Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  He nods briefly, glances nervously at Luke, then back at me. “The older LMS sends an alarm if a person experiences a drop in temperature below 95 degrees. That is nearly four degrees beneath normal body temperature, indicating it’s not just a slightly below normal temperature, which some people do have. Something lower than 95 means something is wrong with the user, or that the chip has been forcefully removed.”

  I nod understanding, so he continues. “Well, this worked fine until people figured out a way to keep the chip warm while it was being removed.”

  I nod, pull my hand free of Luke’s and begin lightly tapping on my thigh. “So, they changed the chip?”

  “Not immediately. There wasn’t some rash of people removing their chips. But, aware of the problem, they quietly worked on a fix. There was no rush until the Dr. Elkin case.”

  A shiver runs down my spine at hearing that name. I was too young to understand at the time Elkin committed his crimes, but the name is infamous enough everyone my age has heard it. He was crazy, tortured people.

  “You would have been too young to remember the particulars,” Dr. Grant says. “But, in a nutshell, Dr. Elkin was a mentally ill veterinarian who stopped taking his psychiatric medication. Authorities were using the LMS to monitor his medication. But, he didn’t like the meds. He felt they made him sluggish, so eventually he implanted his LMS chip in a chimpanzee. Elkin gave the ape his medication, so it would show up in the monitoring report. After being off his meds for several weeks, he went on a killing spree. You would have been about three at the time this happened.”

  I nod. Dr. Grant continues. “Within a year, they’d drastically reduced the rights of the mentally ill and come up with a replacement chip. The newest LMS regularly shoots nanoparticles into the body. They’re microscopic electronics that travel through the bloodstream and return to the sensor every three hours. If a nanoparticle doesn’t return to the system at the proper interval, an alarm goes off. The nanoparticle then begins emitting a low-level pulse that can be detected by government sensors. So, if I remove the LMS, even controlling for temperature and put it into another mammal, the government will know something is wrong when the nanoparticles don’t return. Your LMS will send the distress signal. Once they realize you’re gone, they’ll send out a team with equipment that detects the nanoparticles. That team will find you.”

  I begin pacing and wringing my hands. This is bad. I don’t have a nine hour escape window. I have a three hour window. Three hours and then they’ll start looking for me — and find me. I stop in front of the low curved wall and turn back to Dr. Grant. “So what do I do?”

  Dr. Grant looks at me, then at Luke, then back to me. He speaks hesitantly, to Luke. “Maybe she can turn herself in, and refuse to go through with it. She’s Senator Reed’s daughter. She might get more leeway than others.”

  Luke’s face flushes with anger, and he shoots back, “This is not about furthering your pet causes, Dr. Grant.”

  Dr. Grant takes a few steps back, stopping when he bumps against the door. He looks from Luke to me. “Kelsey, I’m not interested in this for politics and pet causes. You, of all people, know that. I just thought it was something to consider. It was just an option.”

  Looking at Dr. Grant, I wonder if it’s a viable option. We are all silent for a moment. As Luke realizes I am seriously considering this, he reaches out, grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him, or perhaps away from Dr. Grant.

  Ignoring Luke’s resistance to the idea, I ask Dr. Grant, “You think they will consider what I say?”

  He nods, and appears poised to say more, when Luke blurts out: “All they’d consider is which holding facility to lock you away in.”

  Dr. Grant treads carefully. “If she showed up, she wouldn’t be charged with fleeing. And then, maybe they could figure out a way she wouldn’t have to do it.” He looks at me tentatively. “Your father is an influential man, and I’ve heard a rumor that the Virginia governor got his cousin off a match list somehow.”

  I hold my breath a moment, not sure if this is a real option. My father wants me to do this. If I thought he’d use his sway to get me out of surgery, I would have picked that route first. I shake my head. “My father’s not going to be able to help,” I tell him. “Do you think, if I turn myself in without him, it will still work?”

  Dr. Grant purses his lips, and folds his arms across his chest. “Maybe they still might help you. The movement for choice has picked up steam. We could be at a tipping point. Maybe yours would be the case to tip the scales in favor of allowing people to refuse.”

