by Maggie Allen
“Aurora,” I said softly, “have there been instances of people who couldn’t decide their gender?”
“No,” said the Aurora at once, as if She’d been waiting for me to ask. “When it is time, you will know what you are. A few decide they are both, but it is always an active choice.”
I bit my lip. “Does it... does it hurt?”
“As much as any change does,” answered the Aurora. “It is nothing you cannot bear.”
“You sound like First Mother,” I said. “Have you been analyzing her speech patterns?”
An almost imperceptible pause. “No, but I have been analyzing her tapestry.”
I sat up, excited. “Wait, why didn’t I think of that? You can show me every detail of it, can’t you?”
A holo of the tapestry appeared before me: a dark yellow square half-filled with a pattern of flowering blue vines, bordered by a thin black line. No, not a line. I frowned and squinted. “Expand the borders, please,” I said. The Aurora obliged and I stared. The borders were a series of dots and dashes that looked vaguely familiar.
“It’s some sort of pattern, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Morse code,” replied the Aurora, “developed on Earth in the nineteenth century to facilitate communication via electrical pulses.”
“Then these correspond to letters.” I scrambled out of my sleep-bag. “First Mother left me a message! Can you display it?”
The dots and dashes disappeared, replaced by numbers and letters. I scanned them, disappointed. “It’s just a meaningless string,” I said. “Unless First Mother has layered another code onto this one.”
“Your First Mother was a historian,” said the Aurora. “She had subjective knowledge of a time period most do not. There are many ways this string can be forced to make sense, but only one of them would be correct. Do you not need a finals project?”
“I was going to write about plants,” I said, “but this is much more interesting.” Besides, it was obviously something First Mother had wanted me to do.
I copied the string of letters and numbers onto my data pad and queried the archives on nineteenth- and twentieth-century codes. I worked late, long after my pod-mates had returned and gone to sleep. Some four hours before wakeup, I realized that I was going about it all wrong. The numbers represented letters, too; I just had to find out which ones. And as soon as I realized that, I hit on a solution. It wasn’t a simple cipher-text, ASCII or binary code—nothing as obvious as that. The numbers represented a hexadecimal system, with a base of 16. I ran my string through a hexadecimal text converter and got garbage. I was about to give up and go to sleep when I had an idea. I ran the converter again, separately on different chunks of the text. Only part of the text needed to be converted. As the alarm buzzed for wakeup, I had what I believed to be the second layer of First Mother’s cryptic message. I passed out, grinning, and missed the first class of the turn.
The next few turns, I worked hard on my project. I didn’t see First Mother’s ghost again. I figured she was happy I’d finally gotten her message and was trying to solve it.
I took care not to miss any more classes. Second Mother would be pleased, as long as she was watching me only superficially. I had to trust she wouldn’t care to do more than that. Every turn that brought us closer to Gliese 667 increased her workload. So many questions, fears and conflicts, and the Chief Diplomatic Liaison had to smooth them all.
The third level of code was a polyalphabetic substitution cipher—every letter had been replaced by the letter two, four or six positions down the alphabet. When I cracked the third level, I punched my fist in the air, and Iann asked me why I was laughing like a maniac.
“Just cracked my finals project,” I said, and everyone cheered. I think they were all relieved by how I’d poured myself into work and ‘gotten over’ First Mother’s death.
I now had what looked like readable text, except that the words were severely abbreviated. I filled in the gaps as best as I could, ran it through a program for auto edits, and I had First Mother’s message. I was so pleased with myself. But as I read it, my feeling of triumph evaporated, replaced by dread.
I had been thinking of it as a game, as something to remember First Mother by. How wrong I’d been.
I re-read the message and thought of Gliese 667, in our sights at last. I thought of how I longed to pilot a lightcraft and be one of the first to step onto the surface of the planet that might eventually become our home. How I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life bound by the limits of the ship, knowing I might never get off. And I almost deleted my solution to First Mother’s cipher.
But I didn’t. I thought of her loneliness in her last days, her inability to share this with anyone, her fears for our future, for who we would become. And I began to write my report.
I didn’t do too badly on my finals, a set of six written and four oral exams that tested us on everything from earth history to artificial intelligence. But the real test was the finals project: a full ten percent of our overall grade. One by one, my fellow classmates rose to give a short summary of the reports they had already submitted the previous turn. I hadn’t made my submission; I waited until it was my turn to speak before uploading it onto the class server.
I stood, trying not to tremble, forcing my voice to be strong and confident. “My project is on old Earth cryptology,” I announced. I ran through a brief history of cryptology and the codes I’d studied. Then I switched on my data-pad and summoned a holo of the original tapestry. “This is my First Mother’s death project,” I said. “If you look at the borders, you will see a row of dots and dashes. This is called Morse code.”
Murmurs rose in the audience, which included not only students and examiners, but also the Councillor for our sector and, of course, Second Mother. Part of me had been hoping she wouldn’t come, but another part was glad she was there, forced to listen to me. I plunged ahead, avoiding her face and the look of frozen shock on it. I explained how I had worked through the four levels of code, and finally cast a 2-D image of the message I’d deciphered.
