Child of Venus (15 page)

A bridge spanned the creek. Their bags sat on the opposite bank, just below a narrow dirt road; Dyami hurried across the bridge to fetch them. Mahala looked up at the house's glassy walls, wondering if Frania was peering out at her, already making judgments about her.

Dyami came back with the duffels slung over his broad shoulders. “Ready?” he asked.

“I guess so.”

“Don't worry, Mahala. Frania's probably just as nervous as you are.”

They climbed the hill. Mahala's reflected image and that of her uncle floated on the house's mirrored surface as they approached. As Dyami was about to press his hand against the door, it slid open.

Amina and Frania were sitting on cushions in the center of the large common room. Mahala took a step forward as the two got to their feet; Amina came to her and took her hand. “I know you must be tired,” she said, “so after you've met Frani, you can rest.”

Dyami set down the duffels. Frania hung back, looking even smaller than she had on the screen.

“Greetings, Frania,” Mahala murmured.

“Salaam,” the other girl said softly.

“You may call my niece Frani,” Amina said. “Everyone else does.”

“Everyone did in ibn-Qurrah,” Frania said, with a harder edge to her voice.

“Maybe you'd like to show Mahala to your room,” Amina murmured, sounding uncertain.

Frania shrugged. Mahala picked up her bag and followed the other girl across the wide floor. The common room took up much of the space of Dyami's house, and its walls were transparent on the front side and the side facing north; there, the house seemed to have no walls. Dyami had designed the dwelling himself, and many other residences in Turing also varied from the simple rectangular house designs of Oberg.

Frania pressed the door open. Two futons lay on the floor, and clothes hung from one of the rods set against the walls. Mahala would, it seemed, have to share the room with the other girl. She had used this bedroom before when visiting. It had been Dyami's room, but he always slept on a futon in the common room whenever she or anyone else was staying here. Another room had been added to the house since her last visit, but maybe her uncle meant to claim that room for himself.

“They put us both in here,” Frania said.

“I can see that.” Mahala looked around. Dyami often admitted that he liked having space around him, and for a bedroom, this room was large. “Well, I'll still have more space here than in my old room in Oberg.”

Frania said, “Look, it wasn't my idea to come here. Amina only brought me to Turing because my grandfather didn't want me. He didn't say so, but I knew. He's old, and he wants to stay with his housemates, and they don't have any more room, and Amina won't move to ibn-Qurrah because she and my grandfather always end up arguing about something sooner or later.”

“Oh.” This was news to her, but Amina had never spoken very often about her father. Mahala rummaged through her clothes. “I don't mind sharing a room, really.”

Frania sat down on a cushion and was silent as Mahala unpacked. “Sometimes I hate this place,” the brown-haired girl said at last.

“Turing? But why?”

“Not Turing—Venus.” Frania shook her head. “My aunt told me about you. She said you didn't have any mother and father, either. Maybe that's supposed to make us friends.”

“I never knew my parents,” Mahala said, trying to be kind. “It must be worse for you.”

“Maybe you should be glad you didn't know them. My parents told me about your parents, about how they used to have to sneak around being afraid of them, worrying about Amina and wondering what the Guide and her friends and all those people in Ishtar might do to her when she was a prisoner. I'll bet they wouldn't have wanted me here if they knew you'd be living in this house.”

“It's not my fault,” Mahala said.

“A lot of people here had a hard time because of your mother. I don't know why your uncle even wanted you to come live with him.”

Mahala stood up. “I don't have to stay here, you know. I can go home to Oberg—I've got grandparents who would be happy to have me back, unlike you.” She turned her back to Frania and hung up her clothes, furious, as she added, “Dyami says the kids at my level here don't go back to school for another eight days. If you can't get along with me by then, I can tell him I want to go home.”

Footsteps pattered across the room. From the corner of her eye, Mahala saw the bedroom door open, then slide shut.

When she came back into the common room, Dyami was working on a small screen. Amina sat at the table with him, nibbling at a piece of fruit.

