Culture Shock

by Christopher Nuttall

  The shuttle rocked, suddenly. Outside, the darkness of space was blurring into blue-white wisps ... the shuttle rocked, again and again. The sound of panic grew louder as the hull started to creak ominously, suggesting the entire craft was on the verge of falling apart. Had they been sent to their deaths? Cold logic suggested the freighter could have been depressurised - easily - if the crew had wanted them dead, but it was so hard to cling to logic as the shaking grew worse. A loud BANG echoed through the compartment, as if God had reached down and slapped the shuttle. John cringed, reaching out for Hannah’s hand as another BANG shook the craft. What was going on?

  “Remain in your seats,” a voice said, calmly. “We are currently experiencing some mild turbulence.”

  Mild? John thought. The shaking was growing worse. This is mild?

  He heard someone being noisily sick behind him. The stench was appalling, but there was nothing he could do. He closed his eyes, muttering prayers under his breath, hoping desperately that the shaking would end soon. If it was the end ... he thought he might accept death, if it saved him from life. But instead ...

  The shaking slowly faded away, but he refused to open his eyes as faint tremors continued to run through the shuttlecraft. He was dimly aware of Hannah pressing against him as she peered out the porthole, yet he found it hard to care. No doubt Konrad would give him a hard time over letting her peer outside, but what was he meant to do about it? Cover her eyes and tie her hands? If she could bear to stare out of the shuttlecraft, more power to her.

  Hannah elbowed him, none-too-gently. “Konrad’s thrown up,” she whispered. “Serves him right.”

  John swallowed, hard. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed back. “He’s right behind you.”

  He opened his eyes, somehow. Bright light was streaming through the porthole. He braced himself, then peered outside. They were flying over - or through - a vast blue expanse. A sea? He’d heard about the sea, yet he’d never seen it. Children at his old school had been offered trips to the seaside, but Konrad had refused to pay the fee. He had no interest in allowing his adopted children to play by the seaside. Hannah had been furious about it, afterwards. She could have gone with her friends.

  The shuttle shuddered again, lightly. John tried to ignore it as he peered down towards the blueness below. Were those water-ships down there? He’d seen plenty of ships in picture books, but he’d never seen one in person. Did the children on their new home play on the water? It had seemed so much fun, according to the videos ... yet he’d never had the chance to do that either. When he hadn't been at school, he’d been studying the holy books and learning to recite prayers. He certainly hadn't been taught anything useful.

  “That must be the land,” Hannah breathed. “We’re going to be landing soon.”

  John sighed as the shuttle dropped towards the green land ahead. It looked pleasant from their height, but he was sure it wouldn't be any different from Tarsus. The people would be unwelcoming, there would be nothing for him to do ... and, in the end, he’d be trapped with Joel and Konrad and the rest of the Forsakers, denied even the room they needed to breathe freely. There would be no farms or land, nothing but another grey estate. And it would be far worse for Hannah. Joel’s wife wouldn't have any freedom whatsoever.

  Unless Joel manages to get us all killed, he thought, morbidly. Or if we get shipped back off-world in the next few weeks.

  “If I could have your attention, please,” a voice said. It wasn't the spacer, not this time. The voice came from overhead. “We will be landing in twenty minutes, once ground control clears us a space. When you are told to rise, unbuckle your belts, get to your feet and walk to the hatch. You will have to pass through immigration processing before being allowed to proceed further. Obey all orders from personnel on the ground, whatever they are.”

  There was a long pause. “Oh,” the voice added. “And welcome to Arthur’s Seat.”

  Arthur’s Seat? The name meant nothing to John. He’d known a kid called Arthur in class, years ago, but he doubted the planet was named after the kid he’d known. He tried to recall any starcharts he might have seen, yet nothing came to mind. He’d never taken any interest in space and space technology, knowing that it would merely get him in trouble. But ...

  Hannah gripped his arm. “This is where the lost colony went,” she whispered. “They landed here, hundreds of years ago.”

  John blinked. Trust Hannah to remember something the Elders would probably prefer she forgot. He remembered hearing about the lost colony, but he didn't recall any actual details, save for Elder Chisholm using it to remind his flock that Outsiders couldn't be trusted. The settlers had been cheated, if he recalled correctly. And something else had gone wrong.

  He looked back at his sister. “Do you think they’ll welcome us?”

  “I don't know,” Hannah said. “The colony failed.”

  The shuttle seemed to come to a halt, then dropped. John clutched his stomach, all thoughts of the lost colony vanishing as the craft plummeted like a stone. He was sure, just for a second, that they were all about to die, a moment before the craft steadied itself. Outside, grey buildings were coming into view. They looked no more or less soulless than the buildings he remembered on Tarsus. A handful of people were standing by the nearest building, watching the shuttle as it came in to land. It was hard to make out details, but none of them looked like Forsakers. One of them was definitely a woman; the others probably male, although he wasn't sure.

