Child of Venus (4 page)

“Well,” Mahala replied, “I started with your names first, even if I do know about you already, and there's a lot about great-grandmother Iris in the historical records.”

“Yes, there is,” Risa said, as if happy to admit to something.

“I'll have lots of places to show on my map.” Mahala gulped down some juice. “I mean, your people came from China and the North American Plains, and my mother's father was born in Damascus, and the records say my father had parents from Nueva Hispania but that one of his grandparents was from Central Africa. And Sef s from the Pacific Federation.” She had included Sef in the project, even though he was not her biological grandfather. “I come from people who lived all over Earth!”

“That doesn't make you any better than anyone else.” It was like her grandmother to say that. Risa usually had harsh words for people who, as she put it, got above themselves.

“It'd be easier if they came from just one or two places.” Mahala finished her juice. “I wouldn't have so much to put in my report.”

“Learning about your heritage—what nonsense.” Risa gestured with her cup. “You're a Cytherian—that's what matters. That Karin ought to be spending more time on practical subjects.”

“Risa.” Sef leaned toward his bondmate. “The teacher's only
doing her job. There's no harm in—”

“Time enough to learn about the past when she's older. Right now, she'd be better off learning things of more use to the Project.”

Risa had said such things before, but did not usually sound this upset. Mahala set down her cup. “Is that why you put a block on my parents' public records?” she asked, feeling that it was time to ask.

Risa lifted her brows. “What?”

“I found out when I was doing my report. I wanted to ask about them, and the screen said the minds couldn't tell me because you put a block on their records.”

“I'm your guardian,” Risa said. “I have the right. Sef and I
thought it best that you—”

“But why?”

“You already have enough information for this report, don't you?”

The birthdates and deathdates of her mother and father, the origins of their parents and other forebears, the fact that Mahala's mother had once been the Guide and leader of Ishtar's believers here—the screen had readily yielded all of that. Mahala had often called up images of her parents and knew some of the important facts about her mother's life. But this time, she had asked other questions, and the minds had refused to answer. Risa Liangharad, they had told her, had put a block on answering certain questions.

“You don't understand.” Mahala let out her breath. “You won't let me hear part of the public record, something everybody else can find out except me—it isn't fair.”

“You know what you need to know,” her grandmother said. “You'll find out more when you're older.”

“Everyone else knows. I'm the only one that doesn't.” Mahala felt the truth of that statement as soon as she spoke. Certain things were suddenly clear; the occasional silences of other children when the name of Mahala's mother was mentioned, the worried or cautious looks of adults. They all had a secret, and it had something to do with her parents. “Everybody knows except me!”

“Mahala—” Risa slid closer to her. “Please listen.
There's no reason for you to—”

“If the minds won't tell me,” Mahala said, “I'll get one
of the other kids to find out for me.” Risa could not block others' access to public
records. “I'll tell them what to ask, and—”

“You won't.”

“I will.”

“If you do, I'll have to punish you for disobeying me.”

“I don't care.”

Risa opened her mouth; Sef shook his head at his bondmate. “We knew this would come,” he said. “Maybe we should give her some answers before someone else does.”

Risa gazed at him for a long time, then slowly got to her feet. “Grazie and
Kolya will be home soon,” she said. “Ill talk to Mahala alone.” She reached for
her granddaughter's hand. “Come with me.”

They went to Mahala's room, which was at the end of the short corridor in Risa's wing of the house. The room Risa and Sef shared was separated from Mahala's by a bathroom; the three rooms on the other side of the corridor were empty. Mahala's great-uncle Benzi and her uncle Dyami used those rooms when they visited, and new arrivals in Oberg often stayed there until they found another place to live. Barika Maitana, one of Risa's housemates, had come there as a new settler when Mahala was still a baby and had decided to stay. Sooner or later, Barika and her bondmate Kristof Anders would have a child, and then one of the two empty rooms in Paul's wing of the house would be filled. Her grandmother would have liked to have Dyami living here, too, but Risa's son made his home in the Turing settlement, up in the Freyja Mountains to the north.

