The Cost of Denial

I sort of despised potatoes. Oh, I liked to eat them just fine. But hoeing potatoes got plenty old. As the plants grew, they needed to have fresh soil pulled up onto any exposed tubers or they’d turn green in the sun. And once that was done, potato beetles took over. Harmless to people, but not so much to the potato plants. Kind of gross, too. Hard shelled with grabby legs.

   I had lots of chores out back in the garden. Though, to be fair, Mom did most of it while I was on my headset for school. Weeding. Pruning. Spreading compost. Mending the fence to keep the raccoons out, as if anything would keep those rascals out. But after school, I’d join her out there in the backyard and try to talk her into going inside. Her back hurt a lot these days.

   Dusk darkened the forest around our small house as a drone sped past. A Nissan 455 delivery drone. Leaning on the hoe, I watched it disappear over the treetops with a box grasped underneath. With a sigh, I continued hoeing, hoping it wouldn’t be much longer.

   “Parker!” Mom called on cue from the back door, one hand on a rounding belly and a smile on her face. She wore an apron that read, “Jesus loves the cook,” and it had the flour she’d been using to bake their breakfast bread dashed across the words. “Dinner time!”

   Chicken and potatoes again, most likely. I ate a lot of chicken and potatoes with a side salad of fresh greens. The other kids had pizza, or tacos maybe, delivered to their door by drone. But not me.

   I passed the chicken tractor, and when I reached the back door, she ruffled my hair. “Thank you, honey. Now go—”

   “I know,” I said. “Go wash my hands.”

   “And your face,” she said.

    Wonderful.

   Dad sat in his rocking chair as if he were a hundred years old, with his headset over his eyes and ears and his fingers wrapped around an entersphere, pecking away at its many levers and buttons. He worked a lot, always from home.

   Mom tapped the headset on the way by. “Kyle. Dinner.”

   “Just finishing this memo,” Dad said. He’d left his book—one made from real paper—out on the coffee table again. Mom often gave him grief over that, but he said he wanted it close to hand.

   In our only bathroom, I washed my hands. My face, too, even though it was totally clean. Well, not totally. But close enough. Mom would know if I didn’t. She always knew.

   When I came back out of the bathroom, Dad had his headset hung up on its charging dock and the entersphere put away on the shelf. He unplugged the aether cable from the wall, hard cutting the sat-link feed.

   He saw me watching. “Can’t be too careful, Parker. Never forget that.”

   “I know.”

   “I know you know, son. But in times like these, it bears repeating.”

   “That sounds like something your dad told you.”

   “Your grandpa taught me lots of things. But he didn’t live in today’s world.”

   When Mom gestured with a bowl of mashed potatoes in hand, I took my seat. The salad and chicken waited on the table, ready to serve. Chicken and potatoes again. But I didn’t mind. Well, not much. I said, “What was it like back then?”

   “In most ways, just like today,” Dad said. “Few drones, lots of cars. We worked on flat monitors instead of headsets. Our enterspheres were flat, too. We called them keyboards. Internet only worked at broadband speeds and came by wire or fiber optics.”

   Ancient tech. “Sounds frustrating.”

   Mom chuckled and brought the salt and pepper to the table before she sat down. “Kyle?”

   Dad bowed his head and prayed for the meal. He prayed for their house church, too. And for revival. I knew what that was, but only from stories and Dad’s prayers. Finally, he prayed for the Lord’s soon coming, which meant he was almost done praying. After the chicken got half cold, he said, “Amen.”

   I reached for the meat as a drone buzzed past overhead.

   “So, Parker,” Dad said, “What did you learn in school today?”

   I’d learned long ago that I’d better have something ready for him. “Algebra. Factoring.”

   “What?” Dad said with a wink. “No calculus? Differential equations?”

   “Dad, I’m in the seventh grade.”

   Mom asked, “And what else?”

   “We worked on a team report about a documentary.”

   Mom smiled. She liked those. Both writing reports and documentaries. “What kind of documentary?”

   “The kind about history. Fascism. Despots. Twentieth century stuff, and how the Chancellor stopped all that.”

   Dad frowned. “We’re heading right back into it.”

   Mom frowned, too. “Honey, what did you write?” They always worried.

   I tried to fix my scowl as mom dished me out the salad greens. I think I got it right. “Don’t worry. I wrote what they wanted to hear.”

   “Good,” Dad said, relaxing and slapping a big pile of potatoes on my plate. Then he said what he always said, every night after school, after every discussion and every lecture. “Now, Parker, tell me what you really think.”

