First

by Chanda Stafford

Kendal pauses at the other end of the line. “Well, you are one of the most articulate of the Firsts.”

  I snort. Now he’s really reaching. I wouldn’t even pick myself as the first choice for any public speaking engagement. I’m gruff, say what I think, hate writing speeches, and some people—Ellie most of all—have even called me rude to a fault. I’ll probably scare the little kids half to death. “That’s ridiculous and you know it. Ellie is much better spoken than I am. Hell, any of the others would be a better choice.”

  “But you’re the First.” Ah yes, it always comes back to that, doesn’t it?

  I scowl at Kendal, and his video visage looks affronted. “That doesn’t mean anything, not anymore. Even then, I was a fool trying to kill myself. You know it, I know it, the whole damn world knows it. Just too damn lucky for my own good.”

  “You know that’s not true,” Kendal sputters.

  “It is, and you know it.” I shake my head, and when he starts to speak, I hold my gnarled hand up to stop him. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll play in your dog and pony show if that’s what Andrew wants, but it doesn’t make me your puppet, you know. I’ve known him far longer than you have, and his father before him. Both are good men fighting for a just and honorable cause.”

  He glowers at me, reaches forward, and clicks off the screen. Great, now I’ve pissed him off, too. My day’s just getting better and better.

  No sooner am I settled back in the bed, when I hear a knock on the door. “Who is it?” I yell.

  “Will,” the boy answers. Grumbling, I limp over to the door, open it, and gesture for him to enter. He does, carrying a silver platter over to the table. Steam curls around the edges, and I smell lamb, my favorite. As if in response, my stomach rumbles, a sound not that much different from my own voice. If he notices, the boy is too well-trained to say anything.

  “May I?” he asks with his hand on the top of the silver dome.

  “Yes, please.” I watch as he reveals a meal of roasted lamb, bread pudding, green beans, and a side salad. Real food. Much better than that synthesized plastic mush the doctors try to shove down my throat. I sit down to eat. “Have you talked to the girl yet?”

  “Yes, sir. About that…” The boy takes a deep breath. “Mira doesn’t know anything about the Release ceremony.”

  “Really? I thought Edward was going to tell her.”

  “No, sir. Perhaps with her sudden departure and his arrest, it was… overlooked?”

  “Hmm.” I scratch my beard. “That’s an interesting way of saying it, but I bet you’re right.” My old friend’s frightened gaze torments me as I close my eyes.

  “She has no idea what’s going to happen to her. No idea that she’s going to die. She still thinks she’s moving on to some great adventure as your Second.” He clamps a hand to his mouth, clearly shocking himself with his words. I merely arch an eyebrow. Even though what he said amounts to treason, I’ve heard worse. “I’m s-s-sorry, sir. I misspoke. I wasn’t thinking…” His eyes widen with fear.

  I frown. The action beetles my brows, so I can see the hairs of the bushy white caterpillars drooping over my eyes. A sudden, painful spear arches between my temples, and waves of dizziness swamp me. I forget where I am or what I’m doing, completely losing track of the conversation. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, sir. I’m… I’m terribly sorry.” The boy bows his head, his trembling hand still holding the lid. One word from me could get him killed.

  “It may not seem like it, nor may you believe it, but it is a privilege to be chosen as a Second. Very few are strong enough or smart enough to make this sacrifice. Absolved Texans like Mira have a great destiny that goes far beyond their pitiful lives on the farms.” I can still see how worried the young man is, so I decide to put him at ease. “I know you think I should tell her what’s in store, but now is not the time.”

  Will grimaces. “You aren’t going to tell her?”

  “No, we have enough on our plates right now. There will be plenty of time for that when the dust has settled after the Acceptance ceremony.”

  After he leaves, I pick through the food, barely tasting any of it. When I finally give up, I put the plate on the floor, letting Ben finish it off, a task to which he applies himself wholeheartedly.

