We not (Nosotros, No)

That afternoon, when the bells jingled tickers and the news was spread like a
miracle, men from all latitudes were confused in a cry of triumph. As had been
predicted two hundred years earlier the man had finally conquered immortality in
2168.

All speakers in the world, all transmitters of images, all newsletters,

highlighted this major biological revolution. Also I was glad, of course, in a
first moment.

How we waited for this day!

A single injection of ten cubic centimeters, was all it took to not ever die. A
single injection, given every hundred years, ensured that no human body was never
decompose. Since that day only an accident could kill a human life. Goodbye to the
disease, old age, death by organic weakness.

A single shot, every hundred years.

Until news came the second, complementary to the first. The injection only take
effect among those under twenty. No human being who had crossed the age of growth
could halt its internal decay in time. Only the young would be immortal. The world
federal government and was preparing to organize the shipping, distribution and
application of doses to all the children and adolescents in the land. Medicine
compartments of rockets would take the bulbs to the more remote colonies
terrestrial space

All would be immortal.

Less we, the older adults, trained in whose body the seed of death was definitely
already implanted.

All the boys survive forever. They would be immortal, and indeed animals of
another species. No longer human beings: his psychology, his vision, his
perspective, were radically different from ours.

All would be immortal. Masters of the universe forever. Free. Fertile. Gods.

We not. We men and women over twenty years, are the latest generation mortal. We
were the farewell, goodbye, the bone tissue and blood that flew last time, on the
face of the earth.

We not. Marginalized suddenly, as the last grandparent, suddenly we had become

residents of a nursing home, confused frightened rabbits among a race of titans.
These young people suddenly began to be our executioners without trying. We were
not their parents. Since that day, we were something else, something ugly and
sick, illogical and monstrous, we were those who would die. Those awaiting death.
They shed tears, hiding her contempt, mixed with joy. With that innocent joy with
which they expressed their certainty that now, now you all should go well.

We only hoped for. See them grow, be beautiful, young and continue to prepare for
the second shot ... a ceremony, "that we would see no religious character, whose
would become evident. They will not ever encounter with God. The last shipment of
souls toward the past, it was ours.

Now how much would it cost to leave the ground! How would we painfully gnawing
envy! Many wanted to kill us fill the soul, from today until the day we die!
Until yesterday. When the first boy of fifteen, with injection into the body, he
chose suicide. When he got that news, us mortals, we begin to love and understand
the immortals.

Because they are poor tadpoles lifers in the green pond of life. Perpetua.
Eternal. And we began to suspect that within 99 years, the day of the second
injection, the police will search thousands of immortals to impose it.

And the third injection, and the fourth, and fifth century and the sixth, fewer
volunteers, more and more children who beg eternal evasion, the end, redemption.
Hunting will be horrendous. Shall be perpetually miserable.

We not.