Mother sighed. “I know I’m old as dust but wisdom is such an effort . . . Listen, my dear. It’s really very simple. Beginning tomorrow you’ll be seen always in my company. Decisions I and my Inner Circle are required to make will be referred to you. Until the idea of your status is firmly implanted. Then it will be up to you to build your own authority and power base.”
My mind was already grappling eagerly with the immensity of such responsibility. “I dedicate myself to—”
Mother waved a hand. “Skip the homilies, dear. And try to keep one thing in mind at all times. Even in a group such as this, all aspects of leadership psychology apply. Leadership imagery, for instance. Black and white are power colors—so dress all the time just as you are now. Power attracts, Megan. Irresistibly. My gifted children are no more immune to the charisma of the leader than anyone else . . . especially such a leader as you. Many women will soon want to occupy your bed, however briefly. I’m sure they do anyway,” she added, coolly surveying me.
I laughed, warmed by so offhand a compliment. “If I haven’t had much time before, I certainly won’t now, Mother.”
“No, you won’t.” Her face was more somber than I had yet seen. And tired. “Lovers—a family—distract. Dilute attention and energy. And create jealousies, factions. Our circumstances will be unforseeable, with the survival of thousands at stake. The stakes are much too high for—”
“There will be no one,” I said firmly. “I assure you it is a loneliness I can accept.”
“It is a most difficult loneliness. One that grows more difficult. I know all about the difficulties,” she murmured, and lay back, her eyes shuttered from me. “And that aspect of your life has been open to you for so short a time . . .”
“I accept it without reservation,” I said, knowing it would be easier for me than most. Perhaps I should have revealed the extent of my innocence to Mother—this missing element in my life—but I decided that I would not; it was an innocence in which I took no pride. “I give you my word,” I said. “My solemn word.”
She murmured, eyes closed, “It begins tomorrow, Megan. My Inner Circle contributed heavily in the choice of you . . . they are eager to support you . . . to have you join us. . .”
“I sleep little,” I replied, “and rise early. I will—”
But Mother’s breathing had become the slow rhythms of sleep. Carefully, gently, I covered her with a soft fleece thermolet, and walked soundlessly from her quarters, thinking that she had looked tiny and vulnerable. . . and knowing that I would protect her at any cost, this woman to whom I had willingly, unhesitatingly, pledged my life.
V
2199.4.6
Mother has told me, “If you insist on pursuing this eyewitness history of our journey, then focus it on Megan. The leader always provides the history, the legends.”
But how shall I record Megan?
In these days of chaos, amid the maelstrom of our preparations, she has been peremptory, dogmatic, abrupt, impatient, even rude. Yet she has been our rationality, our strength.
No, she has said to the fabricators that we argued were essential to our new settlement. “Synthesizers only. If we cannot build our own fabricators after planetfall, then the planet’s resources are insufficient to our needs.”
No, she has said to equipment for full oxygenation. Her tersely given reason: “Oxygen only on the living levels, and we will draw that partly from photosynthesis in the greenhouse areas. The rest of the ship will be sealed except to repair crews.”
No, she has said, her finality implacable, to all pleas, no matter how rending, for personal possessions of any kind. “Supplies for transit and planetfall are the only priority. If anyone cannot leave behind her possessions and mementos, she may stay behind with them.”
No, she has said to modification requests for the tiny and starkly bare cubicles that will be our living quarters. “If anyone cannot accommodate to four rigorous and tightly disciplined months in space, then she does not belong with us . . .”
She has assigned responsibility with a maximum and flattering degree of trust. “You and Olympia choose, assemble your own team,” she has told us. “The decisions about what knowledge we store to take with us are yours alone.”
She speaks seldom, and then with simplicity; but she has full appreciation for a task well thought out and completed with excellence, and a brief word of praise from her seems eulogy. A task completed below her expectation will bring silence—and redoubled effort to transform that silence.
