C. J. Cherryh - Hestia

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Hestia by C.J. Cherryh

Chapter 1

The shuttle was visible through the rain-spattered glass, an alien shape

in New Hope, towering sleek and silver among brown, unpainted

buildings. It rested here only briefly: Adam Jones was in orbit about the

world, a few days' interlude in her star-to-star voyaging, and the shuttle

belonged to her, and to another existence, an alien dream in Hestia's sole

brown-hued city.

Rain was the prime reality on Hestia: mist hazed distances and blurred

the edges of middle-ground objects; rain pooled in the muddy streets and

dripped and sweated from decaying buildings; gray monotones of cloud

and brown of earth and flood persisted, while the colony died.

In the streets a thin shout went up. A group of revelers snaked by, arms

linked, weaving and slipping in the mud, ignoring the drizzle. It was

festival; a ship was in port. They paused, lifted a bottle in drunken salute,

shouted something and wove away, linked, drab brown-clad folk quickly

lost in the rain-haze and the maze of their ramshackle buildings.

Sam Merritt let the homespun curtain fall across the depressing sight

and paced back to his chair, where papers were scattered on the scarred

table. This unpainted room with the creaking wooden flooring was all that

Hestia afforded of governmental splendor, New Hope's official residence,

its best hospitality; and Merritt cast a regretful glance at his baggage still

sitting unpacked, a forlorn cluster of black cases in the center of the floor.

A door opened and banged shut downstairs; footsteps creaked heavily

up the treads. Merritt let himself down onto the hard chair by the table

and leaned against the edge, gave a casual glance as the door opened and

Don Hathaway slouched in, rain-damp and grim. Hathaway brushed

droplets from his jacket and wiped his hair back, sank down on a corner of

the nearer bed, shoulders sagging. He was older than Merritt's

twenty-eight years, gray-templed. His face was growing heavy and

habitually sullen, and the lines had deepened since their landing.

"Been out in the town," Hathaway said.

Merritt nodded. That bleak look did not invite comment.

"Sam," Hathaway said, "when we touched down and had a look about, I

kept telling myself it had to be better somewhere… in town, out-country,

somewhere. But the governor's briefing this morning—" He gestured

loosely at the table, the scattered papers. "It's finished, Sam."

"What do you mean?"

"I talked to Al a few minutes ago, out in the town. And when that

shuttle lifts, we're going to be on her."

Merritt looked at him, swallowed, shook his head: no refusal, but an

echo of Hathaway's despair. His heart was beating hard. "Seven years of

traveling to get here, Don—for turning around again—"

"And maybe we'll live to see home again." Hathaway wiped at his

graying hair and rose, walked to the bedside table where a bottle sat,

gathered up the dirty glasses with it and brought them to the big table, set

them down and poured. He sat down then and pushed one across to

Merritt. "Been out in the town. Seen it. Seen enough, Sam. Mud and

farmers and things falling apart. And the mentality of these people—look

at this place. Falling down, and not a hand turned to clean it, let alone fix

it. Saw a man sitting out there in the rain, just sitting, drunk and staring

at the water. Saw machinery patched with wooden parts, to work by hand.

Windows patched with wood and paper. A boy tried to knife one of the

crew last night, did you hear that?"

"Drunk, probably."

"Tried to rob him."

"These people begged for help fifty years ago, Don. They're destitute. Is

it their fault?"

"Well, it's no fault of ours, either. We don't have to spend a year of our

lives paying for it."

"The government is paying us plenty. Think of that. Add that up, what

it'll mean to us."

"The agreement said—" Hathaway jabbed a finger at his palm "—that

we were to come out here and look over the situation first-hand, to see if

we could work out a system to control the floods… or to see if the world

has the resources left to handle the problem at all. If it has the resources

left. I've made my determination on that score. If you agree and go

along—"

"Pull out without even looking at the upper valley? Don, we owe them at

least that much."

"The ship's calling the shuttle up and she won't wait. You know what's

involved, to throw a starship off-schedule."

"So for the sake of a year's wait on the next ship, you're going to throw

this colony and a good slice of our own lives—"

"Sam, Sam, if I thought it would do any possible good. I'd go up there

and look at that valley til the sun froze. But listen: listen to me. Even the

original survey said this valley wasn't right for permanent settlement. And

what did these people do? They ignored that instruction and built homes

here. It's their own stupid choice. Another point: equipment. It's beyond

recovery, flooded out, lost, cannibalized, broken, whatever. Our contract

runs five years on-world at most. What could we do here in that time?

