Daughters of a Coral Dawn

by Katherine V Forrest

  “Yes.” Kendra’s face glows. “Detonation sequence has begun.” She also inflates her restraint pod.

  “My message,” Mother says.

  “Coming up on sequence right now, Mother,” Megan says. “At five seconds to hyperspace.”

  We watch the huge red numerals count down, reach five.

  WE’RE CHANGING OUR MINDS, BOYS, reads Mother’s message. THIS IS AMELIA EARHART, OVER AND OUT.

  Zero, I remember reading.

  Then my eyeballs were driven into my head. My body turned inside out. My mind expanded, contracted, exploded into vivid color. I floated in sickening disorientation . . .

  There was the sharp scent of stimulant, a discomfort in my shoulder that I recognized as an injection. As awareness returned I opened my eyes to the color of emerald. I groped. Warm synsilk was under my hands, slender shoulders that were clothed in white.

  Megan took my hands. “Minerva, are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you dear,” I whispered, smiling idiotically and thinking foolishly that I was half in love with her, and that I was perfectly normal because everyone else was too. Then well-being returned to my body, and rationality. I released her hands. “What—”

  “Everything goes well,” Megan answered. “We’re safe, and on course.”

  I sit up now, and look around. The pod has been taken from around Vesta and Carina, but still they sleep in their close embrace. Kendra sits as usual in her command chair, smiling at Mother, who gestures to the viewscreen, cackling delightedly.

  “Look, Minerva dear. Look!”

  On the viewscreen four minute black objects tumble and spin in haphazard grace.

  “Our bad-tempered, violent friends,” Mother chortles. “Tell her, Kendra. Explain.”

  “The bomb was detonated the instant after our leap into hyperspace.” Kendra’s deep voice is rich with satisfaction. “We escaped its effects totally but our four pursuers weren’t so lucky. They aren’t damaged, and they had time to brace, but they couldn’t escape. What you see now are the effects of shock waves which still strike them.”

  Mother gloats, “Describe what it’s like, Kendra.”

  “They should have turned their ships into the blast,” Kendra says, “at least that’s what I’d have done. The first shock wave would hit like a tidal wave. And for hours, even though they’re in restraint, they’ll feel like an angry fist is pummeling their ships.”

  I whisper, “But can they still track us?”

  “By the time they right themselves and synchronize their data,” Megan says quietly, “we will be a speck of cosmic dust.”

  “Mother,” I say, “how did such an idea ever occur to you?”

  “From a quaint twentieth century film I viewed in Omaha,” she answers. “In one of their silly wars, a captain of a submarine vessel faked destruction by ejecting debris to the ocean surface.”

  “And I expect that’s what the fools will claim about us,” Kendra says with her deep laugh. “That our ship detonated from nuclear fusion as we leaped to hyperspace.”

  “You’ve heard the ancient joke,” Mother says, “about women drivers?”

  We all look at her, puzzled. Sighing with disgust, she stalks off to her quarters.

  X

  2199.12.6

  I need no pronouncements from Venus nor psychological explanations from Vesta to know that it is not healthy to live in close proximity for long periods of time.

  I will not dwell on our discomforts. Mother has exemplified the major one by disappearing into her quarters a week ago and thus far refusing to emerge. “Forgive me dears,” she has called through her sealed door, “I love you all but I’m just sick to death of everyone.”

  Only Megan, Kendra, her co-captains, and of course, Mother, have their own quarters. The rest of us sleep in our catacombs and take care of our bodily needs as our ship section is assigned. For women who have lived their lives with a high degree of individuality, the adjustments have been difficult indeed. At best we are waspish with each other. At worst, quarrelsome and hostile.

  My greatest longing is for water sluicing over my body. We are all clean, of course; when scheduled, we line up and file through the chemical mist that cleanses our clothing, our bodies, our hair. But how I long for the simple pleasures of a bath . . .