  Outsiders don’t care what they wear, he thought.

  He smiled, even though his stomach felt as if he’d left part of it behind. The tunic he wore - and the dress Hannah wore - told people everything they needed to know about him. He was male, old enough to marry and yet unmarried ... they didn't need to know anything else. But Outsiders ... women wore trousers and men wore skirts ... it made no sense. How could you tell the difference?

  You look, he told himself. And you try not to look too closely.

  The hatch opened. “You may rise,” the voice said. “And walk, one by one, out of the shuttle.”

  John looked at Hannah. “We’re here,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Hannah agreed. She sounded distracted. “We are.”

  ***

  Getting everything ready had been a nightmare, Constable Mike Whitehead thought, as he watched the first shuttle come in to land. Fifty thousand refugees? An estimated ten thousand landing every day? His experience told him that the estimate was wildly optimistic, but even so ... how the hell were they going to process fifty thousand refugees in a reasonable space of time? He hadn't anticipated more than a couple of thousand during the desperate struggle to prepare the spaceport for guests.

  He shook his head, slowly. The old transit barracks were long since gone, as were the prefabricated buildings that could have been assembled in short order. They’d had to commandeer the nearby warehouses under emergency powers, which had meant assisting the owners in clearing out the goods and finding somewhere else to store them. Mike suspected, from what he’d overheard, that the goods couldn't be sold any longer, not with the economic downturn in full swing. Hell, the owners were probably losing money all the time.

  At least we got the warehouses cleared, he thought. And stockpiles of food, drink and bedding are on their way.

  “Hey,” he heard a female voice say. Mike turned to see a blonde girl walking towards him, wearing overalls that marked her as a civilian emergency worker. Her overall really was quite distractingly tight ... he reminded himself, sternly, that he was married. “Sergeant?”

  “Constable,” Mike corrected. He’d occasionally thought about trying for promotion, but the qualification examinations were more murderous than the last five murderers arrested on Arthur’s Seat. Besides, he didn't spend enough time with Jane as it was. “What can I do for you?”

  The girl looked pained. “Is it necessary to seal off the entire spaceport?”

  Mike hesitated. She wasn't the first civilian to question the
need for wire. Hell, Mike wasn't sure himself why they had the wire in stock. None of the emergencies they’d planned for had any reasonable call for it. But they’d used it to seal off the entire spaceport and warehouse complex, leaving only two entrances. No one would be entering or leaving without checking with the guards.

  “Yes,” he said, finally. “We have to keep control of the situation.”

  The girl gave him a sharp look. “Are we going to be able to fit fifty thousand people into the complex?”

  “They’ll need tents,” Mike said, grimly. The warehouses were huge, but fitting even a thousand people into the complex would be an absolute nightmare. Lothian spaceport hadn't been designed to handle thousands of passengers, let alone thousands of long-term guests. “It will not be comfortable.”

  He sighed. Winter was coming. He’d been in rough places before, during his training, but he had to admit he didn't like the idea of living in a tent during winter. Snow alone would make the tents largely unliveable. And who knew what would happen then? It would be hard to blame the refugees for rioting and demanding better accommodation.

  Except there isn’t that much better accommodation, he thought. It’s too soon to see how many people will open their homes to refugees.

  “Of course it won’t be comfortable,” the girl said. Mike dragged his attention back to her with an effort. “Something must be done.”

  “I suggest you speak to the captain,” Mike said, after considering and rejecting several possible answers. When did a young girl from a farming background - she didn't sound like someone who had been raised in the city - get so demanding? It must be something in the university’s water. “I’m just a constable. I do what I’m told.”

  He turned his attention back to the shuttle. Three men were disembarking and advancing towards the welcoming committee, two looking like Forsakers from the historical documentaries that detailed life during the early settlement period. Long beards, handmade clothes ... there was something oddly primitive about them, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit. And yet, he couldn't put his finger on it.

  “They’re real,” the girl said.

  Mike glanced at her, sharply. “Did you think this was all a drill?”

  The girl flushed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I meant ... they wear those clothes as if they mean something. You know ... like you wear your uniform.”

  Mike stroked his chin. Any fool could dress up as a policeman - although it was technically illegal - but no impostor would be able to fool a real policeman for long. And fooling a member of the public would be difficult too. Wearing the uniform alone didn't make someone a policeman. They’d need everything from stance and posture to a comprehensive knowledge of the law. He had training and experience no imposter could hope to have.

  And the girl had a point. The two Forsakers weren't actors, they weren't some of the older families wearing traditional clothes for the Harvest Festival or Winter Night; those were their clothes. They had nothing else. Hell, who knew what had happened to their communal possessions? The manifests Mike had seen hadn't been too clear.

  “They are Forsakers,” he breathed. He couldn't help wondering what some of the older families would make of their cousins. Good news ... or bad? “And they’re here?”

