Summer

“You’re not real.” The child stood with one ear to his shoulder, his tawny eyes were as round as checkers. His knees were tilted inward, and he had one sticky hand halfway to his mouth and the other reaching out to touch.

She felt the impact softly, the way his soft skin pulled against her as the dried sucrose solution on his finger tips attempted to bind her hand through hydrophilic bonds.

“I’m real.”

“No, you’re not. Not really real,” he argued, frowning. He stamped his foot, bellicose at the idea of being corrected.

“Summer,” his mother called from far across the park.

His eyes drifted from her, not moving until his mother repeated the request.

“You’re not real,” he insisted, belligerently, and then he ran off.



“How old are you?” the youth asked.

“Many, many years,” she responded.

“That’s not an answer. I could say I’m many, many years old, but I think I’m significantly younger than you,” he said. His gangly arms were crossed against his chest, showing signs of the sullen, childish pugnacity of which he had yet to grow out. His eyes were the same though, still tawny and wide.

“How many years?” he demanded.

“Two hundred and forty seven,” she said.

“That’s old,” he said, jaw and arms dropping in a sharp display of emotion. “Really, really old. How can you stand it?”

“Stand it how?” she asked.

“I dunno. Doesn’t it get boring? You can’t move on really. Everything stays the same,” he argued.

“It doesn’t. The world revolves and rotates, and the people on it grow. What I see now is very different from what I saw in my childhood. Buildings have risen and fallen. Farms have been seeded and laid fallow. Oceans and rivers have carved away at mountains. And I would live to witness more,” she said.

“But you’re not alive. Not really. Not anymore. You’re dead,” he contradicted. His arms crossed again. He planted his feet wide and stared at her.

“Section 38.7, paragraph 42, line 3 of Ethical Law clearly say that I am alive. I walk, I breathe, I think,” she said.

“But you’re not alive. Not really. All the natties say so. You walk on mineral matrixes, you breathe through membranes, and you think through circuits. It’s not real. It’s not blood and flesh,” he argued. He shook his arm in front of her to show his own body.

“The native humans, self-styled ‘natties’ have claimed that biological transplants destroy the human, but there is no scientific evidence to the claim. My own genome was the basis for the improvements, my own brain used to program the improved neural circuits, but with the benefit of never shortening telomeres and resistance to disease. These scientific breakthroughs have allowed us to live much longer lives,” she said.

“But you’re not living. I don’t know when it was-- when some drained your blood and put that white stuff in your veins, when somewhat filled your body with biopolymers instead of bones, when someone took out your heart and put in a pump, or when they replaced your brain with that computer, but you died, whoever you were. Your soul died,” he said emphatically, he clutched his heart at the mention of a soul and emotion was displayed clearly on his face.

“There is no scientific evidence of a soul. It is but a myth perpetuated by ancient cultures to diffuse fear of death and elevate humans above other animals,” she replied.

“You’re wrong! Not everything can be seen through a microscope. There’s other things. Things you can’t see. Things you have to feel, but you can’t feel them because you’re dead and you don’t have a soul!” he stood gasping from the effort of his emotions. She said nothing.

“Did you hear me? You’re dead!” he yelled.

“Summer!” a boy of similar age called, beckoning the youth away.  The youth turned to meet the boy, but looked at her one last time.

“You’re dead, when you spent all this effort trying to keep from dying. The sad thing is, you don’t even know it,” he sniffed. He ran away.


“You can’t love, can you?” the young man asked. His thin limbs had broadened, and some of his cantankerous will had settled.

“Every human is capable of love. It does not matter if they are native or upgraded,” she said. “For example, I love my family.”

“But not real love. You ‘love’ your family because way back when your true brain was being converted to circuits, that girl loved her family. You can’t understand it anymore,” he said.

“I understand love. Love is a mutual relationship between humans where each party believes that life is better when the other is present. The definition of love can be expanded to include groups of humans, animals, objects, and even oneself, although such love is typically classified as narcissism,” she said.

“That’s not real love. That’s more friendship. I mean, I’m sure glad air’s around, but I don’t think I love air. Let me ask you something, if your mother was in a burning building, but way up on the top floor, and there were a hundred people on the lower floors, would you run up past all the screaming people to save your mother or would you help the people on the lower floors as you could help many more of them in the time it took to save your mother?” he asked. His wide tawny eyes were framed by raised eyebrows and a thin nose.