   “I think all that stuff happened because some people came into power who dehumanized other people they felt were troublemakers. Or could be and stuff.”

   “First,” Mom said, finally sitting down, “you use the word ‘stuff’ far too much. Work on that if you want to be an author someday. Second, where did you learn about dehumanizing?”

   I’d learned it from Dad’s lectures, but I didn’t say so. “Um, is that a bad word?”

   “No,” she said. “But it is bad.”

   No kidding. But then a thought occurred to me. I noodled it while eating, picking at my salad in between gobs of chicken and potatoes so that mom would be satisfied I got my greens. “Is that why we grow our own food?”

   “Huh?” Dad asked around a mouthful, eyebrows up.

   “I mean, we don’t go out. Well, rarely. I understand why. But are we being, you know, dehumanized?”

   “No,” Dad said after swallowing. He shrugged and quirked a grin. “But we are troublemakers and stuff.”

   “We are?”

   “No, honey,” Mom said, giving Dad one of her famous looks. “But some people think we are.”

   Dad shrugged again.

   That’s when I heard the drone flying nearby, not passing over on the way to somewhere else. I listened to it. Not a delivery drone either. Maybe a Firebrand, like a 23Y scout drone.

   Dad heard it, too. “Are we getting a delivery?”

   “Maybe,” Mom said, looking out the front window. “I ordered more sugar and yeast. But that drone doesn’t sound big enough to—”

   Dad got up so fast his plate rattled on the table. His fork, a piece of chicken still impaled on it, balanced on the edge, rocked, and fell to the floor. Dad frowned down at it. Looked at Mom. “Red alert.”

   He’d once said he got the phrase from some old show they used to play on TV, back when people had TVs. I’ve watched a couple episodes. Compared to today’s vids, it seemed cheesy and overacted. Totally ridiculous, really. With his words, no red lights came on and no alarm sounded. But everyone jumped into action.

   Mom yanked off her apron so fast she tore one of the ties. She rolled it up and stuffed it into a drawer. Dad snatched a kitchen rag off the counter. With two long strides, he reached the coffee table. He laid the rag over the book.

   I ran to the front window and peered out into the dark yard. Delivery drones used lights, blinking red ones for traffic safety and a white flood light as they made their approach to the porch. They didn’t need a light to see, of course. They used proximity sensors for the AI to control the approach. The flood light was for the safety of the recipients.

   No lights, red or otherwise. Besides, that was definitely a scout drone. 

   “Get away from the window,” Dad said, standing near the front door. I hadn’t heard him go there.

   I didn’t move. “Why?”

   “Because. Do what I say.” But he wasn’t watching me, focused instead out the small window in the door.

   I stayed and watched. I had to see it, to know if I was right. The drone sounded louder now, right over the house. It shifted into the back yard, zipped over the side yard, and then all the way around.

   I saw it pass through the front yard, a black shape darting over to Dad’s truck, their only vehicle, to hover by the back plate. The motion sensor by the front door caught it and turned on, flooding the gravel driveway mostly covered in brown grass. In the light, I saw the drone clearly, with eight propellers, sensors, a small cargo carrier on the back, two manipulator arms, and lots of sensors on the front. “It’s a police drone, an octafan Atlatl 530.” I knew them all.

   “Dang,” Dad said. He almost never swore. Not that I hadn’t heard way worse from the kids in school, but still. “Maybe it’s just on a random patrol.”

   Mom sounded worried. “The last one was over a year ago.”

   He nodded. “Maybe we’re just due. It’ll go away soon, I bet.”

   But the drone didn’t go away. It flew right up to my window, hovering just a meter away. A floodlight kicked on, illuminating me and the rest of the main floor with a dazzling brilliance. I threw up an arm to shade my eyes. Dots danced against the back of my hand.

   “What did I say?” Dad shouted. His strong hand clamped down on my shoulder and pulled me away.

   “Citizens,” the drone said, speakers amplified to reach us inside. It used the standard androgynous voice I’d heard from countless school programs, holos, and about anywhere online with my headset. “Remain where you are. Unlock all doors. Do not resist entry.”

   “Dang,” Dad muttered.

   A new sound overpowered the drone, deeper with the roar of a big reactor engine. A quadfan slider, or maybe a more sizable hexfan cruiser.

   As it turned out, one of each slowed over our house. The quadfan slider roared overhead. I only saw a bit of the bottom from the light in the front yard. No running lights. No floodlights. Police issue BMW quadfan Slider 5J, which usually only carried one officer much like a motorcycle, though it had the lift to do two if needed. The Toyota hexfan cruiser 10CG, with a fuselage and four seats inside, settled into the front yard. Again, no running lights, but our flood light illuminated enough I could tell it only had two officers inside.

