Child of Venus (24 page)

Mahala hefted her other duffel to her shoulder. “Benzi said he would meet me.”

“He was here, waiting for you, and then a Guardian came up to him and said Administrator Jamilah wanted to see him. So he asked me to take you to his quarters.”

Mahala frowned. Her grandmother had often muttered bitter words about Guardians after returning from a meeting on Island Two. Getting used to the presence of those military forces on the Islands was one of the adjustments she would have to make while living here. There were few of the Guardians on the Islands now, fewer than there had been before the Revolt; even Risa would concede that they were largely a token force. But the Administrators did not care to provoke more bad feeling with Earth by asking the Mukhtars to withdraw their soldiers altogether.

She took a breath and noticed that the air here seemed drier that that of Turing and Oberg; perhaps that was because there were no large bodies of water on any of the Islands. There were also none of the familiar smells of cooking food, of leaves and pine needles, of the compost the settlers collected from their kitchen compacters to use as fertilizer for their gardens, only a slight scent of grass and traces of the fragrance of flowers. Near the entrance to the bay, a colorful banner celebrating the new year of 649 fluttered from a pole; apparently no one had yet bothered to take it down.

Dyami and his household had followed their celebration of Mahala's sixteenth birthday with a party to mark both the New Year and her departure for Island Two. She and her friends had sat outside Dyami's house to watch the traditional light show on the dome, which always ended with an image of a green and blue globe representing the terraformed Venus. Only after she had turned her attention away from the reflection of the globe on the mirrorlike surface of the lake had she noticed that Ragnar and Frania were sitting together, their heads dose.

She and Solveig walked along a white stone path. Island Two was a landscape of tended gardens and expanses of grass clipped so short that the grass resembled a soft green carpet. Slender trees stood on either side of the path, and a few people were dining at tables set outside a pavilion near a small pool; a tiny apelike creature moved toward one group with a tray of teacups. Risa disapproved of such genetically engineered animals, feeling that their simple tasks of gardening and food preparation should be performed by people or machines and that their places might better be taken by new settlers. There had never been any such creatures allowed in the surface settlements.

In the spaces between the trees, Mahala glimpsed the ziggurat that housed the Administrators; a tiered tower reaching toward the soft yellow glow of the light disk in the center of the dome that enclosed Island Two. The Islanders marked their days as the surface settlers did, with twelve hours of light and twelve of darkness. She was in a tidy environment, a pruned and weeded and cultivated garden that made it easier not to think of where she actually was—on an Island that had been built atop giant helium cells and floated above thick acidic clouds, under a protective dome that bore the scars of small meteorites that had been able to penetrate the thin upper atmosphere where the Islands sailed.

“Have you seen Malik Haddad yet?” Mahala had almost called him her grandfather, but referring to him that way still seemed strange. Sef was more truly her grandfather than this man she had never met, whose only tie to her was genetic.

“I haven't seen him at all,” Solveig replied. “The story is that as soon as he arrived, a couple of Guardians met him and took him and your great-uncle to the Administrators' residence. I saw Benzi briefly today, but there wasn't a chance to ask him what was going on.”

Benzi, according to the message he had sent to Mahala before she left Turing, had arrived on Island Two from An-wara only three days ago. He had, much to his surprise, been given quarters in the pilots' residence instead of in the Habber dwelling; because there was the usual shortage of space on the Island, Mahala would be allowed to live with him there. He had said nothing about Malik Haddad, and she, distracted by having to notify the school authorities that she would not need a single room after all and by gatherings of friends in Turing to mark her departure, had not thought to ask.

“Some of the older Administrators might have known Malik before,” Mahala said. “Maybe they just wanted to visit with him.” She hoped that she was right. Being so abruptly taken to the Administrators, to the most powerful people here, those who negotiated with Earth and the Project Council members on Anwara to get the resources they needed, was not likely to make any new arrival feel at ease.

“You're probably right,” Solveig said, “and he must have gone to the Habber residence afterward. I assume that's where he'll stay.” She shortened her long stride; at eighteen, the blond young woman was taller than many men. “After we get you settled, we can do whatever you like. Tomorrow, I've got to meet an airship as soon as I'm up and then two others later in the day—that'll be the rest of our group. I'm supposed to share a meal with all of you and answer any questions you have. The day after that, I'll take you around the school, introduce you to some people, and give you some advice.”

“What kind of advice?” Mahala asked.

“The usual do's and don'ts. Never greet Administrators unless they greet you first. Otherwise, just bow or touch your forehead with your fingers, then walk on. Don't be too friendly to any of the Guardians—that kind of thing.” Solveig lowered her voice. “To be honest, except for some of the workers, Islanders are a bit haughty. Maybe that isn't the right word. What I mean is that they're always aware of what they are and who you are, and we're just a pair of grubbers, a couple of students from the surface.”

“So Risa's told me.”

“By the way, how's my brother doing?”

“He's fine.”

“I was wondering. The only time I had a chance to say a few words to him were those times you called. He hasn't sent me any messages since he started living in your uncle's house.”

Mahala had suspected as much. She had been worrying about how much to tell Solveig about what had happened between her and Ragnar. Solveig, who must know her brother better than almost anyone, might be able to advise her on what to do.

He had hurt her deeply by cutting things off as completely as he had. There had been no more meetings under the trees, not even a few moments alone to talk. He had wished her well before the trip here and had seemed sincere, but his words had been those of a friend, not someone who had wanted her as a bondmate.

Maybe it was better that way, and best not to tell Solveig what had passed. It was useless to hope that Ragnar might relent.

The pilots' dwelling had a large common room filled with a few low tables and cushions that looked well used and two triangular wings of residential rooms. Mahala and Benzi had been given two tiny bedrooms adjoining a slightly larger room equipped with cushions, a table, and a wall screen.