  There seems to be grayness to everything, as if we were in a cave. Megan assures me it is my imagination, that our air is purified thoroughly before recirculation, but it smells musty and thick to me even in the greenhouses, among all the plants and flowers. And even with Vesta as consultant-chef, and meals which are varied and creatively prepared, the food still seems uniform and tasteless. I dream of eating a sun-ripened tomato freshly plucked from its vine . . .

  Our days are scheduled, we all have duties and assignments. But we are bored. Our initial delight in our clothes has paled; they have become tiresome. Sexual interest among us has diminished precipitously, even between the most recently together. Privacy to explore sensuality or romantic sensibility is severely insufficient, and this also has not helped the general mood. Venus especially has been in vicious humor for weeks.

  All the beauty in our lives lies outside our crystal windows, in the awesome grandeur of blazing star systems, incredibly hued coronas, great illuminated gas nebulae, delicate veils of stardust shimmering with iridescence. The Constellations are unrecognizable; the configurations so well known from the days of our childhood were distorted to unfamiliarity as Amelia carried us from the solar system. We drift through incomprehensible vastness, our lives entrusted to the rigorous truth of our computations, the faithful silent computers, the subtle skills of our wondrous Kendra.

  Our leader, her work to begin anew after the respite of these few months, often walks among us, striking in the pristine synsilk that clings to her slender body. Her serenity soothes tempers and reassures us; her presence reunites us in our purpose. The homeland that awaits us is worth many times the discomfort of our days.

  As do most of us, Megan spends time with the children; their capacity for joy and enchantment renews us all. Today I was in one of the compounds when she came in. A tiny towhead with great dark eyes hurtled herself toward Megan, and Megan scooped her into her arms, the little girl shrieking with ecstasy as she was lifted for a ride on Megan’s shoulders.

  Megan looks relaxed, and for the first time in months like the very young woman she is. And more beautiful than ever, if that is possible.

  XI

  Personal Journal of Megan

  2199.12.12

  It is best that my mind be fully occupied, that no time be available for thoughts which torment and are in all ways futile.

  But synsilk so reveals Venus’s body to me that she might well be unclothed; and her ill-humor these months of our journey, far from unattractive, has added a smoldering quality to her beauty. Her walk—all her movements—suggest images that emerge as longings in the unprotected time of sleep: vivid and heated dreams that drive me from my quarters to pace the corridors of Amelia, to uselessly verify course computations in the command room, to unnecessarily review my sketches for colony design in the data work room.

  She looks at me. And her trouser-suit, hues of dark blue, enhances the compelling blue of her eyes. Because she is in my sector we often meet in corridors, and she slows her walk—that walk—and looks at me, her eyes leisurely and ever more bold. Her eyes focus upon my lips, drift to my breasts, linger on my thighs . . . She never speaks. Her gaze caresses me; her gaze promises what I more and more long to discover . . .

  XII

  2200.1.6

  We are a matter of weeks away from planetfall. Critically important meetings have begun.

  The time away from her responsibilities may have been needed for renewal of Megan’s energies, but she seems grateful that her mentalities are once more engaged. All of us on board Amelia are eager for new challenges.

  The talents and skills necessary to take us successfully from Earth pale in comparison with those th
at will now be required. Before we left, Megan and we of the Inner Circle had made preparations, carefully selecting four major teams from among the most specifically trained of our Unity.

  Erika, the geoscientist, was our first choice. She and her team will map our new world, determine form and gravity values, rock and mineral and chemical composition.

  Jolan, our hydrologist, will lead the oceanographic team, analyzing all of the planet’s water systems.

  Astra, our meteorologist, will lead the atmospheric and climatology team.

  Augusta, the zoologist, will spearhead the vitally important group which determines our planet’s origin and current formative stage, its present ecology, its plant and animal life.

  2200.1.29

  We, the Inner Circle, and Mother and Megan, have been gathered around the viewscreen for hours, since the first faint image of Maternas appeared. We have made our first surprising discovery about her. The blurred montage Hera showed our Unity so many months ago was not a distorted spectral reflectance; our new world is, indeed, coral. Pale coral and white clouds cover coral seas, with land masses somewhat darker, indistinguishable at this distance through the cloud cover.

