Daughters of a Coral Dawn

by Katherine V Forrest

  “It’s quite lovely,” I said, considerably understating the beauty of my dress.

  “I’ll just make a few more while I’m at it,” Diana said, assessing me once again. “With that hair you should also wear

  . . . browns, yellows. Vesta will get you some sandals . . . You’ll look like one of us now, except for that hair . . . And I have a feeling long hair will come into fashion very soon in Cybele. Off with you now, Minerva is chafing to see you.”

  Carina took me to Minerva’s history chamber by hovercraft, thus allowing me only tantalizing glimpses of the contours of Cybele.

  Minerva, slim and straight, stately in her deep blue robe, greeted me softly, and then disarmed me by kissing my cheek; then she charmed me with a gentle manner and her insightful grasp of the history of Earth; and soon afterward further disarmed me with quicksilver humor. She had been informed by Megan of my knowledge of the escape from Earth, and therefore had no concerns about what she should reveal.

  I soon asked, “You keep all the records of this world’s history?”

  “Yes, both image and verbal history of important events. And I record vital statistics and our Joinings.”

  If I had not already suspected during my time with Vesta what was meant by Joinings, I would have guessed from observing Minerva with the young woman named Christa—tall, brown-haired, handsome, her body so magnificent in its size and strength that she might well be a living model of heroic sculpture. As I arrived she was quietly consulting with Minerva, and when Minerva appeared agitated, Christa had taken her hands and gazed at her lovingly; Minerva’s face had softened to tranquility, and she had lifted Christa’s hands briefly to her lips . . .

  I pushed this image forcibly from my mind, uncomfortable with its strangeness. But I asked curiously, “If you record Joinings, then you must also record . . . partings?”

  She answered with quiet emphasis. “We share gladly in the joyfulness of a Joining, but the sorrows of parting are matters not for public notice or comment.”

  “But there must be problems to be solved, disagreements,” I protested, vividly recalling the rancorous parting of my own parents, finally adjudicated by binding decree of the marital arbiters.

  “We have no concerns here about property,” she said, “and our children are little damaged by our partings.”

  This was a subject of compelling interest to me. I long to have my own children—but single women are forbidden the use of Estrova by Earth law, and I have not yet found a suitable husband and father. “The children here,” I asked, “how are they raised? Educated?”

  “In the most fertile environment we can provide,” she answered simply.

  I asked tentatively, “Minerva, how can you say your children are little damaged by your partings? How can that be?”

  “It does not damage them greatly,” she said gently, “but unhappiness between the birth parents is always felt by the child—”

  “Yes,” I murmured, remembering.

  “—And healthy development of the personality comes only from exposure to many individuals and situations. Our child—Christa’s and my Celeste—very early learned to spend time away from us, she soon learned the kinship of our Unity, that other adults value and care for her as well. And we all share in her teaching—”

  “You do? How?” I had already considered that I might leave the Service after this mission, perhaps to teach young children. “Teaching is so specialized a profession—”

  “And we do have specialists. Highly skilled women who organize our knowledge and determine its dissemination. But the dissemination itself is simple—almost all electronic. And since each child is given comprehensive education until a distinct field of interest emerges, we all have opportunities to contribute our own experience, our own presence. Tomorrow you’ll see many of these things yourself. Megan will show you.”

  “Megan,” I asked casually, “how did she become your leader?”

  It was then that she allowed me to see and read the records of the journey to this world of Maternas. It was then I learned of Mother and the Inner Circle, of the choice of Megan . . . and that she had assumed the mantle of leadership at the age of twenty-three, the same age I am now . . . It was then that I learned the full scope of her leadership, her brilliance, her courage . . .

  “Minerva,” I murmured, “I suppose you’ve recorded Joinings . . . for Megan?”

  “None,” she replied sadly. “Her life has been taken up fully with the lives of us all. She has accepted a life of loneliness for our sake.”

  I thought again of Megan’s tears at my music, and her words: You are the first to give such pleasure . . .

