Fugitive From Asteron

by Gen LaGreca

  I wanted to believe her.

  “And I was not approved to be matched, because my supervisor declared me unsuitable to bear offspring due to my ugliness and lack of character. So I am free and safe.”

  Had I not also been left out when my co-workers were matched? And would Reevah not snoop? Would she not discover and steal things useful to her, like the tablets that the female spies took? Had I not broken the rules more times than I could count?

  “Honey, there is no danger.”

  Finally, she convinced me. I reached down to find her mouth, to tangle my body with hers, and to feel her warm flesh trembling under me in what was a new experience for both of us.

  We met many times by the lake during the nightly blackouts. We hummed the alien music, danced, searched for flowers, and on warm nights swam naked in the moonlit water. We discovered the base world of primitive humans who cared nothing about the leaders’ rules but only about the thrill of seeking their own satisfaction. Reevah laughed so effortlessly that I wondered if she too were an alien. I tasted the laughter that she sprinkled on my lips, and it soon became the supreme nourishment of my life.

  Then on the second night of no moons, Reevah stopped meeting me. I waited at the window of her residence where I had often helped her slip out, but she no longer appeared. I searched for her at the meeting hall, but to no avail. When I made deliveries to the foreign agents’ quarters, I did not see her. With the planting season approaching, I wondered if she had been sent to the fields. But another thought gripped me with terror. Had someone discovered her absence during the night? Had she been caught?

  Chapter 4

  As I lay on the floor of my cell, I listened for footfalls, but the hallway remained quiet. While I waited for the guard to make his rounds, I remembered how desolate I had felt after Reevah’s disappearance. Without the lively notes of her laughter, my life was muted. I became preoccupied with finding her—until the day that had just passed, the unspeakable day that ended with my being thrown into this cell. It seemed long ago, but it was just the past afternoon when the music stopped forever.

  The sunny morning sky bore no hint of the storm clouds to come. The past day began with events that recharged my stubborn interest in space travel. Feran was planning a journey to another world—more important than any other I had ever known him to take. I arrived at the space center to find the entire fleet of ships being readied for a mission. Workers in uniform swarmed around a cluster of spaceships parked on a concrete ramp, forming a landscape of gray tones. I walked past this area to a vehicle set apart from the others by its black exterior glistening in the sun. The small, striking jewel of a vessel was Feran’s.

  I boarded the ship, about to begin my tasks, and I noticed a technician in the cockpit starting a computer. Absorbed in her work, she paid no attention to me as I observed the access code she used for entry. The computer she engaged was on an auxiliary system, which was used not to operate the ship but rather to provide Feran with short video clips as diversions. Evidently these clips brought temporary rest to his perpetual nervous state and matched the brevity of his attention span. On previous occasions I had seen the technician queue this computer with highlights from Asteronian plays, official celebrations, and speeches that Feran favored. But this time she engaged a new icon, and a video clip the likes of which I had never seen appeared on a monitor. I furtively observed her as she rose from her console to perform other tasks, leaving the video running. Although no sound was playing, I watched the screen, and what I saw next amazed me.

  The monitor showed an arena from an alien world where tens of thousands of people watched an event. Men in white uniforms were positioned on a grassy field. I assumed they were the military, because I knew of no other humans in uniform who performed before large crowds. One of them threw a ball to another. The second one carried a club, a crude weapon for warfare, but one I feared could kill the others on the field. However, the clubsman did not strike anyone. He aimed only at the little ball spinning toward him. With a powerful swipe, he hit the ball, sending it high in the air and completely out of the arena. The crowd rose to their feet, clapping and jumping wildly. They looked like Asteronians but must have been a different human species, because on my planet only babies behaved in such an unseemly manner. To my astonishment, a large sign flashed words in my very own language, but in a phrase I had never seen: HOME RUN. The clubsman dropped his cudgel and ran around the field, stepping on what looked like sandbags and skipping and jumping in a most undignified way.

  A squadron of other officers ran toward him. I wondered if a home run were something bad and the stampeding officers would attack him. However, when they reached the clubsman, the officers embraced and even kissed him! They lifted him onto their shoulders and whirled him around. The aliens displayed behavior I had seen only from the youngest children on Asteron—unbridled merriment and laughter.

  Fireworks burst in the sky above the arena. They resembled the ones our military used to celebrate their victories, but this display appeared to honor only the humanoid who executed the home run. Letters across the back of the clubsman’s uniform spelled ALEXANDER, which I assumed was his name.

  A wave of questions flooded my mind about the peculiar alien who hit a little ball into space, inducing thousands to cheer wildly. I was so engrossed by this scene that I leaned closer to the screen for a better look. My movement attracted the attention of the technician, who was returning to her seat. She turned to glare at me, so I had to walk away and attend to my tasks.

  I heard snippets of conversation as I worked. Feran was taking unprecedented steps for this particular mission. He was planning for his entire fleet of ships to follow him, and he wanted to supervise every detail of the preparations. Curiously, Feran’s ship was to leave first, the next morning, with the rest of the fleet deployed two days later. Why the delay? I wondered. Where was Feran going? What was he planning? These questions joined unanswered others in my mind, because Feran did not mention this mission to the people.