  I change for bed, slipping off my wrist scanner and putting it on the nightstand next to my pillow.

  Lying in bed, I struggle to keep my eyes open, seeing Edward’s face every time I close them.

  “What would you do, old friend?” I ask no one in particular. Ben lifts his head, licking the last bits of sauce from his nose, but when he realizes I’m not talking to him, he returns to his cleaning duties.

  In my mind, I see Edward sitting across the table from me, shackled and bruised with a triumphant look on his face. “Would you tell her?”

  The Edward in my head answers. “Of course. I would have told her from the start. I would have treated her like a human being and given her an actual choice.” He stares accusingly at me.

  “A real choice, eh?” What could it hurt? I suppose if I ever had a Second say no, I would probably have released him from his duties. It’s never happened, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility, either.

  “Personally, I never would have gotten into this mess in the first place.” He leans back, folding his hands, restrained as they are, on his stomach. “Everyone deserves a chance to live their own life, don’t you think?”

  “Seems to me you are in a bit of a mess,” I grumble, feeling raw and put out for some reason. Maybe he’s right? Maybe I should give her a choice. Probably the first damn decision she’s ever had to make in her life.

  No Choice

  Mira

  I can’t sleep. That stupid interview, then Evie, then Gregory’s words run through my head. What do they mean? What do they know that I don’t? What can’t Will tell me? What about being Absolved makes him look at me with such pity, like he knows something I don’t?

  Frustrated, I bunch up my pillow behind my head.

  “Having trouble sleeping?” AVAS asks, her voice soothing and calm. I jump anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to some super-intelligent computer watching my every move and commenting on what I’m doing.

  “Yeah, but I’m fine.”

  “Would you like to view some of the prescribed entertainment? Based on my news schedule, there is a very interesting broadcast on right now. It’s being watched by eighty-seven percent of the viewing audience.”

  “Really? What’s it about?” I sit up straight. This might actually be interesting. Might actually take my mind off the way Evie put her hand on Will’s arm, the guilty look in his face, the baby she’s carrying. Anything would be better than this, right?

  “A longtime teacher and rebel supporter, Edward Flannigan, is being charged with treason against the state. If he is found guilty, his sentence will be carried out immediately.” AVAS pauses.

  “Mr. Flannigan?” I whisper, my mind going numb.

  A deep coldness seeps into my bones, but AVAS continues. “How would you like me to proceed?”

  What do I say? Something tells me this isn’t a normal trial. Treason is the worst crime in our country. This is bad. Really bad. Not even recognizing my own voice, I whisper, “Show the broadcast.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  The screen flashes on, then shows a good-looking, dark-haired man with light-green eyes wearing a beige suit standing in front of a towering stone building. The sign in front of the building reads Fullbright Detention Center. Is that where I was? Unease trickles up my spine. Bright, glaring lights shine on the impossibly high walls and more gates and fences than I can count.

  “This is Corey Schram with the DC Chronicle. I’m here outside Fullbright Detention Center with breaking news. Absolved Advisor Edward Flannigan has ple
d guilty to terrorism and awaits sentencing.” Wait, there’s no trial? I thought he gets a trial? I perch at the edge of the bed, eyes glued to the screen.

  The image shifts to show Mr. Flannigan in dull gray prison garb, shrunken and pale, standing in a large outdoor space, hands chained together in front of him. He stares defiantly at a panel of five black-robed men and two women who sit at a long, raised table, almost like a stage.

  “Edward Flannigan, you have been charged with four felony counts of terrorism, accessory to a terrorist organization, and plotting to commit a terrorist act against the United States of America. All of these charges carry the death penalty. How do you plead?”

  Mr. Flannigan takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and says, “Guilty.”

  One of the men, a white-haired guy with a thick mustache leans forward and frowns at Mr. Flannigan. “Are you certain that this is your answer? Do you realize that, if you plead guilty, we will have no choice but to sentence you to death?”

