(Content warning: rape)
Vic liked to think that he was a good husband. Most of the men of the colony didn’t care about what the role meant, or its duties. They were too busy working in the fabs, or out ranching on the frontier, to pay attention to the responsibilities of being good husbands. Even worse, some were lazy and would rather be off at the mess drinking until the zero shift than home to their wives.
Vic could not abide such men. He took his role as husband and homemaker very seriously. And what’s more, he loved his wife. Not many could say that. On the frontier, many married for duty, not love; having sons, forming a family, and the stability that implied, was a duty of all men, something they owed the colony that nurtured them and kept them from whatever hardship the planet threw at them. But Vic bore no resentment towards the part fate had chosen for him to play. One day – soon, probably – he would too become a father and play his part in continuing the colony’s generations off into the future, like an endless golden chain.
Vic’s wife was called Esmerelda and, perhaps alone among the colony, he loved her almost as though she were his equal.
When Vic was nineteen, they’d gone around again and advertised for men to become husbands. Vic had been quite happy in his creche, but it wasn’t the done thing to stay there forever, unless you were Shuddering Sam who needed looking after, or Evan who wasn’t up to running a house himself. And besides, the Quota Board was very clear: wife equals house. No wife, no house.
Besides, houses were a privilege, not a right. Places were scarce, especially after the floods last summer, which had ruined half of Gum Shoe Street. Vic’s house had been Old Man Krawitz’s before that, who had been moved out into the pensioners’ dorm once his son left home. There had been a short interview for suitability – aptitude tests, that sort of thing – and then he’d been introduced to her.
Marat and Jones, on the other hand, were unmarried and as a result didn’t have the first idea about what it meant. That didn’t stop them from weighing in, though.
“Cat who got the cream over here! What’s gotten into you, Vic?”
They were playing three-man cribbage at the pub, leaning over a tiny table trying not to spill pints over the tiny home-fabbed pegboard. Jones had a scowl on his face because he was losing. But Marat, ever a gossip, was only interested in Vic.
Vic leaned in, barely able to keep a smile off his face. “It’s Esmerelda. She’s expecting. I’m gonna be a dad.”
Even Jones looked up at that. “Are you?”
Marat whistled. “You didn’t take long over that, didcha?”
“I thought…” Vic trailed off. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Delighted,” said Jones.
“Yep. Fucking wetting myself with joy on your behalf,” said Marat. “Our little Vic Hairy, having a little hairy son to himself.”
“Really?”
“Look, Vic, you know, you have a reputation in this town already, and this’ll only get men talking all the more.”
Vic said, “What do you mean, reputation?”
“Well, your wife, obviously. You’re too close to her. You should spend more time with other men. For goodness sake, you’ve even started calling her a name…”
Vic didn’t have time to reply to this, because at that point Aston Ho burst into the pub waving something in his hand and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Gavin! I’m looking for Gavin. And Li Hei – where is he? Has anyone seen Li Hei?”
Gavin was in the corner drinking beer with Terrence, who pointed. “He’s over here. Why d’ye want him? You can’t have him until I’ve finished my pint.”
Aston Ho waved his hand vaguely. Vic saw the thing he was holding was a writ, real bamboo-paper written in real ink. “Got a summons for them. Li Hei, anyone? And – oh, you’re Vic Hargreevs, aincha? You too. Here.” With this he shoved he writ under Vic’s nose, scattering the cribbage board and sending cards and pegs flying. Vic apologised and set about picking them up.
Marat picked up the writ. “Vic, my dear dad-to-be, you’ve been called up for jury service!”
Vic looked up from the floor. “Have I?”
“Yes, you silly dolt. Excused from shift for the duration, and…” He trailed off. “Oh, well.”
Vic and Jones both grabbed for it. Jones won. “What?”
“They’re putting Serjei on trail at last,” said Jones, wide-eyed.
They all fell silent at that. Serjei had stopped off here at least once a week for poker before the whole business with John Marlowe’s wife had gone down, and not one in the pub didn’t remember him. The colony town was a small one.
Vic took the moment to grab his writ off Jones. The trial was to take place tomorrow and he was to report to the town hall in the morning.
