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“Miss Grace . . . if this is what you say it is, you shouldn’t just give it away. I’ll tell you what: I’ll give it to our research and development department, and if it’s, as you say, ‘the real deal,’ I will give you a very fair price for it.”
Grace leans back in her chair satisfied with him, but even more satisfied with herself. She grabs his hand and shakes it vigorously. “Congratulations, Mr. John Rifkin. You passed my test.”
“Excuse me?”
“I woulda walked if you were sleazy enough to rip me off, but you didn’t. That means your company deserves to shoot up to number one. And if you play your cards right, it will. You’ll probably get to be the company’s president, too.” Then she pulls out her phone.
John Rifkin seems a bit flustered now. “Wait . . . who are you calling?”
“My lawyer,” she tells him with a wink. “He’s waitin’ outside to negotiate my deal.”
71 • Broadcast
“This is Radio Free Hayden broadcasting from somewhere where we can see cows. Is it just me, or do those videos of the military rewinds in Hawaii make you want to hurl up all the organs you may have gotten from guys like me? In case you missed it, here’s a little sound bite of what General Edward Bodeker, head of the project, had to say about it:”
“Team Mozaic is a pilot program to ascertain the viability of creating a military force without impacting the resources of society by using the glut of unallocated unwound parts.”
“Damn, that’s an impressive mission statement! Shortly after those words left his lips, he was hauled in for a court-martial, and the Pentagon released the following statement instead:”
“This unsanctioned venture was the product of General Bodeker working without the knowledge or consent of the United States military. There is no question that the parties involved, including General Bodeker and Senator Barton Cobb, will be investigated and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
“Booyaah! The shrapnel just keeps flying. The military has covered their tender parts through plausible denial, and blamed the whole thing on Bodeker—which may or may not be true—but at least they won’t be looking for a few good rewound men. Kudos, though, to one good rewound man—Camus Comprix—for exposing this bad idea before it could take root. But what about the next bad idea? I can see it now, a whole rewound service class custom cut to do all those dirty little jobs no one else wants to do.
“If that’s not the world you want to live in, then let’s make some noise together! I’ll see you on the National Mall on Monday, November first. But if you’re at the mall, and not on the mall, well, maybe unwinding might be your best option. Signing off with everyone’s favorite tune. And remember—the truth will keep you whole.
“I’ve got you . . . under my skin. . . .”
72 • Strangers
He’s a thirty-five-year-old accountant. Ran track for UCLA, but has since developed the spare tire that comes with a sedentary profession. Now he runs a steady clip on the treadmill at his local gym beside strangers, never getting any closer to the palm trees outside the window.
“Crazy thing, isn’t it?” says the runner on the next treadmill. “That poor kid.”
“I hear ya,” says the accountant, in between breaths, knowing exactly what the guy is referring to. “The way they . . . just shot him . . . down.”
They’re speaking, of course, about that tithe clapper kid, Levi something-or-other, who came out from under a rock just long enough to be blasted by trigger-happy cops. Half the TVs hanging above their heads in the gym are still reporting on it days after the actual event.
“If you ask me,” says the stranger, “the whole Juvenile Authority oughta be investigated. Heads need to roll.”
“I hear ya.”
Even though only one of the three officers that shot him was a Juvey-cop, the Juvies are getting all the heat from it—and rightly so. Up above, the TVs show various protests in the wake of the shooting. Seems like people are protesting everywhere.
The accountant tries to catch his breath so he can ask his co-runner a question. “Did they finally give him those organs?”
“Are you kidding me? The Juvenile Authority is stupid, but not that stupid.”
At first, to calm a furious public, the Juvies promised to give him the organs needed to save him—but, of course, it would be all unwound parts. It was like throwing gasoline on a fire. Give a kid who’s protesting unwinding the parts of other kids? What were they thinking?
“Naah,” says a runner on his other side. “They’ll just keep him hooked up to all those machines until people forget, and then quietly unplug him. The bastards.”
“I hear ya.”
Although the accountant doesn’t think people will forget it so quickly.
• • •
A woman sits on a commuter train heading into Chicago for yet another day of pointless meetings with self-important people who think they know all there is to know about real estate.
