Daughters of a Coral Dawn

by Katherine V Forrest

  Then her bracelet buzzed and she leaped for the hovercraft a few steps away from us on the parapet. I rushed after her without a thought to my act, scarcely reaching the craft as it began to rise, Megan’s hand grasping mine, dragging me in with her.

  “What—” I sputtered.

  She’d touched a key that now blinked rhythmically; the craft was being directionally controlled. “One of our Unity has called for help,” she said grimly, eyes narrowing as the craft swooped low and slowed to land by the sea, very near the landing site assigned to my shipmates.

  Other hovercraft had landed all around us. A group, perhaps six or eight women, circled a figure writhing on the ground. I pushed my way in, and gaped. Hanigan was being flung about from the force of the charge rods trained upon him.

  “Stop,” Megan said from beside me.

  The women either did not hear, or would not obey.

  “Stop,” Megan commanded in a voice of granite.

  Hanigan’s body halted its spasmodic jerking; he groaned and lay still, insensible.

  Danya had arrived; she strode up to a small blonde woman who still held her charge rod aimed at Hanigan, her arm trembling. Danya gently took the arm, lowered it. “Diantha,” she said softly.

  “She was running along the seashore as she does each morning,” Diantha quavered, gesturing toward a figure who lay prone, a knot of women crouched around her. “He . . . accosted her. He . . . seized my daughter. He. . .” Her voice, which had dropped to a whisper, disappeared.

  “How has she been harmed?” Megan’s voice was clear, even, penetrating.

  “She is unharmed,” another woman answered. “When we arrived he was much the worse for wear.”

  I saw two things then. The women around the prone figure shifted so that I could see she was Cytheria, the golden athlete from the games. Clad in a brief tunic, she lay curled in the fetal position, hands covering her face. Then Hanigan groaned again and sat up, and I saw that his EV suit was torn, his nose bloodied, that a bruise was emerging from around an eye. Undoubtedly he had been very much surprised by this young athlete’s physical skill.

  “Colonel Hanigan.” Megan’s voice was a whiplash.

  Hanigan jerked and stared at her, gingerly touching his face and wincing. “I did nothing! You understand me? Nothing! All I wanted was to talk to her, I’ve never seen anything like her, I just wanted to—”

  “Why did you put your hands on her?”

  “I meant nothing by it!” Hanigan shouted. “All I wanted was—that’s all, just—” He spied me. “Laurel! Explain to them! You know me, you know I don’t mean anything when I just touch, you know I’d never—”

  Cytheria began to sob.

  “Laurel,” Megan said evenly, “please take Cytheria to Vesta.”

  “Laurel! No! They’ll kill me!”

  I said to Megan, “Will you kill him?”

  “No,” she answered, her eyes remote. “But please leave us. This is now our affair.”

  “Laurel! You’ve got to help me!”

  Cytheria had risen to her feet and stood with hands still covering her face, gold hair disheveled, her body shuddering as she sobbed. Remembering the magnificent athlete who had so gloriously flung her javelin, I turned back to Hanigan and stared with hate. Then I circled Cytheria’s shoulders and led her to a hovercraft.

  As we climbed in, I heard Hanigan scream. And as the doors closed behind us, I heard him scream again.

  After I surrendered Cytheria to Vesta’s soothing care, I returned to Megan’s house. As I waited for her I saw the message screen receive Ross’s demand for a conference, the blinking print seemed to pulse with fury.

  Megan strode in, and after a distracted greeting to me, keyed in coordinates. Ross filled the lumiscreen, his thick body bristling with anger as he leaned forward, his dark eyes piercing.

  Megan said quietly, “Yes, Commander.”

  “What kind of barbarians are you!”

  “What kind of barbarians are you?” she countered.

  “Hanigan,” he said heavily. “Every bone, you broke every bone in both his hands.”

