It had been a typically busy afternoon in the Restaurant Calypso, which occupied the top floor of the megapolis’ most prestigious hotel; The Bellafonte International. The hundred or so tables had been booked solid with a steady procession of high-power corporate luncheons and society elites, seeking respite from their fashion pilgrimages in the streets below. The clamour had passed now and the tables were once more pristine, laden with flawless white cotton cloths and gleaming white cutlery. There was no colour in the room, it was designed to serve as a canvas, to highlight the high-fashion of its clientele and the sumptuous food with which they were served. The room was empty with the exception of one occupied table, at which a pair of middle-aged women sat.
Socrates stood by, poised to materialise, he too wore white, he too was background. He watched out of the corner of his eye for the slightest hint of any desire that he could attend to. One of the women, clearly the wealthier of the two, held court in a trouser suit comprised of fluorescent lime green and peach pyramids, their neat angles jutting out of the suit at every convenient opportunity, after the fashion of the moment. The other, dressed in a matching skirt and jacket of neon plaid leatherette, all the rage six months previous, hung attentively on her hostess’ every word.
“And how is your husband Electra? I hear he’s being considered along with Euripides for the new position.” Yawned the first.
“Oh Thales is very well, yes we’re both very confident that he’ll get the job, he’s so much more qualified than that ghastly bachelor. I mean, he has several years experience as a Director of Perceptions already, he should be a shoe-in.” The other, full of nervous energy, jittered.
“Your husband has been out of work for some time now hasn’t he?” Mused the first, a cold glint in her eye.
“Oh well he’s had a brief time out to enjoy himself and work on a few of his own projects at home, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” the statement fizzled out into a strained laugh.
“And I do hear good things about Euripides. He has the latest Apollo series…” Her companion rejoined.
Electra’s face drained of colour, “How in Zeus’ name did he manage to get hold of one of those? They’re on limited release aren’t they?!”
Cassiopeia allowed a brief pause, eyeing Electra askance, “I couldn’t tell you dear, but he’s managed to get one. Impressive, isn’t it?” And then, after a calculated pause, “I imagine failure will mean the end of the unsuccessful candidate.”
“Quite so and a good thing too Cassiopeia,” followed by another awkward chuckle.
“I haven’t introduced you to Heracles have I?” Cassiopeia resumed, examining the edges of her pyramidal electrostatic hairdo in a pocket mirror, flicking idly through a variety of geometric hairstyles before settling once more on the pyramid.
“Why no Cassiopeia, I’d dearly love to see him! How long have you had him now?”
“Oh only a few weeks,” Cassiopeia replied airily, lifting a triangular lime green and peach HandyBag onto the table, whilst the other looked on with shining eyes.
She slowly undid the bag, savouring her captive’s anticipation, finally revealing the head of a three month old baby, the flawless skin of its face tinged with orange, crowned with a lime green electrostatic pyramid of its own. There seemed to be a strange aura emanating from the child, a barely perceptible glow, giving it a touch of the divine.
“He’s beautiful,” Electra breathed, “What genome is he?”
As if on cue, the baby shifted in its slumber, a small arm thrusting into view with the characters X7a tattooed on the wrist in glowing ink. A ghost of a smile haunted Cassiopeia’s face as her companion gasped.
“An X7a! Does he have the GoodBaby SnoozeControl?”
“My dear,” laughed Cassiopeia humourlessly, “This isn’t even a SleepyTime HandyBag. Young Heracles will be waking any second… Now.”
The child opened its eyes wide, the vivid peach irises roving over Electra’s enamoured features before settling on Cassiopeia and fixing there, the tiny lips forming slowly into a smile, then opening to utter the word, “Mama.”
Cassiopeia watched in smug amusement, gently batting away Electra’s hand as it reached for the edge of the bag.
“Is it true that they sleep on demand?” Electra gasped.
In answer Cassiopeia murmured the word “bedtime” and watched as the luminous baby fell once more into slumber, zipping up the bag and replacing it on the floor.
“You can also change his skin tone and hairstyle to match whatever you’re wearing. He’s even got the latest in Hormonal Equalizers; guaranteed life-long happiness with none of those ghastly growth defects.” She glanced at her companion out of the corner of her eye, “And how is your young one, Electra?”
There was a marked stiffening of plaid as Electra glanced down at the tabletop briefly, before answering, “The poor little darling is most unwell, she’s at the clinic today.” This last phrase was uttered a touch too loudly.
