Daughters of a Coral Dawn Read online

  On the final day, all areas of discussion exhausted, Mother announced, “What now remains is the choice of a leader.”

  “Leader?” Hera demanded, astonished as were we all. “You, Mother. As it has always been. Or a consortium like this if you choose not to lead.”

  “There are many reasons why you’re wrong, Hera dear. But,” Mother added generously, “I’ll mention only a few. We need a leader who acts from primary logic, not preconceived ideas and the experience of a lifetime. Who makes decisions instantly. There will be circumstances—perils—none of us can foresee, and no time for decision by committee. We need a leader with immense intellectual reflexes and self-confidence and enormous energy. Someone young.”

  “Kendra,” I said. “Hera’s daughter has always possessed great inner strength and impressive personal magnetism.”

  “Thank you Minerva,” Hera said to me, “but Kendra has focused her talents in my field, which is insufficient in scope. And she is not young.”

  Vesta said dubiously, “A young woman? To command respect and obedience?”

  “To command respect,” Mother corrected. “Obedience will follow respect.” Her face was somber. “There may be no individual all of us would follow. And that will diminish our odds for success considerably.” She brightened. “But in a garden of roses sometimes it’s difficult to see at first the one rose that stands out above all others. Let’s try data extraction.”

  “Wait,” Hera said. “There is another descendant of mine, Regina’s daughter . . .” She trailed off, her face thoughtful. “A master engineer at age twenty, and she—”

  “I know of her,” Isis interrupted. “Her accomplishments have been noted in all the Journals. Graduate school in Gdansk, the highest scores in their history—”

  “Yes,” Hera said proudly.

  Isis shook her head. “She’s amazing. She’s still doing advanced study in Houston, yet some of her basic designs have already been incorporated into Jupiter Station. And she’s one of the few women they’ve ever allowed into that all-male sanctuary.”

  Olympia said, “Mother, all of us have intellectual qualifications—”

  “For what we need—”

  “Mother,” Olympia said in some exasperation, “personal qualities are necessary, perhaps more so than—”

  “She has remarkable personal qualities,” Hera said. “She has . . . presence.”

  “Enough,” Mother said. “Let’s look at her.”

  Diana fed in coordinates, and we all read in silence as data blipped down the screen, line after line cataloguing academic excellence and professional achievement.

  Vesta murmured, “But she’s only twenty-three. How has there been time?”

  Demeter said in awe, “Her days must be twenty-five hours long.”

  “Incredible engineering skill, incomparable dedication,” Mother mused. “Diana, show her to us.”

  Diana tapped a key. A tall, blade-slender figure with tousled dark hair, simply clad in a white shirt and dark pants, looked up from a computer board, long slim fingers holding a laser design stylus, rectangular green eyes irritated as if in resentment of having to relinquish these moments to have her likeness recorded.

  “She has your eyes, Mother,” I said. “That exact remarkable color. I know of no other in our Unity to inherit that color.”

  Venus murmured, staring at the screen, “I’ll follow her anywhere.”

  “Of all my girls,” Mother said to Venus, “you are the most aptly named.” She asked Hera, “Is she . . . attached?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “For lack of time, not opportunity,” Mother mused, appraising the arresting figure on the screen. “Historically it hasn’t been necessary, but it’s advantageous for a leader to have . . . physical appeal. Especially if she remains unattached.”

  Venus said with a shudder, “The only major leaders in history to remain celibate were the rulers of that religious sect—” She knitted her lovely brow.

  “Catholicism,” I supplied.

  “And numbers of them were none too faithful to the ideal,” Olympia said tartly.

  “Never has a leader faced this situation,” Mother said thoughtfully, “except for the leader in that Biblical legend of the Promised Land . . .”

  For some hours we debated leadership attributes, fed coordinates into our data banks, examined and discussed other possible candidates—but all of us had been stirred by the imperious young woman who had stared at us with such impatience.

  “The first one,” Mother said. “Let me see her again.”

  Again the young woman stared resentfully at us with her arresting emerald eyes.

