Child of Venus (20 page)

Frania blushed as she greeted him. Mahala murmured a few words of welcome as she picked up one of his three duffels.

“I won't be with you for more than a few days,” Ragnar said. “One of the engineers said they'd get a temporary shelter up for anyone who doesn't have a place to live.”

“But you have to stay with us,” Frania murmured. “Dyami will insist.
You'll have to sleep in the common room, at least for now, but—”

“That's all right, then. I didn't want to ask Dyami myself, but I was hoping he might let me stay with him.”

“You could have asked,” Frania said, her blush deepening. “We all want you to stay, for as long as you like.”

“I won't be in your way,” Ragnar said. “I asked for a schedule of darktime shifts, so I can sleep when you're all out of the house.”

“You asked for darktime shifts?” Mahala said. Most people took them only reluctantly, when their turns at them came around. “But why?”

“Why not? Anyway, they were glad to let me have them.”

The two duffels the girls had taken were light enough to carry to the house. Ragnar lifted the largest one to his shoulder. “Have you heard anything from Solveig?” Mahala asked.

“Haven't talked to her in a while,” Ragnar replied.

“I was just wondering what she thought about your coming here to work.”

His eyes narrowed. “It was my decision.” He turned and followed Frania toward the road.

“Exactly what kind of work will you be doing?” the other girl asked.

“They've assigned me to digging tunnels for now,” he replied. “But with the dome up already, I'm hoping they'll move me to landscaping.” He went on to speak of his training in both remote and manual control of the machines; apparently, unlike some operators, he had also learned something about repairing the diggers and crawlers. Frania gazed at him raptly whenever the three slowed their pace, as if the story of Ragnar's apprenticeship were the most fascinating tale she had ever heard.

Mahala was soon lagging behind them. They looked perfect together, the two of them, tall and graceful. The last time Ragnar had visited them, over two years ago, he had made a bust of Frania, modeling her face in clay for the mold Dyami helped him cast later at the refinery. Frania had kept still for hours while he worked, the perfect model; Mahala had never been able to stop fidgeting whenever she sat for him. Maybe he would try his hand at painting Frania now that Dyami, in a burst of uncharacteristic extravagance, had spent a huge amount of credit on imported paints and canvases from Earth.

Frania loved Ragnar. Mahala had known that for a while. Now she saw the longing in Frania's hazel eyes, a look that flared into joy whenever Ragnar so much as glanced at her.

A lump rose in Mahala's throat; she swallowed hard. She had never spoken to Frania of her own tangled feelings for Ragnar, partly because she could not be sure of what she actually felt. His emotional distance, the way he seemed to care for nothing but his art, had often convinced her that she disliked him. She had thought she was past her own emotional confusion, that mix of rage and yearning that melted into gratitude for his occasional kindnesses toward her.

But her own feelings for Ragnar did not matter. Frania would be deeply hurt if she ever saw into Mahala's troubled heart; better not to reveal her emotions. Ragnar would only mock her if he ever found out how she felt. He could not possibly care for someone like her when a girl as kind and beautiful as Frania adored him.

“Have you thought about what you want to do?” Ragnar was saying to Frania.

“I didn't know for the longest time,” she replied. “Then, about a month ago, I realized that I did know, and then it was as if I'd known what I wanted to be all along and just hadn't seen it. I'd like to be a pilot.”

Mahala faltered, stunned by this admission, then hastened to catch up with the two. “A pilot?” she said as she came up on Frania's left, bewildered that her friend had not even hinted at this ambition before revealing it to Ragnar. “This is the first I've heard of it.”

“It doesn't surprise me,” Ragnar said. “You always did want to see other places. If you're a pilot, you'll get to visit all the Islands and settlements eventually—and Anwara.”

“Maybe even Earth,” Frania said, “if I can train to be a torchship pilot—but there are enough of those from Earth, so a Cytherian doesn't have much of a chance at that.”

“I thought you were going to try for an Island school,” Mahala said, “and study biology.”

