EXCERPT
Copyright © 2002 Anne Bishop. Used with permission.
“Oh, yuckit,” Zerx said as she looked at the cup in
her hand and made squinchy faces.
“I asked for hot, and this is barely warm!”
“That sounds like the date I had last night,” Benj
said, snickering as he walked over to his console to begin the
morning's work.
No one responded to Benj's remark. That was how we handled these
typical morning comments –
with polite silence.
“I don't see why the maintenance engineers can't fix the
food slot,” Thanie complained, taking her mug from the slot.
She sniffed it to make sure it held tea, then took a cautious
sip.
“I heard Marv finally fixed the warning light problem,” Whit
said as the data for his part of the project filled the screen
in front of his console.
“What warning light problem?”
Stev asked.
Whit swiveled his chair to face the rest of us. “A warning
light on one of the main panels has been flashing intermittently
for the past several weeks, warning of a circuit failure in one
of the minor systems.”
“Probably our food slot,”
Thanie grumbled.
“Of course, the engineers checked the system out every
time and didn't find anything wrong,”
Whit continued. “When the warning light started flashing
again yesterday, Marv gave the control panel a thump with his
fist. The warning light went out and hasn't come back on since.
Problem solved.”
The computer chimed quietly, the signal that the morning class
had begun.
As the rest of the team settled into their places, Zerx complained
loudly, “Why do I have to do the insects?”
Before any of us could remind Zerx – again – that
the computer had done a random draw to give us our parts of the
assignment and that every part was equally important, Benj said, “Because
you look like a bug.”
Unfortunately, that was true. She had gathered two segments
of hair at the front of her head and used some kind of stiffener
on them so that they stood straight up and looked quite a bit
like an insect's antennae.
Benj turned away, satisfied with his verbal jab. He didn't see
the look on Zerx's face before she went to her own console. Zerx
in a snit could be very unpleasant, and that look on her face
always meant payback.
Tuning out the usual morning grumbles, I carefully checked my
own data, feeling the shiver of a thrill go through me as it
had for the past month when I sat at this console.
My teammates kept acting like this was another computer simulation
that was part of our classwork. Oh, it was part of our classwork
all right. In fact, this was our classwork now. Only this.
But this wasn't a computer simulation where time was accelerated
and a planet year was contained within a classroom day. This
was real.
There were six teams at this stage of our education. We'd had
to take an extra year of schoolwork while we waited for our city-ship
to reach this world – and another extra year after
we'd arrived while we waited for the Restorers to prepare this
world for the life we would give back to it.
You couldn't apply for a Restorer's team until you proved you
could work in real time and maintain Balance of your part of
the project. So we had waited and studied and done the computer
simulations and watched our simulated worlds crumble into ecological
disaster – much like the worlds the Restorers committed
themselves to restoring.
Now each team had a part of a large island, and each part had
a strong force field around its perimeter to prevent any accidents
or disasters from going beyond the team's designated area. Now
we were working in real time. Now we couldn't delete plants and
animals to make it more convenient when something got out of
hand. Now, how many of each species we could deposit at our site
was limited by how much material we were permitted to use from
the huge honeycombed chambers that held the genetic material
for thousands upon thousands upon thousands of species from all
over the galaxy. Now, every life counted, not just for our own
final scores in the project but for the well-being of the planet.
I was assigned the trees for this project, which pleased me
very much because my name is Willow.
As I scanned my data, I took a deep breath and let out a sigh
of satisfaction. The number of trees had increased. I'd planted
some mature trees, but most of my tree quota for this area had
been used for saplings and seeds.
I keyed in the coordinates and the command for a planetside
picture on half my screen. A moment later, I was staring at a
twig with two leaves. A baby oak tree. Someday its roots would
spread deep into the land, its thick trunk would support the
strong branches that would provide nesting areas and shelter
for birds, its acorns would feed the chipmunks and squirrels,
and it would produce oxygen that the animals needed to breathe.
A tree was a wonderful piece of creation.
“You look pleased,”
Stev said as he approached my console.
“Tree,” I said, grinning like a fool.
“That is your assignment, Willow,” he replied, trying
to maintain a somber expression. Then he glanced at the screen
and his eyes narrowed. He looked at my twig of a tree and then
at the numbers for each species.
“How'd you get that many trees out of the generation tanks so fast?”
I stiffened a little, but there was nothing in his voice – like
there would have been in Benj's or Zerx's – that implied
I was getting preferential treatment because both my parents
were Restorers. “I requested twenty percent of the stock
as mature trees old enough to begin self-reproduction, thirty
percent as saplings, and the rest as seeds.”
It could take days for the generation tanks to produce a mature
specimen, depending on how fast the growing process was accelerated.
It didn't take the tanks more than a few hours to produce healthy,
viable seeds.
Stev whistled softly. He didn't say anything for a minute. Then,
with his eyes fixed on the little oak tree still on my screen,
he said, “The Blessed All has given you a gift for this
kind of work. You'll be on a Restorer's team the moment you're
fully qualified.”
