The Children Star

by Joan Slonczewski

  That Rod was a trickster, too. He still looked and sounded like a Guardsman for all that he joined the clerics to raise their orphans. She would not trust him until he bore his own child.

  But what terrified her most was the children. All her lifeshaper’s instinct and training made her unable to refuse care of a sick child. If the clerics ever found that out, she would spend the rest of her days tending one child or another.

  “Well, Ushum, let’s get to work. You’re not hungry or sleepy now, are you?” Children were subject to such things, she recalled. But ’jum shook her head and rose expectantly, her small travel bag lying forgotten among the vines along the cavern wall.

  Sarai called to her holostage, a machine of no intelligence, only rudimentary interactive powers. The usual column of light obligingly appeared, displaying several ring-shaped objects brightly colored. “I’ve grown these microzoöids in culture for several months now.” Not from singing-trees—nor from tumblerounds either. From where, Sarai could not yet bring herself to say; she only shuddered at the thought. “In this recording, each cell is magnified a millionfold. They all glow different colors, don’t they?”

  ’jum peered at the magnified microzoöids, her neck outstretched like a hummingbird sipping nectar. One plump little ring was pink, and a pale blue one even rounder, and another one turquoise. “Those two look the same,” ’jum said, pointing to the turquoise, and to a ring that lay farther off across the holostage.

  “Exactly! Those two cells are the same color. And now, as time passes, what happens?”

  Gradually the colors changed, some greener, others bluer, until at last all the ring-shaped cells were turquoise.

  “Now let’s replay that sequence, more slowly.” At Sarai’s command, the holostage reset the microzoöids to their original colors, with playback rate decreased a thousandfold. On this time scale, the little rings no longer glowed steadily; they pulsed. “You see?” exclaimed Sarai. “They emit little bursts of photons—in prime numbers.”

  “Five…seven…twenty-three,” ’jum counted.

  “Those are the easy ones,” Sarai warned. “I’ve counted up to twelve hundred forty-nine. The numbers must mean words or letters of some sort. My theory is that the rings share the same color to talk to each other. Like the little nanoservos we send into your bloodstream to fix your genes: They have to share signals to coordinate their work, right?”

  ’jum thought this over. “What is their work?”

  Sarai shuddered. “Not like nanoservos—not at all.” How Khral and Rod and all the rest of them would faint if they knew. “We’ll find out what they’re up to, perhaps too late,” she said grimly. “I’ll tell you, Ushum, where I found these sisterlings; but you mustn’t tell anyone. They were—”

  “Priority call,” interrupted the holostage. “Please stand by for priority call.”

  Startled, Sarai glared at the holostage. “How dare you interrupt my work? I take calls when I please. The next time you—”

  “Priority call,” the stage repeated. “You refused our calls for two weeks, so a warrant was obtained.”

  A deep roaring sound of water filled the air. Above the holostage a wave of ocean rolled, a giant ravening curl of water such as was never seen on shoreless Shora. The curl grew small, reduced to a mere symbol hovering before a massive desk. Behind the desk sat an Elysian creature, whether female or malefreak, none could tell. It faced Sarai, apparently undeterred by her look of cold fury.

  “Greetings,” said the creature. “As you recall, I represent Proteus Unlimited, to whom the Fold has entrusted management of your research facility. Your work is most important to the Fold, and Proteus will transfer your project to an advanced, state-of-the-art facility under construction on the southeast quadrant of Chiron.”

  “Flying fish turds,” Sarai exclaimed in Sharer. “You will do no such thing. Get off my holostage. For that matter, get off my planet.”

  The creature was unperturbed. “We will provide you with all necessary assistance to preserve valuable equipment. Our chief executive, Citizen Nibur Letheshon, will personally supervise the operation, along with our species-preservation program. Please prepare for our arrival this week.”

  “I said, you will do no such thing.” Sarai reached for the main power switch. “And you can tell your malefreakish master that if he ever sets foot on this world, he will never leave alive.”