Nothing. Nothing that could make any difference. They'd be needing other

engineers to replace us and that could take decades, while all we've done

goes sliding into the mud and bureaucrats dawdle. Hestia isn't going to

live through another long wait. No. Someone's got to make the decision

and get these people off this world or out of that valley, and that's not our

field. I say we recommend removal, emergency basis, and leave nothing in

the hands of the bureaucrats. So we take our million for riding out here to

look; and we split it and go to the next prosperous world and retire. It's

best, even for the Hestians. No need to be ashamed of that. It's crueler the

other way."

Merritt shook his head, looked at the room, at Hathaway. "They'll not

go easy. A year, one year… just the effort, even a useless one… don't you

think they'd accept the decision to abandon the colony a lot more readily if

they knew we'd seen the situation ourselves, if they knew we'd tried?"

"Sam, I'm forty years old. By the time I get somewhere else I'll be closer

to fifty. I came out here maybe to settle down and practice my profession;

but it's hopeless. There's nothing here. I'm getting out of this now, while

it's quiet, before these drunken farmers have the chance to realize what

the score is. Selfish—maybe. But so far as I'm concerned I've fulfilled that

contract and I've nothing to be ashamed of. I came, where most wouldn't;

and I took the chance and I've seen what I want to see, and all I want to

see, ever. I'm not going to waste the rest of my life on this."

"Does Al…" Merritt asked finally, "does Al feel the same way?"

"Yes. Look, you'll get somewhere worth living for when you're thirty-six,

thirty-seven, something like that. You'll have time to start over and enjoy

that half million. Right now maybe you've got leisure for mistakes, or

think you have. Don't think I don't understand how you feel. I was seven

years younger when I started out on this crazy project—but seven years

more will change your perspective plenty. You owe yourself better than

Hestia has to give."

"Give it a year."

Hathaway frowned and looked at the floor and up again. "I've been too

long on Adam Jones to want to change ships for so little advantage to

anyone. All right, I'll admit it: I want the comfort of people I know around

me. I want my friends. I want the place I'm used to. I gave Hestia most of

my young life. I'm not going to throw the rest of it away on a lost cause.

I'm going out on the ship that brought us."

"Isn't it maybe something you decided… even before you saw the

world?"

"Sam—I resent that."

"Isn't it the truth, after all? Now you've talked Al into agreeing with

you. You'll get him to sign that removal, and all you need is me."

"Look, every year we put these people off with false hopes more of them

are going to die in the long run. That's no kindness. You know if we don't

stay, if we've left a marker aloft with that order, these folk will be taken

out with the next ship; and that's the best thing we could do for them."

"The colonists won't go. They'll fight at having it done this way. They've

proven that. Adam Jones tried to take them off once before; other ships

have likely tried. They won't. You and Al and I, we could prove to them it's

best."

"We can prove it by leaving. They'll fold, when they're facing reality,

when they have to realize there's going to be no help from Earth. And so

what if they're willing to fight over the question? Does that give us

equipment or help us stop the rain?"

"It's not right."

"It's not as if the whole colonial program depended on Hestia any

longer. They—"

"Aren't important."

"Sam, they were supposed to have gone from phase one to industry fifty

years ago, but they're going steadily downhill. They're without machines

or power. Most of the last generation hasn't learned to read."

"So we take them off Hestia and drop them into a culture they can't

hope to understand."

"Or let them starve here. Sam, they knew, they knew this was coming.

They knew from the start the valley would flood whenever the weather

rolled around to one of its long wet cycles; they were to use the valley and

then move out of it; but no, they didn't believe geosurvey; they've been

sitting here a hundred years absorbing what they were given in the way of

aid; and now they want us to build them their dams so they can go on

sitting and vegetating."

"The floods got them before they had a chance. What could they do

once they'd lost their machines and their momentum? They've survived.

They've done that for themselves."

