Fugitive From Asteron (3 page)

“Maybe the aliens talk more than we
do, so they have to shorten their words to get them all in,” I suggested.

“Maybe if we talk more to each
other, we will sound like them,” she said hopefully.

“We will try that and see.” I
nodded.

Reevah continued with her
revelations. “And when the aliens danced, they closed the space between their
bodies.” She smiled at my surprise. “Yes, most incredibly, the couple danced
together. The female wore a remarkable red uniform with a long tear in it that
exposed her entire leg, and the clothing was covered with a thousand tiny metal
circles that shimmered in the light. And the uniform clung to her body like a
second skin.”

She pulled her loose gray trousers
and shirt tightly against herself in demonstration. She continued to hum the
alien music and swirl around me, her body rustling against the shrubs.

“Did the female alien wear a
kerchief?” I asked, pointing to the covering on Reevah’s head.

“Oh, no!”

She stopped dancing to face me. I
untied the kerchief and let it fall to the ground.

“Did the alien confine her hair?”

“Oh, no! Her hair was loose and
free. It swayed and rippled with every turn of her face. The shiny strands rose
and fell like ocean waves in a flowing dance with the breeze.”

I unfastened a clip, and hair that
was hidden in a tight ball suddenly tumbled down Reevah’s back in a glowing
tangle of curls.

“The female wore a flower in her
hair. Can you imagine? A flower! It was as red as the sunset. And there were
flowers on all the tables that circled the shiny wooden dancing floor. Why do
we plant flowers only in the neighborhoods of the rulers? Why do we have only
dirt and weeds on our soil, except for a few wild flowers that have the courage
to defy the rulers and open their petals to the sun?” she asked.

I did not know why the common
people of Asteron had no flowers and why we saw them displayed only at military
marches. I just knew that I had a sudden urge to find some wild blossoms for
Reevah. “Wait,” I told her.

I searched on a nearby ridge of
rich soil, where on past occasions I had seen wild flowers, and I soon came
upon a cluster of new pink blossoms. I tore them at the stem, being careful not
to disturb their roots so more would grow, and I brought the little patch of
color to Reevah. She eagerly brushed the blooms against her cheek and inhaled
their fragrance. She placed one flower in her hair, another in mine, and the
rest in the buttonholes of our shirts.

“The male alien in the movie was
named
Honey
. Beneath the voice of the narrator, I could hear the woman
call the man this name. Is that not curious? The aliens must have bees, the way
our rulers do here in their secret fields. Surely you have been called to labor
there on occasion.”

I nodded, for I had glimpsed some
of the animals and lush vegetation, including flowers, that were cultivated by
the rulers for their use and not shared with the people.

Reevah’s eyes widened with
excitement. “Honey had dark hair and giant eyes the color of the lake, just
like you. And he was tall and strong and amazingly ugly, just like you. I want
to call you Honey.”

“You mean the man was named after a
sticky substance oozing from an insect?”

“Yes, and he liked his name.”

My mind warned me, but my arms
rebelled. I slipped them around her thin waist and drew her closer, imitating
the way the aliens danced, until the flowers on my shirt lightly touched their counterparts
on hers. I began humming Reevah’s melody too. As we swayed to the rhythm, the
flowers on our shirts slowly crushed together.

While we danced, Reevah whispered
more of her story: “The humans fed at an exceedingly small table that sat only
two. And the table was covered with white linen so crisp and clean that I
almost smelled the fresh scent and wanted to sneeze. The aliens drank from
glasses with long, thin handles that held their drinks the way a stem holds a
flower. They touched their glasses together before they drank. It was like a
kiss. Then the man smiled at the woman, and he closed one eye.”

“He closed one eye?”

“Yes, he blinked with one eye.”

“And what did she do?”

“She laughed, because the blink
with one eye meant something to them, like the kiss of the glasses.”

I looked at Reevah’s glowing face
and blinked with one eye. Then she threw her head back and did something we adults
on Asteron did not do—she laughed, easily, freely, abundantly. Often people
snickered bitterly, to be sure, but Reevah’s laughter sounded more like the
call of a lively bird.

Then my mouth landed on hers with an
urgency that surprised the both of us. I tugged at her slim hips until her
thighs pressed against me. I pulled her down on the cool grass. I set about the
remarkable new task of discovering Reevah’s willing body. She answered my
sudden need by pulling me close, tugging at my clothes, and opening her warm
mouth to mine. I explored the exciting mystery of soft breasts and taut legs and
tasted the sweetness of her skin. Then I tore myself away abruptly and sat up.

“We have to go.”

“Honey, we can stay a little
longer.” She reached up to me.

“No.”

She knew what was bothering me.
“Honey, listen to me. Nothing bad can happen. I took the tablet.”

I urgently reminded myself of rules
I must not ignore! Couples had to be approved by our superiors, and the
disobedient did not receive permission, for fear they would produce more
citizens of their own kind. Because the state expended great resources on children,
the rulers thought they should intervene in the affairs that produced them.

“Honey—”

“No!”

“Honey, I tell the truth. I stole a
tablet from the room of a commander of female spies who had a supply of them
for her fleet. I have taken the treatment and am most securely protected from
any danger.”

I looked at her suspiciously
because no medicines were available to us outside of the supervisors’
dispensaries.

“The female spies engage in
relations with aliens. That must be how they gain secret information. They keep
a stash of supplies for such purposes. I tell you, I found them and took what I
needed.”

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 excitement 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.