THE LOST COLONY

by D M Arnold

  “Oh, yes...” The overseer called to one of the men. “Seven-five-three. Come over here.” One of the fieldworkers turned and approached them. “Here -- put this over your head.” He handed the worker a transparent polymer bag. “Secure it with this.” The worker slipped an elastic band around his neck, headed back to the field and returned to his work.

  “How long,” Ogan asked, “would you remain upright with one of those over your head?”

  “Not ... not very long,” Nyk stammered.

  “He can stand there all day.”

  “The bag isn't even moving,” Andra said.

  “It's because he isn't breathing. He has no need to.” Ogan held out his arms. “Under these conditions, his metabolism is in perfect balance. The carbon dioxide his muscles create is absorbed by the chloroplasts in his skin. Photosynthesis turns it into fuel and oxygen, which his muscles consume.”

  “Should he begin to exert himself,” Nyk asked, “would he start breathing?”

  “Yes, and when the sun goes down and his metabolism reverts to an aerobic mode.”

  “I imagine he could produce a surplus of oxygen and begin exhaling it.”

  “It does happen,” Ogan replied, “but oxygen surplus is uncomfortable for them.”

  “Hence the urge to be busy in the sun.” Nyk shook his head. “Remarkable. What amazing aerobic capacity. I would hate to get into a long-distance foot race with him -- especially, during daylight.”

  “You wouldn't have a chance,” the overseer said. “Seven-five-three,” he called, “you can take that thing off.”

  “Let's get Andra out of the sun,” Nyk said. “Show us the workers' quarters.”

  He followed Ogan and the guide toward a barracks. They passed a hopper connected to an Archimedes screw leading to the top of a silo. “When a worker's pouch is full, he comes here to empty it,” the guide said, “and to take water.”

  One of the fieldworkers dumped his pouch into the hopper. He picked up a dipper, filled it from a bucket and drank. Nyk watched him head back to the fields.

  They reached the barracks. “This is one of the men's lodges.”

  Nyk looked in the barracks door and saw rows of mattresses on the floor. “How many work here?”

  “We have two hundred fifty novonid workers -- all but twenty are men.”

  “And, the women?”

  “We breed our own. The infants are cared for here on the farm. Once they're weaned, they are sent for conditioning and training. Upon reaching maturity, they return here to work. If we have a surplus, we sell some. The women are also used as servants in the family and staff quarters.”

  “And those who've outlived their usefullness?”

  “We have had good luck placing them with the BSS.”

  “The Benevolent Shelter Society,” Nyk said.

  “Yes -- we support the BSS one hundred percent. On this farm, we have a no- termination policy -- the landlord spent some time as a terminator and refuses to permit it on the novonids he owns.”

  “I take it not all farms have such a policy,” Andra said.

  “Unfortunately not. I'll admit -- you become attached to them. The little children are adorable, and many of the adults are good company. I'd hate to have to kill one.” The overseer led them toward a long, low building. “These are the females' cabins.”

  “The women have private quarters?” Andra asked.

  “Yes. We reward the males with conjugal visits. It gives them something to ... strive toward.”

  “Just so we understand this...” Andra replied. “A fieldworker can earn the reward of a night with one of...”

  “Exactly. It's all part of our breeding strategy.”

  “I imagine,” Nyk added, “that you assign pairings based on the desired issue.”

  “Of course not. Breeding is a precise science. The male must wear a sheath. The ejaculate is collected, separated, preserved, catalogued and used as our needs dictate to impregnate females...”

  “You mean via artificial insemination.”

  “Correct. We also sell sperm to other breeders.”

  “And, a male who is uncooperative?”

  “He loses his conjugal privileges. It tends to be a powerful motivator for their cooperation -- in every regard.”

  “I imagine so...”

  “In other words,” Andra observed, “despite what we've been told about their inability to weigh facts and make informed decisions, they DO understand cooperation and reward.”

  “At a basic level, yes. If there's one complaint I'd have against their designers, it's that the novonids' reproductive strategy is patterned a bit TOO closely on the human model.”

