Megan is always clad in black pants and mid-calf boots, a white shirt. All of us on Maternas wear off-whites, deep greys that come close to black, but not those two exact colors, it has become an unspoken rule that these are Megan’s colors alone.
Soon after we had begun to build on Maternas, our fabricators synthesized select grasses into fabric, and Diana somehow found time to make the first clothing for Megan—perfectly fitting black lustervel pants and a white silk shirt. Then later she fashioned black velvet pants and ornate white shirts for ceremonial occasions—our first birth, the completion of Mother’s house, certain of our Joinings . . .
One of the first Joinings I recorded on Maternas was Diana with Janel. Diana’s emotion, once given, is firm; and entwined with her deep love for Janel is unceasing gratitude to Megan that she saved Janel. Diana fashions all of Megan’s clothes, and Megan wears many subtle and beautiful variations of her simple attire.
Diana’s time for creation of apparel is hard-won; she is fully occupied with the genetic testing and gene-blending necessary prior to the administering of Estrova to those who wish to conceive. Our first birth occurred two weeks after planetfall—Vita, Amber’s baby, which she had carried while on board Amelia. Although births can be safely effected within four to five months of conception, almost all of us have previously chosen full term birth—to perform this act without any degree of efficiency. I am hardly being critical; years ago I too enjoyed every month of my own giving of life . . . But there have been 419 births in our nine months here, and a great many more of us—hundreds—are pregnant. “Short term,” Diana has told us incredulously. “Every woman who desires pregnancy chooses short term!”
But Vesta has explained: “There is uncommon urgency within us,” she says, “to plant our presence securely upon this vast and empty new world.”
And so I have been mightily occupied with my recording of vital statistics, our numerous Joinings and Births.
Beginning with Diana and Janel, ceremony has evolved when a couple comes into my chamber for recording of their Joining. We of the Inner Circle managed to arrange a small celebration for Diana in Cybele’s main square—music by Thea on her crystal instruments, food, wine—a small gathering because Diana is shy, more reticent in the matters of love than most of us. Afterward, she and Janel went off for the single day Diana could spare from her work to one of the tiny houses in the conifers overlooking Barney Lake, which we had decorated and stocked with delicacies prepared by Vesta. And the custom has continued . . .
But there have been other uses for these tiny houses in their peaceful setting . . . all has not been joy . . . I have sadly recorded Deaths, weeping for two which I felt most keenly . . .
The first were among the phobics who had traveled with us under sedation, one a precious young descendant of mine, the others descendants of Selene, Isis, and Olympia. All four perished within a week of our landing on Maternas, finding the strangeness of our new world more than they could bear. They simply walked off into the mountains, and in spite of lengthy and thorough search in our EVs and on foot and by the drones which were released from Amelia, we found the body of only one—my Martine—at the bottom of the cliff over which she had fallen.
While these deaths grieved us all, they prostrated Vesta. Throughout the existence of our Unity, the prevailing cause of death among us has been the taking of our own lives. Women so gifted as we are sometimes cursed with hypersensitivity; we are apt to be less than rational in some respects . . . Indeed, all of us are susceptible to dark ailments of the spirit . . . Vesta knew she risked greatly in allowing our troubled kinswomen to accompany us. Our nine other phobics have adjusted well, but even knowing this has not consoled Vesta.
And there has been a drowning—Cara, Patrice’s daughter, at the tender age of sixteen. We had been sternly warned by Jolan that our seas are treacherous at high tide, but Cara, strong and proud of her athletic prowess, did not listen. A search party, weeping, carried her body from a cove near Damon Point. And we sent Patrice to Barney Lake . . . most often a setting for the consummation of love, but now a setting of serenity for a sorely distressed spirit . . .
And so we have had the first internments on Maternas . . . and our grief will never truly leave us.
If our days vary in atmospheric event, our nights are what only our poets can describe. And the nights are warming again with the coming of spring. It seems a beautiful season unfolding to us, Venus’s forebodings notwithstanding. Each evening many of us watch the coral-gold drama of our sky as our double sun sets. And each night, after our homes sing the diminishing of the nocturnal winds, we come out to bathe in the beauty of our sky, the silver light and fluorescent hues which transform our world into blue velvet and silver-gray shadow. We gaze at the inexhaustible glory of our sky, at the drifting orbs of gold that are our three moons, at the riotous tapestry of stars spread over royal blue.
I walk every evening; how could I not? I see women walking closely together, an arm about each other, I see women together in the shadows . . . There is little public display of affection during our days; we are too busy with our work, and we seem reticent in that regard; an oppressive history continues to influence our customs. But the beauty of our nights calls forth need for sharing and physical tenderness . . .
Often I think of my long-dead Serena when I walk at night. I feel my aloneness keenly . . .
Several evenings ago I took a runabout down to the ocean to walk upon the exquisite seaside moss and to watch the great illuminated waves crash at high tide. I saw Megan in the distance, white shirt fluorescent in the night colors, standing tall and straight at the very edge of Damon Point, hands in her pockets, gazing at sea and sky. I did not disturb her, but I ached with the loneliness this solitary young woman surely must feel.
