The Margarets

by Sheri S. Tepper

  The outposting officer, a tall woman with a shaved head and sharp, black eyes, immediately made the question of visitation irrelevant. “I’m a specialist in colony assignments, Margaret. You’ve studied ET languages.”

  “Some,” I acknowledged.

  “Some is better than nothing. If you ask for a colony posting, we can send you there rather than into bondage. Colony planets are in need of linguists.”

  Mother ventured, “Would it be…someplace where my husband and I could go with her? So we could be together?”

  The officer gave her a brief smile, almost a grimace. “Sorry, ma’am. The ships aren’t ours, they’re Omniont and Mercan ships. Earthgov has negotiated for a few colonist slots on each one; it’s the only way we can afford to send additional colonists, and we send no one over twenty-five. Anyone older than that doesn’t pay back the shipping costs.”

  Father said, “A colony would be better, wouldn’t it?”

  The officer replied, “Most people think so, yes.”

  “What…where is the colony?” I asked. “I mean, what do people do there?”

  “All colonies start out as agricultural,” the officer explained. “Then we recapitulate the history of civilization, from the ground up, though we cut a few millennia off the process. We go in as agriculturists, build livestock herds, then start prospecting for natural resources. We reinforce the population with additional colonists as soon as the food supply is adequate, then begin extraction of natural resources and get some wind and hydro power plants going. Except for Eden and Cranesroost, we’re well beyond that point in our colonies.”

  “So, why do they want linguists?”

  “Trade. As soon as a colony has something to sell, usually agricultural or mining products, somebody has to sell it. The income helps support the inflow of former bondspeople from the nearby Omniont and Mercan worlds.”

  I found this puzzling. “But, if the colonists have been on Omniont worlds, haven’t they learned the languages?”

  “Races who buy bondspeople do not teach them the local language. They communicate through interpreters. They find the idea of conversing with their workers repulsive.”

  “I’d like to use the languages I learned,” I said, surprised at a feeling of sudden warmth. I’d felt frozen for days, but this felt…it felt right. “Which colony would you send me to?”

  “You’ll be randomly assigned by a ship assignment computer. It separates bondspersons and colonists, then divides the colonists up by age, sex, skills, and the like, and assigns them singly or in small groups by chance. It avoids favoritism.”

  Mother cried, “But how will we know where she is?”

  The officer started to speak, then looked down and shook her head slightly. I knew she was about to tell a lie. When the officer looked up, smiling, she said, “Your daughter will be able to send you a message after she’s settled, but you don’t need to worry about her. People her age are always adopted by adults. She won’t be struggling on her own.”

  The words felt like truth, including the encouraging smile the officer sent my way. Something about it had been misleading, however. True, but misleading. I almost asked, “What is it you’re not telling us?” but stopped myself. There was no point in drawing out my departure.

  The officer had obviously dealt with this situation before. The moment the interview was completed, an usher took me by the arm and led me away as the sounds of Mother’s farewells faded into the background. I didn’t look back. It was all I could do to stay on my feet.

  The first stop was a cavernous dormitory with numbered beds, where I was told to wait. I waited. Within the hour, someone found me there and told me where the toilets were and where the commissary was while attaching an elevator number tag around my wrist and a numbered identity disk around my neck. The fasteners of both items, I was told, were unbreakable.

  “These are your coveralls, put them on. These are your shoes. Put what you’re wearing into your baggage, put the shoes on just before you move to the pods. These are your baggage tags, attach them carefully. Bags are shipped separately.”

  I changed into the overalls and packed my clothes. I set the shoes on the foot of my bed, where I wouldn’t forget to put them on. I tagged my baggage. Time passed while I sat in a cocoon of fog, too deadened to be afraid. Eventually, a loudspeaker summoned everyone to the adjacent commissary for a meal. The food was like all food, tasteless. No one seemed to be hungry. Back in the dormitory, after slow hours of nothing, I fell asleep, only to be wakened by another usher with a list.

  “Ship change,” the woman said. “You’ll be going up this morning.”

