PING! PING! PING!
I look at my handheld:
Hurry to the hangar bay. What’s taking you so long?
“Uh, Herb.”
My handheld says that the message is coming from him.
“I know! Got the same message. Mine says it’s from you again,” he shouts, showing me on his handheld as he shoves me into an elevator and hits the button a few thousand times. The doors close before the soldiers can reach us and as we move down, the magnets of my mind and body come back together again.
“I think I’ve figured it out,” he explains as we catch our breath. “I bet Professor Tsai is sending these pings.”
As if to applaud, the elevator chimes and the doors open to, you guessed it, a hangar bay lit only by auxiliary lights along the ceiling. The elevator doors close as soon as we step out, and the elevator heads back up.
Which means the soldiers will be right behind us.
“We gotta hide,” I whisper, leading the way past cargo canisters and vacuum crates like I have an inkling where the hell I’m going.
“Look! A shuttle,” Herb points.
The elevator dings behind us as we duck and run for the gull-class transport shuttle. The gangplank is down. Only good thing that’s happened since my snooze alarm went off late. The elevator doors open and a squadron of six soldiers led by our dear corporal emerges as Herb and I scramble under the wing as quietly as we can.
“We gotta get onboard,” he murmurs as the soldiers sweep the docking bay with flashlights affixed to their assault rifles. “And somehow not get spotted.”
Before either of us can even begin to figure out how the hell to do that, an abrasive klaxon goes off.
“WARNING! WARNING! LAUNCH SEQUENCE INITIATED,” the operating system kindly advises. “REPEAT: LAUNCH SEQUENCE INITIATED. FULL DECOMPRESSION IN 36.5 SECONDS.”
Herb makes his move and runs for the gangplank. I follow as the soldiers rush to the control station to override the launch sequence.
“That’s my ship!” I hear the corporal sputter.
Ha ha, asshole.
Herb and I try not to laugh as the hatchway closes behind us and the engines spin up. We make our way up to the front of the shuttle, trying to stay in the shadows. The door to the cockpit is open and we peek inside for a look at whoever is flying this thing. I half-expect it to be the corporal as the pilot chair spins towards us.
“Professor Tsai?” Herb blinks.
Prof. Tsai looks the same as he did when we first met him as part of the admissions committee. The same long, stringy salt-and-pepper hair in a loose ponytail, the same droopy eyes, and the same leathery, unshaven face.
Only now he’s wearing a gray, skin-tight space suit, minus the helmet. His face is bruised and battered but a fierce will smolders in his blackened eyes.
“Looks like the corporal underestimated us,” Prof. Tsai observes, offering the chair at the navigator’s display and the communication screen. “You two should probably have a seat.”
The hangar door slides open with a lumbering screech of steel and the hangar bay decompresses. The magnetic clamp locking the shuttle to the metal floor fizzles and releases, as the engines whir into a rising whine and Prof. Tsai steers out into an infinite sea of space.
“I hope those soldiers made it to the elevator,” he says.
I look back, but Phobos is already behind us, a barren floating rock shaped like a peanut. The terradome built on its surface has already rotated away. The desolate, rusted planet behind it looms like an ominous eye of orange fire, ever-watching.
“I apologize for destroying your project, Sasha. I was trying to keep you from being tangled up in all of this.”
“You were sending the messages?”
Prof. Tsai nods and engages the thrusters. “Not to brag, but I also disabled the school’s tracking system, neural net, and defense grid.”
“So where are we going?” Herb asks as we buckle in.
“The Academy at Europa,” he answers. “That should keep us beyond the reach of the AFIP at least for a while. My old research assistant Milton Maxwell adjuncts there now.”
I blink. “Milton? I know Milton. He taught me how to get extra food from the automat!”
Herb looks at me. “You don’t think—”
“He could be Delia’s new boyfriend?” I blurt, imagining the worst possible scenario.
Prof. Tsai gives me a puzzled look. “Delia?”
“Genius next door he never confessed his love to,” Herb summarizes.
