She turns to the projection module. A blurred globe appears on the screen—a reverse negative of Earth, misty coral in place of blue seas, with streaks and swirls of pale ivory and coral continents.
Again Hera stands with her arms crossed. “This is a ninety times magnification from a galactic probe as well as a composite,” she says calmly. “And because of the atmospheric shroud, it is the best penetrative representation we have.”
Murmurs of disappointment—and dismay—can be heard. Hera says brusquely, “Yes, there is much we do not know about this planet, but a great deal that we do know. In very general terms, chemical and gas composition from spectrographic study. The atmosphere contains the four vital components necessary to sustain life as we know it. The vital constituents of living cells—nucleotides—are present. There are massive ocean areas. Radiation readings provide atom absorption rates and gas densities. Obviously we have approximations of the mass, radius, and density of this planet, its orbital path, and we know that three small moons surround it. And we have studied its star.”
On the screen appears a sun and planetary system which at a glance could be mistaken for our own solar system.
“This sun is a white-to-yellow G-type star.” Hera’s voice is flat, as if she is explaining the commonplace; she has always been supercilious in the sharing of her knowledge. “Our spectroheliograms have given its luminosity, color index, spectral sequence and class, to mention the most basic factors.” She says impatiently. “The coordinates for all technical data are on your individual screens. Sequence them, scan the data. Then I will entertain questions. Intelligent questions,” she adds forbiddingly.
A musical rise and fall of women’s voices begins, soft-toned discussions. Megan bends to Mother, murmurs. Again Mother pats her hand. Megan illuminates the huge platform screen and moves to a data board and for herself runs the coordinates Hera has given, sequencing them with great rapidity. Then a flow of equations races across the screen. Since I possess only cursory familiarity with Isis’ field, these are of a complexity beyond me. But Isis looks on with rapt interest, as does Hera, who ceases her impatient pacing to stare at the stream of symbols, head cocked to one side in her habitual manner when her mind is fully absorbed.
The flow of symbols ceases; a final equation stares from the screen. Megan turns and gazes at Isis with an expression of deference.
“You are correct,” Isis tells her. She adds in a low tone to us, “Hera and I arrived at that answer only after much combined effort. The technique is rough but her leaps in logic are astonishing.”
“About what is she correct?” I inquire; but as Megan extinguishes her data, the first question for Hera has appeared.
The lumiscreen reads, “SINCE THIS PLANET IS LIKE EARTH, WILL IT NOT ALSO HAVE INTELLIGENT LIFE, AND MANY LIFE FORMS?”
“The planet promises to have life forms more intelligent than some in this room,” Hera snaps. Her dark eyes are indignant. “This planet is not like Earth. It is Earth-like—a billion degree difference as any cretin knows. In a universe with untold star systems, countless numbers have planets favorably endowed for maintaining life. But the permutations of life forms are also incalculable. Of the few hundred thousand star systems which have been mapped, this planet is a close approximation of Earth-type conditions. But there will be differences that cannot be imagined, much less foretold.
“As for the lucid part of the question, even a stage-two intelligence has discovered fire and attempts rudimentary forms of communication with its own kind, and there are no surface irregularities, no atmospheric disturbances, no patterned pulses indicating purposeful use of energy. The most primitive technology would produce uneven readings, variance in the radiation readings, and based on every standard of judgment there is no evidence of civilization—which does not mean that intelligent life does not exist. The star system appears relatively young—in the four billion year range—and probably is still advancing along a typical median evolutionary scale. There are readings we cannot take unless actually there. The organic molecular structure of the ocean . . . DNA readings. But the basic molecular keys for the evolution of life forms are present, and we may assume varied life forms exist. Next question.”
“WHY NOT A DOMED SETTLEMENT IN A CLOSER STAR SYSTEM SUCH AS ALPHA CENTAURI?”
Hera nods acceptance of the question. “Vesta? Perhaps you would answer.”
