First

by Chanda Stafford

  I make my way through the knee-high weathered crosses, some leaning, some missing their crossties altogether. A few stand tall, obviously recent. Many of the names are worn smooth from the elements, their identities lost like the children who disappeared, faded away, or breathed their last, only to be taken away by blue-clothed cleaners in the dead of night.

  The cross I stop in front of, Rosie’s, is like that. Lopsided and gray, the wood doesn’t even display the barest etching of her name, but the letters weren’t worn off from snow or the rain. I rubbed them away myself by running my fingers over them, as if that could somehow bring us closer together. It hasn’t worked yet. I kneel and pull up the tufts of grass surrounding the cross. By its base, a small patch of clover sprouts. I run my fingers over the soft white flowers and leave them to grow.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been back to see you in a couple days,” I murmur as I sit in the grass next to her marker. “I know it’s not an excuse, but I was chosen by a First. And, well, I’m going to have to leave. I don’t want to, but I don’t think I have a choice.” My eyes sting, and I pluck a blade of grass from the ground, letting it go when an evening breeze picks up and whisks it away.

  “I never thought anyone would pick me, not after what happened.” The wind picks up, and I can almost hear her laugh the way she always did, even though the sound of her voice is fading. It’s been so long. “I’m so sorry, Rosie. I never meant for you to die.”

  “It’s no mistake.”

  Socrates

  “You know, Socrates, if you don’t feel up to it, I’m certain they can do the grand opening without you.” The sun slants through the narrow window slits of the huge air-bus, shadowing Eliot’s face. On her white suit, it reflects a brilliant, blinding glow. The smooth hum of the vehicle slows as we reach our destination, the National Museum of American History.

  “Nonsense, Eliot. It’s not every day someone creates a museum exhibit in my honor. And we’d best not forget the reporters and how they love their photo opportunities.” My head throbs, and I rub the old, round scars that dot my skull, but the pain doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets worse.

  “Just for you, is it?” She chuckles, a throaty, masculine sound incongruent with my memories of her former raven-haired beauty. I suppose that’s to be expected since she chose a male this time around. Despite that, she’s still my wife, and even though our physical bodies have changed more times than I care to contemplate, our souls remain the same. Briefly, I think about voicing my analogy to Ellie, that even though we replace the engine every eighty years or so, the mileage just keeps adding up. Somehow, I don’t think she’d appreciate it. Probably think I’m referencing the fine lines by her eyes or the grooves starting to deepen the sides of her mouth. Youth even flees from us, the immortals, with time.

  “Well, I was the first one to survive, my dear, and I think we were all a bit surprised by that.”

  Eliot shakes her head. “Don’t sell yourself short, Soc. You were chosen to be a First for a reason.”

  I slant her a lopsided smile and laugh. “I volunteered, remember? Back when it was mostly poor saps and criminals. The human trials had too many casualties. Scientists were running out of inmates to practice on. I had nothing left to live for, after my son…”

  Eliot remains silent as the bus comes to a stop on the ground. The slight bump wakes Ben. He lifts his head and thumps his tail on the ground.

  “Sirs, are you ready? We’re here.” The pilot’s tinny voice echoes through the belly of the ship.

  “Yes, we’re ready,” I answer, and the thin, metal door slides open. Lightweight steps fold out and lower to the ground.

  I stand up, legs wobbling, and reach for my cane. Ben trots over to my other side, and I grab his harness for support.

  Two nondescript black-uniformed security guards, both wearing mirrored visors with thin bands around their heads that allow their supervisors to see and hear everything they do, stand at the foot of the steps. They keep their hands behind their backs and wait in silence while I make my way down the stairs. A third guard stands behind them, holding on to an old-fashioned wheelchair with a worn, cracked black seat and metal wheels.

  “Haven’t seen one of those in about five hundred years. Have you, Ellie?” The thing looks so rickety. Will it even support my weight?

  “No, it’s been a while.” She and Ben join me under the scorching sun. The guard pushes the chair forward for me to sit in it before stepping back and standing at ease, casting a practiced glance around for any threats.

  “This isn’t necessary, you know. I can walk just fine on my own.” My hand shakes on the head of my cane, and the guard stifles a snort. Cheeky brat. When I was his age, I’d never have dreamt of treating my elders in such a manner. The antique design must be the museum’s idea. I’ll never admit it to Ellie, but I also prefer it to one of the more modern hover chairs that interface with the user’s fine motor skills. Maybe I just like to know how things work, and these antique chairs are pretty easy to figure out.

  She shakes her head. “You can barely make it from the ship to the ground. Just sit down so we can get this three-ring circus over with,” she says, meaning the reporters and their antics, I think.

  Muttering “wench” under my breath, I hobble over to the chair and lower myself into it, wincing at the pain in my joints. My breath comes out in short, agonizing bursts, and I lay my cane in my lap. Ellie raises her eyebrows in concern, but I look away, focusing instead on the lines in the cracked gray asphalt landing strip. A little weed, just a pair of leaves, really, springs between the cracks. Honestly, I’m surprised the gardeners didn’t take care of that. Usually, the grounds around our capital are impeccably maintained.

