“But you see more,” Aunt Hushidh said one day. “You have dreams like your mother, too.”
Chveya rolled her eyes. “There’s no Lake of Women on this starship,” she said. “There’s no City of Women to make a fuss over me and hang on every word of my accounts of my visions.”
“It wasn’t really like that,” said Hushidh.
“Mother said it was.”
“Well, that’s how it seemed to her, perhaps. But your mother never exploited the role of Waterseer.”
“It wasn’t useful, though, like…well, like what we can do.”
Hushidh smiled slightly. “Useful. But sometimes misleading. You can interpret things wrongly. When you know too much about people, it still doesn’t mean that you know enough. Because the one thing you never really know is why they’re connected to one person and distant from another. I make guesses. Sometimes it’s easy enough. Sometimes I’m hopelessly wrong.”
“I’m always wrong,” said Chveya, but it didn’t make her ashamed to say this in front of Aunt Hushidh.
“Always partly wrong,” said Hushidh. “But often partly right, and sometimes very clever about it indeed. The problem, you see, is that you must care enough about other people to really think about them, to try to imagine the world through their eyes. And you and I—we’re both a little shy about getting to know people. You have to try to spend time with them. To listen to them. To be friends with them. I’m saying this, not because I did it at your age, but because I didn’t, and I know how much it hampered me.”
“So what changed it?” asked Chveya.
“I married a man who lived in such constant inner pain that it made my own fears and shames and sufferings seem like childish whining.”
“Mother says that long before you married Uncle Issib, you faced down a bad man and took the loyalty of his whole army away from him.”
“That’s because they were another man’s army, only that man was dead, and they didn’t have much loyalty to begin with. It wasn’t hard, and I did it by blindly flailing around, trying to say everything I could think of that might weaken what loyalty remained.”
“Mother says you looked calm and masterful.”
“The key word is ‘looked.’ Come now, Veya, you know for yourself—when you’re terrified and confused, what do you do?”
Chveya giggled then. “I stand there like a frightened deer.”
“Frozen, right? But to others, it looks like you’re calm as can be. That’s why some of the others tease you so mercilessly sometimes. They think of you as made of stone, and they want to break in and touch human feelings. They just don’t know that when you seem most stony, that’s when you’re most frightened and breakable.”
“Why is that? Why don’t people understand each other better?”
“Because they’re young,” said Hushidh.
“Old people don’t understand each other any better.”
“Some do,” said Hushidh. “The ones who care enough to try.”
“You mean you.”
“And your mother.”
“She doesn’t understand me at all.”
“You say that because you’re an adolescent, and when an adolescent says that her mother doesn’t understand her, it means that her mother understands her all too well but won’t let her have her way.”
Chveya grinned. “You are a nasty, conceited, arrogant grownup just like all the others.”
Hushidh smiled back. “See? You’re learning. That smile allowed you to tell me just what you thought, but allowed me to take it as a joke so I could hear the truth without having to get angry.”
“I’m trying,” Chveya said with a sigh.
“And you’re doing well, for a short, ignorant, shy adolescent.”
Chveya looked at her in horror. Then Hushidh broke into a smile.
“Too late,” said Chveya. “You meant that.”
“Only a little,” said Hushidh. “But then, all adolescents are ignorant, and you can’t help being short and shy. You’ll get taller.”
“And shyer.”
“But sometimes bolder.”
Well, it was true. Chveya had started a growth spurt soon after Hushidh went back to sleep the last time, and now she was almost as tall as Dza, and taller than any of the boys except Oykib, who was already almost as tall as Father, all bones and angles, constantly bumping into things or smacking his hands into them or stubbing his toes. Chveya liked the way he took the others’ teasing with a wordless grin, and never complained. She also liked the fact that he never used his large size to bully any of the other children, and when he interceded in quarrels, it was with quiet persuasion, not with his greater size and strength, that he brought peace. Since she was probably going to end up married to Oykib, it was nice that she liked the kind of man he was becoming. Too bad that all he thought of when he looked at her was “short and boring.” Not that he ever said it. But his eyes always seemed to glide right past her, as if he didn’t notice her enough to even ignore her. And when he was alone with her, he always left as quickly as possible, as if it nearly killed him to spend any time in her company.
