Moon Cross
Lynnie's mom made her dress up.
"But Mom, I'm going to be underground for most of it," Lynnie pointed out, very reasonably she thought. "And it won't even fit right, I bet." She was much skinnier than Jen Beamer, from whom the dress had been borrowed.
"That doesn't matter," her mother said. "It's a special day and you need to look nice. Both of you."
"C'mon, Ma," Ryan grumbled, poking at the shirt and pants she'd laid out for him. "What are the diggers gonna care?"
"Terrians," Lynnie corrected him, annoyed. "They don't dig, they kind of . . . phwoosh." She flew her hand through the air, trying to demonstrate the motion of the Terrians underground.
"The phwooshers?" he repeated. "Nah. Doesn't do it for me." He grinned at her. She made a face back at him.
"Never mind what the Terrians do or don't do," their mom said, exasperated. "You are going to look nice tonight. Especially since this the first time in awhile that we don't have to fit anything over an immunosuit."
Lynnie had to admit that improved the ensemble. But she was still complaining about it half an hour later. "I bet Uly doesn't have to dress up," she said as her mom herded her out the door. "I bet his mom knows it doesn't matter."
Ryan slouched ahead of her, swearing under his breath. His hair, wet-combed, lay flat on his head like a coat of paint, and he kept trying to loosen the buttons at his throat. Brenda said, "Ryan, stop it."
"Rrrr," he growled, but let go of them.
Just outside, they ran into the Adairs. Uly wore black pants, a white shirt, and a disgusted expression. His mom and Lynnie's both said, "See?" at the same time.
Lynnie traded resigned looks with him. They fell into step and he leaned over to say, "Pink?"
"I like pink," she said, and tugged her sleeve back up as it tried to slither down her arm. "'Least it's not silver. Are you nervous?"
"Nope," he said. "Are you?"
"Nope."
He glanced around and saw that his mom was deep in conversation with Lynnie's. "My mom is," he reported.
"So's mine. I keep telling her we're not doing anything dangerous."
He shrugged. The staffs they carried bumped against the ground as they walked. Uly had told Lynnie how to make hers, what to put on top of it to show who she was and how old she was. They were going to use them tonight.
They fell further behind, far enough for private conversation, close enough so their moms wouldn't try to check on them. "I think," he said softly, "she's scared it won't work."
Lynnie looked at him sideways, chewing her lip. "What do you think?"
He looked up at the moons. "I think my mom doesn't know the Terrians like I do."
"Nice for you," she said.
He gave her a smile, one of the ones that lit up his face. "You will too," he said.
The town square was full. All the other kids had to dress up, too, Lynnie noted. Apparently, you just couldn't get away from it, this parental mania for looking nice because it was a special day.
The sun had set less than an hour before, but all the lights in the square were on, creating a bubble of yellowy-white light. A constant babble of conversation, tense and nervous, covered the night sounds.
Uly said, "Lynnie, look." He pointed at one of the windows of the hospital.
She looked. "It's Max." Their one-time friend stared out the window at the crowd in the square. The look on his face made Lynnie's stomach hurt. "Why won't his dad--" she started.
"I don't know," Uly said, and he sounded angry. "It's not fair."
"Couldn't we just--"
"The Terrians won't take him," Uly said flatly. "Not unless his dad agrees."
"He'll never do that," Lynnie said.
Their eyes met. In silent agreement, they turned away from what they could not change.
True came up, with Molly. "Hey."
"Hi," Uly said.
She bounced a few times. "When are they getting here?"
"Soon," said Uly, Lynnie, and Molly, all at the same time.
She gave them all a thoughtful look. "Is that a Moon Cross thing, or a talking-to-Terrians thing?"
The three looked at each other and shrugged, baffled.
True sighed. "It's going to be weird, having more kids like you guys around here," she said to Lynnie and Uly.
"Better than the other way," Molly said.
"Yeah, I--"
Lynnie turned her head sharply to stare at the ridge just west of town. A moment later, a line of Terrians had appeared along it, rising out of the ground. They stood, silver-edged shadows with their tall, intricate staffs.
