Euthanasia Chapter 1 in full

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.'


Jonathan

I leave the cells and look wistfully back.
Many things burrow into me; I should never have let her enter alone, yet how could I challenge a One? Not just a One, but the One I owe my existence to. I owe my life to her, my future.
This guilt remains as I return to my duties. Having already catalogued the day’s intake it is now my role to specialise, to take the smallest abomination and arrange for its eradication. This afternoon’s task; a pre-historic country and western singer named Bob Dylan. I look at the five boxes and sigh as I take the seat at my desk, one in a long row of identical roll-cells. I tap my thumb on the screen and it snaps to life;
‘Welcome consumer 24,111,124, please state the details for your cataloguing process.’
‘Bob Dylan, Ill-mat 204056, Compound 39.’
‘Thank you; you may now start your input.’
I find my role frustrating. Still, at least I have a role, unlike the NonCons. Sometimes I watch them and wonder what it would be like. Sometimes, at my most stressed periods, I actually envy them. They don’t have thoughts like me, they don’t have stresses.
Even now I watch two of them clean the department; emptying bins, sweeping corridors, dusting computers, and I wonder what it would be like to live like them, without any thought.
Contemplating this I drag the haul more close, a years’ worth of Bob Dylan memorabilia from compound 39, the largest of the hundred compounds sweeping the country. I’m to go through, one by one, to ensure no duplicates, only originals, are left to bother Christina. But it’s always hard, so hard.
One NonCon cleaner, its head rightly lowered, brushes by, and such is its closeness and revolting smell that my nerves spasm, the hair on my neck pricks to attention. It’s so gaunt that it can’t have eaten for weeks.
I’m taken back to my youth and find myself disgusted to be there; sitting anxiously before the television watching the disease destroy the country. How quickly it spread! I watched the beautiful die. I saw my Father bleed to death, a well-respected lawyer, ignored by a welfare state overwhelmed by the actions of lesser men.
I reach for a photograph; this useless eater Bob Dylan smoking a long-forgotten narcotic rife in the Twentieth Century. A monster erupts in me; this scene is chaotic, unnatural and indigestible. I try to bury it, to take the horror of it and twist it in my mind to logic but the wrath overwhelms me.
The NonCon cleaner brushes by once more and, for a split second, its eyes meet mine. The hatred is fierce in them, and I leap from my seat.
‘Did you just look at me NonCon?’
‘No Sir.’
‘I’ll ask you again, did you just look at a superior?’
‘No Sir.’
I spit on it, it doesn’t flinch. Its ankle strap registers 104.
‘You may raise your head.’
It looks up and the same hatred enflames its eyes. So angry does this make me that I strike out, not hard as I’m out of practice, but such is its brittle frame that it tumbles over the boxes and crumples to the floor. I’m about to continue my rebuke when a voice, sweet as treacle, stops my advance;
