Golden Son by Pierce Brown

broadcast…”
    Myheartthudsinmythroat.
    “Itwasn’tcomplete.”Shepressesplayandtheroomaroundusbecomesthemine.We’reapartof
    thethree-dimensionalholo.It’stherawfootage,notthestuffonthenewsreels,notthestuffI’veseena hundredtimes.Itshowsthehangingwithoutasoundtrack.
    I hear my own cries of pain as the Grays beat the boy I used to be. Weeping in the crowd. The awkward silence of unedited footage. My mother hangs her head and Uncle Narol spits in the dust.
    Kieran, my brother, covers his children’s eyes. Feet shuffle. Dio, Eo’s sister, stumbles up the metal scaffold.Shoesscrapingoverrust.Sobbing.ThenDioleanstowardmywife.Eostandssmall,sopale andthin,littlemorethanthesmokeoftheburninggirlIremember.Herlipsmove.Again,Idon’thear it,justasIdidn’thearitthatday.SuddenlyDiosobsuncontrollablyandclingstoEo.Whatwassaid?
    “Usetheequipment.That’swhatit’stherefor,eh?”
    I’vewondereditathousandtimesbutneverhadaccesstothisfootage.IneverknewhowI’dfindit without raising suspicion. And the thought scared me, as it scares me now—what was I not strong enoughtohear?WhatcouldDiobearthatIcouldnot?
    Inthenewsfootagethatwaspirated,theydon’tevenshowDio.Buthere,withtherawfootage,Ican rewind.Idoso.Icanamplifythesound.Idoso.Iwatchithappenagain:Mymotherhangsherhead.
    Narolspits.Kierancoversthechildren’seyes.Feetshuffle.Diogoesupthescaffold.Allthesoundis magnified.Isortoutthewhitenoisewiththecontrols,andIhearwhatmywifesaidtoDio.
    “Inourbedroom,thereisacribImade.HideitbeforeDarrowreturns.”
    “Acrib…,” Diomurmurs.
    “Hemustneverknow.Itwouldbreakhim.”
    “Don’tsayit,Eo.Don’t.”
    “Iamwithchild.”

    10
    BROKEN
    Ibreak.
    Sitting in a void. Staring at my hands. The hands that could not save my wife, my child. She was right.Iwasn’tstrongenoughtobearthetruthofhersecondsacrifice.Eocouldhavelived.Eocould have given us the child we always wanted. But she thought that future wasn’t worth her silence. I wasn’tworthit.…
    Ifeelsomethingdeepinmychest,ahollowcoldache.Likeblacknesshasopenedinthepitofmy soul even as my body tightens and coils around grief. I weigh a million pounds. Shoulders slump.
    Chest compresses. My fingers clutch together. Funny to think these hands have been with me this wholetime.Theytouchedherlips.Theyhelpedpullherankles.Theyburiedherinthesoil.Butthey didn’tjustburyher,didthey?
    No.Theyburiedanotherlife.Oneunborn.Ourchild,deadbeforeitlived.AndIneverevenknew.I mourned without knowing the greatest injustice. I failed them both. The amplified video replays again.
    “Iamwithchild,” shetellsDioonthescaffold. “Iamwithchild.”
    Ireplayitadozentimes,feelingmyselfshrinkintoacorridorofgrief.
    TheGoldsdidn’tjustkillher.TheykilledwhatI’vealwayswantedtobe—ahusbandandafather.If onlyIhadstoppedher.IfonlyIhadnotpoutedlikeachildwhenwelosttheLaurel,shewouldn’thave thoughttotakemetothegarden.IfonlyIhadthestrengthtopretendlosingtheLaureldidn’tbother me.
    AllthefamilyIcouldhavehad.Awife.Sons.Daughters.Grandchildren.They’vebeenslaughtered beforetheyeverwere.Eowillneverholdourdaughter.Shewillneverkissoursontosleepandsmile overatmeashislittlehandsclutchmyfinger.I’mallthat’sleftofthatfamilythatcouldhavebeen.A darkshadowofthemanIwasmeanttobe.
    The rage rises. We had a chance, and it is gone. Everything I wanted is gone, because of me and becauseof them .Theirlaws.Theirinjustice.Theircruelty.Theymadeawomanchoosedeathforher andherunbornchildoveralifeofslavery.Allthatforpower.Allthatsotheycankeeptheirperfect littleworld.
    “You were not strong enough then,” Harmony says. “Are you strong enough now, Helldiver?” I lookather,tearsblurringmysight.Herhardeyessoftenforme.“Ihadchildren,once.Radiationate theirinsides,andtheydidn’tevengivethempainmeds.Didn’tevenfixtheleak.Saidthereweren’t enough resources. My husband just sat there and watched them die. In the end, the same thing took