When McKendrick got to the briefing room he saw four other guys from his unit sitting there. They clapped for him sarcastically. He apologized for being late and sat down. “You five men are going to prison.” One of the intel officers at the front of the room said. “You’ll be transferred into isolation cells in a Nestle prison in Nevada. This particular prison will be the subject of an attack shortly after your arrival. All prisoners, including you, will be liberated and taken into California and made citizens of the UPSA. From there you are to join enemy forces and await further instructions, is that clear?”
“No,” Harris said, “it’s not clear. There’s other ways to get us into California that don’t involve sending us to prison.”
“We need your background to look impeccable. Ex-cons who want to join-up get the benefit of the doubt.”
“But the other prisoners will know that we got there just before the attack. That’ll put a lot of suspicion on us.”
“That’s why you’re going into isolation.” The intel man said. “The prison’s files will show that you’ve been isolated from the general population for over a year. You’ll be shown to have been arrested for unemployment originally, and your isolation will be shown to be for either escape attempts or inciting violence. This should appeal to the military recruiters, it’ll tell them you’re fighters.”
Ryan looked around. “Why us?” He asked. “Why were we chosen?”
“You five have the right combination of factors.” The other intel man said. “No one in this room is a dumbshit, first of all, and you all tested high on emotional and physical endurance. Also, none of you are essential to any upcoming operations.”
“We’re expendable.” Ryan said.
“That would be one way of looking at it.” He said.
The other one continued, “From here you will all go into surgery where you will be outfitted with a tracking device so we won’t lose you. This device is for your protection, it’s a bio product, so it wont be detectable by any scanner. You will fight for the enemy to the best of your ability, and you’ll try to achieve promotions. The higher up the food-chain you get, the more useful to us you will be.”
“Getting promoted would mean killing our own, wouldn’t it?” Peters said. “I didn’t become a militiaman to shoot other patriots.”
“I don’t care why you became a militiaman, and how you feel about your mission really doesn’t matter.” He looked at each man in the room for a moment. “Listen, war is fucked up, okay? I don’t have to tell you that. Yeah, you might have to shoot another militiaman, so what? The mission is more important than your fuckin’ feelings. The fate of the free world is at stake, so you’d better make it look good. When the time is right, and no one would ever question your loyalty, you will be activated. We’ll ask you to do something, sabotage maybe, assassination, who knows? You boys are a pack of wild-cards, and the USA will ask you to prove yourselves someday, and just remember, it’s an honor to die for this country. If you die you’ll be joining the ranks of the revolutionary war soldiers and the marines who stormed the beaches of Normandy.”
“Are there any other questions?” The other man asked. There were no questions. “After surgery you will be given a sheet with the name and all relevant information about your new identity. Memorize all of it. Sargent Gill will take you to surgery now. Dismissed.”
“SIR!” All the men shouted.
The five men followed Sargent Gill toward the medical building. Ryan was walking next to McKendrick and they shared a weary look. “They promised us adventure.” He said.
McKendrick woke up from his surgery feeling like his sinuses might explode. He could feel the backs of his eyeballs scraping something that felt like sandpaper at the back of his eye sockets. He also found a small incision in the back of his head and another at the top of his throat. He thought they would put a tag under his skin on his leg or something. Leave it to the Well-Armed Militia to opt for overkill. He pushed a button releasing pain medicine into his system and went back to sleep.
Christopher O’Dell, age 25, born April 2, 2018, St. Louis MO, Moved to Utah age 5, Mother died of cancer in ’29, father died in the Mormon food riots of ’37, arrested ’40, attempted escape ’41. McKendrick read the words over and over. It wasn’t much to remember. On his last night on base there was a new annihilation sortie, a patriotic one, so he spent the night looking out the window and trying to read. There was never anyone around to talk to when one of those things was on.
McKendrick, now Christopher, was loaded onto a black helicopter along with Harris just before dawn. The two of them were dressed in bright yellow jumpsuits and slippers. One of the intel men from the briefing was there and the other was sitting in front, monitoring the program that would fly the chopper. “The executive in charge of population at the Nestle prison will be the only one who will know that you aren’t the people it says you are on your files. He is under the impression that the party is taking an interest in the political organizations of the prisoners. In any case, as soon as you’re in place he’ll be transferred to another facility so you have nothing to worry about.” The chopper banked hard to the left, sending McKendrick’s stomach into somersaults. He’d been in a lot of choppers, but never one this fast, and never one that was almost silent. “The moment you step off this transport no one will know that you are Militiamen. Enjoy your last moments as patriots boys.” He smiled at them but neither of the men smiled back.
