First Read Online Free Page B

with my memories of her former raven-haired beauty. I suppose that’s to be expected since she chose a male this time around. Despite that, she’s still my wife, and even though our physical bodies have changed more times than I care to contemplate, our souls remain the same. Briefly, I think about voicing my analogy to Ellie, that even though we replace the engine every eighty years or so, the mileage just keeps adding up. Somehow, I don’t think she’d appreciate it. Probably think I’m referencing the fine lines by her eyes or the grooves starting to deepen the sides of her mouth. Youth even flees from us, the immortals, with time.
    “Well, I was the first one to survive, my dear, and I think we were all a bit surprised by that.”
    Eliot shakes her head. “Don’t sell yourself short, Soc. You were chosen to be a First for a reason.”
    I slant her a lopsided smile and laugh. “I volunteered, remember? Back when it was mostly poor saps and criminals. The human trials had too many casualties. Scientists were running out of inmates to practice on. I had nothing left to live for, after my son…”
    Eliot remains silent as the bus comes to a stop on the ground. The slight bump wakes Ben. He lifts his head and thumps his tail on the ground.
    “Sirs, are you ready? We’re here.” The pilot’s tinny voice echoes through the belly of the ship.
    “Yes, we’re ready,” I answer, and the thin, metal door slides open. Lightweight steps fold out and lower to the ground.
    I stand up, legs wobbling, and reach for my cane. Ben trots over to my other side, and I grab his harness for support.
    Two nondescript black-uniformed security guards, both wearing mirrored visors with thin bands around their heads that allow their supervisors to see and hear everything they do, stand at the foot of the steps. They keep their hands behind their backs and wait in silence while I make my way down the stairs. A third guard stands behind them, holding on to an old-fashioned wheelchair with a worn, cracked black seat and metal wheels.
    “Haven’t seen one of those in about five hundred years. Have you, Ellie?” The thing looks so rickety. Will it even support my weight?
    “No, it’s been a while.” She and Ben join me under the scorching sun. The guard pushes the chair forward for me to sit in it before stepping back and standing at ease, casting a practiced glance around for any threats.
    “This isn’t necessary, you know. I can walk just fine on my own.” My hand shakes on the head of my cane, and the guard stifles a snort. Cheeky brat. When I was his age, I’d never have dreamt of treating my elders in such a manner. The antique design must be the museum’s idea. I’ll never admit it to Ellie, but I also prefer it to one of the more modern hover chairs that interface with the user’s fine motor skills. Maybe I just like to know how things work, and these antique chairs are pretty easy to figure out.
    She shakes her head. “You can barely make it from the ship to the ground. Just sit down so we can get this three-ring circus over with,” she says, meaning the reporters and their antics, I think.
    Muttering “wench” under my breath, I hobble over to the chair and lower myself into it, wincing at the pain in my joints. My breath comes out in short, agonizing bursts, and I lay my cane in my lap. Ellie raises her eyebrows in concern, but I look away, focusing instead on the lines in the cracked gray asphalt landing strip. A little weed, just a pair of leaves, really, springs between the cracks. Honestly, I’m surprised the gardeners didn’t take care of that. Usually, the grounds around our capital are impeccably maintained.
    One of the security guards reaches out for the handles, but Ellie shakes her head. “I can get that.” As the guard folds his arms in front of him, I glimpse the faded tattoo on his wrist. It’s kind of ironic, really. Only two hundred years ago, the government sought to segregate the Texan rebels