Smiling sweetly, Vesta stands. The gentlest among us, she is perhaps most loved. She is a social scientist—the gentlest of the sciences—and an incredibly wonderful cook. She has lived for the past twenty years with Carina, a descendant of Selene, a big shy woman so reticent and tender with Vesta that it seems miraculous they managed to come together.
Her huge gray eyes fixed on the audience, Vesta says in her soft voice, “If we wish to live in the combination dome-subterranean type settlements Earth has established on its other planets, we could of course go to any planet not totally inimical. But the domed planetary settlements have this in common: they were built for mining purposes, secondarily as colonies. They possess an underlying impermanence. Anyone there has the choice and option of returning to Earth, a scant few days’ journey. Many studies support claims of harmful long-term effects of enclosed living. But in the Pleiades we may have an optimum chance to live in the open. If we find conditions that preclude this, then one would hope we would make this planet a temporary refuge until we find another which will not condemn us to living as artificially supported expatriates. One where we can live freely, as a naturally coexisting part of the ecology. A planet to be our home.”
A planet to be our home. These words echo eloquently for some moments before the next question appears.
“WHAT ARE THE ODDS FOR SUCCESSFUL COLONIZATION?”
Hera nods in satisfaction at the question. “Venus, perhaps you would assist.”
Venus moves gracefully to join Hera. By far the most beautiful of us now as always, she wears a soft blue flowing robe which suggests rather than conceals the womanly curving of her body. She gazes at her audience with azure eyes, and speaks in a voice of sensual tones which nevertheless contains authority.
“The risk is enormous. Initial tests may dictate a restricted existence to us immediately, as Vesta has suggested. We can do only so many laboratory tests, we can duplicate only conditions we are aware of, that we can forecast. The long term effects of this planet are the key. Will there be bacteriological conditions beyond our knowledge? Ultraviolet differences, to change the properties of our genes? Or will we adapt with a minimum of side-effect? We do not know.”
Hera flings out her arms. “But we will not be like Christopher Columbus on an uncharted sea. Nor Robinson Crusoe with limited resources on a desert island. We will be the best prepared exodus in all history.”
“HOW FAR A JOURNEY TO THIS PLANET?”
“A descendant of mine has just determined that answer,” Hera says proudly, “and Megan will speak.”
Megan looks only momentarily startled. “Thank you, esteemed Hera.”
She moves to the projection module. An equation appears on the screen. “Eighteen days to the Einsteinian Curve, as we all know.” Another, far more complex equation appears. “With optimum current starship technology, ninety-seven days beyond that to orbit and planetfall.”
“Excellent, my dear,” Mother says, beaming.
“HOW CAN WE BUILD A STARSHIP AND REMAIN UNDETECTED?”
“We cannot,” Hera declares in her most imperious tone. “Megan, call up coordinates point niner-four-five and six.”
Against the backdrop of the ghostly gray-white craters of the moon floats an immense brown brindled carrier ship, with faintly discernible Cryllic lettering repeated at intervals along its massive hull.
There are murmurs of surprised recognition.
“The Brezhnev,” Hera confirms, and falls silent, allowing us to contemplate it.
Brezhnev’s one venture beyond the Einsteinian Curve has given it justifiable fame: it carried b
ack to Earth the oxyplants that had cleansed the pollutants from the atmosphere. Afterward, it had made numerous solar system circumnavigations, but the continuous reshielding required for space-worthiness had eventually reached the point of diminishing returns for the Eastern Bloc; and more than a decade ago they had built the Tolstoi. Brezhnev has been in parabolic lunar orbit ever since.
“Through my daughter Kendra’s company we inquired about salvage rights to this abandoned and mothballed ship.” Hera smiles with immense satisfaction. “Our generous initial bid has been greeted with great eagerness by the Eastern Bloc.”
“Of course if they hadn’t been eager, we’d have taken it off their hands anyway,” Mother adds, to laughter. “But it’s so much nicer this way.”