  He turned away from the girl, studying the newcomers. The older man looked resigned, the younger man ... looked like a fighter. Mike had seen people like that before, men - usually men - spoiling for a fight. They could be dangerous ...

  I must bring it to the captain’s attention, he thought. And let him decide what to do.

  Chapter Seven

  The various governments on Earth rarely sponsored these programs, seeing the asteroid ships as giant wastes of resources at best. Accordingly, those who did set sail on the interstellar sea tended to be self-selected groups, people who tended to be strikingly monocultural. Whatever their culture, they could not tolerate the prospect of dissent within an enclosed ecosystem.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.

  Joel couldn't help feeling a flicker of concern as his father stumbled towards the shuttle hatch and out onto the landing field. Konrad hadn't enjoyed the flight at all, throwing up several times into a bag the spacers had generously provided. Even now, with his feet on a planetary surface once again, Konrad looked weak and feeble. Joel was quite prepared to believe - and spread the word - that the Elders were weak and feeble, but he was worried about his ancient father. The old man couldn't be allowed to die just yet.

  Because that would complicate matters, Joel reminded himself, as he took his first breath on Arthur’s Seat. And because I would miss him.

  The air tasted ... strange. It was better than the canned and recycled air on the freighter, yet bore unfamiliar hints of something alien. Arthur’s Seat had had a surprisingly strong native biosphere, according to the files he’d read. It was part of the reason the original colony had run into trouble before the second group of settlers had arrived. The spaceport itself was a gray monstrosity: a giant control tower, a network of hangars and terminals and buildings with no obvious function. He glanced up, sharply, as he heard another shuttlecraft high overhead. But he saw nothing. The skies appeared clear.

  He put out a steadying hand - as a good and dutiful son should do - and supported Konrad as they walked towards the welcoming committee. One of them was clearly a woman, with curly red hair and a narrow face that reminded Joel of his mother. A Forsaker? Or, perhaps, someone who had a Fallen somewhere in their family tree. Would that make her a Fallen herself or an Outsider? He didn't particularly care to know. The others were all men, he thought. None of them looked particularly threatening.

  Good, Joel thought. That will make matters easier.

  The spacer glanced at them, then stopped. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll speak to them afterwards.”

  Joel frowned, but kept walking forward. The woman greeted them with a blinding smile, an expression so wide and open that Joel distrusted it on sight. What was she doing amongst the group? If she was a Forsaker, she should know better than to put herself forward. And her outfit ... Joel had seen worse, on Tarsus, but still ... he wouldn't have allowed any wife, sister or daughter of his to wear anything of the sort. It didn't show much bare flesh, yet he could still make out the shape of her body.

  “Greetings,” the woman said. She didn't have a Forsaker accent, he noted absently. But then, that proved nothing. “Welcome to Arthur’s Seat.”

  Konrad stiffened, clearly unsure how to proceed. Joel didn't blame him. One simply did not talk to an unrelated female, at least not without a very good excuse. It was considered polite to simply ignore the woman’s presence, rather than call attention to her. But who should Konrad address?

  “I am Vice Premier Sondra Mackey,” the woman continued. If she was aware of Konrad’s bemusement, she showed no sign of it. Her title made her sound fairly senior, although Joel had no idea how Arthur’s Seat was governed or where a Vice Premier fitted into the structure. “We are truly sorry that you were evicted from Tarsus. We intend to do everything in our power to make sure you fit into our society as quickly as possible.”

  “I ... thank you,” Konrad managed. He stood as though he was addressing everyone, not just Sondra. It was, Joel considered, an admirable compromise. “It has been a very long journey.”

  A flicker of ... something ... crossed Sondra’s face. “You and your people should vacate the shuttle as quickly as possible,” she said, indicating one of the giant buildings behind her. A massive door led into darkness. There didn't seem to be any light inside. “Once the shuttle is empty, it can return to orbit for the next load.”

  Joel nodded in approval. The more people on the ground, the harder it would be for the locals to push them around. And more of his allies would be coming down on the next two shuttles. They’d have to explore their new environment as quickly as possible, learn how to sneak around without being detected ... and then s
tart pressing demands.

  Konrad seemed to have other ideas. “We were promised lands,” he said, flatly. “When will we be able to take them?”

  “A final decision will be made once you have passed through immigration,” Sondra said, carefully. Joel suspected that meant that no lands would be forthcoming. He would have felt betrayed, if he hadn't already anticipated it. “We had no time to make preparations for you.”

  “Understandable,” Konrad said.

  He glanced at Joel. “Call the others out of the shuttle.”

  “Yes, father,” Joel said.

  He blinked in surprise as Sondra held out a hand to his father. Did she expect him to shake her hand? Perhaps she did ... Outsiders had no understanding of the importance of keeping a barrier between male and female. Konrad was an Elder. He couldn't speak to an unrelated woman, particularly an Outsider, without having his position questioned by his fellows. And if Konrad happened to be stripped of his title, Joel doubted it would come to him.