First

by Chanda Stafford

  After a moment, Socrates clears his throat.

  Suddenly embarrassed, I jerk away from Will. “I thought you were gone for good.”

  “Never.” He gives me a reckless, carefree grin. “I was an idiot. I didn’t think I could handle it, but it’s not about me. It’s about you.” He grabs my hands, and pulls them to his lips in a quick kiss.

  “Are you going to be there? While it happens, I mean?”

  “Of course! Unless you don’t want me there. I asked Socrates’s wife, George Eliot, and she arranged it. Said something about how it’s never been done before, having a servant in the audience.” He flashes me another grin, but this one is sadder, like he’s feeling the pain of my death before I even die. Relief swamps me, then I feel guilty. Why? Shouldn’t I spare him? Tell him not to come? It’s not like he hasn’t seen this before, but still. Am I different? I’d like to think so. If I’d known, in the beginning, could I have pushed him away, separated myself from him enough so he didn’t get hurt? One look in his eyes and I see what must be reflected in mine, because he gives me another quick, passionate kiss. No. Whatever we feel, whatever we felt, it was meant to be. Just like this. “I’ll be there, Mira, I promise. Even if I can’t be in the same room, holding your hand, I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper into his ear. Socrates coughs again, so I pull away from him, leaving a respectable distance between us.

  “I love you, Will.”

  “I love you too, Mira. I will always love you.” Who ever thought forever would be so short?

  We kiss again, then he walks away down the hall, and just before he turns the corner, he looks back, and I see pain chasing the bravery from his face. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to see this. But he’s doing it, for me. Then he smiles, and I hold that image in my head as Socrates and I are led into the medical theatre. The same room where my cousin died.

  I point at the big machine humming softly in the center of the room. “Is that the machine that does the actual transfer?”

  Socrates nods. “Yes, it will upload and store my mind while yours leaves your body. After restarting your heart, the machine will download my mind into your body, and the doctors will administer the drugs necessary to revive me.”

  There are several orderlies and doctors in the room, moving so efficiently they’re a blur of motion. We are directed to our appropriate beds, and a thought strikes me as I push myself up onto the thin mattress. Is someone making a video like they did of my cousin’s transfer? Will a future Second have to watch me die like I did Adrian? I put a hand to my head, telling myself to be strong.

  “Mira,” Socrates calls out, grabbing my attention. “Remember what I told you.”

  Why? Is that important? Does that really matter? Maybe he just wants me to remember that it’s not going to hurt. Yeah, right. Like it didn’t hurt my cousin? Deep in my chest, I feel a crack in my calm façade. Fear breaks through, and I shake.

  “Lie down, please,” an orderly with kind brown eyes and curly brown hair says. His nametag reads Martinez. He looks so calm, so normal. How could you? I want to ask. How can you do this? How can you work here, knowing that whoever the kid is, he or she is going to die? “It’s going to be okay.” Liar! I want to slap him, punch him, push him away, but I don’t. It’s almost as if I’m not a part of my body anymore, like they’re already disconnected.

  I just lie down like the good little lamb that I am, and Martinez secures soft fabric cuffs around my wrists and ankles. “So you don’t fall off the bed,” he says, even though I don’t ask.

  He puts a little silver gun with a pink pad to the back of my wrist and pushes the button on top. The instant pain surprises me as a tiny needle finds its way into my vein. He attaches the other end of the needle to the clear tube hanging from the stand next my bed then covers me with a thin white blanket. Just like my cousin. I close my eyes. This is really happening, isn’t it? I’m really going to die?

  I glance over and watch the same thing happen to Socrates, except they don’t tie him down. I guess you don’t have to tie down a dead body. The young blond doctor, Dr. Scoffield, walks in. He scans the room and then walks over to Socrates. They talk quietly, but with the buzz of the electronics, I can’t tell what they’re saying. A couple other doctors glance at the stranger, but he ignores them.

  Martinez taps my arm to get my attention. “Sedatives will be administered through your IV. The first will relax you, and the second will make you just go to sleep, so you won’t feel a thing.”

  “Promise?” My voice comes out shaky, and I sound more like Max when he’s scared than Mira, the seventeen-year-old almost-adult. Maybe Max and I aren’t that different after all.

  He smiles benignly. “Don’t you worry. Everything’s been calibrated just for you.” He flips a switch next to one of the bags, and the colorless liquid moves sluggishly down the tube. When it reaches my hand, I feel coldness seep into my veins.

  After Martinez leaves my side, Dr. Cambell comes and attaches little round pads to my head. This is it. “These probes will connect your mind to the computer right next to you,” he says, matter-of-factly, though his eyes are pained, as if he doesn’t enjoy his job. Tell you what, Doctor, you and me both.

