Daughters of a Coral Dawn Page 5

  Not looking at her, I answered with a quick nod.

  “Do you find me . . . old?”

  I looked at her then, amazed. Among our Unity like ages are the most often together, I suppose because of simultaneous awakening or common sensibilities; but wide disparity frequently exists. These relationships between the generations have always moved me with their beauty—the enjoyment and appreciation of each woman for the other, the tenderness and nurturing such as I had seen between Vesta and Carina. Youth seems to me no advantage; it is merely . . . a gift. And it seems that age would also be a gift, of another, richer, kind.

  “You are not—” I said the word with distaste for the way she had used it, “—old.” Then I realized what it must have cost to ask such a question and I said, “I cannot imagine you more beautiful than you are.”

  She smiled then, a radiant, entrancing smile that forced me to again look away. “You find me beautiful?”

  Feeling as if I had been cut adrift in an unfamiliar sea in which there was no mooring anywhere, I whispered, “Yes.”

  “I offer it to you. I can make you very happy. I can give you pleasures you have not experienced in your young life.”

  “I . . .” I lost my voice. “. . . cannot,” I finally managed.

  “Megan—”

  I continued, because her voice was further weakening me, “It’s . . . best if I remain as I . . . am. You make it difficult . . . as it is. All my concentration is required . . . for what I do.”

  Her voice was soft. “I disturb your concentration?”

  I would not look at her. I nodded.

  “You’re so very shy.” Her voice was amused. And pleased.

  I muttered, “You must think me . . . ridiculous.”

  “No. Only very strong. And most . . . desirable. Think about that, Megan. Because I’ll be here. Always, for you.”

  She left me then. Drawing deep breaths, I watched her walk from me, the silken blue garment she wore flowing over the curves of her body, and I thought of how very easy it had been so many months ago to make my solemn vow to Mother.

  VII

  2199.9.21

  We have accomplished the greatest clandestine movement of people and materiel in history. In seven months we have come to this day.

  It is difficult to say what has been the more intricate, the movement of the people or the materiel. As we learned when Megan did not return to Houston after the meeting of our Unity, our disappearance has had to be judicious. She is celebrated enough a personage and her talent so significant a loss to the government of the Americas that her sudden disappearance caused an investigation, international accusations, and comment on Worldscape newscasts. And so the notable others of us have vanished one by one, only as our talents became indispensible to our goal.

  Many purposefully remained in society up to the last, to perform vital responsibilities. The conversion of our property and other assets into credits for purchase of supplies was critical to our success and had to be carried out inconspicuously. Even more inconspicuous and cautious were our actual purchases. The synthesizers were the major problem. These machines, which will extract our new planet’s ore in usable form, are perhaps the most essential components we must have for successful settlement, and cannot be bought without notice and comment. But we managed. We obtained one from a warring faction in Brazil; they were in dire need of credits and asked no questions. Then, instead of attempting to locate the additional one needed, we simply bought from the international underground at a vast expenditure of credits the parts sufficient to construct a synthesizer and effect any vital repairs until both synthesizers can be placed into full and self-replenishing operation.

  Another object has been bought—an object of great secrecy—which I learned of by mere chance. One night a week ago I could not sleep, and went out to Skylab’s observation deck. I watched the silent and trustworthy Carina, under cover of darkness, assist Megan and Hera in swinging a magnetic hoist. An oblong object was placed into a chamber which Carina then sealed with permaweld.

  I realized that knowledge of this had been kept from me and the others deliberately, and when the three, along with Mother, came onto the observation deck, I drifted into the shadows and listened with both resentment and curiosity.

  Mother said to Megan, “Dear, will everyone be in restraint during the nuclear fusion that propels us into hyper-space?”

  “Yes, Mother. We’ve made the monitor assignments, and the monitors will then be—”

  Mother waved a hand. “You know how I dislike details. How long will it take for the leap into hyperspace?”

  Hera replied, “At the instant of fusion, a millisecond.”

  “So how much margin for error do we have?”

  “Less than a millisecond.”

  “Great Geezerak, will you speak a language I can understand? If I were on Verna playing kottlebash and this were a throw of the dice, what would the odds be?”