  It seems too easy. Are we at a tipping point? Part of me wants to believe that’s possible, that people are beginning to see things my way. Even if people are changing, there are still laws. Saying no and sticking around would put me afoul of those laws. “You think I’d have to go to a short-term holding facility while they decided?” I ask Dr. Grant.

  “No,” Luke growls. Dr. Grant and I both turn to face him. “She’s not going into ANY holding facility!”

  Luke is adamantly opposed to anything that would put me in or even near a holding facility. I know why, but I’m not sure I agree with him. His father worked in a holding facility his entire career. Luke hates them, believes they are the vilest places on Earth. He views them as if they are prisons. But, they’re not. They got rid of prisons after the pandemics. There were so few criminals, so few people that would do anything to upset the tender balance that tilted things towards life, that they weren’t really needed.

  But, over the years, there have been enough bad apples, enough problem souls who committed crimes and owed society a debt. So, we have holding facilities. The smaller crimes require short-term holding facilities. There, people can get some rehabilitation therapy and serve their debt to society through donation of living goods — like blood or tissue or stem cells. The long-term holding facilities are places for the most depraved in society. They hold those sentenced to death. Not some purposeless killing, but death by giving life — a heart, lungs, liver, both kidneys, whatever a person who truly believes in Life First needs.

  Holding facilities aren’t great places, but Luke’s experience is solely with long-term facilities. Surely, a short-term facility has to be better. I wonder if Dr. Grant is onto something. A short-term holding facility won’t be the end of the world, especially if it buys me more time.

  “Maybe he’s right, Luke,” I say, a tinge of hope in my voice. “Maybe, if I go willingly, there might be an opportunity for me to escape.”

  “No one’s ever escaped from a holding facility,” Luke spits. Then he pauses, reconsiders. “At least, not the way you mean.”

  I close my eyes. Suicides. Those have been the only escapees. And that was only in the beginning. Most of the inmates in long-term holding facilities go insane and are kept heavily sedated or straight jacketed. They can’t stand the waiting, the knowing that at any moment, without notice, they’ll be told they’re dying today. That their heart is needed for a transplant to someone who puts life first. That their time here is done. That Life First, the mantra drummed into their heads since childhood, means nothing. The hypocrisy alone would drive one mad, let alone the prospect of being the human parts drawer society reaches into to cure its neediest patients.

  OK, maybe Luke has a point. I don’t want to go to a holding facility, even a short-term one. But, we’re running out of options. “Then what?” I plead.

  Luke begins to pace. “Let me think a minute.”

  A minute. The minutes are running out for me. I need a solution, and nothing is coming to mind. I turn away from Luke, addressing Dr. Grant. “If we take it out, is there a way to extract the nanoparticles, to call them home, back to the LMS?”

  Dr. Grant shakes his head. “Kelsey, I’ve gone over the data, time and time again, trying to figure out a way to do it. I’ve reviewed all the literature on the modern LMS, and I can’t see a way to get rid of it. Not immediately, at least. The nanoparticle has a short shelf life.
It recharges at the LMS, so it can only go about 24 hours before dying. But, generally, the nanoparticles will lead authorities to you before they expire.”

  My brain churns, trying to outsmart the sensor created to avoid people outsmarting it.

  “What if you take it out and Kelsey leaves while the LMS signals are still switched?” Luke asks.

  Dr. Grant thinks for a second. “You mean, while she’s still showing up as Haleema?”

  Luke nods.

  Dr. Grant puts his hand under his chin, thinks a moment more, then gives a hopeful shrug. “It might work,” he says. “At least in terms of more time. It would probably give her five hours, tops, then the search would be on.”

  I look from Luke to Dr. Grant, then take a second to make sure I’m following properly. They want to cut it out and let the nanoparticle alarm sound. Only the authorities won’t be worried about me. They’ll think it’s Haleema, who’ll be asleep in the house. “So, what’s the first thing FoSS will do when the nanoparticles don’t come back?” I ask Dr. Grant.

  “Well, if we follow the original plan, and transplant it to Buddy, they’ll want to check the accuracy of the information. A nanoparticle not returning could be a blip, not a sign of removal. Since it’s not a life-threatening emergency, and all the other readings should be fine, they’ll call Haleema.”

  “She’ll answer the phone and tell them she’s fine,” I chime in.

