The Culling

by Charles Ray

  A guard, dressed in a shiny black singlesuit, and wearing a black ceramic helmet with the Plexiglas one-way visor pulled down, making his face invisible, stood alert at the door, as unmoving as an obsidian statue. Clipped to the waist of his singlesuit was a large, black, evil-looking flechette gun, a weapon that spit out a thousand tiny lethal metal darts per second, reducing a human target to so much shredded meat. A twin of the guard stood outside the door. Any authorized individual approaching the door from outside would be challenged at fifty feet, and eliminated at twenty-five.

  It was the middle of the week, not a normal meeting day, and the members were seated, awaiting the arrival of the Chairman, each wondering at the reason for this special, unscheduled meeting.

  While a round table can’t be said to have a head, the presence of an empty chair, more opulent and high-backed than the rest, at the point of the circle nearest the entrance, marked the position of that individual at the table who was first among equals. Flanking that empty chair, in the order of their perceived rank from its occupant, were the members of New Liberty’s Ruling Committee, which was known to all merely as The Committee.

  To the right of the empty chair sat Elder Jebediah Robertson, spiritual advisor to the Chairman and Minister of Religious and Social Affairs. A tall, thin man, with pale, mottled flesh drawn tight over his narrow face, and lank, brown hair that was thinning and revealing dark liver spots on his skull. His cadaverous appearance was matched with a dour expression.

  To the left sat Robertson’s principal rival for the attention of the Chairman. A rotund, balding man with perpetually pursed lips, and watery blue eyes, Drake Edison was Minister of Population Control. He hated Robertson for his influence over the Chairman, influence he thought should be his, and only his, to wield.

  To Edison’s left was Armand Wheelwright, a broad-shouldered man with steel-gray hair and a square jaw, whose almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones were the only signs of his Asian and Native American ancestry. Wheelwright was New Liberty’s Minister of Defense, a position that had been important in the early days of the community, but as communities became increasingly isolated and wary of contact with each other his only role was the protection of the community from infrequent raids from barbarians from the wild country outside the community. Poorly armed, the Wild Ones, as they were called, stood little chance against his forces.

  A man dressed entirely in black, with skin only a few shades lighter than his uniform, sat next to Wheelwright. Piercing brown eyes glared at the world from beneath a slightly protruding, wide forehead. Slightly fleshy lips beneath the flaring nostrils of a broad nose gave Gravius-One, Commander of the Monitors, New Liberty’s internal security arm, the look of someone who had smelled something distasteful.

  Completing the circle, sitting between Gravius and Robertson was a gray man. Nigel Halifax, the head of research for New Liberty, had rumpled gray hair that raggedly framed a gray oval face. He wore a collarless gray tunic over wrinkled gray pants, and his black shoes were always covered with a thin layer of gray dust. He never spoke during meetings, keeping his eyes fixed on the notebook he kept on the table before him.

  Except for the hum of the ventilation units, and the occasional scraping sound of a shoe on the hard linoleum floor, the room was silent. The five men sitting there had little to say to each other. They, in fact, detested each other, each for his own unique reason. These men, in fact, knew only two emotions; hate for each other, and fear of the Chairman.

  All heads snapped around toward the door when the guard suddenly moved to the side and pivoted to open it.

  Hector Cruz, Chairman of The Committee, first among equals in the elite group that ruled New Liberty and everyone within its borders, strode confidently into the room. That he had kept them waiting for over an hour didn’t bother him. He was, after all, the Chairman. His, and only his, time was important and precious. He glanced indifferently around the circle of blank, waiting faces, his amber eyes as lifeless as stone.

  He was neither slender nor fat, neither tall nor short. In fact, except for the amber color of his eyes, Hector Cruz was an unremarkable individual. He was dressed in a plain brown singlesuit, devoid of any insignia of rank. He could walk among the citizens of New Liberty unnoticed until you looked into his amber eyes. The lack of emotion reflected there usually stopped in their tracks. Looking into his eyes was like looking at two polished pieces of stone. Your reflection bounced back from the hard, unyielding surface, beneath which there was nothing.

