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“Yes, you’re itching, but it’s not poison ivy,” Cam tells him. “I’m sorry that you itch all over. That’s just the way it is.”
Then a single tear forms in the rewind’s darker eye, coursing down the rough ridge of a scar, until spilling into his ear. “Back of my jersey? Card in my wallet? There, on the birthday cake, in blue?”
“No!” says Cam, surprised by his own anger. “No, I don’t know who you are. I can’t tell you your name. No one can!” He finds his hand that holds the syringe is starting to quiver. Best to do it quick. End it now. So why is he waiting?
“The fly . . . the fly . . .”
And the desperation, the absolute helplessness in the rewind’s eyes is too much for Cam to bear. Cam knows what must be done . . . but he can’t do it. He can’t do it. He pulls the syringe away, capping it, furious at his own compassion. Does this mean I’m truly whole? he wonders. Is compassion a virtue of a soul?
“It’s all right,” Cam says. “The spider won’t get you.”
The rewind’s eyes get a little bit wider, not with fear, but with hope. “Slide into home? Run scores?”
“Yes,” Cam tells him. “You’re safe.”
67 • Roberta
Sometimes we must kill our babies. It’s a basic tenet of every creative or scientific endeavor. Become too attached to any single aspect of one’s work, and one risks failure. Such is the result of not being able to see the forest for the trees.
Hope for Cam’s future had been shaky since that troubling meeting they had with Cobb and Bodeker back in Washington. The one where Cam became violent—if not in action, then in thought—and although they appeared to accept the cover story of Cam being sequestered in Molokai this whole time, Roberta suspects there’s a mole within the staff who informed the senator and general that Cam was AWOL.
“We’ve decided that it’s too unstable for our purposes,” Bodeker told her earlier today. He always refers to Cam as “it,” which has always annoyed Roberta, but now she’s beginning to understanding the practicality of his approach. “We’d prefer that our entire investment go into the reintegrated infantry.” That’s Bodeker’s euphemism for the rewind army they’ve commissioned. Roberta’s understanding is that this reintegrated infantry will be carefully introduced to the public as “Team Mozaic,” an even more euphemistic term to offer up the rewinds in the most appealing light.
As for Cam, he was like a toe dipped into the hot water of a bath. The public was intrigued by him, dazzled even. Thanks to Cam, they’ve come to feel that the water is fine. Now all that remains is for the public to be eased into the bath in calculated measures, lest they balk at the heat. Skillfully spun, Team Mozaic will become an accepted facet of the military, without anyone realizing exactly how it happened.
“You are to be commended for your vision,” Bodeker told Roberta, “but Camus Comprix is no longer a part of our equation. Its job is done.”
Roberta doesn’t know why she feels such regret. It’s the way of all things. The beta test must always give way to the final product. True, the final product has fewer bells and whistles, but that should not concern her. Accommodations must always be made.
And so, when security calls that evening to notify her that, once again, Cam has managed to break into the reintegration unit, her course of action becomes clear. She puts on a linen blazer—insanely heavy for the tropical heat, but it has an outer pocket that’s deep enough to conceal any number of things. Roberta knows what must be done. By no means will this be easy, but it is necessary—and what kind of visionary would she be if she didn’t take all the necessary steps to see her vision through?
• • •
Roberta arrives at the reintegration building to find several guards and med techs standing around the door to the rewind ward, practically twiddling their thumbs in embarrassment. They all back away from the door when they see her coming.
“What’s the situation?” she asks.
“He’s just sitting there,” says one of the med techs, and off of her dubious expression, he says, “See for yourself.”
She peers through the small window in the locked door. Sure enough, Cam is sitting on the floor in the middle of the long room, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking gently back and forth. She pulls out her key card.
“It’s no use,” says one of the guards. “He’s locked everyone out.”
Nevertheless, she swipes her card, and the lock disengages. “He’s locked all of you out,” she says. It’s clear he’s been waiting for her, and her alone. “Get back to your posts,” she tells them. “I’ll handle this.” Reluctantly, the others leave, and she pushes open the door, cautiously stepping in.
The room is awash with the white noise of medical monitors, and the hissing ventilators of the fresher rewinds who are still intubated. The room smells of Betadine antiseptic, and the vague vinegary odor of bandages overdue to be changed. She must remember to crack the whip at the nurses and med techs.
“Cam?” she asks gently as she nears him. He gives no response. He doesn’t even look up.
As she gets closer, she can see the bag beside him. There’s a syringe on the ground with a cloudy liquid. The needle is capped. For a moment she fears the worst, and looks around at the rewinds. She doesn’t spot any monitors that show distress, but perhaps he defeated the life-signs monitors, as well.
Then, as if reading her mind, he says, “I couldn’t kill them. I came here to do it—but I couldn’t.”
She knows she has to be careful with him. Handle him with kid gloves. “Of course you couldn’t,” she says. “They’re your spiritual siblings. Ending their lives would be akin to ending your own.”
“Spiritual,” he echoes. “I didn’t realize that word was part of your lexicon.”
“I don’t deny the spark of life,” she tells him. “But it’s forever debatable what that spark is, and what it means.”