“Oh, Mahala—I couldn't get in. I'm sure of that now. It's kind of a relief to know that, in a way.”

“But we always talked of going together,” Mahala muttered.

“I know we did, but—” Frania stopped and searched Mahala's
face. “I don't think that's really for me, Mahala. Look, once you make it into an
Island school, I can visit you. I'll have to come there anyway for shuttle training.”

“That's if you make it into pilot training,” Mahala said, “or get through it. A lot of people want to be pilots, so they can go here and there and not be stuck in one place most of the time. They can't accept everyone for the job.”

Frania flinched. Ragnar shifted from one foot to the other, obviously annoyed. “I didn't mean that you don't have a chance,” Mahala said hastily.

“I'll make it,” Frania said, sounding more confident than she ever had before. “I've taken some tests, the ones you do with a band and simulations. I did very well. As soon as I try the next tests, I'll tell Amina if I pass them, too. I don't want to say anything to her until I know I have a real chance at becoming a pilot.”

“Come on,” Ragnar said. “I'm going to be starving by the time we get to your house.”

They continued toward the tunnel. Mahala was silent as her two friends, their lives now seemingly mapped out, chattered of their plans.

Ragnar ate a meal of bread and cheese, then suggested a walk along the lake. Mahala followed the two down the rocky slope, feeling as though she was in their way and wishing that she had thought of an excuse to stay behind. But they were likely to run into other young people, since many of their friends spent their free time near the water. Mahala could go off with another group then and leave Frania and Ragnar to themselves.

But the shore was deserted; even the few daring young people who had recently taken up swimming were absent. Mahala searched the trees as they neared the forested land and saw no one.

They had said little while walking. Ragnar let out a sigh and sat down on a clear patch of land as Frania settled herself next to him. Mahala gazed out at the still surface of the nameless lake. No one had given the lake in Oberg's west dome a name, either. They left the landmarks in their environments without names or labeled them according to their functions; they continued to mark time by Earthly days and months and years, as if knowing that they and their artifacts and designations of time and place were only the prelude to the true Cytherian civilization, that nothing in their own culture was likely to endure.

“I like it here in Turing,” Ragnar said then.

“Better than Hypatia?” Frania asked.

“Yeah.” Ragnar shrugged. “Part of that's because of Dyami's house. He picked a good site for it, and I like its design more than that of most houses I've seen. About the only thing I'd do differently with my own house is maybe have it closer to the trees.”

Mahala sat down and folded her legs. “Is that why you came here to work? Because you like it and want to build a house here?”

Ragnar leaned back, resting an arm on one raised knee. “That's part of it.”

“I don't understand you.” Mahala could not restrain herself anymore. “Is that all you want to do with your life, run diggers and crawlers and then go home to your house?”

Ragnar's face paled slightly. “It's what I want to do now.”

“I guess I thought you were more ambitious.”

“Mahala.” Frania touched her arm. “Be fair. What's wrong with that?”

“I didn't say there was anything wrong with it.” Mahala took a breath. “It's just—you could have gone to an Island school, Ragnar. You're smart enough that they probably would have admitted you even with your record. You could have done something else, and you just threw away all your chances.”

“I didn't throw anything away.” Ragnar sat up straight. “I know exactly what I'm doing. I don't much care what kind of job I have, as long as I'm good at it and can earn my credit doing it. The kind of work I'll be doing won't get in the way of my art, and that's what matters to me.”

“Your art?” Mahala shook her head. “Is that all you really care about—your hobby?”

“It isn't just a hobby to me.” Ragnar's eyes were cold, his face taut. “It's something I have to do. Don't ask me why— that's just the way it is with me. That hobby is my real life, it means the most to me—nothing else really counts. If I couldn't make the things I do, it would be like not being able to breathe. I thought you'd understand that by now.”

“I do understand,” Mahala said. “I know it means a lot to you,
it's just—” She paused. “Dyami's like you. He needs time to do his
sculptures and models, too, but it isn't his whole life.”