The house was too empty; her grandmother often said that. The extra space was wasteful, a failing high on Risa's list of offenses, and it also wasn't good for Mahala to be the only child in this house.

Mahala sat on her bed, feeling the silence of the house as Risa settled herself on a cushion in one corner.

“I knew we'd have to have this talk eventually,” Risa murmured.
“I hoped it could wait until you were older, but—” She sighed. “It's
painful for me to talk about your mother, even after all this time.”

Mahala had been born after the deaths of both her parents; that was part of her record, a fact she had always known. Her mother and father had stored their genetic material, and the embryo that had grown into Mahala had begun to gestate before the deaths of her parents in 631, during that troubled time people here called the Cytherian Revolt, although Mahala had not entered the world until two years after the uprising. Risa, after keeping the embryo of her grandchild cryonically stored for nearly two years, had finally chosen to rear Mahala.

As it happened, Mahala and her grandmother had started life under similar circumstances. Risa had also gestated inside an artificial womb after her own mother's death, and her father, Liang Chen, had brought her up. Risa's mother, Iris, held a place of honor in Venus's history; a monument to her stood in Oberg's main dome. The legacy of Mahala's mother was more ambiguous.

She would never know her parents; Mahala had accepted that. Risa had never known her mother, either. But now, for the first time, she was beginning to wonder why she knew so little about her mother and father.

“You have a right to some answers, child.” Risa brushed back a lock of her graying black hair. “What is it you want to know?” she asked, and Mahala felt her reluctance to tell.

Mahala considered what to ask. Her mother's name had been Chimene Liang-Haddad, and her father's Boaz Huerta, but she had been given her grandmother's surname of Liangharad. While still a young woman, Chimene had become the leader of the Ishtar cult, believers in a Spirit that was coming to life on this once-lifeless world, with whom all Cytherians would someday be united. Ishtar had dreamed of ruling Venus, with the help of Earth's Council of Mukhtars, but the cult's followers had become so repressive that many had finally turned against them during the Cytherian Revolt. Chimene had been misled by some of those close to her, but in the end she had sided with the people who had defied Earth's Mukhtars. Sef had told Mahala all about that.

Chimene and Boaz, she knew, had died before all the hearings were held to judge those who had committed the worst offenses against their fellow Cytherians. There had been no chance for them to defend themselves against possibly unjust accusations. But she did not know how her parents had met their deaths.

“How did my mother die?” she asked.

Risa took a breath. “I didn't want you to know. It's why I put a lock on that part of her public record.”

“But everyone else must know.”

“Yes. My daughter recorded her intentions before carrying them out and placed the speech in the public record. I didn't want you to see that—I was afraid it would be too upsetting. Chimene took her own life, Mahala. She chose to die.”

Mahala was not sure she understood. “But why?”

“Because she felt that she could no longer be Ishtar's Guide. She'd made a lot of mistakes, you see, and many other people suffered for them. I didn't understand then why she took her life, but now I think she saw it as the only way to atone for her deeds, to show people how sorry she was for her actions. That's what I believe, anyway, that she finally saw what was right, that it was best to leave the future of Venus to others. Some loved her, and some hated her. Maybe it would have been harder for people who took different sides back then to be reconciled now if she were still living among us.”

Risa's head drooped, and the lines around her mouth and eyes seemed deeper. Mahala suddenly felt how old her grandmother was. Her thoughts were on death now. How could anyone choose to die? It seemed to her that anyone alive would struggle against death for as long as possible.

“There was a time, after your mother's death,” Risa continued, “when I wondered if my own son could ever forget what her followers had done to him, if he would ever forget the suffering the people around his sister caused.”