‘Jonathan stop!’
I turn and shame washes over me. Christina strides across the corridor and I slump back onto my chair. Her hair is immaculate, black as the night and twisting to her hips. If anything she looks prettier when she’s angry; her lips become fuller and more cherry-red, her eyes take on intensity fiercer than anything I’ve come across. Something else, a burden of evolution, boils within me but I force it away.
‘One, my most sincere apologies, I don’t know what came over me.’
Her sharp look makes me jump and I lower my head. She checks its pulse then signals to her second aid, Marcus, a lowly Eight soon to pass.
‘Take this away!’
‘Begging your pardon One, but what am I to say happened to it?’
‘It visually assaulted Jonathan, he rightly defended himself. Now get it from my view!’
As Marcus drags the NonCon away Christina pulls up a seat, and such is her proximity that the sweetness of her perfume fills my lungs. I bathe in it, my head spins.
‘You may raise your head.’
She’s relaxed a little, I note her heart-rate has slowed and her features, proportioned to medical examination perfection, are less tense. She even smiles a little.
‘Jonathan, what happened?’
‘It was… him.’
‘You’re Father?’
I flinch. It is an unnatural word. It’s not illegal, just unnatural.
‘Yes.’
‘Jonathan, you are five but you are still in your youth. Society is your oyster. In time you could raise your standing, maybe even to One.’
A One! The thought excites me, all of the benefits, it’s beyond imagination.
‘But you must control this rage.’
She starts flicking through the piles of filth; compact disks, photographs, compilations of a pre-historic abomination. She stops on one and lifts it into view;
‘These things still exist. We work hard to destroy them for the good of society, but they still exist, and will for many years. So I’m afraid we must tolerate them.’
‘Your rebuke has been noted One.’
She smiles, and such is its angular perfection that it has kept me in such a difficult role. She nods at the picture.
‘Bob Dylan.’
‘A reprobate One, a useless eater, a stain on our existence.’
‘That he is, but he was once a very well respected lyricist.’
‘One?’
‘My great-grandfather forced me to listen to him when I was young, the old fool was obsessed.’
The shock nearly knocks me from my seat. Such things are forbidden. Even top-tier One’s are advised to speak of pre-history on the rarest, most essential occasions. I can’t talk; I have no words to say.
‘Jonathan, I have pre-history, as do most who live. It cannot be avoided, but it will eventually be forgotten.’
She motions to the boxes.
‘It is our role to ensure that happens. Now, wash that pigs blood from your hands and complete you’re cataloguing for the day. I’m having lunch with One Prime then I’ll be working from home. Have all originals sent there for the final obliteration.’