The intel man in the front told the other that it was time. “Hold out your hands.” He said. He took out wire cuffs and bound the men’s wrists. He then took out two black sacks and put one over Harris’ head and cinched it closed around the neck, and then he did the same to McKendrick.
Eventually the chopper set down and McKendrick felt hands undoing his safety harness and pulling him to his feet. He stumbled getting out of the chopper and was yanked to his feet roughly and told by an unfamiliar voice to stand still or be hurt. There was some discussion about paperwork and signatures on transfer orders. McKendrick thought something else was going on too, something silent, a transfer of credits probably. He was pulled forward and led across the helipad, and then sensed that he’d gone through a door and entered a building. “Stairs.” Whoever was leading him said. The warning came late and McKendrick stumbled again. They were headed down and down and down, turning at the landings over and over again. McKendrick started to feel like it was some sort of cruel joke and that they were going down an elaborate escalator rising in the opposite direction.
Finally they were headed down a long hall and the foul smell of rotting death and shit singed his nostrils. Whoever was leading him stopped and he heard a metal door open. He was shoved in and the floor felt strange under his slippers. The wire cuffs were clipped from his wrists. “Welcome home.” The man said and he heard the door shut.
McKendrick pulled the sack from his head and found himself in a dark closet. The smell of death and shit was worse there, and he realized that the floor of his cell was a grate not too high above an open sewer. There was no light anywhere and he felt along the walls for awhile, exploring the space. There was nothing to the room. No toilet, no bed, nothing. The only feature he could find were two plastic tubes coming down from the low ceiling. The room was about 3x3x7, which meant he would have to sleep curled up on the grate over the sewer. He didn’t know what the tubes were for until one of them sprayed water down on him. It was fresh water and he managed to drink a little of it. Moments later a kind of bland slop came out of the other tube. McKendrick let that go. He wasn’t hungry.
McKendrick jumped at the sound of the door being unlocked. He’d been in darkness for six months but for all he knew it had been six years. His only connection with the outside world were the plastic tubes that kept him alive with water and nutrient slop. He felt he had come to know the person on the other end of the tubes. If the slop came out with less force than usual he thought they were depressed or having relationship problems, if the water and slop came more freque
ntly he thought maybe it was Christmas time or the person was up for a promotion. When he’d first gotten to isolation he had become violently ill with fever and diarrhea and had heard voices. He thought he was talking to prisoners in adjacent cells, but over time he realized it was all in his head.
A brilliant blast of light erupted in front of him and he cried out and cowered down away from it. He held his hands up to protect his eyes, thinking he would be blinded, and gasping at the pain. “Stand up and put out your hands.” A voice commanded. He struggled to his feet, still trying to cover his eyes. A hand in a rubber glove grabbed his wrist and pulled it forward. The wire cuffs tightened around one, and then the other wrist. McKendrick tried opening his eyes again and saw a man wearing a surgical mask over his mouth and nose before the hood went over his head.
He was led down a hall and onto an elevator and then down a series of turns before finally being stopped and pushed into a metal chair. The sack came off and McKendrick blinked at the man. They were in a small room with a mirror on the wall facing him and a speaker above it. He couldn’t believe the thing he was seeing in the mirror was himself. He thought it was some kind of trick. “There’s people on the other side of the mirror.” The man in the gloves and mask said. “They’re going to ask you a few questions. If you answer right you’ll be sleeping on a bed tonight, answer wrong and it’s back to the pit.”
“Oh Jesus.” McKendrick said.
“Don’t worry, just answer truthfully.” He turned his head away from the mirror and added, in a whisper, “whatever you do, don’t try to get sympathy from them.” McKendrick nodded slightly.
They waited for a while and then a woman’s voice broke in from the speaker. “Can you tell me your name?” It asked.
“Christopher O’Dell, age 25, born April 2, 2018, St. Louis Missouri.”
“You’re 26 now Christopher, you had a birthday last month. Can you tell me who the president of the United States is?”