I have discussed her with the Inner Circle. Mother seems unconcerned, even indifferent—as of course does Venus—and my other sisters believe that Megan will choose a lover when the pressures on her slacken. But when will that be? Our days are volatile, every urgent decision falls to her. Her swift and flawless judgment is accepted by us all, we rely upon her for ever more decisions, not fewer. And when her unitary command is ended, then she must be a major part of the complex evolution of the rules that will govern how we shall now live . . . When or how can her work possibly slacken?
An even greater concern is that she has already become a paragon, has acquired too mythic an image. Our youngest women gaze at her in awe; our mature women are daunted, intimidated. Who will there be to love Megan?
I see shadows of her future: The mythology has already begun. Songs written of our departure and journey, her heroism. A giant mural is being created in Cybele’s main square depicting Megan as she first stands upon Maternas . . .
I fear for her, that the coming years will bring only increased isolation, even as we all cherish her . . . That her loneliness will only deepen . . .
While none of us can forget nor wishes to forget those precious ones we have left on Earth, as time passes we make the transition from our own lives there with greater ease. Earth plants and flowers continue to flourish unattended and ignored in Amelia’s closed greenhouse systems. Maternas has food for every conceivable need, and the decision was quickly taken without debate to effect no transplantation of any growing thing from Earth . . .
We are exhilarated by what we have accomplished. Eager for the future, to complete our building, to further explore all the varied lands of Maternas, to study, to learn. Our new world has added buoyancy to all our lives—literally and figuratively. Venus tells us that our slightly lower gravity and higher oxygen level will further slow the aging process. And the coral colors of our world are kind to us. We tan to gold as we work in our soft warm air, under the gentle rays of our double sun. I look at our Unity with pride, with pleasure, and say without prejudice that we women of Maternas are truly beautiful . . .
XVIII
1.9.25
Venus’s foreboding has proved prophetic.
Kendra was first—and in her proud strength would not admit her increasing weakness until she collapsed; and Demeter was helpless to prevent the swift spiraling debilitation.
And so we have lost the strong wondrous woman who carried us so safely across the stars. Hera is beyond all consolation; of all her daughters, Kendra was her greatest pride.
Kendra continues to give to us, even in death, her tissues providing the cultures Demeter and Diana require to combat the parasitic spores that stalk us. But nine hundred are now sick, including Vesta’s precious Carina; and more fall sick each day.
“It selects the physically strong among us,” Diana has told us grimly.
The physically slight now care for the very strong, while Diana and Demeter hover anxiously over the cultures they nourish. Even with force-growth techniques they must wait for them to ripen fully into the virulent antibodies necessary to defeat our predator. Myself and my descendants are mostly untouched; we are all small of build and as yet of no interest to the parasite, which Venus says is a variant germination that blew in upon the wind.
Kendra’s great-granddaughter Christa, at the tender age of twenty, has Kendra’s marvelous body; she is tall and muscular—powerful and beautiful. But the strength and power have left her; she lies on a medi-adjust in my house, and I tend her. Her mother, her sisters also lie ill, cared for by others.
I talk to Christa, to distract her. She is fascinated by my work and the world we left that she knew so briefly. And so I have talked for hours, and days, more than I ever have about myself and my work.
1.9.27
Christa weakens, and I do not leave her; I sleep as she sleeps, awakened by a body alarm when she stirs. But she moves less and less as strength drains from her. And now she has lost use of her voice and can only listen and watch as I speak, and gaze at me with dark eyes that with each passing hour grow more fearful.
1.10.1
Sixty-three have died.
I am determined, determined that she shall live.
Demeter has told me that Christa now lives one day longer than expected, and needs to live but one more, when the cultures will be ready. But she hovers on the edge of coma, drifting in and out, and I whisper fiercely, “Christa stay with me, Christa . . .”
• • •
1.10.2
I am sitting beside her gripping her shoulders still whispering to her when Demeter comes with the injection tube. I do not know if Christa lives . . .
“She lives,” Demeter tells me. “Barely, but she lives.”
“Hurry,” I tell her.
1.10.4
She awoke in such pain that we immediately sedated her, but she awoke. And hours later spoke her first word: “Minerva . . .”
1.10.10
I could not conceal from her that seventy-one of us have died, among them her mother and two sisters.
Grateful only that Vesta’s Carina has been spared, I am devastated by my own grief. And knowing I could not console Christa, I have let her be, and she has spent the days afterward in silence, in solitude, beside the sea. Now I have brought her into my history chamber to distract her from her grief.
1.10.20
She has asked to work with me. I need her assistance, and could not in any case refuse anything she asked of me.
Like an assassin, love has come to me. Unexpected. Unbidden. Hopeless.
Only the counting of the years has given me age—but I know that Christa must see not the vigor of my body nor the energy of my later life, only my calendar years. If age has always been a state of mind, so has it also been in the mind of the observer.