Uly said clearly, "They're here, Mom. It's time."
His mom, standing a few feet away, looked around. "Okay. Thanks, honey." She raised her voice. "Everybody? Can I have your attention? The Terrians are here."
A rustle went through the crowd. The babble peaked, then died away.
"Okay," she said. "We've talked about what to do. Now it's time." She turned and gestured to Lynnie and Uly, and only they saw how her fingers trembled. "Go on."
Lynnie started out of the square, Uly keeping pace. As they crossed the border from the warm yellow lights in the square into the cool silvery light of the two moons, she felt her stomach roll. In spite of what she'd told Uly earlier, all of a sudden, she was nervous. Her breath came fast, and her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Distantly, she was aware of the others falling into step behind the two of them, but her entire focus was on the Terrians. Waiting.
As they climbed the ridge, the Terrians shifted, forming a huge, loose circle with an open space just where Uly and Lynnie would arrive. By unspoken consent, they stopped and turned just before that point.
Lynnie looked out over the assembled townspeople and thought Wow. There are a lot of people in New Pacifica.
Uly's mom stood just below them, staring up at the Terrians. She cleared her throat. For the first time ever, Lynnie saw her stutter. "I just--I--I wanted to say thank you. Uly, can you tell them--"
"They know, Mom," he said.
She let out her breath and gave a wobbly smile. "Yes, I suppose they do." She looked over her shoulder, then turned back. "Neighbors," she said. "We've brought you the children of New Pacifica. We give them to you of our own free will, as promised."
Uly trilled, translating. People with whom we share our earth, we have brought you the seeds of our ground. We release them willingly, as we promised.
The head Terrian inclined his head, and trilled back. We take your seeds to ourselves. We will tend them with our greatest care, and release them to you when their hurts are repaired.
Uly said, "He says--um--he says they'll take care of them, and they'll bring them back."
Devon nodded, then bowed her head for a moment before stepping back, leaving the path clear for the parents to bring their children up.
For a moment, nobody moved. A terrible fear seized Lynnie, that everyone had all changed their minds at the same time. The Head Terrian looked down at Molly's mom. Dreamer. You know what we intend.
She nodded, imperceptibly, and stepped forward with Angie in her arms.
Lynnie traded startled looks with Uly. Nobody had told them that Molly's mom could talk to Terrians. Well, geez. Nobody told kids anything.
The Ketchums hiked up the ridge and stopped just between Uly and Lynnie. Mrs. Ketchum knelt and let Angie sit on the ground. She took her hand and kissed her. Her dad gave her a kiss, too, stroking her hair with one hand. They both stepped back.
Molly fell to her knees before her sister and threw her arms around her. This close, Lynnie could hear her whisper, "It's all going to be okay, Angie. They'll take care of you."
"I know," Angie said, hugging her back.
Molly looked up at the Terrians and smiled, her lips trembling. She got up and rushed back down the ridge to stand next to her parents. They both put their arms around her.
Lynnie looked down at Angie. She had to hold herself up with both arms, but her eyes, too large in her sunken face, sparkled with excitement. A lightning-fast grin crossed her face.
Slowly, the other parents began coming up, setting their children down in the circle. Some of them let them go quickly, with only a hurried kiss before they got up and almost ran back down the ridge, as if they had to do it fast or they wouldn't do it at all. Some other parents held onto their children, hugging them, rocking them, whispering in their ear. Some cried silently, tears leaving silvery tracks down their faces. Some didn't speak at all.
The littlest sibs could be heard asking persistent, shrill questions. Their parents shushed them.
None of the Syndrome kids cried or whimpered, not even the tiniest ones. They looked around at the circle of Terrians, then at Lynnie and Uly. They were here; it must be okay. It had always been this way. Everyone had parents, a lot of kids had brothers or sisters, but only other Syndrome kids really, really knew what it was like.
Uly kept looking up at the moons. The smaller one had drifted closer to the edge of the big one. Lynnie leaned over to him as Mrs. Beamer passed, holding Brian's hand. "What is it?"