  THIRTEEN

  As the days lengthened into “summer,” the nightly rain clouds gathered earlier to shorten the day’s heat, and satellites reported the usual shift of major wind systems, bringing cooler air farther south. Rod wondered, how did those tumblerounds control the weather? At a safe distance he watched them, but the lazy plant-animals showed no sign. The four-eyes grew more sluggish and spent more time by the river, while in the garden the red loop pods twisted and ripened. Children complained of the heat, though to Rod it felt barely warmer than Prokaryan winter, nothing like the scorching summers of Valedon.

  What would “the masters” do when their continent was boiled off?

  Rod made himself watch the holo broadcast of the Opening of the “cleansing” of Spirilla. The event was attended by representatives from Valedon, Bronze Sky, and L’li, and the mysterious Elysian director of Proteus Unlimited, Nibur Letheshon. Resplendent in their ceremonial talars, they offered stirring words and bad music, as their satellite hovered above the first land to be “cleansed.” An island off the western coast, an aerial view showed two stripes of forest. Rod wondered what Elk would say for his singing-trees. And Khral—but Rod could not let himself think of her.

  Beside the holostage, Brother Geode saw Rod clenching and unclenching his fists. His eyestalks lowered. “You know, Brother, we don’t really have to watch this.”

  “It’s better to know.” Knowledge was better than ignorance—it was never too late to learn. “We can pray for them.”

  Geode began the standard litany of the Spirit. Love only truth, desire only grace, know only Spirit…The prayers expanded to include all the zoöids, large and small, and the hapless singing-trees, and, above all, all the participants in this terrible project that unfolded before them.

  Above the island, high in the stratosphere, a white whirlwind appeared. It was a tunnel through a space fold, directed from the sun Iota Pavonis. The sun’s heat poured through, turning the whirlwind into a swirl of flame. The flames reached downward as a fountain projected from the ocean. It met the fountain with a roar, creating steam that rained down upon the island. Soon the steam enveloped the island, tactfully obscuring the fate of the landscape.

  Rod felt his heart pounding; he could barely move. Geode’s blue limb snaked around his arm. “Peace, Brother. We’ve done all we can; it’s the will of the Spirit.”

  His throat was swollen so he could barely swallow. The Spirit should grant me a world, he had demanded once. Now he was losing the one world he had.

  “Success!” Nibur Letheshon spoke with authority, with all the kind assurance of a Spirit Father. “This is, of course, only the beginning. Inland, across the continent, cleansing will probe deep beneath the crust, generating magma chambers to thrust the steam upward.” Volcanoes and geysers throughout the fields—the terrain would become unrecognizable. “The cleansing will continue over the next Prokaryan year, reducing the native biota by ninety-nine percent. Then we will seed the crust with thermophiles, microbes that live at steam temperature. The thermophiles will convert all the molecules in the soil to forms compatible with human physiology, while outgrowing the few native organisms that remain.”

  Bronze Sky, Rod remembered. All of Bronze Sky had been terraformed this way. The resulting volcanism had colored its sky for centuries.

  “In the next stage, we inoculate the land with phase-one human-compatible life-forms, including mosses and lichens, annelid worms, and—”

  “Brother Rod,” called T’kun from outside. “There’s a visitor at the door. Hurry.”

  Rod left the holostage, closin
g the door behind him to avoid the children seeing such unsettling sights. But how much longer could he shield them? From the nursery T’kela and Qumum were wailing for attention; he hoisted them up, one in each arm. T’kun whispered, “I don’t like this visitor.”

  “Sh, mind your manners.” The outer door was ajar; Rod pushed it out with his elbow. T’kun followed, trying to hide behind him while peeking out to see.

  There stood an octopod. Its gray arms folded about whichever way, without an obvious head. Beyond, next to the llama barn, three more octopods emerged from a lightcraft that bore the cresting wave of Proteus.

  “Greetings.” The octopod spoke in a monotone, advertising its lack of sentience. “We are here to assist you in relocating to your new homestead in Chiron.”

  Rod held the children tighter. His feet shifted instinctively for a defensive move, though no unarmed human could disable an octopod. “Greetings to you, and your master,” he spoke in the warmest tone he could manage; at this, of all times, he must honor the Spirit. “Please convey our deepest regret, for we do not intend to leave.”

