“They can’t!” Glisson protested.
“They can and they will,” Captain Yost stated. “Anyone sixty-six or older is automatically admitted to Euthanasia. After your last visit, I went to records and had them run a computer check on you. That’s how I discovered your age. Frankly, I was surprised to see you show up here again.”
“A man’s got to eat,” Glisson said.
“Where you’re going, you won’t need food,” Yost noted.
Blade ventured to intervene on the elderly man’s behalf.
“Does this have anything to do with the conversation Glisson and I had?”
“Not really,” Captain Yost answered. “I did overhear parts of your talk.
You’d be smart to forget everything he told you. He’s a borderline rebel.”
“I am not,” Glisson said, disputing the officer.
“By law,” Captain Yost went on, disregarding Glisson’s comment, “indigents have their rights too. Until two months ago, the Civil Directorate was required to temporarily feed and clothe all destitute persons, even bums who showed up at our gates begging for a handout.”
He looked at Glisson. “Case in point.”
“I’ve never begged for anything in my life,” Glisson said.
“We’re tired of letting freeloaders leech off us,” Captain Yost declared.
“Listen,” Glisson said, “you can keep your rotten food and moth ridden clothes. Who needs them? Just let me go.”
“Do you hear this bum?” Yost asked Blade. “He has the gall to show up every now and then for a free handout, for hot meals and new clothes, and then he hits the road again. His type has no redeeming social value.”
“That’s me,” Glisson agreed. “Now will you let me go?”
Captain Yost fixed a baleful gaze on the old man. “Not on your life. I told you. The Civil Council has extended the Euthanasia Direcorate’s authority to include indigents. And according to the records, you’re sixty-six.” He smirked. “Are you ready for the Sleeper?”
Glisson abruptly whirled and took off as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.
Blade took a step after him.
“Don’t waste your energy,” Captain Yost said. He motioned with his right arm. “Get him!” he barked.
The five policemen sprinted in pursuit of the fleeing Glisson.
“I don’t know where the fool thinks he’s going,” Captain Yost observed sarcastically.
Blade was trying to comprehend the situation, sorting the information he’d learned. The government of Atlanta was administered by seven Directorates. The heads of the Directorates—the seven Peers, as they styled themselves— formed an executive body known as the Civil Council.
They were ultimately responsible for running the city. But what was this business about being 66 years old? And he still couldn’t recall the definition of “euthanasia.”
The five troopers in blue had caught up with Glisson.
“Once the social parasites are disposed of, we’ll have the perfect society,” Captain Yost commented.
“Disposed of?”
Captain Yost nodded. “That’s what the Sleeper Chambers are for.
Eternal oblivion.”
Blade suddenly remembered the meaning of “euthanasia.” It was the act of putting someone to death! “Glisson will be killed?” he queried, shocked.
“Killed is the wrong word,” Captain Yost said. “Think of it as a mercy disposition.”
“Euthanasia is permitted in Atlanta?” Blade questioned.
“Hell, it’s encouraged,” Captain Yost answered.
“I don’t understand,” Blade admitted.
“What’s to understand?” Captain Yost responded. “American society was leaning toward officially sanctioned euthanasia before the war. We’ve simply put into effect a practice they lacked the balls to implement. Mercy dispositions are essential to a well-managed society. Once citizens have outlived their usefulness, why keep them around to burden everyone else?”
“Here he is, sir,” one of the men in blue announced as they returned.
Two of them were supporting Glisson, their hands holding his upper arms.
“Let me go, damn you!” Glisson snapped.
“Save your breath,” Captain Yost said. “Bring him,” he directed his men. Then he turned to Blade. “Again, I apologize for the slight delay.
Please come with me.” The officer wheeled and headed toward the monoliths.
Blade fell in beside Yost. He saw citizens on both sidewalks, and he noticed they were all wearing jumpsuits of varying colors. Some wore light blue jumpsuits exactly like Chastity’s, while others worn brown or green.
With the singular exception of the dark blue uniforms the police were wearing, everyone was attired in jumpsuits. Why?
“I take it you don’t approve of our mercy dispositions,” Captain Yost commented.
“No,” Blade said.
“Why not?”
“How can you justify killing innocent people?”
“Who says they’re innocent?” Captain Yost rejoined. “If they have outlived their usefulness, then they’re guilty of existing at the expense of the productive members of society.”
“Might makes right, eh?” Blade said.
“Not at all,” Captain Yost replied. “The quest for the good life is good for all, and the good of the many outweighs the good of the few.”
“Did you make that up?”
“No,” Captain Yost said. “Every school child in Atlanta is taught about social values. That’s a saying we memorize.”
“So you… dispose of unproductive members of your society for the good of all the rest?” Blade inquired.
Captain Yost nodded. “Now you’ve got it.”
“How do you determine who is productive and who isn’t?”
“The Euthanasia Directorate determines the value of every person.”
Blade gazed at the seven monoliths, edifices now imbued with a sinister aura. “What about the other Directorates?”
“The Civil Directorate codifies and administers our Civil Rights,” Yost revealed. “The Ethics Directorate regulates morality and sex—”
“How do they regulate morality?” Blade interrupted.
“You know,” Captain Yost said. “They insure one group doesn’t try to force its morality on others.”
“Give me an example.”
“Back in the old days there were those who objected to sex between consenting adults of the same gender,” Yost detailed. “But today, anything goes. The personal rights of sexual partners are protected by the Ethics Directorate.”
“You place a lot of importance on your rights,” Blade noted.
“Civil Rights are everything to a civilized society,” Yost said. “Our rights define our freedom.”
“I didn’t think freedom required defining,” Blade observed.
“If you’d attended our schools, you would understand,” Captain Yost stated. He nodded at the monoliths. “The Community Directorate operates our mandatory daycare and schools. Abortions and birth control are under the jurisdiction of the Life Directorate. The Progress Directorate is devoted to science. And the Orientation Directorate makes sure everyone’s head is on straight.”
“They what?”
“They test everyone to guarantee each person has the right values,” Captain Yost replied. “The right outlook on life.”
“Who decides which values are the right ones?”
“The pyschologists at Orientation, of course.”
“Of course,” Blade said.
“Yes, sir,” Captain Yost declared happily. “I’m very fortunate to be living here. You might consider doing the same.”
“Outsiders are allowed to live in Atlanta?” Blade asked.
Captain Yost nodded. “After a three-month indoctrination course, you’d fit right in.”