Moonstar by David Gerrold Read Free Book Online Page A

imitation, had painted similar stripes, two black and one white, on her chest. She wouldn’t admit it, of course, but she wanted to earn Potto’s respect so much that she would have done anything for her. But it was obvious—it always is with children—and Potto was basking in the admiration, the first real positive attention she had ever received from Jobe, after so many years of it being directed toward Porro. Which may have been why she asked her to come fishing. They had packed some cold vinegar-ice and dried seaweed and sesame seeds and cucumbers and pickles; they would make their own sushi with the fish they caught.
    Years ago, when the family had been making more use of the northern spit, it being a convenient place to catch small fish, they had built a trap, an elongated channel of rocks and nets leading out into the current of the open sea. The channel narrowed gradually and forced the fish to exit into a large holding pool. The mouth of the channel was too narrow for the fish to find easily, so once in the pool they were usually there to stay. Once or twice a week, someone would have to come up to the pool and either catch some of the fish or release them.
    Grand-Uncle Kossar had built the pool, but died before ever tasting a fish from it. The family had finished it and in earlier days had often used the spit as a site for picnics or late-night festives, but Suko didn’t like to depend on Uncle Kossar’s pool as a staple source because she felt it was too far from the main part of the island. She preferred to hang nets offshore.
    After Potto and Jobe had netted several fish and put them in cages to be towed back home—they would not be killed until just before eating—Jobe pulled off her kilt and dived into the surf.
    â€œDon’t go too far out,” called Potto. “There are undertows.”
    â€œI know it,” Jobe called back, annoyed. “Don’t be an old grandmere.” She felt a twinge of anger that Potto felt a need to remind her—as if she were still some kind of a child. But this was one of her weaknesses—whenever she felt she had to prove herself, she did something stupid and reckless to prove that she was not only as good, but better. Being poor at athletics had forced her to become a foolhardy child to make up for it. She had been remarkably lucky, so far. Satlin was not fabled as a kindly planet.
    Jobe paddled languidly in the surf, letting the waves rock her, enjoying the sensation of just being naked in the water. She rode easily with the waves, bobbing like a cork up and down with every crest and trough of the tide. She moved farther and farther out—not really wanting to swim, content just to tread water—till only the tips of her toes were barely touching the sand beneath. She tried to dig her toes into its soft, almost puddinglike surface; she was on the edge of a shelf where the sands dropped away into empty fathoms. She tried to kick against the bottom again, but the ebb of a wave pulled her seaward just far enough so that to touch bottom she would have to submerge.
    She kicked lightly up and moved her arms to bring her back toward the shore, but the next wave pulled her farther again, just a little bit more than the last. Still unafraid, she kicked again, only now noticing that there was a current. The next ebb of the tide pulled her even harder and farther away from the shore.
    Jobe was till unconcerned. Although not an excellent swimmer, she was competent; all island children were. She struck off toward the shore, stroking hard with her arms and flailing with her legs—she seemed to make good progress too, but the water was receding faster than she was approaching. She found herself even farther out.
    She started swimming hard again—and realized abruptly that she was making no headway at all. She would tire long before she could reach the shore.
    Abruptly, she was scared.
    â€œOh, no—I don’t want to die