  I fought down a surge of panic, telling myself it was better to be going anywhere than staying where I was. “Going up” meant putting on the required shoes, making a required trip to the toilets, then joining a queue that wound in a snakelike curve toward the elevator pods. As each one filled, it shifted sideways, locked on to the rising nanotube-reinforced ribbon, and departed, as did the one I was in, packed among hundreds of others, each with an oxygen mask, each in an identical coverall, each with number tags on wrist and around neck.

  A voice said: “This stage of your journey will last approximately three days. When we reach the staging platforms at nine thousand miles out, you will have a brief recess while your pod is shifted to the higher-velocity elevators that will take you on the next lap, another twenty thousand miles to the export station. That journey will also take about three days. The officers passing among you will give you a dose of tranquilizers and one of time-release Halt, to shut down excretory function.”

  There were no windows. There was no wasted space. Rows of heads stretched in every direction. No one spoke. When the pod clamped on to the belt, a few people gasped, but only momentarily. Evidently it didn’t clamp on all at once; it slid a little at first, then gradually firmed up so we didn’t get jerked around. The feeling of being crushed eased, and after about three hours, I noticed that I felt lighter, though I didn’t care greatly. Endless hours passed in a kind of dim nothingness. Orderlies came through, checking pulses. One or two of the people in seats nearby went limp, were unbelted and taken away. I was just starting to feel nausea when the pod abruptly unlocked from the belt and slid off to one side. The doors opened. People stumbled to their feet, out onto the domed, transparent-floored platform where we all stared disbelievingly downward at the Earth, a large blue ball, floating in blackness.

  I had to go. So did everyone. As we filed toward the toilets, we were given premoistened cloths to wash hands and faces. There were no mirrors. I noticed men rubbing their hands over their stubbly faces. We were given something tasteless to drink before going into the next pod. The same announcement. The same shots. The same dimness and detachment.

  At thirty thousand miles, the doors opened, we filed out. This time the drink they gave us was slightly larger, the time in the toilets was a bit longer.

  “Pick up your baggage to your left,” we were commanded. Our line shuffled forward, picked up our baggage, joined a new queue.

  “Colonist number seven-seven-zero-five-nine-zero-two,” said the checker, rubbing his eyes. “That way, to your left…To your right…”

  I was so drugged and distant that when I felt myself split, it didn’t seem to matter. One of me turned left, one right, into areas seemingly open to space. Half a dozen ships hung high above, tethered to the station by swaying skeins of boarding umbilici. Five of the ships were immense. The sixth ship hanging above the transparent dome was small in comparison to the others. The access lane leading to it stretched empty across the wide lobby space, while those of the larger vessels held seemingly endless lines of boarders.

  “Margaret Bain,” said a uniformed officer, glancing from my forehead to his list. “Number seven-seven-zero-five-nine-zero-two.” He stepped to the lane divider and opened a gate. “Through there,” he said, pointing at the empty access lane leading to the smaller ship.

  “But, am I the only one going there
?” I asked.

  “Your number is the only number going there right now.” The officer glowered. “Get over there and stop asking questions…”

  I stared at the empty lane doubtfully. “Is that a colony ship?”

  “Look, little girl. That’s the ship you’re supposed to be on. Now get over there before I have to call security.”

  I opened my mouth to say, no, it’s wrong, but the officer was red in the face, angry enough to let me know it would do no good to argue. Cowed, I turned into the empty access lane, meeting the glances of those occupying the crowded lanes far to my right, a few staring at me curiously. Among those crowded bodies was another me, walking away, just the way Wilvia had walked away years ago, going somewhere else. I opened my mouth to yell at her…me…but couldn’t think what I would say, even if she, I, looked back.

  Before I could make up my mind to do anything, someone put a hand on my shoulder, a tall, robed woman. Her face looked familiar, as though I had seen it somewhere before. Not on Phobos. Not here on Earth. Where?

  The woman smiled. “Are you hearing contentious voices, child? It’s the place, don’t you think? Or the situation? Almost guaranteed to make one question every move. Well, don’t let voices bother you. This is where you belong.” She took my hand and led me into the boarding tube. “Before leaving Earth, you had begun the study of nonterrestrial languages, isn’t that so?”

