It seemed that I had just laid down and closed my eyes when my wife’s voice broke my reverie. There had been no dreams… no escape. It was always like this, at least on these sorts of mornings.
“C’mon, E’mok,” she said in soothing but stern tones, “its time to get up. You’ve gotta get it done.” I hated it when she used maternal tones, but I didn’t think she knew any other way to deal with me sometimes. I let it go. I was tempted to feign sickness, which wasn’t far from the truth. Some mornings I just plain hated my job, but I wasn’t a child.
“The delivery got in okay, I take it?” I asked, groggily.
“Yeah,” she responded, letting out a small sigh.
I rolled over and looked at her for a minute. Jees, the largest star, was already nearing its zenith, and Jeestai, its little sister, was rising in the east. Beams from both suns flooded through our bedroom window, the feathery strands of her body glowing as they passed through her. The gossamer petals of her eyes opened wider as our eyes met, and she smiled, one side of her lip lifting higher than the other, an emerald tooth twinkling in the morning’s radiance.
I hadn’t realized the expression on my face until I saw it reflected in hers. The smile receded a bit, and the spiked ridges of her forehead rounded off a bit as she began to speak again.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she cooed sympathetically, “but its important. The regulations are strict and we can’t afford another fine – we’ll lose the farm this time.”
“Yeah,” I returned, “I know. Just sucks, is all.”
“I’ve gotta get down to the store,” she said, checking the wall clock and then gazing out the window. “Breakfast is on the stove. I set the stuff up out in the med station for you.” She draped a coat around her back, fluffy down from her shoulders poking up at odd angles as she turned to leave. “I’ll be back this evening, okay?” She never stuck around for days like these. I loved a lot of things about my wife, but not this particular trait. She left the room, and I mentally followed the sound of her footsteps and she walked to the front door and opened it. “I love you,” she said, finally, closing the door gently behind her. I got up, wrapped myself in the covers, and walked to the window to watch her get into her vehicle. The old six-wheeled cargo hauler’s door had always been a problem, and as she struggled to unlock it, I tapped on the window. She stopped at looked back at me. My hands emerged from the blanket.
I love you, too, I signed to her. She smiled. The door opened. She drove off. I watched the cloud of dust she kicked up as she passed the pens.
I had no interest in breakfast today. I got dressed quickly, grabbed a flying disc from the pet’s toy chest, and walked down to the feed station. The central computer’s sensors were on the blink again, so I had to open the door with the keypad, and, as usual, it took me three guesses to remember the code. I stepped inside. My son had forgotten to throw out the old produce, and something had gone rotten. I did the job myself, ordering my pocket planner to remind me to ground the boy later. I selected the choicest, juiciest fruits I could find in the bins and placed them in a small basket. I stepped outside the small concrete structure and relocked the door.
The pens were mostly empty this time of year, the majority of our stock sold off to feed lots and scientific firms. What remained in the pens were breeding specimens and a few of the cheaper pets. We kept the champions on the other side of the ranch complex, away from the slaughterhouse and loading dock. It was a very important part of the business, so much so that my grandfather had had a 10 meter tall soundproof wall put in place around that stock’s compound, keeping them ignorant of their cousins’ fates. With a happier, healthier product to sell, the wall paid for itself in five years.
The sensors at the champion’s compound were still working, and the ornate wrought-iron gates sprung open for me quickly as I approached, shutting almost as soon as my heels passed their threshold. The pens for the males were closest to the entrance – it didn’t matter so much if they escaped. I could hear them rough-housing in the communal cage, but I didn’t stop to check in on them. We kept only three of them, for variety’s sake. Towards the center of the compound were the seventeen individual female habitats, but only fourteen of them were occupied. I passed by them quietly, noting that they’d all been sedated. Inwardly, I thanked my wife. I stopped by cage number thirteen for a moment to take a look at its occupant.
Sh’mria had been the last homo sapien my mother had raised before she finally gave in to her illness. She’d been a month premature – her own mother, Sh’licta having escaped one morning and been run down by one of the produce trucks. Sh’licta had never been properly broken – it was a delicate process which took months and, from time to time, failed miserably. She would not accept her lot in life, but my parents were soft-hearted people. They knew they’d never be able to sell her so they added her to the breeding stock. Sh’mria had little of her mother’s spirit, and after I took over the ranch she became my prize broodmare. Of twelve pregnancies, seven had won high honors at the provincial level, and one had placed fourth at the nationals. Her skin was the dark, golden brown prized by the north coast upper class, with violet eyes and the dark red hair my family’s stock was famous for. It had taken my great grandfather generations to get the eyes right. I stared down at her as she lay curled up on her cushions, no movement other than her steady breathing. I was thankful that my wife had done this part of the job, and that Sh’mria couldn’t see the remorse in my eyes.
Some said it wasn’t right to keep creatures of their intelligence, and I could understand their position, but the world was what it was, and it had no other place in it for humans.