  Nyk nodded and remarked, “So, these conjugal visits not only provide you with the genetic material necessary for breeding, they also satisfy a basic sexual drive -- not to mention motivating and rewarding desired behavior. It's a clever strategy.”

  “Clever, indeed,” Andra whispered to Nyk in her native Lingwa. “No doubt it also provides endless amusement for the overseers.”

  “I'm sorry -- I didn't catch that,” Ogan said.

  “You don't by any chance employ spy holes or hidden cameras to observe them in the act, do you?” Nyk asked. Ogan flashed him a sideways glance, his eyes narrowed.

  “Of course not,” the overseer replied. “Privacy during these conjugal visits is a fundamental dignity they expect and receive.”

  “On THIS farm, perhaps,” Andra whispered; then she spoke up. “What about the children? How are they cared for?”

  “The older women -- those beyond safe childbearing years -- serve as caregivers.”

  “Until the children are of age to be sent for conditioning and training, that is,” Nyk observed.

  “The boys are sent for training. Our girls perform domestic chores and tend the herb garden.”

  Nyk looked toward Ogan. “Thank you,” he said to the guide. He took Andra's hand and walked toward the bus. He stopped to survey the pomma field and watched the workers move from plant to plant. “Imagine,” he said, “working, sun up to sun down with no break -- and, liking it.”

  Ogan gestured them inside and the vehicle began its way back into the city. “Well,” he said, “now what do you think?”

  Andra stroked her forearm. “I think I got too much sun.”

  “I think,” Nyk said, “you are growing the wrong crop.”

  “Pomma is a pervasive plant on this world,” Ogan replied. “During our many years of isolation, our Earth crops failed -- one by one, they all failed. Pomma was originally considered famine food. As it overran our wheat and rice we learned to harvest it. Pomma is our savior, Nykkyo. There would be no Varada without it.”

  Nyk nodded. “I do understand what motivated you to create the novonids. That demonstration with the plastic bag was astonishing.” He shook his head. “You could use them in a hazardous materials spill. Provided there was enough sunlight -- they could go into a toxic atmosphere without a mask and secure the area.”

  “Absolutely,” Ogan replied. “Did you see any evidence of mistreatment? Those field workers are content to soak up life-sustaining sunlight and to tend our crops in return.”

  “I'll concede those fieldworkers looked well cared for.”

  The driver gestured for Ogan's attention and he turned to the front seat for a consultation.

  Andra regarded Nyk through narrowed eyes. “I wish he weren't so smug,” she whispered to Nyk in their native tongue. “And, I wish YOU wouldn't encourage him.”

  “Encourage him? What do you mean?”

  “That remark about using them in a toxic atmosphere. I'm sure the Varadans can come up with plenty of ways to exploit them without helpful suggestions from you.”

  Ogan turned his seat to face them again. “I'm sorry... Where were we? Oh, yes... Fieldworkers comprise the largest component of a pomma farm's capital. Only a fool would mistreat such expensive and valuable resources.”

  “I've seen men do foolish things, Prefect.” A
ndra flashed him a faint smile. “That was only one farm, and I'll wager one of the better ones.” Nyk rested his chin on his fist. “Prefect, would it be possible to have access to your media?

  “Media?”

  “Yes -- your news reporting ... journalism.”

  “Certainly. You must have a media screen in your guest quarters.”

  “I believe we do.”

  “Then, when we return to my office, I'll create a guest access for you and show you how to retrieve our news reports. As I said, our records concerning the novonids are open books.”

  * * *

  Andra followed Nyk into the guest house. “That certainly was instructive, wouldn't you say?” he asked.

  “It certainly was,” she replied frostily.

  “I'll say this, though... I felt decidedly embarassed asking that question about spyholes in the females' quarters.”

  “Why did you, then?”

  “You made an accusation I felt the Varadans deserved an opportunity to address.”

  “I don't understand why you feel the need to defend them,” she replied.

  “I don't understand why you seem to think the worst of them.”