Cassiopeia’s eyes, which were now examining different shades of make-up, flicked from her own face to her companions and back again, “Oh I do hope she gets better soon, how old is she?”
Electra’s voice took on a high pitched, frantic quality, “She’s eight months old. I strongly suspect that she’s suffering from obsolescence.” Her face reddened.
Cassiopeia smiled disdainfully, “Oh come now Electra, you can’t possibly believe all that obsolescence conspiracy claptrap. Perhaps she’s a fake? There are some incredibly convincing ones out there, one couldn’t be blamed if one were taken in.”
Electra inhaled to say something but Cassiopeia cut her off, “I really must be going dear, we are hosting a dinner party for the Premiere this evening and one must prepare oneself.”
The instant she had finished speaking she began to stand and Socrates materialised, suavely manoeuvring her chair out of the way in synchronisation with her motion. She did not register his presence, even when she slipped her hands through the handles of her HandyBag as he offered it to her.
Cassiopeia began to meander towards the waiting elevator as Socrates moved to assist Electra. As he looked around for her bag, Electra said, “I didn’t bring a bag,” quietly yet pointedly to the space next to him before looking down at the tabletop again.
Socrates bowed and she scurried off after her companion.
He finished clearing the table and meticulously laid it again. When he was satisfied, he looked around, making sure that the rest of the staff were occupied before lifting the tablecloth. Sure enough there was a neon plaid SleepyTime HandyBag nestled against the table leg.
He grabbed it quickly and strode out of the hall and through the kitchen, his colleagues coincidentally looking away as he passed. He went straight to the staff changing room, opened his locker and carefully placed the HandyBag next to another in his kit bag. The babies inside them would be unconscious until they were released, knocked out by the sedatives the HandyBags pumped into their sealed internal atmospheres. They would not be discovered.
* * *
At the end of his shift, Socrates lingered in the kitchen polishing silverware until he was sure the changing room would be clear. He walked briskly in, picked up his kit bag and took the back stairs out into the chill evening air.
He took the underpass to get to the park, the walls were one continuous vidvert for the new Y series from Apollo. The screen was covered in a sleek rippling velvety darkness, the toned, muscular obsidian limbs of a baby emerging and disappearing back into it, culminating in the appearance of a chiselled face, eyelids closed, but then snapping open to reveal a pair of luminescent blue eyes.
The sleek black lines heralded the dawn of a new style, or rather the recycling of an old one. They changed so quickly it was hard to keep up, but it would come in and out of fashion as they all did and always had. The only thing that didn’t change was people’s urge to have the latest thing. Socrates wondered to himself how long it would be before he would have to do this journey with a lime green and peach HandyBag.
The vidvert concluded without showing a price, which was immaterial to anyone who could afford a permit, let alone a child. However much it cost, evidently that Euripides could afford it. Socrates didn’t rate Electra’s husband’s chances. Perhaps that’s why they were upgrading, they would invent some half-baked story about abduction and everyone would know that it wasn’t true but accept it anyway, because that was what everyone else did. Then they’d use their permit to get the latest model from Apollo or Aphrodite or whoever.
He turned his mind back to the task in hand. He was running late but he measured his pace to avoid suspicion. What he was doing was illegal, publicly, though privately it was accepted as the norm. It was the secret that everyone knew, the lie that no one told. If he was caught with his charges and no permits he would be arrested, charged and most certainly fired. One permit, one child; that was the only law that mattered. He strode briskly out of the underpass and emerged into the park. The first breath of winter was in the air and the bare clutching silhouettes of the trees clawed at the sky around him. He made his way purposefully towards the centre of the park; stray geometric couples and glowing neon joggers bouncing blankly by like horses on a fairground carousel.
He found himself standing next to the vast lake that spanned the park’s heart and sat himself down on a bench, his burden resting gently on his knees and his breath resting likewise in the air. The vast shimmering moon stretched itself lazily across the surface of the water but the stars were all absent, their celestial glory drowned out by the ambient light of progress. He opened the kit bag slightly and slid his arm in, checking the outer pockets of each of the bags by touch, not wanting to expose the children inside to the winter chill. He found that both bags were conspicuously lacking any personal effects. There was a fold of cash tucked into the side pocket of each, a small courtesy for his discretion.
A moment or so later a man in a full length fur coat whose person was studded here and there with large chunks of fAUx jewellery sat down on the bench next to him.