“It’s a long story,” I sigh as we jettison off to the reaches of the Outer Planets.
It’ll take two weeks to get there. Plenty of time to mull over all the ramifications of defying the AFIP and running away from school. The only good news is that I might get to see Delia again.
Oh, and that I’m still alive and all.
Am I hopeless or what?
Manhunters
Kalamu ya Salaam
“Is there anything else, Mauve? Do you want to amend your debriefing report in any way?”
“No, Elder Umoja. That’s it. It stands as reported,” I say as I code off the computer and sit up straight with my legs crossed, satisfied that my statement from three weeks ago is accurate. Typing with one hand has been slow-going, but I am proud of myself. I have proofread and corrected my report without anyone’s assistance.
“Good. You will have two months’ down time before your next detail assignment.”
“But I’m healed enough to function,” I insist. “I could—”
“Two months, Mauve.” Elder Umoja speaks with an unmistakable finality.
“Yes, Elder,” I reply quickly. We sit in silence for a moment. Elder Umoja’s silver-gray locks flow down almost to her waist. She wears glasses—why? The lenses do not appear to be very thick. She probably could have chosen laser surgery. But even through her glasses the warmth of her brown eyes is clear. Although she is stern of tone and often brusque in her mannerisms, she radiates a calming influence. Like floating in the bath pool on a warm evening, her aura makes you want to linger in her presence.
Her gaze is strong. I blink before asking, “And my hearing? Any word?”
“You will be heard before your next assignment. Have you made a decision?” Elder Umoja asks, referring to whether I want to be present and speak, or be present and simply observe. If I speak well, I have a good chance to get fully exonerated, but I also risk being dismissed from the compound. If I do not speak, I will remain in the compound regardless of the results of the hearing, but I risk the elders putting restrictions on me, such as not allowing me to escalate. Over ten years of effort comes down to a choice between speaking or remaining silent.
At some point, life is not about decisions but rather about faith. I just have to trust that the elders will understand me. Certainly they have trained me well. What else can I do? I know I made mistakes. Elder Umjoa is awaiting my reply.
“I trust the elders to de—”
“You are responsible for your life. You are responsible for your decisions. We elders can only assist you on whatever path you have chosen. Your life is your life.”
“Being here is my life. I will listen to the leadership. I have nothing to say.”
“So getting impregnated means more to you than honor?”
“The hearing is not about my honor. The hearing is about whether I acted according to warrior code and whether I intentionally or unintentionally risked the security of the compound by my actions. Everyone knows I am honorable.” I pause to collect my ping-ponging emotions. “And, yes, I really want to be pregnant.”
“We appreciate your honesty.” Elder Umoja beams a tight-lipped smile toward me. Her mouth is small, as are the rest of her facile features, but she is compact and sturdy rather than slight and delicate. Her skin is smooth ebony, and her voice is clear, untarnished by time. She is very economical in her movements, never hurrying, never a wasted motion. Plus she is unerring in noticing details. She misses nothi
ng.
I would have to be a fool to think I could fool any of the elders or conceal my true feelings from them, especially Elder Umoja, who has a sixth sense when people are trying to conceal something from her.
“Thank you, Elder Umoja.”
“That is all.”
“Yes, Elder.”
I rise quickly from the low stool, salute, and start to leave the one-room hut that serves as headquarters. There is only one large table that doubles as desk, workspace, and stand for the communications module: a linkcomputer, laserkeyboard, and talkChip base. The cpu must be under the table or somewhere else. The walls are bare wood. HQ is not used much. I am going into my fifth year here and this is only my second time in this room. There is nothing to indicate that anyone works here on a daily basis.
Elder Umoja turns her attention to other matters. She checks off an item in her duty book and speaks without looking up at me. “Mauve, we hope that you will dance tonight.”
“If I’m strong enough to walk during the day, surely I’ll be strong enough to dance at night.”