They’d done up the town hall for it, fabbed long rows of seats facing the front, where all the men in the town could sit if they chose. And it seemed one and all were there. Vic recognised men who worked the night shifts, who he never normally saw; men who lived out on the ranches, and even a couple of frontiersmen who hardly ever came into town at all. Many of the townsmen had brought their sons, too. The youngest was Long-Nose Jimmy’s kid, who he must have taken out of creche to be here – the boy must have been four or five. He looked up with a bright face full of excitement, holding a bag of sticky sweets his dad had given him to keep him quiet. A nice day out, thought Vic. He wondered if in a few years’ time he’d be bringing his son here to watch a man condemned.
Then Judge Ngota strode in to take his seat and all the room quietened.
Judge Ngota, Head of the Justice Board, was a tall man who oozed calm authority. He spoke only briefly, to remind all of the solemnity of the court, the etiquette of attendance, and the order of proceedings. Then he sat and Aston Ho stood as judge’s assistant to give an overview of the facts of the case. Vic glazed over. He already knew the story, as did every man present. One night last summer, drunk, Serjei had broken into John Marlowe’s house while John was away on shift. He’d smashed a bunch of his possessions – by accident, it was thought – then he’d found John’s wife. After he’d had his way with her he’d fallen asleep in John’s bed, where John had found him the next morning and called the sheriff on him.
Since then, Serjei had been languishing in the work-jail while the Justice Board tried to figure out what to do with him. They’d already had the value of John’s smashed possessions docked from Serjei’s wages. The problem was his wife.
Aston finished his synopsis and said, “Now we hear from five men, fair and true, what might be done with Serjei.”
Jerome, first of the jurors, stood. He was a slim, slight man who looked like he might fall over if you shouted at him too loudly. But when he spoke it was with all the authority of Colony justice and not a single man could look away.
“Serjei used another man’s wife. He violated the most basic of rights: the sanctity of home and husbandhood. Theft or destruction of property is one thing; but this goes beyond theft. A wife is not only a man’s most treasured possession. She is also integrity and honour. Serjei has dishonoured John. Now he must atone for his grievance or the blemish will stain not only himself but all of the colony. I name the punishment exile.”
He sat. Vic looked to the other jurors, trying to gauge their reactions. Exile was harsh. It meant losing your own home and your wife. Although some had been known to eke out existence in the wilds, they were few and far between. Most died. If starvation didn’t get you, there were acid floods, the biting sickness, and extreme cold to contend with – not to mention the Season of Stones, when the planet passed through a dust cloud and meteorites rained down upon the plain with all the bounty of a swarm of locusts.
The others were doing their best not to let it show what they thought of Jerome’s verdict. But Gavin looked visibly upset as he stood to give his piece. He’d always worn his feelings on his sleeve, thought Vic, in a way not befitting a man. “Serjei’s crime is despicable, but we shouldn’t allow our disgust to cloud our judgement. A wife isn’t the equal of a man, but you’d have Serjei’s life for the damaging of John’s wife? For shame.”
The crowd liked that. A ripple of agreement ran through the room.
“Serjei should have his sin memorialised that we might all know it – a tattoo, maybe, that’d be for the honourable Judge to decide – then he should be made to work a year’s worth of shifts on the frontier blasters. And banned from being a husband. After that his debt to the colony will be repaid. I name the punishment labour, with conditions.”
Smattered applause to that. Frontier blasting was hard, dangerous work. All men suffered a month’s shifts at it one every five years, which was enough to keep the tumbleweeds back and protect the borders of the town. But one indentured criminal doing it full-time would save many men from having to do it, would let the Doc sign off more lame or unable men to do something desk-based instead. It was a neat solution.
Li Hei went next. Vic heard the words – they included “transgression” and “paraphernalia” and “social contract” – but they jostled against each other meaninglessly in his ears, because all he could think was that he was going next. He got the impression Li also wanted exile but would settle for a longer term of frontier shifts. And all too soon Li sat and everyone was looking at him.
He stood.
The crowd was quiet. Someone muttered something to Aston Ho. In the front row Old Man Krawitz snored and was elbowed awake by his neighbour.
Vic started. “I’m d…” – the sound came out all phlegmy and hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I’m disgusted by what Serjei did to John Marlowe. And to John’s wife. It’s inexcusable. If someone did that to my Esmerelda, I’d want – to kill them.”
He paused. The last bit had come out with more vigour than he’d been expecting.