"Wondering if we'll have time to get underground before the moons cross," Uly said. "I think it'll work better if we do."
Finally, the last parent, Mr. O'Conner, had come up and left Marie in the circle. His hand tightened around hers, and then, with a visible effort, he let go. Lynnie and Uly waited until he'd walked out of the circle, then looked at each other.
"Okay," Uly said.
"Here we go," Lynnie said.
They turned their backs on New Pacifica and stared into the circle. Lynnie rubbed her thumb nervously over a rough patch on the staff. She knew how to sink herself into the ground, because she and Uly had worked on it, but this was other people--lots of other people--
She couldn't feel anything. Shouldn't she be able to feel something?
She looked at Uly. He frowned.
Lynnie wiggled her toes, then stopped. Of course. Duh. "Uly!"
His face cleared, and he said, "Our shoes!"
Leaning on her staff for balance, she wiggled out of her shoes and socks, heaving them outside of the circle as Uly did the same. She didn't even check to see where they landed. She buried her newly bare feet in the chilly grass, curling her toes and getting a little dirt in between them.
Now she felt it, the sense of the earth beneath her, the deep heartbeat of the land itself. She felt it opening up--welcoming her--
She thought, Them too, looking at all the Syndrome kids. "Sit down," she said. "Everyone!"
Uly caught what she was thinking and added, "Put your hands on the ground."
That was important. They had to be touching it directly, no barriers, no cloth or rubber or metal. Just them and the earth.
At the top of her staff, sparks flickered. She looked up, and saw the moons, glowing, filling the sky with their pure light. She took a breath, as if she could drink in moonlight.
Then the earth opened up and took her in.
There was no thought of anyone going to bed.
Healthy children stayed awake as long as possible. The little ones stuck close to their parents' sides or sat in their laps. As the night wore on, John saw more and more sleeping bodies on parents' shoulders. The older ones wandered in restless, loose groups, whispering to each other. The Syndrome kids that had stayed behind were carted away to the hospital. Their parents hovered on the edge of the square, uncertain of their reception among the peers they'd opposed.
Without a word from or to anyone, Cameron started massive vats of soup and kept them warm all night, dishing it out for anyone who came over, adding water when it cooked down, starting a new batch when the supply started getting low. Dishes stacked up on the bar, and some of the parents came over to wash them. "We need to do something," a mother said shakily. "We just need to do something."
John willingly gave up his dish towel and stepped out into the gathering space. Most of the town was milling around the room, their voices echoing off the ceiling. He saw his daughter and Molly sitting on the end of a table, their heads together. He went over. "Hey, you two."
"Hi, Dad."
"Hi, Mr. Danziger."
He thought about telling them to get their butts off the places people were going to eat, but decided it wasn't worth the moaning and groaning from True. "You doing okay over here?"
True swung her legs. "Uh-huh."
Molly smiled like the Mona Lisa. "It's gonna be okay," she assured him. "Everything's gonna be okay."
"Yeah?"
True nodded and swung an arm over the other girl's shoulders. "Molly's got the inside data, Dad."
The knowing smile turned into a big grin, and Molly put her arm around True's shoulders.
"Great," he said. "We could all use some inside data. You just let everyone know that."
"I told my dad," Molly said. "I think he feels better. Sort of."
"Good. Listen, I got a job for you two."
"Aw," True said.
"Aw," he mimicked, and pointed at the tables. "See all those bowls people left behind? How 'bout you take 'em up to the bar to get washed?"
"Why don't they do it?" True complained, but John could tell it was more for the look of the thing.
"They're distracted, kiddo. G'wan. It'll keep you out of trouble. Get some of the other kids to help."
"Hey," Molly said to True. "We can feed the leftovers to the goats."
"That's the spirit," John said. "Just don't feed 'em the bowls on accident." He left them behind and wandered around some, hands in his pockets.