“Yes,” Hera says, “especially when we have no use for credits where we’re going. Megan, please key in coordinates niner-four-seven and eight.”
A research station turns in stately slowness against the blue and white swirls of Earth. Hera does not bother to identify this historic station which was abandoned when the solar laboratories were built.
“Kendra’s company has a two-year maintenance contract with WACASA,” Hera says.
She strides to Mother’s side and stands illuminated in the pool of gold light. “Our plan is simple. We will buy Brezhnev and all necessary supplies to outfit it. And use Skylab as warehouse and waystation for ourselves and our equipment. We will expend a great many useless credits purchasing what we need, and in return we can never be accused of theft—which will confuse the issue of pursuit, perhaps. All reshielding and testing will be accomplished while Brezhnev—which we will rename, of course—is on orbital pass on the moon’s dark side. Preparations will require total cooperation from all of us who choose to leave, and a coordination of effort on the most massive scale imaginable.” Hera stalks back to our group, and sits down.
“CAN OUR SHIP LEAVE UNDETECTED? WHAT IF WE ARE PURSUED?”
Isis stands. “We cannot leave undetected. We can assume pursuit, for many reasons—mainly irrational. At best we can evade pursuit. We have the advantage of Brezhnev’s orbital configuration, and leaving from the moon’s dark side. There will also be Earth’s decision-making time—minutes to perhaps hours. Our computations have determined that except under the worst possible circumstance we will reach the Einsteinian Curve first. Our odds then of being found in hyperspace drop to fifty percent or less, given the ingenuity of the navigation plan we will devise.”
“I have an idea how we may reduce those odds even further,” Mother says musingly, “but it needs more thought.”
“HOW WILL WE AS INDIVIDUALS BE ABLE TO LEAVE EARTH SAFELY AND UNDETECTED?”
As Olympia stands to answer, erect and dignified in her gray robe, Mother snorts, “Details, mere details to be worked out. Next question.” Olympia sits down.
“DOES OUR NEW PLANET HAVE A NAME?”
Smiling, Demeter stands. She is the most reflective of us, sweet-natured and humorous, totally immersed in her work which, as she has grown older, has tended more to the research aspects of the medical arts. She has lived with Aleda, a lovely descendant of Vesta’s, for many contented years.
“The planet is currently designated on WACASA maps as M233.143-3,” Demeter says. “As Mother’s elders we have taken the liberty—certain that we would have your approval—to name our world after Mother.”
First Mother glares at us, then scowls at her audience until the tumultuous applause dies and everyone sits down. “Forget it,” she says. “I refuse to set foot on a planet called Mother.”
Demeter’s rejoinder is soft. “We have named our world . . . Maternas.”
“Maternas,” Mother muses.
Applause builds, swells, thunders. “All right, all right,” Mother grumbles, holding up a hand. “Who is your poor Mother to argue?”
We know she is pleased.
“WHEN DO WE LEAVE FOR MATERNAS?”
“The best question so far.” Mother thumps her chaise in emphasis.
I rise to answer. “Nine months to a year. With proper coordination of our efforts, we can reduce the time. The crucial element in our preparations is coordination.”
“And I have some ideas about that,” Mother says, her eyes drifting over to Megan. She gets to her feet. “I’m tired, dear ones. And you know how details bore me. Hash everything else out among yourselves. I know you girls can manage.”
To continuous cheers and applause, Mother makes her way to the corridor leading to her quarters; then she turns and beckons, for Megan.
IV
Personal Journal of Megan
2199.2.26
It is not that I am reticent—although others may judge me so. In a brief life where time has been insufficient to my needs, verbal expression—either recorded or spoken—is an expenditure I make as carefully as any other. Minerva has told me that a journal containing the personal thoughts and observations of a leader will one day be a vital part of the history of a new world. That will never be. I will never permit access to my personal thought. But at this moment, the reflection required to record this is soothing to me, and will perhaps make concrete the dreamlike events of the past days.
