hospital's nickname before Bill Gates revamped our national health care system -- it almost feels like you're outside. Exterior walls are glass and beyond them are trees, making for dramatic, natural surroundings. A 2016 study showed that patients whose windows looked out on a tree left the hospital one day earlier than those who stared out at a brick wall. The study had less to do with the choice of glass than the Federal government taking control of Arizona after a militia group tried to secede. We suddenly had a lot of sand.
Bamboo floors and daylight bulbs also bring the outside in. The natural elements are in contrast to the sleek equipment and instrumentation. White RoboCouriers navigate the halls, zipping in and out of rooms, delivering meals and meds. Transparent wall-format bulletin boards show 3-D images of on-duty staff and interactive building maps. Multi-touch work surfaces allow people to set down their iPads to instantly transfer, enlarge and share whatever is on them.
Ben and Parker talk to Dr. Otaku, who, with her long spiky bangs, schoolgirl skirt and knee-high socks, looks more like a manga heroine than a neurosurgeon. She's actually both. Her 20,000 hours spent battling intergalactic space fighters, unnaturally powerful androids and near-indestructible magical creatures on Xbox means that at 28, she's got almost super-human hand-eye coordination, fine motor skills and reflexes. She's a neurosurgery ninja.
She touches her specialty tablet to the glass wall. The wall instantly displays the Senator's x-rays and medical data. "At this point, we're looking at --"
Richard arrives. "How is he?"
Dr. Otaku looks to Ben for clearance.
Ben nods, "This is Richard Miller, the Bull Moose Party chairman."
Dr Otaku's big eyes get bigger and small mouth gets smaller. "We're keeping the body alive, but the brain is dead."
Richard flinches. "Well, that's not… too bad."
Ben cocks his head, really?
The implications start to set in, Richard deflates. "Ohmigod. …Ohmigod."
Parker claps. "I know. I'm running for President!"
Ben quickly puts his hand on Parker's shoulder. "Let's not… that. For now."
"But the election is in three weeks," Parker says. He holds up his iPhone 3-D H, which is the size and shape of a quarter. It holographically projects his calendar. Indeed, November 2nd flashes in gold light as animated red, white and blue stars explode around it.
Ben clicks off the iPhone and lowers Parker's hand. "Why don't you see if Mrs. Freeken needs anything." Parker reluctantly goes.
Dr. Otaku swipes her fingers across the LCD board, fanning out a series of x-rays. She pinches some down and taps others to enlarge. "It was a single GSW to the head. The damage occurred to the frontal and parietal lobes; everything below was unharmed."
A woman's voice emanates from the communication badge hanging around her neck, "Dr. Otaku, the head of Walter Reed is returning your call."
"Thanks, Madison, I'll take it in station three." As she steps away, "Excuse me, I have to coordinate some details. The Senator willed his body to the government for research."
Richard is impressed, "Really? He only gave them 5% last year in taxes."
Dr. Otaku goes into a privacy pod and the door closes behind her.
Ben stands there, dazed. "I can't process this on any human level, I just keep trying to think what I'm supposed to do as campaign manager." He sits.
Richard does, too, a bit too close. "How far are you willing to go to win this?"
Ben leans back an inch. "There's nobody left from the primaries. We had a drive-time deejay, a Baldwin brother and a Utah governor with four wives all wanting to be First Lady."
"Listen, I own a company, Cry-Erection."
Ben waits. There's no way he's asking.
Richard continues, "It's short for 'cryogenic resurrection'. They have the technology to replace Jack's head with one from a donor."
"Let's use yours."
"I'm serious. They've got hundreds. We'd have our pick."
Ben looks at him -- what? "No."
"Our candidate would legally be the same -- same fingerprints, right?"
"Would you put them on the campaign posters? Because his face seems to be missing."
Richard is impatient at having to explain the obvious. "The head will come with a face."
Ben stares: What is wrong with you? "No."
"We'll make sure it's attractive. People overlook a lot when someone's good-looking."
"They're voters, Richard, not tweens at a Blue Ivy Carter concert. I can't believe you're even suggesting this. It's grotesque. Worse, it's desperate."
"Have I been wrong yet?"
"Yes! This whole thing is wrong! Even if you were just going for a sympathy vote. And in a party of gun fanatics, you couldn't find one who could shoot him in the foot?"
Richard so wants to respond.
