Deadhead, present time
Nikos was sixteen, born into a tranquil world, and believed in The Way. How could you not? The Way told you the best time to plant crops, and where. How and when to avoid a bad storm or a flood. Life was usually good if uneventful on Deadhead, you knew what you’d be doing tomorrow, next month, next year. Most of the twenty thousand human population were content to meander on with their lives – but always in the same general, group-friendly direction.
Several times a year – it varied from one year to the next – people would gather to watch two or more of their fellows executed. Not because they’d done wrong, but in order to readjust The Way. Sad, but necessary for the public good. The executioners, or Adjustors, were aside from the Progs the nearest to a superior social class Deadhead possessed. The expectant crowd would be excited and shout for the moment. It was the only time when extreme emotion was accepted. When the Adjusted died, the crowd gave out a collective sigh of release, now relaxed and content. The execution place came to be known as Chop-Chop Square, although no one really knew why. It seemed apt and the name stuck. It took thirty years to go from peace and love to human sacrifice. Compared to other human descents into cruelty, the Stoners should be commended for remaining civilised as long as they did.
* * *
Nikos was overseeing a cultivator ploughing furrows when the Prog came for him. The cultivator didn’t really need overseeing. It was an extension of the AI that looked after the colony’s agriculture. Nikos was unnecessary. The AI, however, found humans interesting, even if they were a tad predictable. Besides, Nikos had unused work quotas that needed filling.
The Prog wore the official long, technicoloured cloak and headband, plus high leather boots that had been brought from Earth. Early on the colony had thought to tan the skins of large indigenous six-legged creatures. It hadn’t been a success, the creatures beginning to rot as soon as they died. Now people wore shoes made from the bark of common tree-like plants that had recently started to rattle their branches whenever a human came near. High leather boots from Earth, polished till they shone, were a greater symbol of authority than the cloak and headband.
“You have been Chosen,” the Prog – female, mid-aged, long dark hair, mole above her right eye – said solemnly. “It is the Way.” Then, seeing Nikos’ immediate alarm, “Not as an Adjustment. There is to be a test. If you succeed you will become an Expediter.”
Nikos could only stare in shock.
“This is a great honour.”
Nikos didn’t care if success made him emperor of the galaxy. He quite enjoyed most of the Ceremony of Adjustment... the anticipation, the rising excitement, the Adjustors so stern in black, the Sword of Adjustment glittering in the sunshine, even the vacant stare of the Adjusted which meant, he secretly hoped – for Nikos was soft-hearted – that they were stoned out of their minds. It was the blood that upset him, and the way the heads bounced when they hit the ground.
A blue jay flew overhead, its mouth parts writhing, so probably chasing down a meal. It had been easier to give the local fauna Earth names than new ones. These blue jays were said to be lucky. Nikos didn’t feel it. He looked beyond the Prog, beyond the purple fields of early wheat to the distant hills. He and three others had planned to go camping next week. But who would want to spend time with a junior Adjustor?
“Your parents know,” she said.
Nikos doubted his parents could remember who he was. “But...” he said.
“There were three possible candidates,” she said kindly. “But you were the best.” She didn’t say that this had been foreseen a year ago. Progs did not want the common Herd (an old biker expression, the origin long forgotten) to know quite how planned their lives actually were. It went way beyond who could or could not have children. Nor did the Progs want the Herd to know that they, the Progs, often had no idea why an action had to be taken, only that it must. Better for all if the Progs were seen to be all-knowing and wise. Even a heavily stoned population could revolt.
“You must come with me now,” she said, ignoring his obvious distress.
He went because it was The Way, which had to be cherished above all. He went because he could imagine the sound of his head hitting the ground.
* * *
There was a crowd waiting, not in Chop-Chop Square but next to the Grow Your Own’s rusting carcass, where the Progs and Adjustors now lived. He saw them gazing into the sky, raised his eyes and saw an alien ship – they were always alien – slowly descend. To Nikos it was a fairy-tale palace of metal spars, struts, walkways and platforms on which rested various-sized pods. He’d have preferred it more colourful but maybe it lit up at night. The ship landed in silence.
“Nikos!”
He turned to see the Prog had been joined by several colleagues and Adjustors. One of the black-cloaked latter stepped forward, holding out a weapon traded from the floating, warty aliens. He’d been told about the weapon in school, with a warning never to accept one if offered by the warty aliens. Nikos was confused but thankful it wasn’t the Adjustment Sword.
They showed him how to use the weapon: point and press the button on top.
“It is time,” the Prog said.
Nikos turned back to see one of the pods detach itself from the ship and float closer to them. It stopped, the door opened and a woman emerged.
Tawny blonde hair, bedraggled as if she’d stepped from the shower. Young, moving gracefully. Wearing a loose top several sizes too large and a pair of
