“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. . . .”
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.
There’s something odd happening on the train today, however. Something entirely unheard of on public transportation. People are talking. Not people who know one another either, but total strangers. In fact, a stranger sitting across from her looks up from his newspaper and says to anyone who’s listening, “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad for yesterday’s clapper attack downtown.”
“Well, I can’t exactly say I’m glad,” says a woman who rides standing and holding a pole. “But I’m certainly not shedding any tears.”
“And anyone who survived ought to go to prison for life,” adds someone else.
The real estate agent finds, oddly, that she’s compelled to join in. “I don’t even think it was a real clapper attack—it was just made to look like one,” she says. “There are plenty of people angry enough to want to blow Proactive Citizenry sky-high.”
“That’s right,” says someone else. “And if Proactive Citizenry controls the clappers, why would they target their own headquarters? It must have been someone else!”
“Whoever did it oughta be given a medal,” calls someone from the front of the train car.
“Well, violence is never justified,” says the standing woman. “But what goes around comes around, I say.”
The real estate agent has to agree. The way the supposed charity manipulated the Juvenile Authority, bought politicians, and pushed the public to support unwinding . . . Thank God it’s all come to light before this year’s elections! Unable to contain her own righteous rage, she turns to the intimidating man in a hoodie beside her, a person whose existence she would have ignored a few days ago. “Have you seen the images of those poor rewinds they were making in Hawaii?”
The man nods sadly. “Some people say they oughta be euthanized.”
The suggestion makes the woman uncomfortable. “Don’t they have rights? After all, they’re human beings, aren’t they?”
“The law says otherwise. . . .”
“Then the law needs to change,” she says.
• • •
The construction worker’s been unemployed for months now. He sits in a coffee shop scouring want ads. His first interview in weeks is that afternoon. It’s with a company contracted to build a harvest camp in rural Alabama. He should be thrilled, but his feelings are mixed. Why do they even need to build another harvest camp? Didn’t some company just announce that there’s a way to grow all sorts of organs? If it’s true, then why cut up kids? Even bad kids?
It’s just a job, he tries to tell himself, and I’ll be gone long before any kid is actually unwound there. And yet, to be a silent partner with the Juvenile Authority . . . A week ago he might have thought nothing of it, but now?
At the table next to him, an older man looks up from his laptop, shaking his head in disgust. “Incredible!” he says. The construction worker has no idea exactly which incredible thing he’s speaking of—there are plenty to choose from these days. The man looks at him. “Been five years, give or take, that I’ve had this unwound liver here. But truth be told, if I had it to do all over again, I’d quit drinking and make do with the one I was born with.”
The construction worker offers him an understanding nod, and takes a moment to consider his own options. Then he pulls out his phone and cancels his job interview. It might hurt today, but he knows he won’t have any regrets five years down the line.
• • •
The accountant arrives home after his workout too late to say good night to his kids. He lingers at the door to their room, watching them sleep. He loves them dearly—not just his natural one, but the one who arrived by stork as well. The news and conversations of the day have gotten him thinking. He would never unwind his kids—but isn’t that what every parent says when their children are still young? Will he think differently when they become defiant and irrational, making infuriating choices, the way most kids do at some point in their lives?
He senses a change in himself. An awakening of sorts, brought on by all the events around him.
Had it just been the boy who was shot . . .
Had it just been the discovery of those military rewinds . . .
Had it just been the announcement of the organ printer technology, which had apparently been suppressed for years . . .
Had it been any one of those things, it might have piqued his attention for a day or two, then he would have gone on with life as usual. But it wasn’t just one thing, it was all of them at once—and as a number cruncher, he knows that numbers don’t always “crunch.” Sometimes they multiply, exponentiate, even. Taken together, these seemingly unrelated events have stirred in him something huge.
His wife comes up beside him, and he puts his arm around her. “Hey, isn’t there supposed to be some sort of rally against unwinding in Washington in a few weeks?” he asks.
She looks at him, trying to gauge where this is coming from. “You’re not thinking of going, are you?”
“No,” he says. And then, “Maybe.”
She hesitates, but only for a moment. “I’ll come with you. My sister can watch the kids.”
“I think they’d rather be unwound.”
She punches him halfheartedly and gives him the warmest of smirks. “You’re not funny.” Then she goes off to prepare for bed.
The accountant lingers at his children’s doorway a moment more, listening to the easy rhythm of their breathing, and something cold moves through him, like the passage of a ghost—but he knows that’s not it. It’s more like the portent of a future. A future that must never come to pass . . .
. . . and for the first time, he gives rise to a thought that is silently echoed in millions of homes that night.
My God . . . what have we done?