“I had more space in Risa's house,” Mahala said as she looked around her small quarters.

“Most people here would call this roomy,” Solveig murmured. The blond girl went on to tell her about the school. The teachers expected their students to take some initiative in designing their courses of study, so Mahala would largely be on her own. She was required to meet with each of her teachers at least once every fourteen days, but Solveig advised her to do so more often than that. Depending on which subjects she pursued, she would be assigned to classes that would include lectures by a teacher and discussion among the students; she could attend them either in person or by screen. She could work at what she liked, but eventually the faculty would have to assess her progress and decide if she would be allowed to remain a student and do university-level work or else encouraged to turn her thoughts to an apprenticeship. Mahala knew most of this already, but said nothing.

“What I'd advise,” Solveig continued, “is that you go to the classes most of the time and miss a few occasionally. That way, you look as though you're taking the work seriously without seeming to be too dependent on the teachers and other students. Same goes for projects—do at least one by yourself and then try to interest a few students in working on another with you as a team.” She sighed as she shifted on her cushion. “The trick is not to be either too solitary or too tied to a group—you want to show you can be cooperative, but still able to work alone. They want to see you show initiative without being domineering. After all, that's the kind of person we want on the Project.”

Mahala heard a sardonic tone in her friend's voice. It sounded like some of the advice she had overheard others telling young people who aspired to the Cytherian Institute: It won't hurt you to learn Arabic, even if all the classes are in Anglaic. The Administrators will be flattered and impressed if you can master their official, ceremonial language; that will show you're serious and mean to rise. It's wrong to submit to a faith you don't truly hold, but if you're sincere about becoming a Muslim, submission to that faith certainly won't do your future prospects any harm.

If she weighed everything that way long enough, Mahala wondered, would she forget how to distinguish between what she genuinely felt and what was only pragmatic?

“I came here knowing I'd have to work hard,” Mahala said. “If
I have to worry about whether I'm missing the right number of classes or some of those other
things—”

“Yes, I know. You're right—you can't really plan it out that way.” Solveig sounded more like herself. “But I figured you should know how some of our more calculating schoolmates go about their business.”

Mahala stifled a yawn, then smiled apologetically. “I'm more tired than I thought.”

“Get some rest, then.” Solveig got to her feet. “We can have supper together later, if you like.”

“I think Benzi's expecting to dine with me.” He had not told her that, but he would surely come to their quarters by last light to greet her. She wanted to find out more about Malik from him, and as soon as possible; better to be prepared in case she ran into her grandfather unexpectedly.

“If you're not doing anything after that, call,” Solveig went on. “I'll introduce you to some of my friends.”

“All right.”

After Solveig was gone, Mahala went into one of the bedrooms. The drawers set into the wall were empty, so she assumed that Benzi had taken the other room. She unpacked one of her duffels, then stretched out on the bed.

Even though she felt tired, sleep was elusive. Mahala lay there, thinking of what she might have been doing now. Her grandmother would expect her to call up everyone on the list of Risa's Island Two acquaintances and leave messages saying that she had arrived and was looking forward to meeting them. She might also have been getting an early start on her studies.

A door whispered open, and then she heard footsteps in the outer room. “Mahala?” She recognized Benzi's voice. “Are you here?”

She slipped from the bed and hurried out to him. He was the same as he had been, his hair still black, his golden-skinned face that of a much younger man. She drew back slightly from him as he caught her by the arms.

“You've changed,” he said.

“You haven't.”

He smiled. “I have—it just doesn't show.” He let go of her and looked down, seeming uncertain for a moment. “You were a lot shorter when we said farewell last time.”

“I'm still short.” Her head came only to his shoulder, and Benzi was not a tall man. “This is about as tall as I'm likely to get.” She stepped toward a cushion and sat down.

Her great-uncle seated himself across from her. “I'm sorry I couldn't meet you at the bay,” he said.

“That's all right. Solveig was there to greet me.”

“I know you didn't expect to live here.” Benzi crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees. “I assumed I'd be living in the Habber quarters again.”

“Why did you come back?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “What do you want, anyway—a chance to pretend you still have a family here before you go back to your Hab again?”

“Mahala—”

“Balin left Turing. Dyami doesn't know if he's ever coming back. Obviously it isn't a good idea to get too attached to any of you.”

“You don't understand. Balin had to—”

“That's what he told Dyami, that he had to go. Dyami was probably just a diversion to him all along. He loves him—he deserved better than that from Balin.”

“Balin loves Dyami, too.”

“But not enough to stay. You must get bored after a while, living your long lives. After a while, it's time to move on.”

Benzi's eyes narrowed. If she had not known better, she might have thought he was angry. He bowed his head; when he looked up again, he seemed calm.

“Your people would resent us even more if we stayed here too long,” he
said. “The time when people we know start noticing that we haven't aged at all and begin
wondering exactly how long we can keep rejuvenating ourselves is often what strains the limits of
their tolerance, and it's usually better for individual Habbers to make a departure earlier
than that.” He paused. “As it is, we have all those groups of young people demonstrating
and making their demands. What kinds of demonstrations do you think they would stage if
we—”

“Is that the only reason?” Mahala asked.

“No. It can be too easy to forget what we are here, that we're Habbers. And in the Habitats, we have to try to remember that we're human.” He folded his arms. “Maybe you and Risa and Dyami are all that's kept me human.”

“Why did you come back, Benzi?”

He quickly rose to his feet. “Let's take a walk.”

She frowned, but uttered no protest as she followed him from the room. They passed through the pilots' common room on the way out; the main door had been propped open by a pole, and men and women sat around tables near the entrance, laughing and talking as they ate their evening meal.