Daughters of a Coral Dawn Page 12

  They gathered around, staring at us as we gaped at them. They were handsome women, some much more than handsome. I can only speculate how we must have appeared to them, standing at attention in our white EV suits trimmed in navy and red, navy blue boots on our feet, oxygen helmets on our heads, our shoulders emblazoned with the flags of the Americas.

  A gnome of a woman with enormous breasts stepped forward. She wore a green robe under a green cape which hung slightly askew; she pushed it back impatiently, causing the cape to hang even further askew. This extraordinary personage looked us over with wonderfully vivid green eyes and then spoke the first direct words uttered between us and the inhabitants of this world: “Take off those silly hoods,” she said. “You look perfectly ridiculous.”

  I unsnapped my helmet; I would no more have disobeyed her than my own mother.

  “Lieutenant!” Ross bellowed at me.

  “Why not?” Hanigan said. “We’ll have no choice eventually, Jim.”

  Glaring at me, Ross ordered, “All personnel shall remove their helmets.”

  A murmur arose from the women as my hair cascaded over my white-clad shoulders. I breathed in air that was sweet, warm, delicious. Then the gnome of a woman said to me, “Hello, my dear. Are you by any chance heterosexual? It would be so nice to have another on the planet.”

  Struck momentarily dumb by this question, I could only croak, “Who are you?”

  She shrugged. “You, my dear, may call me Mother.”

  “Great Grimaldi,” Coulter said in a husky, stunned whisper.

  “Grimaldi?” The gnome who called herself Mother turned to the distinguished woman clad in the blue robe.

  “Twenty-first century United States president,” the woman said.

  “Of course, Minerva,” Mother said. “I must be getting senile.”

  Ross squared his shoulders and attempted to gain some control over this surreal situation. “Madam, I am James Ross, Commander of Cruiser of the Americas nine-nine-one, and this is my crew. Our navigator, Colonel Rolf Coulter.” Coulter stepped forward and bowed awkwardly. “Our systems engineer, Colonel Roger Hanigan.” Hanigan stepped forward, fumbling with his headgear, eyes darting over the women. “Our exobiologist, Lieutenant Laurel Meredith.” I also stepped forward, irresistibly smiling at the gnome of a woman who winked at me as if this were a joke shared by only the two of us.

  “It would be tiresome to introduce us all,” Mother told Ross. “And there is only one name you need to know.” She called, “Megan? Where are you, dear?”

  A tall slender woman strode forward, dressed in black pants and a white shirt. I sensed immediately that she had remained at the rear of the group to scrutinize us, and I somehow also knew instinctively that she was the woman of bell-like voice who had commanded our landing and disarming.

  Even among these women she was exceptional. She looked at us with rectangular eyes identical in color to Mother’s, and to a ring I wore—emerald, my favorite of all Earth stones. Her eyes were interested and coolly curious as they surveyed me, lingering on my hair which is my one physical pride, its length apparently not the custom here; the hairstyles on these women—including her own dark hair—were simple, shoulder-length at most, utilitarian. I stared at her; she was the most arresting woman I had ever seen.

  “I am Megan.”

  If Ross had also been affected by her presence, it was not now visible. Immediately his posture assumed belligerence; he also had recognized the bell-toned voice. Booted feet spread widely apart, gloved hands on his hips, he glowered at her and asked peremptorily, with a trace of contempt, “Where are your men?”

  The green-eyed woman—Megan—crossed her arms and with an impish and attractive grin looked expectantly down at Mother. But Mother merely gave Megan’s arm an absent pat; she was examining Ross.

  Ross is not tall, but his burly swarthiness, his dark thin hair cut close to his scalp, his flat black eyes, have always reminded me of a portrait I once saw of ancient times, of a Tartar spurring a horse across the Russian Steppes. Mother’s expression told me that she found Ross—for lack of another word—unsavory.

  Ross repeated, “Where are your men?”

  “We are of a species,” Mother said slowly, her bright eyes fastened on Ross, “that devours the male after mating.”

