Harper walked down the ramp directly into the debrief section of Moon Station 13. She did not look back.
Sergeant Stewart saluted smartly, then commandeered her gear bubble. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.” A Briton, he pronounced her ranking as ‘leftenant’. “You look splendid. Had a bit of trouble up there, we heard.”
She looked at him sharply.
“The deflection shield,” he said, his thin face creasing in puzzlement.
“Oh, that,” she said casually, covering her alarm. “A momentary problem for Captain Drake.”
“Remarkable work, that. Can’t say I know much about her, nobody ever says much. How were the four months with her?”
Harper turned then, and looked back at Scorpio IV where the robodrones were already assembling to unload the crystals. It was seven hundred hours, and Drake, she knew, would be in her quarters, those quarters that were as black as the grave ...
“Routine,” Harper answered the Sergeant. “The mission was routine.”
He shrugged. “The onboard data seems fairly clearcut. Debrief shouldn’t take more than half an hour, I would think.”
Alone in her quarters afterward, she deposited her gear bubble. She scanned messages from Niklaus and several acquaintances she’d made here on Moon Station 13. The final message contained a privacy seal. Curious, she entered her ID code and pressed the palms of both hands on the ID reader.
The striking dark-eyed woman looking back at her wore her black hair cropped short, sheaves of it like petals around her face and down over her forehead. Several mission ribbons hung under the Lieutenant’s silver bar on her Space Service jacket.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant Harper. My name’s Westra, of the Science Corps. I saw the alert come over the base intercom about your shield trouble. When I found out who your captain was, I knew you’d both make it back just fine.
The woman on the screen smiled. “I was with Captain Drake two years ago on a similar mission to Antares. She advised me then that she could not form emotional attachments to her military passengers, and would not grant me permission to visit her should our paths again intersect—a decision I have no choice but to accept.”
Rapt, Harper stared as the woman on the screen smiled again, a slow, private smile.
“From the repros I’ve seen of you, you appear to be someone I would find ... interesting. If I appear the same way to you, then perhaps we could meet and share a beverage together ... and also share some of our memories of Captain Drake ...
The message ended with the printout of a telecode number.
Bemused, Harper played the message back. Then played it back once more, this time without the sound, freezing the frame when that slow, private smile began.
Lieutenant Westra did indeed look interesting, Harper decided. That dark hair, those intelligent dark eyes, that perfectly lovely looking mouth ... Smiling, Harper reflected that along with her discovery of the pleasures to be had with a woman, she had also learned that she definitely preferred a dark woman ...
What would it be like, she wondered, to share pleasure fully with a woman, to explore and experience what Drake had enjoyed in her?
Staring at the seductively smiling figure on the screen, she absently erased the other messages, including the one from Niklaus. Then she opened her private comm channel and entered the telecode for Lieutenant Westra.
THE TEST
Steepling her fingers, Dr. Newell studied the Petersons. “Richard and Mary,” she said gently, “your daughter will suffer the gravest kind of trauma unless you have highly substantive reasons for believing she is a lesbian.” Her light blue eyes shifted to the folder on her desk. “There is no genetic confirmation whatever.”
Richard said anxiously, “We realize she doesn’t have the gene, but she—”
“It’s not a gene. The discovery involves a specific genetic configuration, a signature.” The doctor spoke with weary patience, as if she had explained this distinction countless times before.
“Yes. Well ...” Fingering his tie, Richard adjusted his shoulders in his navy blue suit jacket. “We knew from the day she was born she didn’t have it, and of course Mary and I don’t either. It comes out in how she is and the way she acts, you see. From what we hear, that’s enough to test her for a recessive ... whatever you people want to call it.”
“A recessive genetic signature.” The white-coated psychologist sighed. “A great many other parents are making similar decisions about their children—and are inflicting severe psychological damage.” Studying the grim, set faces, Dr. Newell added with resignation, “Describe specifically how she acts.”
“Like a complete tomboy,” Mary answered sharply. “She insists on being called Casey. And she’s very different from her peer group, doctor.” Her voice had softened into more deferential tones. “The only playmates she’ll have are other girls, and they’re different, too. None of them tend to act in the traditional ways of—”
“Normalcy. Heterosexuality,” Richard finished dourly.
Dr. Newell’s gaze narrowed on Mary; she took in the carefully coiffed brown-blonde hair, the smartly styled plum-colored dress, the high-heeled sandals. “Mary,” she said softly, “Cassandra is only nine years old. That’s typically a tomboy age. And her behavior may be a reaction to ...” She spoke meaningfully to both Petersons, “... outside pressures.”
“We think differently,” Mary said through tight lips.
The doctor tapped a few keys on the computer access near her elbow. “So she’s formed primary female relationships within her peer group.” Her low-toned voice clearly conveyed skepticism. “What other specific behavior patterns?” Her fingers remained poised over the keys.