David


I work in restaurants generally.
I'm no owner, nor a pretentious manager, not even a sustenance co-ordinator. I'm a lowly cleaner, bottom of the bottom of the ladder. I sweep, mop the floors, dust the glass shelves and, when I'm very lucky, they even let me sanitise the wash room.
Today is Grand-Central One, and of the swanky restaurants this is by far the swankiest. It amuses me that to see the interior you must either by a One, the top of society, or a NonCon such as myself.
I amble to security, of course early for my duties. To be late in my position is to risk death. My head is bowed as always; so often do I face the floor that my spine has adapted and it actually hurts to straighten my head. I'm asked to perform a retinal scan and I argue to the guard that it is practically impossible to do so whilst looking at the ground.
'NonCon, you may raise your head.'
I do so and he spits in my face. I make no movement; give him nothing in my expression. I merely perform the scan and move into the staff entrance. Next I perform a print scan then pass through an x-ray. After each protocol a number flashes up; it defines my life, or lack of it;
'NonCon number 68.'
One of the first hundred.

Once inside somebody approaches. I'm not allowed to use names, just numbers. Everyone's a One (though I never get to see them) or a Two or Three and so on up to Ten, then us NonCon's.
'NonCon, you may raise your head.'
I scan the man. His weight must be a disadvantage, for no gains, only losses can be made to a societal position once registered as obese, hence the amount of fatties in the slums. He attempts to look younger than he is, perhaps mid-fifties. Judging by his expression he despises NonCons, probably because if he continues his over-indulgence in sustenance he will soon become one.
'Which are you NonCon?'
'68 sir.'
'Do you know the date?'
I am aware of it, though I am cautious to express it.
'No sir.'
'It's the 16th, which is the date of One Prime's monthly lunch! There are five of you so I want this place spotless.'
I'm directed to the reprobates I'm to work with. I brand them Squint, Rag-head, Matchstick and Four-eyes. Such is the youth of Matchstick, perhaps still a teen, that he visibly shakes. I doubt he'll last a day.
We get to work in silence, carefully sweeping, delicately laying tables, constantly watched by Fatty and the cameras above. Not only have they visual recognition but we are attached with heart-rate censors and heat detectors. If you're about to do something stupid, such as slip a little arsenic into One Prime's drink it's damn likely you're going to sweat, and it's damn likely they will pick up on it first.
We are around half-way through our cleaning when a glass smashes and high-pitched screeching rings around us.
'Eye's down NonCons!'
Fatty need not remind us, as to not perform such protocol certainly means grievous punishment. We freeze and Fatty twists between us checking our ankle wraps one by one. Of course, it's Matchstick. Security is called.
'Explain yourself NonCon.'
As the pathetic man blubbers his excuses Fatty circles.
'It was the glass sir.'
'The glass was it? The glass made your heart-rate hit 143, the glass made you sweat like a pig?'
I hear a slap so hard that the man's jaw must nearly snap off.
'The glass! How dare you visually assault me you fucking animal!'
The guards burst in. I hear them lift him, his mumbled pleas fading away.
'What fate for it sir?'
Fatty circles and though I cannot see I'm sure he scrutinises us, hoping one will fail to curiosity and glance up. But we are well trained.
'Eradicate it.'
Out of the corner of my eye I see a sheet being rushed in and Matchstick bleats as they drag him onto it. I hear them beat and beat, for no fire-arms are allowed in Grand-central One. I hear him sob as his bones snap, hear him cry as they crush his skull, hear his final death-rattle shake his lungs. But not one of us looks up.
We've seen it all before.

I come to the end of my duties and am allowed a small indulgence; half a glass of water and a wedge of dry bread. I eat and drink quickly for I long for the slums. Though they stink, though we are crammed in, it is home. Compound 39, the place I feel secure, the place I run.
As I exit my hours are logged. I will be sent the equivalent vouchers for food and clothing, if they remember, which they rarely do. It is registered that my heart rate didn't hit 80 so I'm deemed low risk and am allowed to walk, a brief taste of fresh air.
As I exit my eyes, for the briefest moment, wander; stupidly, for the merest accusation of visual assault can bear the harshest rebuke. But no-one notices as for the first time I glimpse One Prime.
He is impeccably proportioned; his suit's so immaculate that it practically shines. Beside him, softly gripping his arm is the most strikingly beautiful woman I've ever seen. I fight my head to lower and check the band. 92; 28 below critical maximum, but the highest I've ever registered.
I smooth my breath and drag myself away.