Devon stood up by the slate boards, talking to some parents. As he drew closer, he heard her say, "I'm sorry I can't be more exact. No--no, I'm not sure how these things work. Yes, I know, Lynnie and Uly both came back in the morning, but this is a large group. Let's just see what happens."
The parents left, looking unhappy. Devon leaned back against the board and sighed, rubbing her temple. She looked exhausted, and miserable, and as tense as a overwound spring. Just over her shoulder, her own handwriting said, Days Until Moon Cross: 0
"Hey," John said from a few feet away.
"Hi."
"How you doing?"
"Terrible."
"What are you afraid of, Adair?"
Her head came up. "Excuse me?"
He put his hands on her slumped shoulders. "C'mon, what're you afraid of? That nobody will come back? That the Terrians won't fix 'em?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "What happened to 'everything's going to be okay?'"
"Everything is going to be okay. You know that. You're usually the first person to say it, even if it isn't. So what's all this?"
"I know," she said. "I know. I just keep thinking some disaster's going to blindside me, this close." Suddenly, her eyes glittered with tears. "I've broken so many promises to these people already--a beautiful, modern town, a state-of-the-art hospital--"
"Indoor plumbing," he contributed, wondering if he had a rag on him that wouldn't leave streaks of oil and grease on her face.
"--and all that's bad enough but if I break this promise--this was the first promise, that their children would be all right here. If I break it, I don't know--"
"Okay," he said, gathering her close. "Okay, okay, it's going to be all right."
She looked at him suspiciously. "Are you just saying that to get me not to cry?"
"Hell, no, that's just a side benefit." He rubbed a thumb over her cheekbone. "Listen, Molly says it's going to be all right, and True tells me she's got the inside data."
Her back shuddered, but it was a sort of shaky laugh, not a sob. "Right. Okay. Since Molly says so." She put her head against his chest and let out a sigh.
He rubbed her back for a moment. "Over it?"
"For the moment. I blame it on overexposure to you, by the way."
"Oh, thanks." Since she seemed to have blinked back those horrifying tears, he loosened his hold. But he kept one arm around her. "Tell you what, let's go get some food. Cameron's got plenty."
"Food? Now?"
"C'mon, you know my mission in life is to make you fat and happy."
She smiled at that, but reached up and put her hand over his. "I don't know about fat, but you always make me happy."
"Even when I drive you nuts?"
"Maybe especially then."
The chronometer and the position of the moons both agreed that it was after midnight. Alonzo sat at the bar, staring at nothing. He thought, I should go to bed.
He didn't move.
A voice surfaced from the sleepy background chatter. "Hey, 'Lonz."
He looked over his shoulder. Bess was coming toward him, her usual hip-swinging amble more of a waddle these days. "Hey," he said. He reached out and hooked his foot around a chair leg, dragging it forward. "Sit down, beautiful."
"Thanks," she said, sinking into the chair and rubbing her belly with a deep sigh.
"Feeling all right?" he asked.
"Fine," she reassured him. "Nothing. No contractions or anything."
"Too bad," he said.
"I'm only thirty-five weeks, Alonzo."
"I know, but I was kinda hoping to see Juniorina there before I--before the colony ship left."
She regarded him. "Honey," she said gently, "I don't think it's gonna happen. And I'd just as soon it didn't."
"I know," he said. "I just--" He broke off, and shrugged.
She propped her chin on her hand. "So," she said. "Day after tomorrow, that's the plan?"
"That's the plan."
She sighed. "Seems like it should be farther away."
"I know," he said, rubbing his thumb over a rough spot on the bar. "It always does."
"Did the Terrians say anything tonight?"
Alonzo's thumb stilled. He stared into space, seeing not the stacked barrels of cider and the mugs hanging from hooks, but the Terrians in their ring, the children inside. They'd looked right at him, but where there'd once been dream-whispers echoing in his head, there was now silence.
"No," he said.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well," he said.
He turned on the stool a hundred and eighty degrees, so his back was to the bar and he faced the room. It was quieter now than it had been earlier. The kids who had roamed the room earlier had curled up in booths, whispering or dozing with their heads down. The tables sheltered piles of sleeping toddlers, tumbled together like puppies. Their parents sat on the benches, talking in low voices. Nobody seemed to want to risk missing anything by going to their rooms.