  Perhaps I answered, perhaps not, I don’t remember. I do remember turning at the ship’s door and looking across the huge lobby. If I was over there, I was lost in the crowd.

  In the lock of the ship, the woman turned. “You’re extremely young to leave home like this. All I can promise you is that you will not be unhappy where you are going.”

  “I was told it would be a colony planet.”

  “Oh, yes. The planet you’re going to is called Chottem. It is a colony planet and my home. I know it very well.”

  “I’ve heard your voice before,” I said, suddenly recalling. “The day the proctor came. Was that you? Telling me it would be all right.”

  “Did someone tell you that?” the woman asked. “Perhaps it was a friend of mine. We’re all inescapable busybodies.”

  “May I ask your name, ma’am?”

  The woman smiled briefly, somewhat ruefully. “Why don’t you call me what everyone else calls me. I’m just the Gardener. And since you need a new name to go with your new life, let us call you Gretamara.”

  New Margarets/Who Are We?

  “Bain, Margaret,” said the checker, rubbing his eyes. “Number seven-seven-zero-five-nine-eight-two. That way, to your right.”

  The hallway to the right was crowded, traffic in it made more difficult by the baggage everyone carried. As I moved forward, I heard loud and emphatic voices ahead: “Enter your number, take your chances.” “That way.” “That way, move it. Wait, you dropped this.” “Enter your number.” “That way.” “Another that way.” “Okay, go with your friend there.” “Now, you can go this way.”

  The boarding-tube ports were at a lower level. As those ahead of me moved down the slope, I could see over their heads to the tube ports. Two uniformed men operated a device and called out the results. As I approached, I saw it, some kind of number pad and a lever. Numbers were entered, and arrows lit up, right or left. The line ahead of me shortened, and soon there were only half a dozen left.

  “You two together? Okay. Enter one number. Either one.” “That way.” “You two together?”

  “No,” a woman cried passionately. “We are absolutely not together.”

  “Okay,” said the bored official from somewhere ahead of me. “Enter your number, sweetheart. Go that way.” “Watch it, Bondy! She says you’re not together, let her alone. Besides, your number comes up the other way.”

  I was next. The lever snapped. The arrow pointed right.

  “That way, colony girl. Down to your right.”

  “Where is the ship going,” I asked, without any real hope of receiving an answer.

  “The colonists end up on Thairy, love. Run on now.”

  As I turned to my right, I looked back. Another me was standing there, looking at the arrow that had lit.

  “That way, bondy girly. Down to your left.”

  I saw myself turn left, heard myself ask, “Where is the ship going?”

  “It’s off to Cantardene. Get moving.”

  Cantardene. What had someone told me about Cantardene? The K’Famir. The dreadful, evil K’Famir…somehow, she’d been mixed up. It wasn’t a colony planet at all…

  Margaret/on Earth

  So, I, Margaret, dreamed I had been sent away from Earth, split off from myself, not once, but three times! When I woke, it was perfectly clear in my mind, and I wrote it down in my journal, just to remember it. Gradually, as the day passed, the dream faded. I forgot all about it until a long time later, a day when I felt terrible and lay in my bed full of fever and aching. To comfort myself, I did what I had not done for a year or more: I went among my people. The little shy one, the healer, she was gone. The one who had been my spy was gone. My warrior was gone. I took out my journal and read what I had written about the dream. Which one had gone to Chottem? Which one to Cantardene? Which one to Thairy? And where was Wilvia now?

  I Am Gretamara/on Chottem

  The Gardener called me Gretamara. She took me to Chottem, a blue-and-green planet. We flew across enormous, rolling grasslands into high, splintered mountains near the western sea. We dropped down a valley into a little village, a hamlet called Swylet. We alit near her house and walked to it through her garden, surrounded by a fence with a gate in it. A bell hung by the gate, and she said that people rang it when they needed her help. She was a physician, or perhaps something more than a physician, and she told me my task was to learn from her, to be a healer.

