Pulse pulse pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse pulse pulse . . . Pulse pulse pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse pulse pulse . . .
The rhythmic sound fills the room with its urgency.
Megan’s cool green eyes traverse the table, meeting the stare of each of us. “Amelia’s instruments picked up the signal before dawn,” she says quietly. “From the general direction of Perseus. The signal has strengthened slightly, indicating it approaches our solar system.” She falls silent again.
Pulse pulse pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse pulse
pulse . . .
Demeter finally asks the question all of us instinctively dread: “What is it?”
Hera answers. “Morse code. The historical call for help—an SOS.”
“In the event of implied danger to our Unity,” Megan says in an uninflected voice, “I am empowered by our Central Code to take autonomous action only with your approval. Since this situation does not immediately imperil us, Mother has decided that I should not ask that approval, that the full Council shall decide what action we must take.”
Mother makes no response, merely contemplates us.
“What is there to discuss?” Vesta asks. “We must help.”
“Vesta dear,” Hera says grimly, “the signal is clearly, unmistakably an SOS. Meaning a ship from Earth or one of her colonies.”
“But I don’t see—”
Understanding only too well, I interrupt. “We came here to be safe and free. To live in peace by living secretly.”
“But still, why can’t we—”
“We risk exposure,” Hera says.
The dilemma has been crystalized—to all but Vesta, apparently. “Yes, but we can’t just—”
“We don’t know the nature or gravity of their distress,” Megan says, “nor what kind of ship it is. It may well be an armed Cruiser. We detect no other transmission from them, but they may be in full contact with Earth.”
“But Megan, we can’t—”
“We are here to decide that, Vesta,” Megan says gently. “What we should—or should not—do.”
Mother, I notice, still has not spoken. A certain sign that she will not attempt to influence any decision in this matter.
“The stakes are very clear,” Megan says softly. “We can help—and run the risk of exposure. Or we can choose not to help and perhaps—we can never know—consign an unknown number of persons to their deaths.”
“They may already be dead,” Danya points out.
“That is also possible,” Megan answers, “but again we risk exposure if we investigate.”
Pulse pulse pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse . . . pulse pulse
pulse . . .
Demeter is gazing at Megan with stricken eyes. Her voice is almost inaudible: “Megan, what do you advise?”
“I choose not to advise.” Megan speaks flatly. “It must be our decision, not mine. I recommend that we debate this further as we need to, then put the matter to ballot.”
We talk quietly. But all has been said that needs to be said, and soon discussion dwindles.
Megan sits with Mother; they do not speak, only listen as we speak. When silence falls, Megan says, “All those ready to cast irrevocable ballot, please signify. Mother chooses not to vote unless there is a tie.”
“As do I,” Vesta says. Her voice is agitated. “I choose not to vote.”
“Vesta,” Megan says gently, “abstention except by Mother is not allowed under our Central Code. But you may take whatever time you need to decide.”
I touch my bracelet; my blue-gray color appears on the holographic screen on our crystal table. Sixteen of our twenty signify readiness to vote.
“I require further time to reflect,” Venus says.
“As do I,” Demeter agrees.
“I too,” Diana says.
“And I,” Vesta whispers.
I am not surprised. The professions of my sisters have given them a most truly profound reverence for life.
We adjourn. Some of us gather in small enclaves to converse. Sorely troubled, I choose the isolation of a meditation room, and remain there until, an hour later, the signal is given to reconvene.
Solemnly, we gather around the crystal table.
“All of you have signified readiness to vote,” Megan says expressionlessly. “Please vote now on the question: Should we assist the ship that signals distress?”
I touch my bracelet hastily; then sit tensely and watch the holographic unit. Megan also touches her bracelet and gazes at the tally gauge before her.
“Nineteen have cast ballots,” she says. “One remains before I can reveal the tally.”
“I.” Vesta sits with a trembling hand poised over her bracelet.
“Do you require more time, Vesta? If so I will void our current vote.”
“No,” she whispers, and jabs at her bracelet as if it would burn her.
“Our vote tally,” Megan announces, and touches the gauge.
Eight for. Twelve against. I, Minerva, am one of the
twelve who have pronounced a death sentence on other human beings . . .
“Our irrevocable decision is to take no action,” Megan says evenly. “One other question remains. In the unlikely event that this ship finds Maternas, shall we then assist?”
“If they find us, there will be little possibility of maintaining our concealment,” Hera states.
Megan nods. “The simplest readings would reveal signs of our technology. And we could move Amelia out of orbit and conceal her only with great difficulty. Is there further debate on this question?” We remain silent. “Please signify readiness to vote.” We all so signify. “Please vote now on the question: Should we assist the distressed ship if it finds Maternas?”
The vote is twenty in favor.
Mother heaves a deep sigh and rises to her feet. “You are all my daughters,” she says, her remarkable eyes softened to gentleness, “and I’m proud of both your wisdom and your compassion. And,” she adds, “I’m grateful for no tie vote on question one. Or your poor old Mother would now be considerably older.”