  I will be seeing her tomorrow . . . Perhaps I could bring my crystal reed. Perhaps I could play for her again . . .

  V

  Personal Journal of Megan

  14.12.28

  The crisis of the Earthmen, while continuing, has eased in urgency. Commander Ross this morning requested permission for him and his men to explore Maternas at low-level altitudes while we pursue our discussions about their presence among us. I did inform him that repairs have begun on their Cruiser, and that he should not take this to signify any decision on our part.

  As a condition of their departure, we required surrender of the electron cores of their weapons, offering in exchange charge rods which will be sufficient for their personal safety. Commander Ross agreed. Then, in an act of pure, even comical, irrationality, he and his men spent many hours separating the cores from their weapons. The Commander is surely aware that now that we have these cores, no conceivable circumstance could persuade us to return them, and their weapons are therefore worthless. But the symbolic act of actually surrendering them seems contrary to some deeply rooted instinct.

  I am suspicious. I believe they have a plan . . .

  They have left, however, and will be gone two weeks on their circumnavigation of Maternas—observed, of course; drones have been programmed and released from our faithfully orbiting Amelia.

  Since tomorrow is our Anniversary Day, it is good to have the men gone, even temporarily, from our consciousness. Of course there has been vociferous discussion about them in the Council. The decision not to aid a distress call was difficult enough, and very different from the reality of their presence. Proposals have ranged from outright release to resettlement of them on another continent. Colonel Coulter’s behavior with Lieutenant Meredith has not enhanced their case nor their welcome. All of our discussions have had decidedly uneasy undertones.

  It was my decision to repair their ship, but agreement from the Council required maximum use of my personal prestige. It is clear to me what must eventually be done, although I do not speak it . . . I have today involved myself with the repair crew, enlisting the quiet and trustworthy Carina, temporarily reassigning her from her chosen activity. She speaks little, this big gentle woman, but her strength and wisdom exceeds that of many of us, and she, along with me, understands what must be done. We work together in unspoken communion.

  Laurel is a disturbing complication. It gives me anguish to consider her months in space . . . her tender and sensitive nature amid her crew . . . I hear her quiet voice telling me that this was her first mission, that the men were “a trial,” that Coulter would not believe or accept her invoking of the privacy regulations. . . When the Council speaks of releasing the men and their ship, I think of her back in space with them, especially Coulter. . . But if they have formed a plan as I suspect, this may very well decide the problem.

  She is so young. I remember her standing at attention below the ramp of the EV as we arrived, the contours of her uniform already suggesting to me that she was a woman . . . Then she took off her helmet and that hair cascaded over her shoulders—thick and soft, luxuriant waves of rich browns and golds—and I saw how very young she was . . . It seems weeks, not years, since I was her age. I am suddenly so aware of the part of my life that is gone forever from me—my youth . . .

  That she drew tears wit
h her wonderful music does not disturb me. Had she been any of the women on this world, it would have disturbed me profoundly. I must always be strong for them, always in command of myself with these women of Maternas—it is required. I could only have shown the weakness of tears to her, and somehow I knew I could trust her.

  I look forward to the relaxation of a day spent with her, I am eager for tomorrow to come. But she concerns me. She is among us but not one of us, and must be kept under informal surveillance; she has done nothing to warrant more. The best solution is to find an activity for her over the next weeks, or until the crisis is resolved . . . It is my intense hope she will express a desire to remain with us . . .

  Venus will return tomorrow from her sojourn to the continent of Nin to celebrate Anniversary Day with us. The obvious choice would be to assign Laurel, an exobiologist, to work with her. But the prospect gives me considerable unease. It is impossible to gauge Laurel’s overall attractiveness dressed as she is in an EV suit, but she is young and pretty, and that hair alone will be sufficient to draw Venus’s attention. If Venus so chooses, she will focus all of her many charms on Laurel, regardless of any objections of mine . . .