“Evening squire, I hear you’ve got something for me.” He said, as Socrates moved the holdall onto the bench between them and opened the Handybags up to reveal the slumbering children within.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here then,” the man said, producing a GeneReader from his coat and drawing it slowly over the first baby, before examining the read-out on the screen.
“This one looks healthy enough, good genome, looks like he’s got the Germinator gene, an Ajax design as well. Sturdy, not too bright. Reckon one of the Midcity security services will take him. They like to start them young, more impressionable, see.”
He drew the scanner over the neon plaid baby and furrowed his brow at the results while Socrates zipped the HandyBags back up, “Blimey, this one’s an Aphrodite! Should be worth a pretty penny if… Ah wait no… It’s a fake. Hormones are all over the place, I wouldn’t have thought she’d have more than a few weeks to live. I can give you…” He trailed off, his eyes screwing up and his fingertips ticking against one another before resuming, “Three hundred for the boy. You’ll have to sort out the girl yourself. Unless you’ve got a permit of course,” he chuckled.
Socrates lifted out the boy’s HandyBag and passed it to the man, who handed him a sheaf of bills in return. He picked up his holdall, not bothering to count the money, and strode off into the night.
He thought about the task ahead of him but felt nothing. He had at one time, he thought, but now it was a mechanical process. Besides, it was necessary. He had never chosen to do it, but if he refused to take the children and caused a scene, he would lose his job. If he lost his job he would be banished to the workhouses in the Lowercity, forced to labour every hour of the day to support the never-ending, ever-changing fashion fads of the elite until the day that he died. It was a terrible fate. He could not imagine his own, but he thought it better. It was irrelevant, he had no control over it, no choice. His mind meandered, seemingly unwilling to settle on a topic until he found himself at the entrance to the worker’s ultraplex in the lower Midcity.
He let himself in and took the stairs up to the ninth floor. His was a simple square white room, containing a bed, a sink, a hob, a vidscreen, a toilet and not much else. His job enabled him to just about pay his rent and bills and keep himself clothed and fed. He did not dare to spend the extra money he was given; people would ask questions. It was a pointless courtesy, really.
The EnviroMotional detectors read his mood and the lighting dimmed to a dark blue hue, as they almost always did. Socrates thought it odd, for he felt nothing. The vidscreen illuminated, leaping immediately to PrankStarr’s channel, a first person view of Midcity randoms being subjected to bizarre stunts, punctuated by the shrill teenage guffaws of the host so that the audience knew when they were being entertained.
He sat down on the bed, took the HandyBag out and unzipped it to reveal the young Aphrodite, still sleeping peacefully. He could barely see her in the brooding twilight of his emotions. It was hard to believe that this was where humans came from, two tiny cells combining and growing into this, capable eventually of walking, talking, learning, even creation itself.
She was beautiful, worthy of being an Aphrodite. He stared at her for some time, taking in the details of her face. He found himself wondering what she would have been like. His eyes fell upon the symbol on her arm. Her owners must have been desperate to resort to a fake.
He gently lifted her out of the bag, lay her down and picked up the nearest pillow. He should do it while she was asleep, so she wouldn’t suffer. He was dimly aware of something in the back of his mind, but he could not formulate it in the abyssal darkness. Perhaps he did not want to. Perhaps there was no answer that mattered. He raised the pillow.
Suddenly the girl began to squirm, screwing up her face against the discomfort of the waking world. He had waited too long. The next instant the child was bawling, screeching at the top of her lungs. The light shifted into a sharp violet colour.
He had to calm her, he could not afford to be discovered with the child and did not want to alert the neighbours. He picked her up and stood, holding her to his chest, walking back and forth as he gently rocked her and hushed in her ear.
Perhaps she just wanted to be out of the HandyBag or perhaps she had a HushBaby gene, but either way she settled quickly. He tried to lay her back down in the HandyBag to get her back to sleep but she started wriggling and crying violently whenever he got her close to it. There was nothing for it, he’d have to try to get her to sleep naturally.
He laid her down on the bed again and walked over to the kitchen. He had not gone two steps before she had started bawling again. He rushed back, scooped her up and she hushed once more. He put her down again but her face wrinkled up and she began to grumble. He pulled her to his chest and she quieted. He repeated the experiment some more with the same result each time. It looked like it was to be a waiting game.