  Martinez walks over carrying a wicked helmet-like contraption, all shiny steel, and I shiver. It looks so much bigger in person than it did on Adrian’s video. Do all Seconds feel like I do? Terrified? Frozen with fear?

  By the time they lift my head and gently place the helmet on it, I’m already feeling woozy. Dr. Cambell reaches toward my head, and I know he’s going to insert the first needle. He presses a button, and a lancing, sharp pain shoots hot and fast into my skull. I jump, screaming. My tongue feels thick in my mouth, so there isn’t any sound. Then he pushes another button. The next one hurts even more, and I fight the restraints, wrenching my arms back and forth, fighting to get free. I changed my mind! I can’t do this! Please, let me go! I scream again as he pushes another button, and white hot agony stabs into my skull, but again, no sound comes out. Is this what they meant by making sure I don’t feel any pain? Just shutting me up enough so no one can hear my screams?

  Martinez wipes at something hot dripping from one of the wounds in my head. “Hold still, or you’ll break off the needle, and they’ll have to do it over again.”

  I freeze in panic. Would they do that? Stab me with more needles, right on top of the old? One look in Martinez’s eyes, and I know it’s true. Not because he’d want to, but because he’d have to. Maybe he doesn’t have a choice, either.

  Another button. Four down, two to go. Dr. Cambell continues, as if it doesn’t matter that each needle is poker-hot agony. Tears pool in my eyes. When he finally finishes, Dr. Adams fiddles around with the computers for a few minutes before the one who put the helmet on me comes back and stands next to the rack with the clear bags on it. He puts his fingers on a little valve.

  “Ready?” he calls.

  I don’t say anything, but he isn’t really asking me anyway. I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can and ball my fists, trying not to panic. Somewhere off to the side, Socrates says, “Yes,” and I feel a cool numbness fill my body.

  I can’t do this. I want to live a long life or even go home and spend one more day sitting by the stream. I want to watch Max play in the mud or catch fireflies in old jars. I want to scream, cry, and shout. I want to laugh, kiss whomever I choose, and marry the man of my dreams. I fight the straps, wrenching my arms. I widen my eyes, shaking my head as best I can, searching for someone to help me.

  Dr. Scoffield meets my terrified gaze and nods, smiling slightly. What does that mean? That he’s acknowledging my existence? That he knows I’m afraid? Terrified? Is it some sort of message?

  Martinez walks over and hands Dr. Scoffield a syringe. “This will ease his transfer into the main computer.
As soon as we give the signal, slowly inject this into his I.V.”

  The doctor nods again, but when the orderly turns away, he slips his hands in the pockets of his scrubs. When he pulls them out again, there’s a syringe in his hand, but it’s different, smaller. What’s going on? What did he do?

  I open my mouth to ask, but no sound comes out. My eyelids quickly grow heavy, and my tongue is a dead weight in my mouth.

  Okay, so I’ll close my eyes for a second. Just rest them a minute. That’s it, then I’ll find a way to fight the drugs, break free. Do whatever I can. Whatever I… can? What am I doing here? I shouldn’t be fighting this. I’m doing this for Max. For Rosie.

  I feel myself drift and try to open my eyes, but I can’t. It’s that darkness, the heavy blackness I can’t do anything about, that scares me more than anything else that’s happened so far. Even those awful needles, at least I knew those were coming. But this blackness? It’s absolute, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to escape. I try to move my arms, my feet, my head, even a finger. I can’t. Everything is just dead weight.

  I feel as if my body is shaking, but I know I can’t be moving at all. I’d know it if my body was moving, right? Yes, I’d have to feel it. But I can’t really feel anything anymore.

  So cold now. Tired. Is this what death feels like?

  Rest Now

  Socrates

  “Dad? Are you there?”

  “Adam?”

  “I’m here, Dad.” Warmth fills me.

  “Adam! I can’t believe it.”

  He chuckles, a familiar, aching rumble in the back of my head. “I’m not going to leave you.”

  “Thank you. I… I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You’re not.” He pauses. Did I lose him again? Panic sets in.

  “Adam?”

  “I’m still here, Dad.”

  Relief. Thank you, God. “Am I?”

  “It’s time for you to rest, Dad. You’ve helped enough.”

  “But I haven’t. I haven’t really done anything worthwhile.”

  I feel a rush of warmth, like he’s hugging me. “You had me, right?” he says, impishly.

  I can feel the humor in his voice. “You’re right. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, but I was a terrible father.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were the best Dad a kid could ever ask for.”

  “I forgot who you were!”

