First sight

“Remember, you don’t believe in love at first sight”, my dead wife whispered in my ear.

I was holding my breath at two thirds of an exhalation, keeping the crosshairs steadily on the courthouse door, waiting for my target, when instead she came out. Her face framed perfectly in my viewfinder, crosshairs over her forehead. My heart skipped a beat and the sights moved jerkingly upwards.

“Fuck. Darling, please shut up now, this is a rather critical moment of the op”, I subvocalized in reply.

Great, now I had to breathe again. Exhale, inhale, exhale, hold. I just finished readjusting myself and placed the crosshairs back over the entrance to the building when my target appeared in the door. A Secret Service agent preceded him, but he had no chance to notice me. I was hidden in a large cardboard structure which resembled an air conditioner outlet when seen from the ground, and my optics were the best military-grade equipment one could buy in Texas. Over the 21st century the Second Amendment became more than set in stone, it was laser-etched in steel slabs. Well, what I was about to do could finally have a chance at changing the status quo.

I pulled the trigger slowly, as I’ve practiced countless times. The rifle kicked against my shoulder and a heavy antipersonnel slug struck Judge Robinson, the most rabidly conservative Republican on the Supreme Court right between the eyes.

Two down, two to go.

I quickly crawled back from my firing position, as not to reveal myself to the Secret Service agents, placed the rifle in the destruct-o-box I cobbled together, pressed the ignitor button and left without waiting to watch the thermite charge slag the evidence. When I was out of sight from ground, I rose and ran to the staircase. Descending quickly, I went through the back exit, where a scooter was parked. I put on a helmet with a reflective visor, a motorcycling jacket with a fake beer belly sewn inside, and I rode away with a quiet whine of the scooter’s electric engine.

“Can we now talk about the important thing now, darling?” Daphne spoke quietly in my ear. “The hottie that looked a bit like the younger version of me. And one that is not dead, I might add. What are we going to do about her?”

***

I remember when I first told Daphne about my plan to change the politics of my home country, which made us both progressively more disappointed and angry. It was during our honeymoon in Bali. I was bitter and despondent and I tried not to show it, but she knew me too well. She was my girlfriend for over ten years, after all. I proposed after five, and she rebuffed me, gently and lovingly.

“You know very well I don’t believe in the institution of marriage. Just be glad we won’t have to go through a divorce when you finally find yourself someone prettier and smarter than me.” she told me, smiling all the time, as she knew all too well I would never.

“It’s not about the sanctification of our relationship by the State, come on.” I held her palm and kissed it lightly. “I just want to be able to hold your hand when you’re in a coma because some redneck from Utah ran a red light while you were riding on your death machine.”

“Oh fuck you, babe, I’m not giving up my Harley, either.”

I knew that. I suggested a few times she should abandon her incredibly fucking dangerous hobby I feared would take her from me and she just laughed. I could never make her do anything she already had an established view on, which was only one of the infinite multitude of things that made me love her – mind, body and brain.

And I always thought that if anything, a traffic accident would kill her, which is why I thought she would never know my contingency plan for her death.

As we’ve stood in the morning rays of the sun, looking at the beach, my hands crossed over her chest and cupping her breasts, her shoulder blades pressing against my ribs, I felt waves of incredible sadness come crashing over me. The wedding ring radiated unreal cold that I knew was only in my mind. I couldn’t see her death metastasizing under her skin, but the fact that she agreed to wed me in a mercifully short ceremony meant she had no faith in her chances either. There were only a few closest friends with us that day, and they were all either crying or trying very hard not to.

“I always had a plan for what I wanted to do when you were gone.”, I told her, my throat choking with grief. “I want to make history.”

“Of course you do. And you don’t have the money nor the connections required to make it in politics.” she answered. We waited in a comfortable silence for a while, neither of us speaking. “So, violence?”

“Violence.”

“And you’re telling me this because…”

I started trembling slightly, fearing what was coming. But I knew her well enough that, and she would agree.

“Because we’re here in Indonesia. And there’s a company in Jakarta that does brainscans and makes shadows.”

I felt her tense then, for a short moment, and then relax her body in resignation.

“Oh fuck it. Let’s do this, then, you perverted transhuman fetishist.”

I thought I felt a trace of a smile in her voice, but I was probably deceiving myself.

Mars-bound

I woke up happy. It still felt weird, even after almost two years. Next to me, Martin was snoring. He had some stubble on his chin, and his hair still smelled faintly of acid rain. The air was oppressively hot, despite the best effort of the building’s “energy-efficient” air conditioning system. But I was happy. He was there, and I could press my body to his and feel his warmth and his heartbeat. He yawned, opened one eye and smiled faintly, and one of his hands slid over my breast, cupping it. I leaned in to kiss him.

And then I woke up, this time for real. I woke up alone and hurting. I was in a perfunctorily personalised coffin, full of hot, stale air endlessly recirculated by the life support of the colonist transport vessel. Bound for Mars.

Those dreams were the worst, the ones where everything was all right, where Martin was still alive. I took drugs to take the worst edge out of grief, but their effect was limited. I needed to be able to live my life somehow, and as long as I was able to think and remember, I would grieve.

I hoped Mars would help. The Mars project was over sixty years old and still in its infancy, but it would provide a change. And a chance of death. It’s really, really hard to effectively commit suicide in a modern hive city. The city AI sees all, there is a medical drone minutes away and no weapons of any kind available to an average citizen. I could always hope for some catastrophic weather event to kill me, like it did Martin, but Earth weather was highly random and chaotic and I had no guarantees.

On Mars, there was no weather, but its lifeless environment was consistently, permanently lethal. It took me two tries to get past psychological screening, but the Mars Program had only basic level shrink AIs, so I managed to convince them that the I have recovered from the death of my husband within a year.

A hundred years will not be enough.