Daughters of a Coral Dawn

by Katherine V Forrest

  And was hurled to the ground. And this time hauled to his feet and secured, his arms pinioned, by two burly women. A dozen more materialized from the woods behind us, among them a handsome woman with short-cropped blonde hair and dressed in green pants and a shirt. She confronted Megan, hands on her hips. “Megan,” she sighed in exasperation.

  Megan said with an entirely attractive grin, “Danya, what took you so long?”

  “You know very well we were a distance further from here than you.” With a motion of her head toward Coulter, Danya asked with an amused smile, “What method of hand-to-hand combat were you planning next?”

  Again Megan grinned. “I’d have thought of something.”

  And with that grin, humorous, prideful, I felt a stirring . . . of something stronger than admiration, an emotion I could not identify.

  “What business is this of yours?” Coulter snapped, pulling against the two women who held his arms secured. “We’re Earth citizens, you have no right to interfere.”

  Megan nodded to the two women holding Coulter. “Adria, Paige, thank you. You may release the Colonel.”

  Coulter brushed at the grass and soil staining the pristine white of his EV suit. Megan waited until he finished and looked up at her.

  “This is our world. You are subject to our standards. Not,” she added contemptuously, “your own.”

  “Spying on us,” Coulter snarled. “I should have known.”

  “You should have expected some kind of surveillance, Colonel, when you come here bearing military rank on a ship bristling with weapons. But still we had expected better of you. You were under random sweep surveillance only, and only by chance I monitored your . . . behavior.”

  She turned to me. Her voice was firm but her green eyes seemed wounded. “We cannot overlook or chance recurrence of . . . this. We extend to you again the offer of safe conduct among us. If you still prefer to remain with your ship, then we must sequester Colonel Coulter elsewhere.”

  I hesitated. Coulter’s absence would only create further stresses between myself and the men, I decided. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Laurel, let them take me. You know I never meant to hurt you.” Coulter was calm now, his voice soft and husky. “But you don’t know that about these . . . creatures. God knows what they’ll do to you when they get their hands on you, they . . . they’ll . . . they’ll probably . . .”

  Coulter faltered into obviously furious silence; the women were responding to his words with increasingly raucous laughter. “Lieutenant,” Megan said to me, her eyes fixed derisively on Coulter, “is this a concern to you? I can give you no assurance other than our word.”

  “It’s not a concern,” I declared as bravely as I could, with a passing thought to Coulter’s behavior should he ever be in a position to take female captives.

  “We can provide for all your needs,” Megan told me, “but is there anything you wish from your ship?”

  After a moment I replied, “My crystal reed.”

  “Danya,” Megan said, “would you escort the Colonel to his ship and then bring the Lieutenant’s crystal reed to my house?”

  “Consider it done.” Danya spun Coulter around and sent him on his way with a far from gentle shove.

  Megan led me to a hovercraft scarcely large enough for two. I asked, “Why did you put your weapon away? You must have known—”

  “My greatest weakness,” she said seriously, “seems to be my inability to resist a challenge.”

  And then there was that grin again. I said awkwardly, “If I may call you Megan, then will you call me Laurel?”

  She climbed into the craft, extended a hand and pulled me in with her. She smiled. “Very well, Laurel.”

  “I see why you were able to rescue me so quickly,” murmured. In scant seconds we had come upon her house which I did not immediately recognize as a house until the craft dipped into an alcove of it, so artfully had it been carved from the rocky coastline. So this was why their settlements were not observable from the air.

  “I was nearest to you,” she said quietly as we walked into her house. “When you had to push him away a second time I knew to come. And of course I signaled for Danya and our security team.”

