“Initiative 11 states that shelling would be voluntary—but it also allows prison administrators to override that and mandate the shelling of any prisoner they choose. In addition, it brings into the mainstream the unethical black-market practice of selling unwound parts at auction. Do you really want our lawmakers in the black market?
“Vote no on Initiative 11. The pound-of-flesh law is not a solution we can live with.”
—Sponsored by the Coalition for Ethical Unwinding Practices
* * *
Dinner that night for Risa is not room service but a feast in the large dining room of the main house. The long table seats two dozen, and Risa is seated toward the middle, after refusing to be seated at the head. CyFi’s fathers, who, Risa learned, had given up lucrative law and dental practices to run the Tyler Walker Foundation, are not present.
“Twice a week we have a special dinner,” CyFi explains. “Just Tyler-folk—no spouses or family. It’s a time just for us—and tonight you get to be one of us.”
Risa’s not sure how to feel about that.
The doctor takes it upon himself to introduce Risa, stealing CyFi’s thunder. He offers Risa up in the best possible light. A loyal member of the ADR forced by the enemy to testify against her own conscience. “She believed that by doing their bidding, she was saving hundreds of kids from being unwound,” the doctor explains, “but in the end she was double-crossed, and those kids are now in harvest camps awaiting ‘summary division.’ Risa is a victim of the system, as we all are, and I, for one, welcome her with open arms.”
Those gathered applaud, although there’s still some reluctance. Risa supposes that’s the best she’s going to get.
The meal is brisket and flavorful home-grown vegetables. It’s like Sunday dinner among a big family. Everyone eats with minimal conversation until CyFi says, “Yo, maybe you all oughta introduce yourselves.”
“Names, or sharings?” someone asks.
“Sharings,” someone else answers. “We might as well tell her the Tyler.”
CyFi begins. “Right temporal lobe.” Then he looks to his left.
Reluctantly the man next to him says, “Left arm.” He holds up his hand and waves.
Then the woman beside him says, “Left leg below the knee.” And around the table it goes:
“Right eye.”
“Left eye.”
“Liver and pancreas.”
“A substantial part of the occipital lobe.”
Part after part is announced until it comes all the way around the table, back to Risa. “Spine,” she says awkwardly. “But I don’t know whose.”
“We could find out for you,” the woman who received Tyler’s heart offers.
“No, that’s all right. I’d rather not know,” Risa tells her. “At least not now, anyway.”
She nods with understanding. “It’s a personal choice—no one will pressure you.”
Risa looks around the table. They’re all still eating, but now the attention is focused on her.
“So . . . every single piece of Tyler Walker is at this table?”
CyFi sighs. “No. We don’t got spleen, left kidney, intestinal tract, thyroid, or any part of his right arm. And there’s also a bunch of smaller brain bits that didn’t have enough of him to feel the pull—but about seventy-five percent of him is here around the table.”
“And the other twenty-five percent can take a flying leap,” says left-auditory-tract man. Everyone laughs.
Risa also learns that the garish decor in every room is also for Tyler. He had an overwhelming attraction to shiny things. Stealing them was part of the reason he was unwound.
“But everything here is bought and paid for,” the Tyler-folk are quick to tell her.
“Does the Tyler Walker Foundation pay you all to stay here?”