Before our Unity met, I had extrapolated that one day we would no longer retain meaningful productivity and motivation in our lives, that a growing sense of futility would eventually bring a period of withdrawal, of isolation, perhaps even exile. But my mind had not made the conceptual leap to exodus . . .
The instant I saw on lumiscreen our new world—its indistinct coral and ivory hues defeating my staring efforts to discern a revealing feature—I knew I would offer every skill I had, every talent, all my training, to help build this world . . .
But never did I dream that I would play a part such as I have been given . . .
When we reached Mother’s quarters, she arranged herself on her chaise, and I began to pace. It is impossible for me to sit quietly; I am too conscious of unused time slipping past. Mother, who contemplated me as I paced, no longer disconcerted me; I now knew that her ways are not meant to disconcert—they are simply her ways. And so her eyes followed me, the eyes which somehow have come down all the generations of her descendants to me. My mother has grey eyes; my natal sisters Lilia and Tara have inherited her eyes and diminutive stature. As I recall, my male parent’s eyes are a nondescript variant of hazel. I seldom cast a thought to him; he displayed interest in me only when my achievements rewarded me with a small degree of renown, and his is an interest I see no reason to return.
“Sit down, dear,” Mother suddenly directed.
Smiling, I sat where she indicated, at the foot of her chaise.
“Of course you’re coming with us,” she said.
“Nothing could prevent me.”
She said tartly, “Then tell me how you will contribute.”
I replied with caution and deference. “In the area Minerva referred to as coordination of effort. I have completed advanced study in colony design, several of my concepts have been applied on Jupiter—”
Mother said impatiently, “I know all about your accomplishments.”
I said in surprise, “I am honored. I suggest that three essential plans must be devised. The first priority is outfitting a ship previously an ore carrier to make it habitable over many months for more than four thousand of us, and—”
“Four thousand? Why do you say four thousand?”
“A mere guess,” I said swiftly, apologetically. “It seems . . . a correct number. Some of us will have powerful ties here. Others will be psychologically unable to leave—”
“Four thousand or so was the number Isis arrived at,” Mother said, “except that she used one of her curve charts—” She waved a hand. “Details bore me. Continue.”
“The configuration of our ship’s interior must be planned in minute detail, supplies and equipment precisely computed. The talent among us must be correlated, allocated, applied. At planetfall, while preliminary tests are undertaken and Matern
as is surveyed and charted, while decisions are taken about where we shall locate, the transition period from the ship to Maternas must be planned and organized, a well-conceived and flexible structure for our living arrangements must be designed in advance—”
“Enough,” Mother said.
She reached to me, took my hand, patted it; and said the words—casually—that have reverberated in my mind all these days since: “Megan, my dear, you are my choice to lead our exodus and settlement on Maternas.”
I could only stare at her. Then stammer, “There are others . . . I’m young—”
“If you ever get to be my age which Geezerak knows nobody is—well, most of you young people are quite boring, I must admit. But aside from that, age is irrelevant to almost everything.” She looked at me, eyes distant and containing an expression I could not identify. “You have skills uncannily matched to our needs. . . as if a seed has come to fruition at the precise moment its fruit is most badly needed . . .”
“Mother,” I said as she trailed off, “only you should lead us.”
She looked at me acutely then, her eyes aware, compelling. “Leadership is simple. It requires only the ability and willingness—the courage—to make decisions. I believe that you have that courage. I will help, dear one. But this is a time for youth. Your time.”
I did not answer. I could not. My mind was filled with visions.
“There is a price,” Mother said. “There always is.”
I looked at her.
“Loneliness.”
I smiled. “I have been most of my life alone.”
“A very short life. Dear, choice is so very different from necessity. Do you know anything of leadership dynamics?”
“Some,” I admitted. “As part of my studies. As a facet of colony reorganization. And enough to know I will not be readily accepted by women as talented as I, women of vastly more maturity than I.”
Daughters of a Coral Dawn Page 3