  “It was the least punishment the women on this world would accept, Commander. If it had been left to some of them, especially Cytheria’s kinswomen—”

  “You—you—” Ross sputtered furiously, “he didn’t do anything. He didn’t—”

  “If he had,” Megan interrupted, “he would be in the process of dying, and begging to do so.”

  Ross recovered in a moment. “Barbarians!” he exploded. “All this because a man merely placed a hand on one of you!”

  “Forced a hand on one of us,” she corrected. “No such behavior has ever been known by Cytheria or any of our children. She is but fifteen. And has never seen an Earthman. To her you are strange beasts. And she is unaccustomed to the sexual aggressiveness practiced by men of Earth, Commander. Our finest psychologist advises me that it will require months to repair the damage that has been done.”

  Ross cleared his throat. “I regret any. . . damage. It was not intentional. But you must realize we have no knowledge of. . . the nuances of your culture. My men have been many months in space. And you are women. However you live, you are women.”

  She did not reply to this contemptible statement that choked me with rage.

  Ross continued, “But we do respect your culture. As you must respect ours. And therefore I demand the return of Lieutenant Meredith. She does not belong among you. She is a loyal Earthwoman—”

  I stepped to Megan’s side. “I do belong here. I choose to remain.”

  He protested. Shouted. Argued. Cajoled. Threatened. I listened indifferently to this man who had so recently commanded me.

  Conceding defeat finally, he said to Megan, “What is the decision about me and my men?”

  She replied, “I will contact you within the hour from our council chambers.” She switched off before Ross could respond, and touched another key. Mother’s face filled the screen, scowling with annoyance until she saw who it was that disturbed her. Megan said quietly, “Mother, may I see you immediately?”

  Mother’s eyes scrutinized the image of Megan on her screen. “I’ll be expecting you, my dear,” she said softly.

  Megan took the bracelet from her own wrist and molded it to mine. “You’re one of our Unity now,” she said. “You have only to press this indentation to summon us. This will keep you safe.” She walked from me.

  “Megan,” I said.

  She turned to me.

  “What is the decision?”

  She would not answer, only looked at me before she walked to the hovercraft. And her eyes were eyes of winter.

  X

  15.1.16

  Megan has signaled an emergency meeting of the Inner Circle and the Council. Unlike the last such call we know very well the subject at hand: a decision about these men from Earth can no longer be delayed.

  Megan has sent word that she meets at this moment with Mother and will join us shortly. And so we wait; and discussion continues of the matter that has occupied our thoughts since the dark day when these men found our world. And now, after the harm done to our Cytheria, the talk is rancorous.

  “They must be sent away,” Erika says angrily, “to the farthest place from us where they cannot possibly do harm. Perhaps to the treacherous continent of O’Connor.”

  Astra responds in a bitter voice, “They would manage to do harm even there.”

  Janel places a calming hand on Erika’s arm and suggests lightly, “Perhaps we could send them on an outing to Schlafly Lake.”

  We all chuckle; Schlafly Lake is where the creature GEM lives which almost took the life of Janel and others of us when first we came here.

  Patrice speaks; she is kinswoman to Cytheria. “Perhaps,” she says hopefully, “they could be castrated.”

  “Symbolically satisfying as that would be,” Hera states, “it would accomplish nothing. It would not even eliminate the possibility of assault since men do not necessarily
require that exact piece of apparatus to accomplish their deeds. And further, they would spend the remainder of their days devising a method of savage revenge.”

  “They are a contamination.” Augusta’s dark face is grim, her deep voice heavy with vehemence as she repeats, “They are a contamination. They contaminate our world.”

  Megan strides in. Strangely, Mother is not with her. But Megan immediately switches on the lumiscreen that dominates our council table, and Mother gazes down upon us all. She sits on her chaise and wears her ceremonial green cape, a symbol that in these circumstances chills with its gravity.

  “Mother’s presence is not required,” Megan says evenly, “and she has chosen to only observe our proceedings. I have discussed this matter with her and she has approved every act I now take.”