“George O’Donnell.”
“Good, that’s right,” the voice said, “what’s six times seven?”
“Forty one.”
“Pretty close. Mr. O’Dell you have spent a long time in isolation. Do you think you’re ready to rejoin the general population in this facility?”
“Yes.”
“Your file says you broke the back window of a transport van and tried to make a run for it, is that correct?” She asked.
“Yes.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“To escape.” He said. He waited for a moment but the voice didn’t come back. “I didn’t want to go to prison.” He said.
“You were arrested for unemployment?” A male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“So you wanted to stay out of this facility to starve to death? Or did you think you could scrape together a living off of the work of others?”
“No, I just panicked.” McKendrick said.
“Perhaps you wanted to make your way west to join the traitors?” The woman said.
“No, no,” McKendrick said, “I wanted to join one of the militias to fight for my country.”
When the woman’s voice came back he could hear someone laughing in the background. “I don’t think any of the militias are that hard-up Mr. O’Dell.” He could see why they were laughing when he looked in the mirror. He looked like he might drop dead any second. “If you want to serve your country you can do that right here at this facility. We supply the militias Mr. O’Dell. Maybe you didn’t know that when you jumped out of a moving van trying to escape.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t see any reason to keep you in isolation.” She said. “We’re going to transfer you to general.”
“Thank you.” He said. He was led by the man in the mask to a room where he was shaved with clippers, sprayed with disinfectant, soap and hot water, and given a new yellow jumpsuit. A disinterested doctor came in and looked at his eyes and teeth and then gave him a series of shots.
His cell was cement and cinderblock with a metal door. It was painted a cream color and had a little slat window, which made it seem like heaven to McKendrick. There was a bed that had a pillow and blanket and even a thin mattress. There was a steel toilet and a small sink and room to stand or even pace back and forth. McKendrick felt that it was more freedom than any man could possibly deserve.
Over the next two months he fell into a rhythm in his work. He was measuring the output of a giant chemical mixer. It squirted the product into plastic containers on a conveyor belt and he noted on an input screen each time the machine filled a container past the line. It was mindless work that he enjoyed after all that time in the pit. He made a friend in the cafeteria who told him that the food in the place was laced with drugs to keep everyone on an even emotional level and kill the libido. He also told him that there had been an attack on the prison some months before, but that it had been put down and the place had been quiet since.
McKendrick kept reminding himself that he was not really a prisoner, but an undercover agent of the Well-Armed Militia whose mission had gotten derailed. It was his duty to get it back on track somehow. He had to escape and get to California. He would lie in his bed at night and go over everything in his daily life at the prison, prodding it in his mind to see if he could find an escape route. He couldn’t think of anything that didn’t rely on unrealistic amounts luck.
He was coming up on a full year in the Nestle prison when he got transferred to the kitchen dishwashing crew. He knew it was a huge opportunity because it would mean he would be in contact with a lot of other convicts, and he was sure to meet someone who could help him escape.
The other kitchen workers were suspicious of him until he told them the details of his attempted escape out the back of a moving transport van and his time in isolation. They made him a provisional member of a quasi-military unit they had formed. When he asked about the possibility of escape he was told that since he was only a provisional member he couldn’t know about any planned operations. In order to lose his provisional status and become a full member he had to do something useful for the cadre or detrimental to the prison.
McKendrick decided to attain a small-screen for the unit. As a kid, before he’d wound up in the CNP school, he had learned how to disable the tracking capability of a certain brand of small-screen. His parents were Mormon so if he wanted to go somewhere without their knowledge, which was often, he had to disable the GPS on his own small-screen. He got the idea when he noticed that the hack who watched the kitchen crew on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays had a model similar to his old one.
He wanted to show the cadre his skill at completing complex tasks on his own, so he told no one about his plan. He recognized something in the hack’s eyes, so he didn’t think it would be too difficult to get his small-screen. The hacks never told the convicts their names, but this guy was friendly and knew all the kitchen workers names. McKendrick started flirting with the guy, subtly when people might notice, but more flagrantly when the other workers in the kitchen were busy. He would look him directly in the eye and hold the contact longer than necessary, and he found as many things to do near the man as possible. McKendrick figured the hack would respond positively, and he was right. The guy was not used to being treated as an object of desire, he was stoop-shouldered and paunchy with a pock-marked face and bags under his eyes. The attention surprised him.
