First

by Chanda Stafford

  Rightful Property

  Mira

  “So when did you become involved with the Lifers?” Buzzcut asks me for about the hundredth time, scowling from across a scarred metal table.

  “I’m not!” I lean as far forward as the stupid cuffs on my wrists will allow. Do they actually think I’m a real threat, a seventeen-year-old girl who has to be chained up to a chair so she doesn’t hurt anyone?

  “You were with them. Don’t deny it,” he snarls, lips twisting as he bares his teeth at me in hatred. “Once your First rejects you, you’ll be sentenced to death, just like that other one we arrested last night.”

  “Who?” A scared, round face blinks back into my mind. “Mr. Flannigan? But he’s just a teacher.” I lean back in my chair, letting the cold, uncomfortable metal chill me though the thin shirt they made me put on.

  “Like you didn’t know.” Abruptly, Buzzcut slams his hand on the table, and I jump until the metal cuffs give me a sharp warning jolt. “He’s no more a teacher than I am. He’s a traitor, that’s what he is. Know what his code name was? Paul Revere. As if he could really warn anyone of anything, fat bastard that he is.” He relaxes, resting his hands on the table, folded up, like we’re having a nice little chit-chat.

  “Paul Revere?” My voice is quiet, soft like a child’s, afraid to ask a question.

  “Yeah, hardly original. Claims he’s trying to save our nation, our country, from the likes of your First, but if he’d been any sort of teacher, he’d have realized that the real Paul Revere was a traitor, too. A real patriot wouldn’t betray his home country. I’ll be glad to see him die. Just like I was glad to see that other one kick the bucket.”

  “Other one?” I squeak.

  “Yeah.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hands, as though it isn’t worth worrying about. “The one who didn’t live at your farm. What was his name?” He snaps his fingers, as if trying to remember.

  “Henri Lee?”

  Buzzcut’s face lights up. “Ha, I knew it! You do know him!”

  I shake my head. “No, no. That’s just what Tanner called him.”

  “Ahh, your little boyfriend. It all comes back to him, doesn’t it?” He leans over the table, resting his elbows on its scratched and grooved surface. “Did he put you up to this?”

  “No, I—”

  “Lemme guess. He told you to go meet this guy so you could both run away together. Is that it?” I must have blushed or something because he chortles in some sort of evil glee. “Oh that’s rich. Just wait until the guys hear about this one. True love,” he snickers.

  “No, it’s not. He just—”

  “Just what? Wanted to keep you safe?” I nod. Fear rises in my gut. “Newsflash, kid, the rebels exist outside the law for a reason. If they’re caught, they’re killed. They’re all traitors. They betrayed our nation. You would have been hunted down for the rest of your life. Do you want that?” I bite my lip, looking down as tears well up in my eyes. “Even if you’d escaped,” he says, lowering his voice to a growl, “some wild animal woulda killed you, eaten you, or youda been captured. No, it’s better that you’re here, even if you won’t make it out alive.”

  “But… but what about Tanner?” There’s that squeaky mouse voice again.

  Buzzcut shakes his head and chuckles. “Oh, don’t you worry, princess. You’re not alone. Your little boyfriend is here.”

  I jump forward a little, excitement making me forget the cuffs. One little jolt reminds me. “You mean he’s here? At the prison?” Buzzcut nods. “Can I see him?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “You have got to be kidding me, girl. You’re about to be tried for treason, and all you’re worried about is your little boy toy?”

  I stiffen. “He’s a good man, and I love him.”

  “A good man who was going to feed you to the wolves.” He flashes a toothy grin. “Do you have any idea what the rebels would do to you?”

  I shake my head.

  “They’d kill you, girl. Kill you so your First can’t have you. You, his rightful property. Is that what you want?” I shake my head again, denying what he says. The Lifers wouldn’t kill me, would they? If they were dangerous, Tanner would never take me to them. “Mira, Mira, Mira. You’re an idiot.” He hides his bitterness with a smile. “You don’t know anything, do you?” I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. “I guess it don’t matter anyway. Maybe we should have let the rebels have you. Either way, you’re dead.” With that, he casts me one last, cold grin, shoves his chair back so hard it hits the wall, and stomps out. His cold chuckle echoes through the room, chilling me far more than anything else.

  One of Ours

  Socrates

  “Is it a crime to have anything cheery around here?” I grumble as I step out of the pod at Fullbright Detention Center. My hand strays to my side but comes up empty. I sigh. Dammit, I miss my dog, even wish I could have brought him to the prison. Too dangerous, even for me. Only the worst prisoners are kept at Fullbright, which apparently includes my friend and my Second.

  “Excuse me, sir? Did you say something?” The young, pasty-faced guard looks nervous as hell, which isn’t surprising as he’s probably never had to deal with the likes of me before.

  “Is a goddamned flowerpot too much to ask?” I cast a glance at him, and he gulps, hand twitching over the Artos holster clipped to his belt. What’s he going to do, shoot me?

  “A flowerpot, sir?”