“Have some food,” Amina said to Mahala.

“I'm not hungry.” Mahala went to the table, which was next to one glassy wall. Outside, near the bottom of a hill that sloped toward the shore of the lake, Frania sat above three small rowboats that had been pulled out of the water. “This isn't working.”

Dyami said, “You haven't given it much of a chance.”

“Things aren't going to get any better.”

“Sit down,” he said. “Let me sketch you.” She sat down on a cushion, keeping still as Dyami's stylus moved over his screen. “Our shifts at the refinery begin again tomorrow,” he went on, “so Amina and I won't be home until nearly last light. You'll have some time alone with Frania, and all I ask is that you tidy up your room and check the greenhouse. You might find that you get along after all.”

“But what if we don't?”

Amina reached for her cup. “Then Frani and I will move,” the yellow-haired woman said.

“Move? Where?”

“To Tasida's house. She has more room now, with Lorie deciding to move out. She's always wanted me there anyway, and she'd welcome another child in her house.”

Mahala looked down. “I thought you liked it better here.”

Tasida Getran was Amina's lover, but Amina lived with Dyami because, as she put it, she needed more solitude than she would find in Tasida's house, among the physician's housemates and the patients and friends who often called on her. Dyami would offer temporary quarters to new arrivals with no place to stay, but most of the time, he kept to himself. Even his lover Balin did not stay with him for more than a few days at a time.

Dyami glanced up from his screen. “I'd miss you,” he said to Amina.

“I'd miss you, too, Dyami, but staying with Tasida and her housemates might be good for me, and you may be ready to have other people live with you here. Maybe we've both been too reclusive for too long.”

“I agree—that's why the girls should stay.”

“But if they can't get along—”Amina pushed another cup toward
Mahala. “If you're not hungry, at least have some juice.”

Mahala stared at the cup. Dyami and Amina might have to disrupt the peaceful life they had made for themselves because of her. Their peace, she knew, had been hard-won and was precarious even now; the suffering they had endured as prisoners before the Revolt still marked them. During her previous visits, she had occasionally been awakened by the screams Amina's nightmares evoked or had left her room in the night to find Dyami sitting up, brooding, unable to sleep.

She said, “If we can't get along, I'll go back to Oberg.”

Amina's blue eyes widened. “You're homesick—is that it? Do you want to go back?”

“No, but it's better than having you move out of Dyami's house.”

Dyami set down his screen. “I wanted to have you here. I thought being here would be good for you. Maybe I was wrong.”

Mahala got to her feet and went to the door, then stepped outside. A slender man with curling black hair was walking toward her; she recognized Balin. On the opposite side of the creek, a group of about twenty young people was coming in this direction. Some were older children, while others seemed to be in their early teens; they were massed together, keeping pace with Balin. Apparently Frania had already noticed them. The small girl was hurrying up the hill toward the bridge.

Mahala went down the grassy slope toward Balin. “Greetings,” she called out.

“Mahala.” The Habber raised his hand, but his smile seemed hesitant. The crowd of boys and girls had halted by the bridge, but did not come across it; three were carrying what looked like long rolls of cloth under their arms. Frania watched them for a few moments, then turned toward Balin and Mahala.

“That's, uh, Frani Milus,” Mahala murmured, remembering the other girl's nickname. “Amina's niece,” she added.

“I know. We've met.” Balin held up a hand in greeting. Frania nodded at him, but he was staring past her at the crowd on the other side of the bridge.

“They're here again,” Frania said as she came to Balin's side.

He said, “There are more of them this time.”

“Who are they?” Mahala asked.

“Children who want us to do more for them than we can,” Balin replied. Some among the group were unrolling the cloth they had brought with them; the sheets were covered with lettering. They sat down, holding up the cloth signs; one was in Arabic, the other two in Anglaic.

THE WORLD WE WANT IS NOT HERE, one sign read. Another said: GIVE VENUS LIFE SO THAT WE CAN HAVE OUR OWN LIVES. Mahala had been studying Arabic on her screen, but did not know enough to be sure of what the third sign said.