  One of the security guards reaches out for the handles, but Ellie shakes her head. “I can get that.” As the guard folds his arms in front of him, I glimpse the faded tattoo on his wrist. It’s kind of ironic, really. Only two hundred years ago, the government sought to segregate the Texan rebels who tried to destroy the very fabric of our nation so they couldn’t do any more harm, and now, well, they’re guarding two of this nation’s arguably most important people.

  Eliot pushes me down the wide sidewalk toward the front of the pale white building, not even exerting herself a little, which I suppose is normal, considering she’s only forty years old and in peak physical condition. Ben trots along next to us, and I keep a light hand on his harness. The guards fall in behind us. As we near the front of the building, we hear a commotion, like a deep roaring interspersed with higher-pitched screams and shouts.

  “The service entrance is closer,” Eliot says. “I should have asked the pilot to land in the back. We could have avoided the crowd.”

  “And the reporters, you mean,” I quip. She snorts. “Because, you wouldn’t want to deprive our adoring audience of our presence, would you?”

  “I doubt those are fans, Soc. Adoration wouldn’t put a bullet in your head the way these people would.” Right. Lifers.

  As we approach the off side of the half-moon walkway in front of the building, about two hundred people of all races and ages—most of them young—strain against a low police barrier, chanting and holding up signs. A couple of reporters who probably came for the dedication perch outside. Cameras float in the air above the protestors’ heads to get better angles. A few of the more adventurous ones zip in and out for close-ups. At least they’re ignoring me for now.

  “I hate it when you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.” Ellie pushes me forward.

  In front of the crowd, a ring of police officers—who look identical to our guards—stand elbow to elbow, waiting for trouble. For a country that still prides itself in freedom of speech, there sure is a significant military presence at all protests. If I didn’t know it was illegal, I would have guessed them to be clones. They hold the Artos, the la
test model laser gun, a better deterrent than the waist-high fiberglass barriers hastily erected to keep the protestors at bay.

  Our guards move forward and fall into position around us, but their presence can’t block out the chants of “Live Once, Only Once” that echo off the tall stone buildings. As we get closer, I can read the signs, printed in blood-red letters, mostly spelling out the same chant with variations like “Serial Killer,” “Child Murderer,” and “Die, Socrates.”

  At the front of the crowd, a paunchy, narrow-eyed, middle-aged man with thinning dark hair cups his hands to his mouth, trying to shout above the crowd. It works. As soon as the onlookers hear his voice, the yelling dies down.

  “Where is the honor in killing a child? Where is the justice? Where are her rights? Doesn’t the Second get a choice?” As we pass him, the group leader’s voice fades, and the protestors’ chants grow once again. As we reach the edge of the crowd, a dark-haired teenaged girl breaks free of the crowd, struggles over the police barricade, and rushes toward us, pulling something from her pocket.

  “Bomb! Get down!”

  The girl screams wildly, maniacally, and I freeze. Ellie jerks the chair back, and two guards jump in front of us. The one on the right fires his Artos at the child. A static-charged electric blue arc of light shoots through the air and hits its target with deadly accuracy. The girl collapses to the ground and convulses. A strangled cry rips from her throat.

  The guards try to block my view, but around their shoulders, I can still see the girl thrashing weakly, heels drumming erratically against the cracked pavement. One of her small, pale hands opens, and a round silver disk rolls out and rests a few feet away.

  More guards pour out of the surrounding buildings and force the crowd back using pulsating stun shields and waving their guns in the air. Carefully, one approaches the girl with a clear bomb containment cube and places it delicately over the object. He backs away about ten feet and then pushes a button on his wrist unit. The small disc ignites, and the box flashes with bright white light before filling with smoke. The would-be bomber lies motionless, her blank eyes staring into the distance. Her fingertips twitch on the dusty ground.

  “Is she dead?” My heart seems to stop in my chest. Her empty eyes stare across the space at me. Through me.

  “No, just knocked out. By the time they get done with her, though, she’ll wish she was.” The guard chuckles. A trio of officers from around the perimeter approach the girl and fasten sticky cuffs around her wrists and ankles. As they pick up her unresponsive body, several protestors from the crowd surge forward and attempt to break the blockade. The stun shields quickly quell their heroism, and they fall back, their more cowardly comrades catching them. After the protestors back down, the officers carry the girl roughly to the first of three jet-black police cruisers hovering in front of the museum and toss her into the back seat before slamming the door. Just like that, she’s gone, as if she never existed.

  Ellie jerks on the chair, a silent warning for me to keep quiet. She knows me too well. Ben leans against my legs, and my fingers find the scruff of his neck before instinctively scratching him right there in his favorite spot. His skin tenses up, and I can feel him kick out his back leg in that quick-fire way dogs have when you find their favorite spots.