"Don't tell me they've tried. Look at New Hope. This rotting mansion is

the only building in all the town that was really built as a residence, and it

was the old colony dormitory. The rest of the buildings were all

warehouses—or are to this day; and not a building in the whole town is

younger than a hundred years. They haven't touched this place, they

haven't done anything or built anything together since the day they were

founded. They chose their little plots of land upriver, gave up any concern

for government or for the colony's future. They just let all cooperative

projects go until it was just too late.

They don't even have electricity, for pity's sake. Now the farmland's

gone, silted into the bay so they can't use that either; and they're breeding

insects and disease out there in the summers in that lagoon. They die of

diseases nowhere else has heard of. Adam Jones will put us all through

decontamination or risk carrying plague from here to Pele."

"With drainage, dams, power production—"

"Ah, Sam, they'll do that when they fly unaided. No. I've ordered my

baggage back to the ship and so has Al. Want yours moved with it—or do

you want to go it alone?"

Merritt stared elsewhere, at the windows, at the steady drip of rain.

Thin shouts drifted up from outside.

"That's how it is," said Hathaway. "If you won't sign the removal, it

won't go through; we'll lose the money. Al—gets his. His contract is

prepaid. All you can do is hold me from mine. From any future. From all I

have left. You want to do that?"

Merritt shook his head. "If you and Al are going, there's no arguing, is

there? If you'll go without the money—there's no way. All right. I'll sign

your paper."

"Crew's going to assist. They'll carry in some meaningless crates, get

our luggage out again. When people here find out—"

The downstairs door opened and closed. Hathaway put himself on his

feet. Merritt did likewise, went to the window and looked out anxiously;

there was no one. Single footsteps sounded on the board stairs, light and

quick, and reached the door.

It opened. Lilith Courtenay slipped inside with a lithe move and shut it

quickly—silver-suited and glistening with rain, a glimpse of elsewhere in

the drab room. She shook back her hood, looked about with a grimace and

a look of disbelief. Adam Jones was stitched on her sleeve, and the

emblems of worlds and stars years removed from Hestia: crew, and

disdainful of the worlds the patches signified, a breed apart from

groundlings.

"I wouldn't have expected you," Merritt said. His pulse was still racing

from a moment's guilty fright. And suddenly he was embarrassed,

ashamed to be found here, by her, in this shabbiness. She shrugged her

silver shoulders.

"Why, could we stay apart from carnival, love? All the drunken

farmers? Don't you hear them in the streets? All New Hope's at the port

celebrating, and so are we." Her face went sober. "Al told me the news.

You're recovering your sense."

"News travels too fast. Who else knows?"

"I had it from Al. He's aboard."

"I'd better stray out in that direction too," said Hathaway. "Sam you

wait a bit and then you take a casual walk and head for the field too. No

baggage. We'll get it if we can. If they get onto us—it could be ugly."

"I'd think so," Merritt agreed, and watched sourly as Hathaway left.

Lilith Courtenay shrugged, hands on hips, walked round the table to

put her hand on Merrill's arm. She looked up, pressed his elbow. "Sam,

I'm glad, I'm glad you've come to your senses, even if it took you seven long

years to do it Didn't we always tell you what you'd find on Hestia? We

tried to warn you."

"Don's found the excuse he was looking for, at least."

Her dark eyes went troubled. "But you agree with him. You understand

how it is here. You are going to leave."

"I suppose I am."

"You don't understand these people. They wouldn't be grateful if you

tried and failed. They'd likely turn on you and kill you. They're like that.

And some of us would miss you if you stayed behind. I would. I would.

We've been together for seven years."

"No ties, Lil, you always said it."

"It'll be fourteen years before I see Hestia again. If you'd stayed out that

five-year contract and gone elsewhere, I'd miss you that round and we'd be

near fifty before we had a chance of meeting again. You were a transient.

I'm crew. We stay to our own. But that could change. If you were family—"

"That's all right for you, Lil, but I'm not sure it's right for me. You were

born to the ship, four or five generations of that kind of life. I'm different.

I'm Earthborn."

She laughed soundlessly, a crinkling of the eyes. "Well, part of me is

Adam; but my mother scattered her affections from Sol to Centauri and

back again, and I've never been curious enough to backcount and know.

So maybe we have Earth in common, who knows? Would you trade your

life for Hestia?"

"I can't think of it clearly. I'm being pushed. I can't make you any

promises."