“Fires would be extinguished by the fire retardant foams piped in each building. There are multiple fail safes, so the existence of a burning building in your question has such a low probability that it is inconceivable for such an event to occur in the next hundred billion years. There would be no need to attempt rescue as no one would be in danger,” she said.

“Okay, fine, no burning building. But the basic principle still stands. Would you save your mother or a hundred other people?” he asked, slightly irritated by her correction of his question. He folded his arms.

“The one hundred people. All of them have mothers and fathers. According to the moral principle of utilitarianism, the action giving the greatest good to the greatest number people is always the optimum choice,” she said.

“See, that’s not love. Love’s illogical. It doesn’t give a damn about everyone else. Love is so concerned about this one person, that it’s convinced the universe will collapse and the sun will cease to shine if anything should happen to them. Love’s what makes your heart ache the sweetest burn you’ll even know. It drives you wild. You just can’t stop thinking about it. You just want to touch them and feel their heart beat in yours,” he explained. He was smiling now, his lips stretched across slightly yellowed, crooked teeth.

“What you are speaking of is a biological reaction meant to continue a species by encouraging coupling and subsequent mating,” she said.

He laughed loudly until he was out of breath. She waited. “I don’t know. Maybe it is. But it still doesn’t change the fact I love her.”

“Why?” she asked. “She is not the superiormost specimen in intelligence, creativity, or even aesthetics. Or genetic compatibility. She is flawed, imperfect.”

“Maybe to you, but not to me. That’s love. When you love a person, it doesn’t matter how imperfect they were to begin with. They’re suddenly perfect in your arms. She’s perfect to me,” he said, grinning. He stared at the stars dreamily, as if he were lost among them.

“I could look like her. I could exactly replicate her personality. I could absorb her memories. You wouldn’t be able to observe the difference,” she said.

“But I’d feel it. I feel her soul in mine. I can just tell when she’s around because it’s suddenly as if the world has brightened, and it’s impossible to be anything but happy. Happy all the time. Besides, you’re dead, remember? You haven’t got a soul. You can’t love,” he said, not unkindly as he continued to gaze upward. When he noticed she was staring at him, he gave her a wink.

“Summer!” the young woman called across the grass.

The young man’s smile broadened. He lept eagerly across the grass like an antelope. They embraced as if they were two oppositely charged particles in the absence of a weak nuclear force.



“I still can’t believe it,” the man said, staring across the park as children ran and screamed across it. “I still can’t.”

“After the deaths of relative, coupled native humans are always entered in a lottery to determine who the privilege of breeding for the next generation descends to. As there are twenty-four fertile couples related to the man who died of heart failure, there was a one in twenty-four chance that you may get the privilege. The chance of twins is roughly 3%, although your mate has familial history elevating the probability to approximately 8%. Thus, such an event has an estimated probability of one out of three hundred, indicating it within human comprehension for such an event to occur,” she said.

“Numbers, numbers, numbers. Little scratchings on a page or vibrations in the wind are nothing compared to watching them, to holding them. Numbers are dead, like you, but children are alive. Can’t you see it?” he asked, gesturing to the little boy and girl tumbling in the grass.

She said nothing.

“Do you ever feel bad, not being able to have children?” he asked, putting a hand to his chin in contemplation.

“Improved humans are still capable of breeding, but the likelihood of an improved human dying is significantly depressed as opposed to native humans. The mortality rate of native humans is approximately 2,434 per a million capita. Improved humans are 0.04 per a million capita,” she said.

“It’s your DNA, sure, but, you don’t get to feel them in your belly, feel them kick. You don’t get to raise them. You don’t get to hear them call you ‘mom’ or ‘dad,’” he argued, his hand went to the twine around his wrist where a shiny rock had been tied. On it, a child had scrawled the word “Daddy.”

“Our progeny are treated to accelerated upbringing and education befitting their modified origin. They receive superior and more egalitarian treatment than what they would experience if being left to the donor of their chromosomes. It’s the most fair and free way.” she said.

“Free? I don’t think so. Not when there’s only one way to do it, not when they boggle your mind so you can’t feel all silly and stupid with emotions,” he said. The girl sped up and tackled her brother, shrieking in joy as the boy let out a defeated wail that morphed into a giggle as they two rolled in the grass.

“Wishing for stupidity is a sign of mental instability. Native emotions are ill-advised as logical contemplation always leads to the wiser choice. We fix such delinquencies,” she said.

