First

by Chanda Stafford

  I glance at the clock. 12:12 a.m. Executions always take place at midnight. All of them are broadcast live. I should have known he wouldn’t have wanted me to be there, and he knew I would have insisted. That’s what friends do, even if the other is a traitor to his country.

  “It—it was awful,” Mira cries, finally falling apart. Will folds his arms around her, and she buries her face in his neck. “They—they asked him what kind he wanted, and they—and they listed all the different ways to die. He—he chose the firing squad.”

  I close my eyes and gulp down the bitter taste of bile in my throat. “No. He wouldn’t have.” Most people choose neurotoxin, a quick, nearly painless way to die, if not especially interesting. Edward must have wanted to make a statement. But about what?

  “They kept playing it over and over again.” Will gazes up at me. Even his eyes are haunted.

  “You were with her?” I nod toward Mira.

  “No, I saw it in my apartment. Once I remembered his connection to Mira, I went to her room to make sure she was all right.” He squeezes her tighter, and slowly her sobs give way to hiccups as he rubs circles on her back.

  “I had no idea. When I spoke with Edward, they hadn’t even set a trial date. It should have taken weeks, months even. I would have had time to appeal, to speak on his behalf.” I close my eyes, and I can almost see him standing there, proud as a peacock, accepting the Council’s decision. “Why, Edward?” Shaking my head, I open my eyes and find both of the children watching me. Mira’s eyes are dry now, and she seems to have pulled herself together.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” I say stiffly. What else does one say in response to this sort of situation? As if becoming aware of her position in Will’s embrace, she sees my gaze and steps away, as if realizing this is not an entirely appropriate position for an Absolved and a servant to be in. She flushes bright red. “I didn’t know Edward meant that much to you.”

  She takes a deep breath and wipes at her eyes one last time with the sleeve of her night shirt. “I… he… he was the first person I met after you picked me. And he, he taught me about manners, and silverware.” She smiles at the memory. “But I… he was my friend. He was your friend too, wasn’t he?”

  “Of course, I’ve known him for nearly thirty years.”

  “Did you know he was a rebel?”

  I shake my head. “I hadn’t the slightest idea. I suppose every man has his secrets, but I had no idea Edward would turn out to be a Lifer. I never would have dreamed he had any rebel sympathies.”

  “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… 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.” Suddenly, I can’t stand up any longer, and I stumble back to the bed, sinking onto the mattress. I close my eyes, blinking back my own tears. “Edward. Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

  Maybe he was right, after all.

  By Any Means Necessary

  Mira

  “There’s something I want you to see,” Will says, looking nervous as he walks me back to my room. When we get there, he quickly goes in ahead of me and searches it before returning to where I wait. Just like Bullfrog did when I arrived. Is it really that dangerous?

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  I step aside. “You kind of already have.” Neither of us laughs at my attempted joke.

  “I was able to locate the video footage of your cousin’s Release.”

  Cold fingers scratch their icy nails down my back, and I shiver. “Socrates okayed it?” He looks away. “Will? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “It’s fine. This is important, trust me. I know of a way that… well, they can’t trace what you’re watching.”

  “Okay, I guess.” I bite my lip. “When do you want me to watch it?”

  He swallows, and his hands fiddle with a thin bracelet. The kind the Firsts, like Socrates, wear. “Now.” He’s got this serious look in his eyes, and I know that whatever he wants me to see, it’s important.

  I try to lighten the mood anyway. “Sure, it’s not like I have any other plans.”

  Will doesn’t smile. Something is definitely wrong.

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “Yes.” He nods and walks past me. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

  Gee, that makes me feel more comfortable.

  Will walks over to the wall screen and runs the bracelet over an invisible scanner. The screen comes to life with the words “Welcome, Socrates” in bright white against a dark blue background. Wait, what’s he doing? He’s not Socrates. Something tells me we could get in a world’s worth of trouble for this. I blink and feel the cold, hard floor of Fullbright beneath my feet. No, I can’t go back there. I open my mouth, but Will shakes his head and gestures for me to sit down. Something in the sharp way he does it makes me listen. Was this what Tanner was talking about? That the rebels knew things, information, that the rest of us didn’t? I feel frozen inside, like I want to run away, but I can’t. I’m rooted to this spot.

  Will perches next to me on the end of the bed, and the sight of him sitting there, all stiff-backed and serious, makes my stomach tighten.

  “Good evening, Sir. What would you prefer to watch tonight?”

  Will clears his throat. “Thoreau’s last Release procedure.”

  “Voice activation rejected. Please state your full name or scan your bracelet to proceed. Refusal to follow protocols will result in full lockdown, and security will be notified immediately.” The lights flash, and Will jumps up to scan the bracelet again. The lights go back to their normal glow, and Will sits down again, letting out a nervous, shaky laugh. “That was close,” he murmurs. Before I can say anything, the screen blinks brightly.

  At first, all I see is a broad view of a nearly circular room, empty except for two bare hospital beds with padded straps dangling off the sides. Connecting the two beds is a large machine with cords running to smaller consoles beside each bed. The floor is the pale gray concrete reserved for places where no one cares what the floor looks like. The round portion of the wall is made of mirror-like glass.