Hera has established the team which is redesigning the ship we purchased—and have renamed Amelia Earhart. Megan’s design contributions based on rotational principles are brilliant, Hera says, and have enabled Hera to release part of her team to begin the critical work on Amelia’s power drive.
Isis, in charge of supply distribution, says that Megan’s instant computation of the most complex weight to stress ratios is astonishing . . .
She is everywhere. And her presence is exhilarating.
I have tried to analyze that presence. She is constructed of tension: the slender body always erect, blade-straight—never conceding fatigue, although she seems never to sleep. The ivory skin luminous and tight, as if polishing the sculptured planes of her face. The mouth finely shaped, but often drawn taut with concentration, the lower lip caught in even white teeth. She seems fully energized, like an entity in perfect exercise of its powers—like a cat stretched out in certain pursuit of its prey.
When she pauses to observe or listen, her long legs move in unobtrusive rhythm; she cannot remain motionless. But her hands are calm; she holds schematic printouts in an acute still tension; and she taps in emphasis when she speaks, with purposeful fingers long and slender and translucent.
She seems to tower a head above us, yet is no more tall than the tall among us. Her garb is utilitarian—the white shirt and black pants starkly simple—yet on her they acquire elegance. Her habitual gesture is to brush a hand through her hair, hair which is always in disarray, yet pleasingly so, separating into dark curling tendrils over the collar of her shirt. And those emerald eyes. Always those extraordinary eyes.
Her authority is now unquestioned—which is not to say that her decisions have gone unchallenged. We listened carefully to the protests which came to each of us—and pronounced unsympathetic judgment. Mother—the ultimate source of appeal—of course was her usual ungracious self: “Phosh. Do as Megan commands or I will be seriously annoyed.”
Fabrienne—a descendant of mine I must admit—had the temerity to complain to Mother, “This is a dictatorship!”
“Of course it is, my dear,” Mother answered cheerfully. “Who has time for democracy? We’ll get into all that business on Maternas.”
But Mother has had daily meetings with Megan, private meetings in Mother’s quarters. And often after these meetings Megan’s decisions have been changed or modified. And so Megan learns flexibility . . . But with each passing day she grows in competence and authority; fewer and fewer of her decisions are challenged; the meetings with Mother become less and less frequent.
So it has become known throughout our Unity that Megan has full support from Mother. And that she has won loyalty and staunch support from Mother’s Inner Circle. It has become apparent to us all who observe her daily that she possesses an integrative faculty of stunning dimension, seeing the whole and its parts with equal acuity whatever the complexity of the whole. Many are born with great gifts for an hour which never comes. But she is perfectly designed to lead us, and we support her with our hearts as well as our intellect . . . Increasingly, with our hearts . . .
Venus somehow manages to find moments from her work to disturb Megan. And she does disturb her. . . If noticeable to very few, the signs are unmistakable. Brief breaks in her concentration when Venus is nearby. A sudden stillness in her body when Venus comes into the room; the subtle heightening of the ivory coloring.
It is easy to forget how very young Megan is; her appearance is so impos
ing, her presence so electric, her decisions made with such quiet assurance . . . But I see her sexual awareness of Venus, and her confusion . . . As does Venus. As does Mother.
Several days ago Mother and I came into the command room to consult Megan. She stood with eyes fixed on her drafting board, face flushed. Venus leaned casually toward her, a finger tracing slow circles in deliberate teasing distraction over the design Megan was revising.
“—anti-grav unit in my quarters,” Venus was saying. “Let me show you. Sensation beyond imagining. You—”
“Venus,” Mother said curtly, “get lost.”
Startled, Venus looked at Mother, brow prettily knit.
Also annoyed with her, I explained with satisfaction, “Get lost is a twentieth century phrase. Closely related to the word scram.”
As Venus continued to took bewildered, Mother said, “We have business with Megan, Venus dear. Go talk to your plants.”