“I wouldn’t call feeling a delinquency. Without it, what would make this moment special? What would let me smile when they smile? What could make it seem like nothing horrible could ever happen in this moment and give me this bliss? But after all this time I know better than to argue with you. So, 0.04 deaths per million? So there must be fifty thousand natties are born for every one those upgraded, labrat children?” he asked. He sat down on the grass, placing his elbows over his knees, never taking his eyes off the children.

“The children are born with minimal improvements, enough only to prevent congenital malformations and other diseases. We do not force them to upgrade if it is not their will. By Section 1.1, paragraph 3, line 14, each human can choose their fate,” she said.

“Ah, but you can’t really count that. They’re born and put into a training program where all they hear is how they need to improve and how science can make them better. It’s not really a choice when you brainwash them,” he argued. His tawny eyes narrowed suddenly as he spoke, when they had been so wide and happy before. However, the moment passed, and they widened again.

“We teach but science and facts. We keep our opinions to ourselves. Children take from it what they will, but yes, generally they choose to expand their minds and their longevity. The native humans do worse. They press qualitative and unscientific or even undeniably false ideals upon their children. They watch them die when doctors and scientists know how to save them. They perpetuate egregious lies against scientific improvement through their children by blatant ignorance,” she said.

“That almost sounds like emotion, dear old girl. Hatred isn’t logical, but you are expressing it, for me and my children,” he said coldly. His eyes flashed anger, and he leapt to his feet.

“All improved humans wish they could save the native children from death and the ignorance of their parents, but-” she started.

“There, ‘all improved humans.’ Do you think you thought up that all on your own? Then why do all of you dead think the same thing? You don’t have free will,” he accused. He spat, facing her in fury.

“Free will is a myth perpetuated by ancient societies so that blame can be applied to deviant members of society, and thus they can be morally punished. Every action is based on traceable external and internal origins, nature and nurture. Punishment must be distributed as befitting the goals of utilitarianism,” she said. “If your child was ill, would you allow him or her to be saved through improvement?”

“And turned into one of you? One of you dead things?” he asked. His voice was quiet as to not attract the attention of the two children playing in the grass, but his eyes held his fury, those tawny eyes.

“To live as one of us or to die as one of you,” she said.

“I’d never want them to be like you. Never. Never,” he said, tawny eyes aflame and hands curled into fists. They were now sticky with perspiration. She could remember when they were sticky with sugar. The world revolves and rotates, changes and grows, but some things stays the same. His eyes stayed tawny, but what was behind them changed.

“Brightly, River, come along,” he called, turning away from her forcefully.



“You knew!” he screamed. He was staggering underneath the weight of the emotion. “It’s all your fault. You knew this would happen!”

“Their genomes are uploaded to the system. You could have looked and seen,” she said. “You could have completed a compatibility scan between yours and hers, seen what recessive mutations were likely to arise. It was all there, but you did not want to see. Native humans have shunned the system when it could have prevented this tragedy.”

“But, you knew. You knew all those years ago, when I first met her. You saw it and said nothing,” he yelled. His voice was hoarse and his eyes were red as if he had been crying, or perhaps was crying still. It was difficult for her to distinguish between perspiration and tears.

“I mentioned you were not genetically compatible. You told me it was love. You told me they made you happy in that moment when you were all together, so you were happy, in your emotions, in your ignorance, because you would not see,” she said.

“You can’t feel this, can you? Like love? You can’t feel as if your soul is breaking apart since you don’t have one. You don’t understand this sadness, this emptiness, this darkness. You can’t feel it. You can’t feel anything when a child dies,” he spat. He fell to his knees as his hands reached for his graying hair, pulling out tufts and clumps.

“They are not dead yet. They can still be saved. It is quite curable, with appropriate medical intervention. They do not have to die,” she said.

“But they do. They have to die. They can have their souls wretched out by dead things in white coats, so that their bodies might go on just a little bit longer. Or, I can feel them go cold in my arms. I can listen as their hearts go still. I can watch them die. It will kill me either way,” he said quietly. Then, he screamed a sob.

“I am sorry that is your perception of reality,” she said.

“You would be, wouldn’t you? They’re dying, and you knew it since you heard about her, since you saw them and their genome. You know an awful lot, but you don’t know other things. They have stories, you know, about what happens to souls when bodies die, beautiful stories. Stories of clouds and pearls and music, and light. And happiness. But, all I can see when they cry out for me to save them is darkness and emptiness. All I can feel is cold, hard death. And pain like I’ve never experienced before. I want to believe, but I can’t. I just can’t. But I can’t take away their souls, their last hope. I can’t do it. I won’t.” He beat the ground with a fist until it became bloody.

