Chapter 1

What’s the best way to kill my own children?

Sullrob was having trouble sleeping again. This whole business about terminating his kids was starting to keep him awake nights. It wasn’t so much whether or not to kill them, but what would be the best way to do it that troubled him. It’s not like he wanted to put them to death, but . . .  well, sometimes a Seeliot must do what he must do.

Sullrob kicked the coarse sheet off and lay there bathed in the pink light of twin moons shining through open windows. The faint purple hue of his mottled skin looked even patchier than normal in the crater-splayed light. The highlights in his silky, blond hair shone brightly in the small dressing mirror. It was another one of those hot, humid spells so common in this region of Seelius, another lonely night without the wife he lost to the plague not two turns before. His job, his meager savings, this austere home on the outskirts of Tessila, a recent-model groundcar, and, of course, his two children were all he had left.

He swung his legs over and sat on the side of the bed for a few minutes, his face buried in his hands. He missed Sullruff. Some nights, even after all these years, just picturing her face was almost all he could stand. Deciding he was thirsty, he shook off the flood of memories and padded quietly to the food-storage area at the end of the living room, then poured a drink of cool water. This area, a modest bathroom with automatic flushing features�"a modern addition not yet very common on Seelius�"and three bedrooms made up the entire house.

He carefully removed a carved, wooden box from the larder and opened it, releasing the fragrance of the piquant Zhasou seasoning, a common food and drink spice also used as the focus of the Seelius Celebration of Life. Following the old tradition, he took the tiniest pinch between his thumb and middle finger and sprinkled a few grains into his mug. He whispered the first level of Celebration, took a sip, then repeated the process for each of the other five levels. He finished the drink and, using the remainder of the pinch, touched his left shoulder, then his right, then his forehead. Finally, he blew the last grains toward the bedrooms of his sleeping children.

He refilled the mug with clear water, then carried it over to the low table that held his dead wife’s family’s Chronicle of Celebration, a record of the ancient rituals, the teachings, and her family history for more than a score of generations. Sulruff’s kin had followed the old ways, keeping the record for each new generation, starting a new book for each child at his birth, a personal log into which he or she would copy the stories of their ancestors�"and learn and discuss them�"before reaching the age of ascension. He thought again how his wife had been such an unusual mix of tradition and irreverence. She was first to suggest giving their children their own names rather than derivations of the family prefix, yet she scrupulously had each of them go through all of the ceremonies of the Celebration as they reached the proper ages. On Seelius, people tended either to embrace the old ways or eschew them entirely�"Sullruff had somehow managed to do both.

He sipped his mug and opened the book to the first page, whispering the first five levels, pausing at Memory. He turned to the back of the book where the life histories of Sullruff’s parents had been dutifully recorded, up to and including their deaths. It sometimes bothered him that neither of his children had updated their own Chronicles of Celebration with the facts of their mother’s death. He decided, as he had so many times before, that they probably would when they were ready, in their own time, on their own terms. Sullruff sometimes got a little frustrated that her youngsters didn’t take the Chronicles just a bit more seriously, but she understood the distractions of youth and was too busy loving them and worrying over them to fret about little things.

How can I kill my own kids?

He closed the book and took another sip from his mug. He noticed through the window that there was a light burning across the field in the house of Pirlhoff, a beautiful young Seeliot woman who had moved back to care for her aging grandfather after her parents and brother succumbed to the plague. She was up at night more and more often tending to her elder; there would be a funeral soon and then young Pirlhoff would be without any family.

He sat the mug down and eased quietly to his little girl’s room, peeking in. Yantanna looked so small and peaceful, cuddled up with the little fuzzy weenshugger that hummed quietly in its sleep. The little girl had just celebrated her fifth birthday the week before�"she was slightly older than seven Consortium years based on the original Earth calendar�"and had received the little purple humming furball for her present. It had set Sullrob back half a tenth-turn’s pay, but the little girl’s delight, the sparkle in her beautiful eyes, the dimpled smile on her beatific face, and their inseparability ever since had made it worthwhile.

Do I kill the weenshugger, too?