  “This is a throw of the dice, Mother,” Hera said darkly, “which I fervently hope will not be necessary. The computer will be programmed to nanoseconds. Our little surprise package will be released on the same computer sequence that performs the time sequence. At least ninety percent or better. But it’s never been done before—and the risk is immense. For what we risk.”

  “Phosh,” Mother said. “It is not, for what we could lose, and for what we gain. But we can always abandon the idea. Megan dear, you’ve had months to deliberate. Do you still agree?”

  “I agree with Hera in hoping it will not be necessary,” Megan said quietly. “But if the circumstances warrant, we go with it.”

  They left then. I knew better than to inquire; if I had not been told before, I would not be told now. And so I kept my own counsel, and remained watchful.

  Only today was the oblong object moved again, loaded onto Amelia and into another sealed chamber. I observed; and recognized the insignia on its leaded impervisteel wrapping. It has come from Algeria, that notorious renegade member of the Arab bloc.

  VIII

  2199.9.23

  Final transport is now complete. We four thousand one hundred and forty-four are on board our Amelia Earhart, transferred in wave after wave on Kendra’s service ships. Many of us who worked on Skylab had but a short hop to Amelia, the rest have been transported directly from three separate locations on Earth.

  Discipline begins as each of us sets foot on Amelia. We are issued feather-light one-piece trouser suits of synsilk, and boots of plastifilm. Every item of the clothing we wear is surrendered, to be placed in Amelia’s decomposition tubes. We are assigned living space, the sleeping time when we will be allowed to occupy it, and our daily schedule of duties and activities.

  Thirteen women are aboard under sedation—our phobics. Vesta has passed them; they will journey with us in chemically-induced tranquility.

  • • •

  Everyone is in her assigned place. We, the Inner Circle—but six of us now—are in the command center with Kendra, our ship’s commander, and her four co-captains.

  There is searing pain in these final moments. We have, all of us, grieved these past days for those who will part from us. But this is the pain of irrevocable parting, now. To leave some of our Unity behind is amputation. Worse. Those we leave are like deaths to us. As we must be to them. My dear sister Isis. Beloved Olympia . . .

  As we wait in unspoken communion, I look at us. We are all dressed alike, but our synsilk clothing is multi-hued, vari-patterned, flows as we move and walk and is uniquely attractive on us all. Megan also wears synsilk, but hers—only hers—is white. Mother’s orders, I am certain. Perhaps it is because I have come to know Megan over these past months—have grown to love her lonely strength—or perhaps I am more aware of women physically, having been so long a time without loving—but as the flashing lights and colors of the command room reflect on Megan’s luminous skin and clothing, she seems incredibly beautiful. And I see that am not the only woman she affects; the gazes of others
of us are drawn to her also. And Venus does not gaze, but stares—with an expression I have never seen on her, but have often seen on other women who look at Venus: helplessness.

  As I record this historic moment, I watch the huge red numerals count down on the computer sequencing screen. Final systems check continues, the diminishing red numerals in synchrony with Amelia’s orbital path. On the viewscreen, and at our curved crystal windows where others of us are gathered, the bright pocked surface of the moon passes beneath us as we sweep ever closer to the sharply etched dark shadow that will be our cloak. It is a heart-stopping sight—but my own heart pounds, I am swept by chills as the moment of our new beginning comes ever nearer, as we drift ever closer to that great shadow.

  “T minus one minute,” Kendra says calmly, for the benefit of those who listen all over our vessel, who wait as tensely as we. “Systems check sequencing is complete.”

  Megan and Mother stand at Kendra’s side where she sits in her commander’s chair, burly and imposing, her bearing imperious as her mother Hera’s, her white hair queenly, her gray eyes cool as slate.

  “Mother will speak at the moment of departure,” Megan says.

  “Of course,” Kendra replies.

  The great shadow nears. The red numerals descend in blinking inexorable rhythm. They reach zero. We are engulfed in shadow.

  Mother says softly, “My dears, we’re on our way.”

  Acoustically it is impossible, but still I hear the cheers that reverberate through Amelia.

