One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries (3 page)

I buried my face in the pillow on my bed and waited for my breathing to slow. My thoughts hung there, suddenly clear in my mind. This was my world and it wasn’t going to defeat me, and neither my mother, nor anyone else was going to get in the way of that.

∞
¥
∞
Ω
∞
¥
∞
 

When I looked out my window the next morning the world had turned red. It was the red of the flower at my bedside, which now had every bud open. As far as I could see, the velvet green of the grass appeared as flashes in a sea of flowers. Every bud on every flower must have opened overnight, as though set on some internal timer.

“
You were early,” I said to the flower at my bedside and ran out into our yard.

My mother was already out there, standing completely still with her back to me, looking out over the blanket of colour. I went to join her, my bare feet silent in the dirt. When I was standing beside her I saw the shiny tracks of tears on her cheeks.

Without thinking I reached out and took her hand.

For a long time she didn’t even look at me. Then she said. “Roses are red like that.”

I didn’t reply. I’d never seen a rose. No one had been able to make one grow here.

“
He used to give me roses,” my mother said. “Even though they were so expensive. He said I was worth it. We worked so hard to come here. We planned it together. It was what we wanted. We were going to do it together. How can things change so much?”

Her hand suddenly squeezed my own so tightly it hurt. I felt her start to shake.

“
It’s going to be okay.” My voice sounded weak and uncertain in my ears. “We’ll be okay.”

“
No.” The word was a moan. “It’s not okay. I can’t. I just can’t do this.” My mother sank slowly to her knees, still holding my hand. Her breathing was coming in jerking sobs now, with horrible inhalations between, as though she couldn’t draw the air down into her lungs. I stood fixed, my hand in hers, my toes digging down into the dirt beneath me, immobile but desperate to run, to cram myself under my bed and put my hands over my ears.

“
I hate this place.” She gasped the words out between breaths. “I’ve always hated it. From the moment my feet touched it I knew it was wrong. What are we going to do?”

I stood there, trapped, holding her hand as she cried, the red of our world around us.

∞
¥
∞
Ω
∞
¥
∞
 

“
They really liked that wire,” said Mark. “I wonder if there’s a cook pot at home that Mum wouldn’t miss.”

“
The chair was just as good.”

Mark had managed to turn up with a coil of rusting wire and the other bits of the chair which had donated its leg earlier. I’d got the impression that he’d been the one who’d broken it and this was a handy way of destroying the evidence. The aliens had certainly made short work of it. They’d watched us expectantly as we’d approached this time, shuffling their massive frames forward but not coming too close until we’d deposited our offerings, as though they didn’t want to scare us away. Their eager advance once we’d begun to retreat was evidence enough of their enthusiasm.

“
What do you think they’re building?”

We’d been speculating for the last half an hour as to the nature of the structure which was appearing on the hill. It consisted of a fragile looking four-legged framework standing more than two metres high. It didn’t look very functional, particularly as shelter, and it had something hanging down from the centre of it by four poles. This part swayed every now and again in the gusts of the breeze.

“
Maybe they’re just bored,” said Mark, “waiting for their people to come and get them. My dad says they’re going to have to do it soon. The Aramaci have set a date for them to be out of the system.”

The Aramaci were the race we’d negotiated with to protect our new planet, all those years ago when my parents had boarded their ship headed for the stars. Safe passage and military backup, in exchange for a one tenth share in our export tradings, no matter what they may be, for a thousand years. So when an alien race, bristling with attack craft, had arrived and advised us that the Grass belonged to them, we had triggered our distress beacon and, to everyone’s surprise, the warships had arrived. I guess the Aramaci thought the planet had to contain something worthwhile for someone to attack it in the first place. Certainly this world was rightfully ours, allotted to Earth, but out in the fringes people didn’t always pay a lot of attention to things like that.

We didn’t even know the true name of the race that had attacked us, or why they had done so.

“
You going to the War’s End celebrations tomorrow?” said Mark. “I bet we could get hold of a whole lot of rubbish before the Recyclers come and pick it up. No one’d know.”

I’d completely forgotten about the planned festivities that would be occurring the next day. There was going to be a fair. With so many people eating, drinking and enjoying themselves, we should be able to get our hands on all manner of disposables before the Recyclers snapped them up.

I thought about that as I made my way slowly home, hundreds of thousands of perfect red flowers swaying gently around me. The light had the heavy golden quality of late afternoon and the air smelled ever so faintly sweet. My feet seemed extraordinarily light on the road, and I was suddenly filled with optimism and hope. I was doing something important back on that stony hill, something that would go on to resonate through my life. Good would come of it, I was sure.

My feeling of optimism lasted until I reached home and remembered that my mother was waiting for me.

∞
¥
∞
Ω
∞
¥
∞
 

The day of the Wars End celebrations dawned bright but not clear and I woke to a faint dusting of gold on my pillow. I gazed at it in consternation for a moment before looking up at the flower on my bedside table. The table itself was also dusted with powder and all the small yellow bulbs at the center of my red flowers were gone.

It had to be pollen. It made sense; we hadn’t discovered any pollinating insects on this planet, so the plants must have found a way to spread the pollen themselves. I giggled, suddenly finding the idea of exploding flower centers disproportionately funny. I imagined millions of them, all going off together. What was the sound of a million flowers exploding? Sitting up, I looked out the window. The air was hazed in gold, so thick it might have been fog. I laughed out loud.

When I came into the kitchen, my mother was cooking eggs. I stared at the two sizzling blobs of white and orange in amazement. “Where did those come from?”

“
Suri Burton.” My mother’s voice was quietly surprised, as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “She came to the door and gave them to us. Said she had extra and she thought we’d like them. Do you want to toast some bread?”