She touched his shoulder, and he stopped to sit back on his heels. He attempted to dry his cheeks with his fist, but left a trail of crimson blood where tears once laid. He stared at her with wide tawny eyes. “You gave up this too, with all your emotions. This sadness. You can remember everything, I’m sure, but you can’t feel it. You can’t feel the holes that have been left behind. Not really. They say the dead in white coats freeze and splinter your soul when they upgrade you  so you can never go to the place free souls go, but it’s just a story, isn’t it? All of it, just stories.”

The wind rustled his thinning hair, carved into spikes by his hands roving through it moments earlier. His tawny eyes found hers, and they stared intently at her, through her.

“I can see something behind your eyes, where you don’t want me to see. There’s something in there that feels. There’s something in there that tried to warn me that the happiness would not last. They all knew. Every one of you things, but you tried to warn me. You tried to tell me whenever you saw me when your entire programming was screaming at you to leave us natties to our follies.

“You’re wrong. Those things don’t feel anger. You said they all did when little natties died, but they don’t.  I called one, just to see, with Brightly and River, and there was nothing there. No emotions at all. It felt nothing. But, you do. That’s your hole, isn’t it? You weren’t born one of them, but you became one, after someone died. You can still feel it there. You hoped it would be dulled away, but it can’t be, can it? It’ll always be this horrible.”

He slumped as if every bit of the fire that had consumed him flittered out, leaving him with nothing. She fell to her knees beside him.

“No matter what. No matter when. You’ll always feel it, if they die.” she said. “It’s why you have to save them. It’s why you have to make them live. Please, just listen to me. Listen to me for Skye,” she said. Her face felt strange and tight. She had the oddest urge to touch it as if to make sure it was really hers or something else had attached itself to her underlying synthetic bones.

“Skye, was that his name? How old was her?” he asked, in a murmur, still staring at the ground.

“Seven and seven eighths years,” she said. Numbers were calming. Numbers did not have emotions. Her face relaxed slightly.

“Older than River and Brightly, but too young. Far too young,” he murmured.

“I could have saved him, but they told me I shouldn’t. They told me not to. And he died. And, I can still see him. Always with dirt stains on his clothes. And I hear his voice when it is quiet.  And I feel him too. Sticky fingers, fuzzy hair, and his breath against my cheek when he hugged me. His soul,” she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. Things hidden stormed out of their hiding places, and she felt as if she might break.

“And the emptiness, you feel that too?” he asked.

She placed her hand to her chest, to check that her heart was still there. There was a regular thumping beneath her ribs, but it wasn’t her heart. They weren’t her ribs. There were something synthesized from polymers in a lab. Did it make them less? Did it make her less? “I can’t remember feeling full.”

“And, if you saved Skye, but he could never love you again. He could never love anything. If he could never laugh and giggle as children should. If he never blushed when you mentioned a girl he liked. If he had a pump for a heart and a computer for a brain and nothing left where a soul should be, would that be better?” he asked. “Would you want him to be like you?”

His eyes were red like the blood on his cheek. Native humans were always so ruddy, with simple hemoglobin sequestered in their erythrocytes. It pinked the children’s cheeks and reddened noses when they had colds. She almost forgot what it was like.

She examined her own hand, so pale in comparison, so steady when the man was heaving. Circuits were whirring, but it responded effortlessly to her touch. It was not red for erythrocytes had long since been replaced by superior genetically altered and synthetically synthesized chimeras. It provided her body with more oxygen and increased her aerobic capacity a hundred fold. Skye would have been able to run forever.

But he wouldn’t, because there was no logical reason to run forever.

She returned her hand to her side.

“The question is irrelevant and thus illogical. My son is dead,” she said tonelessly.  

“Damn you!” the man swore. “Damn you! I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t make them like you. I can’t make them dead.” He used his fist slick with blood to attempt to remove the mucus hanging from his nose. It smeared against his face, with the blood, mingling with the perspiration and tears already present. So many bodily fluids all mixed together on one countenance.

He staggered to his feet and stared at her with eyes full of desperate sadness that released itself as fury. His tawny eyes were red. His hands were sticky with blood. He said nothing, but made several sounds in the back of this throat, as if language was incomplete to express what he was feeling. He was shaking.

“Summer?” The voice was weak. A silhouette of a thin woman bent by grief could be seen through the darkness to the opposite side of the field.

Summer looked at his wife, and turned away from her. He walked back.



It was not logical, she realized. Of course, logic and suicide made strange bedfellows.