He found Julia right away, sitting at a table with some other doctors and nurses. As if she felt his gaze like a physical touch, she looked over her shoulder at him. As their eyes met, the distance between them felt like a chasm to Alonzo.
Julia turned away.
Bess, who was not blind, said, "You plannin' to talk to her in the next coupla days?"
"Yeah, if she'll let me. I have to say good-bye." He turned deliberately to give Bess a smile. "But that's something I've had a lot of practice at."
Unusually for cheerful Bess, she did not return his smile. "Sorry to contradict you, honey," she said, tracing slow circles over her stomach. "But somethin' tells me you've never truly said good-bye to anyone."
Close to dawn, Devon dozed, her head on John's shoulder as they slumped in one of the booths along the walls. True was sacked out on the other side, her feet hanging off the end of the bench.
She blinked her eyes open, hard, and looked past John's face out the window. Dawn was coming. It couldn't be long now. A few hours earlier, that would have gotten her on her feet, but now she was so tired that she let her eyes slide closed again. Definitely a holiday today, she thought fuzzily, rubbing her cheek on the curve of John's shoulder.Nobody's going to feel like weeding or fishing.
A hand shook her shoulder. "Mom?"
That opened her eyes when nothing else could have. She gazed at her son, kneeling on the bench next to her. "Hi, honey," she said thickly. "How're . . . things?"
"They're good," Uly said. "They're real good, Mom. Come see." He took her hands and tugged. Dimly aware that even Terrian DNA couldn't give a sixty-eight-pound kid the leverage to heft a hundred and thirty pounds of mom, she got her feet under her and stumbled after him. In his sleep, John grunted and muttered something about spanners.
Uly pushed the door open and dragged her out onto the porch.
"Mom," Uly said. "Mom. Look."
She focused.
Children were pouring into the square, toddling, walking, running. All the frail children that had gone with Uly and Lynnie the night before were now tearing around in the light of dawn.
The door banged open behind them and Darla rushed out. "Angie!"
Angie hurled herself into her mother's arms. Darla cried her name over and over, until Rob came and put his arms around them both, and Molly wormed into the group.
Everywhere Devon looked, the scene repeated itself over and over. Weeping, disbelief, near-delirious laughter, hugging, kissing, cuddling. Parents had to touch their children, hands on skin, and look them all over, staring at the miracle of living child who had taken the place of their sickly, dying one. Devon knew that, like her, they would take the extra little "gifts" that the Terrians had stamped on their children's genes, just so they could watch them grow up.
She'd kept her promise.
Exhaustion, joy, and relief crashed together and welled up inside her. Her breath caught and hiccuped several times, and she put her hand to her mouth. It was only when Uly said, "Mom?" that she realized she was sobbing, tears pouring down her face.
"It's okay," she gulped, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close. "It's okay, baby. I'm happy."
He didn't look convinced, but he hugged her back. "We did it, Mom," he said. "The Terrians made them better."
"I know--I see--" Emotion overcame her again. "I really am happy," she told him waterily. "All these kids--"
He rested his head against her stomach, and his shoulders sagged. "Not all the kids."
She turned her head to look where he was looking, and saw Max Sadler staring out the window of the hospital at the scene in the square. After seeing newly-healed children everywhere she looked, Max's paleness looked strange and unnatural to Devon. Her joy dimmed somewhat, and she stroked her hand over Uly's hair, feeling it fluff and curl under her fingers.
"How come it has to be this way?" Uly asked her, tipping his head so far backwards that she looked down into his upside-down face. "How come you couldn't just make his dad agree?"
"Baby, Max's dad made his own choice. I can't make it for him. Do you understand that?"
"It's stupid," Uly said vehemently. "I thought he would change his mind after he saw--"
"There's some things that nobody can change."
He straightened up, then sniffed, hard. "Is Max gonna die?"