  “A leader should always dress consistently,” Mother said thoughtfully. “She may very well do . . .” She smiled. “Diana dear, what is the etymology of her name? Not that I believe in portents, of course.”

  All of us hid smiles. Her selection of our names had placed even greater expectations upon all of us. Diana’s slim fingers fed the question to the data banks.

  “Well well,” Mother said as we all read the answer on the screen. “The strong and the able. Many aspects appear to favor her, this . . . Megan.”

  III

  2199.2.22

  Our Unity is a dramatic sight: six thousand on two darkened semi-circle tiers in enclaves of sixty or so, gathered around pack-powered lumiscreens. On a raised platform, gazing out at her remarkable progeny, Mother sits resplendent on a huge chaise, her green lustervel cape in majestic folds around her. She seems smaller with the passing of the years—her cantaloupes more like grapefruit now—but still, somewhat past her prime and years of greatest vigor, she possesses an aura of indomitable self-confidence and undiminished magnetism.

  In a phalanx behind Mother we sit—the Inner Circle. My sisters and I are grouped as usual, Isis, Hera, Venus and Diana together in their brilliantly hued garments; and Vesta, Olympia, Demeter and I—the quiet ones—in our simple robes. Selene, while she lived, had also belonged with us, the quiet ones. We have all aged well; we have maintained good health; we look much as we did at half our age. Diana has told us that we may reasonably expect thirty more optimum years, and more beyond that if breakthroughs in delaying of the aging process occur as anticipated.

  Thirty more years of physical vigor will be especially prized by Venus, who at this historical time gazes not at Mother nor the impressive audience of thousands, but at the slender young woman with tousled dark hair framing her face, her elegant height emphasized by close-fitting lustervel pants of burnished black and a puff-sleeved, high-collared white silk shirt. She stands beside a data bank, motionless, statuesque, gazing at Mother with eyes of pure emerald.

  Mother has honored several young women with invitations to share our platform—ostensibly to monitor visual and data banks—but we all know her purpose: “This Megan,” she had said. “I wish to observe her.”

  Venus, Diana, and Demeter begin their presentation, Venus taking her eyes from Megan only as she moves to join her sisters at the projection module.

  So many years ago we sisters had held a similar council with Mother. Now we have far less time to impart far greater information—and never will the stakes be higher.

  My sisters’ four-hour presentation is splendid, opulent, a fully comprehensive oral-visual tribute to the contributions of women to the civilized growth of every country on Earth—from the comparative handful who shone their lonely light through dark centuries of abysmal ignorance, to the brilliant achievements of our own group. The micro-recording made of this presentation will always be the one truly accurate review of women’s history in existence; and no description of mine could ever convey its acuity and luminosity.

  Olympia and I are next. We have condensed the work and knowledge of our lifetimes into a historical and philosophical perspective of women throughout recorded history, and we give our projections, Juno’s mathematical constructs and Olympia’s theorems based upon the principles of Aristotelian logic. Our projection
s are dismal enough without necessity for additional conclusion.

  And now it is time for Mother to speak.

  As the gigantic lumiscreen behind Mother dims with the ending of our presentation, she slowly revolves her chaise to face the two-tiered semi-circle.

  In a pool of gold light in our darkened enclosure she sits for some moments amid absolute silence. Then she smiles. “Hello, dears. You’re all simply beautiful.”

  She is forced to raise a hand before the tumult will subside. “Dear ones, the lines of history are intersecting again as the girls have just shown you. On this dreary planet it’s all so depressingly predictable. Males become spastic with terror everytime women break through to new choices and freedom. And this most recent freedom—no longer needing the poor things at all to make babies for us—well, have laws ever been passed more quickly? Really, my dears, the death penalty for the sale of Estrova? Sperm certificates for approval of pregnancies and births? One retreats from contemplating what they may think of next.”

  Outside our quiet enclosure the harsh desert winds, whining and howling, hurtle at us. Mother says mournfully, “Raising such wonderful ones as you I suppose it was inevitable you’d find each other more interesting than anyone else. But how could I ever have known you’d end up falling in love with each other?”