Since Seeliots’ modesty is focused more on their ideas than their bodies, there was no door to close as he left his little girl to her dreams. Next he paused outside his son’s room and peeked in. Stava’s had been a difficult birth for Sullruff, but they had been rewarded with the most beautiful baby any proud parents could ever want. Now at eight turns old�"almost twelve Consortium years�"he was, in Sullrob’s opinion, the most handsome boy in all of Tessila. He had passed the one-meter mark the year before, proving he would be a tall, slender Seeliot someday. He had the faintest purple tint to his skin, blond-white hair, and sparkling violet eyes�"not to mention that adorable face that, with the right smile and affectation, could disarm all women and most girls, plus soften the ire of even the sternest man. Sullrob secretly suspected that Stava practiced that look of innocence in front of the recently installed bathroom mirror; he was convinced he’d been teaching Yantanna his little tricks, too.

It had been a hard couple of turns since they lost Sullruff�"since the plague had taken so many of their friends and neighbors all in less than a half-turn. Already a close family, the three had pulled together, supporting each other, making sure whomever was having a bad day knew he was not alone. The sadness and emptiness that comes from loving someone who is no longer there had been eclipsed by fear of the plague until they were finally reassured that, with the Consortium’s new medicine, disease could never again steal in from the night and take away people they loved. Sure, his new job piloting for the Consortium had finally given the family economic security, but a growing fear of the fundamentalist government was beginning to scare them nearly as much. At least for Sullruff, they had the fifth level of Celebration.

Stava breathed softly in the moonlight, curled up under his coarse sheet, his new adolescent-style haircut pointing every direction but where it should. Sullrob knew it would probably be sometime during the next turn that his only son would be old enough to begin ascension, the physical changes that would make him a young man with all the privileges and responsibilities. That’s if he lived that long.

It would be only a matter of time until Sullrob would be forced to kill his children. He knew that; he had known it for a while. It would be better to do it on his own terms, to be prepared, to make the right decisions in advance�"before they were made for him. Tears started to form in his eyes; one trickled down his mottled cheek. He wiped his face with a speckled hand.

Finally, with one last peek at each of his children�"the most beautiful little girl and the handsomest boy in all of Tessila�"he stole quietly back to his own cot and buried his face in his pillow, trying not to feel so scared. It would be another night of fitful sleep, his troubled thoughts weighing heavily on his soul. There were so many important decisions to make, and he didn’t know how much time he would have to make them.

What’s the best way to kill my own children?

*               *               *

Brog Pawligan passed up the second round of ales. That was Brog, all right, the orbiter’s consummate single dad. One quickie with the fellers at the end of a shift, then off to check on his kids�"even though they’d probably be asleep by the time he got back to quarters.

“He oughta pack them brats off to somewhere ground-side and let ’em a-live with relatives,” one loader commented after Brog had said his good-byes. “Ain’t adoin’ ’em no good adraggin’ ’em from one orbiter to the next�"and it’s akeepin’ him from a-livin’ his own life, too.”

“I seen ’im apass up many chances t’climb up in some woman so’s he could arush home to them kids. I botzed him once fer asnubbin’ a sister I set ’im up with an’ he ajus’ tol’ me she’da made a lousy wife and a worse mother.”

Several other loaders and a pilot in the group laughed. Ain’t no kinda man worries about kids so much he passes up a chance to climb up a good woman.

“He’s aslowin’ down, though,” the first one observed. “He used t’slide out ever’ few months, a-chasin’ more and bigger money jobs, but I seen ’im apass up three or four in the year he’s been here. These Caskentia runs don’t apay half o’ what he could amake if he’d ajump out to one o’ them new ore gigs�"he’s agot the seniority t’get way up the list.”

“I think he’s ajus’ tired o’ jerkin’ them kids along ever’where they’s a new gig.”

“Mus’ be. Ain’t the money akeepin’ ’im ’ere.”

They ordered another round of ales and focused their attentions on a group of women loaders sauntering in after a late shift. Brog Pawligan watched and listened from the back of the canteen, satisfied that the conversation�"the speculation�"hadn’t dwelled too long on him after his departure. He stole quietly out and took a tube to one of the inner habitat levels, his daily four-minute commute toward his home and family.