  “Right,” Dr. Grant says, offering his first smile tonight. “Then, they’ll tell her there might be a problem with her chip. They’ll wait a couple more hours for the next nanoparticle to return, but because it’s in Buddy, it won’t.”

  I frown. This is where they’ll have the best chance of finding me, I realize. “So, then they call out the cavalry?”

  “Not yet. They’ll probably ask Haleema to come in and have her chip looked at. If Haleema isn’t concerned, they might tell her she can wait till morning. If she is, and she goes to the hospital right away, they’ll realize they’ve got the wrong LMS chip data when she arrives there, and the location beacon shows her — or more precisely Buddy — still at the house. At that point, someone will probably figure out what’s happened, and they’ll come looking for you. That will be 3 to 5 hours, most, depending on when your nanoparticles last charged at the sensor. And remember, the nanoparticles will still be in your system, emitting a signal, and trying to return to the LMS, even though it’s been removed.”

  Luke moves to my side, a hopeful glint in his eye. He asks Dr. Grant, “How far does the nanoparticle signal emit?”

  “They can usually pick it up from as far as 30 feet.”

  “So,” Luke continues. “If we’re gone by the time they get here, they won’t find her through the nanoparticles signal?”

  “Not directly,” Dr. Grant says, soberly. “Once they realize she’s fled, Kelsey’s picture will be all over the news. If anyone sees her, they’re going to report her. The fact that she’s too far from the spot where her sensor last tracked doesn’t mean the authorities won’t find her. If someone spots her, they’ll go to that location, fan out, and search for the nanoparticle signal.”

  Luke pulls me closer. “I’ll keep her safe, and out of sight.”

  I gape at him. “You can’t go with me,” I sputter.

  He laughs, defiantly. “Yes, I can.”

  “You don’t have a ticket.”

  Dr. Grant shakes his head. “You can’t take the train, if we do it this way, Kelsey. They’ll know in as few as three hours about the switch and start broadcasting your photo. If the conductor spots you, you’re sunk. The safest bet is to drive, and stay out of sight. Stay away from people. Stay in your car.”

  I am silent, trying to think through what he said. Stay in the car, out of sight, and drive. I can do that, but I’ll have to stop for gas. There are very few full service places anymore. Most are self-serve. Even with the electric/gas hybrid car, I’ll need to stop at some point. I’ll have to get out and pump gas. That means people will see me.

  Luke is stroking my neck now. I always have difficulty thinking when he does that. He’s doing it on purpose. Trying to stop me from forming any reasonable arguments against his plan. It’s working.

  “It’ll be better this way,” he murmurs soothingly. “You’ll enjoy the company.”

  “Yes, but if I’m caught, you’ll be caught too.”

  He kisses my neck. “You won’t be caught.”

  Chapter 8: Survivor Mentality

  Luke doesn’t want to chance anything else going wrong tonight. So, he’s gone to get Buddy from the woods. I wouldn’t have let anyone else do it. In fact, no one else could do it. Despite the cuteness of the name, Buddy is no pushover. He is a 120-pound guard dog who is vicious towards anyone he doesn’t like, and that’s most people. Only my father, me or Haleema have much luck getting Buddy to do anything he is told. Mostly, Buddy growls at strangers who come too close, bares his teeth and approaches with biting in mind.

  Strangely, or perhaps that’s part of Luke’s charm, Buddy took an instant liking to Luke. I swear, he practically purred upon meeting him. Haleema insists it’s because Buddy knows I love Luke and therefore treats him well. But, I think it has more to do with Luke than anything Buddy senses about my affection for him. Luke had Buddy charmed from the first smile.

  I know Buddy will come back with Luke, no problem. I left Buddy in the woods mainly to make sure things were ready, because I know he hates enclosed spaces. I’m glad I did. Buddy would not have done well with the cop, nor would he have been able to sit still while we hashed out a new plan.

  Dr. Grant is busy turning a small corner of our secret cellar into a sterile environment. The whole room smells like antiseptic. He has set out sterile cloths, gauze pads and stainless steel instruments. While our seating is limited to a couple of overturned crates, the equipment area looks like something you’d see in a hospital. That’s good. I want the process to be clean. Last thing I need is to get to Peoria and die of an infection that started at the site of my removed LMS.