“Well, that's one way we're different, then.”

Frania was gazing intently at the boy, obviously ready to take his side. “Dyami's taught me a lot,” Ragnar continued. “That monument he designed and made—I never asked him what it was like for him when he was working on it. I figured he probably wouldn't want to talk about it, given what he went through being a prisoner. But I'll bet that while he was doing that monument, it was everything to him, that it took up his whole life.”

“That's probably true,” Mahala said. “He used to say that he
had to do it.”

“Maybe he was thinking of his friends,” Ragnar said, “the ones who died under torture and the ones who were killed in the final battle against their guards. Maybe it was the only way he could deal with what happened to him when he was a prisoner. It's possible he put so much of himself into that monument that there wasn't much left over, or maybe it was just that he had one great creation in him and no more. The point is that he's finished his real work—it's enough for him now to do his job and play around with sculpting and teach me a few things and maybe dabble in math with Balin. I want to do more than that.”

“Then you should have stayed in school,” Mahala said. “You still
could have had your art.”

“That's where you're wrong.” Ragnar leaned toward her. “All of those studies would have just been in my way. Frankly, I probably wouldn't even have done well at them because I'd have known all along it wasn't what I wanted. This way, I can do my job and give the rest of my time to myself.”

“I suppose that's why you asked for darktime shifts,” Mahala said. “Most people are busy after first light, so they won't be bothering you.”

“That's one reason.”

“You'll have even more time to yourself and your little pastime.”

Ragnar's hands fisted. “It isn't a pastime,” he muttered. Mahala was suddenly sorry for her words, suddenly puzzled by what she had said to him.

“Please,” Frania said, “do you two have to argue on our first day together?”

“I know why you're upset.” Ragnar's eyes were still on Mahala. “You just want me to be with you, doing whatever you want me to do. You're mad at me because there's something else I want more than being around you—or being around anyone.”

Mahala jumped to her feet, stung. “I can't stand being around you sometimes, and I don't care what you do, either.”

“Then leave me alone.”

“I'll be glad to.” She walked away quickly, then made her way over the rocks toward the trees. He had struck at the source of her anger and disappointment, that she had hoped he might follow her dreams, become more closely bound to her life. Her cheeks burned; she felt both furious and ashamed. Maybe he had even guessed that, whenever she allowed herself to indulge fully in her fantasies, she had imagined that Ragnar would be at her side to explore the Islands and Earth.

She sat down and rested her back against a tree. Ragnar and Frania were on their feet; the boy was speaking, but she could not hear his voice. At last Frania wandered off, head down, as Ragnar climbed toward the trees.

I've ruined everything, Mahala thought. She had been meaning to put in her request to be considered for an Island school, and there was no point in putting that off any longer. Ragnar would have his art and Frania her pilot's training; the two were not likely to miss her once she was gone.

Ragnar was coming toward her. Mahala wanted to get up and walk away, but she would still have to deal with him back at her uncle's house later.

“Frani's upset,” he said as he sat down next to her.

“I'm sorry.”

“You should be sorry for that. She wouldn't do that to you.”

“I'm sorry I said what I did to you. I just thought—” Mahala
kept staring at the lake, refusing to look at him. “I only said it because I think you could
do more.”

“I'm doing what I want to do.” He drew up his knees and rested his head on them. “I considered it for a long time. I have to do things this way now. I thought you'd understand.”

“I understand that it's what you want, Ragnar. I just don't understand why you want it so much.”

“Well, at least we can agree on that, because I don't, either.”

She glanced at him and was surprised to see a smile flicker across his face. “You don't?”

“It's as if I really don't have any choice. It's what I have to do, whatever it means, whatever mistakes I make trying to do it. Maybe you think I've forgotten about how we used to talk about seeing other places or being more than we are, but I haven't. When I'm drawing or sculpting, it's as if I'm in another place then. I just feel—I don't know how to explain it—that this is how I have to find my way to something else.”