  She told me about herself. Everyone in Swylet who had ever ailed knew the Gardener, and even the indomitably healthy had seen her moving about in the shade of the moss-draped trees beyond the fence. Gardener told me about the people, about generations of them, for she seemed to know everything they had ever thought, or wanted, or dreamed of. Gardener said there was always a Grandmother Sage, a Grandmother or Grandfather Vinegar, an Uncle Salt, an Aunt Pepper. The current Grandmother Sage, who was young when she had first sought help from the Gardener, was fond of saying that the Gardener’s appearance had not changed over the years, that she was still as young-looking as in Grandmother’s youth. Grandfather Vinegar—the current one—claimed that Grandmother Sage had probably dealt with three generations of Gardeners, the current one being the granddaughter of the one Grandma had known in her youth.

  “But she’s the same, the very same!”

  “Ah, no, Granny,” said the vinegary one. “It’s just the appearance of this latest one has rubbed up against the memories of those others, wearing against one another like coins in a pocket until all the little differences are worn away.”

  Since the Gardener never left the garden by a route any of them could see, not so much as to step outside the gate, even Grandfather Vinegar could not venture a guess as to how she might have come by a child or a grandchild. Only women and children were invited inside her gate, and they only rarely, and a dreadful penalty was exacted from trespassers. Some of the grandmothers claimed to remember David Highnose opening the gate and walking two steps inside, two steps back out, and falling dead on the path, shriveled as an old leaf.

  Aunty Pepper gave it as her opinion that the Gardener was married to the moon, though Uncle Salt said it had to be the sun, for what garden burgeoned by moonlight? Grandma Sage said if she was married to anything natural, likely she was married to the rain, for it was true that sweet rain came to the Gardener’s place, even in droughtful times when the rest of Swylet got only the shout and splatter of a thunderstorm traveling through, much noise and little help. Those near the Gardener’s fence sometimes heard rain falling, and if a person put a hand on the top rail, that hand would be wet with rain,
though not a single drop fell on the dusty road outside.

  All Swylet knew how she looked as well as I did: lithe and strongly built, with hard brown hands and a face that seemed to be all bones and eyes until one looked carefully and saw the curve of the lips, the flare of the nostrils, the way color came and went in her cheeks. I thought her very beautiful, though in a quiet way, the way a great tree is beautiful or a mountain. Between the straps of her summer sandals, her feet were brown as her hands. She wore a leather apron with many pockets over ankle-length dresses that were green in spring, gold in summer, red in fall, and blue in winter. Her hair was usually covered by a fine linen wimple topped by a wide-brimmed and battered leather hat. I never saw her wash herself, but she was always clean, and she smelled of flowers.

  The people of Swylet also knew the Gardener’s cats, very large, round-headed ones who came to the gate whenever a supplicant rang the bell. They were mostly tabby cats, a few black ones, and always at least one with slanting blue eyes in a narrow, speculative face. Each had a name, and the Gardener spoke to them in baby talk as she walked: “There, Bounce, beneath that borage a burrow. See to it tonight. Lightfoot, linger by the lilies. Someone starlit has left them in tangles. Tell me what creature is dancing there, do…” Then she would laugh, and so would the cats, in strange high voices, as though they were playing a game. The villagers stated as absolute fact that the cats sometimes danced on their hind legs and spoke among themselves.

  I could not tell whether the villagers believed this was truth or had merely invented it for amusement, though Grandpa Vinegar and his ilk never allowed themselves to be amused. Grandpa Vinegar had grown old and sour from loneliness, for his marriage had ended long ago when his wife hanged herself by her neck from the barn loft, despairing over his having brought calamity home to taint her blood and kill the babe in her womb. This calamity came from his chasing after women in the sea cities before he came back to his betrothed in Swylet, barely in time for the marriage feast. So said the Gardener when the woman brought the stillborn to her, begging to know why. The Gardener took the baby to lie among her lilacs. She always took dead babies to lie in her gardens, and certain mothers claimed they could hear their children laughing as they danced upon the Gardener’s meadows in the moonlight.