  With measured pace, Cruz walked to his place at the table. He stood there for several heartbeats, his head moving slowly from left to right, looking at, no looking into, each man there. Each man kept his gaze steadily on the table in front of him, but each could feel the frigid sweep of that steely scan. Finally, Cruz sat.

  “Well, citizens,” he said in a voice that was as cold and emotionless as his gaze. “Thank you for your presence today.” As if their presence was voluntary. “I know this is not a normally scheduled meeting day, and that each of you has important work to do, but there are things that concern me that I feel I needs must consult you on.”

  Four heads tilted up – Nigel Halifax continued to study the pad in front of him – four pairs of eyes questioning. Robertson finally broke the silence.

  “What could that be, Citizen Cruz?” he asked. “Production levels are within normal parameters; there have been no reports of Wild One activity on our borders; what can there be to be concerned about?”

  The others held their collective breaths. Only Robertson among them would dare to speak in a manner that seemed to contradict Cruz. But, even he was not completely immune from Cruz’s occasional fits of temper. And, one thing that was usually guaranteed to provoke an outburst was being disagreed with, or to hear words that even distantly implied that he might be anything but right.

  Cruz looked at Robertson like a crocodile watching a young, succulent animal that has wandered too close to the river. Then, his thin lips turned up a fraction of a millimeter – what on his face passed for a smile. Four sets of lungs let air seep out slowly.

  “That, my dear citizen, is because you fail to look behind the numbers. You see only what’s reported; so many acres planted, so many metric tons harvested. It’s what you can’t see that you must be truly concerned about.”

  While the others looked on, questions in their eyes, Robertson smiled back at the man who held the lives of so many in his hands. He’d heard this before; during his private spiritual development sessions with the Chairman. He inclined his head in a slight bow.

  “And, what is it behind the numbers that we should be aware of?” he asked, putting just a touch of deference in his voice. He knew that Cruz liked that.

  “We are allowing the seed of rebellion, planted at birth, to grow unimpeded within our very midst. For more than a decade now, that seed has no doubt infected others.”

  It was, Robertson feared, the first sign of mental and emotional decline. For several weeks not, in their sessions, Cruz had begun to ramble about some event that had occurred ten years previously; an event that had doubtlessly shaken him, but had until now been repressed. He would never be specific, only ramble about an unfinished task; one that it might yet even be too late to accomplish.

  Robertson saw the frowns of curiosity on the others’ faces. Even if he’d wanted to share with them; and, he didn’t; the sanctity of the spiritual confession had to be respected. It said no less in the Book of Apocalypse, and he lived by the Book.

  “Perhaps if you could give us the identity of this seed, we could take care of it,” he said.

  Cruz seemed to snap back to focus, to return from some place that only he knew. His hard amber eyes bored through Robertson.

  “No, citizen,” he said. “This is something that I must do. I called you together today, though, to discuss something else. As you know, there will be a Culling soon. I propose that we change the rules to allow culling of proles under the age of nineteen.”
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br />   Robertson’s eyebrows rose. This, too, was a conversation he and Cruz had had; one that they vehemently disagreed on. The Book of Apocalypse was specific on that point; the punishment of society could only be applied to those who had reached the age of maturity, nineteen according to the Book. On this issue, he knew he could rebut the mercurial Cruz with impunity. Not even the Chairman would openly defy the Word.

  “But, citizen,” Robertson said. “The Book of Apocalypse says that only those who have reached maturity can be culled. To go against the Word is to invite divine retribution.”

  Cruz cleared his throat, looking down at the table.

  “I can’t believe the Book would disagree with an action that could ensure the continued survival of the community, elder.” The use of his title, rather than ‘citizen,’ told Robertson that he’d struck a nerve. “There has to be an exception in extraordinary circumstances,” Cruz said defensively.