  Mother leans forward. “It has never been the female nature to seek or want power. And so in this primitive culture we have been at the whim of its inferior leadership. But when those in power learn that certain of us will never surrender control of our bodies or our lives—”

  Again Mother has to raise a hand for quiet. “We will soon be the most visible women on Earth.” She sighs. “You know, girls, they will never tolerate us.”

  She sighs again. “My dear ones, let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  For some minutes cheers and applause reverberate through our enclosure. Mother beams. And finally raises a hand. “Hera will now explain the options open to us.”

  Crimson cape flowing out behind her, Hera stalks to the projection module and confronts her audience, standing with booted feet planted apart, cape swirling about her black mesh trouser-suit. The tallest of us sisters, she has always been the most flamboyant; and her descendant, the graceful young woman attired in black and white who assists her at the console, has inherited Hera’s dramatic presence—without necessity for any flamboyance.

  “There is this possibility,” Hera intones. “On-planet relocation. We have the means, the technology to remain undetected—with certain precautions, within certain parameters.”

  The huge lumiscreen behind Hera contains the globe of Earth. Megan’s slender fingers dance over the touch-plates of the console, bringing into closeup one section of Earth after another as Hera speaks.

  “Except for mineral exploitation, these areas of the Arctic and Antarcticas are untouched.” With a laser pointer Hera dextrously circles areas within the geographic regions. “Other northern possibilities include the Yukon and Siberia. Another virtually deserted area is in South America, the southern half of what was recently Brazil. However, as you know, territorial claims are still in dispute,” she says distastefully.

  “The northeast section of Australia—” The continent appears; Hera forms a circle with her laser light. “Algeria and Libya,” she continues, “and a section of southern Russia.” Circling a section in southwest America, she says contemptuously, “Here, where we presently are. Where the craters of the moon are lovely by comparison.”

  “None is an Earthly paradise.” Mother’s voice is mild. “Unpopulated areas are unpopulated for good reason.”

  “If we wish to remain on Earth,” Hera proclaims, “we shall have to choose one of these areas, and Isis and Venus inform me that rigid population control will be required. Greater than ten thousand of us would result in certain exposure.”

  There are murmurs—of dismay, disapproval.

  Mother says quietly, “We are women of sensibility, we all need beauty in our lives. I believe we need—”

  A shout from the second tier: “Our needs are for us individually to decide!”

  In the shock that follows this outburst, amid a rising tide of murmurs, a slender figure steps into the pool of light illuminating Mother and stands in a still, angry tension, silk shirt fluttering in the air currents. “No one shall interrupt Mother when she speaks.” Megan’s voice is bell-like, a command, reaching to the farthest tier without audio-enhance.

  “Come here.”

  Mother’s voice matches Megan’s in command, and her eyes are fixed on eyes of identical emerald which look into hers with sudden uncertainty.

  Mother reaches to her. Megan hesitantly, reverently takes Mother’s hand. Mother pats Megan’s hand, releases it. “Stand here next to me,” she orders, “until Hera needs you again.”

  Megan is not accustomed, as we sisters are, to Mother’s disconcerting blend of steeliness and affection; and she stands beside Mother’s chair gazing at her in bemusement, ivory skin heightening in color.

  “Charming,” sighs Venus from beside me.

  Mother says, “To whomever spoke, your point is well-taken. If impudently made. However, I had thought it unnecessary to state that each of us must choose her own course. Continue, Hera.”

  Hera casts a stony glance toward the second tier. Her arms crossed, she says loftily, “That imbecilic remark was uttered, I trust, by no descendant of mine. I will continue. Another possibility is our own solar system. With varying degrees of difficulty all the planets are habitable. And although it would appear that we could exist there in open freedom, feasibility is marginal. It is Vesta’s opinion—concurred in by all of us since there is ample historical precedent—that we would not be allowed to peacefully exist, that we would be regarded as alien, threatening, unacceptable. Reasons such as territorial claims would be found for the destruction of any world we attempted to openly build. And there is another critical factor. Our leaving Earth would result in a sudden and drastic siphoning off of Earth’s intellectual resources—what was termed centuries ago as ‘brain drain.’ It is doubtful we would be allowed to leave.”