McKendrick started talking to him too, which wasn’t allowed but wasn’t a major infraction either. Most of the convicts never spoke to the hacks anyway because they didn’t want people to think they were snitches or ass-kissers. McKedrick wasn’t afraid to be obvious when no one was around. He would always be sure to mention something about not having any women around and how the drugs in the food weren’t killing his libido at all. He told the guard that he was going to get carpal tunnel syndrome from all the jacking off. He would laugh, but he never made a move so McKendrick took an even more direct approach.
/> The crew knew all the spots in the kitchen that weren’t covered by the cameras, and one was down at the far end of the storage space in the pantry. The guys on the kitchen crew would sometimes drink hooch back there. McKendrick gave the hack a slight head nod to follow him back there. He stood at the door and McKendrick stood facing him, all the way at the back. “Hey man, c’mere for a minute.”
“What’s the matter?” He asked walking in.
“I need a hand.” McKendrick was holding his cock through his jumpsuit. “Or a mouth.”
“You’re crazy.” The guard said.
McKendrick smiled at him. “Come on,” he said, “don’t be like that. I might be crazy, but I know how to keep a secret. I want it, you want it, no one will ever find out.” The man looked scared. McKendrick smiled bigger. “It’s okay.” He put a hand on the guard’s shoulder and pushed gently and the guard fell to his knees. McKendrick unzipped the front of his jumpsuit.
As the hack went into the throes of passion brought on by a sexual experience he’d wanted but had been too afraid to pursue, McKendrick was trying to survey his pockets, looking for his small-screen. The device was clearly in the man’s front right pocket. In their current configuration it would be impossible to get to it. McKendrick shut his eyes and tried to picture Becca. He thought about her large round tits with their puffy areolas and thick nipples and soon enough he was shooting his semen. The guard swallowed a bunch and wiped up the rest with a handkerchief. “Alright,” McKendrick said. “Your turn.”
He looked surprised. “Really?”
“You didn’t think I’d do that to you did you? Fair is fair, I know you’re not a fag and no one likes giving head, but receiving makes it a worthwhile endeavor. Now shut your eyes and pretend that I’m a sweet lil thing.” McKendrick got on his knees and unbuckled the hack’s belt. As a cadet in the Well-Armed Militia he’d done it many times, so giving head didn’t really bother him. As he went to work on the engorged cock he put his hand on the guard’s right pocket for stability. It didn’t take long for the man to start quivering. As he came McKendrick slipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out the small-screen, sliding it quickly under the shelves the hack was leaning against. He did all this while trying not to gag on particularly rancid-tasting cum.
He stood and wiped his mouth off. The guard closed his pants and buckled his belt, still looking nervous. “I guess we’d better get back to work.” McKendrick said. “Anytime I can help you out just let me know.”
“You’re crazy.” The guard said. He walked away and McKendrick spit out as much of his cum as he could into the sink, and rinsed his mouth out, hoping the guy didn’t have chlamydia or the super g.
Torski, another convict on the crew, was standing beside him when he looked up. “What the fuck is wrong with you O’Dell?” He asked. “You trying to get in good with the hacks? You can’t be that hard up.”
McKendrick took another mouthful of water and spit it out. “I think I’m ready to be a full member of the unit now.” He said. “I want a promotion.”
“What are you talking about?”
McKendrick got the small-screen from under the shelf. “Once I disable the tracker we can use this to contact the outside, maybe get in touch with a guerrilla unit. If we can coordinate an internal and external attack we could liberate every sorry sack of shit in this place, and kill all the hacks, starting with the one whose cum tastes like shit.”
For the next few days McKendrick was the hero of the cadre. The guard must’ve figured out what happened because he didn’t talk to McKendrick after that, and even went out of his way to avoid him. McKendrick took that as a sign that he hadn’t reported the theft.