With a smile that was a little sad, he went back to his own
console. And I went back to staring at the little oak.
Restorers. That's what the 87 people who are the heart of our
city-ship are called. They give purpose to what would otherwise
be an aimless wandering through the galaxy.
The Scholars say that, a very long time ago, we lived four score
and seven years. Our people now live forty score and seventy
years – 870 years. They say that the Blessed All granted
us the knowledge to extend our life spans so that we could make
Atonement. That is why the city-ships that are now the home of
our people were created –
so that we could make Atonement by restoring worlds that had
been ravaged, either by an outside disaster or by the disasters
that had been caused by the beings who had lived there.
And it is part of our Atonement that we live in a world made
of metal, that we never walk on a world we have restored, that
we never feel the breeze that ruffles the leaves or smell the
wildflowers...or press our hands against the bark of a tree we
planted.
The Scholars never say why we have to make Atonement, but they
know. You can see the sorrow that's always in the back of their
eyes after they complete their training and are told the Scholars'
Secrets.
So this restoration of damaged worlds is our way of making Atonement
to the Blessed All for some failure long in our past. The Restorers
and their teams are the ones who shoulder that responsibility.
I can't remember a time when I didn't want to be a Restorer – not
because of the prestige that goes with the title, but because
I love to watch things grow.
My console chirped a query, reminding me that I had work to
do.
Blanking my screen, I called up the dot map that would show
me the placement of the trees. I still had acorns, some sapling
ash and birch, and one young willow left from my first allotment
of trees, and I wanted to use them for the start of a new woodland.
As I brushed my finger over the direction pad on my console,
intending to shift the dot map and look at the coastline, my
hand jerked. I shook it, wondering why it had done that since
the muscles didn't feel cramped.
The Scholars say that it is in small ways that we sometimes
pay no attention to that the Blessed All shows us our path.
When I looked at the screen, my hand poised above the direction
pad to shift position back to my team's designated area, I saw
the other island. It was to the west of the student's island
and about one-third the size –
which didn't make it a small island by any means.
Curious about who the Restorer was, I keyed in the coordinates
and asked the question. Every Restorer had a specific code so
that other Restorers could quickly find out who was working on
a particular section of the planet.
There was no Restorer code for that island.
Thinking I'd made a mistake when I keyed in the coordinates,
I did it again.
That wasn't right.
I requested soil analysis data. Maybe the Restorer teams had
missed this island when they had carefully laid down the microbes
and bacteria that were the first step in restoration. Maybe the
land was still too toxic to support life, and that's why no one
was working it.
No, the land was fertile and waiting.
I closed my eyes. It was rash. It was foolish. I would never
be granted a land mass that size for a special project. And even
if I was, I wouldn't be able to achieve Balance without a team
to help me.
But I could feel an ache in my bones that I knew was the land's
cry to be filled with living things again.
I wanted to answer that cry so much.
A soft warning beep reminded me that I had other land to tend.
I called up the screen that listed the trees and the numbers
of each species.
My mouth fell open. For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
During the time when my thoughts had been elsewhere, ten percent
of my trees had been destroyed.
Yesterday, Dermi had placed three deer in the meadow that bordered
the woodland – which was fine because the meadow was already
well-established and could feed them.
Now, fifty deer had been plunked in the middle of the
woodland. There was nothing else for them to eat, so they were
devouring my seedling trees.
My fingers raced across the keyboard as I wrote an Urgent request
to Dermi for the immediate transfer of the deer to other viable
positions within our designated area.
I could have just shouted across the room – and, sometimes,
we did that – but every request had to be backed up with
written data. The computer could override any request that wasn't formally
made because that trail of requests and memos was what our Instructors
used, in part, to judge our work. And that was sometimes very
frustrating. We weren't graded just on our individual work
but on the team's ability to maintain Balance.
I sat back, trying not to bite my nails while I waited for Dermi's
response. It wouldn't take long. Urgents always got top priority.
Minutes passed.
I swiveled my chair and looked at Dermi. She was sitting there,
inputting data as calmly as you please.
I sent another Urgent request. And waited.
I attached a verification requirement to the third request to
confirm that she was receiving the Urgents.
The verification came back. Dermi had gotten the requests and still wasn't
doing anything.
Throughout the first part of that morning, I continued sending
requests while I watched the numbers of my trees fall and fall
and fall.
When midmorning came, I sent an Urgent request to Fallah, who
was handling large carnivores, and asked for a sufficient number
of predators who ate deer to be brought to the woodland. At that
point, I didn't really care what kind of carnivore she used as
long as they would start eating the deer before the deer ate
the entire woodland down to the ground.
By the time the computer chimed the signal for the midday break,
there were 125 deer in a woodland that wasn't ready to support
even one and still maintain Balance.
Instead of transferring deer out, Dermi had responded
to each Urgent request by sending more deer in.
And Fallah hadn't sent one carnivore.
