The authorities tried to discourage my parents from making the trip, but they insisted. They got no farther than one of the huge intake lobbies thronged with families saying good-bye.
“I’d have thought there’d be almost no one here,” Mother murmured. “Surely people can’t still be having children that are fives and over!”
“It’s the backlog,” Father murmured in return. “They’re limited by the capacity of the elevators and the availability of transport ships. There are only four elevator terminals, one each in Sumatra and South America, two in Africa. There’s been some talk about building more of them as ocean-based platforms, but the last time that was tried, a tsunami took it out. The problem is, building more would be expensive, and Earth can’t afford it.”
“I thought people would be flowing out,” Mother insisted. “This is more of an ooze…”
“I’m not in any hurry,” I interrupted. My voice didn’t sound like me. It was a firm, solid voice, like a shield. Someone else had given it to me. I couldn’t have contrived it on my own.
“That’s the spirit,” Father said, falsely cheerful. “You’ll probably be here quite a while. We’ll find a room nearby and visit you…”
The outposting officer, a tall woman with a shaved head and sharp, black eyes, immediately made the question of visitation irrelevant. “I’m a specialist in colony assignments, Margaret. You’ve studied ET languages.”
“Some,” I acknowledged.
“Some is better than nothing. If you ask for a colony posting, we can send you there rather than into bondage. Colony planets are in need of linguists.”
Mother ventured, “Would it be…someplace where my husband and I could go with her? So we could be together?”
The officer gave her a brief smile, almost a grimace. “Sorry, ma’am. The ships aren’t ours, they’re Omniont and Mercan ships. Earthgov has negotiated for a few colonist slots on each one; it’s the only way we can afford to send additional colonists, and we send no one over twenty-five. Anyone older than that doesn’t pay back the shipping costs.”
Father said, “A colony would be better, wouldn’t it?”
The officer replied, “Most people think so, yes.”
“What…where is the colony?” I asked. “I mean, what do people do there?”
“All colonies start out as agricultural,” the officer explained. “Then we recapitulate the history of civilization, from the ground up, though we cut a few millennia off the process. We go in as agriculturists, build livestock herds, then start prospecting for natural resources. We reinforce the population with additional colonists as soon as the food supply is adequate, then begin extraction of natural resources and get some wind and hydro power plants going. Except for Eden and Cranesroost, we’re well beyond that point in our colonies.”
“So, why do they want linguists?”
“Trade. As soon as a colony has something to sell, usually agricultural or mining products, somebody has to sell it. The income helps support the inflow of former bondspeople from the nearby Omniont and Mercan worlds.”
I found this puzzling. “But, if the colonists have been on Omniont worlds, haven’t they learned the languages?”
“Races who buy bondspeople do not teach them the local language. They communicate through interpreters. They find the idea of conversing with their workers repulsive.”
“I’d like to use the languages I learned,” I said, surprised at a feeling of sudden warmth. I’d felt frozen for days, but this felt…it felt right. “Which colony would you send me to?”
“You’ll be randomly assigned by a ship assignment computer. It separates bondspersons and colonists, then divides the colonists up by age, sex, skills, and the like, and assigns them singly or in small groups by chance. It avoids favoritism.”
Mother cried, “But how will we know where she is?”
The officer started to speak, then looked down and shook her head slightly. I knew she was about to tell a lie. When the officer looked up, smiling, she said, “Your daughter will be able to send you a message after she’s settled, but you don’t need to worry about her. People her age are always adopted by adults. She won’t be struggling on her own.”
The words felt like truth, including the encouraging smile the officer sent my way. Something about it had been misleading, however. True, but misleading. I almost asked, “What is it you’re not telling us?” but stopped myself. There was no point in drawing out my departure.
The officer had obviously dealt with this situation before. The moment the interview was completed, an usher took me by the arm and led me away as the sounds of Mother’s farewells faded into the background. I didn’t look back. It was all I could do to stay on my feet.
The first stop was a cavernous dormitory with numbered beds, where I was told to wait. I waited. Within the hour, someone found me there and told me where the toilets were and where the commissary was while attaching an elevator number tag around my wrist and a numbered identity disk around my neck. The fasteners of both items, I was told, were unbreakable.
“These are your coveralls, put them on. These are your shoes. Put what you’re wearing into your baggage, put the shoes on just before you move to the pods. These are your baggage tags, attach them carefully. Bags are shipped separately.”
I changed into the overalls and packed my clothes. I set the shoes on the foot of my bed, where I wouldn’t forget to put them on. I tagged my baggage. Time passed while I sat in a cocoon of fog, too deadened to be afraid. Eventually, a loudspeaker summoned everyone to the adjacent commissary for a meal. The food was like all food, tasteless. No one seemed to be hungry. Back in the dormitory, after slow hours of nothing, I fell asleep, only to be wakened by another usher with a list.
“Ship change,” the woman said. “You’ll be going up this morning.”
I fought down a surge of panic, telling myself it was better to be going anywhere than staying where I was. “Going up” meant putting on