  “Why should we be surprised? Of course it’s possible, the solar system planets, all planets vary in color,” muses Hera as we all stare at the globe enlarging upon our screen. “Color is only molecular scattering of light . . . a matter of wave length, and white light . . .”

  But we are nonplussed; the blue-green seas of Earth are ingrained upon our conscious and subconscious.

  Except for Mother. “Verna has high ferrous content,” she has told us, beaming, “and lands of many rich colors. Frankly, my dears, Earth was very boring.”

  2200.1.30

  We are in orbit around Maternas, an elongated elliptical orbit because of Amelia’s size.

  How many surprises will this new world have for us? Our sun is not one, but two stars.

  “An optical binary,” Hera exclaims. “Double star systems are common, far more common than single star systems—Jupiter almost flamed into a star when the solar system was formed. But binaries. . . two stars together . . . and these stars aren’t even true binaries, they’re light years apart, not gravitationally associated. An optical binary is relatively rare.”

  The second shock is our planet’s nightside, the perigee of our orbit. Maternas has three moons orbiting closely together—two quite small, but all of them brilliant—and a night sky that blazes with star clusters and reflection nebulae. With so glowing a sky, there will be a darkening of the day as our double sun sets, but no night as we have known it.

  How will the older children react when they first perceive our new world, a world drastically different from the one they have known? Hera has expressed concern. And has declared that she will prepare the children for Maternas with scientific explanation.

  In her gentle way, Vesta tried to disagree, reminding Hera of our own self-sufficient childhood and that many generations have passed since Hera or any of our Inner Circle have raised our own children, and suggesting that our children will more readily adapt than we adults. But Hera is Hera. And so Vesta and I wait in the children’s compound for her arrival.

  Forced to abandon her cape when she boarded Amelia, Hera wears only our standard synsilk garment; but as she sweeps in and whirls to confront her young audience, somehow the cape is in place. The children sit silent, in crowded rows, gazing at her with wide-eyed reverence.

  Standing with arms crossed, lips pursed, she finally asks condescendingly, “Would any of you like to guess where every color in the universe can be found?”

  A deafening chorus of girlish voices: “In white light!”

  Looking somewhat disconcerted, Hera orders, “Please raise your hand if you wish to answer my questions. Do any of you know how pigments acquire their color?”

  Every child raises her hand. Looking very startled indeed, Hera points. Rhea stands, Ariadne’s ten-year-old, a lithe dark-skinned nymph. She says easily, “They absorb parts of the spectrum and reflect whatever remains.”

  From beside me Vesta chuckles; Hera casts a dark glance toward us, then returns her attention to Rhea. “You understand, then, why plants and grass don’t have to be green?”

  “Pigment molecules can assume a wide range of structural forms,” Rhea answers in a sweet soprano. “The pigment molecules in chlorophyll account for the greenness of plants, they absorb purples and blues, most of the red end of the spectrum, and reflect back green. But if the molecular structure—”

  “Yes. Indeed,” Hera says darkly. “Would any of you—”

  A hand has been raised. Sibyl, Diantha’s ten-year-old. Hera has stiffened in outrage that anyone would dare interrupt her; but she says gently, “You have a question, child?”

  “We all know we’re in orbit, we know we’ve arrived where we’re going to live. Are the rumors true? Does our world really have coral lands and seas?”

  The glance Hera casts at Vesta is chastened. I smother my own amusement; I know better than to incur Hera’s wrath.

  “Yes, child,” Hera answers, “it’s true.”

  Sibyl inquires shyly, “Esteemed Hera, can we see it? Can we see our new home?”

  “May you see it,” Hera corrects triumphantly. “Yes, you may see it.” And she marches to a console module amid squeals of anticipation from all the girls in the room.

  Vistas of Maternas, seen through our exterior cameras, are greeted with oohs, giggles, ecstatic shrieks. Hera looks on with a wide smile, the joy of our children infectious.

  “Tell me, dear ones,” Hera says, “can any of you offer a theory why our land and seas happen to be the color of coral?” She points to Calypso, a daughter of Althea, who is enthusiastically waving her upraised hand.