Just because we children are going to have to pair up and marry doesn’t mean we’re going to fall in love with each other, Chveya told herself. If I’m a good wife to him, maybe someday he’ll love me.
She didn’t often allow herself to think of the other possibility, that when it came time to marry, Oykib would insist on marrying someone else. Cute little Shyada, for instance. She might be two years younger, but she already knew how to flirt with the boys so that poor Padarok was always tongue-tied around her and Motya watched her all the time with an expression of such pitiful longing that Chveya didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What if Oykib married her, and left Chveya to marry one of the younger boys? What if they made one of the younger ones marry her?
I’d kill myself, she decided.
Of course she knew that she would not. Not literally, anyway. She’d put the best face on it that she could, and make do.
Sometimes she wondered if that’s how it was for Aunt Hushidh. Had she fallen in love with Issib before she married him? Or did she marry him because he was the only one left? It must be hard, to be married to a man you had to pick up and carry around when he wasn’t in a place where his floats would work. But they seemed happy together.
People can be happy together.
All these thoughts and many more kept playing through Chveya’s mind as she helped Shyada, Netsya, Dabya, and Zuya get through their calisthenics. Since Netsya was a cruel taskmaster when she was doing times for the older children, it was rather a pleasure to say, “Faster, Netsya. You did better than this last time,” as Netsya’s face got redder and redder and sweat flew off her hands and nose as she moved.
“You are,” Netsya said, panting, “the queen, of the bitches.”
“And thou art the princess, darling Gonets.”
“Listen to her,” said Zuya, who was not panting, because she did all her exercises as easily as if they were a pleasant stroll. “She reads so much she talks like a book now.”
“An old, book,” Netsya panted. “An ancient, decrepit, dusty, yellowed, worm-eaten—”
Her list of Chveya’s virtues was interrupted by a loud ringing sound, followed by a whooping siren that nearly deafened them. Several of the children in the centrifuge screamed; most held their hands over their ears. They had never heard such a thing before.
“Something’s wrong,” Dza said to Chveya. Chveya noticed that Dza was not holding her hands over her ears. She looked as calm as an owl.
“I think we should stay here until Father tells us what to do,” said Chveya.
Dza nodded. “Let’s make sure who we have and not lose track of them.”
It was a good idea. Chveya was momentarily jealous that she hadn’t had the presence of mind to think of it. But then she knew that the wisest thing she could do was not to worry about who came up with the good ideas, but simply to use them. And Dza wa
s a natural leader. Chveya should set the example of quick and willing obedience, as long as Dza’s decisions were reasonable ones.
Dza had been working with the younger boys. She quickly counted them up. Motya, the youngest; Xodhya, Yaya, and Zhyat. She herded them to where Chveya had the younger girls. Chveya already had her tally because her girls had been working out together when the alarm went off.
“Just sit here and wait,” shouted Dza to all the children.
“Can’t they turn it off?” wailed Netsya, clearly terrified.
“Cover your ears, but keep looking at the rest of us!” shouted Dza. “Don’t close your eyes.”
Dza thought of things quickly—if the children couldn’t hear, they had to watch, so they could receive instructions if they needed to do something. Again Chveya felt a little stab of jealousy. It didn’t help that she could see how clearly everyone’s loyalty, trust, dependence on Dza had suddenly increased.
Even my own, thought Chveya. She really is first child, now that she doesn’t misuse it.
A pair of legs appeared in the ladderway at the top of the centrifuge. Long legs, with big awkward feet. Oykib. And he was more awkward than usual, because he was carrying something bulky under his arm. Something wrapped in cloth.