Richard said with more than a touch of belligerence, “She likes the out-of-doors. Likes nothing more than to hike and camp. Her girl friends are the same way—”
“These days more and more of them seem to be,” the doctor observed darkly.
“You’ve seen her, doctor, you’ll have to admit she’s unusually well-muscled—”
“Everything you’re saying is a thoroughly discredited stereotype.” The doctor’s tone was not harsh. She continued to tap more keys. “Some of the most delicate, non-athletic women you can imagine are lesbians. Some of—”
“We know all that,” Mary interrupted, her tone once again sharp with insistence. “We’re telling you it’s a whole combination of things. She’s a leader-type, assertive—bold as you please about taking charge of everything.”
“More promising,” the doctor conceded, “but not necessarily indicative either.” She abandoned the computer keys and placed both hands on the desk, one over the other. The hands were strong, capable-looking. “I realize she’s very young. But has she exhibited any concrete evidence of sexual identity?”
“She’s very attached to her playmates,” Mary said primly. “Very attached.”
The doctor clenched her hands and closed her eyes briefly. “Again, that’s normal at her age. You said she had only female playmates. It’s understandable she’d form—”
“There are boys her age at school.” Richard’s broad shoulders were hunched with tension. “Her grades are better than theirs. The teachers say she’s precocious.”
“With the condition your schools have fallen into, that’s no—”
“Look.” The word snapped whip-like in the room. Mary glared at the psychologist. “You’re supposed to help us. That’s your job. To seek out any children who might be homosexual because of this recessive—”
“Listen to me.” Doctor Newell’s raised voice commanded silence. “It’s a vital part of my job to prevent children from undergoing a traumatic and unnecessary ordeal because overzealous parents suspect a recessive genetic pattern which is so rare as to be—”
“But it is possible and we have to know.” Mary bit off the words. “She’s nine years old. If it does turn out she actually is a lesbian, then you people can help her ...”
“Richard and Mary, I ask y
ou one last time—please reconsider. Can you not simply accept Cassandra as she is?”
The Petersons looked at each other. Mary took Richard’s hand. “No,” Richard said. The couple shook their heads in added emphasis.
“It’s an entire battery of tests,” the psychologist said tiredly. “Cognitive, attitudinal, reactive—”
“We want the answer once and for all,” Mary said. “We want Casey tested.”
Dr. Newell’s sigh was audible. She touched a key on the computer; a consent form flicked out of a slot on the desk. She picked it up, drew a pen from her tunic top and made an X, then slid the form across the desk top. “Sign here.”
The Petersons made their way into a large waiting area divided into separate enclaves, each enclave furnished with bright red chairs and sofas and tables against glowing white walls and white carpeting. Dozens of other parents were already waiting, some pacing the area’s perimeter or sitting in those sections equipped with television; others read magazines or simply stared into space. The area was hushed; none of the parents communicated with anyone else.
Concealed behind an opaque screen, a white-clad, dark-haired young man sat at a desk overseeing the entire scene. Several times before it had been his assignment to be here, and he well understood the silence, the resistance to communication among the parents: they felt themselves to be in a dread competition, and could bear only anonymous contact with other parents whose child might pass while their own might fail.
The young man, immersed in assembling data for his own survey work, occasionally answered a question from a parent who pressed a query button under one of the communication screens. The questions were usually routine, and always whispered:
It’s been two hours. Do you give out interim test results?
No, he transmitted in electronic response.
How many children have tested positive so far today?
Information released on a monthly basis only, he replied.
His answers were always terse, aloof. He could do nothing to relieve their anxiety, and he remained an invisible, voiceless presence because the slightest indication of friendliness or concern would bring all of the parents flocking to receive a similar perceived benediction—as if to cast some subtle good fortune on their own particular offspring.
The Petersons sat on one of the sofas for half an hour, then got up and joined those parents pacing an endless circle around the perimeter. After a time the Petersons left the trek and walked outside to gaze silently at the manicured landscape, then up at the emerald walls of the Centre for the Advancement of Humankind, its tower vanishing into the bright blue sky. Even though they had been told that testing of their daughter would consume a full four hours, they soon went back inside to pace, and to wait.
The parents, one group after another, were summoned by a signal on the ID insignia each wore. They would be given the test results privately, along with appropriate counseling recommendations, then pick up their child and leave by another exit.
The Petersons were among the last parents to be called.
Dr. Newell awaited them in a cubicle furnished with a desk and two metal chairs. Expressionless, she gestured for the Petersons to be seated. They obeyed, Mary smoothing her hands repeatedly over the skirt of her dress, Richard hunching his shoulders.
Dr. Newell said evenly, “Your daughter’s test result is negative.”
The Petersons sagged in their chairs.
“You have considerable damage to repair.” The doctor’s voice was quiet, firm. “Because of your contention of abnormality in your daughter, you’ve given her every reason to believe she’s failed you.” She pushed a form toward them. “Take this, these are your instructions. You’ve committed yourselves to treatment for her. It’s vital that you follow through.”