He lay back on the bed, with the child lain on his chest. He watched as PrankStarr approached a Midcity executive, a bald ageing man dressed in a shiny pink acrylic cat suit. A hand reached up from the bottom left corner of the screen to grab a fistful of his shirt, whilst another holding a blade emerged from the bottom right. The colour drained from the man’s face as his features crept into a look of abject terror and he began to plead and beg. The camera pitched down to the man’s crotch, where a patch of moisture suddenly appeared and rapidly spread. Then the high pitched, braying laughter erupted and the hands released the man and pointed at his crotch and then at his face, the camera pitching up and down, spasming. Tears sprang to the man’s eyes as he curled into a small ball on the street and lay there.
Socrates found it hard to maintain his interest and found his eyes straying down to the mark on his own inner arm. It was simply X1. He was one of the first generation of manufactured children, born of practicality. He was immune to disease, strong, healthy, boasted a moderate IQ. But he did not feel complete. There was no romance, no miracle behind his birth. He was created in a lab, with every condition carefully monitored and controlled in order that he should be exactly as he was. There was no question over his life. He had a destiny, but it had been decided for him.
He looked down at the child on his chest, she was snoozing face down, the tip of her thumb resting loosely between her lips. He thought of the countless children that he had given to the fur-clad man over the years, to be used up in one way or another. He imagined the lives they had led, the upbringings they had, the things they had seen. Had he decided their fates for them in turn? But he had not had a choice.
He had a future. Socrates felt his gaze drawn down to the child snoozing on his chest once more. Her owner had mentioned obsolescence, a popular conspiracy theory that the big design firms had deliberately pre-disposed their products to fail before time, forcing their owners to upgrade early. True or not, it was irrelevant to Socrates. It was irrelevant to the child too. She was a fake. Regulation demanded that legitimate designer children be disposed to long life, on ethical grounds. Yet fakes were knock-offs, intended only to be good enough to fool the purchasers, not to have a future. Perhaps it was a mercy.
The child stirred, snapping him out of his thoughts. She was not properly asleep, so he resolved to wait to move her. He was surprised to find that he found the warmth of her presence there comforting, pleasing almost. The lighting shifted through to a soft white, dimming in response to the child’s slumber.
He pondered if she had even been given a name. He could not be sure but he thought the lights were dimming further. His mind slowed, submerging him into the thoughtless realm of sleep.
* * *
He awoke to a crimson nightmare, his ears flooded with painful stimuli. The vidscreen showed the time as being four thirty in the morning. From somewhere nearby the child was shrieking. He sat up and saw her, she’d rolled off of him and onto the floor, it wasn’t far but the start must have set her off. He reached for her quickly and picked her up, rocking and shushing her gently as he had done before. A terrible smell assailed his nostrils, forcing him to gag. He lifted the still crying baby away from him at arm’s length, turned her round, and smelt the nappy. He choked back the vomit which sprang to his throat and pulled his undershirt up over his nose as he rushed the child over to the sink. He carefully undid the nappy, keeping his face as far away as possible from the offence, did it up and threw it into the incinerator chute. He turned on the tap, waited for the water to warm a little, then held the still shrieking child under the stream, looking around for a sacrificial towel in the meantime.
He found one, lay her down on it, dried her off and then threw it too down into the incinerator.
Opening his wardrobe, he searched for something to wrap her in. All he saw was a uniform procession of white shirts and trousers, the camouflage he wore every day. He grabbed a white shirt and slid it off the hanger, sat the baby on it, pulled the lower half of the shirt up behind her back, lifted the top half up in front of her and passed the sleeves around her waist a couple of times before tying them in a knot behind. Then he found another towel and swaddled her up in it to keep her warm.
She was startled silent by this frantic flurry of activity and looked at Socrates uncertain whether or not to cry, but seemed at least satisfied with her new attire. A big wide-eyed smile sprang instinctively to his face from nowhere and she reciprocated, beaming back at him, much to his relief. She was wide awake and he knew that neither of them were going back to sleep. His stomach rumbled and he realised that she too must be hungry.
He turned back to the sink, wiped everything down for good measure and checked the cupboards. He found a selection of vegetables which he boiled and mashed up together to make a paste. He sat her on the bed and attempted to spoon it into her using a teaspoon. With no small measure of patience, he managed to coerce the majority of the paste into her mouth. He had nowhere to put her while he prepared his own food, so he tied her to his torso, fashioning a sling out of another shirt. She seemed to struggle at first but then got used to the idea. She seemed to like being close to him.
