Child of Venus (55 page)

Mahala could not turn away from her grandfather. Malik sat there, his expression calm, his dark eyes showing no fear. He seemed about to speak, and she wondered if there was anything he could say that might save his life.

“The bridge has been built,” Malik said softly, “and you cannot tear it down, Commander.”

The Commander's weapon screamed again, and a light blazed for a few brief seconds. Malik slumped in his chair, his eyes still open. Benzi would be next, Mahala supposed, or perhaps he would kill one of the Habber women first. Maybe, in spite of what he had said, he would execute all of them.

The sound of an explosion nearly deafened her, so close that the walls of the room seemed to shake. Commander Lawrence cursed; the Guardians nearest the door ran from the room. There was the sound of another blast, closer this time, then the shouts of people in the hallway.

“On the floor!” someone shouted from outside the room. “Get on the floor!” Mahala threw herself forward as a beam shot past her; a weapon whined again, spitting out a second beam and then a third. She lay on her stomach; fingers grabbed her by the wrist. She lifted her head slightly and found herself looking into the face of Mukhtar Tabib.

“Secure this room,” a man called out. A pair of booted feet were near her; Mahala sat up slowly as the Mukhtar let go of her. More Guardians were in the room; one of them helped Tabib to his feet.

There was smoke in the hallway. Edmund Helgas stood in the doorway, holding a wand. The hallway echoed with the sounds of shouted commands and the whines of wands being fired. “We lost two people,” Mukhtar Tabib muttered. “You took your time.”

“I moved as fast as I could,” Edmund replied. “You'd better
stay here.”

Mahala looked up at the man she had met in Allison's tavern. “You're not a worker,” she said.

“No, I'm not.” Edmund moved away from the door.

Mahala stood up unsteadily. More Guardians ran through the hallway toward the entrance to the town hall; others lay on the floor. She willed herself not to turn around, not to look at the bodies of her grandfather and his dead comrade.

She stepped toward the doorway, coughing from the smoke. “Stay here,” Muhktar Tabib said, “until this building is secured.”

She ignored him and peered down the smoke-filled hallway to her left. Ah Lin was still out there, seated with her back against the wall; Ahmad Berkur lay on the floor, his eyes closed. A Guardian stood near the two Cytherians; he looked toward her.

“I'm a physician,” she said. “I can help.”

Ah Lin had been beaten, but would recover. Ahmad had a fractured nose, a concussion, and a ruptured kidney from his beating. Mahala had just finished embedding an implant in Ahmad's arm when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up to see a broad-faced woman in a brown tunic and pants with a physician's bag hanging from one shoulder. “I'm Shirl Heathers,” the woman said. “I'm a physician.” She looked up at the Guardian near them. “Can you get them to the mayor's office? They can rest there.”

The Guardian nodded. Shirl Heathers helped Mahala up. In the hall, Guardians were dragging other unconscious uniformed men by the heels or the arms toward a room across the way. Outside, in the direction of the town square, Mahala heard shouts and then a series of loud popping sounds.

“What's going on?” Mahala asked.

“We were in the mayor's office,” the other physician replied, “Teresa and I and a few others who were here to welcome Mukhtar Tabib. Captain Dullea was just outside the door with a few of his Guardians. Somebody started shouting something about hovercraft coming into the town square, and the captain went to investigate. The next thing I knew, Captain Dullea and his soldiers were being herded into another room and more Guardians were swarming into the hall. Then a maniac with stars on his collar walked into the mayor's office and told us that we were all under arrest.”

“Commander Lawrence,” Mahala whispered.

“His men grabbed the two Administrators with us, Masud al-Tikriti and Constantine Matheos, and threw them in with the captain and his people. The commander was screaming that he had nothing against them, that they had been misled, that he wouldn't harm them as long as they didn't get in his way, and then he and his men grabbed the Mukhtar and that Linker woman and the Habbers who were with us and took them away and locked us in the office. Teresa tried to override the lock, but couldn't. A while later, somebody opened the door and pushed a worker inside.”

“Edmund Helgas,” Mahala said.

“Didn't tell us his name. Said he'd get us out of there. Did a check of the room and then told us to stay back. We got under the table, as far away from the door as possible, and I was deaf for at least three minutes after he blew it open.”

Teresa Marias was coming toward them. She hurried to Mahala and clasped her hands. “Have you seen my daughter?” the mayor asked.

“Harriett was with me,” Mahala said. “We made it to the tavern. She's probably there now—she's safe.”

“If you ask me,” Shirl murmured, “that Commander needs a metabolic adjustment.”

Mahala freed herself from Teresa and crossed the hallway to the entrance. Guardians who might be unconscious or dead were being dragged from three hovercraft. Several bodies lay in the square; armed men in the gray clothing of workers herded ten Guardians toward the town hall. Mahala descended the steps and went to tend to the wounded.