One Prime

Ah Grand-central One, the finest of One’s creations!
Such is the sustenance here that it is modified to the very brink of the pallets satisfaction. Christina grips One’s arm and, alas, her beauty far outstrips anything that One has created. If only, in the years to come, she could raise her standing by just one thousand and twenty seven; then we could be together. One would raise her consumer bonus now to satisfy this law, if she would allow it. But she has an admirable stubbornness.
We enter and are greeted by the hostess, her head bowed.
‘Cherished One Prime. May I, on behalf of all Grand-central One staff, express our gratitude for One’s presence, and our undivided respect for One’s governance.’
Eloquent, though One notes a small crease in the skirt above the knee and so shall have to down-grade her consumer bonus.
‘You may raise your head. One is here on business, is our table prepared?’
‘Of course, the finest we have to offer. Please, your jackets.’
She takes our overcoats and One glances to the kitchen. The sustenance co-ordinator seems efficient, yet One notes a small blemish in his protective clothing allowing for bacterial transfer from body to consumer. Such unhygienic circumstances are unacceptable, and so One makes a note to have him removed.
One also notices the nape of Christina’s neck is slick with sweat, though such is the richness of her skin that One neglects to read into it. The hostess returns and we are ushered to our seats. One must say the view is divine. The city-scape of Fulcrum-zone One, once a smog-filled metropolis, is now a bastion of cleanliness, of order, of sanctuary. Such is its perfection; One allows Oneself a little pride.
‘Beautiful, is it not?’ One asks of Christina. She has, as always, a humble look, yet something swirls below the surface; strength, a power that One has always found curious.
‘It shall never grow old.’
‘Ha! Very true, very true. For when it does we shall replace it.’
She smiles; it makes One turn away, such is its elegance. One is captivated, absorbed by its perfection.
‘Tell One Cristina, have you had facial reshaping?’
‘Sir?’
‘Well One finds it hard to believe such angular and feature perfection have been created by nature alone.’
‘One’s flirtation is noted sir, but am I to remind you once again that I am a lower One, far below the legal number for a man of your stature.’
‘Only by just over a thousand! You still have many years.’
‘And the lady?’
‘She has become… boring.’
‘Forgive a lesser impertinence, but if we combine, how could I ever take your place?’
One laughs, for her impertinence is apposite.
‘Well, if you must leave One hanging, shall we turn to our business. Tell One Christina of the progression made by the Historical Abolition Department since we last met?’
‘It has been a hectic month One Prime, much more illegal material has been seized than we have been prepared for.’
One glances around, for such information is restricted, even to lesser One’s. It appears that none are in our auditory range so One continues;
‘Do you require more staff?’
‘Perhaps, maybe a few aids.’
‘Then you shall have them. Please, continue of your haul.’
‘We have obliterated much of the known material up to what was called the 18th Century other, of course, than the greatest threat. The 19th, 20th and pre-historic 21st Century remains problematic, though we are making progress.’
Again One glances around by instinct.
‘Tell One of the greatest threat.’
It is remarkable that Christina never seems abashed. She is always one hundred per cent logical. Such logic is divine.
‘For One to understand the task, One must know the difficulties of such a task. To obliterate a brief moment of pre-history, such as the life of King Hendry VIII, is relatively easy for two reasons; firstly it was only a brief moment of pre-history and secondly it was virtually forgotten before the birth of our time. Such things are easily ignored. But with religion-.’
One flinches, it is natural to despise such words. Christina notes this but continues all the same;
‘Such was the indoctrination; such were the fears of a finite existence to pre-historic man that it lived in them for the whole of pre-history. Such things are difficult to abolish. I can, however, almost guarantee that no religious texts exist within society.’
‘And the compounds?’
‘Our sweeps are turning over less and less, leading me to presume we have an exponential decrease tending toward oblivion.’
‘And of memory?’
‘Well that is harder to speculate, but of course we have Epiphany.’
One ponders over this. Epiphany, the nation’s obsession! So subtle are its effects and so relaxing the feeling it creates that its addictiveness is unsurpassed. And it’s harmless; In fact it actually helps the lessers perform their roles. Its chemistry is genius; the government makes money from a drug that sharpens the mind of society to make money for the government.
‘One Prime, forgive my intrusion into your pondering but, of the greatest threat, I have a question.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Tell me of the new specimen to my department, for I spent the morning with it and have much to dwell upon.’
‘One’s apologies, so much of One’s time has been taken recently that One hasn’t seen the outer-societal hauls for days.’
‘I see… it calls itself Death.’
‘Death, a pre-historic process of passing, very inhumane. This thing must be insane. Tell One, why the intrigue?’
‘It’s hard to explain. I think, if One would indulge me, One should see it for Oneself.’