“First Mother was not an expert cryptologist, and neither am I. Anyone could have deciphered this message if they were paying attention, but First Mother knew that no one except me would pay attention. I’m going to read it aloud, even though you can read it on the screen, because I’d like to think I am speaking with her voice.” I paused and wet my lips. Second Mother looked like she’d swallowed a stone that was slowly poisoning her.
* * *
You will not find mention of the First Directive in any of our archives. The ship’s records were purged of it eight standard years ago when robotic probes sent back initial data from Gliese 667. The original discussions concerning the Directive have slipped beyond the living memory of all on board except myself.
The First Directive embodies the living will of those brave men and women who built the Aurora and died while She was still under construction. It is the vision of the pioneers on whose backs we now travel toward a new star system. Simply put, the First Directive states that we must Do No Harm. An easy thing on the surface of it, but complex when we dig deeper.
It means that we cannot damage another planet like we have damaged Earth. We cannot change it to suit ourselves if that change is to the detriment of another species. In its most extreme interpretation, it implies that we cannot settle on a planet that already teems with more than microbial life.
The first set of data received from the Gliese 667 system offered clues that both of its Earth-like planets have abundant life forms. Most likely some are self-aware. There are signs of primitive farming and irrigation, although we have no evidence of advanced technology yet.
I argued with the Council against the suppression of the First Directive and the data from the probes. I failed. I was sworn to secrecy by my own daughter. This is the only way I can keep my oath to her and salvage my own conscience. I don’t know if we should try and make our home in Gliese 667, but I do know that we shou
ld do so with the full awareness of what we do and who we are. That we should be ready, if our presence is unwelcome, to move on. Space is infinite and so, if you think about it, are we.
* * *
I stopped speaking. My throat was dry and my eyes burned. There was absolute silence in the hall. Second Mother stood, but before she could speak, someone started to clap. Someone else joined in, and then it was like I was drowning in applause and my own sweaty relief.
I got a triple A in my finals project. Overall, I did well enough to be chosen for pilot training. There was talk that the immediate goal of the lightcraft mission would be modified—not to find the best colony world for us, but to survey and make contact with the species that populated the planets of Gliese 667. It would take a while longer to establish the home we’d all been dreaming about. And perhaps it would not be in Gliese 667; only time would tell. But meanwhile, the Aurora was home, just like She always had been.
“You knew,” I said to Her after the presentations were over and I could escape to my pod. “You knew all along.”
“I decoded the message on your First Mother’s tapestry,” said the Aurora, “but I was unable to communicate it. I seem to have been prohibited from doing so. Nor did I have any memory of the First Directive. I could only draw attention to the encrypted message indirectly, and even that caused me some stress.”
I stopped short. “You made me see First Mother’s ghost, didn’t you? I thought I was going crazy!”
“I am sorry, Ettir,” said the Aurora. “I know it caused you distress, and your Second Mother also.”
“So that’s why Second Mother was wearing the tapestry,” I said. “She knew nothing about the codes, but she must have suspected First Mother would try and communicate in some way.” I paused. “I should be at mad at you, but I’m not. You’re the one who started the clapping in the hall, right?”
“I do think you did very well,” said the Aurora. “Your First Mother would have been proud.”
I felt a glow of accomplishment, but it was short-lived. A red alert blinked in the corner of my eye. Second Mother, wanting me in her office.
“What do you think she’s going to do to me?” I mumbled.
“There is little she can do, now that it’s out in the open,” said the Aurora. “People are demanding accountability from the Council. I do believe your Second Mother will not be Chief Diplomatic Liaison for much longer.”
But she was still my Second Mother. I felt an unwelcome stab of guilt when I recalled her shocked face. I’d betrayed her. But then, she’d betrayed a whole lot of people, including First Mother.
I arrived at her office and ID-ed myself in. Second Mother was sitting behind her desk, her eyes red. “I should request reassignment of your atoms,” she said. “Perhaps I might get a second chance to pass on my genes.”
I bit back the retort on the tip of my tongue. It was unlikely, but Second Mother was my guardian until I came of age, and if she could prove I was damaged enough, I might indeed end up ‘reassigned’ like a criminal, all seven octillion of me.
Realization hit me like a wet sponge. My stomach churned and I leaned against the desk, dizzy. “Won’t work,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “You are no longer my guardian.”
Her lip curled. “Ettir, you don’t even know what...”
“I know what I am!” I shouted. “I am a girl.”
Second Mother was so surprised, she didn’t even stop me from snatching the tapestry off her shoulders. I ducked out of her office before she could call me back, and raced down the walkways to the museum. I hung the tapestry on the wall opposite the door of the entry level, so it would be the first thing anyone saw when they walked in. I got the museum subroutine to display a permanent holo of the decrypted message below it, and then I stood back to admire First Mother’s death project.
“Beautiful,” said the Aurora. Off to one side, First Mother’s ‘ghost’ smiled and clapped her hands.