Once he’d eaten he untied her and took her over to the bed. It was six in the morning, he had to get ready for work. He left the child tied to a leg of the bed while he washed himself in the sink and dressed. She had been interested in the teaspoon he used to feed her with, so he found a shiny one, showing the Aphrodite her face in it, then turning the spoon round so that it appeared upside down. This caught her attention and she grabbed for the spoon with both hands giggling to herself. She immediately stuck the spoon in her mouth and then started beating it against the floor with a movement that seemed to require her entire body. He finished dressing and stood looking at her in the warm buttery light. He had not seen this response from the EnviroMotional detectors for as long as he could remember.
He picked up the child and held her to his face, she was mesmerised by the spoon clasped before her.
It was time for him to go, he couldn’t leave her in the apartment on her own and he daren’t risk her being discovered at work. He took the child over to the SleepyTime HandyBag, held her close to his chest for a few moments and then lay her down inside it, spoon and all. This time she didn’t seem bothered.
* * *
Socrates was once more stood by as the lunch crowd dissipated. As the stragglers were finishing off their desserts, he found himself thinking once more about the child nestled in the HandyBag. He could not explain why but he had been unable to take his mind off of her all day. He knew that she would be there, waiting for him at the end of his shift and he knew that he would have to deal with her. He was surprised to find that in place of the usual grim neutrality, he felt a strange sense of sorrow at the prospect. He found himself wondering once more what kind of person she might turn out to be, he even fantasized momentarily about a scenario in which they both might live long enough to find out. Perhaps he could keep her hidden, at least long enough for her to live out her remaining time. How long had the man said? A couple of weeks?
He was brought back to reality by the sight of a large, sweaty, red-faced man stooping over one of the tables, he was caught between sitting and standing. Evidently he had been waiting for someone to move his chair for him, a duty which should have fallen to Socrates. He hurried over to correct the error, moving the chair swiftly out of the gentleman’s way. The man did not acknowledge him at all, he did not need to, Socrates could sense the enmity radiating from him. The man made his way out of the restaurant as the rest of the table sat in embarrassed silence, unable to acknowledge Socrates’ presence and unsure of what to do.
An hour or so later, Socrates stood leaning head first against his locker at the end of his shift. He had erred hugely, had been reprimanded by the maitre’d. He could not afford to make these mistakes; he was putting himself in jeopardy. He felt the anger and frustration course through him, his fatigue sharpening his emotions. There was nothing else for it, the child had to go. He slammed his fist into the locker before opening it, gathering his things and striding purposefully out.
As soon as he got home he took the child out of the bag and lay her down, reaching for the pillow. He lifted it up but just as he was about to lower it she stirred and, catching sight of him, lazily smiled. To his surprise Socrates could not help but smile back. He hesitated, pillow in hand, then put it aside and picked her up, holding her under her arms. Socrates reached into the HandyBag and fetched her the spoon, watching her play with it, “You’ve done it now,” He murmured to himself, knowing fully that he would never be able to take the child’s life.
She looked up at him, her face shifting from excitement to confusion to a frown and back again. He let her be and made some food, and after clearing everything away they spent the rest of the evening playing. Eventually they both grew tired and Socrates picked her up and laid down with her on the sofa, taking care to position her safely, so that she would not fall off, before curling himself around her. He watched her as she slowly dozed off, wondering what, if anything, was going on in her head. She was blissfully unaware of her plight, but then would it be any better for her if she survived. They did not have any kind of life. He did not have any kind of life. This was it, he would do his job until he was no longer able and then he would be dispensed with.
The only decision he had, the only control he had over his own life, was what he did with the child. He could either dispose of her and carry on his meaningless existence or he could watch over her for as long as she had left to live. What did he have to lose?
“I suppose you’d better have a name, if you’re going to be staying. I shall call you Eugenie.” He fell asleep, feeling a sense of purpose for the first time in his life.
* * *
He awoke with a start. He was no longer in his room, he was no longer with Eugenie. He was in a bright white cell, featureless apart from a shelf moulded out of the wall on which he lay and a hole in the floor. He sat up immediately, sleep vanishing in an instant. A voice echoed through the cell, “You are a prisoner of the state. You are to be tried immediately. Remain still and prepare to be transported to the courtroom.”
“Where is Eugenie?” Socrates asked, his mind racing, they must have been dosed with sedatives and transported here in their sleep.
“I do not know who this “Eugenie” is. If you refer to the child you abducted, she has been returned to her parents.”
“I did not abduct her! Her parents tried to get rid of her!”
