BEATS

His life or mine?

The light flashes green, one beat per second, measuring my heart rate at rest. Of course it speeds up if I exert myself, I know this but test it anyway. Stand, walk, walk faster, jog. Always watching the subcutaneous flash of green on my wrist.

When I tap it, it displays a number. Mine is 252,288,000 beats; it should be 662,256,000.

At the moment of birth, this green light is implanted into the wrist of every human being. It measures the number of heartbeats we have been allotted for our life: 1,261,440,000. Each beat of our heart reduces it until it reaches zero. And that is when our life ends, at approximately age 40. I say approximately because the designers did not consider leap years, so the average person loses 10 days from the get go. Or any exertion such as exercise, fear or excitement that speeds up the heart rate. And of course accidents, disease, murders and suicides can affect the outcome.

But for most, we are allotted our 1.2 billion plus beats at birth and accept it as the normal way of life, a means of keeping the population under control. As a child, 1.2 billion is an inconceivable number, a number we cannot even imagine reaching. It feels like immortality.

But as we age, as we watch those numbers counting down to our demise, knowing there is no way to stop it, 1.2 billion becomes attainable. Our leaders say having a deadline motivates us to take action, to achieve, to succeed. But there is little left to achieve. Science research is forbidden as a waste of resources, education/history/philosophy/politics is under the control of the state, doctors are reduced to little more than monitoring our beats. Entertainment is stagnant, the same stories told over and over again for several centuries. Sports have become the be all and end all of our existence. Athletes are the heroes and role models, everyone else lives in drudgery performing in meaningless jobs, their contributions merely tokens in chores more efficiently performed by robotics.

And the beats keep counting down. By our second and third decades, the beats are down to millions and feel insufficient, as though we have been cheated. And I in particular feel cheated. I was an active child. My mother never put me into time outs, never told me to conserve my numbers as was the accepted practice. “I wanted you to live, really live, not just survive,” she explained when I asked her why.

In high school I excelled in sports, going on to eventually reach world class status. No one seemed to notice, no one cared, no one pointed out to me that all that activity, all the sustained heart rate, all the cardio exercise was burning through my numbers.

That is why, today, my numbers are so low. If nothing changes, I can expect to be dead by age 32. Eight years of my life were stolen from me. I would give anything, all the accolades, the medals, the parades, the parties, to get those eight years back. But it doesn’t work that way.

How does it work? Simply, when your counter reaches zero, your heart stops. Some people have tried to cheat, digging the light out of their arms themselves, others found back alley doctors to do it for them. Some went so far as to amputate their own arms thinking if they removed the light they would live.

What they don’t know, what has not been shared with the general public is that the light is only a receiver. The actual device is implanted in your heart at the same time. It is the official scorekeeper, counting the beats, sending a signal to light the green light, and when the time comes, it issues the shock that stops your heart. Tampering with the green light, even removing the monitor from your body will not stop the beat countdown.

I know this secret that is kept from the general public because I have a friend who is a doctor. She also shared another secret with me. Everyone knows you can be granted additional beats by merit or inheritance.

Our leaders can award additional time to any member of the community who has contributed something of significance to society. Despite my first place standing at the world games and continued service coaching other athletes to similar status, I was not awarded additional time for merit. No reason was given, I was, apparently, found to be inadequate.

And therein lies the second secret. So far the only ones to receive this merit reward are the leaders themselves, and some select few of their choosing. The awards are subjective, decided on by the leaders and there is no appealing their decisions. And all the recipients are friends and family of the leaders.

Inheritance is the second, the widely known way of getting more beats. In case of the early death of a family member, their remaining time can be divided among their heirs under the inheritance clause. Of course, a death tax applies, so 10% of the time is divided among the leaders.

I have no surviving family. And those who went before me, used their full allotment so there has been nothing for me to inherit.

Until today.

Today I was handed a child. I don’t remember his mother; her name and photo are unfamiliar to me. Perhaps she was one of the many fans who shared my bed for a night. She claimed I was the father, named me on the birth certificate before she passed away just hours after his birth. So even though I don’t remember her, can’t talk to her, even though I see no resemblance to me in the child, the law recognizes me as his father.