I blanked my screen before going to the foodcourt where the
older students gathered for the midday meal. When Stev asked
me what was wrong, I brushed him off. I didn't mean to be rude;
I just couldn't talk to anyone. He still brought his plate over
and sat at the same table. Not next to me or anything, but he
was there, along with Thanie and Whit.
I picked at my food, choking down enough to give my body fuel
for the rest of the day.
As we headed back to our classroom, Thanie tugged on my tunic
sleeve to slow me down. Not that I was eager to go back in and
find out how much damage had been done in the past hour.
“I overheard Dermi and Fallah talking,” Thanie said
in a low voice. “You're not going to get any carnivores.”
“Why not?” I said loudly enough to have Thanie shushing
me.
“Because Dermi's in a snit because Stev went to the concert
with you last night, and Fallah is Dermi's best friend.”
“Stev didn't go to the concert with me,” I
hissed back at her. “A group of us went together – including
you.”
“I know that. But Dermi wanted Stev to ask her. So she's not
going to give you any help and neither is Fallah.”
I'd spent a month creating that woodland. A month's worth of
work, and all that life I had drawn from the genetic material
so carefully stored... All of it wasted because Dermi was jealous.
As I walked to my console, I looked at Dermi. She and Fallah
had their heads together, whispering. There was something smug
and mean about the way they stared at me.
I called up the data on my screen. And for the rest of the afternoon,
I watched my woodland die.
I didn't give Dermi and Fallah the satisfaction of seeing me
cry.
I also didn't plant any trees to replace the ones that had been
devoured.
I just sat there...and watched.
Toward the end of the day, when we were supposed to write the
report of the day's activity for our Instructors to review, Zerx
sprang her nasty little surprise
– her payback for Benj saying she looked like a bug.
I wasn't paying attention to much of anything until Whit yelled, “ZERX!”
Whit sent a planetside view to each of our consoles.
Like black clouds descending onto the meadowlands were swarm
upon swarm upon swarm of locusts.
Zerx must have used almost her entire quota for insect life
to create them.
And there was nothing any of us could do until class began again
the next morning.
I think that's why I did it.
Instead of writing my activity report, I used my personal computer
pad to write a request for a special project, a piece of land
where I would have complete control, where I would be the only
one responsible for achieving
– and maintaining – Balance.
I asked for the other island.
I requested a Restorer screen around it, which meant that life
forms could be transferred through the force field around the
island with my consent, but nothing could slip through on its
own. I requested monitor blanking –
a Restorer could override that request, but no one else would
be able to see what I was doing unless he or she knew my password.
I sent in my request, blanked my console screen, and went to
the living quarters I shared with my parents.
Mother always says that a person must have a life beyond the
work. She belongs to a musical society. Father belongs to a theater
group. They seldom “talk shop”
at dinnertime unless something special happened – or they
talk about their work as a way to answer the questions that usually
spill out of me while I tell them about my classwork.
I didn't talk about what happened in class that day. Since they
both seemed concerned about something that I sensed they wouldn't
talk about while I was there, I also didn't tell them about requesting
a special project. After all, I wasn't sure I would get it anyway.
Student special projects were usually limited to a few acres
of land, not a whole island.
As soon as dinner was finished, I mumbled something about needing
to prep for class tomorrow and went to my room. Normally, I would
have spent at least an hour going over details and getting requests
ready to submit to the techs who oversaw the generation tanks.
Instead I took the hologram from its special place on the shelf,
set it on my workspace, and turned it on.
*****
When I was a little girl, my mother asked me what I wanted for
my birthday, which was still a couple of weeks away. I told her
I wanted a tree.
The day of my birthday, just before the time when Mother usually
programmed the food slot for the evening meal, Father muttered
something about having a bit of business to take care of and
left.
Before I could express my disappointment that he wasn't going
to celebrate my birthday, Mother held out her hand and smiled. “We
have a bit of business to take care of, too.”
We went to the room where her team worked. It was the end of
the day shift, and there were only a couple of her assistants
in the room. When they saw us, they smiled and left. At the time,
I was too young to realize that a Restorer's room was never left
unattended and there was something unusual about them all leaving
like that.
Mother led me to the large console where she worked. She sat
me on her lap, and with her hand over mine, she opened a screen
that showed a planetside picture of a creek. Her hand guided
mine as we set the coordinates and issued the command codes.
A few minutes later, a young willow tree stood near the bank
of the creek.
“There's your tree, Willow,”
Mother said quietly.
I don't know how long we sat there, Mother with her arms around
me and her cheek resting against my head, just watching the light
breeze flutter the willow's leaves.
When she finally blanked the screen and we returned to our living
quarters, Father was waiting for us, his smile a little hesitant.
And I knew then that, just as my mother had arranged for me
to plant that tree, my father had personally overseen its growth
in the generation tanks. But that wasn't his business that evening.
After dinner and the birthday sweet, I got my other present – a
hologram of that young willow by the creek. While Mother and
I had been planting the tree, Father had arranged to have the
hologram made so that I would be able to keep that moment.
In all the years that have come and gone since then, that hologram
has remained my most treasured gift.