Death


I must remember…
And from Jesus Christ, who is the faithful witness, the first born of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the Earth. Unto him the loveth us, and loosed us from our sins by his blood;
And he made us to be a kingdom, to be priests unto his God and Father; to him be the glory and the domination for ever and ever. Amen.
‘Behold, he cometh with the clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they which pierced him; and all the tribes of the Earth shall mourn over him. Even so, Amen.’
The man must be One Prime. His face is one of amusement and disgust. The female works here. I have met her before.
‘Well, One must say it is a very strange specimen indeed. Amen? Please Christina, a definition?’
‘A pre-historic religious word, used at the end of prayer.’
‘Prayer?’
‘A message to God.’
‘God! Ha! It still to this day amuses One.’
He gets closer. I smell his cologne.
‘It’s quite ugly isn’t it?’
‘An abomination.’
‘Tell One, can you speculate its age?’
The woman approaches with scrutiny.
‘It’s hard to tell with all of the scripture. I’d say almost for certain it’s over the legal age.’
‘Then it must be destroyed immediately. One dreads to think of the damage it would do should it escape.’
‘Forgive a lesser’s impertinence One Prime, but I feel much could be gained from its study.’
‘Elaborate.’
‘Well, for a start it lives. How has it survived? Has it any peers? There are many answers I must get from it. Then there is why. It has hidden for decades, yet it was caught right on the outskirts of society. Does it wish to be destroyed? Do you wish to be destroyed Death?’
She is appealing. She has compassion behind her eyes. I can see it. To notice such subtlety it helps to have, for so many years, witnessed the misery of others.
‘I do not fear destruction.’
This makes the man angry.
‘Do you fear me?’
‘I have seen much fear, I have caused much fear. For this I had to sacrifice my soul. Without a soul why would I fear anything?’
‘Elaborate.’
‘Fear is a product of imagination. Imagination is a product of humanity. I sacrificed my humanity many, many years ago.’
Enough, I must remember…
I was in the spirit on the Lord’s day, and I heard behind me a great voice, as of a trumpet saying, what thou seest, write in a book, and send it to the seven churches.
And I turned to see the voice which spake with me. And having turned I saw seven golden candlesticks;
And in the midst of the candlesticks one like unto a son of man, clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about at the breasts with a golden girdle.
‘And his head and his hair were white as white wool, white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire.’
‘Christina, One grows tired of its mumblings. How important is this specimen?’
‘Of the utmost. We didn’t catch it, it gave itself up! Perhaps it wished to tell us of others in outer-society. Perhaps it will lead us to them all.’
One Prime frowns. He has a pleasing fragrance.
‘Death, where are you from?’
‘And he had in his right hand seven stars: and out of his mouth proceeded a sharp two-edged sword: and his countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength.’
‘One grows impatient, why did you come here?’
‘I came for somebody, a child.’
‘A child! Who could you possibly know in society?’
‘And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as one dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying, fear not; I am the first and the last.’
It seems One Prime is frustrated. He has caused a lot of pain. I can see it. The wounds of the aggressor are always sliced more deeply than the wounds of a victim.
‘Death, let One make this clear. If you do not co-operate with our investigation One is going to have you burned alive.’
‘Fire simplifies, it does not obliterate. I fear not flame, I have wielded him enough.’
One Prime is now flushed with anger. The woman grips his arm and he relaxes slightly. She has power, and strength.
‘Please One Prime, allow me two months. If I cannot extract the information I require I will obliterate it myself.’
‘Fine! But increase security. One does not wish this virus to spread.’
‘And the living one; and I was dead.’
‘Of course, I will double it.’
‘And behold, I am alive for evermore.’
‘Very well. If we are done One has matters to attend to.’
‘Of course One Prime. My gratitude for One’s presence and patience.’
‘And I have the keys of death and of Hades!’
She flinches. That’s good. I have found her. She shows little to him as she escorts him out. As he leaves she waits at the doors, then returns to the cell. She places her thumb on the screen of the computer.
‘Welcome consumer 2,026, how can I help?’
‘Remove closed circuit television, remove audio-monitoring, remove heart-rate censor, specimen 15,111.’
‘Please confirm, this action is illegal.’
‘Remove all monitoring specimen 15,111!’
‘Monitoring removed.’
She looks angry as she re-enters the cell. She’s flushed, I can smell it.
‘How do you know of him?’
‘Of whom?’
‘Of Hades?’
‘I have come for him.’


