Hartt

The Locket was supposed to be the last step in evolution. Instead, it made death a form of entertainment.

It first arrived in England, toting scientific backing and a declaration of support from the prime minister. It made world news when he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the heart-shaped contraption, glowing a pale blue just below his collarbone. The way he smiled beggared no disbelief. He was now immortal, if the shell he inhabited failed, then his characteristics would be immediately moved from that locket to a new shell, younger and healthy, factory made.

That was a hundred and seventeen years ago. And he still rules England with supreme power today, long after the end of the monarchy. And although his body is unlike the one he once inhabited, it’s without a doubt the same man inside. Still spewing nationalistic rhetoric, despite us being one of the only two nations that somehow survived World War 3. For once it seemed, England had managed to keep its nose out of places it didn’t belong.

The Prime Minister was a lucky man, though. He had his locket implanted when Hartt was just a start-up company working out of a garage in rural Kentucky. Now they’re a conglomerate, that own everything. Quite literally. Because everyone was infertile by 2050, no babies were being born, but new bodies were still being manufactured by Mr Hartt and his army. So, everyone who’s alive today lives in a Hartt Shell.

Except for me. The first natural birth in ninety-seven years. Funny, how I’m a celebrity for doing something as simply as being born. My life is talked about like a precious jewel. The only true-born baby. My parents, and more importantly my managers, are constantly telling me to get a Locket implanted.

What if something happens to you? We can’t lose you. Stop making our lives difficult.

But the way I see it, the minute I get a locket implanted, is the same minute I stop being natural. I tried expressing that to my friends and family, but they don’t understand, or are otherwise willed not to.

When empathy-based arguments weren’t enough, I turned to empirical evidence. If a locket didn’t somehow remove or dull your humanity, then why did Mr Hartt not have one? My family didn’t appreciate the argument. Even my father, who’d never raised a hand to me my whole life, threatened to drown me in the tub if I kept questioning Mr Hartt’s authority.

Unfortunately for dad, I’m a stubborn kid. I compiled a bunch of documentaries where Mr Hartt is talking to press. As far back as the prime minister showing off his first Locket, camera flashes made the dull blue glow of the Locket go yellow, for whatever reason.

Here’s the thing, when Mr Hartt is having his picture taken, his locket always stays blue. And it’s not a fault of the camera, the other Lockets in frame are all flashing yellow.

Dad watched my video slack-jawed, sweat pebbling his brow.

“Hey, Dad? Don’t you see what I’m talking about?” I asked. Idiot.

Dad stood, grabbed his grandfather’s cricket bat, and smashed our television set into a whirring pulp. He turned his focus on me, the cricket bat trembling at the end of his veiny arm. “Don’t you dare question Mr Hartt’s authority one more time.”

I picked myself up from the floor, backing to the edge of the room.

“Say that you won’t question his authority again.”

Swallowing despite my dry throat, I couldn’t find my voice. “Dad… Come on, it’s just a couple questions.”

Dad threw himself at me, burning hot hands clamping my wrists to the floor. His face was covered in veins, eyes bulging. Sweat ran in rivulets down from his hairline, around his temples, skirting the corner of his mouth and dripping from his chin onto my shirt.

It wasn’t him. I’m sure. As quickly as his outburst began, it ended. Abruptly, he strolled into the kitchen. “I’m making lunch, you want a sandwich?”

I could hardly breathe, let alone talk. “I… No, thanks.”

Dad killed himself the next week. Found a shotgun and aimed it right at his locket. Irretrievably damaged, the Emergency Response Squad told us, blank faced. They got rid of his body before we could say bye. And because of all the privacy laws surrounding our data, they burned all his private documents too.

Aunt Octavia took me in after that, Mum was too fried by the shock of it, she said. All her hysteria ended her up in a mental institution.

Octavia was usually nice if a little overbearing. But even at the slightest mention that I still didn’t want a Locket, she’d lock me in my room and scream through the gap under my door. Her own flavour of madness was a taste for death. She was a Jumper, as the Prime Minister started calling them.

Jumpers like the thrill of death, and because they have their locket, they can experience it as many times as they might like. Octavia goes to the local housing tower every other week to jump. She shows up the next morning with a new face like nothing changed.

Even the thought of Jumping with a safety net like a locket makes me feel ill. I couldn’t deal with the constant stress of Octavia’s Jumping, or her shouting fits. That’s why I ran away.

And to my surprise, how I found out that my managers didn’t just keep me popular, they kept guard over me. I was caught by them at the edge of Octavia’s estate. Charlie, the shorter one with the big smile, had a face so stark you’d think I’d killed his dog.

They dragged me through brambles all the way out of Octavia’s estate and to a field in the middle of nowhere. Charlie knelt in the tall grass, hands searching for something. Abruptly, he lifted a square panel of dirt, harsh blue light emanating from the descending staircase that followed.

My managers dragged me down the staircase, lacerating my ankles on the sharp nose of each step.

Inside the bunker there was a single jail-cell. They tossed me inside, locked the door, and disappeared up the steps into the field. Closing it with a bang, I was left with only the dull blue glow of the lamp above me, and the realisation that I was hopeless.

Mr Hartt, or one of his other shells, visited me yesterday and told me exactly what had, and what was going to happen. The blue light above my head was a Compellor. Something he’d invented back in the early 2000s. If he gave me a simple command, I’d be constantly thinking about it until it was complete.

Tell me your story.

I tried resisting it and managed long enough to make a vein on Mr Hartt’s forehead swell. But I’ve given in, as you can probably guess. As I’m writing, he’s telling me what happens next.

Next, we implant you with a new generation of Locket. One that lets you keep your original body. Nanomachines repair the damaged tissues, fixing any problem up to a missing limb. The great thing about this new locket, is that every time you come back to your body, you’ll have amnesia regarding your own character.

Inevitably, being trapped in this cell with only your testimony to read, you’ll experience this story repeatedly. Every time you die, you’ll come back only to live out the same misery again.

Mr Hartt said it all without even a flash of pleasure passing across his pallid face. He vanished up the stairs and I’ve been alone since, the Compellor raining a constant blue light on all my writings.

It got me to thinking. How do I get out of this? I see only one decision and it has to be made before Mr Hartt implants my locket. As much as Jumping scares me, it might be the final authentic decision humanity ever makes. I hope you’re reading this Mr Hartt. You can’t control the dead.