When he reached the floor, he turned at once to Dza. As if he had known she would be in charge. “It’s not as loud in the sleeping rooms,” he shouted. “Can you get all the younger ones to their beds?”
Dza nodded.
“That’s where Nafai wants them, then, if you can do it safely without losing any.”
“All right,” said Dza, and immediately she started giving instructions. The younger children started up the ladder, Dza reminding each one to wait in the tube just outside the centrifuge until she got up there. Chveya felt completely unnecessary.
Oykib turned to her and held out the cloth bundle. “It’s the Index,” he said. “Elemak is awake. Hide it.”
Chveya was amazed. None of the children had ever been allowed to touch the Index, even wrapped in cloth. “Did Father tell you to—”
“Do it,” said Oykib. “Where Elemak won’t think to look.”
He shoved the bundle into her stomach and her arms instinctively folded around it. Then he turned and left, following Dza up the ladder.
Chveya looked around the centrifuge. Was there anyplace to hide the Index here? Not really. The exercise space was largely unencumbered, except for the strength machines, and those offered no concealment. So she clutched the Index under her arm and waited for her turn up the ladder.
Then she saw, where the centrifuge floor curved up to make its circle around the girth of the ship, the break in the carpet where the access door was. When the centrifuge was stopped, the access door could be pulled up so that someone could crawl down into the system of wheels that allowed the centrifuge to spin. The trouble was, it would take half an hour for the centrifuge to spin to a stop even if she turned it off right now. And then another hour or more to spin back up to speed. It would be obvious to Elemak that the centrifuge had been stopped for some reason. She couldn’t count on his not noticing. Just because he had never been awake during the voyage didn’t mean he wouldn’t be aware of anomalies in the working of the ship.
On the other hand, the very fact that the centrifuge hadn’t been stopped would imply to him that nothing had been hidden there.
She ran to the access door and pulled up on it. It wouldn’t budge—an interlock prevented it from being opened while the centrifuge was spinning. She ran to the nearest emergency stop button and pushed it. The alarm that it sounded was lost in the howling of the main siren. Now the access door could be opened, even though the centrifuge was spinning rapidly. She flopped it back; it formed a slight arch on the curved floor. Through the door she could see the wheels of the centrifuge as the roadway hurtled by beneath them; then her perspective shifted, and she realized that she was on the hurtling surface, and the roadway was really the structure of the rest of the ship, holding still beneath the wheels. Up at the top of the ladder, the spin seemed so much slower. Just as many revolutions per minute, but so close to the center that it wasn’t fast at all.
If I drop the Index, will it be crushed?
More to the point, if I fall or even touch the roadway, will I be killed or just maimed and crippled for life?
Sweating, terrified, she extended one leg, then the other, down through the opening until she was standing on the frame of the nearest wheel assembly. Then, holding her weight on her right hand, she braced the Index against the door while she got her hand under it. Balancing the Index on her palm, she carefully lifted it down into the opening and reached into the top of the other wheel assembly, right up under the centrifuge floor. In a place where four metal bars formed a square, she gingerly tipped the Index out of her hand, so that it rolled off and dropped into place. It was secure there—nothing was going to tip it off and it was far too wide to drop through. Best of all, it couldn’t be seen unless you got down into the opening so far that your head was under the level of the centrifuge floor. Chances were that long before he got down far enough to see it, Elemak would conclude that it was far too dangerous for anyone to have put the Index down here and would give up and search somewhere else.
In fact, now that she thought about it, it really was dangerous to be down here. And she had to get back up and turn the centrifuge back on so its alarm would stop sounding before the main siren finally shut down. Getting out wasn’t as easy as getting down had been, and now that she wasn’t concentrating on getting the Index hidden, she had time to be really terrified. Slow, she kept telling herself. Careful. One slip and they’ll be scraping bits of me off the road for a month.