  The crowd is quieter now, more subdued, and the protestors disperse. Their leader disappears into the crowd. Maybe even they, the voice of the resistance, don’t want to be associated with the arrest of a child terrorist. Yet, as I glance at the front of the crowd, the reporters are still there, cameras still filming. So much for my grand entrance. Largely forgotten, we make our way around the crowd to the wide, white cement steps leading to the museum’s front doors. At the base of the stairs, I shift the tip of my cane to the ground and grip the armrests of the chair before forcing myself to my feet.

  Eliot puts her hand on my shoulder. “Soc, stop. There’s a ramp on the other side of the stairs.”

  “Let me do this at least, woman.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. The reporters aren’t even watching you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I grit my teeth with the strain of forcing weakening muscles and bones to support my weight.

  Pushing away from the chair, I force myself to remain upright, and after a while, I glance back at Eliot. “I walk just fine, see?” I snap my fingers and almost immediately Ben pushes his back against my hand. My fingers dig into his rough coat until I feel his harness then lift my left foot to the first step. Using Ben and my cane, I make it up a couple more steps before turning around. Eliot’s still standing at the base of the stairs, leaning one hand on the wheelchair, a slight, exasperated smile on her face. “Are you coming?” I arch an eyebrow.

  She shakes her head. “You’re a pain in my ass. You know that, right?”

  I grin. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Her sigh and following silence are her only response.

  Two more guards stand at attention on either side of the main doors, and the one on the right nods in deference and leans over to open the door. I incline my head in thanks.

  When we get through the door, I dig in my front pocket, pull out an old, braided black leather leash and snap it on Ben’s collar. Eliot chuckles and shakes her head. She’d gotten me the latest gravity-based lead for our anniversary last year, but I’ve yet to take it out of the package. Damn technology. Hell if I can figure out how to use it half the time. Tried and true, that’s what works best for me. Back in my first life, we called dogs like Ben service animals. That was back before modern medicine made blindness and deafness—as well as a host of other debilitating diseases—go the same route as leprosy and smallpox. Cancer too, if you got the vaccine. I never did. Hindsight, they say.

  A white-haired man with a nametag that reads “Chief Curator Alfred Ruger” looks down at Ben and stiffens as though he’s going to say something. I tighten my hand on the leash. Go ahead. See how quickly I leave. Ruger glances at Eliot, and she shakes her head in warning. He briefly closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Right this way, please.”

  “Thank you for inviting us,” I reply as the door closes behind us, shutting out the crowd. There are reporters in here, too, and I have to keep from groaning. I am the guest of honor, I suppose.

  “The pleasure is all ours.” He bows deeply and gestures to the left. “Socrates and George Eliot, please, follow me.”

  Entering the museum, I always notice the vast space. The ceilings stretch up to meet enormous windows, flooding the entire room with light. White walls paint everything clean and fresh and emphasize the artwork displayed there. This is, of course, only the public portion of the museum. Most of the real action takes place far underground in the original History building.

  A pale, hook-nosed tour guide in an almost colorless beige suit leads a group of red-and-gold-uniformed school children, probably from around the third grade, past one of the exhibits. Their teacher, an obviously enhanced redhead in her twenties, follows, balancing precariously on four-inch heels.

  “You’d think that, in the last five hundred years, women would have finally chosen comfort over appearance,” I murmur to Ellie.

  “Hush, you,” she admonishes. “You’re a man. You wouldn’t understand.” She pushes me a little faster past the group.

  “Technically, my dear…” I cast a grin in her direction. “So are—” She jerks the chair, cutting off my breath and further commentary.

  Oblivious to our presence, or at least pretending to ignore us, the tour guide gives the children a history lesson. “After the Texans bombed the White House and the Pentagon during the Immigration War, there was nowhere for our government to go. They looked everywhere to find the best place to make their new base so they could finally defeat the rebels.” A few of the kids glance at us, snicker, and poin
t.

  A young blond boy tugs on his teacher’s arm. “Are those Firsts?”

  “Yes, dear. Don’t stare.” The teacher takes the boy’s hand and leads him away, but the child cranes his neck to gawk at us anyway.

  “He’s so old. What are they doing here?”

  “Shhh. I don’t know, Kellen. They probably have important business.”

  The tour guide’s voice drones on. “After considering several locations around the country, President Hughes decided to use the abandoned Smithsonian Institution. He assessed all of the various buildings, demolished the ones in too much disrepair, renovated the ones they could use, and safely stored away most of our nation’s treasures. After all, it would be a terrible thing if the Texans got their hands on something as important as our original Declaration of Independence. After the war, they reopened small exhibits in each of the buildings, so people could still see some of our most amazing historical artifacts.”

  We finally pass out of their range, and I let out a deep sigh. Even though that kid treated me more like an exhibit than an actual person, I’d much rather be over there than on my way to give a speech. You’d think I’d be used to public speaking by now, but no, that was Eliot’s forte.

  “Socrates?”