  “What extraordinary circumstances?” asked Drake Edison. “Food production is within required norms.”

  “There have been no raids by the Wild Ones,” Armand Wheelwright chimed in.

  “And, we’ve had no incidents of violence, and very few thefts, for the past several weeks,” Gravius-One added.

  Cruz looked at each of them, his face a study in disdain.

  “I really don’t think you’re prepared to understand.” He turned toward the door. “I’m thirsty. Monitor, please bring me a glass of water.”

  The black-suited guard walked to the credenza beneath the large, inert screen. He picked up a large crystal pitcher of water and poured into a tumbler that sat next to the pitcher on a silver tray. He picked up the tumbler and started toward the Chairman’s position.

  What happened next was not clear, nor was it ever adequately explained. As the man carrying the tumbler of water approached the chairman, Robertson turned in his chair, his long legs thrusting outward. The guard’s right foot bumped Robertson’s leg, throwing his balance off. His arms shot forward in a reflex action, causing the water in the tumbler to slosh over the rim, splashing into Cruz’s face.

  Hector Cruz’s face contorted in shock and anger as the water dripped from his chin onto his clothing, leaving dark brown blotches in the shiny fabric.

  Seeing the expression on Cruz’s face, the monitor backed up, his body quivering.

  “S-sorry, citizen,” he said. “It w-was an accident.”

  Cruz rose from his seat. His body too was quivering, but from rage rather than fear.

  “What is your designation, monitor?” He asked; his voice as hard as tempered steel.

  “L-leland-27, citizen.”

  “Well, Leland-27, you are a member of the elite guard of the Monitors, are you not?”

  “Y-yes, citizen.”

  “So, that means you’ve had special training; that you are among the best of the best?”

  “Y-yes, citizen; I was f-first in my training class.”

  Cruz made a snorting sound.

  “Well, either the training is deficient, monitor, or you have forgotten your training. Remove your visor. I wish to see your face.”

  The man touched a button at the side of his helmet. The visor retracted upwards, revealing a clean shaven face, light blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a broad forehead. There was a look of fear in the young man’s eyes.

  Cruz turned to Gravius-One.

  “I want this man executed immediately as an object lesson to the rest of your elite guards that I will not tolerate sloppiness in this facility.”

  Gravius-One’s face hardened as he rose to face Cruz.

  “If I may, citizen,” he said. “While I agree that an example should be made, I would like to offer an even more fitting punishment, if I may.”

  “What, Citizen Gravius, is more fitting than death?”

  The monitor commander’s fleshy lips curled up into a macabre smile; slightly parted, they revealed two rows of brilliant white teeth.

  “Death, citizen, is final. People soon forget the dead. If, on the other hand, the punishment is something that goes on and on, and is there for all to see, does it not have a more long-lasting effect?”

  Cruz looked at the dark man for a moment, and then smiled.

  “I do see your point. But then, that is why I kept you on commander of the monitors after my fa-, the previous Chairman died – you have a wonderfully devious mind. What do you have in mind?”

  “Other than sentry duty at the animal enclosures, the most distasteful and dangerous duty is the external patrol in the west. We lose two or three men a year out there to barbarian raids, which is why it is duty usually restricted to one month each year for monitors. I should think that being permanently assigned to the western frontier would be a punishment that is worse than death.”

  Cruz laughed; a mirthless, evil sound that made Leland-27’s body feel cold.

  “I do believe I like your punishment much more than mine. Once again, Gravius, you please me greatly. Make it so.” He turned to the others. “I’m a bit exhausted by this turn of events, citizens. We can take this up again at out next meeting. You are excused.” As the four remaining men rose, Cruz raised a pale hand. “Not you, Citizen Halifax. I have a matter that I must discuss with you alone.”