  “Thank you. This is my first mission, all the men were a trial but he was the worst, he wouldn’t believe or accept my invoking of the privacy regulations, he’d have been more of a problem except for Ross, he’s a rules and regulations Commander, his lack of imagination almost killed us—”

  I knew I was rambling like a fool, speaking with only part of my mind. I was staring helplessly at the house we had entered, struggling to absorb its searing simplicity and beauty. The wall tapestries were woven complexities, the fleece floor coverings of warm earth tones, the furnishings of contrasting brilliant blues. There were many art objects . . . Her house itself was pure art, beautiful in all its elements, overwhelming in its totality, each element intrinsically compelling, yet blending into the whole.

  Hypnotized by a soaring sculpture of silver that reflected in its angular planes the colors and designs of the room, I whispered, “Did you make this?”

  “No, that was created by Zandra. I have only the capability of appreciating it.”

  I asked abruptly, “What is your function here, Megan?”

  She hesitated. “I am . . . a coordinator.”

  I understood her hesitation. I’d joined them because of circumstance, not conviction. I said, “I believe that you’re the women who escaped on the ship you called Amelia Earhart. And I’m happy you succeeded.”

  She smiled. And relaxed visibly. “That makes things much simpler, Laurel.”

  She touched a place on a crystal table; a large section of tapestry disappeared to reveal lumiscreens and data receivers. All the screens were active; I recognized our EV on one, the surrounding area on another, in slow pan. “Please be comfortable,” she said absently, eyes scanning her message screen. “I need but a moment . . .”

  Then Danya arrived, bearing the case with my crystal reed. “The officers were conducting a meeting in loud tones as I left,” she said with a chuckle. “Commander Ross was most upset with Colonel Coulter.”

  “He would be,” I said, visualizing with amusement Ross’s apoplexy at this new complication.

  “Shall I escort Lieutenant Meredith to her quarters?” Danya asked politely.

  I looked at Megan; but her gaze was on the screens. “Laurel,” she asked, “have you eaten?”

  “No,” I answered impulsively, curious about her and wanting to remain with her longer.

  “Then we’ll take you to Vesta’s now, and later I can—”

  “I require little food,” I interrupted, attempting to correct my error. “I have no need—”

  “Would you mind answering some questions, then? Perhaps sharing what food I have?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  “Megan, security is fully functional,” Danya said. “Relax and leave all the monitoring to us after your long day.”

  I had already seen that Megan was held in considerable esteem on this world. Danya’s tone was entirely deferential, and she looked at Megan with admiring affection.

  “With full confidence and gladness,” Megan said, touching the crystal table. Tapestry again covered the walls. “I’ll bring Lieutenant Meredith to Vesta’s house shortly. Good night, Danya.” Again that grin as she extended a hand. “And thank you.”

  Smiling, Danya grasped Megan’s hand and clasped it in her two. “If I hadn’t been there in time, do you realize what the Unity would have done to me?” She bade us both good night.

  “You know nothing of our food, you’ll simply have to trust me.” Megan moved gracefully in preparation of our meal and I watched with pleasure, watched her fine hands pulling temperature tabs, arranging both steaming and chilled contents on two highly polished curved glassine surfaces which adjusted to tray height as she served us. She poured drink from a metallic flagon. I tasted it first: a most exquisite wine
. We ate with a variety of implements which were strange to me and no more efficient than those I knew, but pretty, and interesting to wield.

  “How much is known on Earth of our Unity?”

  “Strong rumors. They persist stubbornly despite emphatic and constant denials.” As we ate I related fully the stories I’d heard. She often smiled, and sometimes laughed, lovely laughter.

  I ate very little of the wonderful and savory food; not only was I not hungry, but I was strangely unsettled by her, and by the green eyes that looked so perceptively into mine. She ate with good appetite, asking questions about events and places on Earth, obviously enjoying our meal together, her long fingers handling her implements with delicate grace.

  “Not much has changed since we left,” she mused, “but then it’s been only fifteen of our years.” She removed my tray. “You ate little. I so rarely have a guest . . . was the food not to your liking?”

  “No, it was . . . I was . . . I—It was wonderful,” I stammered like an idiot.