  The octopod seemed to pause, while the three others stood there threateningly. The babies began to whimper; Rod tried to soothe them. Whatever would those cursed machines do now? Try to take them by force?

  “You have received your final thirty-day extension,” the octopod said at last. “Use your time well. We will remain available to help you relocate.”

  So that was it. Another thirty days—was that from Mother Artemis? Why had she sent no neutrinogram? What if they did not let her return? Most incoming traffic had been canceled. For a free world of the Fold, any halt in traffic would be unthinkable. But Prokaryon was a colony world, subject to the Fold’s protection—and its whim.

  As the octopods left, Rod found himself shaking all over, and he set the babies down. T’kun came out and asked, “What does it mean, ‘relocate’?”

  “‘Relocate’ means to move your things to go live somewhere else.”

  T’kun spread his hands. “Where else is there?”

  The children would have to be told. If only Mother Artemis were back—but they could wait no longer. All their neighbors had gone by now, one way or another. There was no word from Diorite or Feldspar, who were trying to hide in the mountains and force postponement of the cleansing. A few dissidents from New Reyo sent out a manifesto, announcing an underground militia to “fight for independence.” Scarcely practical, but it was good to see at least some of the Chiron colonists cared.

  “Brother Rod,” called Geode, “there’s a neutrinogram.”

  “From Mother Artemis?”

  “From our Most Reverend Father.”

  The bearded Father spoke as always out of the snowy monochrome. “The Spirit be with you, Brother Geode, and Brother Rhodonite,” began the Most Reverend Father of the Sacred Order of the Spirit. “All our sympathy pours out for you, in your hour of trial. Mysterious are the ways of the Spirit; and who can say what our ultimate calling will be? We call on the Spirit to give you all strength in the face of the world’s minions.

  “Over the centuries, Callers of the Spirit have ever been subject to persecution. Our sacred witness ever inspires hatred in those who are deaf to higher things. Pity them, my Brothers. Pity them—and let them have their dominion in this world. It is hard to leave a place of attachment, but you will prosper in your new home. Be sure that all of the Fathers of Dolomoth will hold you up to the Spirit in our hearts.”

  Rod and Geode sat still for a long while after the message had melted into snow. The message troubled Rod deeply, more for what it lacked than what it said, but he was not about to criticize the Most Reverend Father. Besides, what else could be done? He took a breath. “The time has come,” he said. “We have to tell the children.”

  “Yes, but…how do we tell them?”

  “We’ll tell the older ones first. They’ll help with the younger ones.”

  That evening Rod and Geode met with Haemum and Chae. The rain pattered outside, and a helicoid sought shelter under the window frame. Chae sat straight, a long-legged youth just past his tenth birthday; Haemum was nearing her thirteenth. More adults than children, Rod thought. Geode replayed the neutrinogram for them. The two young colonists watched, their mouths small. When it was over, there was silence. A helicoid in the window scratched at the pane, trying to get in.

  “You know what’s going on,” Rod said at last. “The Fold wants us to leave our home.”

  Chae nodded quickly. “The octopods and all. But Reverend Mother will put a stop to it.”

  Rod swallowed hard. “The ways of the Spirit can seem obscure at times. Yet even Reverend Mother must obey.”

  Haemum frowned. “A lot of folks don’t like what’s going on, even people on Valedon and Bronze Sky. I saw, on the holo. They say it’s wrong; that our whole world could die.”

  “That’s true. But what they think may not matter in time for our colony.”

  Silence lengthened. Chae looked down, his forehead knotted in premature wrinkles.

  “How can they do it?” Haemum wondered. “All the singing-trees, and all those flocks of helicoids. Even the tumblerounds—Brother Rod, you and I always took such care with them, though we could have used the hide for shoes.”

  Rod started to smile, then he turned cold. If the tumblerounds grew angry, who would they punish? How would “the masters” know who to blame? Could the children be safe anywhere on this planet?