"Can't you? But I don't think I ever asked for any." She gestured toward

the windows. "It's a celebration tonight, the end of festival. Adam's people

are out there, performing another of our many services—seeing that gene

pools don't go inbred, you know. And nine months from now there'll be

new Hestians, cruel as it is. Carnival is every year for a colonist, years

between for us; but this time I've no interest in it. I want you back. You

know I wanted your children before we had to split up. I really did. I

couldn't imagine letting my first be someone else's. You wouldn't have it.

Now—it's different, it's going to be different."

"You could always have chosen to stay with me on Hestia. I waited for

that."

She gave a palpable shudder, shook her head. "Some things are too

much to ask."

"Poor gypsy. You don't know what it is to call any place home."

"Adam is home. Come back to it. We don't love groundlings and we

don't love passengers. Come back. Stay. It can be different now."

He nodded slowly. "All right. All right, Lil. You've won. I'm coming. Get

out of here, get yourself back to the port. I think it's better you go first and

get aboard. It'll be dark in a while. I'll take a walk in that direction toward

dusk."

"No. Come now."

"We'd attract attention. Better separately."

"I'm afraid, Sam. I'm afraid of these people."

"Then be careful; and I'll be." He touched her face, kissed her with the

casual affection of long acquaintance— it was different; the touch

lingered; and guilt and wanting were mixed in him, a knot in his stomach.

He took her by the arm and turned her for the door. "Go on. Go on, get out

of here. The longer you stay, the longer it takes us both getting to the ship.

I'll be after you when I know you've had time to get there."

It was raining again, pelting down in torrents as Hestia's sun slipped

from gray day to murky evening. Merritt drew back the curtain and

checked the street, found it vacant, nothing but trampled clay and

rain-pocked puddles. There was no sound but the fall of water.

He put on his jacket and zipped it up to the chin, stuffed the pockets

with personal articles he most treasured, checked the luggage for any item

he would miss, and closed it, hoping that the crew would manage to get it

aboard all the same, and in a different mind, inclined to beg them not to

try, not to risk any hurt to local folk or crew in an argument. He had

enough weight on him without that.

The downstairs door slammed open. Steps thundered up, in multitude.

Crew, he thought, anxious for having delayed too long; and then the door

opened, and he knew otherwise.

Hestians. Half a dozen of them, brown-clad and bearing the armband

of the local police.

"Were you going somewhere, Mr. Merrill?"

Merritt stood still, remembered his hand in his pocket and took it out

very slowly. He had no weapon. They had sidearms, and truncheons.

"Something I can do for you?" he asked them, hoping that they would

still have some reluctance to offend life-giving Mother Earth.

"Governor wants you," said the officer in charge. "Now."

Merritt considered the proposition, the lot of them, the scant chance of

dashing through armed police and through a hostile town. There would be

crew still outside, the chance of a riot. He reckoned Lilith Courtenay at the

ship, waiting; and that waiting would grow impatient, would produce

inquiries and action. He trusted so, desperately.

He shrugged, showed empty hands, and went with them.

Governor Lee was a stout, balding man of gentle manner; a man

perpetually worried, seeming distracted… no figure to inspire fear. Merritt

had met with him, reckoned him and catalogued him; and those

calculations were in shambles. Lee stared him up and down with that

same worried air while the police lined the room and guarded the door

and Merritt felt very much alone in that moment.

Lee had no reputation, no authority. The briefing Adam had given

indicated twenty years of idleness, twenty years of starship contacts,

meetings with disdain on the part of crew and abject anxiety on the part

of Lee. There were, in fact, few people accessible for Lee to govern, and he

relied desperately on the starship supplies and Earth's charity. But of a

sudden the man moved, when all had assured him otherwise, and that fact

alone removed any certainty from the situation. Merritt folded his hands

in front of him and made no protests; none seemed profitable. "Sit down,

sit down," Lee said.

Merritt did so, stared at Lee across the width of the desk, met those

wrinkle-shrouded eyes and tried not to break that contact.

"You were running, Mr. Merritt." Merritt said nothing.

"Well," said Lee, "I saw it in your faces the day you landed; and this

afternoon—I knew I hadn't won them, but I'd hoped I'd won you, Mr.

Merritt."

"I was going out to see the town. That's all. Your police—"

"Please, Mr. Merritt. You were leaving. We know where the others are.

A man is dead, finding that out. It's much easier if we're honest with each

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