Everyone was looking at him. He thought he could make out disgust on their faces, but whether it was for Serjei or him he wasn’t sure. Maybe this was his “reputation” that Marat had mentioned. He took a sip of water.
“But – it is our lot to be as compassionate as we are decisive, and as merciful as we are just. Serjei used Jon Marlowe’s wife only because he had no wife of his own. If we were to allocate him a wife” – at this there was a great consternation in the room, as every man turned to his neighbour in disbelief – “if we were to grant him the dignity to satisfy his urges in the proper way… then Serjei may yet prove himself a useful member of our society.” He was speeding up uncontrollably, hurrying to the end of his speech. “His crime was one of bestial savagery. We might treat him like a man. I name the punishment husbandhood.”
He sat.
Chatter blossomed through the crowd like dry paper all at once being engulfed in flame. He caught Aston Ho’s eye, who shook his head slowly, never breaking eye contact. Vic automatically looked away and found himself looking directly at Serjei over in the box. He was sitting with an almost saintlike posture, with his hands folded in his lap. He met Vic’s gaze with an incomprehensible expression.
Judge Ngota called for order and banged his gavel and at last the room quietened down.
Doc Wattern stood as the final juror. His thick mop of hair had thinned over the years but still it spilled out of his collar and down his back. He looked from right to left across the men gathered as though reading their calibre. Eventually he said,
“Serjei should be punished because we must build a colony where crimes like his are abhorred and not” – he looked at Vic – “celebrated. Exile would be right. However, the stone season is approaching and without protection from the town he will die. It will be more humane for us to meet the foregone conclusion. I name the punishment death.”
This drew the greatest outcry yet. The death penalty had not been used for generations. Vic wasn’t sure he even knew how it was supposed to be carried out. Doubtless there was something about it in the Archives.
Someone in the audience – Henrik, who Vic had worked shift with long ago – stood and yelled, “This is insane. You use all this fancy rhetoric but a wife is just belongings, at the end of the day. Not worth a man’s life.”
This brought even more men to their feet. There were cries of “Justice!” and “Hang him!”. One of the young dads near the back had his hands over his little son’s ears, rather futilely, thought Vic. Over in the witness box Serjei stared at the ceiling with an expression of exquisite boredom and waited for it all to end.
In the end, once he’d gotten them all back under control, Judge Ngota named exile. Vic got the impression he was being lenient and would have liked a stronger statement, but the popular response to Doc Wattern’s proposal had made him change his mind.
He’d tried to talk to Gavin on his way out – “I liked the way you spoke – I wish I could speak like that – I’d hoped Judge had picked yours instead” – but Gavin had seen him coming and suddenly needed to leave to get somewhere urgently. Marat had shrugged when he mentioned this to him, like what did you expect? And when Aston Ho had gone around with their tokens of shift, he’d pressed Vic’s into his hand with disdain and moved on without saying anything.
Vic got the message. He ducked before they’d finished packing up, figuring they wouldn’t miss him, and set off home. He’d had enough of the company of men for one day. They talked a lot and never listened to each other. The only person he wanted to see or talk to right now was Esmerelda.
Vic’s house was on Jackalope Lane, up the hill from the town hall. As he climbed, the Yellow Brother started to set in the sky and bathed the town in a happy golden glow, all the way from the port to the treeline. The comms tower blinked sleepily. Vic stopped for a moment to watch the purple shadow of True Peak slant across the valley. Over in the west there was a dust storm coming, but it wouldn’t be here for a few hours at least. He reached the house and swiped the lock to open the door.
He ducked under the lintel and smiled to behold her. All the way up one wall she extended: her creaking gears and pneumatic tubes vanishing into the house, well, her house, she was the house. Her status indicator lights glittered green and yellow – oh, her thermal sink was on orange, he’d need to look at that. Her discretion cover was neatly arrayed over her sex vent since the last time he’d been minded to use her. In her dispensary unit was a gleaming, freshly-made meal of soya hash with yeast sprinkled on top just the way he liked it, the way he’d programmed her to make it. Vic beamed to see his son – his son! – floating in the amniotic vat at her aft wall, now almost the size of a honeydew melon, with his little face screwed up against the sight and sound of her. At the centre of it all her core user interface glittered. Her terminal flashed a prompt, ticking, waiting for his input, for her beloved husband to command her.
“Honey,” he said, “I’m home.”