First (17 page)

“It doesn’t feel like freedom. I’m just as much a prisoner now as I’ve always been, maybe more.” I clench my fists at my sides.

“All it is,” Will explains as he takes me back to my room, “is a way to say you’re not like us anymore. But then again, you’re not like them either.” He shakes his head.

“That’s stupid. It’s not like I’m doing anything important. I’m not Socrates.”

He frowns and glances away from me.
Is there something more he’s not telling me?
The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors glide open. We walk out and down the long hall by my room. Will is wearing a pensive look, as if he’s trying to figure out something that doesn’t make sense.

“Unfortunately,” he says, finally breaking the silence, “that’s the way it is, and nothing you or I do will change how other people think and act.”

We pause at my door.

Bullfrog leans against the wall and glares at us over the top of his handheld screen. “Have a good dinner, princess?”

I scowl, and he grunts out a laugh. “Not such hot stuff as you thought you were, eh? I knew it. I just knew it. Gonna hide back in your room now? Well, you better hope your bodyguard is good enough to protect you now. I’m outta here.” He gets to his feet and stretches, as if enjoying this.

A momentary twinge of panic hits me, but I don’t let it show, rolling my eyes at him instead, as if I don’t care. “Yeah, right. You’re leaving?”

“You don’t have to sound so happy about it. Yeah, I got the orders an hour ago. I been promoted to the President’s own detail.” His chest puffs up.

I imagine he’ll let out a croak any minute. “That’s… wow. Congratulations.”

“Big pay raise, that’s for sure. No more grunt work for this soldier. I’ll be living the high life in the President’s ritzy mansions, babysitting his annoying little rug rats, drinking champagne. No more of this sitting outside doorways waiting for cowards to try something. Gotta go where the action is, that’s for sure.”

“Why are you still here, then?”

“Hadta wait ’til you got back.” He tucks his handheld in his pocket, gives us a mock salute, and says, “I’d like to say I’ll see ya later…” He sneers at me. “But we all know that ain’t gonna happen.”

After watching Bullfrog swagger down the hall, chuckling to himself, I look at Will. “What’s he talking about? That’s the second time he’s mentioned something like that.”

He grimaces. “I have no idea what he’s talking about. He’s an idiot. Just ignore him.”

Something cold roots itself in my stomach. “Will…”

Will tries to laugh it off. “Well, he’s not going to be drinking any champagne, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Will…”

“I’m sorry, Mira, but I really can’t stay to talk about this right now. We’ve had enough unpleasantness.”
What does he mean unpleasantness? Is there something else? Something he’s not telling me? What is he hiding?

After checking my room, he holds the door open for me, but at the last second puts his hand on my arm to stop me as I pass him. “Oh, I almost forgot, Socrates wishes to meet with you.”

Looking up at him, I realize we’re standing very close, and the hairs on my arms stand up. Too close. Electricity buzzes along my nerves, and I can almost hear his heartbeat. “Is he mad at me?”

“I don’t think so, but this is pretty unusual. Firsts generally try not to get too attached to their Absolved, given the circumstances. Usually they don’t see them until the Release banquet.”

“What circumstances?” A chill races down my spine. “Why wouldn’t Socrates want to get attached to me?”

Will looks at me peculiarly, but says nothing.

“You’re scaring me. Is it really that bad?”

He grimaces. “I wish I could tell you, but I’m afraid I can’t. It’s one of the topics I’m not allowed to discuss without permission.”

“Why not?”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mira.” He looks as though he’s fighting with himself, wanting to say more. He frowns. “Let me… let me think about this. I’ll talk to your First. He’ll be able to get it approved.”

“Is it really that much of a secret? I thought being Absolved is a good thing.”

“It is. It’s great for our country, our history, and the world. It’s just… complicated, that’s all.”

Something’s not right here. I grab his arm. “Will, please. Tell me.” Panic rises in my voice, but I can’t help it.

He shakes his head, shadows chasing the light from his eyes. “I can’t.” He takes my hands in his and gently squeezes. “I have to talk to Socrates anyway, so I’ll ask him about it.”

“What if he says no?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’ll let you know what he says, okay? I just… I can’t break the law like this. If I told you without permission, well, that’s worse than your little jaunt outside today. I could be executed for treason.”

“No one will know, Will. I won’t tell anyone.”

His lips press into a firm line, and he squeezes my hands again, leans down, and whispers, “I’m sorry, Mira, but I can’t.”

A Bit of a Mess

Socrates

T
he com unit beeps, and
a large pale man with thick white hair and a red, bulbous nose fills the screen.

“Socrates?” His voice comes across more nasally on screen than it usually does in person.

“Yes, Kendal.” Damn, why couldn’t I be sleeping or something? “What can I do for you?”

“About a month after the Release, the President would like to hold a luncheon at a local elementary school. Good PR, you know. He would appreciate it if you would give a short speech to the kids about what life was like back when you were a child the first time and then do a short question and answer session. Do you think you’ll have recovered adequately by then?”

Do I have much choice? Kendal speaks for the President, after all, and I would do well not to get on his bad side. But what will I talk about? The advent of the Internet? Learning to ride a bike? Getting married and having kids? I don’t remember much more than a snippet or two at best, and I’m sure elementary-aged children would love to hear about that boring nonsense. I’ll have them all down for a nap in five minutes. “I’ll be ready. It’s not a problem.”

“Great. President Davidson will be pleased. It’s always positive publicity to show the recently Released healthy and contributing to society. It’s good for morale. It’s also easier for the next generation to relate to Firsts when they’ve known them as children like themselves.” Could that smug bastard be any more self-satisfied? Jesus, I hate people like him.

“Of course, which is why I’m sure he has me speak at
important
events such as this.”

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 pled 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.