  The tiers of women stir; there is a murmuring, a disturbed undertone.

  “Mother’s home world has low population density and a sophisticated civilization,” Hera says. “Certainly they would welcome Mother. But we, her offspring, are basically Earthwomen, and it would be expecting the improbable to think that any civilization, however advanced, would react without xenophobia.”

  She turns and stalks to her projection module, cape swirling, motioning imperiously for Megan to remain at Mother’s side.

  The curving screen behind Hera suddenly glows with glittering pinpoints, the outer pinpoints fleeing as focus narrows to the sphere rotating above the North celestial pole. The focus narrows further, until a circle of constellations hovers on the screen: the fiery belt of Orion; the scattered stars of Gemini with Castor and Pollux blazing; the farflung stars of Perseus; the modest triangle of Aries; the sprawl of Taurus.

  The focus narrows further, moves slowly across Orion and the brilliant Rigel and Betelgeuse; across the great flaring Aldebaran, one eye of Taurus—and stops over the other eye, a cluster of five radiant stars.

  “The Hyades,” Hera states.

  The focus moves very slowly across, stops again. The screen is filled with blazing globes in a field of diamonds, clothed by reflection nebulae—illuminated fluorescent clouds like silken transparent hair.

  “The Pleiades.” Hera’s hushed voice pervades our enclosure. “Minerva,” she says with a touch of sharpness.

  I start; along with everyone else I have become immersed in the overwhelming splendor on the screen, have forgotten my part of Hera’s presentation.

  “Minerva will relate to us the legend of these stars from antiquity,” Hera says, speaking more gently. “It seems somehow . . . symbolic.”

  “The Pleiades and the Hyades are in Taurus.” I arrange my thoughts with effort, my eyes still
hypnotized by the radiance on the huge screen. “Taurus is the second sign in the Zodiac. In legend, Taurus the Bull carried Europa across the seas to Crete, and then Jupiter placed him in the heavens. The Hyades are five sisters who nursed Dionysius as a baby, and they were raised to the heavens as their reward. They are sisters to the Pleiades—what we look at now—the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. The daughters grieved so over the suffering of their father that they were changed into stars. The sisters all produced divine or heroic offspring.”

  “Excellent,” Mother says, beaming. “Simply excellent. Not that I believe in portents,” she adds.

  “Thank you, Minerva.” Hera continues, “Taurus also includes the great Crab nebula which went nova in the eleventh century, and the great red giant Aldebaran, twenty-one parsecs distant from us. The Pleiades are an open star cluster in the galactic arm of Perseus, ninety-two parsecs distant. They are an unusually compact group for an open cluster, and surrounded as you see by wisps of illuminated gas. This brightest star—” Hera taps with her laser light. “—is Alcyone. She is a third magnitude star. Of the hundreds of stars within this cluster and around it, these are the ones of interest.”

  Hera circles a jewel-like sprinkling. “An unusual concentration of G-two stars—which as we all know is the classification of our own sun.” Hera pauses to allow the significance of this statement to penetrate.

  “Limited information dictates limited choice,” she states. “Two hundred or so years of galactic probes, a hundred years of manned star probes—comparatively small wedges of the galaxy are mapped or explored. And have thus far been analyzed only for chemical content and evidence of intelligent life—and then exploited only to the extent of trade agreements, as with Verna-Three, Mother’s planet. Earth continues to subdue and colonize its own hostile planetary system, has analyzed no other star system for colonization.”

  Hera crosses her arms and says with considerable satisfaction, “It was not difficult to feed in basic data of life support on Earth and compare it to what has been received from all the star probes, and to further narrow that into definitive form. I caution you, what I will show you now does not nearly represent the wealth of knowledge we have amassed.”