  “Because ... it is an old story. Whenever one people subjugates another, sexual exploitation is the inevitable result.”

  “I admire their breeding strategy. I can imagine more humiliating ways to obtain sperm.”

  “Truly spoken like a man, Nykkyo. I'm imagining how humiliating it must be to be a novonid female ... being no more than a receiving vessel ... having no control over her own fertility ... much less her own sex partners.”

  “Humiliation is in the eye of the humiliated, don't you think? If this is the only way they know, how would it be humiliating to them?”

  Andra's jaw dropped. “NYKKYO! We are talking about basic human rights, here!”

  “And, the novonids are not human. Besides, Floran women have relegated control over their fertility to the state, with birth licenses and all. Don't forget about that contraceptive implant capsule in your arm. Neither society is truly free. The difference is only in degree. Their breeding strategy accomplishes one thing -- it eliminates the problem of a ... a sexually frustrated work force.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “That's a good thing, isn't it?” He kissed her hair.

  “Don't you even think about it!”

  “Come on, Andra... You and I are on the same side in this assignment.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “We certainly are.” He pulled her against himself and kissed the top of her head.

  She embraced him and lay her face on his shoulder. “Let's not argue. Let's agree to disagree on the topic of novonids,” she said.

  “I have a better idea. Let's both agree to be open-minded on the topic.”

  “Agreed.” He kissed her lips.

  “I have nagging doubts -- that's all. I'll try to push them aside.”

  “Good. Now, I'm going to take a look at the Varadan media achive...” He sat, staring into the media screen and tapping the keyboard. “Nothing. No matter how I specify queries for novonids, I get nothing.” Andra stood behind and looked over his shoulder. “Maybe novonids just aren't considered newsworthy here.”

  “Maybe the word isn't considered polite -- at least polite in the media.”

  “Like ax'amfin... What euphemism would they use?”

  “Try a related term,” Andra suggested.

  “Related how?”

  “I don't know... Have you tried Benevolent Shelter Society?”

  “No, I haven't...” He manipulated the display. “Here we go... Look at this: 'BSS members cited for possession of unregistered feral fieldworker.' So fieldworker is the press euphemism...” Nyk continued to read. “This couple was discovered harboring a feral novonid ... an adolescent female...” Nyk read more. “They had their shelter privileges revoked ... paid fines...” He looked up at Andra. “The feral female...” He shook his head and bit his lip. “...was destroyed.”

  “Oh no, Nyk! Proof positive the novonid picture isn't as pretty as Ogan painted.”

  “Yes -- I must get this to Kronta.” He sat back and stared at the screen. “But how... I can't download these files -- their screens aren't compatible with our vidisplays.” He took his handheld from his travel case and powered it on. “I know...” He turned the device toward the media terminal and used its camera to photograph the screen. “This will have to do... Look at this.”

  On the screen was a pair of older novonids -- male and female. “This appears to be an advertisement recruiting for the BSS: 'They gave their lives to growing pomma for us ... Now, which should be their future?'” He scrolled the screen and an image of a human child sitting on the man's lap appeared, juxtaposed with an image of a hypodermic syringe. “'The choice is yours.' It goes on with a testimonial from a family who adopted a retired fieldhand. 'Our fieldworker is like a member of our family.' It also describes how joining the BSS entitles one to purchase nutrient from the society. Touching... I'll send this to Kronta also.”

  “Are there other articles?”

  “Certainly... BSS member arrested for attempting to organize farmworkers... ” Nyk photoimaged the screen with his handheld. “This one's real interesting... It seems a smaller pomma farm was being auctioned after the death of the landlord. A BSS member bought two novonids -- male and female... He was subsequently charged with using them to produce pornographic videos.”

  “See? I told you so!”

  “There's more... The novonid pair were confiscated by the Varadan state.”

  She put her hands over her ears. “Don't tell me they were terminated.”

  “No, they weren't...”

  “I'm relieved.”