Christina


How does it know?
It's impossible, even One Prime doesn't know. I look at it from the door; its features hold power, but its eyes have become soft and reflective. I march to the touch-pad and place my thumb on the screen.
'Welcome consumer 2,026, how can I help?'
I must talk to it in private. Such knowledge must not have been passed to outer-society, it hasn't even been passed to society!
‘Remove closed circuit television, remove audio-monitoring, remove heart-rate censor, specimen 15,111.’
‘Please confirm, this action is illegal.’
I know it's illegal, I wrote the law! I return my thumb.
‘Remove all monitoring specimen 15,111!’
‘Monitoring removed.’
I enter the cell. There it hangs; Death. Slobber and spittle worm their way down its bare chest; so bestial it looks that it's little wonder One Prime couldn't define it. It looks deeply into me as if searching but I don't break eye-contact. This is a game, a game I'm going to win.
‘How do you know of him?’
‘Of whom?’
‘Of Hades?’
‘I have come for him.’
I pace the cell thinking, exploring my mind for an explanation. It seems reasonable to assume that this thing has never worked for the government. Such things as tattoo's; the threat of individuality were illegalised many years ago. But even if it had, Hades! That's my personal nickname for him.
'And had you found him, what would you have done?'
'Changed him.'
'But you could not possibly free him.'
'I have the keys, I have said.'
I turn this around in my head as Death watches on. Its look is one of willingness, it is willing me to find the answers. My emotions are in the way; I push them aside and replace them with logic. Project Homo-Subservient, an ongoing experiment. But who have I told?
'You must stop this Christina Sagan.'
The use of my full name by this thing almost knocks me off my feet. It is, however, useful for my analysis. Suddenly, with one intrusive personalisation, all of the pieces fit together.
'You have spoken to him?'
'I have spoken to many, to which are you referring?'
'Please, your ignorance is inappropriate, we are not being monitored. Have you spoken to him?'
'I assume you are speaking of Fredrick. We have had... correspondence.'
'I see, that is very unwise.'
'Allow the old to worry for wisdom. Threat is a price sometimes worth paying.'
'Noted. But the threat is to me. It is not for Fredrick to roll the dice with my fate.'
'He worries for you.'
My patience breaks, I have much to contemplate and it overwhelms me.
'He worries for me! What has he to worry about? I am a One, there is no threat.'
'The worry is not for your health.'
'Then what? What else can he worry for?'
'He worries for your soul.'
I spin and storm from the cell. Anger burns within me as I march to the door of the Observation Cell Unit and wrap my thumb on the screen.
'Welcome consumer 2,026, how can I help?'
'Lock doors, Observation Cell Unit.'
'Please confirm, this action is illegal prior to 6pm.'
I slam my thumb again.
'Lock the doors now!'
'Doors locked.'
I rage back to Death. It seems impassive as I pace, but never do its eyes leave me, and not a word does it utter. After a period I break the dead-lock;
'How is he? Is he well?'
'He is aged and ill.'
'I know of his age! The supplements I send him keep him alive.'
'He misses you dearly and he loves you thoroughly. No matter what... your actions.'
Must I leave? must I run from this frustration?
'What would you have me do?'
'Stop and think.'
'Think of what?'
'Of your pain. I can see it, it was once my pain, as Fredrick knows all too well.'
Something happens, and such is the shock of it, such is the ridiculousness of it, and so long has it been since it happened that the sensation is intolerable. Here, before Death, I believe I begin to cry. It watches, and for the first time since its capture, it smiles.
'Do you seek comfort?'
I don't know where to put it, where to push it in my mind. This feeling must be released and, by natural instinct, I move to Death and embrace it.
'Death?'
'Yes child?'
'Will you pray for me?'
Its chest rises and falls rapidly, its aged heart slams in its chest. I close my eyes and fall into its words;
'Our Father, which art in heaven.'
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
'Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, in Earth as it is in Heaven.'
It has been twenty six years since my last confession.
'Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'
In that time I have done much wrong.
'And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory.'
I have killed over ten thousand people.
'For ever and even.'
I have become Death.
'Amen.'





CHAPTER ENDS