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“Argent!” he yells. “Argent, you can’t do this!”
But Argent offers nothing but a stoic cyclops stare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that,” says UNIS. “Please rate your current level of comfort on a scale of one to ten, ten being least uncomfortable.”
“Argent, I’ll do anything! I’ll give you anything!” But Nelson knows what Argent wants. He wants the right half of his face back. Now.
“All right,” says UNIS, “I’ll assume you’re sufficiently comfortable. I see that my controls are set for an express unwinding without the use of anesthetic plasma. That means we can begin right away!”
“What? What was that?” Adrenaline panic makes his whole body begin to quiver. “Wait. Stop! Halt!”
“I regret, Jackass Dirtbag, that without anesthesia, you shall be experiencing extreme discomfort, begi
As the process begins, Nelson locks on Argent’s impassive eye, and suddenly realizes that not only is Argent going to unwind him, but he’s going to watch every last minute of it. And he’s going to enjoy it.
“To take your mind off of your discomfort,” says UNIS, “I can project a variety of scenic vistas for you. Please choose from the following: mountain flyby, ocean tranquility, vibrant cityscape, or landmarks of the world.”
But all that comes from Nelson is a shrill, bloodcurdling wail.
“I’m sorry,” says UNIS, “that’s not a valid response.”
65 • Broadcast
“This is Radio Free Hayden broadcasting live once more, until we get chased away from the station. Today I have something special to share with my listeners. This comes from an article in a major national newspaper. Other articles just like it popped up in print and online everywhere this morning. Of course, some papers buried the story on page twelve beside mattress sale ads, but kudos to those who ran it front page, with a nice headline, like this one:
ARÁPACHE TO GIVE ASYLUM TO UNWINDS
By a unanimous vote of the Arápache Tribal Council yesterday, the nation’s wealthiest and most influential Chancefolk tribe has officially a
“Regardless of what side you’re on, you’ve got to admit it took a lot of guts for a Chancefolk tribe to spin the wheel and go all in. If the Juvenile Authority thinks a tribe of once-great warriors is going to blink, they’re in for a surprise.
“And so, this week’s song—you know the one—goes out to our Arápache friends. Hopefully, we’ll see one or two of you at our rally in November. But until then—
“I’ve got you . . . under my skin. . . .”
66 • Cam
Pretty purple monkshood accents the ornamental gardens of Proactive Citizenry’s Molokai complex. The gardeners wear gloves, not only to protect themselves from the thorns of the rosebushes, but because of the monkshood, which they know is chock-full of aconite, a deadly poison that shuts down the respiratory system. It’s the roots of the plant that are the most dangerous, especially when boiled and distilled down into a concentrated toxin.
Once more, Camus Comprix defeats the security system of the Molokai complex by tapping the security computer on the wrong shoulder and making it look the other way. It’s night now. Not too late, just about ten o’clock, but late enough that activity in the medical research building is at a minimum. They never figured out how he compromised the video surveillance system that first time, so he does it again—now toward a different end. He’s delayed the signal by fifteen minutes. That’s how long he has to do the job before anyone sees what’s going on.
He slips into the ward of preconscious rewinds unobserved, carrying in his hands a bag with syringes and vials of his special aconite elixir. When it’s injected directly into the port of their intravenous PICC lines, they’ll die within a minute. Once he gets into a rhythm, he estimates it will take him twelve minutes to euthanize all fifty.
Cam thinks he has it all under control. He’s sure his plan can’t go wrong. But then he makes a crucial mistake. Rather than begi
As he fills the first syringe with the deadly liquid, he happens to glance down at the rewind.
And the rewind is looking back.
He studies Cam with a kind of vigilant terror, like a rabbit a moment before it bolts. Cam is hypnotized by two entirely mismatched eyes. One green, the other so dark brown it’s almost black. The lines of scars across his face are like the roads of an old city—random, and senseless. His hands—one sie
“The fly?” he says, pleading. “The fly? In the web? The fly?”
It would make no sense to most, but Cam knows the way a rewind thinks. He understands the strange co
Cam knows the reference. An old movie. The head of a man on the body of a fly. It said, “Help me,” as it struggled in the spider’s web. “Help me, help me,” and then it was devoured.
“Yes,” Cam tells him. “I’m here to help you. In a ma
“Hike in the woods,” the rewind says. “I told you to wear long pants. Pink lotion everywhere.”
“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.