  Since Luke won’t be back for a couple of minutes, I decide to probe a little more into the LMS debacle, without worrying that Luke will further batter the man about to perform minor surgery on me.

  “Dr. Grant,” I say. He glances up at me as he places a scalpel on a metal tray. “Why did you decide to look up my records?”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t just decide to do it,” he says, softly, yet very warm, very friendly. That’s the way he usually is with me, when Luke isn’t standing by ready to pound him. “I was always going to do it,” Dr. Grant continues. “I just was doing other things first. It wasn’t high on my priority list. There were three models of LMS given around the time of your birth. All the same manufacturer, but slightly different in series. Think first generation versus second or third. Well, generations A and B are very similar. I can use the same tool to remove them. The generation C LMS requires a different tool. I was looking up your record tonight just to make sure I had the right tool. That’s when I found out you have a new one.”

  I sigh. An early look at the records would have shown the problem. We could have come up with a better plan earlier, if we’d known. I must stop thinking about this. There is no room for regrets. Right now, we have to deal with the present.

  “Luke should be back soon,” Dr. Grant says. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and apply the topical anesthetic. It should make it more comfortable when I take your LMS out.”

  I walk over and sit on a crate next to Dr. Grant. He takes out a gauze pad, then opens a brown glass bottle. A fresh antiseptic smell wafts out, making the room feel even more stifling. Dr. Grant, clad in latex gloves, pours a glob of clear ointment onto the gauze pad, then wipes it on my arm, just atop the spot where my LMS is implanted. The ointment feels cool and tingles. Dr. Grant, his slick brown hair dotted with gray, smiles gently at me. He’s been so helpful throughout this whole thing. I know he takes risks for his patients. But, I’m not one of his p
atients, and still he’s helping me.

  “Thank you so much for doing this for me,” I say.

  He waves me off with a smile. “Kelsey, this is the least I can do for you. I’m just sorry I can’t do more, and that I messed up with the LMS.”

  I shake my head. “It’s going to be fine,” I tell him, meaning it. He’s done more than enough to help me.

  Dr. Grant gives me a reassuring look, then tosses the used gauze into a red bag with a biohazard symbol on it. How doctorly. He seems well-suited to this profession. “Do you still like being a doctor?” I ask.

  For a moment, he is silent; then a smile creeps across his face. “I do, Kelsey,” he says. “I like helping people.” His gloved hand touches where he rubbed ointment. “How does it feel?”

  “Tingly.”

  His eyes meet mine. “Good. That means it’s getting numb. In a minute, the skin should feel heavy there.” He focuses in on my arm, then back up at me. His head droops a little. “Sometimes I feel like doctors today are asked to make too many compromises in pursuit of Life First,” he says, leaning back, shaking his head. “I feel awful that it was a doctor that started us on this path. Too many doctors today are like Ilsa’s doctor.”

  Yes, I am sorry, too. Ilsa Wagoner’s case is the reason we live under Life First. She was a woman who lived 50 years ago. She left her small hometown to visit a friend, and while she was gone, an epidemic struck, wiping out most of her town, including all her siblings and husband. Using the knowledge gained in the pandemics, the authorities contained the outbreak, saving lives. Ilsa was able to return home, but there was no one left. Then, she learned what should have been good news — that she was pregnant. Historians tell us Ilsa wasn’t happy. She fell into a state of extreme grief and wanted an abortion. Only, her doctor refused to give it to her. He instead had her committed to an institution.

  “Yes, if he’d only just told her no and left it at that,” I say as Dr. Grant looks over the tools on his tray. Ilsa’s doctor sought to have her barred from having the procedure, arguing it was barbaric. Ilsa’s attorney took a different stance, contending Ilsa had no interest in “killing” the child per se, but that she wanted the child removed from her body, where it would either survive or flounder on its own. The attorney said forcing Ilsa to continue with the pregnancy would be like forcing Ilsa to give blood to a stranger so he could survive, or forcing her to donate a kidney or some other body part solely for the benefit of another human being. The judges agreed with the attorney’s analysis and kept Ilsa locked away. We do owe our fellow man our bodies to survive. So now, as long as the chance of significant or fatal harm is less than 20 percent, people are expected to help. I am expected to help.