  The women roared with laughter and so did I, irresistibly; until Ross—taken aback as were all the men—recovered himself. “Lieutenant!” he bellowed.

  I found it difficult to stand at attention while all these women around me continued to laugh, but I did my best.

  “Madam,” Ross grated, “I see no reason for the levity of your—”

  “Phosh,” Mother said witheringly. “Did we ask you here?”

  “Our ship,” Ross protested. “A particle storm struck—”

  “A particle storm?” Flinging her silver cape over a shoulder, the imperious woman I had noticed before strode forward, formidably handsome in her maturity. She demanded, “How could anyone be stupid enough to be caught in a particle storm?”

  “The matter is complex,” muttered Ross, his face dark and suffused with fury as the women again roared with laughter. “How could any of you possibly understand or—”

  “Commander,” Megan interrupted. Her glance had just left me; I knew that she had seen my amusement at Ross’s helpless rage. “Commander,” Megan said, “this woman who gives you honor by speaking to you is esteemed Hera, an astrophysicist.”

  “But if you were stupid enough to get caught,” Hera continued inexorably as if never interrupted, “then proper precautions should have minimized your damage.”

  I heard this with bitter satisfaction; and I noticed that Coulter and Hanigan had focused their gazes carefully downward. So Ross’s actions had been inappropriate, born of panic. As I had suspected.

  “I took the decision which my best judgment—”

  “Details,” Mother interrupted, her hand raised in a command for silence. “Bore the girls with all that, not me. I’ve been trying my best to be civil but . . .” Pulling her cape around her, she said, “I know you girls can manage,” and stalked off, a phalanx of strong young women surrounding her in a ceremonial if informal guard.

  “Who are you?” Ross demanded angrily of Megan. “What are you doing here? Where are your cities? Your towns? Your—”

  “You were not invited here,” Megan said evenly. “We are under no obligation to answer any of your questions.”

  “Just a minute, you—”

  “Food will be provided, also your other reasonable requirements. You may not leave this area without permission.”

  “Now just a minute, you can’t—”

  As Ross took half a step forward a dozen women surrounded him, silver rod-like objects in their hands trained on him.

  Megan said easily, “I’m certain Commander Ross did not intend to be foolish.”

  Ross stepped back and squared his shoulders. “How long,” he asked stiffly, “do you intend to keep all of us confined? And uninformed?”

  “Until we decide. Lieutenant Meredith?”

  I started at my name and rank as spoken by the cool and melodious voice.

  “You may accompany us if you wish. However, if you do so you may not return to your ship until our decisions are made.”

  I said without hesitation, “My duty is to remain.”

  She nodded, and added to that a brief glance which seemed approving.

  Ross said, “Decide what?”

  Megan looked at Ross, and apparently felt no need to reply.

  “To kill us? Is that what you need to decide?”

  “We could have performed that act at any time,” she said softly.

  “We’re your captives. Your prisoners.”

  “Until we decide the conditions of your release.”

  “How long?”

  “Very possibly a long time, Commander.” She turned from us and walked away, followed by all her companions.

  The hovercraft soon departed, r
ising over the sharply canted hills. Ross watched until their craft disappeared. “Lieutenant, perhaps you’d want to. . . run further tests.”

  It wasn’t a question; he hadn’t called me Laurel as he usually did. The men boarded the EV and I busied myself with grass and soil samples. It wasn’t the first time I’d been excluded from their discussions, but under these circumstances it was less infuriating. My separateness—my femaleness—had become even more visible, my allegiance suspect under the domination of female captors who had granted me permission, however conditional, to join them.

  Also, I didn’t mind this particular ostracism because I needed to sort through my own perceptions. But I couldn’t extract much coherency from a turmoil of mind crowded with images of these confident women, especially the strong and purposeful woman named Megan . . . Never had I conceived of women in ascendancy over men, much less with such ease of control. My ostracism increasingly rankled as I packed my samples; soon unaccustomed anger grew out of my resentment. In defiance of Ross’s implied order I stalked aboard the EV.

  As I’d expected, Ross and Coulter and Hanigan were in discussion—heated—which abruptly halted as I entered.