She stood away from everyone else, or perhaps, more accurately, everyone stood away from her. They did not know her, but they could tell in a glance that she was not one of them. They were all dressed in black, but she owned no black clothing. She dressed in gray.

The granite headstone was in traditional style. The block of polished gray rock held his full name, his date of birth, his date of death. Numbers and letters carved into cold stone, determined to tell you nothing about the man that lay beneath but completely accurate.  It was just another marker for but another corpse decaying in a field.

His friends and family dropped flowers onto the mound of earth piled above him. Bright colors, doomed to fade, in a sea of black. They celebrated death with death.

A man began to speak, speaking about souls as passionately as if he had proof of their existence. Perhaps more passionately. Perhaps that was the point. He projected his uncertainty outward by proclaiming that there was no possible room for doubt, roaring over any naysayers.

She found it hard to listen. His words were illogical.

Then, he stopped speaking, and the crowds began to fade away. Chatter resumed, speaking of everything and nothing in the same breath.

Soon, there was nothing at the grave besides her, and the woman.

She approached.

“He loved you,” she said.

“I know,” the woman said softly, but her eyes spoke different words. They asked, “Then why did he leave me? Why did he abandon me? Why would he be so cruel?” The woman did not cry, but stood stiff-shouldered as the emotions raged inside of her.

“Summer may fade, but the sun still shines in equal magnitude,” she said.

“Is that supposed to be poetic?” the woman asked, wryly. “I didn’t think your type could be poetic.”

“Poetry is words with allusions, similes, metaphors, rhyme, and rhythm. It can be quite logical,” she said.

“But can you feel it? Can you tremble for the lost Lenore and for the raven saying ‘Nevermore?’ Can you stand in a yellow wood and take the one less traveled by? Can you know the truth in saying that I could love him no dearer, but love him more each day, just the same?” she asked. There was a certain desperate intensity in her eyes that wanted to see everything, but in doing so, saw nothing.

“I cannot listen to Poe’s bird. I cannot stand where Frost stood. I cannot love as Shakespeare wrote. But, I can see the veracity of their verses. I can trace their lives to what might have contributed to their immortal lines. I can deconstruct and examine their use of meter. I can analyze where the emotions originate,” she said. “It is not the same, perhaps, but it is something.”

“Mommy!” a child screamed. River ran forward expertly on sure legs as his sister followed. “Daisy said we don’t have souls anymore. Daddy said the operation was only to make us better, not to remove our souls.”

The mother said nothing, but grasped her children in a hug as tight as her arms would allow. The children examined the motion with questioning glances, neither taking any action to respond. When the mother released them, Brightly asked, “What is a soul anyway?”

The mother had no words. She clutched them tightly to her chest once more, as if afraid they would float away. “Why do you do that, Mommy?” River asked.

It was more than her mother could take. The woman started to cry.

The children examined the woman. “Why are you crying, Mommy?” River asked. The woman said nothing, shaking in her tears. The children, bemused, turned away, finding the pale woman beside their father’s grave. Brightly stepped up to her, placing her hands on her hips.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What’s your name?” She cocked her head to the side.

“Winter,” she said.

“Daddy talked about you. He said you were smart and knew facts. Do you know if we have souls?” River asked. He matched his sister’s posture, both staring with wide tawny eyes.  Their knees were tilted inward.

The world revolves and rotates, changes and grows, but some things stays the same.

“There is no scientific evidence of a soul. It is but a myth perpetuated by ancient cultures to diffuse fear of death and elevate humans above other animals,” Winter said tonelessly.

“Oh. That’s logical,” the children said.

Free

“There is no such thing as free will. It is a construct used to justify the creation of an environment that encourages so-called choices that benefit society. We punish wrong-doers, not because they made the wrong choices, but by doing so, others will be dissuaded from pursuing similar acts.” The woman who spoke looked down a very straight nose with very blue eyes at the new officers. Her eyes pierced through their hearts in a glance, as if she knew exactly what they were thinking.

No one dared to look away, even as she turned to the left to pace down an aisle between the desks. “No doubt you’ve been told otherwise, but scientifically, we are nothing but a group of programmed cells, reacting to an environment for self-preservation. There is only nature and nurture. Any aberration from ideal behavior is a unfit mutation set to be culled from the flock.” As she drew nearer, every heart beat quicker, hoping that lethal gaze would not linger too long on them.

She returned to the front. “We control the human species, officers. Under common consent, we control. We are not a dictatorship. We are not a eugenics program. We walk proudly in the street, and the people salute us, for they know we are responsible for improving the human species, and, by extension, the Earth.”