Part Six
* * *
The Right Arm of Liberty
3D PRINTING WITH STEM CELLS COULD LEAD TO PRINTABLE ORGANS
A potentially breakthrough 3D-printing process using human stem cells could be the precursor to printing organs from a patient’s own cells.
by Amanda Kooser, February 5, 2013 4:31 PM PST
Some day in the future, when you need a kidney transplant, you may get a 3D-printed organ created just for you. If scientists are able to achieve that milestone, they may look back fondly at a breakthrough printing process pioneered by researchers at Heriot-Watt University in Scotland in collaboration with Roslin Cellab, a stem cell technology company.
The printer creates 3D spheroids using delicate embryonic cell cultures floating in a “bio ink” medium. They end up looking like little bubbles. Each droplet can contain as few as five stem cells. Basically, this comes down to the printer “ink” being stem cells rather than plastic or another material.
Dr. Will Shu is part of the research team working on the project. “In the longer term, we envisage the technology being further developed to create viable 3D organs for medical implantation from a patient’s own cells, eliminating the need for organ donation, immune suppression, and the problem of transplant rejection,” Shu said in a release from Heriot-Watt.
. . . The research results have just been published in Biofabrication under the title “Development of a valve-based cell printer for the formation of human embryonic stem cell spheroid aggregates.”
. . . [i]t’s applications like this that could really turn 3D printing into a world changer.
The full article can be found at: http://news.cnet.com/8301-17938_105-57567789-1/3d-printing-with-stem-cells-could-lead-to-printable-organs/
73 • Lev
There’s a tube down his throat. It pumps air into him, then lets his diaphragm pump it out. His chest rises and falls in a regular rhythm. He’s had this sensation for a while, but this is the first time he’s aware enough to understand what it is. He’s on a ventilator. He shouldn’t be on a ventilator. A martyr to the cause can’t survive, or he’s not a martyr. Did he fail even in that?
He opens his eyes, and although he can only see a fraction of the space he’s in, he knows exactly where he is. He knows because of the shape and design of the room—a large circular space with windows that let in what he suspects is early morning light, because the morning glories in the window boxes are wide to the sun. Around the circular room are multiple alcoves for patients, and the foot of everyone’s bed faces a soothing fountain in the center of the room. He’s in the intensive care unit of the Arápache medical lodge. For Lev, it seems all roads—even the road of death—lead back to the Rez.
He closes his eyes, counting the pulses of the ventilator until he’s asleep again.
The next time he opens his eyes, the morning glories have closed, and the last person he was expecting to see is sitting beside him, reading a book. He watches her, not entirely sure he’s not hallucinating. When she notices he’s awake, she closes her book.
“Good! You’re awake,” says Miracolina Roselli. “That means I can be the first to officially inform you that you’re an idiot.”
Miracolina! The willing tithe he had saved from her own unwinding. The girl he fell for in spite of how much she hated him—or maybe because of how much she hated him. The girl who, in the dark, claustrophobic confines of a Greyhound luggage compartment, offered him absolution for all that he had done. He was afraid to even think of her, for fear that she had been caught and unwound—but here she is!
He tries to talk, forgetting the ventilator. Instead he just coughs, and the machine beeps, registering a burst of erratic breathing.
“Look at you! I don’t even recognize you with all those names tattooed on your face, and that peach-fuzz hair.”
He weakly lifts his hand, putting his thumb and forefinger together in the universal Let me write this down gesture.
She sighs with feigned exasperation, and says “Hold on.” She leaves the unit, and returns with a pad
and pen “As they didn’t shoot you in the head,” Miracolina says, “I assume you still have enough brainpower to write legibly.”
He takes the pen and pad and writes
Why am I alive?
She looks at the pad, gives him a beat of the stink eye, and says, “Oh right, it’s all about you, isn’t it. Never mind saying, ‘Good to see you, Miracolina. I missed you. I’m glad you’re alive.’ ”
He takes the pad back and writes all that, but of course it’s too late.
“The most annoying part about the idiotic thing you did is that it worked,” she tells him. “Suddenly people are seeing the Juvenile Authority as the enemy—but don’t you think for a second that excuses you!”
He can tell Miracolina enjoys the fact that he can’t talk back and that she can berate him freely.
“Just so you know, your stunt has cost you your liver, your pancreas, both of your kidneys, and both of your lungs.”
Considering how many bullets tore into him, that sounds right—but wait . . . if he lost both of his lungs, how is he breathing? How is he still alive at all? There’s only one way he could survive the loss of so many organs, and he begins to thrash in his bed in angry panic, then grabs the pen and writes in big block letters:
NO UNWOUND PARTS! TAKE THEM OUT!!
She looks at him with mock attitude, and says. “Sorry, suicide boy, but you did not receive any unwound parts. Charles Kovac from Montpelier, Vermont, offered up the one lung that’s currently in your chest.”
He raises his hand to write, but Miracolina stops him.
“Don’t ask me who he is, because I have no idea. He’s just some guy who would rather live his life with one lung than see you die.” And she goes on. “A woman from Utah donated part of her liver, a guy in a car accident actually bequeathed you his pancreas with his dying words. And the day you were admitted to New York Hospital, half the city seemed to show up to donate blood.”
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