  “I’m a member of this crew,” I stated to the scowling Ross, “and if I’m not to be included in your discussions and decisions under these extraordinary circumstances, then advise these women that I accept their offer.”

  “Now wait a minute, Laurel,” Hanigan said with the facile smile I hated. “I was just making that very point to Jim.”

  “He was indeed,” Ross said smoothly. “And we’re all in agreement about it. Sit down, Laurel. Join us.”

  “We didn’t want to worry your pretty head,” Coulter rasped.

  For a thousandth time I reminded myself of Coulter’s rank, and held my tongue. Their sudden conciliation did not deceive me; I cynically wondered what use they’d been plotting to make of me. But I asked, “Who do you think they are?”

  Ross answered, looking at me shrewdly, “Stories circulated some few years ago about a group of women taking a ship and leaving Earth—”

  “I heard all the stories.” Coulter’s voice rose, obviously in resumption of an argument. “They were all officially denied. And anyway, no ship could escape our pursuit craft.”

  “So they told us it never happened,” Hanigan sneered. “I never believe anything I’m told by our sacred government.”

  “I saw filmed evidence, Rolf,” Ross said to Coulter. “An ore carrier—”

  “Doctored film, a hoax.”

  “Rolf,” Hanigan said, “there’s a ship orbiting this planet that looks big enough to be an ore carrier from what I could tell.”

  “They claimed they blew it up at the EC,” Ross said. “And I did see the film.”

  “Maybe that’s the part of the film that was doctored,” Hanigan said.

  I listened with interest to the continuation of the argument I’d interrupted. I too had heard these stories . . . and other stories. Among our Women’s Officer Corps there’d been whispered discussions of recordings in existence telling of Earth’s pursuit craft tracking a ship which had tauntingly identified itself as Amelia Earhart as it leaped to hyper-space. And there were more stories—gleeful stories—that the escaping women had been exceptional, highly gifted, vital to the professions they’d abandoned . . . and that they and their strange ship had outwitted their pursuers, had vanished among the star systems . . . And that their disappearance had caused turmoil—and somewhat more liberalized treatment of women in all the professions, including my own . . .

  Ross asked, too casually, “Laurel, what do you know about this?”

  I shrugged. “The same stories.”

  “But think about it, men,” Hanigan exulted. “If it is these women, then we’re on a world of—Damn, we’ve landed in paradise!”

  I suggested drily, “Your enthusiasm may not be shared by the inhabitants of . . . paradise.”

  But Coulter slapped Hanigan on the back and playfully flexed his own muscles, puffing out his chest. “Come on, Laurel. When they have a choice . . . I mean, when women really have a choice—”

  Ross said cautiously, smiling, “We’d better be selective. Some of these women, they’re big. And look to be in as good shape as we are.”

  “Better,” I could not resist saying.

  The receiver crackled to life. Megan’s cool voice inquired about our comfort, whether we would prefer their food or our own.

  Ross replied shortly, “Ours.”

  She went on to inform us of the limits of the confinement area within which we must remain—three square kilometers. Ross’s face darkened with anger. We were less than a kilometer due west from the sea, she stated, and gave us its temperature and tide times, cautioning that we must not swim at high tide. In concise language she warned us of the suddenness and strength of the planet’s nocturnal winds, and of the preparation we should make to secure our craft. Then she bade us a courteous farewell. Ross replied with a muttered obscenity; but Megan had switched off.

  We made a meal from the EV’s ample food store, and continued our speculations. Where were their settlements? The consensus opinion—underground. How sophisticated was their technology? From all appearances—formidably sophisticated. Would they eventually agree to assist us in repairing our Cruiser, and allow us to leave? Whoever they were, if concealment of their existence was so primary a concern—not very likely.

  The men were still debating this after the meal. I asked myself: Since the circumstance wasn’t forced on me, why remain in their company? I left them, ostensibly to perform more tests. With purely sensory perceptions, I explored our area of confinement, the tiny expanse of this lovely world allotted to us, making my way through the high grass, removing my gloves to stroke it. I strolled toward the hills, acutely aware of soft warm air that stirred my hair, the late afternoon sunlight of this coral world gentle on my face.