  Calypso rises, tidying her royal blue synsilk suit with eleven-year-old dignity. “The rumors—well, we hear it’s young, our world. We’ve discussed it and we think it’s partly mineral content in the land, partly volcanic activity affecting the atmosphere, along with vapor-filled air close to the surface.”

  “Excellent, very good indeed.” Arms extended dramatically, Hera is beaming. “That’s a plausible theory, essentially correct as far as it goes. But—”

  Vesta and I tiptoe out.

  We have sent our first probes. One to the land surface, one to the ocean. Meterology balloons were released as the probes landed, and now drift through the atmosphere.

  Erika, Augusta, Astra, Jolan, and members of their teams sit with us, all of us in a still tension of expectancy as the first data floods the telemetry screens.

  A most critically important conclusion first from the taciturn Astra: “Slightly oxygen-enriched, twenty-one point six percent. But the troposphere is well within every tolerance.”

  “Feldspars,” Erika says, nodding, “sedimentary and igneous rock, also high silica. Soil analysis . . . appears rich in potassium carbonade. Megan,” she says, impatiently shifting her slim body in her chair and pushing a shock of unruly auburn hair from her forehead, “this is all very well, but let’s send the recorder drones.”

  “Our coral ocean is good old seawater,” Jolan tells us with a grin. Tall and lanky, her body seems folded into her chair; she sits back and casually crosses an ankle over a knee as she continues, “Salinity readings are slightly low but well within norm, and very probably regional. Surface temperature is eighty-one Fahrenheit. Chemically, the major constituents are normal, nothing strange at all. I agree with Erika, I want to see it, too.”

  Megan nods to Kendra, who releases with a flourish the drones which will fly in rigidly patterned grids above the surface. Augusta and Hera have already made circumference and orbital calculations: Maternas is slightly smaller than Earth, more circular, her daily orbit twenty-four hours and thirty-two minutes long.

  As each drone comes to life and opens its electronic eye, we gaze in silence. The first images are from the drones that float over expanses of ocean, but only Jolan follows these, and even h
er attention is divided; our eyes are riveted upon the screens which will give the first glimpses of our new land. Then jagged mountains soar toward us. Vast flat lands appear, and steeply canted hills. Ivory vegetation vividly tinged with shades of blue . . . We murmur, marveling . . . but do not speak or move until the drones have completed their first pass and shift to begin the criss-cross pattern.

  Then Erika: “The mountains . . . young mountains, all of them young . . .”

  No one speaks again until the second pass is complete and the third begins. “Twenty-three percent land mass,” Erika says. “Seven great land masses, all separated by great bands of ocean

  . . . none connected like the continents of Earth—”

  “Number nine, Kendra.” It is Augusta, the zoologist. “Decelerate it please, and narrow scope.”

  “Also number four.” Ariel speaks, the paleontologist who sits with Augusta.

  Kendra protests, “Our readings will go out of synchrony.”

  But Megan has been observing the growing tension in the chocolate brown face of Augusta, the stillness of Ariel’s slight body. “Please slow them, Kendra. We’ll recalibrate later.”

  “I thought so,” Ariel murmurs to Augusta.

  “And I,” Augusta agrees in her calm, resonant voice.

  Maddeningly, they stare mutely at the slow-shifting images of pale dense foliage.

  “Great Geezerak.” Mother has been sitting quietly in her big chair watching the screens and us. “Will you two speak to the rest of us?”

  “Angiosperms,” Ariel says. “Predominant conifers.”

  “Much better,” Mother growls. “Perfectly clear.”

  “Flowering foliage and many cone-bearing trees, some sequoia-type,” Augusta says, smiling. “Our new world is quite young.”

  “Younger than suspected?” Megan asks.

  “Patrice must determine that, Megan. The land varies so in development, the ocean here is an unusually great barrier to migration and evolutionary forces, as are the mountain ranges. But this extensive, almost unbroken seed-bearing foliage in the equatorial and its adjacent area is very like the Eocene period on Earth.”