As Venus strolled gracefully away, Mother asked Megan in a voice that contained a gentleness I had heard as a child, “Is Venus a problem to you, dear one?”
“No, Mother,” Megan answered immediately. “No, she is not.”
“I can help—”
“Do not. There is no problem.”
Mother nodded. I had never heard anyone address Mother in a tone so closely resembling a command, nor her accede so willingly. Megan had inherited Hera’s pride, I thought—with a most considerable addition of her own. But I had seen her involuntary glance as Venus had left; and I looked at her in concern, knowing too well how vulnerable she was.
I have read or heard somewhere a definition of sexual appeal in a woman: it is merely the reflection of that woman’s own sexual interest.
The two major and equal interests in Venus’s life have always been her work, and the exploration of the sensations possible to her body. She has a sexual confidence I have never remotely possessed, not even during the years when my body was at peak attractiveness. The sexual shimmer that surrounds Venus has not diminished with the years. She seems the most youthful of us, and her effect on women remains, to this day, mesmerizing. Her body is fully fleshed, her breasts exquisitely shaped; and her movements are languorous, sensual. I have seen women stare at her lips, which possess not only perfection of shape but a slightly swollen, ripe aspect. Many times I have seen Venus’s azure eyes meet the eyes of another woman with a candid eroticism that intensifies until the hot blue seems the very edge of orgasm.
It has been years since Venus abandoned men. “Boring. Too easy,” she had told me with an expressive shrug. “Women are challenging. And physically much more . . . interesting.”
Megan had forbidden Mother to help her—but not me.
But I said to Venus without much hope, “I think you should leave Megan alone.”
“Don’t be disagreeable, Minerva.” Venus was brushing her silver hair. “And silly,” she added.
She lay on her chaise in a filmy one-piece trouser suit of palest blue. I sighed; such firm breasts surely had to be a matter of sheer will power. “She’s too busy,” I argued. “She doesn’t have time to dally with you.”
“Of course she does. There’s always time. If necessary it can take a very short time. Short but frequent can be oh so very sweet.” She looked off away from me, smiling.
“She’s young.”
A shrug. “So? I’ve had younger.”
“She could be hurt. And that would certainly distract her from her work.”
“Love never destroyed anyone.” This was a maxim of Venus’s, repeated frequently. “And I love her. I do love her, Minerva.”
I had heard this from Venus so many times over the years that I made the appropriate rude snorting noise.
Venus took my hands. “Dear sister, why this interest? It would be good for her. She hasn’t anyone, all she does is work work work.”
I fired my last salvo. “Venus, Mother doesn’t approve.”
“Mother has never approved. She thinks,” she said with a delicate shudder, “that I should be like Demeter, settled down all these years.”
I said tartly, thinking of the lovely years with my own beloved Serena, “If you’ve never tried—”
“Have any of you ever lived as I do? But perhaps this is the time for me, Minerva. I believe, I truly do, that I will be with Megan forever. But why worry about her? I’ll be good for her. She never sleeps, never relaxes. She needs distraction. Just let me get my hands on her. Inside that white shirt of hers. And after that, most of all . . .” Venus smiled. “Those black pants. Ah, those black pants . . . she won’t relax for a certain most exquisite time, but afterward she’ll be very relaxed. And sleeping a very sweet sleep.”
“You’re incorrigible,” I muttered, and left without further protest. I myself could not see that Venus would be particularly harmful to Megan; my only concern was that Megan seemed disturbed by her . . .
VI
Personal Journal of Megan
2199.5.25
Exhausted, I’m exhausted . . Yet sleep is not what I need, no more than would a computer . . . And I am adjunct to our computers, synthesizer of their data . . . judgment maker . . .
Continuously I analyze, fit each piece into the whole, yet I maintain mental fluidity as the data accumulates and constantly changes. I walk on a wire suspended over a precipice, confident and fearful both. But amid the fearful tension of negotiating the peril is an exultation I have never known . . .