  I shake my head and gesture out past the thick fences that separate the Transportation Center from the detention center. Because you can’t keep the pods near the prison, can you? It would be the perfect prison break, literally disappearing into thin air. “Look at this place.” The tall pale gray stone walls of the prison rise above us in austere fashion. Thinly-slotted breaks in the stone settle for windows, and I imagine old-time Robin Hood-esque archers waiting on the other side of the castle’s walls for intruders. “It’s dreary as hell, Marty.”

  The young man gulps and opens his mouth, like a fish flopping on dry land, gasping its last few breaths. “My name’s Martin, sir.”

  I shrug, and limp toward the gate. Marty follows at a safe distance until we reach the first of the three actual physical gates that will lead us to Fullbright. I must undergo a body scan again, and the new guard, with a nametag that reads Alistair, looks none too happy about scanning me, but I suppose it’s protocol, so I can’t blame the chap.

  “You’re all clear, Martin,” Alistair says to Marty as he casts quick, rodent-like glances at me.

  “Of course I am.” I scowl at him.

  Marty gulps, his huge Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Thanks, Alistair.” He looks at me. “This way, sir.”

  “Fine,” I grumble. “Let’s go.” I follow him, hobbling, through a series of gates that slide open. The first is an older type of metal wire, stainless steel. The second is a fine mesh emanating an electronic field. The third is invisible except for the posts that delineate its boundaries. The laser force shields are far deadlier than any of the barriers.

  On the other side of the gates, a small, black and silver hovering vehicle that looks the way I remember a golf cart bobs gently a couple inches off the ground. Another guard, this one a little older and not looking too thrilled to be serving as my personal taxi, doesn’t even acknowledge us.

  “Here, let me help you.” Marty reaches for my arm.

  I shake him off. “No, thank you. I can get up here just fine.” Except that I can’t. Every time I lift my foot even a few inches, the damn cart seems to get higher and higher off the ground. After the third try, I turn in frustration and glare at Marty. “Can you get him to just set this thing on the ground?”

  The poor boy jumps as if jolted by electricity and spins around to look at his stone-faced compatriot. “Jenson, can you turn it off
?”

  After giving the barest of nods and heaving a superhuman sigh, he flips a switch in the front of the vehicle, and it lowers to the ground. Its slight hum gives way to silence.

  “Thank you.” I give the boy what must be a fearsome grin because he looks even more nervous now. He watches me like a hawk as I am finally able to board this stupid little aircraft and arrange myself and my cane in the back seat.

  Once Marty is on board, Jenson flips the switch again, and the ship lifts off, moving slowly at first before gathering steam and zooming toward the prison proper. It’s not a long jaunt, maybe a quarter mile or so, but long enough that I doubt I could have walked it.

  Surrounding the front of Fullbright is a set of about twenty cement steps. Thankfully, Jenson takes us to the top of those, so I don’t have to fall on my ass trying to ascend them. Once inside the front door, we undergo another round of searches. Even my cane is scanned three times for weapons. Makes me think of how pitifully unprotected I am out in Santa Fe. Not that many brave the deserts to harass me. No, that privilege is reserved for lower level politicians and the President’s staff.

  “What is your business here, sir?” the dour-faced woman sitting at the polished metal desk asks for about the fortieth time.

  “I’d like to see Edward Flannigan and Mira of Chesaning.”

  She nods, curtly. “Yes, sir. I’ll call that in, and let you know when they have secured a room.” She speaks into her wrist unit. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mira of Chesaning is unavailable.”

  This is odd. “Why? I want to speak to her.”

  She shakes her head. “The girl is in questioning right now. Unfortunately, she won’t be finished for some time, but you may still see Edward Flannigan.”

  “You mean I can’t see my own Second?” I put on my best scowling face.

  “She isn’t your Second any longer, is she?” She sounds curious.

  “Of course she is! I haven’t renounced her.”

  “But sir… she’s a traitor. She was working with the Lifers.”

  “Bah!” I push her words away. “She’s just a kid. Kids make mistakes. I’m certain you were young once.”

  She opens her mouth but snaps it shut before she makes a retort. “I’m sorry, sir. I overstepped my boundaries. Would you like to wait here?”

  I take in the cold black and white marble floors, the painfully bare white walls, and agonizingly stiff benches lining the walls. “Yes.” I sigh. “I’ll just wait here, but I don’t suppose it’ll take long. Will it?” She pales a bit under her non-tan and taps her wrist com. It turns bright green, and she turns away as she murmurs into it. After what must be a heated conversation, she nods and taps it again, returning it to its fleshy color.

  “It’ll just be a moment.” She turns away from me back to small screens that reflect back in her eyes.

  “Fine, fine, it’s not like I’ve got any place better to be.” I walk over to the benches before lowering myself, bones creaking, onto one of the cold, metal benches. About ten minutes later, an older guard with severe posture marches through a door adjacent to the receptionist’s desk and stands at attention.

  “Socrates, sir?” He scans the room before zeroing in on me. After getting to my feet, I follow him down a long hall, past a line of closed doors to one that stands slightly apart from the rest. My guard, who has no nametag, stops abruptly at the door, causing me to stumble to a stop as well, almost falling down. He peeks in the door, looks back at Marty, and nods. “He’s in here.” Hmmm, something doesn’t feel right. The man scans a wrist band on his right arm and his tattoo before the door clicks. Do they do this with all the dangerous criminals?

