DEATH AND TAXES

By Todd Guilmette

I was happy when Justin died. All of the things he had done, and all of the things he had been too scared to do had been nullified in that moment when the pellet had twisted his brain and cut him. His existence was ended, his life given to further the quality of the lives of all around him. But I was happy. Sure, another human life had been extinguished, and I felt a bit of sadness for all that knew him. At least, I think I did. I mean, society hasn't gone that far, has it?

I don't know why I'm writing this. Sure, everyone is entitled to their opinion, but since Amendment 161 was ratified, things have changed a little. In the new Nation, it is not always wise to write about the Cyclers. Call it "taboo" or, well, "unsuggested." Anyway, I'll have probably been cut anyway. Everyone does.

This isn't an apology, or an explanation for my future actions, or an in-depth psychological profile so that the Networks can get my motives right. This one is for my own benefit. To clear my mind and set things straight.

I am going to die with honor. I know that much. However, or whenever, I am selected, I will have that privilege. I will have what the Cyclers no longer permit. You see, the act of Cycling is a logical and necessary but undignified one. When a human being is born into this society, one must be relieved of their duties to serve and be profitable. For, to keep the Great Business Machine running, one must keep it uncluttered and free of loose or worn parts. After all, when a new part is introduced, why keep the old one lying around?

I remember when things were different. There were people with lots of money, and people with none. There were people who worked just to stay alive, and the people who ran the Nation were helpless to change their society.

But it is better now. People live at super-comfort levels, and no one complains. Young people are schooled, and placed in positions that utilize their specialized skills and continue to enhance them. There are no misaligned parts in the Machine. All the parts work together with the highest efficiency. And everyone is happy. If I believe truly that one thing is clear and free of imperfections, that thing would be the collective conscience of the machine. I make no qualms about the Machine. True to design, the Machine runs smooth as glass.

The designers had been thorough. They have expected every contingency, including mine, I think. After all what do you do with a defective part? Why, dispose of it, as cleanly and demonstratively as possible. And quickly. A disruption in the Great Machine would be minimal. And, it would be forgotten.

But my little flash in the pan will not be a small one. They have kept everything alive: hope, happiness and personal integrity. There are individuals in this society, but there is no honor. And that is what I will have. If I have nothing else, I will have honour. I will be someone.

I walked outside my office, stepping with dignity. I held my head up, and looked the patrolmen in the eye. They looked back, and I could see them recognize me. I was a threat. I was different. Help, get a mechanic, there is a loose screw in the Machine.

But the mechanics were quick to isolate me. I had walked only half way to my dwelling when I saw a Cycler, waiting patiently for my arrival. But I am walking toward him now. I will not run. I will be someone.

I stood in front of him and stared at the barrel of the pellet gun. And, when he released the pellet, all I saw was sky.

Something was wrong. This was not like Justin. He had died quickly. The pellet had entered his head and ended him. This was not the same. I looked up for the last time and saw the crowd of people standing over me. Some were frowning, some were shaking their heads. A young girl was just staring.

I wanted to die. They were twisting the screw, melting it down. Where was the honor in this? Absently, I noted that I was gasping, spitting blood, writhing, convulsing. But I was far from myself. I was dead. But I had done it of my own free will. I had not been Cycled. I had been killed. And it WAS honorable, after all.

They dropped a small capsule on me, and I was incinerated.

The Great Machine purred on.

7/11/93