Ben continues, "I caved when you pushed Parker as the VP nominee and look where we are. The whole purpose of forming a third party was to take the best of Republican principles and ditch the bullshit."
"You won't be calling it bullshit when we win. I don't understand your hesitation, you need this as much as the party. We can avoid another nominating process, keep the campaign budget and have the election as scheduled."
"The election is postponed," Ben says. "I just have to figure out how. There's no express Constitutional direction, no Federal law… Shit, it's states' rights."
Richard isn't even listening. "Freeken, reanimated, could actually win against Bush and the Obamas. Think about it. Have any of them been to the other side and back?"
Ben is more firm this time. "No."
"Exactly. If we say it enough times, people will be, like, "Yeah! They've never been to the other side and back!"
"Well, that part is true."
"I'm telling you, Ben, you can retain your principles or you can get things done. That's something your old girlfriend -- what was her name? Jason?"
"Jeffrie."
"Jeffrie could never understand. No candidate is perfect. It doesn't matter. Politics is perception."
Ben wracks his brain. This can't be their best option. "Is our candidate pool that shallow?"
Parker returns. "A Secret Service agent just said he'd sooner give up his pension than protect me."
Ben avoids meeting Richard's eyes. Without looking up, Ben says, "Let's meet with some scientists, kick a few heads around."
Richard gives a little fist pump. "It'll work. We just need a Communications Director who's a world-class word wordsmith."
Ben pulls out his iPhone. "I know one who can charm the truth."
Jeffrie Flanagan's kitchen is another place where the not-so-distant future looks pretty fucking cool. LED light projections adjust to her mood via sensors that read her brainwaves. Currently, the room is bathed in pink uncertainty. Aromatherapy-infused walls sync to her calendar, emitting calming lavender prior to a big meeting or energizing ginger before the gym. The glass-fronted fridge identifies the essential vitamins she needs today and her corresponding meal options.
Jeffrie is also pretty fucking cool, although she'd be surprised to hear herself described that way. She rummages through the freezer, looking for something. A hologram beams down from the kitchen ceiling behind her.
It's an informational video, hosted by Britney Spears, who's looking a bit worse for 39 years of wear. Her neck tattoos have blurred into unidentifiable blobs. She offers personal encouragement to her unseen viewer, "We can't always control our lives. And the best-laid plans can go awry. But you're about to take a step that will change everything forever."
"One would hope," Jeffrie says, stacking pints of Ben & Jerry's Crowdsource Crunch. (It's made of random ingredients suggested by the public.)
"Maybe you've given up on love, but not on having a baby. Awww! Good for you!" Britney claps.
Jeffrie shoves aside healthy frozen entrees, grabs a litre of alcoholic Knockout Punch, locates a hidden cigarette and walks to the next roo
m. Holographic Britney stays just ahead, leapfrogging from one recessed projector to the next. Jeffrie drops onto the sofa and lights the cigarette.
Britney continues. "At this step, you're ready to become a mother. You just need a man!"
Jeffrie exhales smoke at Britney and shouts, "Next!"
Britney's image skips as the presentation jumps to the next section. "C.E.'s highly personalized approach is perfect for a -- (each recorded separately) Public relations professional. Never married. Childless. Heterosexual. Female. -- like yourself."
Jeffrie takes a deep pull off the cigarette, then stubs it out. "Donors!"
94 year-old Cloris Leachman appears, pregnant. Jeffrie screams.
"Hi, I'm Cloris Leachman. You've enjoyed my work in everything from 'Somerset Maugham TV Theatre" to 'Hunger Games 17.' And so have I. But there comes a time in a girl's life to have a family. For me, that time is now."
Assistants place infant twins in her arms. Jeffrie jabs the remote.
Britney reappears. "The choice of your baby's daddy is maybe the biggest decision of your life. I know I -- "
Jeffrie hits a button and, with a Wii-like sting, boxes appear: I.Q., E.Q., etc.
Britney explains, "E.Q., or emotional quotient, decides temperament. If you're an impatient person-- "
Jeffrie impatiently clicks choices, signing on for god-knows-what in her babydaddy. Britney exclaims, "Add to cart!" "Add to cart!" "Add to cart!" All of a sudden, the phone rings. Jeffrie clicks the remote and Britney freezes unattractively, her eyes and mouth half-open. The call comes through ceiling speakers.
Jeffrie calls out, "Hello?"
Back at the hospital, Ben stands in a privacy pod,