The leader of the cadre was a guy named Millet who was tall and a little older than the others. He made contact via Pick Axe with a small UPSA guard unit based in the western Nevada desert, near the prison. After some back and forth the guard unit said that the best they could do was to shell the outer wall at a given time and date, so that if the cadre could take over that part of the prison at the appointed time, escape would be possible. Millet heard suggestions from all the men and decided on the best course of action. They settled on a diversionary tactic. Whenever there was any trouble anywhere in the prison all the convicts would go to their cells for lock-down. This would mean that the kitchen crew would have to go up the stairs to their cells, and they would pass a door on the ground floor that went out to the yard. Beeman swore he could get past the electronic lock on the door and if the wall on the other side had been breached they would be free. There would be two armed guards, but the kitchen crew ran in twelve man shifts, so they would be able to take them easily.
Reese, a funny little crook from Detroit, had an impeccable pedigree as an anarchist on the outside. He had specialized in turning peaceful protests into riots with a well-placed bomb or three. He’d been constructing a bomb for months, using small amounts of flammable materials from the kitchen. This work of art that he’d prepared so lovingly would be the perfect diversion.
McKendrick woke up that morning feeling good. He felt like he was finally going to start his true mission. All the horrible shit he’d been through wouldn’t seem so bad when he was given medals and promotions and maybe a spot in intel. His schooling wasn’t up to snuff for that kind of assignment, but as a decorated veteran the powers that be would overlook that.
Mid-shift, Reese lit the fuse on the bomb and sent it down the chute in a linen basket. It would hit a conveyor belt and be far away when it went off. The twelve men pretended to work, but they were all on edge. After about five minutes the alarm went off. “LOCK DOWN!” The guard in the kitchen shouted.
The men lined up to go up the stairs. Millet and Reese were behind McKendrick “Something’s wrong,” Reese whispered to Millet, “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Maybe it was too far away.” Millet said.
“That thing woulda shook the building if it had gone off.” He said. The line of men started up the stairs. The hack who was supposed to be watching them was nowhere in sight when they reached the ground floor. They all stood back as Beeman ran a program on the stolen small-screen and held it up to the electronic door lock. A green light flashed and the door opened.
The hacks waiting on the other side opened fire on the men in the stairwell. The three men in front of McKendrick all fell, and McKendrick and Reese ran up the stairs but they didn’t get far before the hacks chased them down. The wire cuffs and black sacks went on and McKendrick was pushed into a sitting position on the steps. He could hear a kid named Aaron whimpering and begging for a doctor as he bled out on the floor. Eventually his cries stopped.
When the cuffs came off McKendrick was back in the pit.
McKendrick had been there four months and he was sick and dehydrated when the door to his cell flew open and he was dragged to his feet. Once again he was sprayed down, shaved, checked by a doctor and given a new jump suit, orange this time. One of the guards bound and bagged him again and they travelled up a elevator, went down a long hall and through a door and McKendrick felt cold night air on his skin. He was put in a car seat, not a prison transport, but a civilian car seat, and the car began moving.
The sack was pulled from his head by the intel man who had briefed him and brought him to the Nestle prison almost two years before. They were alone in a car together, traveling down a small, two-lane road in the desert. The sky and all the stars looked huge to McKendrick, who could see every detail in the darkness with his mole-rat eyes. The intel man threw a candy bar on his lap and McKendrick began eating it. “I’ve disrupted your feed because I need to debrief you.” He said. “I could get in a lot of trouble for this, the leader on this project seems to think we should cut our losses, but I think the original mission could still succeed.”
McKendrick wasn’t sure any of this was real. “I thought the traitors were gonna liberate the prison.” He said. “What happened?”
“The Nestle complex was better suited to withst
and an attack than we anticipated.” He said.
“Why didn’t you get us out of there? Do you know what it’s like in the pit? It’s living death. Are the other militiamen still inside?”
“You’re the only one left. Harris died in solitary, Lendt and Peters were killed attempting to escape and Ryan had to be terminated when he tried to disclose what he knew about the mission to other convicts. That leaves just one man, Christopher O’Dell.”
“Call me McKendrick.” He said with a mouth full of chocolate. “We’re not in prison anymore.”
“There is no Kyle McKendrick, he’s officially dead. According to the records he was killed in action. You don’t exist anymore except as Christopher O’Dell.”
There was a moment of silence between them. “When the prison withstood the attack, why didn’t you get me out of there? You could’ve gotten me into California some other way. You don’t just give up on a mission when you hit a snag, you keep going.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to do, but unfortunately I’m not the one in charge. Some people up the chain saw a money-making opportunity and they took it. They started leasing access to your feed to the prison’s security.”