  But it’s hard to see danger in a man who’s shrunken from his former, pompous self, hunched over the table in a thin gray shirt and trousers, black stripes running horizontally across his body. His head rests in his hands, and his long, thin red hair is shaved short, like a common Texan. His glasses are missing, and he squints at me, taking a moment before he recognizes me. Hope fills his pale blue eyes.

  “Socrates, you came. They… they told me you wouldn’t. They said you wouldn’t want to see a traitor like me.”

  I don’t say anything at all as I hobble into the room and over to the table, lean my cane against it, and settle myself in a straight-backed metal chair across from him. Despite his unkempt appearance, he tries to maintain some semblance of calm. His hands and arms, the sweat stains under his arms and around the collar of his shirt, and the vibrant red marks that line what I can see of his forearms all tremble. As I regard him, the light in his eyes dims. I wait another minute more before shaking my head. “Oh Edward, what have you done?”

  He drops his head back in his hands and lets out a deep breath. When he looks up again, it’s not the hope I saw before, or the resignation I expect. It’s a flash of anger, then sadness.

  “How many has it been?”

  His question takes me aback, and I sit up straighter in my hard, uncompromising seat. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, my friend.”

  “How many kids have you killed?”

  I look down, away. His question makes me uncomfortable. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  “Do you remember their names? Who they were before you murdered them?”

  “Of course I remember their names!” I look him straight in the eyes. He’s not going to make me feel guilty for being who I am, not one bit.

  “But you don’t remember who they were, do you? Their individual personalities, quirks, goals for the future? It’s all gone, isn’t it?” His expression softens with his words, as if he feels sorry for me.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Why are you asking me this? It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to discuss my past Seconds. I’m here to talk to you.”

  Edward lets out a deep breath and leans forward as far as the thin wiry shackles binding his wrists to the chair will allow. I can tell when he stretches too far because he twitches as if a jolt of electricity hits him. “Don’t you get it, Socrates? These kids, what’s happening to them, it’s the most important injustice going on in the world right now. They celebrate you, people like you.” His face morphs into a sneer. “Child-murderers, as pseudo-celebrities. And people like me, we have to prepare these lambs for slaughter, assuage their doubts, make them more comfortable, all the while knowing they’re going to die. And the others, the ones who can’t be chosen, they’re either oblivious or criminally negligent for not doing anything about it.”

  “Now see here—” I start to stand, curling my wrinkled fingers around the arms of the chair.

  Edward shakes his head sharply. “Please Socrates, listen to me.”

  Something in his voice, his desperation, settles me back down. Folding my hands in my lap, I turn all my focus on him. “Go on.”

  Edward takes a deep breath, his face sets into a serious look, and a slight smile parts his lips. “I am a member of Live Once, or a Lifer as we’re called by the rest of society. We exist everywhere, all around the world, and still nowhere any government can find us. We’ve infiltrated all levels of society except the President, and I imagine one day one of ours will sit in that chair, too.” He gives me a satisfied nod.

  “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Everything, my friend. You’re Socrates, the First of them all.”

  I chuckle. “Some nerve, calling me a friend.”

  He winces. “I know, accusing you of murder doesn’t help, does it? I apologize. I may have come on a bit strong.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve been called worse. Just last week at the Smithsonian—”

  The guard at the door clears his throat, and Marty glances at Edward. “Sir, you have five minutes, then we have to take the prisoner back to his cell.”

  “But we’re not done—”

  He shakes his
head. “I’m sorry sir, but those are my orders.”

  “It appears we don’t have much time left.”

  Edward throws back his head and laughs, freer than I’ve ever seen him. “That’s funny, coming from you, my friend.”

  “Do you know when the trial is? I’d like to be there.”

  He looks down at his hands and shakes his head. “No, I think they’re planning it for after your Release to minimize the likelihood of turning me into a martyr.” I open my mouth to interject, but he holds up his hand, stopping me. “But when this goes to trial, they’re going to ask me to admit my part in Live Once, and I will say yes. They will sentence me to death, and even though I imagine I’ll be afraid, as I’m sure every person is in their final moments, I’ll also be smiling because I’ll know that, in death if not in life, my existence will make a difference. My fight, my struggle, which is the struggle of all mankind, to have freedom from oppression, freedom to live my life the way I choose, will not be in vain.”

  “Why? Is it really worth dying for?”

  He smiles, the expression tired as it twitches the corners of his once dashing mustache. “You should ask your Second that question.” Edward looks at the guard, nods at him, and sits back in his chair, seemingly at peace. The interview is over.

  Another Lifetime

  Mira

  “You’re lucky, princess,” a guard who looks like his nose has been smashed in a few times says as he grabs my arm and escorts me from my cold, dark, drafty prison cell. I’m almost actually glad to see him, even though he was one of the men who brought me here, and smile in spite of my fear as he opens the door. A shaft of light so bright my eyes ache pierces the darkness.