The Colonists (The Movement Trilogy) (15 page)

Silence.

No, of course not, the woman continued. Every citizen serves a purpose, and class alone does not dictate the value of that citizen's life. But is a mother of four more valuable than, say, a young man who lives alone? Boldly, I declare that it is. Is the life of a celebrated citizen worth more than that of an unrecognized one? That's a fuzzier distinction, but the needle swings to yes, unless proven otherwise.
 

Noor was surprised by the lack of protest from his peers.
 

Let's go one step further, the woman went on. Are the lives of the Citadel council more valuable than, for example, the collected lives of everyone in this arena?

Noor drew back into his seat, and felt the people around him tense up as well.

The screenview above the stage framed the woman's confident, unyielding stare. She seemed to almost dare the crowd to respond to her. Finally, she opened her mouth and said, I submit that the life of even one of our esteemed councilmen is more valuable than every human life in this room. Including my own.
 

Noor felt a shiver run down his spine.
 

Around him, nobody moved. He couldn't believe it.
 

Nervously, Noor stood up. The woman beside him widened her eyes. He whispered an apology as he stepped past her, and apologized again to the young man whose feet he accidentally stepped on. He felt as though a spotlight had descended on him, and he wondered if anybody else in the arena had decided to walk out.

One life worth more than sixty thousand! he thought.
 

He made it to the end of the long row, face flushed, enduring the accusing and scared stares of his fellow attendees. Finally free of the long gauntlet of feet and chairs, he began climbing the stairs to an exit.
 

And he realized then that not only were none of the attendees speaking, but neither was the woman.
 

Then she spoke.
 

You, she said. Stop there.

As her words echoed and echoed through the silent, accusing arena, Noor felt his feet turn to lead.

•
 
•
 
•

He had found himself in a much smaller room, accompanied now by six other attendees. Each of them appeared nervous, and Noor wondered if they could read his own fears on his face. They waited in silence, left alone in this space, not looking at one another.
 

At last Noor spoke up.
 

My name is Noor, he said.
 

The other men and women looked at him, and one woman exhaled in relief.
 

I'm Ylla, she said.
 

Hello, Noor said.
 

Do you know why we're here? another young man burst out.
 

Noor shook his head. Do you know each other?
 

The young man said, No. I was brought here by a guard.

How about the rest of you? Noor asked.

Ylla said, Also a guard.

The others concurred.

Are we -- did we commit treason? asked the worried young man.
 

Is it treason to leave a place? Noor asked. I have not committed treason.

Ylla said, I am not a traitor.
 

Did you leave as well? Noor asked.

Ylla nodded.
 

And the rest of you? Noor asked.

Nods all around.
 

Why did you leave? he asked.
 

Ylla glanced at the other strangers, then back at Noor. I left because I believe we are all equal.
 

The worried young man agreed. Me, too.
 

Me, too, Noor said. So we're all of this opinion?

More nods.
 

We've been brought here because we're dissenters, then, Noor concluded. Of those thousands of people, there are but seven of us who disagreed.

At least seven of us who publicly disagreed, Ylla said.
 

Anybody who did not publicly disagree, Noor pointed out, cannot be counted among us. They are not true dissenters.
 

This sounds more like treason every minute, the worried young man said.

What's your name? Noor asked.

Jeffrey, the man said. I'm Jeffrey.

The door to the room opened, then, and a contingent of uniformed personnel walked in, led by the woman who had been speaking. Ylla scooted closer to Noor, and the seven recruits fell into a rough line.

The woman stepped forward and inspected the seven recruits carefully. Her eyes narrowed when she came to Noor, and she moved even closer.
 

You, she said.

Noor could smell coffee on her breath.

Yes, ma'am, Noor said.

You walked out of my room, she said.
 

Noor held her gaze, difficult as it was. I did, ma'am.

Why?
 

Noor swallowed hard. Because I disagreed, ma'am.

The woman's forehead was nearly touching Noor's, and he became very conscious of his own breathing patterns. She studied him, looking from one eye to the next. Noor felt his heartbeat double its pace.

Then she stepped back, and clasped her hands behind her. You disagreed, she repeated.
 

Noor nodded. Yes, ma'am.

Isn't it true that you all disagreed with my statements? she asked the group.
 

Slow nods from the group.
 

Ylla had spoken up next. It's true, ma'am.

The woman paused, and looked directly at Ylla for a long moment.
 

You all disagreed, and you left the room, she repeated. Do you know what that makes you?
 

Jeffrey looked like he was about to cry, Noor noticed.
 

No, ma'am, Noor volunteered.
 

The woman walked back to Noor's position. What's your name?
 

I am Noor, Noor said.
 

Full name, Noor.

Noor Dalat, said Noor.
 

Where are you from, Mr. Dalat?
 

The lower wards, ma'am, Noor answered.

The lower wards, she repeated. Looking at the entire group, she said, And the rest of you? Also the lower wards?

Ylla and the group nodded.
 

So this group of underprivileged Machine-class young men and women decided to defy the Operative commander -- not just defy, but defy openly, the woman said. Is that correct?

Noor was the only one who nodded affirmatively.

Speak up, she said.

That's correct, Noor said.
 

Mr. Dalat, she said, do you know what day it is?
 

It's March fourth, he said. March fourth, 2545.
 

And the rest of you, the woman said, turning to the group. Do you know the significance of this date?

Noor looked over the group as they all searched their memories and came up empty.