Elder Umoja smiles wryly. “Good. We look forward to enjoying your movements. That is all,” she says, her attention still focused on her duty book. She said “we” rather than “I.” Have the elders been discussing my case? What am I saying? Of course, they have discussed my case. My thwarting of Cobalt’s escape attempt has been the major issue of the compound. Over the five-year period I have been here, I do not remember anything else of this magnitude happening. “Mauve, you may go.”
Even though the domed ceiling is seven feet high, I crouch slightly while stepping briskly out of the hut into the courtyard in front of HQ. It has been a month since the incident, and I am anxious to know when my hearing will happen. But nothing specific was said, and now I stand in the sunshine, eighty degree sunbeams bathing my brown body. I curl and uncurl my toes in the warm dust.
As I look around the compound, I give thanks: I am alive. I stretch my arms fully extended above my hairless head. I wiggle the fingers on my right hand and slowly shape my left hand into a claw. Tense, release, tense, release. My fingers barely move. I can’t close the hand. In fact, I can barely curl my fingers. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just scarred and deformed. At my last physical therapy session, Elder Ujamaa suggested that my hand may only come up to 60 percent functional.
“Mauve, there’s good news and bad news.” I remember her speaking in her distinctive high-pitched, fast voice.
“Tell me the bad. I can handle the good any time it happens.”
Elder Ujamaa gently encased my bandaged left hand in both of her own. “Your hand will be at best only 50 or 60 percent functional.”
“It’s good to have a hand, and I’ll work to get it up to 75 percent. Nothing less.”
“Warrior Mauve,” she had replied with a quick smile, unable to fully conceal her admiration for my attitude. Elder Ujamaa is just about the same height I am, but she is much heavier, maybe even twenty kilos heavier. Her thick, solid black dreadlocks are pulled to the back of her head and tied with a green ribbon. Elder Ujamaa does not seem to age much. Maybe she stays young and healthy because she is one of the best dancers in the compound. Plus, as a healer she probably knows the best dietary and exercise regimen to maintain sparkling health. On a few occasions I have seen her jogging. The first time I was surprised by how strongly she ran. Since she has been caring for my hand, I have had the opportunity to talk with her almost daily for the last month.
As I recall our conversation about the mending of my hand, I flex and relax my left hand once again and then start walking back to my quarters on the far edge of the compound.
The compound spreads out in a small, secluded valley midway up a mountain range. I have no idea what the mountain is called. We usually just say “the mountain.” There’s a waterfall that turns into a stream that runs through the compound, out through the wooded area surrounding us, and then down a rocky slope over a kilometer high. There’s only one ground entrance on the smaller side of our pear-shaped thirty-square-kilometer canyon. The entrance is accessible only by a steep, narrow path that is not accessible to wheeled vehicles. Militarily, the compound is an almost impregnable fort, especially with our scanners and sentinels on the peaks above us.
HQ is close to the mountainside, as are the other three areas: the assembly area, living quarters, and the cheddo quarters. Each area is walled and connected by paths that run in an arc around the wide side of the valley. The walls are really only wooden fences. HQ is between the living quarters and the assembly area, with the cheddo quarters beyond the assembly area. The stream runs around the living quarters on two sides before heading out to the woods. The stream, together with the four areas, is enclosed by an electronic fence equipped with sensors and lasers. There are only two safe gates: one on a visible path leading to the assembly area and the other through woods near the stream.
Once the shield goes up, there is no way into the general compound area. The lasers reach half a kilometer above us and are strong enough to knock down the mountain piece by piece. We all feel safe inside the compound and relatively safe in the surrounding woods.
Most of the time when we rise, we jog over to the assembly area and take the path that goes around rather than the path that goes through HQ area. We seldom visit the cheddo area unless we have a client meeting.
Client meeting. That’s what got me in this mess in the first place.
I look up as I pass the longhouse. Dinner will be soon. Our diet is heavy on legumes, grains, soups, and vegetables, with abundant fruit (though limited in range) that we are able to grow. Everyone has a prescribed vitamin and mineral supplement based on individual chemical profile. The food is food, but more than the food there is the conversation and the singing we do at meal times. The competition between squads to come up with the best step-and-song lines. With Azure and Persia as drummers, our squad is always the strongest.