  “I understand,” Flannigan’s voice rings out sure and confident. “I’m not afraid to admit that I support the freedom of every person in America.”

  Another one of the men, taller and bald with wrinkles sagging around his face, sighs and looks at his compatriots, who nod. “Then I believe we are in agreement. Edward Flannigan, based on your guilty plea, you are sentenced to death. As written in the Human Rights Act of 2394, you have the right to choose the method of your execution.” The reporter, Corey Schram, comes back on, restates what just happened, and calls those old people the Councilmen. I tune him out.

  Death? No. He… he can’t. What happened to him in there? Did they torture him? Beat him? The Mr. Flannigan I knew was so crafty, he’d never admit to being a rebel. What did they charge him with again? Terrorism? Terrorism of what? Telling me what fork to use? How to fold my napkin in my lap? The screen shifts back to show the Councilmen, with the bushy white mustached one standing up in front.

  “As per the Human Rights Act of 2394, you have the right to choose any form of capital punishment, past or present you desire. Methods include, but are not limited to: hanging, lethal injection, electrocution, firing squad, intercranial injection, laser-destimulation, or neural disentanglement. Which do you choose?”

  The other councilmen look bored, that is until Mr. Flannigan smiles slightly and says, “I choose the firing squad.” They all jump in their chairs a bit and turn to each other.

  “Are you sure?” the head Councilman asks him.

  “Yes.” He stands up even straighter, as if he isn’t on trial, as if he isn’t telling them how he’d prefer to die. My chest aches. This can’t be real. They really wouldn’t do this, would they? They can’t be…

  “As you wish, then.” The head Councilman gestures with his hand, and four guards approach Mr. Flannigan, leading him to a wooden pole in the middle of the yard. “Your sentence will be carried out immediately.”

  What? No! They can’t do this! “No!” I gasp, not realizing I spoke out loud until AVAS freezes the frame and asks, “Would you like me to find another program? My systems sense that you are becoming agitated.”

  “No, no, turn it back on!”

  “As you wish.” She unfreezes the screen, and I watch the guards march Mr. Flannigan to a pole in the center of the arena and stand him up against it. One of the guards produces a silvery cord to tie him to the pole, but Mr. Flannigan shakes his head, saying no, he’ll stand on his own.

  Admiration almost takes over the fear and disgust rising in my stomach. The guard looks at the head Councilman, who shrugs. Giving up, the guard pockets the cord. The other guards look confused, talking to each other and glancing at my old teacher, as if nervous. Do they even know what they’re doing? Have they ever had to do this before?

  While Mr. Flannigan stands solid with a slight smile on his face, the guards turn, walk away, and stand about twenty feet from him. They’re joined by another who hands each of the men an old-fashioned gun, the kind that takes actual bullets, before joining them in the lineup.

  The image on the screen changes back to the reporter. “Edward Flannigan has chosen the firing squad as his method of execution. This outdated form of capital punishment became popular in the early twentieth century but lost favor when easier and more humane methods, such as lethal injection, became widely used. In this form of capital punishment, all of the gunmen use guns appropriate to those used in the era in which this method was used. All but one of the weapons are loaded with live rounds. This ensures maximum success while still maintaining the mental stability of the volunteers.”

  The screen switches back to the Councilmen. The leader stares soberly at Mr. Flannigan. Almost as if he knows him from somewhere and really doesn’t want to do this. “Do you have any last words?”

  Ice runs through my veins. They’re really going to do this, aren’t they? They’re really going to kill him. I… I can’t watch.

  Opening my mouth to tell AVAS to turn off the screen, I stop when Mr. Flannigan appears to look directly at me, and says, “Let my death be a testament to the brutality of a government where one man who disagrees with those in power can be put to death. Where one man who voices his opinion, who tries to make a difference and save the lives of millions of children is immediately shut down and executed. May God have mercy on your souls.” He closes his eyes, and a guard marches forward and puts a black cloth bag over his head. After the guard returns to his position at the sidelines, the head Councilman nods, and at once, five guns rise from their vertical positions, point at Mr. Flannigan, and fire. Four red spots burst on my teacher’s chest, stark against the pale gray prison uniform. His body jolts with each impact. As the ringing of the shots fades away, Mr. Flannigan’s body falls, down to his knees, then face forward on the ground. The dust puffs up around him. Then silence. He doesn’t stir.