Clifford Short twitched his pen and suddenly found himself at the receiving end of that black glare.  His mind went fuzzy. His stomach dropped. Every molecule of water evaporated from his tongue in a second. That moment of silence in which she did not but stare lasted an eternity and a half. However, the second passed. She continued.

“When you put on your badges today for the first time, you will not leave this building as mere figure heads of safety. You will leave as beacons of right and honor. You are the reason people let their children play in the streets without fear. You possess the power to shape this city into a more perfect place. Let this show in your actions. You are no longer an individual, but part of the true protector of society. You are now part of the Service Corps. Congratulations.”

Clifford didn’t think anyone breathed until Director Graham had left the room. Then there were the jitters, as people tried to make light of the situation so full of utter depth and undeniable solemnity. One such person was Gertie Gwinn on Cliff’s right. “Not to put any pressure on us, of course,” she smiled, elbowing him lightly as they stood up to leave.

“Don’t worry, she always gives that spiel,” Craig Deering said as the two reached the door, more directing his comment at Clifford whose face was still startlingly pale. Craig’s deep, dulcet tones had the remarkable ability to calm, and Cliff found the strength to smile a bit as Craig gave both Gertie and him their new badges.  “Director Graham gave away her soul for the Service Corps. The recruits that she mentors always end up being the most lifeless, logical brutes to touch the force. Never the type of people you could have a beer with, but the people you are glad are working on your side. Luckily, you guys got me.”

“I’m not sure how much luck has to do with it when I wrote emails every single day for the last six months petitioning to serve under you, Officer Deering. When I heard about the raid in New South Valley all those years ago, you became my hero. It’s the reason I came to the force,” Gertie said, showing each one of her white teeth.

“Hey, call me Craig. We’re all officers now. That raid was the work of a team of many talented individuals. Those papers always blow everything out of proportion, Gertie,” Craig said modestly.

Gertie beamed magnificently. “So, are we going to start our shifts? We patrol the area around 20th east and 60th south, yes?” Gertie bounced on her heels as they made to their way to the squad car as she talked animatedly, involving both her hands and all her fingers.

“Excited much?” Craig grinned, pausing Gertie in some convoluted gesture.

“I’m sorry,” Gertie said, dropping her hands to her side and attempting to stay flatfooted. It seemed she was incapable of not smiling however.

“No, no. Excitement’s good. This is the first day of the rest of your lives, so might as well be excited for it. Cliff here could take a leaf or two out of your book,” Craig said, elbowing Clifford good-naturedly. Cliff smiled, but it was a gross imitation in comparison to Gertie’s ear-to-ear, full-bodied, cheek-aching grin.

“Did you know that the Service Corps was started a hundred years ago today during the Golden Revolution? That’s why I’ve been working day and night to graduate early. I wanted to be part of the centennial class. Before that, did you know they had people called police who weren’t so well-organized and ended up being a lot of power-hungry, bribe-taking hooligans?” Gertie asked in a fluster of words. She attempted to moderate her energetic quick-stepping by taking two step forwards and one step back, just keeping the pace of Cliff and Craig.

“Hey, my great-great grand father was part of those power-hungry, bribe-taking hooligans,” Craig said, smiling. It was hard to take offense when the speaker was bubbling with good will.

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean your relative. I just meant that a lot of them were back then, before we got society straight, you know? People were crazy back then. My grandmother told me that her family used to ask some god to make their food safe before they ate it, like the devil would poison it if they didn’t. Then, rich, dumb but eloquent people were always campaigning for years as politicians, making money off of poor people and being bribed by corporations. Did you know the taller presidential almost always won back then because people thought he looked more like an authority figure?” Gertie asked.

“I do now, Gertie. I swear, by the time this shift ends, I’ll know the whole history of the States,” Craig said.

They all got into the squad car as Gertie continued. “But, I guess politics is a difficult business, especially democracy, unless you have a very educated populace capable of critical thinking. Back then, they educated by a lecturer just saying the material to the students and expecting them to regurgitate it for a test, so very few got the critical thinking thing.

“One of the main precursors no one really talks about to the Golden Revolution is the online ThinkTank. Young adults got on there and would use the Socratic method, debate, and group problem solving to work through difficult problems of the day. All the Authors, like Stott and Sweeney and Alldredge were there on the boards,” Gertie said, listing the originators of the Golden Revolution out on her fingers. “Oh, and Graham. He was there too.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of ThinkTank,” Craig said.