“My feed?” He asked.
“You haven’t figured it out? Remember the surgery before you were deployed?”
“They put a tracking device in me…”
“It’s much more than that.” He said. “Everything you see and hear is broadcast in a highly encrypted stream of data. There’s biotech in your cerebral cortex.”
McKendrick was shaking as what the man said sunk in. “How the fuck is that legal?” He asked. “I’m a goddamned patriot, a Militiaman, I’m on your side you piece of shit. I have rights. You’re broadcasting my perceptions?”
“Whose perceptions?” He asked. “Kyle McKendrick was killed in action, you’re a prisoner named Christopher O’Dell. You don’t have any fucking rights, and I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I happen to be the only one on your side, so I suggest you listen to what I have to say instead of crying about the injustice of it all. We don’t have much time.”
“There’s someone seeing what I see? Hearing what I hear?”
“Not at the moment.” He said. “I’ve disrupted your feed, which I shouldn’t have fucking done. I could get in serious trouble. You’re not supposed to know what’s going on in your brain. People are making good money off of it, but I think it’s a waste of a valuable asset. I still believe in the mission. If you could get to California and join the enemy, you could be a treasure trove of intel, instead they’ve got you busting queer guards and breaking up petty escape attempts.”
“That’s how they knew about our plan?”
“Your little prison cadre was never really talking to a guard unit, security knew you’d gotten that small-screen. It never had a chance thanks to you.”
“So you leased access to my brain?”
“Your perceptions are a commodity that have been bought and paid for. The Nestle Corporation is very happy with the purchase. In fact they’re so impressed they decided to send you to another facility to see if they could replicate your success. I told them I’d take care of the transfer.”
“You’re taking me to another prison?”
“That’s right, they want a repeat performance out of you.”
“I could just tell everyone all about it.” McKendrick said. “If everyone knows about it then it’s useless right? At least that way I might wind up in a cell instead of the pit.”
“They would terminate you.” The intel man said. “They could hit a switch and kill you in a second.” He shook his head at McKendrick’s stupidity. “They could also put you into a kind of catatonic state and leave you there as long as they want.”
“So why tell me all this?”
“Because it’s a goddamned waste,” he said, “this mission was my baby and I still think it can work. You have to escape, but you have to do it a certain way. There can’t be any visible planning or participation. I’m giving you a device that looks like a datcom, and you have to keep it hidden. It’s actually a new type of nano-weapon. I’ve given it your DNA from your file, when you activate it the tech will spray out, and any living biological matter that isn’t you will be destroyed within seven seconds. It has a range of about forty square feet. You can’t ever look at the datcom once you’re in there, looking at it would be the same as showing it to the guards. Do you think you can keep it hidden?”
“If it’s the size of a datcom I can just keep it up my ass and hold it behind my back when I shit.”
“That’s what I figured.” The intel man said. “You wont be processed with the other convicts, you’ll be going straight to solitary, so they wont scan you.”
“I’ll have to figure out the right time to use it.”
“That’s right, timing is key. I think your best bet is to bring the situation to a head at this new prison as quickly as possible. After you’ve ceased to be useful there, they’ll transfer you somewhere else. Activate the weapon in transit and you’ve got a getaway vehicle too. It’s just a suggestion though, if you see an opportunity before then, you should take it.”
“Let me see this thing.” McKendrick said.
The intel man pulled a small case out of the center console and unzipped it. He pulled out a metal datcom and held it up. “To release the nano-weapon you turn the top half clockwise all the way and then push it down.” He handed it to McKendrick. “It’s as simple as that.” McKendrick turned the top half clockwise all the way and then pushed it down. “Hey wait, what the fuck?” The intel man yelled as his face started to disintegrate.
As promised there was nothing left of the man after seven seconds. Just a pile of clothes that would be too big on McKendrick’s starved frame, but still better than the orange jump suit he was wearing. He punched new coordinates into the small-screen in the driver dock, and the car slowed and then turned around and began heading the other way. The new coordinates were deep in enemy territory. He was Kyle McKendrick, and he was a militiaman again. He began looking for something he could use to cut the binds on his wrists.
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Full Employment in America