And since her death, I am his only family.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this kid? Of course the state provides for our needs, shelter, clothing, food, and medicines. He was enrolled into state funded day care and assigned a nanny at birth so I am free to come and go as I please. His education will be provided by the state, not just the basic reading, writing and arithmetic, but also values, morals, ethics, religious, political and vocational training. Basically, I will not be responsible for his upbringing. The entire scope of our relationship will be determined by how much involvement I choose to have with him, and most importantly, the time allotments flashing in our arms.

Were I to die with any of my allotment left, he, as my only living family, would inherit the remaining beats. And, if he were to die before me, then I would receive his.

Do you see the dilemma here?

He is a newborn child with an expected life span of over 50 years (his own beats and those he inherited from his mother.) He will spend close to 20 of those years learning a trade, gaining experience before becoming a contributing member of our society. Or not. There is no guarantee his contributions will be of any benefit to anyone. Even if they are, he will have only 30 years left to contribute.

While I, still a young man, fully trained and already contributing, am doomed to die early. That is my reward for the hard work I invested in achieving success. But with his beats, I could continue to be of value for another 60 years.

My friend the doctor has introduced me to many of her colleagues, and though I do not have a close friendship with any of them, I am a good judge of character. I approach the one I feel will be amenable and explain my plan. He agrees the plan will work. He provides what I need and teaches me how to administer it. Why does he help me? Perhaps for some relief from the boredom of monitoring the implantation of green lights which is the bulk of the work performed by human doctors today.

The medical field is a dying career, AI and robotic arms handle the routine procedures. The years needed to become a doctor are not worth the returns financially since we all receive the same universal benefits income. There is no more research being done, there is no need to find ways to cure disease or extend life as most people are still healthy when their beats are exhausted. And if they die early, their beats will live on in someone else. So there are no longer enough, nor a need for, doctors to perform autopsies.

Crime is almost non-existent as all our needs are met. Robot police patrol the streets more for show than for function. There is no one to investigate a crime, prosecute a suspect, no judges or juries to hold a trial.

If a serious crime were to be committed, the leaders would determine guilt and punishment would be swift and severe. But the death of a child is not a serious crime in our society. It is one less soul to drain limited resources.

When the deed is done, I will call the nanny. She will arrange for disposal of the body, disenroll the child from all services and arrange for the transfer of his beats. Life will go on, no one will notice or care that there is one less person.

Only I will care that my life will be extended. I will continue turning young athletes into world class athletes, no matter how many of their beats will be wasted in the effort.

I take my child into my arms, running my fingers up and down his arm. I marvel at how soft his skin is, the layer of baby fat plumping it from below. Pinching just below the elbow, I find the sweet spot for the injection. He giggles.

His eyes crinkle with laughter. They are blue. Most people today have brown eyes, But his are blue, like mine. And that’s when I remember his mother. She also had blue eyes; she had laughed and said we would make the most beautiful blue eyed baby. She had been right.

I would make no more babies, blue or brown eyed. By law, vasectomies are performed on all males at age 25. Mine is already scheduled less than three months from today.

But this little guy, I check his name tag, Michael it says. Michael could make a blue-eyed baby, if he lived.

And there is my dilemma: Michael’s life or mine.

His life with all the potential. Could his life be as unique as his eye color? His innocence, naivete, not-yet-jaded view of life could help him escape the fatalistic attitude which is ingrained in me.

His life or mine. My life with all of my experience, skills, and proven worth. Perhaps I could break out of the rut I live in. Perhaps I could force societal changes if only I had more time.

Before I can change my mind, I scoop up the needle and drive it deep into the arm, in that sweet spot below the elbow, depressing the plunger. My choice is irreversible.

“Nanny!” I bellow. She is at my side in an instant but I stall her, wanting to look into Michael’s blue eyes until the last possible second. Finally I hand him off to her and close my eyes.

Michael’s life or mine. In the end, the choice was simple. With my beats and his potential, my son, Michael, may achieve greatness.