Mother takes her leave, tiny but indomitable in her flowing green cape. Megan says, “Except for the contingency plans if this ship should find Maternas, our business is finished. Danya, please remain, and also Jolan and Astra. And you also, please, esteemed Hera.”
I am too dispirited to argue that I should remain in my capacity as historian, and take my leave with the rest of us, finding solace in the knowledge that their proceedings will be recorded automatically, that there are never any secret meetings of our Council.
Instead of returning to the history chamber, or going to my house, I visit the children’s compound and watch Celeste in her linguistics class—unobserved by her. I long to hold her, but resist; I would communicate my distress to her. Soon I go to my house and gaze for a long time at the swift, soothing currents of the Woolf River.
Would I have voted so quickly and uncompromisingly, I ask myself, if this had been fifteen years ago and I did not have my dearest Christa and our own precious Celeste? Today I would suffer the flesh flayed from me before I would risk the slightest hurt to them. I would call death down upon any who would threaten harm . . .
How can I but question my wisdom? For years I did not, would not believe Christa’s love—only the conventional expectation that if the young go with the old it is for a time and then they seek further, among their own age . . . All the years she did not leave I believed that soon she would; I refused to listen when she asked to bear our child . . . When she asked . . . And asked . . . Until she did a thing she had never done before with me . . . Cried . . . Only then did I see the depth of her love, the depth of my selfishness, my concern with avoiding my own pain at the expense of her happiness . . .
And so now I have my Christa and we have our Celeste . . . Celeste, with my eyes but Christa’s strength and beauty . . .
No, age does not aut
omatically bring wisdom. And if it does, perhaps it also brings humility in equal parts . . .
Christa has come home. “I’ve been searching for you,” she says softly. “Along with everyone in Cybele I watched the Council proceedings on the screen in the square. I knew I must find you, come to you—”
Needing her strength, the reassurance of her arms, I take her hand and lead her to our bed.
II
Journal of Lt. Laurel Meredith, SSA
2214.2.12
Perhaps the events of the past day are a preposterous dream—a delirium. Perhaps after six weeks of floating in death-like sensory deprivation my mind has also gone. But could even a broken mind devise events so improbable, so inconceivable?
I had risen from my vigil to stretch my legs. As usual we were all occupied with our individual obsessions: Ross and Hanigan tinkering with our life support computers—a shattered multi-thousand piece puzzle with no schematic from which to reassemble it; Coulter prowling the hydroponic room brandishing an instaweld gun, looking like a brawny thief, knowing full well that soon our precious atmosphere would leak out around his welds, and rasping curses as he welded the ominously hissing microscopic cracks. But then all of our compulsive tasks were hopeless, including mine—searching with the pitiful manual instrumentation left to us for a cloud-covered planet to give us shelter before our fatally damaged survival systems totally collapsed . . . It was hopeless, hopeless . . . as futile as our pulsing distress beam out here beyond the Einsteinian Curve, out here in this cold, achingly empty universe . . .
I had returned to my post and settled in again to monitor the EV scope when I saw it—misty, indistinct, vaguely coral. I narrowed scope and focused—and soon shouted for Ross.
Cruiser of the Americas 991, blind, deaf, partially paralyzed, retained enough navigational capability for Coulter to maneuver us into the star system—an optical binary, I noted—and then he muscled and cursed us into tumbling orbit around the coral planet, Hanigan and Ross punching at unresponsive stabilizer keys until Coulter said in his raspy voice, “Forget it. The gyros won’t fire except in random pattern.”
“I can’t make consistent readings tumbling like this,” I said, strapped into my module and concentrating on my gauges, on the rapidly shifting elements of surface data, the tantalizing glimpses of blurred landscape on the screen. “But there’s no obvious indication of intelligent life.”
“Who cares? What choice do we have?” Hanigan’s red moustache was quivering as it always did when he was agitated. “We make it here or we don’t make it.”
“Let’s go,” Ross ordered, removing his restraint straps.
“Wait,” I said. “What’s coming over the IFC?”
The Interplanetary Frequency Channel was flaring with static that seemed—to me—rhythmic, repetitive.
“Must be something we reconnected wrong,” Hanigan said impatiently. “Let’s go.”
We donned our EV suits and boarded the tiny craft poised in the launch pod—our final hope. I had taken all my exobiology instrumentation to quickly ascertain when we landed—if it was not already apparent—whether we would die in this alien environment, and if so how soon and in what manner, and whether I would die in that manner or in my own.
We had just taken off when our EV’s short range radio crackled to life. “. . . acknowledge. . . Attention unknown craft, acknowledge . . . Attention—”
As we gaped at each other in astonishment, Ross managed to utter, “Cruiser of the Americas Niner-Niner-one. Who the hell are you?”
“There is little time and more pressing concerns.” The voice was female, cool, bell-like in its clarity. And commanding. “Set landing coordinates on frequency one-eight-niner point—” The voice issued precise instructions, and soon we locked onto a directional beam.
Coulter said in a stunned voice, “Jim, this can’t be one of our bases. Not out here. Jim—”
Ross, having recovered himself, demanded in his most resonant voice, “Who are you? Acknowledge.”
“A representative of this world. Your questions must wait until planetfall.”
