Free Phoenix Without Ashes by Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant

peremptory sounds.
    The voice that emerged from the grille was flat and mechanical. Devon recognized it as the voice of the Creator. “Gene pool selection invariant. New factor, coded: Devon, attempting disruption optimum genetic balance. Disruption counter to program. Disruptive factor must, repeat must, be eliminated from gene pool. In name of Creator, new factor, coded: Devon must be eliminated. Any means must be employed; any means shall be condoned.” The voice clicked off.
    Micah and Jubal looked at each other with evident satisfaction.
    “It’s a shame,” said Jubal. “I can almost like the boy, sometimes.”
    “It is necessary,” said Micah, “to ensure the Creator’s Work; and the Creator’s Work is order.”
    “The Creator’s work,” shouted Devon, “is fraud!” He emerged from the basement, banging the trapdoor up and over. Micah and Jubal turned as one.
    “You,” said Micah as Devon charged up the last few stairs. The two old men moved to stop him. Younger, stronger, more determined, Devon easily thrust them aside and broke for the Creator’s machine. With a sacrilegious recklessness he punched the keys at random.
    “Stop, boy!” said Micah. “You shall perish in fire for your impiety.”
    “Better that than the cold hills,” said Devon without turning. Elder Jubal grabbed his arm and tried to wrestle him away from the machine. Devon batted distractedly at the old man, forgetting that he still held the metal pry. The rod slapped across the Elder’s face and Jubal fell away, blood spurting from his nose.
    “Now see what you’ve done,” said Micah. The Elder grappled with Devon, winding his long arms about the younger man’s shoulders and chest. He clung to Devon’s back as though he were a saddle.
    Devon ignored the old man. He slapped the Creator’s machine again and suddenly the cassette popped out. Devon grabbed the plastic cartridge and turned toward the door. Micah tried to stop him, even though he was sliding down Devon’s body toward the floor. His bony arms wound around Devon’s ankles like vines. Devon stumbled and nearly fell, then jerked loose and made for the door. Micah sprawled forward full-length on the planking.
    Devon and the cassette disappeared into the wide bar of dusk-light from the doorway and were gone.
    Elder Micah slowly raised himself to his knees. He clenched and unclenched his fists in impotent fury.
    Young Goodman clattered into the Place of Worship. “What be the matter? I heard cries.” Neither Elder answered at first. Goodman looked around the hall. “Elder Micah? Elder Jubal?”
    Jubal sat on the floor with his back against the lectern. His hands were clasped over the lower portion of his face. His eyes were glazed. Blood oozed between his fingers and dripped on the floor.
    Micah had himself sunk down and now sat supported by the wall. Pain made his sharp features a mask; he pressed his right hand against his chest as though stanching an invisible wound. The Elder finally spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Payment,” he said, “shall be exacted.”
     

TEN
     
    The farmstead of Aram was perhaps the finest cultivation in all the world. Aram labored diligently to produce the highest possible yield from the contrasting square fields of wheat and corn, soy and barley. Then there were the alfalfa meadows, and the pastures for sheep, goats, and cattle. A belt of woodlands bordered two sides of the farm; timid deer occasionally ventured here from the hills. A stream, fed by springs in the hills, meandered across Aram’s land until it emptied into the lake, Perseverance.
    Eventually the farm would pass from Aram’s stewardship because he had no son. The land would ordinarily have been given over to Garth, as prospective senior son-in-law, save that Garth was apparently set to become the new metalsmith. Presumably that meant that rights to use the land would eventually fall to whatever man married Aram’s youngest daughter, Ruth. It was a