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Then General Bodeker puts up his hand to silence them.
“Perhaps you don’t understand,” the general says with calm control. “Let me explain it to you.” He waits until Cam puts down his fork, then proceeds. “Until last week you were the property of Proactive Citizenry. But they have sold their interest in you for a sizeable sum. You are now the property of the United States military.”
“Property?” says Cam. “What do you mean, ‘Property’?”
“Now, Cam,” says Roberta, working her best damage control. “It’s only a word.”
“It’s more than a word!” insists Cam. “It’s an idea—an idea that, according to the history expert somewhere in my left brain, was abolished in 1865.”
The senator starts to bluster, but the general keeps his cool. “That applies to individuals, which you are not. You are a collection of very specific parts, each one with a distinct monetary value. We’ve paid more than one hundred times that value for the unique manner those parts have been organized, but in the end, Mr. Comprix . . . parts is parts.”
“So there you have it,” says the senator bitterly. “You wanna leave? Then go on; git outta here. Just as long as you leave all those parts of yours behind.”
Cam’s breathing is out of control. Dozens of separate tempers inside of him join and flare all at once. He wants to dump the table. Hurl the plates at their heads.
Property!
They see him as property!
His worst fear is realized; even the people who venerate him see him as a commodity. A thing.
Roberta, seeing that look in his eyes, grabs his hand. “Look at me, Cam!” she orders.
He does, knowing deep down that making a scene will be the worst thing he can do for himself. He needs her to talk him down.
“Thirty pieces of silver!” he shouts. “Brutus! Rosenbergs!”
“I am not a traitor! I am true to you, Cam. This deal was made without my knowledge. I’m as furious as you, but we both must make the best of it.”
His head is swimming. “Grassy knoll!”
“It’s not a conspiracy either! Yes, I knew about it when I brought you here—but I also knew that telling you would be a mistake.” She throws an angry glare at the two men. “Because if it were your choice, the technical issue of ownership need never have come up.”
“Out of the bag.” Cam forces his breathing to slow and his flaring temper to drop into a smolder. “Close the barn door. The horses are gone.”
“What the hell is he babbling about?” snaps the senator.
“Quiet!” Roberta orders. “Both of you!” The fact that Roberta can quiet a senator and a general with a single word feels like some sort of victory. Regardless of who and what they own, they are not in charge here. At least not at this juncture.
Cam knows that anything out of his mouth will be just another spark of metaphorical language—the way he spoke when he was first rewound, but he doesn’t care.
“Lemon,” he says.
The two men glance around the table in search of a lemon. “No.” Cam takes a bite of prime rib, forcing himself to calm down enough to better translate his thoughts. “What I mean is that no matter what you paid for me, you’ve thrown away your money if I don’t perform.”
The senator is still perplexed, but General Bodeker nods. “You’re saying that we bought ourselves a lemon.”
Cam takes another bite. “Gold star for you.”
The two men look to each other, shifting uncomfortably. Good. That’s exactly what he wants.
“But if I do perform, then everybody gets what they want.”
“So we’re back where we started,” says Bodeker, with waning patience.
“But at least now we understand each other.” Cam considers the situation. Considers Roberta, who is all but wringing her hands with anxiety now. Then he turns to the two men. “Tear up your contract with Proactive Citizenry,” he says. “Void it. And then I’ll sign my own contract that commits me to whatever you want me to do. So that it’s my decision rather than a purchase.”
That seems to baffle all three of them.