Hanigan said excitedly, “Jim, a ship! On orbital path! I picked it up just before it went out of range!”
“Who are you?” Ross demanded over the IFC. He said to us, “We need to know exactly what we’re getting into here.”
Ross’s dark eyes were baffled; and he doesn’t like to be confused or frustrated. Under our circumstances I myself would not have pursued the matter of identification until we landed—but this was not the first time I’d questioned Ross’s judgment.
Repeatedly Ross demanded, “Who are you, acknowledge.”
But there was no reply. I was pleased with the apparently female personage on the mysterious coral planet.
“Distinctly uncooperative if not unfriendly,” Ross said through tight lips. “Code four landing precautions.”
I sighed inaudibly. This was lunacy. They were benefactors. They had not been hostile. They had contacted us, assisted with our landing. But our landing would be backed up by full electron power at the ready, with the real possibility of hostilities. After the sheer miracle of finding this world, we might never live to set foot upon it . . . But I maintained silence, as of course one of my inferior rank is required to do.
We landed on a flat perfect site, a wide clearing covered with waving ivory-blue grass and surrounded on three sides by sharply rising hills. “Perfect for them to cover us,” Ross growled.
Quickly I took atmospheric readings while the others surveyed with telescopic probes.
“Nothing around but small animal life,” Coulter pronounced.
“Breathable,” I shouted. “Breathable air! Twenty-one point—”
“Full EV gear,” Ross ordered impassively, as I knew he would. Commanders become commanders by being cautious, not adventurous or optimistic.
We donned our EV suits, Hanigan included, although he would remain on board for this code four landing and cover us with the EV’s weaponry.
The clearing on all sides of us remained empty, vegetation stirring in vagrant breezes. The men scanned the clearing anxiously; I busied myself with taking further atmospheric and soil readings, increasingly elated as optimum figures registered on all my gauges.
“Attention Cruiser EV niner-niner-one,” said the cool precise voice. “Our scanners detect electron-charged weapons on board your ship. You are required to deenergize these weapons.”
Ross said, his lips thin and tight, “We come in peace. We will not disarm until we are certain of your intentions.”
“We greet you in peace. This is our world and you will not be allowed on it unless you disarm your weapons.”
I ventured to Ross, “They’re not asking that we destroy them, Commander. Only deenergize.”
“She’s right,” Coulter rasped. “We can bring them to power again in less than an hour, Jim.”
“What choice do we have?” Hanigan, as usual, had gone to the heart of the matter.
Ross glared at Hanigan and said tersely into the transmitter, “Terms accepted.” He said to us, “But first, for security I want all this grass around us burned off. Hanigan, burn it.”
Hanigan had cut the first swath when we were momentarily blinded by the flash of a laser beam over our EV.
“The next burst will strike you. Cease fire immediately. Grass cover is vital to the ecological survival of this area.”
“Space bilge,” growled Coulter.
“Acknowledged,” Ross said into the transmitter, barely concealing his fury. “We cease fire.”
Working the switches in tandem, we disarmed the two electron guns. Ross seized the transmitter. “Cruiser EV niner-niner-one, we have disarmed as you demand.”
“We pick up small weapons readings.”
“Sidearms only,” Ross protested. “Request we be allowed to retain these. We may need them for hunting, food-gathering.”
The voice was flat. “Killing for food is not necessary and not allowed. Disar
m these weapons.”
“Acknowledged.” Ross slammed down the transmitter. “Do it,” he ordered us. “Damn them, we’ll have our day . . .”
As I drained the power pack of the last weapon, a wide scope rifle, the receiver crackled, “Cruiser EV niner, niner one, you may disembark upon Maternas.”
Maternas. The word echoed in me as we donned our headgear and lowered the ramp. My mind was filled with the images I’d absorbed as we had descended to this coral world: great seas, continent masses covered with vegetation and magnificent mountain ranges and glaciers and volcanoes . . . a varied and fascinating world. I was consumed with curiosity about its inhabitants, hopeful that they would be Earth-like in these Earth-like conditions, like the inhabitants of Verna-III. With language synthesizers in existence for over two hundred years it was not startling that they communicated in our language—but out here? There could be no such undiscovered civilization out here. This corner of the galaxy had been sketchily charted, but indeed charted. I had detected no visible technology even as we’d descended to the surface. But then, as we all knew, the Service did have its secrets. Perhaps this was one of our military observation bases, camouflaged and clandestine, on this far distant outpost of the galaxy. But a woman, to command our landing? That wasn’t possible . . .
Sifting these thoughts, I followed the men down the ramp and set foot on the lovely world of Maternas, and saw coming toward us six hovercraft.
We stood in our ceremonial row at the foot of the ramp and stared as the six craft landed in a semi-circle and only women debarked. There was no sign of weapons, no indication that this was either a ceremonial or military delegation. They wore pants and shirts mostly, a few trouser suits and tunics. A distinguished-looking older woman was clad in a blue robe; her fingers moved dextrously over the sensor-plates of a manual recorder. Another woman flung a silver cape imperiously over a shoulder and stood with hands on hips to contemplate us, her lips pursed disapprovingly.
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