During the ride, he thought about the conversation he’d overheard. Actually, he was tired of jerking his kids from one orbiter station to the next. Yes, looking out for his family was a higher priority than climbing up the nearest pretty thing. Actually, though they wouldn’t suspect, it was the money keeping him at Seelius Orbiter-two for so long. Oh, he tried to convince himself sometimes that he was just doing the right and noble thing, helping those who needed his help, but if push came to shove, his family counted most. His little plan would help him retire to a nice comfortable ground-side home where his teenage daughter, Selta, and his son, little ten-year-old Jowda, could make friends and keep them, could plant flowers or catch critters, could carve their names in some tree that would be there for them to show their own kids someday. But if he thought for even a minute that his plan was putting them at risk . . .  well, that wouldn’t be worth it. But in the meantime, as long as everything continued to run smoothly, then it was a fine plan indeed.

He exited the tube and walked the curved, steel corridor until he was outside his own unit. He paused for a moment, greeting several neighbors who wandered by, wondering if Selta would be up this late�"again. He didn’t like it when she waited up, but he never had the heart to get mad at her for it. Little Jowda had been trying to do the same more and more often, but the boy never quite lasted long enough.

Brog ran his fingers through his curly, brown hair and rested his brawny, two-meter-plus frame against the wall, deciding yet again that he needed more exercise than his pilot’s job usually allowed. He touched the plate that caused the rectangular, blue door to slide aside. He stepped into the privacy foyer and waited for the outer door to close before the inner door opened into the living area.

“Hi, Daddy!” Selta greeted him�"quietly so as not to wake Jowda sprawled on the couch beside her.

Every time he saw her, she looked more the pretty young woman her mother had been. He noticed that, this night, her dark-brown hair was delicately waved. Her deep-hazel eyes with little swirls of gold reflected the flickering image from the vid-screen. Wearing a ruffled, faint-orange nightgown, she was curled up watching silly shows, gently stroking the sandy-brown hair of her sleeping little brother. Brog kissed her lightly on the head and gave her the look, the one that says she really ought to be in bed by now.

“I wasn’t up awaiting for you, Daddy. Jowda was, though. He awanted to acomplain again about the bullies in the school ’dule. They keep apicking on him for not agetting his face marked like all the boys is adoin’.”

Brog shook his head. They’d been through this many times before. It would take months for those silly tattoos to wear off completely�"and sometimes they left scars. Jowda always tried so hard to fit in, to be like the other boys�"whichever boys were around each new place the family moved. Brog hoped maybe a good, permanent home ground-side would help his son develop more of his own identity and not look so hard to others for acceptance. He gathered all twenty-six kilos of the boy in his arms and carried him into his bedroom, then tucked him in.

“G’night, Dad,” Jowda whispered before curling up and snoozing.

“G’night, son.” He kissed him on the cheek, dimmed the lights, and pressed the door-plate on his way out.

“I know, Daddy, I’m agoing!” Selta called from the kitchenette, putting away the snacks Jowda had dragged out earlier. She kissed Brog on the cheek, admonished him for trying to tuck her in, then disappeared into her room. Brog selected an ale from the refrigerator and took it to the couch. He kicked his boots into the corner and sat back, lost in thought.

No, he wasn’t putting his kids at risk. Yes, he was doing the right thing. A new home and a new life would be the reward. Maybe Selta could meet a higher class of boy for a change�"and Jowda wouldn’t have to pal around with those figure-faces in the ’dule. And maybe Brog could be home more�"spend more time with those kids.

He’d do anything for his kids.

*               *               *

“In the matter of the family of Smidkar,” the orator announced.

A hush fell over the chamber. More than sixty lookers-on had crowded into the sparse, concrete and wood room to watch the proceedings. Manacled in a long box behind a rail off to the side waited the extended family of the young carpenter from the outskirts of Tessila.