  Near the hills I entered a wooded cove of small but defiant trees shaped tortuously by the winds like some of our cypress trees on Earth. One, long since uprooted, lay across the base of another, and I sat on it, straddling it, my back against the living tree.

  For some time I watched the sunlight dance in dappled patterns on the grassy ground as the needle-covered branches swayed in the warm breezes. I opened the neck of my jacket to savor sun and air, conscious of the loneliness in me that could never be assuaged by any of the companions a kilometer or so from me . . . I longed to express the sweet sadness of my emotion in music, wishing I’d brought my crystal reed with me. But I did have my journal, and was recording these events when Coulter found me.

  III

  Journal of Lt. Laurel Meredith

  2214.2.12

  I’m exhausted . . . But I’ll record these events as long as I’m able to . . . It’s very late this night, my first night in the house of the women called Vesta and Carina. They are mates—indeed, lovers.

  I’m having difficulty adjusting to this unsettling aspect of my surroundings. Even while knowing rationally that on this world of women they would of course choose love partners among themselves, that of course their lives, their homes, their art would reflect and glorify their own physical beauty and the physicality of their love, I am discomfited by it. Their love is forbidden on Earth, a taboo enforced in our culture by a proliferation of laws and by all the communication media.

  But I am far ahead of myself, of what happened to bring me here to this house of Vesta and Carina on the Toklas River in the colony of Cybele.

  • • •

  As I sat peacefully in the wooded cove not far from the EV, Coulter had inflicted his unwelcome presence on me, greeting me and then staring at the small expanse of throat I’d exposed to this world’s gentle suns, now beginning their descent to the horizon.

  “I want to talk to you, Laurel.”

  How I detested that huskiness in his voice! Over the months I’d learned enough in our close quarters about my shipmates to regard all of them with distaste. “Th
ere’s nothing to be said,” I answered, understanding his reference and therefore unconcerned with my rank or my obvious hostility.

  His blue eyes narrowed. “You know how I feel, Laurel. You know it very well.” He took my hands.

  I tore my hands out of his. “Don’t you touch me! I forbid it!”

  “We’ll never leave here. Never.” He grasped my shoulders, tried to draw me to him. “You’re what I want, none of these women here. Service regulations don’t matter anymore. Or what Ross wants us to do—”

  “Don’t touch me!” Furiously I pushed him away, and stood to confront him. “I ordered you not to touch me, I’ll put you on report to Ross, don’t think I won’t, you—”

  “Fool, you little fool—” He leaped to his feet and came toward me and what I saw in his face made me afraid. I tried to run but he caught me easily, tangling his hands in my hair, pulling me against him as I struggled and pushed at him. His arms tightened powerfully, his mouth searched for mine.

  We were both flung violently to the ground.

  “Lieutenant, over here.”

  I lay dazed, but recognized Megan’s voice, and realized that Coulter and I had been struck by an energy charge. I got to my feet, stumbled over to her; she stood on the fallen log, feet braced, one hand extended to me, the other holding a silver object trained on Coulter. I reached to her; she grasped my hand and with unexpected strength pulled me over the log and behind her.

  Coulter got to his feet, came at her. And was again hurled to the ground.

  “Colonel, don’t be foolish. Leave us. Return to your ship.”

  But Coulter rose to his feet swearing and came at her again—with the same result. He scrambled to his knees and rasped, “Put that damn thing away just once you coward bitch—”

  To my utter astonishment she did so, tucking the silver weapon into her belt.

  “No!” I shouted, “he’ll—”

  Coulter, leaping to his feet, did not hesitate. As he charged she seized the tree branch above her and with a swift whipping motion of her body, drove her boots into his chest.

  With an “Oof!” of surprise he staggered and stumbled backward, then regained his balance. Fists clenching and unclenching, a crouching beast of pure menace, he stalked her as she stood braced and waiting on the log. Arms extended, he rushed her again.