UnSouled (Unwind Dystology 3)

“Anaphylactic,” Cam blurts out. “That is, I mean, I’m allergic to scallops. At least my shoulders and upper arms are. I get the worst rash.”

The general is intrigued. “Really. But just there?”

“And I’ll bet he can’t do any brown-nosing on account of his nose is allergic to chocolate,” says Senator Cobb, and guffaws so loudly it rattles the water glasses.

They order, and once the appetizers arrive, the two men finally get down to the business at hand.

“We see you as a military man, Cam,” says the general, “and Proactive Citizenry agrees.”

Cam moves his fork around in his endive salad. “You want to make me into a boeuf.”

General Bodeker bristles. “That’s an unfair characterization of young people who are military minded.”

Senator Cobb waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, we all know the official military opinion of the word—but that’s not what we’re saying Cam. You’d bypass traditional training and go straight into the officer program—and on the fast track, to boot!”

“I can offer you any branch of the military you like,” Bodeker says.

“Let it be the Marines,” Roberta says, and when Cam looks at her, she says, “Well, I know you had that in mind—and they have the crispest uniforms.”

The senator puts out his hand, as if chopping wood. “The point is, you would float through the program, learn what you need to learn lickety-split, and emerge as an official spokesperson for the military, with all the perks that come with it.”

“You’d be a model for young people everywhere,” adds Bodeker.

“And for your kind,” adds Cobb.

Cam looks up at that. “I don’t have a ‘kind,’â??” he tells them, which makes the two men look to Roberta.

She puts down her fork and composes her response carefully. “You once described yourself as a ‘concept car,’ Cam. Well, what the good senator and general are saying is that they like the concept.”

“I see.”

The main course arrives. Cam ordered the prime rib—a favorite of someone or another in his head. The first taste brings him back to a sister’s wedding. He has no idea where, or who the sister is. She had blond hair, but her face did not make the cut into his brain. He wonders if that kid—if any kid inside him—would have ever been offered a crisp uniform. He knows the answer is no, and he feels insulted for them.

Brakes in the rain. He must apply them slowly, so as not to set this meeting fishtailing out of control. “It’s a very generous offer,” Cam says. “And I’m honored to be considered.” He clears his throat. “And I know you all have my best interests at heart.” He meets eyes with the general, then with the senator. “But it’s not something I want to do at this”—he searches for a suitably Washingtonian word—“at this juncture.”

The senator just stares at him, all jovialness gone from his voice. “Not something you want to do at this juncture . . . ,” he repeats.

And, predictable as clockwork, Roberta leaps in with, “What Cam means to say is he needs time to consider it.”

“I thought you said this would be a slam dunk, Roberta.”

“Well, maybe if you were a little more elegant in your approach—”

Then General Bodeker puts up his hand to silence them.

“Perhaps you don’t understand,” the general says with calm control. “Let me explain it to you.” He waits until Cam puts down his fork, then proceeds. “Until last week you were the property of Proactive Citizenry. But they have sold their interest in you for a sizeable sum. You are now the property of the United States military.”

“Property?” says Cam. “What do you mean, ‘Property’?”

“Now, Cam,” says Roberta, working her best damage control. “It’s only a word.”

“It’s more than a word!” insists Cam. “It’s an idea—an idea that, according to the history expert somewhere in my left brain, was abolished in 1865.”

The senator starts to bluster, but the general keeps his cool. “That applies to individuals, which you are not. You are a collection of very specific parts, each one with a distinct monetary value. We’ve paid more than one hundred times that value for the unique manner those parts have been organized, but in the end, Mr. Comprix . . . parts is parts.”

“So there you have it,” says the senator bitterly. “You wanna leave? Then go on; git outta here. Just as long as you leave all those parts of yours behind.”

Cam’s breathing is out of control. Dozens of separate tempers inside of him join and flare all at once. He wants to dump the table. Hurl the plates at their heads.