  Geode’s eyestalks twisted and untwisted, then he extended two of his arms. “Sister, you’ve always done the best you can. It’s not your fault; never believe that. It’s all a matter of adults. Foolish adults—and even more foolish sentients.”

  “But what matters is the Spirit,” insisted Haemum. “What does the Spirit call on us to do?”

  “The Spirit,” said Rod, “calls on us to obey worldly authorities.”

  “Well that’s not how the Spirit calls me.” Haemum crossed her arms and her voice hardened. “The Spirit calls me to flee into the forest. The land can’t be ‘cleansed’ before we’re found.”

  Chae nodded. “Me too.”

  Taken aback, Rod paused. “You are brave indeed; but you’ll only gain the few extra days to find you. Think of the little ones.”

  “Send the little ones back to Station,” said Haemum. “The rest of us can hide our tracks by crossing tumbleround territory. Tumblerounds mess up any trail, and their secretions foul nanoplast; even sentients refuse to follow.”

  Rod glanced at Geode, but his eyestalks only twisted lamely in the face of this insubordination. For a moment Rod wondered. “You have grown into adults, speaking adult words. When Reverend Mother returns, you may tell her your calling.”

  The next day he began to sort and pack—the lathe and polishers, the grain mill, the few extra clothes. The llamas were another problem; he had no idea how the independent-minded beasts would be moved. Meanwhile, the sky was crossed by huge transport craft to set up further sites for cleansing all over Spirilla. Their plasma spikes pierced the air, and their sonic booms terrified the children. The little ones had to stay indoors; the sapphire mine lay empty. Octopods stalked the grounds of the colony, as if to intimidate them. Rod’s sense of disgust deepened.

  As Geode worked beside him, the sentient suddenly came to life. “It’s Mother Artemis—I’ve got her signal!”

  “She made it back? Haemum will fetch her—” Rod stopped. The old lightcraft still lay out in the field where it crashed.

  “She got a lift—look there!” Above in the sky a plasma spike grew, descending surely to the colony. “It’s Quark.”

  Somehow all the children seemed to know in an instant that Mother Artemis was home, and they came running and crawling outside to see her. Her nano-strands of hair extended to those her arms could not reach.

  “Verid said we could stay on,” Mother Artemis told Rod, when at last they had a moment to breathe. Her voice alone was such a relief to hear. “I would have sent a neutr
inogram, but we need to save expense.”

  He shuddered to think what a chunk of their budget her ticket had cost.

  “But the octopods gave us thirty days,” Geode told her.

  “Verid is two hundred light-years away. She warned us things might be made…difficult.”

  Rod added, “The octopods have kept us inside. We can’t tend the fields. How can we last?”

  She did not answer.

  Geode told her, “There’s the neutrinogram from the Most Reverend Father.”

  Mother Artemis viewed the neutrinogram, as best she could with the toddlers creeping up into her lap and down again. When it was over, she nodded slowly. “We will obey. We will pack our things, very slowly. We must live each day here for itself, as if it were our last, and as if we had thousands to come. When the time comes, who knows? The future lies behind a shroud.”

  Rod clenched his fists. “Haemum and Chae say they have a different ‘calling.’ They want to escape.”

  “How wonderful that young adults call for themselves. I will speak with them.” She lifted baby T’kela over her shoulder. “This one has certainly grown. How are the others; how is ’jum?”

  Geode’s eyestalks straightened. “’jum is visiting Sarai—at her request, imagine!” He told the story.

  Rod said, “We were short-handed, and it seemed best. But now that you’re home, we’ll fetch her back immediately.”

  “Is she happy there?” Mother Artemis asked.

  “Sarai has not taken calls.”

  “Then they must both be content. Would they have kept you ignorant, were it otherwise?”

  He had to admit this was so.

  “Scandalous,” muttered Geode. “The last kind of role model ’jum needs.”

  “We’ll see,” said Mother Artemis. “For now, at least, Sarai will have to take care of the child’s lifeshaping, and save us the expense.” She looked him over carefully. “Brother Rod, are you holding your weight on Prokaryan food?”