  “If you liked this,” she said, smiling, “Vesta’s creations will enchant you. She’s truly an artist with food.”

  I watched her place our trays in a disposal unit and pull down white shirt sleeves she had rolled to the elbow. Obviously, she was planning now to take me to the person named Vesta.

  “Vesta’s house was built with room for guests,” she told me. “She’s a psychologist—sometimes patients stay with her for a time. We surely did not plan for guests when we built Cybele.”

  She looked at me then. “You have not seen our suns set, our evening come. It’s always extraordinary here at Damon Point. Would you like to stay longer and see it?”

  We walked less than half a kilometer over increasingly soft mossy terrain toward the water’s edge where waves crashed and wheeling birds uttered shrill cries. An unobtrusive coral marker was fastened amid the ivory-colored moss. Megan opened a container secured into the ground-and drew out a fleece which she spread over the moss. “I keep this here,” she explained. “I swim most mornings depending on the tides.”

  We sat, her with legs drawn up, fine hands clasping her knees. She did not speak; the silence between us was comfortable. The coral sky swiftly, swiftly darkened; and then no words seemed appropriate.

  The air had become suddenly chill; I felt it keenly on my ungloved hands and uncovered head. She rose and drew the fleece fully up around me, saving only a corner for herself to sit on. “I am well accustomed to our climate,” she said, and gazed again out to the horizon. She was now in my line of sight, part of the beauty I viewed, her shirt very white against the royal blue sky, rippling against her slender body in the breeze, her collar fluttering around the smooth ivory sculpture of her face and throat, the dark tendrils of her hair. She turned and looked at me, eyes deep luminous green in the silver light.

  “We must leave now,” she said. “The nocturnals will soon begin.”

  We returned to the warmth and security of her house. There she served me again from the flagon of wine and explained about the carvings made in her house when it was built. I listened in amazement to soaring tones and random melodies as her house sang in the rising winds . . .

  I heard the winds die . . . Now she would surely take me away from here. And she picked up the case containing my crystal reed and gave it me. Then paused. “This instrument, will you play it for me?”

  I don’t reproduce conventional music on my reed. Rather, I create harmonic patterns similar to the singing of Megan’s house in the wind—except that my patterns are structured, emotionally shaped, and seek the purest tonalities to express emotion. I was about to explain this to Megan as I lifted my reed from its case, then decided that I wouldn’t, that it wasn’t necessary.

  I sat across from her on a teal blue chaise, and with my eyes closed, I played the composition most personal, most closely held to me, one I had never played for anyone . . . the melancholy and grieving harmonies I had composed two years ago at the death of my mother. I breathed into my reed purest notes of this emotion and did not open my eyes until I had finished.

  And looked into eyes wet with tears, at cheeks streaked with tears . . . In great distress I put my instrument down and knelt to her and took her face in my hands and stroked the tears from her face as tenderly as I could. “Megan, I did not mean for this.”

  Her hands took mine. “It was not the grief of your music, but my pleasure in its beauty.”

  Her words gave me intense pleasure; and to make her smile, I smiled. “Do you always cry when you receive pleasure?”

  “I don’t know,” she said seriously, “you are the first to give such pleasure.”

  “The first?” I asked with a feeling of shock.

  “The first.” She released my hands. “I must take you to Vesta’s.”

  I spoke my wish boldly: “Can I not remain here?”

  “That . . . would not be . . . appropriate.”

  It was the first awkwardness between us. And I realized that this was indeed a world of women, and what that ultimately—shockingly—meant.

  We flew in the hovercraft without speaking until our landing. Then she turned to me. “If you have any difficulties with your situation here, I urge you to talk to Vesta. She’s a dear and wonderful woman. Tomorrow I would like you to stay with her and also see Minerva the historian who will be most interested in talking with you.”

  “Will I be seeing you again?”

  “The day after tomorrow is significant to us,” she said softly, “our Anniversary Day. A day of celebration and event. Would you like to attend as my guest?”