We warriors are divided into four squads of ten members each, an escalating squad matched with a new squad. We assemble, exercise, work, study, and dance together. Azure and Hyacinth are on meal duty this week. They wave as I walk pass the longhouse. I wave back.
I have remained isolated on the east wing of the living quarters in a hut of my own, totally out of contact with the cheddos and most of the other women. Because I have been pulled out of the daily routine and given a special therapy routine, I usually do not encounter many others.
It is the fifth day of my period and the heaviest flow is over.
I am tired of doing nothing. I work in the garden early in the mornings, do two hours of therapy, and then the rest of the day I usually read, study, and exercise. Usually in the late afternoon I have warrior thought classes with Elder Imani. I look forward to them, but I am bored with everything else. No, I’m not bored. I’m anxious. I want it all to be over. I want to know if I will be impregnated. I want to know what my next assignment is. I hate all of these uncertainties hanging over my head.
As I turn the corner of the courtyard wall and enter the personal quarters, I see Elder Imani sitting on a mat outside my space. My breath leaves me. I stop. The hearing can’t be now. Elder Umoja just asked me for my decision. How could they assemble so quickly?
Elder Imani rises as I approach. “Mauve, it is a good time for a hearing. Are you ready?”
I am too dumbstruck to say anything. I simply nod my head yes and fall into step beside Elder Imani as he strides past me headed back in the direction from which I have just come. He is considerably taller than I am. My skin tone is a shade lighter than his, but we have similar builds, oblong faces, elongated ears, and long necks. Plus we both have lanky strides. We walk in silence, but my head is full of voices debating whether I have taken the right course in not speaking. Warrior training prepares you to confront most everything except a hearing.
I look over at Elder Imani. He is only fifty-seven and is the youngest of the elders. But he has a reputation of being the most serious and the most som
ber. I have only danced with him once. He is a strong dancer, although neither as fluid as Elder Ujamaa nor as impressive as Elder Kujichagulia. Elder Imani always seems so self-contained, so self-assured. He radiates confidence on the one hand but on the other he has a way of knocking you off balance with his soft-spoken but deeply probing questions. I wish he would question me now so I can get a feel for what is happening, but his face remains emotionless and he does not return my look as we walk back to HQ.
I have so many questions. I have never had a hearing before. I want to break this thick silence surrounding us as we trek toward the assembly area, but I can think of nothing to say that does not give away what I am: tense and apprehensive. I roll my head from side to side trying to loosen my neck muscles. I clear my throat. Twice. I would whistle, but I can’t. I never learned how. I hum while I work. I am humming. It’s an old song. Something by Coltrane, I think. A mournful song.
As we pass the longhouse, I glance over there, but no one is outside. Without thinking about where everyone is, I return my focus to the nothingness of space before me. I remember another long walk.
I was a child in detention. They say that it appeared I had cheated—my score was perfect and according to my social profile I was not supposed to be that smart. So they had jailed me until my appeal time. I stood in the middle of the cell, my arms folded. I said nothing to anyone.
When they called my name over the speaker and said that my mother had come to get me, I acted like I didn’t hear anything until two policemen came. It costs more work points to stay in than to get out. “School cheating” bail was high, but jail rent was higher. So I was doubly glad to go, but I never let on how relieved I was. I wanted to leave the holding room, but I didn’t want to face my mother. My eyes were shut as I walked through the steel door into the waiting area. My mother was there when I opened my eyes. Standing. Waiting. We walked out of the station after I mumbled my way through the paperwork. I remember my mother signing for my release. Even now, I can clearly hear the scratch of the stylus on the computer screen where she signed. A hard tapping as she dotted an “i” and crossed two “t’s.” Poilette 437-70-8530.
Octavia's Brood: Science Fiction Stories From Social Justice Movements Page 20