  I stare at Megan in wonder. She stands blade-straight, booted feet apart, her face a still tension of steely decisiveness. Never has she been more commanding.

  She touches a key and on the lumiscreen next to Mother a section of the Central Code appears. “Our Central Code grants authority to me, with your approval, to act autonomously in the event of implied danger to our world or to any of our Unity.”

  She allows us a few moments to read through the several paragraphs.

  “I require from you a vote that the event of today has given me this authority to act independently of you—mindful that I have heard your debates over the past days, that I have consulted with Mother. Signify your readiness to vote.”

  Our readiness is unanimous.

  “Please vote now on the question: Shall Megan have authority to act independently in the matter of the three Earthmen?”

  We have all entrusted our lives to her before; how can we not do so again? Our vote agreeing to her authority is unanimous.

  She acknowledges the vote with a distant nod, and opens an optical channel. We see the EV, a menacing insect on our lovely land.

  “Commander Ross,” Megan states.

  “This is Ross.” He is on aural channel only; Megan well understands that none of us wishes to see him.

  “Your ship has been repaired, Commander.” Megan’s voice is precise, uninflected. “You and your men are ordered to leave our world immediately.”

  All of us including, apparently, the Commander, sit in stunned silence. Then he says, “I don’t trust you. Or this decision. Not after what you did today to my crewman. I don’t believe you’d simply—”

  “Commander,” Megan interrupts in a voice of galactic chill, “you are ordered to leave our world. You have one minute to comply. Or the lasers trained on you will destroy you where you sit.”

  There is no response from the Commander. But in fifteen seconds the dark insect rises from the soft colors of our land.

  Hera says, “Megan, you can’t just—”

  “Hera,” Mother says from the screen, “do shut up.”

  Only Mother could speak to Hera in such a manner and further, have her obey. Hera subsides into infuriated silence, staring at Megan with eyes both baffled and angry. I take my eyes from her and watch the EV—to see it veer sharply from the vector that will lead it to the Cruiser.

  Ross’s voice crackles over the Interplanetary Frequency Channel: “We’re not the fools you think. It’s not difficult to guess how you’ve repaired our ship. But since you’ve ordered us to leave,” he says, his voice taking on an overtone of smugness, “it shouldn’t matter to you which ship we take. Particularly since you have no further use for yours.”

  “As you wish, Commander.” Megan stands with arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dark craft that closes in on our Amelia.

  For some minutes, in total silence, we watch; and then Amelia eases from her faithful orbit of all these years. Suddenly she becomes a vanishing dot, and I hear a muffled moan—I believe from Hera, who had been responsible for much of Amelia’s redesign. A moment later a stream of numerals appears across our monitoring frequency.

  “Coordinates,” Megan confirms as we stare. “They are attempting to transmit their position to Earth.”

  Hera whispers, “Why this? Megan, they give us away . . .”

  Her voice has trailed off because Megan is looking at her, and as I see Megan’s eyes I understand along with Hera what has been done. That she has made the decision the rest of us would not make, a decision all of us retreated from, failing in our courage.

  “The transmission will travel in a loop, esteemed Hera. As will all their transmissions. They will be received by no one, not even ourselves in seven more minutes as we move out of range of the loop.”

  A movement catches my eye; it is Mother, on the screen. Her face is etched with pain as she stares at Megan. And she is reaching to the dials in front of her. Her image vanishes from the screen.

  “The Commander was correct about the manner in which his ship was repaired. But he erred in assuming we would not have similarly modified Amelia—which was accomplished before he and his crew left on their journey. It was my estimation that they had planned their excursion to attempt escape. Our rigidly programmed surveillance drones could never have tracked them, not with the evasive capability of an EV. But apparently such a strategem never occurred to them.”

  She is looking at none of us as she speaks; her eyes are fixed on a point somewhere above our heads. We all sit in frozen tableau, listening to her.