  I shall have to decide about Laurel. But in the meantime I look forward to tomorrow with her . . .

  VI

  Journal of Lt. Laurel Meredith

  2214.2.14

  For this day I’d chosen the pale yellow tunic Diana had created for me, its color as delicate as a sunbeam. Self-consciously, I extended a hand to Megan.

  She took my hand, hers firm and cool. She informed me of the excursion of my shipmates, her voice subdued; oddly, she wouldn’t let me see her eyes.

  I looked at her boldly—and with acute pleasure. For this ceremonial day she wore a white silk shirt with puffed sleeves, her dark hair curling over its high collar. Her close-fitted black pants were tied at the waist with a coral sash. Knee-high boots were softly gleaming black. She looked at me then with her green eyes and it was I who looked away, heat rising to my face as I remembered the meaning on this world of one woman’s glance lingering on another.

  She said lightly, “Vesta was at my house yesterday personally delivering both a new supply of wine and yet another lecture on my deprived way of life.”

  I looked at her, trying not to smile. “Will this latest lecture have any good effect?”

  “Probably not.” She grinned. “It would be helpful if you would not bring me to her attention.”

  “If I speak too freely,” I retorted, “you don’t talk enough. I had to find out from Diana who you really are.”

  “Does that create . . . difference between us?”

  I was astonished by the concern in her voice and the sudden shyness—yes, shyness—in her eyes. I answered, “I’ve looked forward to this day with you, Megan. Do you have many special duties? Will you be able to show me Cybele?”

  “I have duties. And I must open the games now.” We were walking toward the hovercraft as she spoke. “This was once Mother’s prerogative which has fallen to me. Mother becomes less patient and more irascible with the years.”

  I nodded, remembering Mother’s greeting at the EV and how she had so confounded us.

  “Mother and I both make awards to the participants in the games. But I will have an opportunity to show you anything you wish to see.”

  We flew over a tranquil coral lake and into a huge natural amphitheater formed by high but gently shaped grass-covered mountains on three sides, the lake on the fourth. An audience of thousands was gathered along the canted slopes of the amphitheater, some in sheltered areas carved from the mountainsides, others taking their ease in the open air, on small plateaus. It was a casual, festive gathering of these thousands; most were lounging on fleece, with much evidence of food and drink.

  Megan flew into the very center of the amphitheater, which I could now see was sectioned and shaped for athletic events. She landed and leaped from the hovercraft, assisting me from it amid a rising crescendo of sound.

  I said impishly, “All that cheering is undoubtedly for me.”

  She grinned and led me to a cordoned-off area in which were assembled Mother and the six robed women I now knew were the Inner Circle. She presented me to Mother, who was draped in a green cape edged in gold and sat resplendent on a gold chaise.

  Mother took my hand and patted it. “Welcome to our festivities, my dear. Now that you’ve shed that white sack, you’re really quite lovely. Isn’t she lovely, Megan?”

  “Indeed she is,” Megan said easily.

  As I stood tongue-tied under the gaze of these two women with their identical eyes of emerald, my awkwardness was eased by the arrival of a member of the Inner Circle whom I had not seen before, a woman of remarkable beauty, her features sensually shaped perfection, her azure robe suggesting equal perfection of body. Her eyes were a more true azure than her robe, and rivaled Megan’s in beauty.

  “Megan, I have not met your guest.”

  “Nor have several other members of the Inner Circle,” Megan replied. I noted the testiness of her tone. “Venus, I present Lieutenant Laurel Meredith.” I also noted the formality of the introduction.

  “I learned of your landing only this morning.” Venus gazed at me with eyes hypnotic in their beauty. “I was on the continent of Nin on an expedition with . . . a friend.”

  “I know what you accomplished with your friend,” Mother said tartly, “but did you do any work?”

  Venus said with dignity, “Farica and I will be making our presentation to the Council, Mother. Perhaps you will be interested in our discoveries of—”

  Mother waved a hand. “You know very well your poor old Mother isn’t a bit interested in new bugs or strange shrubbery. Megan dear, let’s get on with the games.”