Mahala thought of her uncle Dyami. He had been a prisoner in Turing during the darkest time of the Venus settlements and had organized an uprising against his captors in the early days of the Cytherian Revolt. She knew this only because she had picked it up from others, since Dyami himself never spoke of his experiences. He was a quiet man; with his chestnut hair and tall frame, he looked much like his father Sef, but he lacked Sef's quick smile and easy manner. Kind as Dyami was, he held himself apart from others during his visits, and Mahala had sensed that he would not welcome questions about his time as a captive.

“Your mother believed,” Risa went on, “that there was something
beyond death, that it wasn't the end, that another life would follow this one. I've
always found such notions foolish, but maybe that was another reason she decided to die. If I had
known what she meant to do, maybe—” She bowed her head. “Her last message is in
her public record. I didn't want you to see it—I've read a transcript of what she
said, but I've never been able to listen to it. But when you're older, it might help you
to understand why she acted as she did. She spoke of her regrets, of her shame at being misled by
those she loved and trusted.”

This was too much for Mahala to absorb. If Risa understood what Chimene had done to herself, then why had she been so secretive about it?

“How did she do it?” Mahala asked.

“She was found with a knife. She'd slashed her throat. She bled to death before she was discovered.”

Mahala shuddered. “And my father?”

“He died a short time before your mother did. His record will tell you that his body was found in Chimene's house and that a drug of some sort killed him. A physician who was with my daughter at the time confessed that she was responsible for his death, and that woman took her own life soon after that, so a hearing was never held.” Risa sounded as if she were rattling off a statement at the start of a public Council meeting. “Your father was the enemy of many here, and I didn't mourn his loss, but maybe he was also sorry for his deeds at the end.”

Risa got up, sat on the bed, and drew Mahala to her. “What they did,” she said, “whatever suffering your parents caused, has nothing to do with you. Don't ever feel that you're less because of it. It was ail over before you took your first breath—never feel that you have to share any of your parents' guilt. We can't help where we come from.”

But it wasn't over. Had it been over, Risa would not have felt the need to keep so much hidden. If it was over, why did the people around her suddenly look guarded when her mother's name was mentioned?

“Chimene was such a beautiful child,” Risa continued.

Mahala had seen images of her mother; with her large dark eyes, long black hair, and golden-skinned face, she looked so perfect that she hardly seemed human. “She took after her father Malik. She was so beautiful it frightened me sometimes—I used to wonder how she could ever have come from my body.” Her arm tightened around Mahala. “It's past, child. What happened is over. I'm grateful I have you.”

“Risa?” She nestled closer to her grandmother. “Is that why people don't talk to me about her, because she killed herself?”

“It's part of the reason. It's useless to talk about those days, during the Revolt and before—there's so much bitterness still.”

Mahala tried to imagine her parents dying as they had. That such a beautiful woman and her handsome lover could have died so horribly did not make sense. She thought of her mother's delicate features and her father's warm brown eyes; they had seemed perfectly matched in their beauty. While staring at their images, she had often wished fervently that she looked more like them.

Risa said that they had died because they were sorry for what they had done, that they had believed they were going to a better place. Mahala clung to that thought, hoping that it might be true.

 

2

Mahala was to give her report to her schoolmates after Ragnar Einarsson finished his. Ragnar's people came from a part of the Arctic Nomarchy called Iceland, and he had shown many images of volcanoes spewing black ash, green hillsides below rocky gray cliffs, and mist rising from hot springs. Other scenes showed people in boats on a white-capped sea, and then a market where there seemed to be enough fish to feed everyone in Oberg.

An image of an Icelandic bay faded from the large screen on the classroom wall. Ragnar had given his entire report only on Iceland, since he had no people from anywhere else, but Mahala wondered if her report would be as interesting as his. Iceland was a place with few people, which made Ragnar and his family unusual, and only a few families of Icelanders had come here as settlers. Yet Ragnar had made it seem that the Icelandic people, whose Scandinavian ancestors had sailed west long ago to make a home for themselves near the slopes of smoldering volcanoes, were not so different in spirit from Cytherians.