  There is no perceptible difference in Amelia’s motion. True, her power has been fired, and waits in readiness; but the thrusters edge her smoothly out of her familiar weary path around the moon’s dead face. Kendra has told me there will be no discernible difference as Amelia gathers speed, as she begins to hurtle us on solar winds toward our galactic arm and the Einsteinian Curve . . . We will feel, realize Amelia’s enormous strength and power when nuclear fusion is sequenced into the power drive and impels us like a watermelon seed into hyperspace—a sensation Kendra says cannot be described.

  Except for Demeter and Vesta who have been called to care for some psychological and physical problems a number of women have developed (I feel slightly queasy myself, and avoid the crystal windows), none of us leave the command room. We watch the instrumentation hypnotically, not knowing how to look for what we look for, but expectant and uneasy.

  • • •

  It is five hours later. We have crossed the orbit of Mars, and the huge bands of Jupiter are filling the viewscreen and the windows. And Kendra has said—only to us in the command room—“We are pursued.”

  Megan walks to her. “How many?”

  “Four. Three from Earth.” Kendra smiles thinly. “I assume representing the Eastern Bloc, the Sinobloc, the Americas. The other has just taken off from Mars.”

  Megan frowns and Kendra shrugs her broad shoulders. “By the time it achieves escape velocity and matches our speed it will be no closer than the ships from Earth.”

  Hera says, “I’ll calculate response time.”

  “I’ll set up coordinates.” Megan touches dials that project a grid onto the lumiscreen.

  A few minutes later Hera says tersely, “Nine minutes.”

  “They have never made up their collective minds on anything so fast,” Mother grumbles. “What’s our situation?”

  “Close,” Megan says. “They will intersect with us at the Einsteinian Curve.”

  “I know you girls can manage,” Mother says serenely. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed, such as it is. Demeter dear, did you remember to make sure my quarters are nowhere near the children’s compound?”

  “Certainly, Mother.”

  “I know I should try to act more decently,” Mother says, “but frankly, after raising nine of my own I’m sick to death of children. And I’m sure by now they’re all asking how soon we’ll be there.”

  IX

  2199.10.11

  We have concealed from the Unity that we are pursued, there being no reason for the entire ship to be in a state of agitation for the eighteen days to the Einsteinian Curve.

  We, the Inner Circle, and Mother, spend quantities of time in the command room watching as our instruments track our pursuers. Their lighter faster ships, which do not carry so precious a cargo as ours, close inexorably on us.

  Even in my limited knowledge of such matters, I see no advantage in the leap to hyperspace. Our pursuers should be close enough then—a matter of hours, according to Kendra—so that they can track and catch us no matter how evasive our escape pattern among the star systems. But I keep my own counsel.

  Several days ago hostilities began on the Interplanetary Frequency Channel, the threats streaming across the top of our viewscreen.

  IDENTIFY YOURSELVES IMMEDIATELY STATE DESTINATION was repeated at two minute intervals for four hours.

  REFUSAL OF IDENTIFICATION WILL RESULT IN CLASSIFICATION AS OUTLAW SHIP was repeated for another four hours.

  Then: OUTLAW SHIP IDENTIFY YOURSELVES OR DECLARATION OF HOSTILITIES WILL BE ISSUED. This message blinked ominously for a day.

  Then: HOSTILITIES DECLARED. VIOLATION, UNAUTHORIZED USE OF EARTH RESOURCES.

  “Phosh,” Mother said. “It must have taken all day to think up that one.”

  We have not acknowledged any of their transmissions; we remain on steady course for the Einsteinian Curve. But the distance between us and our pursuers closes . . .

  We are but four hours from the Einsteinian Curve. And Amelia has just shuddered.

  “Laser electron gun,” Kendra announces laconically. “Nowhere close.”

  SURRENDER OR HOSTILITIES COMMENCE, reads the screen.

  “Answer them now,” Megan says softly. She stands beside Kendra, arms crossed, watching the viewscreen and the four tiny blips picked up by our rear probes, four lethal insects pursuing us.