“I have,” Cliff said quietly. “I read this conspiracy theory about it once, how the people there were just trying to take over the world and have power. How they just thought they knew better than everyone, so they wanted to control them. It said that’s why there are so many Stotts, Sweeneys, Alldredges, and Grahams in power.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gertie said sharply.

“I never said I believed it. You can find books about everything. I mean, there are books about fairies and magic,” Cliff whispered, shrinking into his seat.

“Well, the theory is completely illogical. The Authors restored democracy. The only reason so many of them stayed in positions of authority is because of genetics. If you have all the right mutations to make you a competent leader and you combine his or her DNA with someone’s whose is likewise mutated, then you are more likely than not going to get offspring that are competent leaders,” Gertie quickly countered.

“Code five on thirtieth and fiftieth. Squad Thirty-Seven, as closest unit, please respond,” the onboard computer chirped.

“Look likes some guttersnipe’s found a gun. Stay on your toes, keep calm, and follow my lead,” said Craig calmly as he took a sharp left, slamming Gertie and Cliff right into their restraints.

“Ooh, a code five: threatened use of a restricted weapon against a citizen or citizens. Those are rare now. They only account for one out of several thousand call-ins,” Gertie said excitedly. “Did you know that before the anti-homicide curriculum in schools, there used to be twenty murders for every hundred thousand people a year? Now, there hasn’t been a murder in seven years. There was a maiming last year, but that person was from one of those Preserve for Poor Genetics. They shut down the whole facility after that fiasco.”

Gertie was leaning out the windows, attempting to get an eager glimpse of the action. Cliff was much more reasonable in his hesitation. Weapons were very dangerous. He didn’t want to get killed. However, one look at the proud badge on his chest, and he found his courage. With a solemn face, he matched Gertie in peering out.

There was a man in the middle of the street. He was waving a silver object frantically. There was a woman hanging on his arm, sobbing inconsolably.

“This is the Service Corps. Put down your weapon. I repeat, put down your weapon, or we will request authorization to use lethal force,” Craig said calmly into a microphone that boomed into the street, reverberating off the close-packed buildings.

The man, who had very light hair and eyes, turned them towards the car. Those eyes rolled manically, looking this way and that. He yelled something incomprehensible and sent a barrage of bullets against the bullet-proof glass.

“Cliff, get the woman. Gertie  come with me.  We will attempt to subdue him,” Craig said. “Cliff, keep low and keep calm. He fired, which means he is volatile. However, it is unlikely that he will shoot at a human.”

Cliff and Gertie, for once solemn, nodded. Quickly, they fell out of opposite sides of the car, running in crouches towards benches and mailboxes for cover as a spray of bullets met them.

Cliff looked at Gertie’s and Craig’s focused faces peaking over a perforated mailbox. Craig said something to Gertie, then locked eyes with Cliff. Craig nodded once, and Cliff knew exactly what to do.

Craig stood up in the open as Cliff  ran towards the woman. Cliff addressed the man directly, without a trace of fear even as the gun was directed at his chest by a shaking arm. “Citizen of the Federal States. You are ordered to put down your weapon immediately.”

The man made a noise, his gun positively jumping in his grip now. Cliff reached the woman who was weakened in her continual display of emotion, and he easily pulled her off and into cover. Craig continued so smoothly in his speech, that the man’s eyes did not waver from Craig’s own.  “You are in direct violation of Code Eleven of the Lawful Citizen Conduct Code. If you surrender now, it is possible for you to enrolled in a PPG.”

The woman was regain energy and fought desperately with Cliff as he tried to restrain her in a bear hug. “Please, let me go. I have to help him. I have to go to him. Chris!” she yelled.

Craig ignored her, continuing. “If you do not-” An explosion drowned out Craig’s words as he stumbled back, blood pouring from his chest like warm ketchup out of a squeeze bottle.

It wasn’t real. It was just like in the old movies Cliff would sometimes watch. It had to be. People weren’t shot in real life.

The woman dissolved in fresh tears. “No, Chris. You stupid, stupid, boy.”

Gertie pulled the man to the safety of the mailbox, but there were no more shots. Instead, the man dropped to his knees. “Gladys?” he yelled, eerily calm, looking around. “Where are you Gladys?”

“Please, let go of me. He needs me,” The woman, Gladys, begged, pulling on Cliff’s shirt front.

“Cliff, second me,” Gertie said coolly from across the street, pulling out her weapon.

“What?” Cliff said, having difficulty processing the situation.