  Three people dressed in light green walk in from a door set in the glass. One heads to the larger machine in the middle, while the other two go to the consoles by the beds. They check the various machines, cords, and straps. The central machine lights up—red, then yellow, and finally blinks green. The two men by the beds leave and return with metal stands holding clear, liquid-filled bags.

  The camera cuts to show another room filled with people sitting in red padded chairs. They look relaxed as they sip from fluted glasses of amber liquid. They look through a large window as they talk and joke. Are they at a party? Laughter and idle chatter fill the room, and I jump.

  The chairs face the round glass wall from the hospital room in the previous scene. A sinking feeling fills my stomach. Maybe I don’t want to see this after all.

  On the left of the large window, a reporter stands in front of another camera, smiling widely and speaking in a hushed, but excited tone. “This is Beverly Beaumont from the D.C. Chronicle, and I’m here for Thoreau’s sixth Release procedure, which follows closely on the heels of the dramatic attempt on his life just moments ago.”

  The perspective on the screen shifts to the room where the beds and machinery wait. The door opens, and an ancient man, frail and supported by two orderlies, enters, followed by my cousin, who has an orderly of his own. He looks so scared, not at all like the smiling, laughing boy I remember. The one who worked with me in the barns, was in training to help take care of the animals, and who always made time to spend with my brother, Max.

  Adrian’s fair hair
has been clipped even shorter, and someone has marked purple dots on his forehead and around the back of his skull. He looks dazed, drugged. The tall, impassive orderly at his side guides him by the elbow to the bed on the right, while the other two help the elderly man onto its twin.

  The orderly whispers something. Adrian gets on the bed and lies down. Business-like, the man straps my cousin in at the ankles, wrists, around the waist, and across the forehead. He inserts a clear tube into one of his arms and attaches electrodes to his thin, adolescent chest. Adrian’s breaths are quick and shallow. He’s terrified, and his eyes dart from side to side as if looking for a way to escape. What’s going on here? This isn’t like anything I’ve been taught or shown before. Were Henri Lee and Tanner right? As a final act of kindness, the orderly covers him with a white blanket.

  Now the screen zooms in on the old man. He’s not tied down, but he also has an IV inserted in one arm. His head rests on a small pillow, and he’s covered by a blanket.

  The scene changes back to the reporter, Beverly Beaumont. “This is likely to be one of the most exciting events of this decade. We’re so thrilled that Thoreau has decided to share this memorable moment with all of the citizens in our glorious country. It’s truly an honor to be here.”

  A doctor attaches a metal device to Adrian’s head. The helmet-like thing has pink buttons spaced at his temple, behind his ears, and at the base of his skull, right over the purple dots. Long thin needles must be centered behind each dot, and when the doctor pushes one of the buttons, Adrian winces.

  I glance at Will. “What are they doing?”

  “They’re preparing him for the procedure by inserting thin, hollow tubes to create pathways directly to the brain. After the body…” He stops and clears his throat. “… is prepared, Thoreau’s mind can enter freely.”

  I gape at him. “But that’s my cousin! He’s not just a… a body.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  I turn back to the screen. A trickle of blood escapes through one of the holes around Adrian’s skull, and tears track down his cheeks. The orderly wipes at them but smears most of the blood. My dinner rises into my throat, and I swallow hard. This is going to be me. “Will…”

  The camera focuses on Thoreau. Liver spots dot his face, and perspiration trickles down his brow. The probes piercing his head are on top of old scars, just like the ones on… Socrates.

  “How many times?” I know Will knows what I’m asking.

  “Six. You’ll be number seven.”

  Black spots appear before my eyes, and I shake. Will grabs my hand and squeezes it gently.

  The reporter’s voice brings my attention back to the screen. “The doctors use hollow probes inserted in the Second’s skull to create pathways to his brain. Once both participants are ready, drugs will be given in the Second’s IV to stop his heart. Then, the same will occur for Thoreau. As the First’s body shuts down, his mind will be uploaded into the central computer.” She points at the console in the middle of the room.

  “After the Second’s vital signs have stopped, new drugs will restart his heart. As soon as a solid rhythm is established, Thoreau’s mind will be downloaded into the brain, using the pathway created by the electrodes.” The room darkens, and the audience hushes as the camera flashes back to the main chamber.

  The orderly beside Adrian flips a switch on the small machine next to his bed. Cloudy liquid inches slowly down the tube. Adrian’s eyes squeeze shut as the liquid reaches his body. Then he relaxes. What’s happening to him? Is he okay? Sleeping? His chest rises and falls. He must be sleeping. I shake my head. Something still doesn’t feel right.

  I turn to Will. “Does he feel it? Does he know what’s happening?”

  “Yes, he knew. I was his servant, too.” Will’s voice is quiet, full of sadness. He looks away, and I sense that he’s close to losing it, too. “He was a great kid.”

  Anger fills me. My fists ball at my sides, and I jump away from him. “What? You’re calling him great, but you let this happen to him?”

