68 * Cam

Cam couldn't be sure where this would end until he saw the metallic flash of the gun when she pulled it from her pocket. Now, as she speaks calming words to him, and brings the pistol to his forehead, he closes his eyes. He suspected it might come to this, but he didn't want to believe it. Now he has no choice.

He's made his decision. He won't stop her. He won't resist. He allows her to complete her deadly intention.

The trigger engages.

The hammer releases.

It flies toward the chamber, and strikes it.

But instead of a gunshot comes a harmless click. Still, that tiny, impotent sound tears through Cam's brain just as effectively as a bullet. Roberta has failed him. He's not surprised, but he's deeply disappointed.

Before Roberta has a chance to react, he wrenches the gun from her hands.

"Do you really believe I'm such a pathetic wreck that I'd sit here and let you kill me?"

He stands up, and Roberta, off-balance in her murderous crouch, stumbles, breaking a heel before rising to face him.

"Your gun hasn't had real bullets since we got here. I made sure they'd be as false as you are."

"Cam, please-let me explain."

"You don't need to," he tells her. "Your actions speak louder than your lies-they always have. But there's something I need to explain to you." He waves the gun, using it to point around the room. "This room is full of surveillance cameras. If you'll notice, several of them have been repositioned to this very spot, providing various angles of what just transpired here. The rest are still positioned on the rewinds . . . and every single camera is currently streaming live to the public nimbus."

She gasps audibly. Roberta Griswold is speechless! It's so wonderful to see her speechless that Cam smiles, feeling every seam on his face tingle with triumph. "I've already confirmed that the feeds have been picked up by the media. Of course, it wouldn't do to have just silent video feeds. That's why I rigged your phone to stream audio as well. Everything you've just said-about Proactive Citizenry building this army-about how they fund and 'direct' clappers-it's all public knowledge now, being heard by thousands, maybe millions, as we speak. You wanted to reach the world with your work. Well, my dear sweet mother, you've just succeeded."

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, like a goldfish that has leapt out of its bowl. "I don't believe you," she finally says, but her voice is shaky. "You're not that underhanded!"

"I wasn't at first," he admits, "but I've learned from you." He looks to the rewinds on either side of them. "I couldn't bring myself to kill them, but they don't have to die to kill the program, do they?"

That's when her phone rings.

Cam winks at her. "The backlash is already starting. Go on, answer it-the call will stream live too, and I'm sure there's plenty of people tuned in who want to hear what your bosses have to say about all this."

She pulls out her phone and checks the number. Cam doesn't know who's calling, but whoever it is, it must terrify her, because she drops the phone and crushes it beneath her one good heel.

"End transmission," Cam says, with a raised eyebrow. "But that's all right, the damage has already been done." He takes a moment to eject the gun's clip and pulls from his pocket a fresh cartridge filled with real bullets. He snaps it in place with a click far more satisfying than the impotent sound of the hammer when the gun was to his forehead.

"Can you hear it crumbling, Roberta? Not just your work, but those alabaster pillars that hold up Proactive Citizenry-the ones you were all so arrogant to think could never fall? And all because of you. I can't even imagine what they'll do to you. Not just the public, but your associates in Proactive Citizenry."

Then he tosses the loaded pistol to her.

"But you're in luck. Those cameras are still streaming, which means the show's not over." Then he nods. No more gloating. Now he gives her a solemn acknowledgment of her final responsibility to the world, and to herself. "Give them a proper ending, Roberta."

Then he turns and strides to the door without looking back.

69 * Roberta

She watches him go, then just before he leaves, she aims the gun at the back of his head. She holds it steady . . . but doesn't fire. If she kills him now, it will only be worse for her. So she lets him leave. The door closes, and she's alone.

No, not alone-because she's surrounded by the fruits of her labor. Fifty hideous rewinds that will now be a part of no army. There will be no careful introduction of them to the public-no spin doctors can repair this and make it look any less horrible than it is. The public will see their creation as an atrocity, not as an opportunity. These rewinds will be shunned, Roberta will be despised, and Proactive Citizenry will hang her out to dry, if they let her live at all.

Cam was right to give her the gun. It was an act of bitter mercy, because in one way or another her life is over.

And so, with the eyes of the world watching, Roberta Griswold drops to her knees, puts the muzzle of the gun to her temple . . .