  “That was an awful picture. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I do. I worry about many things, actually.”

  “Like Mira?”

  Mentally, I nod. “Will she be able to handle it?”

  “She has to. It’ll be tough, but she’s the best one for the job.” His voice sounds farther away.

  “Adam?”

  “I’m still here, Dad.”

  “Don’t leave me.” Even thinking the words is a struggle. My mind feels thicker. It’s getting harder for me to think, to reason.

  “I won’t. Rest now, Dad. Everything will be all right.”

  “I will. I love you, son.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  My Name

  “Sir, wake up. Can you hear me?” A voice, fuzzy in my ears, slowly reaches through the haze like a hand grasping at fog. Why can’t they just let me sleep? “Can you hear me, sir?”

  I wrench my eyes open, blink painfully against the bright light then scrunch them shut again.

  “There you are, sir. Open your eyes again, please.” The voice sounds relieved. Must be that it’s happy I’m showing signs of life.

  I blink again, and a round face smiles at me. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  I make some sort of noise and try to move my head, but it’s stuck. There is something around my skull, holding me still. I try to scream with the pain, the agony of movement, but I can’t. I can’t do anything. Darkness swims in front of my vision, even with my eyes open. Then suddenly, it’s gone, and someone dabs at my face with a cool, wet cloth. I try to move my hands, but they’re stuck too, though they don’t hurt the way my head does. Vague shapes move across my vision, and whatever’s holding me down loosens.

  “Sir? Is everything all right?”

  Who is he calling sir? I nod anyway, and the young man smiles again. I struggle to sit up, my head swimming. A dark fog clouds my sight.

  “Slowly, please, so you don’t black out.” The man wraps his arms around me and helps me to a sitting position. “Good.” He studies my face closely with bright green eyes, peering into mine, as if trying to see into my soul. “My name is Dr. James Scoffield. I’m here to help you.” Scoffield. Scoffield. Why does that name sound familiar? Do I know this guy? Something in the back of my mind bugs me, like I should recognize him, like it’s important, but I can’t shake the memory loose.

  “Everything checks out, Dr. Scoffield,” says another doctor, standing in front of a machine in the middle of the room. I can’t read his nametag, but he looks familiar, too.

  “Good,” Dr. Scoffield says. “Okay, sir, this is important. Do you remember what your name is?” He looks at me closely, as if this is some sort of test that I have to pass. Or fail. Who cares what my name is? My head’s killing me, I feel as if I’m going to throw up, or pass out, or both, and he’s asking me what my name is?

  He asks me again, and I almost say the first name to come to my mind, but he shakes his head, so minutely I almost miss it. Nope, guess that’s not it. But who am I?

  Memories rush through me, a little dark-headed boy, a sister who… disappears? A young man with rugged good looks and a deadly bracelet wrapped around his wrist. I know him too, somehow. Then there is another young man who filled my heart with passion and a will to live. Something about butterflies, and bees without stingers. Little crosses getting trampled and kids disappearing. What was I supposed to remember? Dr. Scoffield asks me again. Oh yeah, my name.

  Dr. Scoffield takes my hands in his and squeezes them gently. His are warm and firm, comforting. I glance across the room and see someone dressed in green cover… an old man with a blanket. Who is…? Socrates? Is it… is he dead?

  And I’m… not? How could this happen? Why? I’m not supposed to live.

  Was this his plan all along? Is that why he told me what I needed to remember and what happened to those who failed? Did he want me to take his place?

  I turn away from Dr. Scoffield and stare right at the curved glass wall. Remember, Mira. There’s an audience, Will, watching my every move. I have to make this good, or I’ll never get away with it.

  “My name is Socrates.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve heard it said that writing itself may be a solitary practice, but the actual process of publishing a book is anything but. I never realized how true that was until my first book was published.

  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wonderful husband, family, and friends. They’ve supported me through years of talking to myself and scribbling fragmented ideas down on napkins and receipts. Better yet, they’ve only called me crazy once or twice.

  I’d also like to thank the wonderful people at Red Adept Publishing, especially Karen, Michelle, and Kris, who all helped mold this behemoth into a novel worth publishing and endured countless emails and conversations to accomplish that goal. I’d also like to thank Lynn for believing in me and my book and helping me grow through this process to become a much stronger writer.

  About the Author

  Chanda Stafford teaches middle and high school English. She loves traveling and currently lives in Michigan with her husband and a menagerie of rescued dogs and cats.

  When she’s not reading or writing, Chanda enjoys old zombie movies, authentic Italian food, and comic books.

  Publisher’s Note

  If you enjoyed this book
, try more books from Red Adept Publishing:

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