard and holds up the megaphone again. "Housecleaning services," he says. "Three are needed, female preferred. No false IDs, but the location is secure and remote—which means you'll be safe from the Juvey-cops until you turn eighteen."
Connor won't even look. "Please tell me no one raised their hand."
"About six girls—all seventeen years old, it looks like," says Hayden. "I guess no one wants to be a house-girl for more than a year."
"This place isn't a refuge, it's a slave market. Why doesn't anyone see that?"
"Who says they don't sec it? It's just that unwinding makes slavery look good. It's always the lesser of two evils."
"I don't see why there have to be any evils at all."
As the meeting breaks up, Connor feels a hand on his shoulder. He thinks it must be a friend, but it's not. It's Roland. It's such a surprise, it takes Connor a moment before he reacts. He shakes Roland's hand off. "Something you want?"
"Just to talk."
"Don't you have a helicopter to wash?"
Roland smiles at that. "Less washing, more flying. Cleaver made me his unofficial copilot."
"Cleaver must have a death wish." Connor doesn't know who he's more disgusted with: Roland, or the pilot for being suckered in by him.
Roland looks around at the thinning crowd. "The Admiral's got some racket going here, doesn't he?" he says. "Most of the losers here don't care. But it bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Your point?"
"Just that you're not the only one who thinks the Admiral needs some . . . retraining."
Connor doesn't like where this is going. "What I think of the Admiral is my business."