Finally she was out, spread-eagle over the opening. She spider-walked until she was clear of it, then leaped to her feet and flung the door closed. It slammed into place, the catch engaged, and now she could turn the centrifuge back on. She could barely feel it speeding up—it was so well-engineered that in all that time with the motors off, friction had hardly slowed it down at all.
The siren went off. The silence was like a physical blow; her ears rang. She had made it with only ten or fifteen seconds to spare.
In the silence, she heard the noise of someone on the ladder.
She looked up. Legs. Not Father’s. Not a child’s. If she was found here, for no reason, then Elemak would wonder why she hadn’t gone with the other children.
Without even thinking, she flung herself down to the floor, curled up in fetal position, buried her face in her hands, and began to whimper softly, trembling with fear. Let them think she had panicked, frozen up, terrified by the strange loud noise. Let them think she was weak, that she had lost all control of herself. They would believe it, because nobody knew she was the kind of person who could perform dangerous acrobatics while speeding over a roadway. Why should they? She hadn’t known it herself. She could hardly believe it now.
“Get up,” said the man. “Get yourself together. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
It wasn’t Elemak. It was Vasnya’s and Panya’s father, Vas. Aunt Sevet’s husband. So it wasn’t just Elemak who was awake.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “Loud noise—it gets to some people. You should see how the little ones are. It’s going to take hours to get them quieted down.”
“Little ones?” She realized at once that he didn’t mean the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. “The little children were wakened?”
“Everybody’s awake. When the suspended animation alarm goes off, everybody is awakened at once. Just in case something is wrong with the system.”
“What set it off?” asked Chveya.
Now, for the first time, a dark look of anger came across Uncle Vas’s face. “We’ll have to find that out, won’t we? But if it hadn’t wakened us, we wouldn’t have had a chance to see you as such a pretty little—what—fourteen-year-old?”
“Fifteen,” she said.
“Happy birthday,” h
e answered dryly. “I’m sure my eight-year-old daughter Vasnaminanya will be delighted to see her dear cousin Veya. You’ll really enjoy playing dolls with her, don’t you think?”
Suddenly Chveya was ashamed. Vasnya had been her friend, the one child of the first year who had been nice to her and included her in things even during the times when Dza decreed that Chveya was untouchable. But because Vasnya’s parents were friends of Elemak instead of Nafai, Vasnya had been left behind. Chveya was already six and a half years older. They would never really be friends again. And why? Was it anything Vasnya had done? No—she was a good person. Yet she had been left behind.
“I’m sorry,” Chveya said quietly.
“Yes, well, we know who’s to blame for this, and it isn’t any of the children.” He held out a hand to her. “Elemak’s in charge now. He should have done it long ago.”
He was trying to seem nice and reassuring, but Chveya wasn’t stupid. “What have you done to Father?”
“Nothing,” said Vas, smiling. “He just didn’t seem terribly interested in contesting Elemak’s authority.”
“But he has the cloak of the—”
“Cloak of the starmaster,” said Vas. “Yes, well, he still has it. Sparking its little heart out. Nafai has the cloak. But Elemak has the twins.”
The twins, Serp and Spel. Chveya’s youngest brothers, so small that they couldn’t be included in the school. Elemak must be holding them hostage, threatening to hurt them if Father doesn’t do what he wants.
“So he’s using babies to get his way?” said Chveya scornfully.
Vas’s expression got very ugly indeed. “Oh, what an awful thing for him to do. Someday you’ll have to explain to me why it’s bad for Elemak to use the children to get his way, but it was all right for your father to do exactly the same thing. Now come with me.”
As she preceded him up the ladder, Chveya tried to find a clear distinction between holding babies hostage, like Elemak, and giving children a free choice to join with him in—in keeping control of the colony. That’s what it came down to, didn’t it? Using the children to get and keep control of the whole community.
Earthfall (Homecoming) Page 10