I left the female pens and went back to the brightly colored nursery. We only bred the champions every few years, to keep the prices inflated, and the law said they couldn’t be sold until they were at least old enough to read. It was just after market time, so the place only had one occupant left; I could hear her singing to herself as I stepped softly down the hallway to her kennel. She didn’t notice me yet. I took a moment to freeze her in my memory. I had intended her to be another breeder, so she was almost nine years old. In another year she would have moved in with her mother and aunts. In another five, she would have been inseminated for the first time. She was short for her age, slender and wiry. Her skin was just a shade lighter and slightly more reddish than her mother’s, a trait she picked up from her sire. Her deep red hair, hanging down just past her shoulders, was slightly curly, helped along a bit by her mother’s habit of putting it in tight little braids. She had the cute, button nose that my family had been trying to achieve in its pet stock for at least a century, and we were all quite pleased when we found out it was just barely within the breed guidelines for competition. She was bright, had a pleasing voice, and had learned three languages before she was four. As she played with her rag dolls on the slightly dirty tile floor, I knew in my heart that she was my pride and joy – almost perfect. I struggled to keep tears from welling up in my eye petals.
She suddenly stopped, aware I was looking at her. She looked up at me, and gave me a toothy, genuine smile.
“Hi, Master E’mok,” she laughed. “I was just playing with Keemy.” She held up the dolly, the little button eyes my daughter had sewn on it staring brightly at me. “You wanna play? You can use Jeesta!” She indicated the another doll on the floor, looking up at me hopefully.
“Good morning, Sh’lyta,” I replied, forcing a smile. “I brought you some breakfast, and then I thought we might go play some catch.” I knelt down and placed the basket between us. She eyed the berries hungrily but waited for my permission, which I gave with a slight nod. She dug in greedily, all thought of manners out the window for a moment, before catching herself.
“Um, you want some?” she offered, holding old the basket.
“No, thank you,” I refused politely. “I already ate.”
I sat, leaning against the painted concrete wall, watching her devour the fruit, occasionally running my fingers through her hair. When she was finished, she hugged me, and leaned her back against me as she resumed playing with her dolls.
“Keemy says it’ll be cold soon!” she told me, cradling the doll like a baby. “She doesn’t like the cold. Brrrrrrrrr!” She laughed. “Jeesta loves the snow though. She’s a guard. I think I would like to be a guard. Could I be a guard, Master?”
“You wouldn’t want to be a guard,” I told her. “They have to work all day and they rarely get to play. You’re…”, I hesitated, “a champion.” She beamed, smiling ear to ear.
She played with her dolls for a bit, asking me question after question. I answered as best and cheerfully as I could. I was a better actor than I ever dreamed, but it wasn’t the first time I’d done this. We left the nursery and went out to the compound’s freshly mowed lawn. I produced the flying disc and told her to go get ready to catch it.
“Hey, can mommy play, too?” she asked, hopefully.
“No,” I responded, almost breaking, “your mommy’s sleeping. She had to get a shot today.” I tossed the disc gently. She caught it effortlessly.
“Do I have to get a shot?” she asked in that irritated tone the children of both our species shared.
My heart skipped.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Don’t worry, though, sweetie.” I coughed. “It’ll be quick.”
We played for about an hour before my planner beeped, reminding me that I had to be out to the south paddock to finish work on the irrigation. I couldn’t hold off any longer.
“Its time to go in, sweetie,” I said.
“Aw,” she whined, her eyes scrunching in disappointment. “We just got started!”
“I’ve got work to do, Sh’lyta,” I replied. I hated myself. I walked towards her, scooping her up. She was as light, warm in my arms. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her tiny fingers playing with the feathers.
“I have to get my shot now,” she pouted.
“Yes.” The world went monochrome. I carried her into the med station. She whistled and hummed, slightly nervous. I took her into the large, concrete bunker, and locked the door behind us. I set her down on the stainless steel examination table. The shot was waiting for me on the counter.
“Lie down,” I told her. She complied. I pulled the plastic protector off the shot, being sure to cover the label as I gripped the syringe. I took her arm and lightly slapped the inside of her elbow, looking for the proper vein; then I wiped it with alcohol.
“Is it gonna hurt?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “Don’t worry, just relax.” She laid back, staring at the ceiling, an expression of perfect trust on her face. I gave her the injection. It started to take effect almost immediately.
“Can I go play with mommy now?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “You have to wait a bit.”
“I’m sleepy,” was the last thing she said. I stood there for a long time, just stroking her hair, counting her breaths.
The second sun was setting in the west when my oldest boy finally came in for dinner. I sat at the kitchen table over an untouched steak, counting the squares in the wallpaper.
“Dad,” he said, worried, no doubt, that he was in trouble, “Sh’lyta’s not in her pen. Did Mom take her to town? I swear I made sure the doors were locked.”
“Its all right,” I replied coldly, “I had to put her down.”
“Why?” he asked, clearly upset.
“Got her results back from the Agricultural Board,” I said. “They gave her a Class F rating. She had a genetic condition that made her unfit for breeding. I had to put her down.”
“Damn,” he replied. “You should’ve waited for me, I coulda learned how to do that.” I gave him a grave look. He was just like me at his age: eager to learn. His expression dropped under my gaze. “I gotta learn sometime, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, picking up my knife and fork. I began to slowly slice a piece off of my steak. “You gotta learn sometime.”
Daniel Latta
