Free Strange Perceptions by Chuck Heintzelman

anyway? Did she really care what happened to Grady? He was a good man, just misguided if he thought he could change things. She couldn’t help him. Sticking around to listen to this farce of a trial was the same as watching emergency services when they came to haul away a body that had died in the cubes. You knew what was going to happen. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
    She left.

    Jesper caught up with her a few hours later. “They’re going to kill him.”
    “Really?” Capital punishment was unheard of. Much easier to stick someone in jail—cubes of a different sort—and forget them.
    Jesper’s head bobbed up and down. “Yep. Said inciting violence against the City was treason. They’re executing him in the morning.”
    “Wow. I didn’t think they’d go that far.”
    “And the crazy thing,” Jesper said. “They’re doing it here?”
    “What?”
    “They’re having a public execution in the park. Going to broadcast it live.”
    Favel scratched her head. “I guess they want to scare everyone to keep this from happening again.”
    Jesper rubbed his eyes with the palms his hands. “Can you go with me?”
    “I don’t do public things.”
    “Please Favel. Just this once.”
    “I got my principles. A person’s got to have principles.”
    “I don’t know if I can handle watching it by myself.”
    “Then don’t watch it. Why torture yourself? You won’t be by yourself. There’ll be hundreds, if not thousands, there with you.”
    “I kind of have to go.”
    “Why?”
    “Because …” Jesper paused, looked distantly in the sky as if trying to see something far away. “I can’t explain it.”
    “I don’t understand why you’d want to torture yourself?”
    Jesper looked her in the eyes, something he never did. “Please. I need a friend with me.”
    His pleading eyes were uncomfortable. She looked away and sighed. “Okay.”

    For some inexplicable reason Favel allowed Jesper to talk her into camping overnight in the amphitheater, sleeping on the first row, a long, circular bench cut into the hillside. She had her sleeping bag, but left her shopping cart with Cap, a homeless man she trusted. She didn’t know if his name meant “captain” or if he was called Cap because of the hat he always wore.
    Several dozen people, not all homeless, also slept in the amphitheater, staking out their spots.
    People started arriving shortly before day break. They arrived in singles and small groups, straggling in, a mish-mash of Eastside people. Favel didn’t expect any Uppers. They wouldn’t debase themselves by sitting among Lowers.
    The theater was a quarter full when the Favel heard the thumping of arriving ships. The crowd quieted, entranced by the ships. The first two ships were Sentinels. They landed a short distance away from the crowd. Six Sentinels, shiny metal bodies reflecting the morning sun, marched to the amphitheater, down the stairs, and to the stage. Five Sentinals spaced themselves evenly around the stage’s perimeter. One stood on the right side of the stage, facing the crowd.
    Favel elbowed Jesper. “Let’s get out of here.”
    He shook his head. “You promised.”
    “This feels like a trap.”
    “You’re being paranoid. As usual.”
    Favel chewed her lip, trying to decide whether to stay with Jesper.
    The next ship arrived. It wasn’t like the Sentinel ships. No rotors. No visible means of propulsion. It was small, the size of an automobile. It landed on the right side of the stage next to the lone Sentinel. Two doors, one on each side of the ship opened, like a great bird raising its wings. A woman, dressed in gray, came out of one door. A man, also dressed in gray, exited the other. Favel had never seen these two before but knew they were the lowest of the Uppers, Bureaucrats. After the Bureaucrats, two extremely muscular men got out of the ship carrying a box large enough to hold another man. These men wore orange jumpers. Prisoners. Probably used as free labor.
    The