  “Yes, Megan. I would.”

  And so I went off to stay with Vesta . . .

  IV

  Journal of Lt. Laurel Meredith

  2214.2.13

  Vesta, a tiny woman of puckish humor and quiet yet bustling energy, has kind gray eyes that reflect a gentle and sensitive nature. She seems every woman’s wish for a sister, a friend. Carina, considerably, younger, is a big silent woman who hovers about Vesta with anxious awareness, loving concern.

  They made me comfortable in a main room soothing in its warm tones and filled with low and well-cushioned furnishings to encourage reclining. They served me wine. I sipped, and said incredulously, “This is even more wonderful than what Megan served.”

  “Hers has aged beyond best drinking time,” Vesta said in distress. “She has neglected to ask for replenishment.” She sighed. “Megan will not take the time to enjoy even simple aspects of the goodness of our life. She keeps only prepared foods at her house, as if she were on visitation to another continent. Nourishing and healthy food, yes, but hardly . . .” She sighed again.

  I asked carefully, “What keeps her so busy?”

  Vesta’s answer was entirely unsatisfactory: “Everything.”

  I was curious about Megan, especially after the tender moment with her following my playing, but lacked a convenient method of asking questions. Who was Megan, exactly? What work, exactly, did she do? What were the personal circumstances of her life?

  “It’s late,” Carina said firmly, one of the few times she had spoken that evening.

  I slept restlessly—my kaleidoscopic dreams filled with images of a coral world, of confident women, of emerald eyes and a tear-streaked face.

  I arose to find Vesta and Carina breakfasting.

  “My Carina is captain of a hydroflit,” Vesta told me proudly as I gazed at Carina, who looked very strong and capable in slicker pants and a form-fitting jacket stretched over her broad shoulders, her soft hair tucked up under a cap. “She fishes the ocean with her crew.”

  Carina glanced at me with shy dark eyes, smiled adoringly at Vesta, and resumed eating her breakfast. I soon understood her undivided attention. There was sweet-tart fruit juice, tiny berries of varying tastes, a hot and delicious main dish composed of I know not what, bread that crunched like toast but melted on the tongue, a hot bracing liquid that far surpassed coffee. I can’t really describe tastes and textures—
but each mouthful was exquisite sensory delight.

  I said to Vesta in awe, “Megan told me of your cooking artistry. May I observe you sometime?”

  “Today, if you wish. Food is simple, it’s just good ingredients. The complexities of preparation are greatly exaggerated.”

  Like music, I thought in amusement, my affection for this dear woman increasing.

  As we finished breakfast a gray-robed and quite lovely older woman named Diana arrived. She nodded absently when we were introduced, surveying me. “I think blues and browns,” she said mysteriously to Vesta, and went briskly out to her hovercraft to return with swatches of fabric in her arms. “Come with me, dear.”

  Scarcely surprised any longer by anything on this world, I followed her into my quarters.

  Selecting among her fabrics, she asked distractedly, “May I measure you? For clothing?”

  I replied, bemused but pleased with the prospect of wearing something other than the enveloping EV suit, “This is very kind of you.”

  “Not at all,” she said in the same distracted voice, as she held a bolt of pale blue cloth up to me. “We cannot allow you to wear white or black on Maternas.”

  “You can’t?” My mind wrestled with possible reasons for such an arcane custom—and that Megan had worn a white shirt and black pants.

  “No, dear. Only Megan wears those colors.”

  “Megan—white—black—” I stuttered stupidly, stripping off my suit.

  Diana surveyed me impersonally, as if I were a field to be planted. Then she said, “That hair of yours is far from your only asset.”

  “Thank you, but why those colors only for Megan?”

  “She is our leader.”

  After I heard those four words I stood mute and allowed Diana to do what she would. In only a few minutes I was draped in a knee-length ice blue tunic, my arms bare, the material gathered softly over my breasts and belted at my waist.