   They got out in full kit, with body armor, rifles, gear belt, and full helmets with a curved shield down over their faces and mounted with cameras and sensors. When they first got out, fear wormed its way through my stomach. But they strolled across the yard in no great hurry. The hexfan took off by itself, shooting up into the sky to hover nearby.

   Mom yelped when the back door banged open. The officer that must have flown in on the quadfan Slider stood there, sweeping the room with both helmet and rifle. “Police. This is the police. Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

   I put my hands up. That’s what one does when someone points a rifle at them. Seemed the totally natural thing to do. Mom and Dad did, too.

   The two officers from the front yard pushed open the door and entered, rifles at their shoulders leading the way. They didn’t bend their helmets down to use the rifle’s sights. Their helmet’s headset would aim for them. I’d have thought it wicked awesome, if it weren’t for my racing heart and wobbling knees.

   When an officer gestured with his rifle, Mom pulled me into the center of the room, hands on my shoulders. She gripped me hard, so hard it almost hurt. Her round belly pressed into my back.

   Dad joined us and raised his hands. He shrugged, the way he did when he thought he was being funny. “What seems to be the problem, officers?”

   “Citizens, get on your knees!”

   My knees hit the floor so hard, I heard it. Dad helped Mom ease down, then he too dropped to his knees. “We’re unarmed.”

   The shortest of the three stepped forward, his helmet sensors sweeping them. “We know. Kyle and Willow Stevenson?”

   “Yes,” Dad said.

   “This is a search pursuant to order 53.829 under the World Governance Council Stability Act.”

   “But that…” Dad said, confusion in his voice. “That’s a search for stolen property.”

   The officer nodded, though his helmet didn’t move much. “It is. You know the law. That’ll make this easier.”

   “What are you looking for?”

   “A motorcycle. A 2034 Tesla 930, to be exact.”

   Dad waved both open palms around the room. “There’s no motorcycle here. We only have the truck. Feel free to search the sheds. We didn’t take anything.”

   The officer ignored him, pausing with the universal head cock that meant someone was talking to him through a headset. “You have no priors. Not much in the system about you at all. Why are you so disconnected?”

   “I didn’t know we were. I work online. Our son is in school.”

   “We know. Stay there, don’t move, and we’ll be out of your home momentarily. Be good citizens.”

   Dad gave the only response required. “We are good citizens.”

   One officer tromped through the bathroom and then into my parents’ bedroom. Something fell to the floor and broke. I saw him through the door pawing through their closet. He came out. “Nothing.” He went upstairs. The other two stayed put, lowering their rifles but keeping them ready in the event one of us belched up a grenade or something.

   The drone still hovered at the window, light shining brightly. It hurt to look at.

   Dad said, “Officer, can I ask—”

   “No,” said the officer in charge. Brusque. Clipped. Authoritarian. My mom would like the different word uses.

   She whispered in my ear. “It’ll be okay. Parker, just do what they say. It’ll be okay.”

   “I know, Mom.”

   I heard my bed scrape across the floor. My closet door banged open next. Finally, he came back down. “Clear.”

   Dad said, “The sheds aren’t locked.”

   “Good,” said the officer in charge. “We’ll check them. Stay there. Don’t move until the drone leaves.”

   “Thank you, officer. I hope you find it.”

   The man nodded his helmet. “Control. Nothing here. We’re checking some sheds, and then we’ll move to the next home.”

   Of course, I couldn’t hear any response. But my heartbeat finally started to slow.

   All three officers went to the front door. But the officer in charge paused, turning back. “If you see a motorcycle matching that description, be a good citizen and call it in.”

   “Of course, officer,” Dad said. “We are good citizens.”

   They started to leave.

   I sighed and sagged a little, though Mom kept me in position with her claws in my shoulders. “Don’t move until the drone leaves.” It still hovered at the window.

   The officer in charge stopped in the doorway, head cocked.

   Then he turned back. “Scans show a potential illegal item in your home.”

   Dad stiffened. “Illegal? But we are good…”

   The officer cocked his head again. Then he swiveled, strode to the coffee table, and ripped aside the kitchen rag.

   The book, leather bound and well worn, lay there for all to see. English Standard Version Bible.

   All three rifles came back up.

   Mom started to cry. It started with a choked sob and carried on in a low whine. Her hard stomach pushed against my back with each breath.

   I felt my heart in my throat, and to my shame, my eyes teared up.