  Halifax, his face even grayer, sat back down. The others filed quietly out. Cruz sat in the chair vacated by Robertson and leaned close until his face was almost touching the other man’s.

  “What have you to report, Citizen Halifax?”

  For the first time, Nigel Halifax met Cruz’s gaze.

  Now, preparing to discuss his research, Halifax was in his comfort zone. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair.

  “We have had some minor success with the life-extending research, citizen. A few more months of testing, and I believe it will be ready.” He opened his notebook. “We only have to work on the side effects, but I’m confident that we will solve that problem soon.

  The gray-clad little man opened the notebook that he’d been staring at throughout the previous meeting. Barely legible, spidery writing covered the yellowed pages.

  “The, uh, special project you requested that I work on,” Halifax continued. “Has run into, uh, a little snag . . . I’m having difficulty developing a targeting system that will key on a specific person.”

  “But, you assured me you could do it,” Cruz said with menace in his voice.

  “Oh, I can, and I will. It’s just that . . . working on it alone . . . well, it’s rather complicated, and I must oversee the other work as well. That and the lack of proper texts means that it will take me a bit longer than I originally anticipated.”

  “Do not disappoint me, Citizen Halifax.”

  Halifax looked up. A slight hint of color appeared in his grayish cheeks.

  “Have I ever disappointed you, citizen?” There was challenge in his voice. “It might take longer than planned, but I have always delivered what I promise. Now, as to your last major project of interest; there is one issue that my people are at odds about that requires your decision.”

  “What is that?” Cruz asked coldly.

  “On the matter of controlling the prole population; the behaviorists on my staff prefer psychological conditioning from birth, while the chemists believe we could achieve the level of submissiveness we desire with carefully spaced chemical injections.”

  “I have you on The Committee to advise me on such matters,” Cruz said. “Which method do you think will be most effective?”

  “Both have strengths and weaknesses. While the chemical method is quicker, individuals with high tolerance can be unaffected unless given dosages high enough to be potentially fatal. The conditioning method takes longer, but is at the subconscious level, making it a very powerful motivator. My own preference, though, would be conditioning from birth, augmented with chemical injections at the onset of puberty. The chemicals, given at a time of major hormonal activity, would cement the conditioning, resulting in adult proles who would only think one way, and wh
o would be completely satisfied with their assigned slot in life.”

  Cruz smiled his vulpine smile. The thought of a population of workers, strong, healthy, but completely docile; workers who would do the basest of jobs and enjoy them, accept them as their due, gave him a feeling of warmth like nothing else ever could. With the prole population approaching a number that would put strains on food production, and a citizen population approaching the limits of The Committee’s ability to keep them employed and entertained, he had come up with an idea that would ensure the continued existence of New Liberty, but in a form that no one before him had dared contemplate. And, leading the community into this new Eden would be its First Citizen, Hector Cruz.

  “Very well, citizen,” he said. “Go back and encourage your people to redouble their efforts.”

  Snatching up his notebook, the gray man scurried from the room.

  3.

  For five minutes after Halifax had departed, Hector Cruz sat in his high-backed chair, staring at the ceiling and listening to the hum of the air circulation system.

  As often happened when Cruz was alone, his mind drifted back nearly twenty years to the time before he ascended to the position of Chairman of The Committee. As son of the Chairman, it was expected that he would replace his father, but while he waited – impatiently - he spent much of his time with his best friend, Ulysses Jackson, who was a minor official in the Ministry of Population Control.

  The two had met when Jackson first came to the west side of the river, a teenage orphan whose parents had been file clerks in the Library of Congress during the time of the purge. When mobs led by the newly formed Monitor organization stormed the library to burn the forbidden texts, the Jacksons, Benjamin and Elizabeth, trying to protect what they regarded as a treasured storehouse of mankind’s knowledge, had been killed. The young Ulysses, at home during the tragic incident, had been taken in by Hector’s father and raised in the Cruz household, becoming in effect Hector’s foster brother.