“Habitat-dweller, help us!” one boy shouted. Others took up the cry. “Habitat-dweller, help us!”

“What is it?” Mahala said.

“Don't be afraid,” Balin said. “They won't hurt us. All of these demonstrations have been peaceful so for.”

“You mean it's happened before?”

The Habber nodded. “They've been calling on my people to terraform this planet as quickly as possible, to speed up the process somehow—as if we could somehow magically shorten the time needed to make this world live. I've never been sure if, after that, their wish is to stay here or to come to live with us.”

“‘We are slaves of the Project, in bondage to Earth's dreams,'” Frania said tonelessly. Mahala glanced at her, startled. “That's what the sign in Arabic says.”

She had not known that the other girl already read Arabic. She thought of what Solveig had told her the other night, about the chance that the Project might fail.

“This group's larger than the last one,” Dyami said behind her; Mahala had not heard him come down the hill. The children fell silent.

“What are you going to do?” Balin asked.

“Nothing,” Dyami said, “as long as they just sit there and they're peaceful. Their families have to handle this. I'm not about to make a formal complaint about children expressing their opinions.” In spite of his reasonable words, he sounded angry, his voice low and strained.

“They've come here before?” Mahala said.

“Yes,” Dyami said, “when Balin comes to visit. They'll go away.”

“They used to come to the Habber residences here,” Balin said, “and sit there with their signs. Lately, they've taken to following some of us around.”

Dyami linked his arm through Balin's. “Come inside.” The two men climbed toward the house. Mahala was about to beckon to Frania when the other girl sat down.

“Maybe they're right,” Frania said.

“About the Project?”

“The Project killed my parents.”

“It was an accident,” Mahala said. “That doesn't make it any
easier for you, but—”

“This planet killed them. Maybe it killed your parents, too. Maybe they would have been better people somewhere else.” Frania turned; her hazel eyes were filled with tears. “Some of your people went to live in the Habs, didn't they?”

“Just my great-uncle and my other grandfather.”

“And they're still alive, aren't they? They'll be alive for a long time. They'll be alive when all of us here are dead. Maybe they'll be alive forever.”

“You don't know that for certain. Habbers can die—Balin will tell you that. So would my great-uncle Benzi.” Mahala paused. “I guess I can understand why you hate this place.”

“I didn't used to hate it. Once I wanted to stay in ibn-Qurrah forever. I
didn't—” She let out a sigh, then bowed her head.

The children across the bridge were getting to their feet, rolling up their long pieces of cloth. They drifted away slowly, in groups of two or three, some moving alongside the creek, others wandering toward the lake. These demonstrations could not have been going on for very long; she had visited Dyami less than a year ago and had not seen anything like this.

She could understand why Dyami had sounded so angry and even a bit frightened. Perhaps the Ishtar cult her mother had led had started the same way, with just a few people who dreamed of something beyond the Project.

“I shouldn't have said what I did to you,” Frania said. “Before. In our room.”

“It's all right,” Mahala replied. “I shouldn't have been so mad at you, either. I'm not angry with you anymore.”

“I'm lucky I've got Amina.” Frania slowly got to her feet. “I'd better go back inside and show her I'm not still angry at you.”

Mahala stood up. “I'll come with you, Frania. Friends?” She extended her arm.

“Yes, friends,” Frania said as she clasped Mahala's hand.

 

8

Mahala struggled to breathe in the heat. The entire species would die out, all of the small furry creatures that huddled near her feet. The air was close and warm, the few plants inside the small dome wilting. Leaves and stalks had been eaten by the animals, chewed down to their roots; little was left except the lichens and moss. A small rodent clutched at her foot. They might survive for another two generations, but their grim fate was certain after that; the air would be unbreathable, the plants that fed them gone.

She removed the slender band from around her head. Wil-helm Asher, her teacher, was talking to one of the other students, but Balin was assisting him in the classroom. She beckoned to the Habber; he rose and came toward her.