Smidkar fidgeted nervously in the corner seat. Next to him sat his oldest boy, a tow-headed lad with light-purple skin, not much older than four turns�"or about six Consortium years. Next to him sat the junior boy, a full turn younger than his older brother. Next was their mother, Smidloof, a rather plain woman whose light-purple skin was streaked with brown. She ran her fingers nervously through her near-white hair. The next two places on the bench were occupied by Smidkar’s brothers, one a farmer, the other a loader. Thereafter followed his father and two uncles, the latter seated by age.

In Seeliot society, carrying out civic responsibilities fell first upon the man. In his absence�"or unwillingness�"it fell to his brothers, his sons if they had reached ascension, then his father, his uncles, cousins . . .  however deeply into the lineage it was necessary to delve.

“What must we know?” asked the elder of the panel of three.

“In previous action,” explained the orator, sing-songing from the booklet spread on the ancient, wooden table in front of him, “the family of Smidkar was found to be genetically contaminated!” There was a gasp from the audience even though this was not new information. “Smidkar himself was tested and found to be pure, but his wife, Smidloof, was found to carry the genes of invaders and determined to be a threat to our peoples and our culture. It was ordered that she be purged on this date.” A murmur spread through the room.

“Quiet!” ordered the elder, casting a stern glare across the audience.

“It was further determined,” the orator continued, “that the children of Smidkar�"Smidrob and Smidlok�"met the conditions of ‘reason to suspect’ and therefore were ordered to be tested for genetic contamination. The results are ready for consideration by the Panel of Extirpation.”

A hush fell over the room. Smidkar tugged at the manacles on his wrists and ankles, his head darting wildly from side to side. His wife sat stoically, tears creeping down her cheeks. The boys were scared and confused, watching the proceedings with big, violet eyes, occasionally squirming and tugging at their own tiny manacles.

“So the results shall be read; so they shall be true,” the elder sing-songed.

“In the matter of the genetic purity of Smidlok, the youngest child of Smidkar, he has been found to be a true and pure heir of Seelius.”

“Quiet!” the elder ordered, hushing the sudden buzz and chatter from the crowd. Smidloof started to sob audibly. Smidkar stared straight ahead. Maybe, at least, his children would be spared.

“In the matter of the genetic purity of Smidrob, the eldest child of Smidkar, he has been found to possess the same genetic contamination as his mother, Smidloof.”

The audience roared, many jumping to their feet.

“Purge the impure!”

“Seelius for true Seeliots!”

“Protect us from contamination!”

“But he’s just a child�"”

The one or two voices of compassion were shouted down by those driven by hatred and fear. Though many other-worlders believed that Seelius’ peoples traced their ancestry to early human colonization, most Seeliots were convinced theirs was a pure and superior race. They resented being woefully contaminated by cross-breeding with human traders who, only a few centuries before, had rediscovered the planet nestled among a cluster of small suns along a rarely traveled belt beyond the early trading routes.

What started as a purge of b*****d babies thrown into the fires had, through the last several hundred turns, evolved into a near-religious quest to re-establish racial purity, a mission further exacerbated by the recent acquisition of technologies for testing genetic material. The most recent swing toward a more fundamentalist society was caused by the ascension of the new governor, next in line as heir to the post in the rigid patriarchy established during the trader purge centuries before. His cabinet ruled from a platform of religious fear, focusing its efforts on saving Seelius for Seeliots.

Despite such fierce protectiveness of the planet’s culture and fear of contamination from human ideas and lifestyles, the recent plague had forced the governor into a tentative alliance with a trading company member of the Consortium. Ancient medicines, crystals grown from the sap of the Seelius Jurnama plant, were highly valued by humans on other worlds. Several turns were required to grow the complex crystalline structures that could both prevent and cure disease�"but it broke down if not ingested soon after fully forming. A Consortium pharmaceutical cooperative could grow the same structures in just a matter of weeks, using plants harvested from Seelius, by processing them in the vacuum of space. When the Seelius plague suddenly increased the planet’s need for medicine, a deal allowed Jurnama shipments to go out in exchange for an adequate supply of the crystals.