“The court will determine the veridity of that statement. You stand accused of kidnapping. Prepare to be transferred to the courtroom. Any resistance will be met with extreme violence.”
Socrates’ heart sank as he digested the news that Eugenie had been returned to Electra, the very woman who had tried to dispose of her. He opened his mouth but thought better of it. It was futile. It was his word against hers and he practically didn’t exist.
Moments later the door to his cell opened and two troopers clad head to foot in bulbous baby blue plastinium body armour stomped in. Socrates stood up from the bench and without a word one of the troopers drove his baton into the back of Socrates’ knee, collapsing him to the floor. The other trooper grabbed his arms and secured them behind his back, before hauling him to his feet. They dragged him out of the room and through a series of brightly lit pure white corridors, lined with doors. At last they turned a corner, at the end of which stood a pair of full length double doors. The troopers kicked the doors open and Socrates stood blinking. He was in a circular chamber, bright white like the others, with gallery upon gallery reaching up to the roof, each filled to the brim with brightly coloured geometrically-shaped electrostatic hairdos. In the middle of the room sat a solitary chair, which Socrates was dragged to and dumped down into. Before him, raised up so that Socrates had to crane his neck to see him, sat the judge. There were no cameras, anyone who was anyone would be present for the sport, for the scandal.
“Socrates Doulos, you stand accused of kidnapping the daughter of Thales and Electra Politeia. You are hereby sentenced to life in the Lower-City. Guards, remove the prisoner.” The judge intoned solemnly.
Socrates paused, all was chaos, he had lost Eugenie, he had just been convicted, his life was over, he could not think.
Then he caught sight of them in the lowest gallery, Electra and who he presumed to be Thales, holding a sleeping Eugenie awkwardly, unfamiliarly. Electra looked flustered, embarrassed even. No matter what the pretext, she knew that everyone else knew what had happened. Behind them sat Cassiopeia, an austere expression on her face and a glint in her eye.
Then he realised something. Here he had the elites of the Megapolis, everyone who was anyone, all focussed on him. All at once he realised that he did have a choice, that though his path had led him here, he could choose how he faced the consequences of his actions. He had the opportunity he had been waiting for, he might have lost Eugenie and he might have lost his life, but it need not be in vain.
The guards were nearing him, it was now or never. He summoned all of his strength, all of the injustices of the world, filled his lungs and intoned, “I did not kidnap that child. She was given to me. She was given to me by parents who no longer wanted her as thousands of children who are no longer wanted are given to me every year. Parents who care not for the welfare of the child, only the social advantage that it’s model number can yield them. This is not news to any of you, privately you all know this to be true, most if not all of you have traded your children in for upgrades, yet publicly you deplore this crime.” Socrates felt the words flow through him, the crowd listened, astonished. The guards held him between them, unable to move.
“You are all hypocrites. That child is a fake,” at this a chorus of gasps whispered round the chamber, not at the fact but at the mention of it, “she has no more than two weeks or so to live. Yet were she to live to be a hundred there would be no point. I am NewGen, I have lived a life of servitude, a non-existent entity whose sole purpose is to make your dining experiences more pleasurable. I am stronger than you, smarter than you. And I am expected to tolerate this and to be grateful, because it is better than the sub-human alternative of life in the Lowercity. You are no better than me, yet you shackle me to this futile existence, devoid of meaning, devoid of purpose until such time as you deem fit to end my life. Such is the value that we put on human life, to serve such basic pleasures. It is sacrilege to the miracle of our very existence, because it is miraculous that any of us are here at all, regardless of who we are. It matters not what sentence you confer on me, for I have been serving a sentence my entire life, for a crime I have never committed; for the crime of being born. I may have thrown away my existence but it was my choice to do so and it is worth it for that and for the opportunity to make this stand. Life deserves respect and I implore you, do not continue down this path that we are taking. Love your fellow human beings, love your children, for in the end what will you have left in the dusk of your lives but ashes and regret?”
Not a sound was uttered, those in the galleries looked from one to the other uncertainly. Then a chuckle rose into the air from somewhere, which grew and blossomed into a fully-fledged guffaw. Astounded, Socrates gaped up at the judge sat before him, quaking with mirth. The laughter was contagious, spreading through the galleries until the chamber was brimming with the noise. Socrates felt queasy, unable to blot out the sound as the guards dragged him out into the darkness of the tunnels.
Copyright © 2017 Simon Chaney