  Our leader was so concerned with his journey that he summoned the workers servicing his craft for a meeting. “No one is to make any mistakes under any circumstances!” he ordered. “Be sure your work is correct and complete. If any one of you delays my mission, I will deal with you firmly!”

  He displayed unusual interest in a particular cargo that I loaded onto his ship, a curious metal box that came up to my knees and was the weight of a small child. “Be careful with that, idiot!” he barked, while I carried the box to a support in the cargo bay specially designed to secure it for the voyage.

  Why did he not use robots to carry things the way he wanted? I thought as I fastened the odd box in its brace. But why would he, when humans were so much cheaper and just as compliant?

  On the craft’s main computer Feran called up maps of places I had never seen, with areas marked food production, aircraft, power supply, communications, and military headquarters, displaying the names of Asteronian commanders under the items. I understood nothing of what I saw.

  After the preparations were completed, Feran seemed satisfied. He laughed maliciously, then said: “When the sunbeam stings, Asteron sings.” I wondered what he meant, because our pleasing sun did not sting, and the people of Asteron did not sing.

  By midafternoon our shift ended. The security gates of the space center opened to allow a stream of people to flow out. The usually listless workers walked with haste that day to attend a special event.

  Under a sky growing gloomy with the threat of a storm, thousands of people gathered in a crescent-shaped outdoor arena called the Theater of Justice. Every city of Asteron had its own theater, with similar dramas performed there during the Days of Justice that were frequently observed. On this afternoon, before Feran’s great mission, our city was holding such an event.

  Because citizens who missed these gatherings were assigned to work extra hours and perform undesirable tasks, large crowds attended. Some people, caught up in a peculiar exciteme
nt for the affair, completed their work early to arrive first and obtain the best seats. After loading Feran’s spacecraft, I found excuses to linger, arriving after the seats were filled. I made sure that the leader of my quarters saw me and that my attendance was recorded, and then I found a place to stand far behind the seated spectators, trying to lose myself among the thousands of people standing.

  Guards were present in large numbers during these occasions, their dark-gray uniforms speckling the mass of light-gray workers’ uniforms. The mayor of our city and other officials took their reserved seats in a viewing gallery on the stage.

  I watched three people step up to the stage. Two wore long judges’ gowns: the counselor, a woman who provided guidance, and the commissioner, a man who pronounced sentence. The third person on the stage, a large, shirtless man with a vacuous face and wooden movements, did not wear a robe. Instead, he wore a leather apron covering his thighs and bare chest. We called him the Arm of Justice.

  As the Arm set up the stage, the counselor stepped to the front, opened a book, and read to us from Feran’s teachings: “Our lesson today is about compassion. Our state has created a culture of helping and caring for its citizens that is the envy of the galaxy.”

  The Arm brought to the stage two vertical posts, each with a metal ring for locking to a wrist, and spaced them so a person could be strung between them. Then he placed a whip beside them.

  “Our state protects its people from fear and want,” continued the counselor.

  Next to the posts the Arm placed a scaffold with a noose hanging from its crossbeams.

  “No one is left to stumble through life on his own.”

  The Arm hoisted the last of his equipment onto the stage—several coffins piled one upon another. The stage had a roof so there would be no discomfort to the players in the rain.

  During the preparations, the youngsters from Children’s World arrived and sat on the grass alongside the main crowd. I caught glimpses of them. Some stared at the stage with already hardened eyes. Others buried their heads in their schoolbooks in what seemed like an attempt either to block out the spectacle or merely to get a start on their homework, until their teachers admonished them to pay closer attention.

  “Asteron is the planet that puts compassion on the highest pedestal,” the counselor concluded. Then she closed her book and turned to a door on the stage.

  The door opened and Feran appeared. Our supreme leader wore an imposing black cape ornamented with military medals. The cape rustled like a black sail in a storm, filling with wind fore and aft of the rigid mast called Feran. Thick black hair, a restless face, and impatient movements added to his intimidating presence. He took his place in the center of the gallery, towering over the mayor and other officials. In one sweeping motion the crowd in the seats rose to attention. We all saluted our leader with his favorite slogan, “One people, one will! Asteron!” And the proceedings began.

  Feran greeted the crowd: “My fellow Asteronians, we meet today to reaffirm our great tradition of the rule of law and to deal with the Unteachables in a just way.”

  The counselor announced the arrival of the Unteachables’ cart, an open wagon transporting prisoners through the streets to the Theater of Justice. The crowd was sufficiently dense to block my view of the cart, sparing me the sight of the prisoners’ faces, at least until they stepped up to the stage. I did, however, see the faces of those who turned to gape at the arriving cart, barren ovals that watched the doomed without pity or protest.

  The commissioner announced the first case: “Hoarding food.”

  “The Arm takes no coffin from the stack,” someone behind me whispered in a tone of disappointment.

  “And he has not been wrong in the last three single moons,” someone else replied.

  It was the Arm’s habit to prepare in advance for each case, and this male giant seemed to have an uncanny premonition about the outcome.

  The prisoner rose to the stage. He looked a generation older than I was, with the tanned skin and muscular arms of a farmer.