Only four Seeliots trained to pilot the transports that lifted the harvested plants to the Orbiter-two so they could be transferred to human cargo ships. No humans were allowed to travel to Seelius; the Seeliot pilots were carefully warned not to allow any human culture to be brought back and influence the local citizens. This regular�"though guarded�"contact with outsiders had increased the paranoia about cultural contamination and was often used as justification for the severe methods of spying on citizens and, eventually, testing them genetically and purging those not perceived as true Seeliots.

All of the economics, politics, and religion that worked together to make people feel justified in the kind of proceedings happening to Smidkar’s family proved too complicated for young Smidrob to understand. This hostile crowd of people, local merchants and neighbors, were spewing hatred toward him. Suddenly very afraid, he started to cry, squirming and straining against his manacles.

“Quiet!” the elder ordered. As the noise faded and Seeliots returned to their seats, he continued, “Smidkar of Tessila, you have been ordered to purge your wife, the impure Smidloof, for the benefit of all Seelius. You are herewith ordered to purge your son, the impure Smidrob, for the benefit of all Seelius. Have you chosen a method?”

Smidkar sat rigid, staring blankly at his lap. There was an uncomfortable pause, the audience awaiting his response.

Finally, the elder shook his head sadly and intoned, “Smidkar has failed to take responsibility for his community and to Seelius. He is no longer worthy to walk among us. It falls to his brother, or each successive male relative, to fulfill his obligations to us all. Smidfalk of Tessila, do you accept your responsibility?”

The oldest brother sat there in a daze, but he slowly nodded assent. A man sitting at a low table beside the massive desk where the elders loomed slowly opened a carved, wooden box. He removed a tray covered with thorns.

“The right of decision has been waived by Smidkar,” the elder continued. “It is ordered that the cleansing occur immediately, and that it be through the administration of Dosir thorns.”

Two uniformed men unlocked the manacles on the oldest brother, watching him carefully as he stepped behind the benches where his relatives sat. The man with the tray walked over and let himself into the box, standing adjacent to Smidkar. The older brother stood behind Smidkar and, taking a thorn from the tray, paused to control his trembling. Suddenly, he plunged the thorn into the condemned man’s neck. Smidloof and the boys watched in horror as Smidkar convulsed several times, then stiffened before collapsing and gasping out his last breath.

The audience remained quiet; the two boys cried. The older brother stepped behind Smidloof and, taking another thorn from the tray, quickly plunged it into her neck. It took her longer to die�"her convulsions were more violent, her gasping fading more slowly. Finally, her life was over. The boys wailed in fear at the sight of their dead mother slumped over beside them.

Taking another thorn from the tray, the oldest stepped behind Smidrob. The boy started screaming, jerking at his manacles, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Please, little one,” the uncle whispered in his ear. “It will be easier if you hold still.” Suddenly, he plunged the thorn into the little boy’s neck. The youngster convulsed only once, gasped for a few seconds, then slumped forward into a position identical to his dead mother’s.

“Your family has done what is best for Seelius,” the elder intoned. “You have earned the respect and sympathy of us all. You are released; these proceedings are adjourned.” The three elders rose and shuffled through a door in the back of the room. The two officers unlocked the manacles on the rest of Smidkar’s male relatives. The last to be freed was little Smidlok. Several older Smid women rushed over and scooped him up, cradling him in their arms.

“All is okay, little one. You will be happy with us.”

The Smid men started considering how, among themselves, they could carry three dead relatives all the way back across the village for burial. The Smid women hurried the child out of the crowded room, trying to stay ahead of the mob. They tried not to look back at Smidkar, Smidloof, and little Smidrob, glass-eyed and stiff there in the box, their chains holding them upright. Tiny Smidlok, still sobbing, tried desperately to reach out to his mother, his father, his big brother. Everybody seemed to understand what had happened but him.

“Mommy!” he screamed as he was carried into the blinding glare of Seelius day.

           

Author's Note

Please ignore the lack of paragraph indentations. You may download a PDF copy of this sample chapter at www.freshinkgroup.com. I also consider requests for a review copy.