  “There was quite a dispute over what to do with them. The head enforcer wanted to terminate them. The BSS insisted they be given shelter. Another group wanted to sell them to the farmers... In the end the state auctioned them, and the BSS bought them. They're with a BSS family now.” He continued to scroll. “I see a number of articles in that vein. It looks like a BSS mandate is to buy them when they can and then shelter them.”

  The doorchime sounded. “I'll get it,” Andra said and headed toward the door. “Laida, come in.”

  Nyk stood from the terminal as Laida stepped inside. “Did you get your sun?”

  “I certainly did,” Laida replied.

  “You look darker,” Andra remarked.

  “Yes -- it was a good sunning. I can't describe how good it feels ... relaxing and exhilarating at the same time.” She closed her eyes and lifted her face. “Mmm... It's been a while since I've had such delicious sunshine.”

  Andra showed Laida her forearm. “I got sun today, too -- but I didn't find it delicious. It hurts.”

  “How's your arm?” Nyk asked. Laida held out her forearm. The puncture wounds had healed, but an oblong, dark bruise remained between them. “You removed the bandage.”

  “Yes -- it feels better. I'm healing. The mark will fade over time.”

  “You appear in better spirits tonight,” Andra said.

  “A day in the sun will do that. I'm sorry if I wasn't gracious yesternight. It must've been sun hunger. I came to see if you'd like your dinner prepared.”

  “Please do,” Nyk said.

  “What would you like me to make?”

  “Whatever you think we'd enjoy,” he replied.

  Laida pondered. “I know...” She brought water to boil and dumped in a quantity of pomma kernels. Nyk watched as she tested and drained the pomma, mixed it with other ingredients and dumped it into a baking pan. She slid this into the oven. “That must heat... May I get you anything while we wait? Some pomma beer perhaps? It's very good ... I've been told.”

  “That would be fine, Laida.”

  “I'll be right back.” She breezed out of the apartment and returned with two tumblers filled with a fizzing tan liquid.

  “None for you?” Nyk asked.

  “I can't drink this,” she replied.
“It will make me very sick.”

  “Drink something,” Nyk said. “Fill a glass. Sit and drink with us.”

  “I'll drink water.” She sat at the table and sipped from her glass.

  “Tell us about yourself,” Andra said.

  “There's not much to tell. I was born at a breeder's. There I was trained as a hospitality servant.”

  “So Alvo bought you?”

  “No -- I belong to my breeder. She only leased me to the guesthouse. As a female, I'm too valuable. There's a saying: A male's worth one, a female ten. The breeders tend to retain title to their females. My mother still lives there. She no longer bears children, but she nurses them. I visit her from time to time.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Yes. So long as it's before curfew, we can travel the streets. Right now, I'm registered to this guest house. My travel is never questioned, for I must be fetching this or that for a guest. Let me check your dinner.” Laida looked into the oven. “Yes -- it's done.” She brought two plates and set them on the table.

  “Have you tasted pomma?” Nyk asked.

  “Yes -- from time to time.”

  He lifted his spoon-fork utensil. “Have you tasted this?”

  “No.”

  “It's very good. Try some, Laida.”

  “It's not food I can use.”

  “It won't harm you to eat some, will it?” he asked.

  “No... But, why bother to?”

  “You'll do a better job servicing your guests if you know what it tastes like.” Nyk stood and took a plate from a cabinet. He placed a small scoop of the pomma casserole onto it and set it before Laida. “My mother-in-law has a saying. She says someone who doesn't enjoy coffee should never attempt making it.”

  “What's coffee?” she asked.

  “An Earth beverage similar to pomma brew. Besides, Laida -- you look pathetic sitting there ... doesn't she, Andra?”

  “Pathetic,” Andra concurred.

  Laida looked down at herself. “Pathetic? How?”

  “You're sitting, sharing a table with us -- with nothing before you but a half-empty glass of water.”

  Laida scooped a small amount of the casserole. “How do you like it?” Nyk asked. She shrugged and smiled. “Florans tend to treat eating as a bodily function,” he continued. “I've learned on Earth that, when shared with friends, a meal can be a pleasure.”