  “Leave your guest to me,” Venus said, smiling.

  As Venus murmured something I didn’t hear, I watched Megan mount a small platform amid rising applause; she stood with feet braced apart and said in a clear voice that echoed throughout the amphitheater, “On our fifteenth anniversary on this world which we chose, this beloved land which is our own, let us celebrate ourselves and each other.” She had slowly raised her arms as she spoke, and she turned to all sides of the amphitheater as cheers thundered down, as hundreds of young women clad in bright coral warmsuits streamed onto the arena floor, clapping their hands joyfully above their heads, running along the perimeter to the reverberating homage of their audience. It was a colorful and stirring sight, and I was watching with great pleasure as Megan returned to us.

  “There are others I must have Laurel meet,” she said to Venus.

  Venus smiled at me. “May I also call you Laurel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will I be seeing you at the fete tonight?”

  Megan said impatiently, “Excuse us, Venus. There is little time before the games are underway.”

  And indeed there was scarcely time to be presented to Demeter, and the formidable Hera whom I remembered well from the time of our landing; then applause began again, signifying the beginning of the events. We lounged comfortably on luxurious chaises covered with thick soft fleece, a holographic unit before us. I gazed at several women nearby who were stripping off their warmsuits. Then I gaped. They were totally nude.

  Megan had apparently observed my shock. She said quietly, “Part of the aesthetics of competition is the total beauty of the athlete. We enjoy athletics in its fullest aspect.”

  “I see,” I murmured, staring at a gloriously tanned, perfectly formed girl of no more than sixteen, staring at the blonde triangle of hair between her legs, at the white-blonde hair that whipped about her face as she practiced a toss of a crystal javelin which glistened in the sunlight. At her young age she was already full-breasted; I saw that her breasts were held by a transparent band of material that did not diminish their beauty.

  “These seats on the arena floor may be prestigious,” Megan said in an amused voice, “but they offer the poorest views of our games.
I suggest that you watch the holograph, as I do.”

  I took my eyes from the blonde girl to see that the unit had been switched on; tiny three-dimensional nude figures were performing an elaborate ritual that seemed partially composed of dance steps. “What game is this?” I asked, fascinated by the subtle rhythms of the players as they blended and flowed together in energetic and intricate patterns, a series of small balls floating among them.

  “We call it Criss-Cross. It’s a ball game, but based on chess principles, and it makes intellectual demands as well as physical ones. It’s very popular. Would you like me to explain it to you? Or would you like to see other events?”

  I said reluctantly, impelled by curiosity, “I think other events.”

  “You’ll find our other games more familiar.” She touched a color-coded key on the unit.

  Naked runners crouched in a still tension of waiting, then exploded into flashing limbs and flying hair; a lithe dark-skinned woman broke the beam seconds later, arms raised in triumph, her competitors close on her heels.

  “Vardis,” Megan said. “She’s perhaps our finest runner since the inception of the games.” She touched another key.

  Two women, both small-breasted and with dark glossy hair and delicate Oriental features, leapt high and in unison from a raised platform composed of a material which lent additional spring to their legs. They somersaulted and spun in breathtaking synchrony, then landed softly and perfectly together.

  “Pairs-spring ballet,” Megan said. “A lovely sport. Points are given for the difficulty of the leaps, the coordination between the performers.” She reached for the keys.

  “Please wait,” I asked, compelled by the grace of the two figures. They had leapt again, hands joined, to perform an artful somersault away from each other, then a spin back to link hands for their landing.

  “You will surely enjoy our ballet this evening,” Megan commented as I continued to be absorbed in an increasingly intricate succession of leaps and spins. The two women, hands joined, finished their final leap and bowed to a crescendo of applause. Megan touched another key and played back their performance, slowed to further distill its beauty—faultless to my untrained eye; but she said, “Slightly flawed, but quite lovely.”