Ramblings

They say that age is just a number. And I suppose it is, rather like a bullet is just a piece of metal. I’m 128 years old, and I’m getting tired. I’m writing this by thought download, and even that takes a lot of effort these days. I should have died 25 years ago, but they came for me and sentenced me to life. I was one of the last pre-9ers, and the Imperial Group didn’t want to lose any more of us.

I didn’t want to do it, but the money they offered was good, really good. I had to think of my 34 great-great grandchildren. Only a handful of their parents have paid work – there isn’t much around in the 2130s, so the money really helped.

So the Imperial Group installed tubes to pump drugs into me, so technically speaking I’m alive. A brain wired to a machine, like a tired old dalek. Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything, all of that. The only thing I have to do is be taken to the Store every Monday. And at first I quite enjoyed the adventure of it, proud that I could still help support the family. But after five or so years I grew achingly weary, like I couldn’t go to bed at the end of an exhausting day. But I had agreed to sign the contract.

I’ve seen all my children die, and now my grandchildren are growing old. They were grateful for the money, but soon started arguing about how it should be shared out. What started as a windfall caused bitterness and division. I wish to God I had let myself die when it was my time. Too late now.

The only pleasure left me is the kids – their bright faces, their joy in life, their laughter…their sheer noise. Auralia is fourteen years old, my favourite great great granddaughter. Her parents think she’s trouble: she’s sassy and looks tough with her studs and spiky hair, but she’s got a good heart. Somehow she can ignore the paraphernalia surrounding me and see the person still inside. She’s offered to come with me to the Store today.

And they wheel me in as usual up to the monitor. I peer at the screen through my camera. Auralia comes alongside, gives me a faint smile, then whips out her pocket knife and slices through two of my support tubes before being dragged off by Security. My arm briefly hovers above the monitor, but drops down before I can press the button which says

Buy 27 million packets of cigarettes

and my last thought is thank you.