  “You are accused of growing crops in a secret field that you kept hidden so you would not have to contribute your fair share,” the commissioner charged. “With a famine going on, do you realize how unpatriotic your actions are and how serious a crime this is?”

  “But sir, I already contribute the highest crop yield of any farmer in my group. I worked substantial overtime during my scheduled time off to produce those extra crops. I cannot eat the dried nutrient cakes we receive in our rations. They make me sick to my stomach.”

  The commissioner’s tone became more heated. “In our challenging times, we are concerned with spreading the food around so there is enough for everyone, and not with letting one person feast while others go hungry!”

  “But, sir, I found a way to increase my yield so that my fields would produce a surplus unheard of on that land. I proposed my methods to the community supervisors. They said they would discuss the matter with the town supervisors, who would discuss the matter with the county supervisors, who would discuss the matter with the state supervisors, and so on, and that I should receive an answer in five years. Instead of waiting and starving, I put my methods into practice in what you call my secret field, which was land thought to be barren and discarded by my community, and my crop yield was fantastic.”

  “So why did you not share it?”

  There was no reply.

  “Who put you through school? Who nurtured you through your childhood? Who built the plows you use? Who wove the clothing you wear? Whatever you did, you did not accomplish it alone, without the help of everybody else. You owe us. It is only fair to spread the food around.”

  “Fair? Is that not for the judges to decide?” said the farmer, now hot with anger. “You wear the robes of judges, but you are not them. Where are the real judges the elders whisper about, who once existed in another age? And where is the legislature the elders remember, which used to be elected by the people to give them a say in their affairs?”

  Even from my distance, I could see Feran bristle at the mention of treasonous topics.

  The Arm reached for a coffin from the stack and placed it near the accused, a more encouraging sign to the eager faces around me.

  “Ten people in your community starved to death while you were gorging yourself. You profited while they died. You killed them!” The commissioner fired back. “Now, how do you plead?”

  “But I only ate the way our rulers eat. There are no dried nutrient cakes found in their residences!”

  The crowd snickered. The counselor looked shocked by the farmer’s impertinence. Feran nodded to the commissioner.

  “The prisoner pleads guilty,” said the commissioner.

  The farmer paled. He fell to his knees, stunned, all life draining from him. The Arm of Justice nudged him, but he did not rise. Then the Arm lifted him like a sack and carried him to the scaffold, propped him up, tied his legs, and curled the noose around his neck. With the hint of a flourish, the Arm pulled the bolt from the trapdoor under the farmer’s feet, and the matter ended.

  The counselor said, “Justice has been done.”

  The crowd applauded. I remained motionless. A guard stared pointedly at me until I raised my hands and clapped.

  The commissioner called the next prisoner, a reporter accused of writing and distributing political essays that contradicted the principles of the regime. The charge was treason. The Arm reached for a coffin.

  The counselor complained, as if she were the injured party. “Our laws let you write and publish anything you wish—and all we ask is that you not spread creeds that threaten the public safety. Is that too much to ask? You violated these simple rules.”

  “But if I can publish anything I wish, as you say, then what is the problem?” asked the writer.

  “When your writing runs counter to the interests of the public, then the harm done to society outweighs your personal privileges. Now, we know you had an accomplice. Name this person, so
you can clear your conscience and do some good.”

  The accused, a young man with a face as unmoving as marble, stared at the counselor. She waited for a reply. Then as if resigned to his doom, the prisoner smirked. “Why not?” He pointed his bound hands at the person sitting next to Feran. “The mayor!” he shouted. “The mayor of this city is my accomplice!”

  The crowd gasped, the mayor cursed the accused, the guards moved in on the mayor, and a great commotion followed. The writer called witnesses from among the spectators. They testified to the mayor’s traitorous statements and suspicious actions, but the official furiously denied the charges. Finally, the matter was settled. The Arm removed an extra coffin from the stack and dispatched both the writer and the mayor on the scaffold. The faces of the people near me were wild with excitement, for the day’s performance was exceeding their expectations.

  Then the commissioner announced the next case: “Stabbing an official and attempted murder.”

  The Arm of Justice brought the next coffin down from the stack.

  The commissioner continued: “A guard took someone who needed medical attention to the hospital. When the doctor attempted to treat the patient, the rebellious citizen grabbed a scalpel and threatened to kill both the guard and the doctor. When the guard tried to disarm the anarchist, the accused stabbed him and fled. A short time later, the citizen was apprehended.”

  As the prisoner took the first step to the stage, I glimpsed a gray kerchief with a band of gold hair around the rim. On the next step, my incredulous eyes froze on Reevah’s childlike face.

  “I do not need what you call medical attention,” she shouted.

  A desperate voice that I did not recognize tore out of me. “No! No!” I screamed. “No!”

  My cries were smothered in the crowd. I pushed and shoved to fight my way to the front.

  “My dear citizen, when you needed medical attention, you should have complied with those trying to help you.” The counselor spoke kindly, as if her words’ soft tone could make their content seem reasonable. “We set the highest standards for your health, so there was no cause to object, much less to kill anyone.”