"I don't know."
"He's eight."
"But Dr. Vasquez really is working hard on drugs and therapies, and . . ." She let out her breath and looked up at the sky, where the stars were fading from view. "This place is good," she said on a whisper. "It's just . . . it's good."
"Hey, buddy," John said, sleep still thickening his voice. He knelt and ruffled Uly's hair. "Where'd you get all these kids from?"
Uly managed to return the grin. "The Terrians gave 'em to me."
"Good work."
"Where's True?"
John hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Asleep in there. Go wake her up."
Uly took off, apparently forgetting that entire civilizations quaked before the prospect of True Danziger without her eight straight. Devon watched him go. "That wasn't nice," she said.
"Serves him right for being so bright-eyed around us," John said. His hand rasped against beard stubble as he rubbed it over his face. "Better be a rest day."
"Already is," Devon said.
He straightened up and looked around at the reuniting families. "Well. Did I tell you so, or what?"
She smiled at him. "You told me so."
He kissed her. "You did good, Adair."
She put her arm around his waist and leaned in. "Yeah. I know."
After John had held her for awhile, Devon had recovered herself and gone rushing off to organize something or another. He didn't see why she needed to, but he let her go. Probably good to work off some of those emotions.
He put his hands in his pockets and strolled among the reunited families. He had to clear his throat every so often and pretend that he had a cough.
True came through the chaos to meet him, yawning and scrubbing at her eyes. "Hey, baby," he said. "Is Uly still alive?"
"Ha-freakin'-ha," she said grumpily.
He pointed. "You see Molly and Angie?"
True looked, and her face softened at the sight of Molly letting Angie win a short footrace. "She's so happy," she said. "She's so, so happy."
"Yeah," John said. He looked at Rob, holding his wife as closely as John had held Devon a few minutes earlier. "Things worked out."
When he looked down at his daughter, the smile had disappeared, and she stood watching the people around her with an expression that hovered on tears.
"They don't always," she said.
"No," he said, wondering if this were the moment he'd been such a damn coward about--the moment to tell True about his decision regarding her mom.
She looked up at him. "Dad, I need to talk to you about Mom."
He couldn't do anything but stare for a moment. She'd found out--overheard, or, or-- Christalive, she knew what he was going to say already.
Then he focused on her expression. She hadn't heard. She didn't know. She thought that what she was going to say was going to be a shock to him.
She'd done exactly what he'd always raised her to do. She'd faced the truth, unpleasant though it was, and made the tough decision. She was going to tell him that it was time to let go, stop clinging to something that had been gone a long time. To let Elle become a part of their past so that their future could happen.
And she'd done it on her own.
This time, he had to swallow past the lump in his throat three times before he could speak. "Okay, baby. I'm listening."
"Max," Trent said softly.
His son slid down into bed, turning his face away from the window.
Trent sat on his son's bed. Even from here, he could see the other children in the square, whole and healthy, untrammeled by machinery or weakness for the first time in their short lives. He turned away too, putting his arms around his son.
There were still a few parents left in the hospital, sitting by their children's bedsides. They, too, stared out the window at the changed children, and their eyes were filled with desolate longing.
Trent pulled his son closer.
"Everyone's fixed," Max said, his voice muffled in his father's shirt. "Nobody died. The creatures didn't take anyone away with them. I counted."
"Listen," Trent said, and floundered. "Max--I know it looks like they're healthy--"
"They are," Max said. "They're running."
"But they're not human anymore."
"They look like it."
"They're not. I've told you about this. The creatures put pieces of themselves into Uly, and Lynnie, and now into your friends. They're not like us anymore."
"But they'rehealthy," Max whispered.
"You'll get better without the creatures," Trent said. He pitched his voice louder so the other parents who had held out could hear. "You hear me? We don't need them. You don't need to give up your humanity, Max. Do you believe me?"
Max swallowed, then looked out the window again. Then he deliberately turned away, putting his thin arms around his father's neck. The material of his immunosuit slid cold and slick against Trent's skin. "I believe you, Dad."