THE EXECUTED MAN - part 3 of 3

        "You know, I guess, what Chelcozgo Prospects does," said Chris. "We're in the realtime mutations business. Rebuild your workforce into something genetically more efficient. That's the theory, anyway."
        "I'm a shareholder," said Termagill.
        "Oh, really?" said Chris, genuinely amused. "Always nice to meet one. If you're a knowledgeable shareholder, you'll know the whole thing's highly speculative. We're twenty years away from field trials. At least as far as our press conferences are concerned. But there was this pliable public official in Guatemala, an interesting country, let me tell you, and five years ago ...."
        And Chris told the whole story, right down to the bulldozing of the town, the seeding of the area with a hundred thousand landmines, the dusting of the surrounding jungle with Fast Seven.
        Somewhere, undoubtedly, a recording device listened, scavenging all of this.

* * *

        "But why were you amused?" said Blue, raising his voice a little to be heard above the background jabble of the bar.
        "Amused?" said Chris.
        "By the document Hingman had you sign. You said he caught you smiling."
        "Discrepancy," said Chris, struggling for coherent control. "My sins, their sins. My one small sin."
        He didn't like it when his control faltered. That was the sacrifice had been necessary, in the end. To take control. Week by week, the oppressions of the twenty thousand dead had become unbearable. It had been in self-defense, really, that he had killed her.
        "They sinned?" said Blue.
        "Listen," said Chris. "If they're smart, they'll realize what I'm entitled to. You tell them that."
        "Tell who?" said Blue, playing innocent.
        "Just tell them," said Chris, getting to his feet. "They'll understand."
        And he pushed for the door, leaving Blue protesting to an empty seat.

* * *

        A volitional angel. On the white plains of heaven he stood, harp in hand. He was being tempted, but he was immune to temptation. Temptation is for those who aren't destined to inherit, who aren't destined for entitlements.
        "The will is free," said Chris. "So I'll pass."
        Say no to drugs. Say no to temptation.
        Then he woke, handcuffed. He couldn't believe it. Handcuffed?
        "What?" he said, not comprehending.
        "I'm pregnant," said Zophalia.
        "I'm so happy for your," he said, stupidly.
        "I don't want her to have you for a father," said Zophalia.
        He couldn't think straight. He couldn't find the words to get the handcuffs unlocked. She'd drugged him, that was the problem. Or else he was still drunk. Either way, he wasn't functioning properly.
        "Honey," he said. "You know I was made. I was made for you."
        That was true. Society needs its legitimate vengeance. But the wife needs her husband, her children need a father, the company needs a worker and the government can always use another taxpayer. Hence the quantum copy. A practical solution to the side-effects of the increasingly popular practice of execution.
        No use. Zophalia left the room. Left him ... alone? No. There was someone else. Someone in the shadows.
        "Chris," said Termagill, standing.
        A syringe in his left hand, something cryptic in his right.
        "What's that?" said Chris, focusing on the syringe.
        "The choice which your intolerable guilt has forced upon you," said Termagill. "The subconscious, you see, cannot shake the guilt, regardless of what the conscious mind might agree to on an intellectual plane."
        That was when Chris opened his mouth to scream. Adroitly, Termagill lunged forward with his right hand. A gag plugged its way into Chris's mouth, jolting his teeth painfully. Termagill had to put the syringe down so he could fasten the gag to keep it in place. Chris struggled, but to no avail.
        "There, there," said Termagill, soothingly, picking up the syringe again. "Just a small prick ...."
        And Termagill injected the contents of the syringe.
        "It'll be all over soon," said Termagill. "I'm told the whole process takes no more than seventy-two hours."
        Chris thrashed, trying to tear free from the handcuffs, trying to break free. But it was useless. His own personal shot of Grail Nine was already in his veins. He could envision the headlines: impetuous experimenter, self-confessed mass murderer, suicides with his own drug.
        The details? Chris couldn't even begin to guess the details of how it would all be handled. But the company had, after all, had two years to scheme its way toward perfection, and no doubt Chris's expiatory death would leave the company with a clean slate to work with, liability-wise.
        "Volitonal angels," thought Chris.
        Then the pain kicked in and he bit his tongue in half, and, very shortly after that, he ceased to think anything coherent at all.