I had two slices of bread under the griller in a matter of seconds and started setting the table. The smell of the eggs was making me dizzy in anticipation. Everything seemed amazing this morning; bright and glowing and clear. Even the hazed gold of the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window was spectacular, pollen motes swirling lazily in the kitchen draughts. I gazed at them, entranced and suddenly I knew that today was going to be a perfect day.

∞
¥
∞
Ω
∞
¥
∞
 

The War’s End celebrations were in Plenty, our hub town, more than twenty kilometres away. A special Council road train came and picked everyone up from the satellite settlements, its eight open-sided carriages wending slowly over dirt roads, enormous armoured tyres standing almost as tall as me. It would do the circuit continuously until the sun set on the day.

The mood in the carriages was effusive. People talked and laughed over the top of one another. Not even the babies cried. I sat in the midst of the press of people and drank it in, my gaze on the gold-tinged red fields around us. It was as though I’d been living in a dark damp hole and had suddenly been thrown out into warmth and light. In my hands I held my rucksack tightly, my collecting sack inside.

∞
¥
∞
Ω
∞
¥
∞
 

Plenty was packed with people. The town square had been turned into a market, stalls decorated with anything brightly coloured that people could find. Many had made wreaths and chains out of the Grass flowers, and loose red petals whirled in the breeze.

Mark appeared at my side as we got off the train. “Got any cash?” he asked, keeping his voice low so that my mother wouldn’t hear.

I shook my head; we’d even brought a packed lunch, though in the euphoria of the morning I hadn’t cared.

“
Here,” he pressed something into my palm. “My mum gave me heaps. Must’ve gone mad this morning. See you over by the games in half an hour.”

Then he was gone, following his parents into the throng and I was left looking down at the five credit piece in my hand.

It was easy to convince my mother to let me explore on my own. There was free coffee, put on by the Council, and she didn’t particularly want me hanging around while she sat and gossiped, so off I went. It was just as easy to grab the odd bit of rubbish when no one was looking and jam it in my sack, which soon bulged satisfyingly against my thigh. Half an hour later Mark was waiting by a stall where you had to throw rubber balls into barrels. Nobody was managing it very well. The balls kept bouncing out, but no one seemed to care as they laughed and shelled out credit for more attempts.

We both had a go at the rifle shooting; the solid butt of the gun was heavy against my shoulder as I lined up garishly painted paper fuzzers in the notched sight on the end of the muzzle. I laughed at the light kick of the recoil, even as I missed every time. Mark was giggling too, though he hit all his and we walked away with a big stick of fairy floss, pulling off chunks and shoving them into our mouths.

“
Mum says this stuff used to be bright pink back on Earth,” said Mark, holding up a pale golden tuft. “And just a little bit bitter, like it wasn’t really food at all. She says they didn’t care though, that they probably wouldn’t have liked it any other way.”

“
Urghh.” The idea of eating fake food as a treat seemed ridiculous.

Then, through the press of people, I saw something that made the world slow around me. My father stood in a gap in the crowd.

I stopped, unable to think, only able to stare as he turned in the sunlight and began to walk away. Then the crowds closed back in and he was gone.

For a moment I stood there, stunned and blinking, then I began to push my way towards where he’d been. It seemed I should call out, as though the words would stop him leaving, but part of me knew that this must be an illusion, another small miracle thrown up by this supernatural day.

I burst free of the crowds into a clearer space, my gaze frantically scanning faces. And there he was, standing less than twenty metres away. He looked the same as he always had, he even wore the same clothes — his best blue sweater and the khaki pants he’d brought from Earth and saved for special occasions.

I advanced slowly, afraid that if I ran it would break the spell and the illusion would dissolve before me. He was talking to a tall, brown-haired woman who I thought I might have seen before sometime, in some crowded adult place.

Step by step I drew nearer until I was standing less than two metres away, still mesmerised, watching all the little movements he made.

The woman noticed me first. She stopped talking and the smile faltered on her face. My father saw her looking and turned towards me.

It took a moment for him to pick me out of the background crowd. I waited for him to smile, speak my name, do any of the hundred familiar things that would prove to me that he was real.

His eyes widened as he saw me. But there was a confused, frightened look in them, as though he wasn’t looking at the daughter he knew but something wrong that had taken her place. My own smile faded in response and I took a few steps closer, as though proximity could somehow change the expression in his eyes.

“
Dad?” I said, the question coming into the word at the last moment.

He took a step backwards as though I was contagious. “Jessica.” The horror was in his voice too. “What are you doing here?”

There was anger and accusation in the words. I shook my head against them, feeling the sudden sting of tears in my eyes. “Dad?” My voice sounded small and uncertain in my ears.

The woman beside my father reached out and took his arm. There was concern in her eyes and as she gave me a tentative smile I realised that her worry was for me. “Gary?” she said. “It’s alright. We’ll work through this. She’s your daughter.”

My father shrugged off the hand, his face drawing together in anger. “She said they wouldn’t be here. I bet she planned it all along.” He rounded from the woman onto me. “Did your mother tell you to come looking for me? Was that the plan? To come and beg me for money? I gave you the claim, didn’t I? Wasn’t that enough?”

I was crying in earnest now. My chest shaking, the tears running down my nose and into my mouth.

The woman grabbed my father’s arm again. “For God’s sake, she’s just a child.” She released her hold and came over to me, stooping down to my level and taking my shoulders in her big brown hands. “It’s okay, honey. Your dad’s just had a bit of a shock. He needs a couple of minutes to get over it. He feels bad about everything that’s happened. He doesn’t mean the things he said.”