I know she is fond of me; perhaps even loves me. My caring for her when she was in peril of her life has forged a deep bond between us. The kinship on our world has helped somewhat to cover the void in her life after the death of her family, and I strive to cheer her, to entertain her, to make her smile, to hear her soft laughter.
She complements me in our work, shares my deep commitment to the importance of our efforts, as we record the history of our fledgling world. She works far more slowly than I, with greater patience, has organized me by completing with thoroughness the tasks that always before I had postponed until confusion resulted.
During our days together she is affectionate in her respectful, deferential way, shy to touch me. But at the end of each day she holds my shoulders gently and touches her cheek to mine. And I have made that be enough . . .
But there are other pleasures I take in her . . . which I steal like a thief . . .
When she was ill, there was no part of her that I did not see and touch as I bathed and fed and clothed her. I touched her then not with desire but with caring; but now, during my solitary nights I remember every detail of her. Her smooth golden skin. The softness of her short lustrous brown hair. The feeling of her broad shoulders within my encircling arm as she drank the water I held for her. The firmness of her flesh in my hands as I bathed her, the curved contours of her small breasts, the muscular beauty of her thighs . . .
During my nights, warm with my love and desire, I remember every detail of her, and I fall asleep imagining her strong arms holding me . . .
1.11.25
The days have passed, each with her beside me, each with that single brief moment tantalizing yet comforting, when she holds me and touches her cheek to mine.
Until this day.
This day I think I was weary, and lonely with the thought of the coming night. I simply bowed my head to her shoulder, that strong shoulder, as if I could absorb her strength; and when I lifted my head to receive the touching of her cheek, I received instead a brief sweet touching of her lips to mine.
“Minerva.” Her whisper was stricken. “Forgive me, I’m so sorry—”
“Christa,” I said, and returned her kiss. How could I not?
“You . . .” Her dark eyes were stunned, unbelieving. “I have never dared . . . hope.”
“My dear,” I whispered, more astonished than she.
“I never dreamed . . . you would honor me with . . . with
. . . Didn’t you know? You made me live,” she whispered to me. “I lived because I loved you.”
“I . . . You had to live,” I faltered, “I love you so . . .”
The arms I had imagined all my lonely nights were around me. In tenderness and sweetest passion we kissed again. I slid
my hands inside her shirt to caress those strong wonderful shoulders . . .
She sealed the door; then looked around. Some places are not well suited to what happens spontaneously, and there were only the molded consoles, the hard floor, our two chairs.
She opened my robe, took it off me, covered my chair with it. Discarding her own clothing, she came to me.
I held her warm, muscular, beautiful body in my arms. I thought: If ever you are slow at anything, Christa . . . let us be slow together now . . . with this.
Her mouth came to mine, her hands on me were gentle and unhurried. I stood clasping her to me and scarcely breathing, weakening to helplessness from her caresses. Her mouth, her hands were so slow and tender in their intimacies that I was a glowing ember when she finally carried me to my chair, and knelt to me, and lifted my legs to those shoulders. Somewhere amid the excruciating pleasure that followed I realized that there was nothing, nothing that she did not do slowly, and fully.
We were together that night, of course. I prepared food for us, and then took her to my bed where we would be comfortable and where I could love her. Her young body was resilient; and having some skill in these matters after all these years, I prolonged certain things considerably; and she spent some number of hours in pleasures that frequently heightened to ecstasies. My joy in her continued until nearly dawn, when she lay in my arms exhausted and replete; and if she was surprised by my passion for her she did not speak it; she simply wrapped her arms around me, and slept.
That morning we returned to our duties late but as usual, and with questionable efficiency. Soon afterward our e
yes met; and she left the chamber to return a few minutes later to set up an inflatacot, as I sealed the door.
Sometime later, my ecstasy ended, I lay held close in her arms, still moaning with my memory of her. She held my face in her hands and said, “Don’t ever make me leave.”
“I never will,” I whispered.
And so our names are Joined in the history of our world. I cannot guess how long I will have her, how long she will stay. But I do have her, and love and cherish her . . . and whether that will be for another month, a week, a day . . . I care not.
PART TWO
MEGAN
I
14.12.21
Megan has signaled an emergency meeting of the Inner Circle and the Council, the first such call in all our history.
We have rushed from our daily work to gather in the council chambers, and as we crowd around the crystal table we gaze at each other with expressions that range from anxiety to alarm. Only once before have so many of us assembled here—Anniversary Day exactly one year after we arrived, that joyous day when we voted to recommend to our Unity the Central Code we had fashioned to assure the peace and equality of everyone on Maternas.
Now Mother sits at the head of the table again, and wears her green cape and looks very somber indeed, which further unsettles us.
What could it be? A catastrophic earthquake prediction from Erika? A genetics discovery by Diana, with the gravest of implications for us all?
Hera sits next to Mother, tight-lipped, uncommunicative, acknowledging my greeting with a distracted nod.
Megan strides in bearing a receiving terminal. Standing next to Mother, she places the terminal carefully on the table and gazes for a moment at our motionless, silent gathering. Then she touches the terminal and stands with arms crossed as it glows to life.
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