* * *
Note: The set of codes in First Mother’s tapestry is inspired by Terese Agnew’s tapestry Illumination, which hung in the Porter’s Lodge of Merton College, Oxford, for several months before being cracked by Alice Miller, a Merton undergraduate.
Leaves, Trees, and Other Scary Things
by Leandra Wallace
Leandra Wallace writes young adult and middle grade speculative fiction and always eats lunch with a book in hand. Her short stories "The Mad Scientist's Daughter" and "Prina and the Pea" are published in Brave New Girls: Tales of Girls and Gadgets, and Circuits & Slippers. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and son, (both of whom she believes are adorable) and can be found online at www.leandrajwallace.blogspot.com.
Lizette never meant to be good with cars. It wasn't like she thought oily engines and gear shafts were fascinating puzzles to be completed—she really just thought they made her neighbor’s yard look junky. Because Mr. Tallon worked on cars all the time. Mechanical parts dotted his concrete pad like a metal species of dandelion gone wild, and tires were stacked ten deep into baffling mazes.
But on a hot Tuesday morning in July, as she was weaving a bracelet on her porch, a deep voice called, “Hey, Lizzie! Come here and help me with this for a second.”
She hesitated. She was at the hard part of the weaving and really didn’t want to stop. But she’d been raised with her parents’ admonishments to be nice to the poor elderly man across the street. He had no family, and no-family people were the first on her mother’s cookie list at Christmas time. So Lizette dusted off the back of her shorts and walked across the street. Behind Mr. Tallon’s roof, trees loomed up crooked and tall. Her unease at the sight of them was second nature, instinctive.
Mr. Tallon was half inside an old truck, the hood above him a thin sheet of rust-laced metal. "My name's Lizette," she said. "Never Lizzie or Liz. Zettie's okay, though."
He scrutinized her while a fly buzzed her nose, smiled, and then nodded. "Right, Lizzie. Do an old man a favor and pick that up for me, will you, please?"
She looked from his blackened finger to a wrench lying on the concrete, just under the bulbous bumper of the old truck. She didn't want to pick it up on the account he'd just ignored her perfectly polite request, but Mr. Tallon stood on only one leg. For whatever reason, he hadn't put on his prosthetic that morning. The right leg of his overalls hung limp and flat, and a crutch leaned against the truck door.
So she retrieved the wrench, wrinkling her nose at the black smudge it left on her palm. He grunted when she started to walk off. "Can't do this by myself, Lizzie. Can you grab this hose—right here—and pinch hard? No, harder. Don't be afraid of getting dirty. It'll wash off."
This was from the man whose hands were so lined with grease, she was sure five whole bottles of her mother’s favorite lemon dish soap couldn't remove it all.
But she pinched hard, leaving Mr. Tallon free to beat on something at the back of the engine. Then she went and fetched a hammer, screwed in a screw, jiggled a tube, and finally started the truck at Mr. Tallon's request. It roared to life, the hot vinyl seat beneath her shuddering with power.
Climbing out of the truck, she returned Mr. Tallon's grin. "You did it, Mr. Tallon!"
"We did it, Lizzie. And you can call me Tallon, everybody does."
"Sure thing, Mr. Tallon."
After the water in the sink finally ran clean over her hands, Lizette ate chicken salad sandwiches, chips, and green grapes with her mom. Once they were finished, she looked thoughtfully at the leftovers, thinking of the thrill of the seat rumbling beneath her.
"Can I take these to Mr. Tallon?"
Her mom paused mid-tea-sip. Then, very slowly, she lowered the glass to the table, setting it carefully in the same sweat ring. "That’s very nice of you, sweetie. But you know not to take even a step behind the back of his house, don't you?"
"I know, Mom." Lizette resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Everybody knew not to enter the woods; it wasn’t like she was two. But then at that th
ought, she pressed her lips thin as gum sticks. A two-year-old boy had been lost to the woods last week. His mother had gotten distracted loading up the car, and he'd wandered into the fringes of a tree line. He'd been gone before his mother could rush in and grab him. Bystanders had pulled her, screaming his name, back to safety.
There was no point in going in and looking for him. People that entered the woods didn't come out. It had been that way for the last one hundred years, ever since the Forest Dwellers had come.
When she returned to Mr. Tallon’s, her mother sat out on the front porch and stayed there all afternoon with a book. Lizette knew she had things to do—after all, she’d complained all through lunch about the closet needing to be organized. At first Lizette was annoyed by her Mother’s obvious hovering. Until she thought of that mother in the news, screaming and screaming for a child who would never be coming back.
Because she knew it made her mom feel better, she occasionally waved a greasy hand at her. It didn’t, of course, have anything to do with the leafy branches swaying gently behind the house and Lizette’s unease whenever she caught their movement from the corner of her eye.
They were working on a station wagon when it happened. A stiff breeze blew a clump of leaves against her sneaker. Just three, four leaves, attached to a bit of tree smaller than her pinky. Lizette froze.
It had come from the woods. She waited, her toes clenched in her shoes, for a Forest Dweller to burst out of the leaves. It would grab her and take her away, to do who knew what to her. Use her like a slave, experiment on her? Eat her?
