What’s confiscated takes place in the twin world of Anar and Urras
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A wall existed. Its significance was debatable. Constructed from unshaped stones, it stood visible to adults, while even children could scale it. Where it bisected the road, rather than a gate, it merely melded into geometric lines and borders. However, the concept of the wall was tangible. That was crucial. For seven generations, this wall had been paramount.
Like all walls, it represented duality. What lay within and what lay beyond depended entirely on which side you viewed it from.
From one perspective, the wall enclosed a desolate 60 acres known as Anarl Port. This place featured large gantry cranes, rocket pads, three warehouses, a truck garage, and a dormitory. The dorm was sturdy yet grimy, lacking in life. No garden flourished, no children played. Clearly, it was uninhabited, intended for only temporary use. In actuality, it functioned as a quarantine zone, encasing not just the landing fields but also the spacecraft, their crews, and the vast universe beyond. Anar remained outside its confines, unshackled.
Viewed from the opposite side, the walls enclosed the Anar, capturing the entire planet within. Here, significant detention facilities stood, isolated from other civilizations and populations, perpetually quarantined.
Numerous individuals traversed the road toward the landing field or lingered where the road intersected the wall.
Many hailed from the nearby city of Abenay, eager to catch a glimpse of the spacecraft or simply to behold the wall itself. After all, it was the singular boundary wall in their realm. There were no prohibitive signs to indicate trespassing. This was particularly captivating for the youth, who approached the wall, sitting atop it. There might have been gangs unloading wooden frames from trucks in the warehouse, or cargo vessels on the pads. Although the freighter only docked eight times a year, usually unannounced aside from Syngix, which operated at the port, the young ones remained. A foreman emerged from one of the warehouse crews and declared, “Today we are closing for our brothers.” Adorned with her defensive arm band, she was as rare a sighting as a spacecraft. Her tone remained composed, though it was the last moment of normalcy. As the foreman, she knew she would be supported by her Syngix if provoked. And, realistically, there was little to behold. The aliens, known as Owarders, remained concealed within their ship, revealing nothing to their spectators.
It was equally monotonous for the defense crew. Sometimes, the Foreman hoped for someone to attempt crossing the wall, or perhaps an alien crew to make an attempt to leap onto the ship. Yet, such events never transpired — nothing ever occurred. If an incident did arise, she was ill-prepared for it.
Cargo ship captain Mindful queried, “Is that crowd gathered around my ship?”
The Foreman noticed a genuine throng, over 100 individuals gathered at the gate. They stood there as people do when hunger drives them to crowd around food stalls. This reality filled the Foreman with dread.
“No. They’re just… protesting,” she confessed slowly with a constrained breath. “Protest, you know. A passenger?”
“You mean they’re protesting this jerk we’re supposed to transport? Are they trying to stop him, or us?”
To the Foreman, the captain’s insult, an untranslatable term in her language, meant nothing, yet she was unsettled by its sound and tone. “Can you manage things?” she asked curtly.
“Of course. Just ensure you expedite the rest of this cargo and get this passenger jerk aboard. We won’t face any issues,” he replied, tapping at the peculiar objects on his belt, metallic shapes resembling distorted appendages, all while exuding disdain toward the women.
She dismissed him, “The boat is operational 14 hours a day,” she affirmed. “Safeguard your crew. A 40-hour lift-off. Leave a note for ground control if you require assistance.” She strode away before the captain could retort. Her irritation intensified towards both her crew and the encroaching crowd. “Clear the way!” she instructed as she neared the wall. “The truck needs passage; someone will get hurt. Move aside!”
The men and women in the crowd exchanged apprehensive glances with her. They made tentative crossings over the road, with some pressing against the wall. However, they largely ensured a clear passage. While the Foreman had never taken charge of a mob, they had no experience of solitary decision-making. Lacking the communal emotion, members of the crowd stood immobile, disregarding the Foreman’s calls for compliance. Their naïveté spared the lives of those aboard the ship.
Some were there to exact vengeance on the traitors. Others sought to obstruct his departure, hurling shouts of indignation, or merely to get a glance at him. But these diverse intentions obstructed the singular aim of one assassin. Though the couple possessed knives, none brandished firearms. Their attack would be a physical confrontation. They aimed to take matters into their own hands. Expecting the traitor to be safeguarded within the vehicle, they watched intently. When he appeared, striding alone down the road, clashes broke out with an irate driver inspecting the cargo truck. Once they recognized him, he was already advancing across the field, pursued by five defensive synjics. The individuals intent on his demise relied on speed and accuracy. By the time he reached the ship, they barely missed their target, yet a two-pound flint struck one defense crew member on the head, killing him instantly.
The hatch of the ship sealed shut. The Defense Forces turned away, carrying their fallen comrade, making no attempt to halt the crowd, who hurried towards the ship. The Foreman stood aghast with shock and fury, cursing them as they rushed past, ducking to evade her. Once onboard, crowd leaders paused in a daze, bewildered by the ship’s silence, the sudden motion of the towering gantry, the strange fiery glow of the ground, and the dislocation from human proportions. Steam and gas erupted from the engines, adding to their apprehension as they gazed up towards the Rockets, the immense black void above. Sirens blared warnings, resonating far beyond the field. Gradually, several began to retreat towards the gate. No one detained them. Within a mere ten minutes, the area was cleared, with the throngs dispersing along the path back to Abenay. Ultimately, as it turned out, little had occurred.
This is an excerpt from Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed, the latest selection from the New Scientist Book Club. Join us and read along here.
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Source: www.newscientist.com