Richard nodded, his blue eyes tearing. He folded the paper, slid it into his inside breast pocket.
“I can’t believe this,” Mary said, her face ashen. “I’m sure there’s some mistake, I’m sure another test—”
“Mary, you know the rules. The test is fully validated, the result is incontestible. We’re just as anxious as you to identify special children, but we don’t practice child abuse.” There was a slight emphasis on the “we.”
“It looked like there was something,” Richard whispered. “We were positive we saw something.”
“You tried to pervert this child into ways unnatural to her because of your own wishful thinking,” the psychologist pronounced quietly.
Mary’s eyes were closed. “You can’t blame us. If she’d passed, you’d put her in the finest of schools, her whole future would—”
“Richard and Mary, you have a lovely, perfectly normal heterosexual child. Accept her as she is.” She touched a button on her desk top. “Take Cassandra home and love her.”
A side door opened. A brown-haired young girl wearing jeans and a red shirt sidled into the room, her face blotchy, her hazel eyes red-rimmed. “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry,” she blubbered.
“It’s all right,” her mother said, managing a smile. “It’s all right, Cassandra.”
Richard said, “This is our fault, honey, not yours.”
The parents embraced their daughter. Arms around one another, the Peterson family walked slowly from the room, down a corridor toward the exit. The psychologist, her fingers steepled, watched with a compassion that deepened to pity.
The young man who had been overseeing the waiting area entered the room; he carried his survey report. “That’s the last of the parents for today.”
He looked more closely at the doctor. “My friend, you look drained. Why don’t you and Ginny bring the family over tonight for a relaxing dinner with Adam and me?”
She smiled, some of her exhaustion easing at the thought of her lover and their children. “It sounds wonderful, Steve.”
“Another washout day?”
The psychologist nodded, the tiredness settling in once again. “You know the odds as well as I do. I wish we had some option other than to offer this charity, this pathetic exercise.”
The young man tapped his survey report on the desk. “There’s revised information, Eve. Life-expectancy among the normals has fallen another nine percent. Their birth rate since the discovery is down sixty-eight point five percent. And both curves are in accelerated decline.”
“Yes,” she said simply.
“I know we predicted something like this. But so soon?”
“I’m not in the least surprised.” Dr. Newell made one final computer entry, signed off, turned to the young man. “Imagine knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that all those individuals in your species with exceptional intelligence or creativity possess a precise genetic configuration, either dominant or recessive—and that you don’t. Imagine learning that throughout history the genetic configuration has been passed from individuals who were invariably homosexual, either latent or overt. Imagine realizing that you and all those like you are now obsolete, are useless biological fodder.”
The young man nodded. “It all seems to correlate to that other clearly dominant species on earth—the dinosaurs. I’m beginning to believe what’s happening to the normals is the reason why the most spectacular animal fauna in history suddenly vanished.”
“I’m convinced of it. We have good evidence that members of a species share subconscious awareness with other members of that species. It’s reasonable to assume that when evolution left the dinosaurs fatally flawed and obsolete, instinctual awareness caused a once-dominant species to lose its will to live—to immediately stop reproducing. Today, those few normals who have a child do everything from the moment of its birth to force it into homosexuality, to prove the existence of a recessive genetic signature in both the child and themselves. But once the child fails the test ... The parents never bring the child back for counseling, they produce no more children. They’re dinosaurs and they concede it.”
“I feel sorry for them.” Circling the psychologist’s shoulders with an arm, the y
oung man walked with her from the room.
“But all our own brothers and sisters before us,” he said softly, “they haunt me, Eve. They held on to what they truly were and paid so dearly for it ... If only they could have understood why so many people feared and persecuted us, why the churches fought us, fought everything connected with reproductive freedom, fought the whole concept of evolution—why they hated us with such instinctive desperation.”
“Instinctive desperation is right,” said Eve Newell quietly, tightening her arm around the young man. “From biblical times, from the very dawning of our species, racial foreknowledge told the normals that we represented humankind’s next step on the ladder of evolution—that the homosexual is homo superior.”
Together, an arm around each other, they left the Centre for the Advancement of Humankind.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With love and appreciation to the Third Street Writers Group—Montserrat Fontes, Janet Gregory Kunert, Jeffrey N. McMahan, Karen Sandler, Naomi Sloan, Gerald Citrin—whose caring and honesty have helped with this collection and all my work.
Special added thanks to Jeff McMahan—his own fine work provided both inspiration and source material for “O Captain, My Captain.”
My thanks also to Harriet Clare, whose love for the poetry of Amy Lowell inspired the name “Dreams and Swords” for her bookstore in Indianapolis, IN, and the title for this collection.
At Bywater Books we love good books about lesbians just like you do, and we’re committed to bringing the best of contemporary lesbian writing to our avid readers. Our editorial team is dedicated to finding and developing outstanding writers who create books you won’t want to put down.
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Dreams and Swords Page 17