   Dad’s chin fell to his chest.

   The officer poked the book with his rifle muzzle, as if it would jump up and bite him. When it didn’t, he picked it up and opened it. “This explains your minimal history in the WGC database.”

   Dad made a noise I’d heard once from a raccoon that’d gotten tangled in the fence wire. “Please,” he gasped. “Please, no.”

   The officer squared himself, closing the book and handing it to another officer. “Control. We have a possible ten thirty-nine.” He cocked his head.

   Dad said, “I love you both.”

   Mom said, “I love you, too,” while I said, “I know.”

   The officer in charge said, “Very good, Control. Proceeding per protocol.” With one step, he faced my family. “Mr. Kyle Stevenson, do you follow the mythical figure Jesus Christ?”

   Dad heaved in a great breath of air, and said as he exhaled, “He’s not a myth. And I do follow him.”

   “And you, Mrs. Willow Stevenson, do you follow the mythical figure Jesus Christ?”

   Mom got ahold of herself with a loud sniffle. She straightened her back. Crying or not, my mom had a spine of steel. “I do. Please, you don’t have to—”

   “And you, boy. How old are you?”

   I gulped and tried to speak. It got stuck halfway up. I swallowed and tried again. They already knew how old I was. This was just a test. I could pass a test. “Eleven.”

   “That’s past the age of agency. You are Parker Stevenson?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “And do you follow the mythical figure Jesus Christ?”

   I didn’t know what to do. Mom sniffled again. Dad turned to look at me. “Tell him, son. The truth.”

   No. Anything but the truth. I knew what came next. We watched videos of it at school. I wanted to lie. I wanted to tell the officer what he wanted to hear. How was that different than my school report?

   “It’s okay, son,” Dad said. His eyes stared deep into me, full of fear and horror and, most of all, resolve.

   I swallowed again. The drone watched from the window. The three officers faced me, rifles at the ready. “I…” My heart would beat out of my chest.

   “Parker,” Dad said, looking right into my eyes. Then he said the thing he always said. “Tell him what you really think.”

   I meant to lie. But I couldn’t. Almost as if someone made me say it, as if I couldn’t say anything else, the words tumbled off my dry tongue. “I am a follower of Jesus Christ.”

   “Son of God,” Mom said.

   “Savior of all who believe in his name,” Dad said.

   “Then,” the officer said, dropping his rifle to dangle from its tether and pulling out a baton with metal prongs on the end, “by code 11.397 of the Religious Tolerance Act of 2037, and by your own confession, I will carry out your sentence on this date, August nineteenth, 2046.”

   Dad closed his eyes.

   The officer jabbed him in the chest with the end of the baton. Electricity snapped. Dad’s whole body jerked, spasmed, and went limp. He fell to the floor. He wasn’t breathing.

   “No!” My mother screamed. She let go of my shoulders and fell on my father. “Kyle! No!”

   I could hardly see them through the water in my eyes. Snot drained out my nose. My chest heaved, and my heart pounded in my ears.

   “She’s pregnant,” said another officer.

   “You know the code,” the officer in charge said. “She chose for herself and the fetus.” He shoved the baton against her spine, right between her shoulder blades. More electricity. More spasming. It didn’t last long, and her body draped over my dad’s. Gone. Both of them.

   The officer faced me. I could see my own horror-struck reflection in his black face shield. “The Religious Tolerance Act of the United States of North America, authorized member nation of the WGC, stipulates the age of agency to be seven years old. But code 88.205 allows you, as a minor, the opportunity to recant and be placed in a tolerance center until you reach the age of twenty-five. Parker Stevenson, do you recant?”

   This was my chance to live. I could escape this nightmare. Maybe God could use me in the center with other kids. He could, right? I’d live. I had only to lie and deny Jesus.

   But then I remembered the cost of denial.

   My Dad read to me a verse in the bible many times. Matthew 10:33. A calm overcame me. Peace. Mom and Dad were already there. It was time to go with them. Go and see Jesus, wrapped in the Spirit and smiled upon by the Father himself. I recited the verse out loud. “’But whoever denies me before men, I also will deny before my Father who is in heaven.’ I do not recant.”

   “As you wish.” The officer extended the baton to my chest. The electrodes dug into my shirt and skin. Electricity snapped.

​

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The end of The Cost of Denial by author Tripp Berry, copyright 2026 by Three Strands Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except as permitted by copyright law and for use in reviews. 

   This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, places, events, and incidents in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

   This story contains opinions and views that are the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the views of organizations to whom the author was, is, or may become affiliated.