. . . and holds it there.

Holds it there . . .

Holds it there . . .

Until she realizes it's no use. She can't summon the courage to pull that trigger. And that's how they find her when they finally come to take her away, kneeling with a gun to her head, consumed by waves of dread yet unable to save herself from a fate worse than death, which is surely coming for her like a tsunami across the sea.

70 * Grace

"My name is Grace Eleanor Skinner, but you can call me Miss Skinner, or Miss Grace, but the Miss is a must, because that's respect, and you gotta show me respect because of what I'm bringin' ya."

John Rifkin, vice president of sales, sits in a big leather office chair. Not so fancy a chair that it reeks of money, it just reeks of office. His desk is nice too, but she can tell it's been put together with an Allen wrench. These are all good things, as far as Grace is concerned. The company needs to be hungry. The company needs to be just right.

The man seems amused by her presence in his office. That's okay. They let her get as far as his office because the man's underlings thought it might be an entertaining moment in an otherwise dull day. They have no idea.

"So what's in the box, Miss Skinner?"

Grace carefully begins to take out the pieces and lay them in size order on the desk, from left to right. The man swivels in his chair, maintaining a slight grin. Maybe he's thinking this is a practical joke. That's fine, as long as he lets it play out.

"It looks like the broken parts of a printer-and an obsolete one at that," says John Rifkin, vice president of sales, using that condescending tone people reserve for children and low-cortical adults. "As I'm not a collector of such things, I think you may be in the wrong place."

"Nothing wrong about it. I came to your company because there are six companies bigger and more successful than yours that make medical machines. I looked it up."

John Rifkin, vice president of sales, seems slightly taken aback. "You looked it up?"

"Yes, I did. Also, unlike those other companies, Rifkin Medical Instruments has no ties to Proactive Citizenry."

"No, we don't. Which is probably why we're number seven," he says, irritated by his own admission.

"I also looked you up," continues Grace. "The company's got your name-Rifkin Medical Instruments-but someone without your name is now its president, which tells me you've got fangs for that job, and could use a boost up the ladder, am I right?"

Now he gets uncomfortable. "Who put you up to this? Is it Bob? It's Bob, isn't it?"

"There ain't no Bob, there's only me." Then she gestures to the array of parts before her. "This here is an organ printer. It's kind of unwound right now, but it's the real deal."

John Rifkin relaxes a bit, and offers her something of a superior smirk. "Miss Skinner, organ printing was debunked as a fraud years ago. It was a nice idea, but it didn't work."

"That's what they want you to think," she whispers. "But Janson Rheinschild knew better."

Suddenly he's sitting up straight, like a kindergartner on his first day of school. "Did you say Janson Rheinschild?"

"You heard of him?"

"My father did. The man was a genius, but he went crazy, didn't he?"

"Or he got driven that way. But not before he built this."

Now John Rifkin is interested. He begins tapping his pen on the table, finally considering that maybe Grace is worth taking seriously. "If Rheinschild built that, why do you have it?"

"Got it from his widow. Old woman in Ohio, ran an antique shop."

He grabs his phone.

"Don't bother, she's dead. Big fire. But of everything in her shop, I knew she wanted me to save this, so I did. And I'm here to give it to you."

He reaches for one of the parts, but hesitates, and asks, "May I?" Grace nods, and he gently picks up the printing part, turning it over in his hands to explore it from every angle. "And you say it once worked."

"Once that I saw, before I went and dropped the thing down the stairs." Then she pulls out from her pocket an object that will seal the deal. A small plastic bag containing a decomposing ear. "I watched it make that."

Rifkin looks at it in both awe and disgust, and reaches for the bag.

"Prolly shouldn't take it out here," Grace warns. "It didn't keep well."

He withdraws his hand, and just continues to stare at it.

"My bet is that you can fix the printer and make more of them. A lot more. In all shapes and sizes and colors."

Grace studies him as he studies the ear and the pieces, and even the empty box. For a businessman he doesn't have much of a poker face. She can see him calculating. "How much are you asking for it?"

"Maybe I'll just give it to you."

Then he takes a moment to look at her. He glances at the door as if someone might be watching, then comes around the table, sitting in a chair just next to her.

"Grace . . ."

"Miss Grace."

"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. . . ."