Euthanasia chapter 1, part 1

Euthanasia - chapter 1
‘The individual may establish with pain today that with the appearance of Christianity the first spiritual terror entered into the far freer ancient world, but he will not be able to contest the fact that since then the world has been afflicted and dominated by this coercion, and that coercion is beaten only by coercion, and terror only by terror. Only then can a new state of affairs be constructively created.’
Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf.

‘It’s hard for me to think of that day so many years ago. I thought myself settled, secure, a master in a world of order.
I didn’t fully appreciate my crimes, after all, for a crime to be a crime it must be illegal, and my activity certainly wasn’t that.
So if it wasn’t a crime then why do I feel this pain?
It is my soul that’s been damaged, ripped to pieces by other souls as they flittered away.

To this day no-one knows of my crimes. They live within me, they burn within me. I will never be rid of them.
I will die with them.’

Christina Sagan
March 19th
New Age 31


Euthanasia - chapter 1; Death

Christina

My eyes set alight when they hit the cell.
In all of my research, in all of my work, in all of my existence I have never been presented such a gift. So remarkable is this particular specimen and so absorbing its beauty that, for a moment, I forget Jonathan my long-standing aid is stood shivering beside me.
'One, please forgive my ignorance, but what is it?'
Snapped from my awe, I turn and flash my warmest smile.
'This, Jonathan, is beauty.'
'But the markings, they cover it completely!'
'Ah yes, the markings, intriguing aren't they? These are the very things that make this particular specimen so remarkable. They were once referred to as scripture.'
Jonathan's eyes squint in concentration, searching for a definition. I've grown closer to him for these little oddities. However, seeing his torment, and wishing to advance my inspection, I continue;
'Scripture was once a way of relaying information, a primitive form of our web.'
'But can it be understood? It is unlike anything I have come across.'
I move closer to the barrier.
'I believe so, but not by many. It is Latin, a long forgotten pre-historic language.'
'Latin.'
Jonathan rolls this over his tongue as he does day in, day out, whenever I teach him a new word.
'Can you translate it One?' He asks excitedly.
I move closer to the glass, so close in fact that the dampness of my breath forms a triangle of condensation.
'I believe so, but it will take a while; Long has it been since I have had to use my biblical knowledge.'
At the word he flinches, looking aghast. I smile once again, twisting my posture to relay calm. I will forever be amused by him. For five years he has worked for me here at the Historical Abolition Department, rising with me in my assent to director of operations, yet illegal words still shock him.
'Yes, this is biblical, most likely Roman Catholic.'
'Biblical, you mean religion?'
So quietly does he utter the word that I barely hear it.
'Yes, my initial instinct leads me to speculate New Testament, though the exact quotations I am yet to define. I need some time with it alone, you may resume your duties.'
'One, forgive a lesser's impertinence, but you wish to be alone with it? You surely cannot be contemplating entering the cell?'
'Yes Five, that is exactly what One is contemplating.'
I turn to hide my disappointment. Although he deserved to be rebuked, it is unfortunate. I do not like his shame.
'I have only two months to analyse it before it's sent away for liquidation. I must begin immediately.'
'Please, forgive me One.'
I turn and his head is bowed, a signal of etiquette and respect. Softly I raise it in my palm.
'You have my forgiveness.'
His face lightens as he peers through the glass, twisting the horror in his mind. It is a technique I have helped him to develop. Being ten years younger than myself, and so therefore being of full indoctrination, he must control the hatred that lives and breathes within him. He must work with things that he sees as abominations, and so he must tolerate and accept their existence.
'Please One, if you'd allow me, may I enter first? For if any harm were to come to One as important as yourself I do not believe I could live with the guilt.'
'Your trepidation is noted and your bravery admirable. But please, have no fear. I have worked with such things a million times before.'
'Yes One.'
With much hesitation Jonathan leaves the observation cell unit and I heave a heavy breath. My palms are clammy with sweat, my finger quivers as I input my pass-code and submit to the retinal scan. I enter the two meter cube where the specimen hangs, secured by magnetic cuffs.
Slowly I circle, scrutinising from every angle with meticulous care. One of the verses leaps at me, unique in a way, and I close my eyes, twisting its composition, deriving it's origin and translation. It is due to this concentration that I flinch when a voice echo's from pane to pane.
'Please! Water!'
By instinct I asses the security of the shackles and deem them to have an infinitesimally small probability of failure. I measure the drip, whose wire winds into the specimens arm. It is approximately seventy two per cent full.
'If the drip does not suffice I will have an aid increase its flow. Please tell me, what is your name?'
Spittle hangs from its mouth, its lashes dry from sleep.
'I am not war, though I have drank with him. I am not famine, though I've tasted him. I am not pestilence, though for many a moon I've watched his work.'
Its eyes open for the first time; they are black and grotesquely blood-shot. It looks through and around me, absorbing its surroundings. It is at this point that it registers the other cells, stretched out along the observation section of our department.
'There are more?'
'Like you? Many. We currently hold 1,032 specimens at the Historical Abolition Department, though the number fluctuates. But you, you are by far the most intriguing. Please, a name?'
Its tattoo's snake around its body with such fluidity that they are captivating. The most defined, the deepest cut of all sits above its right eyebrow. Then it clicks in my mind; this one, as far as I can speculate, is the only not written in Latin.
'I was once called Death.'
I lean closer, so close that I can taste the foulness of this things breath, feel the rhythmic beating of its lungs. It's old, maybe even as old as... I turn my mind from the thought and return to my scrutiny. I estimate the tattoo to be Germanic in origin.
'Death, a word that is undefined but it shall have to do. Well Death, it is with great sorrow that I must leave you for now; a lunch with One Prime awaits! I will see you again. But before I depart tell me; your most defined tattoo of all, this one here, what does it say?'
Its head falls again. It has, on speculation, only a thirty-five per cent chance of surviving the two month observation period.
'And never again shall they be free.'
'Interesting, well, goodbye for now.'
I turn to leave but it stops me at the door, a sound growls from its dilapidated vocal chords.
'How?'
'How what?'
'How has death become undefined?'
This rocks me, for such a question should not have to be asked, so strictly have our laws been implemented, if not obeyed by all, that to not have this knowledge is unfathomable. I make a note to enquire of One Prime the details of this creature.
'Death still exists, it is simply re-defined.'
'As what?'
'What an intriguing specimen you are! As Euthanasia of course.'


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