  “Damn it, Mir. You don’t understand. I had no choice. Just like now.” His eyes, full of agony, are nearly my undoing, so I turn back to the screen.

  The screen focuses back on Thoreau. A doctor stands at his side, smiling as they chat. How can they smile at a time like this? The liquid starts down the long tube, then stops. The doctor fiddles with the dial, and the fluid flows more quickly. I look back at Adrian, but the camera pulls away, not focusing on either one while I, and the audience, watch them die.

  Adrian jolts against his restraints, jerking his hands and kicking under the blanket. I jump, and only Will’s quick tug on my hand keeps me in my seat. My cousin thrashes even harder. His pupils dilate, whites showing as his eyes roll back into his head.

  The orderlies and a doctor rush to Adrian’s side. His head whips back and forth, and his mouth opens in a silent scream. Spit and blood leak out. Bloody rivulets seep from the wounds on his head, down his cheeks, and into his eyes. The orderly tries to wipe some of it away, but only smears the red everywhere. The doctor fiddles with the machine next to the bed, adjusting dials and making the liquid drip even faster.

  The camera shoots away to focus on Thoreau, whose face is the picture of serenity as the drugs erase his pain. His eyes close, and his lips tilt up in a smile.

  The camera flashes back to my cousin’s body, so small on the bed, and his chest rises, falls, rises, falls… then stops. It just stops. I hold my breath, and tears burn my eyes. Is this my future? This will be me. My death will be broadcast around the world.

  A final, small spasm shakes Adrian’s body, and a whimper escapes from my mouth. I bite my lip, scrunching my eyes tight against the tears. But all I see behind my eyelids is my blond-haired, poetry-loving cousin dying in front of an audience, yet all alone.

  Will gently wipes at a tear on my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m so sorry.”

  The contact makes me shiver, and I pull away, turning my head.

  Back in the screening room, the audience is glued to the window. The reporter is quiet, watching the dying boy and man as if they’re entertainment. As if it’s right. I blink, the pain quickly becoming anger. This is okay? This is accepted in our world? In our society? This is what it means to be a Second? A lonely death on a hospital bed with the whole world watching?

  The orderly next to Adrian’s bed flips the switch on his machine, and the monitor beeps.

  Thoreau’s orderly reaches for the blanket and covers the old man’s face.

  At Adrian’s table, the orderly uses a cloth to wipe the still-trickling blood. After a bit, the man at the central computer nods and turns to the orderly at Adrian’s side, who flips another switch on the machine, stopping the flow of one of the liquids.

  One by one, the long, hollow needles are removed from my cousin’s head. The orderly cleans his wounds and puts a small round bandage on each injury. Adrian’s eyelids flutter, and the orderly loosens his restraints.

  On the other side of the room, Thoreau’s body is wheeled away. The orderlies return and turn off the various equipment. Is it over? I look down at my hands through blurry eyes. They’re shaking. “I… I can’t believe it. He’s dead. He was my cousin and now… they just… just killed him.”

  Will pulls me back down. “Wait,” he says, grimly. “They’re not done, yet.”

  Slowly, carefully, Adrian sits up, flexing his hands as if unused to them. He looks down at his body, then touches his head, but doesn’t even grimace at what must be throbbing wounds. An eerily wide grin lights up his face, and he swings his legs easily over the side of the bed and gets to his feet.

  With the two orderlies standing on either side of him, my cousin stretches, cracks his shoulders, knuckles, and back, bends down to touch his toes, then arches toward the
sky. Grinning again, he glances at both of the orderlies and shakes his head. He obviously doesn’t need their help.

  A doctor walks up to him. “If you’re ready, sir, I have one question for you.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Do you know who you are?”

  “Yes.” Adrian nods again, his once-familiar face displaying an eerie smile that belongs to someone else. “I am Thoreau.”

  In the next instant, the camera is back on the audience. The reporter talks hurriedly about how wonderfully smooth the exchange was and how they will run more tests, of course, but that it appears to have been a complete success. The audience claps and smiles, nodding at each other, as if this is their personal celebration. I feel sick as servants pass around more fluted glasses.

  “Please, Will, turn it off.” I turn my back on the screen.

  Will nods. “Screen off.”

  “Yes, sir,” AVAS intones, her electronic voice bland. Her world hasn’t crumbled. Everything she’s been told wasn’t a lie. Tanner was right. Henri Lee was right. I am going to die. When the sound is gone, the screen black, the silence final, it’s as if Adrian just died again, even more horribly this time, now that I know what’s happened to him. A sour taste rises in my throat, and I gulp it back down.

  “I don’t believe it. I… I… just…”

  Will reaches for me as bitterness and anguish contort his face. “It’s not usually that… that bad.” He spits out the words. “But sometimes people react to the medications in different ways. It blurs their minds and dulls their reactions, sometimes exaggerating emotions or feelings.” How can he sound so detached? So clinical? Does he do this all the time? Show these horrors to every new Second?

  “How can they do this?” I whisper, my own voice full of horror. Will doesn’t have an answer for me.

  “And you.” I pull away from him. “How can you do this? Take care of these Seconds, these children, every day, and you’re… you’re okay with it?”