No, ma'am, Ylla said, tentatively.

The woman said, I'll tell you. March fourth, 2545, is the day you all became operatives.

Noor is dimly aware that he has poured himself a glass of water, and that his hands are wet. He is shaking, and the water in the glass keeps spilling over. His jaw trembles, and he is talking to himself.
 

Heiligdom, Uitvinder. Heiligdom, heiligdom.
 

The glass slips out of his hands and clatters to the floor. It rests on its side on the heavy rug there, and the last of the water runs out into the fibers.
 

Sanctuary, Noor whispers.
Heiligdom
.
 

On the bridge of the
Matroos,
a voice speaks, muffled by the curtain.

Noor cries and cries.

•
 
•
 
•

The
Matroos
traces a thin, inconspicuous path through the deep black. For thirteen years, it has drifted under Noor's inattentive command, but it has never faded from the solar maps that glow deep within the Citadel. While officials use long wands to nudge model ships around on the surface of the great maps, a tiny model representing the
Matroos
lives on the farthest fringe of the map. Every few months or so, someone pushes it a little farther away.

Noor has trained his mind to forget his past, but his past has not forgotten him.

•
 
•
 
•

Noor tries to sleep, but cannot find calm. He tries to sing a song, but forgets the words. He tries to paint, but his hand trembles too much. He huddles on his bedroll, knees pulled to his chest, and rocks slowly, eyes closed. He repeats Uitvinder's name over and over, a prayer in itself, and no answer comes.
 

He thinks of the comet, blazing slowly through the darkness somewhere behind him.

And feels a deep thrum from the belly of the ship.

He stops rocking.
 

The vibration comes again, sustained and powerful, and abates.

Noor rolls out of his bed and pulls the blanket around his shoulders. He pads across the deck to a viewport, and looks out into the black. There are no points of references, no stars, no planets. The comet has fallen from sight.
 

And yet he feels the
Matroos
turning.

After thirteen years of steady, patient passage, his ship betrays him.

•
 
•
 
•

Huddled in the blanket, Noor jogs through the ship. At the bridge, he pulls the curtain back. The computers are awake. The communications console is actively transmitting... something. His skin reflects pulses of status lights and the blue haze of screenviews.

In the center, the captain's console is awake.
 

Noor walks slowly to it, and stares down at the chair. He sat in the chair once, years ago, for enough time to take the
Matroos
out of the Citadel's dock and guide it safely out of Earth orbit. It took less than twenty minutes to do so, and then he powered the bridge down and allowed the ship's momentum to carry him wherever Uitvinder wished.

But now the console is awake, and the ship obeys another master.

•
 
•
 
•

The message is not accompanied by video or audio, but is a pure text directive. Noor sits down in the captain's chair, his brain struggling with the message's contents.
 

Uitvinder
, he whispers.
Heiligdom.
Please, my lord. Sanctuary, please.

But the message remains.

Attn: Commander N. Dalat (Ret.)

Status: Commander Dalat is recalled to active status.
 

Personal message to follow.

Personal message:

Commander Dalat,
 

I beg pardon for interrupting your overdue and well-earned retirement. I hope you know that I do not take such an interruption lightly. I hope you will forgive me. Your presence on the Citadel is needed as soon as possible. We are programming the
Matroos
remotely to deliver you here quickly. You will arrive in about four months. If I could have you back today, I would do anything. Four months may even be too long.

Noor, we are at war once again. The System War fifty-one years ago pales beside what has happened. We have been greatly weakened by a single offensive, by an enemy whose identity we cannot discern. Deimos has been taken from the sky, and hurled to the surface of Mars.

Olympus City is no more, Noor. Millions are dead.
 

The operative contingent on Meili is small. Our resources are scattered throughout the system, and nearly four hundred operatives active in Olympus and on Deimos are dead. We have never suffered so great a blow. Our authority has been compromised. Your command is required.

All resources are being called home to the Citadel. Come home.
 

Uitvinder guide you quickly.

Korski

No matter what he tries, Noor is unable to stop the ship from returning to the Citadel. He has no wish to see Mirs Korski again. He has no wish to rebuild a fragmented operative core into something that can preserve the Onyx way of life. He is old now. He lives for Uitvinder's pleasure, and Uitvinder is not pleased by the Council's aggressive, domineering ways.
 

Uitvinder does not wish Noor to return.

Noor follows only Uitvinder's wishes.
 

•
 
•
 
•

The
Matroos
hums like a living thing now, like a hummingbird. In its breast, a heart beats blue and alive, propelling the ship away from the edge of the solar system. It moves faster now than it ever has, fast enough that Noor will pass
Koerier
in a few days.

Man was not meant to fly faster than the comets, he thinks.

•
 
•
 
•

Noor feels as if his skin has been pulled off. He is exposed again to memories that he has packed away. They surge in like broken waves full of debris, tearing at his raw body, reminding him of things he wishes to forget. He remembers in terrible detail the lives he has taken for the Council. He remembers a man who pleaded with him for not his own life, but the lives of his two daughters.
 

Noor had followed orders, and had killed them all.

He cannot remember what happened to the young man who tried to walk out of the arena that day so many years ago.
 

He can almost feel the blood on his hands now.

And then there is Ylla.
 

The memory of their final afternoon returns.

He closes his eyes, and remembers.

•
 
•
 
•

I know you're concerned, Noor had said. I am, too. But I -- I believe her.

Why would you believe her? Ylla asked. She has broken so many promises already.