“Please, oh, please. He can be good. It’s just his parents. His family was real bad, but we’re working through it together. Please, let me go to him,” Gladys said, twisting her hands around Cliff’s arms.

“Under Article IX of the Service Corps Code, I am authorized to use lethal force if and only if I have the second of another attending officer. Second me, now. We need this over with,” Gertie said quickly, irritation edging into her voice.

“Please, for the love of God, let me help him. He’s been so good. See, he’s putting down his gun. Please, don’t kill him. It’s my fault, but I can change him. I can help him choose to be good,” Gladys cried.

There is no such thing as free will.

Gladys’s shirt was as soaked in tears as Craig’s was in blood. It seemed so incredibly red, as if someone had splashed paint on him. His twitching limbs betrayed the otherwise seemingly innocuous stain.

Gertie’s arms were straight out in front of her as they held her service piece, calmly pointed at Chris, who now sat in the street. The man, no, the boy (he couldn’t have been more than sixteen) without comprehension looked at the gun to the smear of red on the pavement from where Gertie had dragged Craig.

It is a construct used to justify the creation of an environment that encourages so-called choices that benefit society.

“Officer Short, I am demanding you give me permission under Article IX of the Service Corps Code or be reported as being unresponsive in the field of duty and endangering the life of a fellow officer,” Gertie yelled.

We punish wrong-doers, not because they made the wrong choices, but by doing so others will be dissuaded from pursuing similar acts.

“Please,” Gladys whispered. She touched Cliff’s face tenderly, looking at the broken boy in the street. “Please don’t kill my cousin.”

Chris’s brow was furrowed, as an inkling of comprehension began to show in the twitch of his shoulders.

We are nothing but a group of programmed cells, reacting to an environment for self-preservation.

“Officer Short, ” Gertie ordered. “Respond now.”

Any aberration from ideal behavior is a unfit mutation set to be culled from the flock.

In the reflective spheres of Gladys’s tear-ridden eyes, Cliff saw himself. He saw his own face, curiously emotionless. He saw the badge pinned on his chest where brass lettering spell out the six years of his life he had spent training for this day. He saw all of the Service Corps. He saw all of society. He saw Director Graham’s eyes digging into his own.

“Second.”

There was two clear, succinct gun shots and a heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. The silence that followed resounded in Cliff’s bones. Gladys did not make any noise, but fell limp in Cliff’s arms, tears paused in their tracts.

Gertie did not spare a look towards Cliff. She turned away from the body who she had shot and toward Craig’s, whose chest still gently hummed with life. She retrieved the small medkit each officer was required to wear from her person and set to applying its contents with strict efficiency.

Cliff stood up, dragging Gladys with him who was limp in his arms. “You will be required to present your testimony in the Federal States Court. I will momentarily escort you to the Service Corps Station so that your testimony may be recorded in the most efficient and detailed manner possible. You are allowed to petition for legal advice at any point after you have given your testimony.” The words came from Cliff’s mouth, but he didn’t think he said them. No, the person who said them was a very different person that Cliff.

It was a person built inside of Cliff by his teachers, his parents, and his friends. It was a person created by society to make the decisions it made him make. It was a person that had been replicated many times over.

You are no longer an individual, but part of the true protectors of society.

Cliff fell silent and mute, numb to his surroundings. However, a new officer stood straight and upright as Squad Four came from the Upper Side with an ambulance. This new officer calmly detailed the rights of a Miss Gladys, who heard nary a word as her glazed eyes focused solely on the dead body of her cousin.

This officer met Officer Gwinn, who gave him a smile. “Sorry, for yelling at you, but you were out of it for a second. Craig’s gonna be fine, it only grazed him. He says he’ll help us file all the paperwork for this as soon as they let him out of the hospital. Crazy first day though, right? A code five that actually escalated into a maiming.” Gertie whistled. “Something to talk about around the water cooler, that’s for sure.”

Cliff watched the medical examiners stuffing the body into the back of the van as the cleaners already began scrubbing blood off the street, as easily as if it had been ketchup or paint. Their brushes and high powered hoses were as abrasive as their personalities were light. They joked and laughed with ease as the blood gradually withdrew its claim.

Just as quietly, Cliff withdrew his claim on his soul. Instead, someone else took control. Someone who understood genetics and democracy and education much, much better than Cliff. Someone who was a much better officer, a much better person than Cliff.

You are now part of the Service Corps.

The officer turned his back on the blood and the body. He grinned to match Gertie. “Yep, I bet even Cecil won’t be able to top this.”

Congratulations.