  “In five hours, when they are in an area which can absorb the force of so enormous a blast, Amelia’s power drive will implode. An hour before this they will know it is going to happen—and that there is insufficient time to escape in their EV.”

  There is absolute silence. I draw shuddering breath into me.

  “Esteemed Hera,” Megan says, her eyes gentle upon my sister, “I regret this ending to a noble ship so beloved by us all.”

  “It is a fitting end.” Hera’s eyes glitter with tears. “Her destruction is for the protection of us all.”

  Megan nods. But her eyes are remote. “I require some time,” she says softly. “At least. . . a day. Perhaps more. For . . . contemplation. I wish to be disturbed only for an emergency.”

  “Megan,” Erika says. “Megan, it was . . . right.”

  Megan is walking toward the entryway as we chorus agreement with Erika.

  “It was not right,” she says, leaving us. “It can never be right.”

  XI

  Journal of Laurel

  15.1.17

  The evening sky darkened, became a carpet of stars and stardust. I stood between Carina and Vesta on the balcony of their house as the time drew near, Carina’s arm gentle around me. My eyes ached with my staring. Then it seemed to me the sky lightened briefly—just briefly—in a tiny corner above the horizon.

  “I’d like to be alone,” I whispered. They left me—the single mourner of my shipmates on this world. I contemplated the sky, sorrowful and remembering the men as generously as I could, melancholy that the events that had so opened my life to me had meant the ending of theirs.

  After a while I went in and Vesta came to me, took my hands. “Laurel my dear . . . will you talk to me in my chamber? Please let me help you.”

  I nodded and followed. But I had no need, did not intend, to speak of my dead shipmates.

  After Megan had left me, I could not be alone. I had gone to Cybele’s main square. But all the women I had grown close to on this world were in the momentous meeting in the council chambers, and I went into the library to watch on the lumiscreen.

  In the company of several other women of Maternas—my sisters now, but strangers to me—I watched Megan send my shipmates to their deaths; and I wept silent tears for them, for my own pain, and most piercingly for hers.

  As she left in her hovercraft I followed, but she had already activated her privacy shields and my craft would not land at her house. All that day her shields were impervious to my siege, her message screen rejecting all transmissions save those over the emergency channel, a frequency which accepts only a specific signal, not voice communication. She h
ad effectively and completely withdrawn from all of us. From me.

  This I revealed, and all of my heart, to Vesta. Confessing my love, I asked what I should do.

  Vesta listened intently, gray eyes softening in compassion. She took my hands. “Dear one, does Megan return your love?”

  Clasping her hands, I told her about the reflection in the sculpture, how Megan had looked at me. “And so I don’t know if she loves me, Vesta,” I concluded. “But it’s enough that she wants me.”

  She smiled. “You understand a distinction many who are well beyond your twenty-three years never grasp. Dear one, I suggest several possibilities why she would not approach you. First, your status among us. As a guest of our world, all of us—she no less—owed you certain obligations of conduct until you declared your wish to stay. Second, Megan undoubtedly faced immediately what none of us would contemplate, what the inevitable decision about your shipmates must be. She may believe her decision has irrevocably cost her your affection.”

  I sat thunderstruck. “But how can I—She’s cut off all communication—”

  “You can only wait. And then tell her you are as one with our Unity about her action. She knows her decision can never be justified. And truly, such a decision can never be right. But it was correct—if you understand the philosophic difference.” She sighed. “She believes she must have this time alone.”

  “It’s not good for her to be alone now. It’s not good, Vesta.”

  She sighed again. “No, it’s not. She suffers greatly, she carries a burden alone not understanding that we all share it. And all we can do is wait.”

  But suddenly I saw that I would not have to wait. Knowing how I would be able to see her, I went to my bedchamber and slept fitfully.

  I arose very early, stepping into my hovercraft as the suns hung just above the horizon. I landed as close to Megan’s house as her privacy shields would allow, and walked down to Damon Point.