  “Turn it off,” I say quietly, and the screen goes black.

  “Every man has his secrets.”

  Socrates

  I stand at the podium in front of Congress and the President, dressed in my finest tuxedo, with Ellie standing behind me. Everyone is quiet. All eyes are on me, the first of the Firsts, and for that reason alone, the person dubbed most suited to support this bill. I have, in fact, gone through with the procedure more times than any other living person.

  “And that, Mr. President, is why I support the Free America—” There’s a loud noise behind me. A dog barking? I spin around, not inconvenienced by the ravages of old age. Ben? What’s he doing here? He barks again, and I blink. Oh yes, dreaming again. Figures.

  “Ben, shut up.” I groggily pull myself into a sitting position, but the sharp knives in my back don’t allow me to go any further. Someone’s banging on the door. Who the hell would it be this late at night?

  “Hold your goddamn horses.” The knocking continues. “Who is it?” I pull myself to the edge of the bed and swing my feet over. Seems harder than it was yesterday.

  “It’s Mira, sir, and Will.” The boy’s voice calls from the other side of the door. Ben ratchets it up a couple hundred decibels.

  “It can’t wait until morning?” I push myself to my feet. My mind is still fuzzy, but that’s the pain talking. Maybe I should have gotten that stupid implant Ellie told me about. Although, I never did like letting anyone else have control of my body and what goes into it.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop her.” The boy sounds worried. He should be. Waking me in the middle of the night. Should be outlawed. Against the law. Definitely illegal and punishable by something pretty terrible. I push my wrinkled feet into slippers after contemplating one last time whether or not I could just roll over and forget about them. Ben’s continuous barking rules that out.

  “They killed him!” Mira screams from the other side of the door. That stops me cold. Who?

  “What in the hell are you talking a
bout?” I hobble over to the door as quickly as I can, my body a throbbing mass of pain. “Who’s dead?” I open the door, and Mira, frantic, nearly falls through the doorway. Ben pushes toward the invaders, his hackles rising and a low growling noise coming from his throat. “Down, boy. It’s okay.” I grip the scruff of his neck, and he quiets, steps aside, and they both enter.

  Mira is clearly distraught, her eyes red and puffy. She wrings her hands and bites her lip. She looks as if she’s holding on by a thread, as if at any moment something could happen, and she could snap. Will, on the other hand, isn’t panicked so much as he is nervous. He knows he’s not supposed to be here, not supposed to interrupt me without permission. If only my Second used the same manners.

  “Mr. Flannigan, he’s—he’s dead.” Another tear tracks down her face, and she scrubs it away.

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “What? No… he can’t be. They hadn’t set the trial date. They said they were going to wait until after the Acceptance.” Suddenly dizzy, I wobble on my feet, and Will drops Mira’s arm before grabbing mine, leading me to the hard-backed chair by the desk. Like a child, I let him.

  “Edward,” I whisper. “No, he can’t be.” My friend’s jovial face flashes in my head, his smile, his quick-witted humor, his sarcastic wit. No. He can’t be gone. “Are you sure?” I can’t even see them clearly, my vision’s gone fuzzy, and it’s as if I’m underwater, and they’re above the surface, trying to talk to me. I can’t understand them, but I can see Mira nod tearfully and know she’s telling the truth.

  “It’s true. I just—I just saw it on the news. He—He said he was a Lifer, and he—he was sentenced to…” She can’t even say the word.

  “Death,” Will finishes. Mira closes her eyes. Is she trying to wipe clean the memory of seeing someone die? It doesn’t work, I should know.