We are three months ahead of schedule. An incredible achievement by us all. Tomorrow we leave, those of us who have worked out of our desert compound, for Skylab and the final weeks of preparation before we board Amelia Earhart.
Four thousand and forty-five have chosen to go at latest count, and cutoff date looms but five weeks from now when we finalize all designs and weight tolerances. We have emphasized that afterward under no circumstances will anyone be allowed to change her mind and join us; reconstruction of Amelia and all preparations will be complete.
Two thousand and eleven state that they have made their irrevocable decision to remain. They are here with us, most of them working on plans to occupy this compound and create beauty in this desolation where they will be undetected and safe.
This time of exhilaration, of eagerness for the adventure that lies ahead, is greatly tempered by the grief of partings. No one of our Unity is untouched, immune from the wrenching emotion of this time, least of all me.
Even the Inner Circle has been shocked by not one but two defections: in these past few days Olympia and Isis have suddenly chosen to stay. Mother exhibits a placid demeanor to us all, but she spends considerable time secluded in her quarters—as do I now, having learned only today my own grievous news. My mother has chosen to stay, and my two sisters. On this greatest adventure of my life I will be cut off from those I most love, especially Tara, the sister dearest to me . . .
One hundred and ninety-seven remain presently undecided. Some are claustrophobics who wrestle with the knowledge they must live in the honeycomb which will be our home for three long months. Agorophobics fear the knowledge that they will drift through an unimaginable void. Sedation is possible of course, but it is Vesta’s decision whether these women should accompany us, whether they can successfully adapt after planetfall. Other cases are also difficult—women who struggle with powerful emotional ties that bind them here. Still others—the most tragic—are women who love each other, but one wishes to go, the other to stay. These women Vesta also counsels.
I am recipient of admiration for my responsibilities, but never could I perform Vesta’s work. Never could I carry such burdens. She has taken the anguish of these women into her. And if I am exhausted, she is wrung dry.
Last week I found her in her chamber, head bowed to her console. Her limbs trembled and twitched as she slept, whether from tension draining from her or from tormenting dreams I knew not. But I decided then that I must recall Carina from Skylab. However important her duties there, they could be no more urgent than to
be nearby and give comfort to this most precious and deeply valued woman as she performs her vital work.
I saw them together the day Carina arrived. I had come into the chamber at the late end of the evening to obtain projected figures. Vesta stood with her head on Carina’s shoulder, shaking with sobs. Carina, tall and powerfully built, held Vesta, stroking her hair, murmuring to her, her voice musical, soothing. I stared, compelled by her tenderness. Then Carina picked up tiny Vesta as if she were constructed of feathers and carried her to a chaise, and knelt beside her and opened Vesta’s robe. She took a breast into her hand as if she were holding a frightened bird. I left then, soundlessly, sealing the chamber.
If only I could retain control and command when Venus is near.
Her desire for me is palpable, I can almost sense the pulsing of her blood. And she draws me to her. While I have controlled everything else in my life, I cannot prevent my response to her. Around her my balance slides off its axis and threatens to topple . . . The balance I manage with such effort . . .
I fear what I cannot fathom, the depth in me I do not understand.
I must look the fool to her. She thinks—surely—that I have the experience of most young women my age. No one knows, not even Tara . . . no one can guess my innocence. And Venus is puzzled that I will not acknowledge what is so clearly between us. It would be difficult to acknowledge even if I were free to do so; I do not know how. Never have I felt so awkward, so inadequate. Even Mother has noticed, has offered to help . . . as if I were a seven-year-old . . . I will not permit her interference.
I have managed to have others about, to not be alone with her. But this night she found me in the data room.
I would not look at her; I knew her eyes would weaken me again; her lips, her breasts would stir me again.
“Megan.”
Her voice vibrated within me, my body was electric with her presence. She came close to me without touching me. She seems to sense that she should not risk her touch.
“Megan, do you think I’m attractive?”
Daughters of a Coral Dawn Page 4