  STAND BY FOR MESSAGE, reads our response.

  They have waited an hour. . . And now Amelia shudders again.

  “Begin sedation of the children,” Megan says quietly to Vesta, who sits with Carina, gazing raptly at the viewscreen. “And the adults as well. It’s a little early, and everything’s under control, but we might as well do it now. Tell anyone who asks that Amelia’s just going through a meteoroid shower.”

  She turns to Kendra. “Status?”

  “I’ve laid in the evasive course to begin in one hour. Those electron bursts are nowhere close now but they will be by then.”

  One hour later everyone on the ship is unconscious and in restraint except for the hardy few who have refused sedation. This includes myself—surely not hardy but certainly determined.

  “It is my duty to remain conscious,” I inform Megan firmly. “I am Minerva the historian.”

  “You may soon decide to change your profession,” Kendra tells me with amused and knowing eyes.

  Mother has also chosen to remain unsedated. She sits dwarfed by her restraining pod, and grinning. “We Vernans are tough,” she says. “And I want to watch . . . what happens.”

  “I know all about your little surprise package,” I tell Mother. “I’ve seen it. You might as well tell me what it is.” I have already begun to feel queasy; while there is no discernible change in the motion of the ship, our evasive maneuvers have begun, and the stars roll sickeningly on the viewscreen and outside the windows.

  Mother says proudly, “It’s a fifty megaton hydrogen bomb.”

  “What!” I sputter, “where—there aren’t—”

  “None is supposed to be in existence since the Johannesburg disaster,” Mother says, “but anyone who believes that is an idiot. All it takes to get one is plenty of credits.”

  “But what—you surely can’t—”

  “You’ll see,” Mother says. “Sit back and relax, dear. Carina’s already loaded it into the ejection tube.”

  Carina and Vesta lie in a restraint pod, Vesta in Carina’s arms; their bodies move in the slow breathing of deep sedation.

  A
melia shudders and continues to shudder from continuous electron bursts all around her.

  “Next message,” Megan says.

  We transmit, WE ARE IN VIOLATION OF NO RECORDED TENET OF INTERNATIONAL, INTERPLANETARY, OR GALACTIC LAW.

  Five minutes later the response comes: YOUR DEPARTURE UNAUTHORIZED. SURRENDER IMMEDIATELY.

  “Megan,” Kendra says easily, “the bursts are closer but still no danger. The computers confirm we will be fully exposed for two minutes before we reach the EC.”

  Megan nods. “As we calculated.”

  Amelia’s shudders continue. At seven minutes to the Einsteinian Curve, Megan says, “Send our next message.”

  STAND BY FOR MESSAGE, we transmit.

  REFUSED, is the immediate answer. HOSTILITIES CONTINUE.

  “Even the fools that they are,” Mother says, “they’re on to that one.”

  “Next message,” Megan orders.

  To my amazement, our message reads, CEASE FIRING. GIVE SURRENDER TERMS.

  Amelia’s shudders cease. The screen reads, FULL COURSE REVERSAL, FOOLISH WOMEN.

  “So they know who we are,” Kendra says, smiling. “How gratifying. And they seem to be gloating, don’t they?”

  “I don’t think it took them eighteen days to figure it out,” Mother says, “although it may have, the poor things.”

  TERMS ACCEPTED, we transmit. ADVISE DESIRED COORDINATES.

  As the series of mathematical equations stream across our screen, we are three minutes from the Einsteinian Curve.

  COORDINATES RECEIVED AND BEING PROGRAMMED, we transmit.

  Under two minutes, now.

  “Next message,” Megan says tensely.

  REPEAT COORDINATES, we send. APPEARS ERROR.

  Again the equations appear. And an additional message: ONE MINUTE ALLOWED FOR COURSE CORRECTION. DO NOT ENTER EC. YOU ARE NOW IN POINTBLANK DESTRUCTION RANGE.

  Our countdown numerals have dropped to fifty seconds to the Einsteinian Curve.

  “Excellent,” beams Mother. “Simply excellent, girls.”

  “We’ve won,” Megan breathes. Her slender body relaxes; she inflates her restraint pod.