Lincoln's town hall became a makeshift infirmary. Teresa went to her house, found out that her housemates were safe, and came back to the town hall with the rest of Mahala's medical supplies and her physician's bag. Mahala and Shirl, with only Midge Laras, a paramedic in training, to help them, worked throughout the night. Mahala ignored her fatigue, refusing to lie down and rest for even a few moments, rejecting the cups of tea Harriett and Jeremy brought to her. The work of healing kept her from thinking about the two Habbers who had been killed, about the grandfather whom she had never really known and who was now forever lost to her.

Harriett told her a little of what had happened in the tavern after Mahala had left with Edmund. They had waited, expecting Allison's tavern to be searched within the hour. Jeremy and Chet had been talking about giving themselves up when they heard the muffled sound of an explosion. The workers inside Allison's had run from the tavern and were in the square right after the second blast, pulling out concealed weapons from their shirts and shooting at the Guardians in front of the town hall. Harriett had seen one man slap a disk that looked like a sensor patch on the top of a hovercar in the square; the vehicle had suddenly glowed with a bright light. Mahala thought of the bodies lying next to hovercraft that she had scanned, that had shown no signs of life.

By dawn, six people who were too badly off to be moved lay on futons in the hallway of the town hall; other injured townsfolk had been sent home with members of their households. Twenty members of Commander Lawrence's force were among the wounded, most of them the victims of shotgun blasts or bullets fired from pistols. The women of Lincoln, once they had realized that a battle was under way, had been quick to join in the fighting with their old weapons, firing upon the Guardians who had come to search their homes and shops.

Mahala had seen how much damage a shotgun or pistol could do to a human body. She reminded herself that the members of Commander Lawrence's force had followed him willingly, either out of belief in his cause or because of personal devotion to him. She would not pity the more grievously wounded of his Guardians too much.

She finished scanning a man in workers' clothes who had been stunned by a wand beam, then gave him an injection for his nausea. “Stay here,” she said as she eased him back against his futon, “until you feel well enough to get up. That shouldn't be more than an hour or two.”

“Thanks,” he said. This young man and some fifty other workers, she had discovered during the course of her therapeutic labors, were actually members of the personal guard of the Council of Mukhtars. She had seen Edmund Helgas striding through the hallway, issuing orders, seeing that the defeated Guardian prisoners were secured and under restraint. Even without a uniform, Edmund—if that was in fact his name, which she doubted—had the air of a Guardian officer.

Mahala rose and glanced toward the room where Malik had died. His body and that of his fellow Habber had been carried from the room earlier. History had caught up with Malik in this place; that was probably the way he would have viewed his death.

The door to the mayor's office opened. Mukhtar Tabib and Administrator Masud came into the hallway, followed by Benzi. The three of them had been in the room all night, after Teresa and the other townsfolk who were not needed here had left with the rest of the delegates to the conference.

Benzi walked toward her. “You've been here all night,” he said.

“I gave myself something to stay awake.”

“Tesia is staying with Te-yu. I'm going back to Teresa Marias's house. We can walk there together if you like.”

Tabib and Masud were standing by the door. The Mukhtar murmured a few words to the Administrator, then turned to Mahala and Benzi. “I am sorry for what happened to your grandfather,” he said, “and to his comrade.”

“You knew what might happen,” Mahala said. “You must have known, or
Edmund Helgas and those other men wouldn't have been here.”

“I knew what might happen—that is true.”

“Then you might have tried to stop it. You didn't have to let it happen.”

“You are wrong, child.” The Mukhtar stepped toward her. “We had rooted out the Guardian officers most likely to oppose this conference or to attempt to put a stop to it. We thought we had them all, but could not be sure, and there were indications that others among the Guardians might be covertly disloyal. We had to find a way to draw them out.”

“Using us as bait,” Benzi said, and Mahala heard the bitterness and sorrow
in his voice. “Knowing that our lives were at risk.”

“Your lives were at risk as soon as you set foot on Earth,” Tabib said. “When you and the other Habbers among us were left unharmed, treated warmly, or at least courteously, by those among whom you were living, I allowed myself to hope that I might have overestimated the amount of hostility to your presence. But I did not delude myself. I knew that those who hated you and your kind might try to stop this conference.” The Mukhtar drew his black eyebrows together. “Let me point out that my own life was also at risk, that I was part of the bait.”

“I doubt that those Guardians would have killed a Mukhtar,” Benzi said.

Tabib shook his head. “You Habbers are even more naive than I thought. You saw Commander Lawrence. I am certain that he was capable of killing everyone in Lincoln if that would have served his purpose.”

“Maybe he wasn't the only one,” Mahala said. “Maybe there are others.”

“There may well be,” Tabib said, “and if so, we now have a means of ferreting them out Those who were opposed to the new era had the choice of abiding by the will of the Council of Mukhtars without complaint or of resigning their positions and having no further role in public life and political matters. Both I and the Guardian Commander in Chief were bound to respect those who chose to resign. We might have taken steps to see if they had knowledge of others in the ranks who might be disloyal, but such interrogations would have set a bad example and damaged morale. Our quarrel was not with those who were open in their disagreement with us and who had honorably resigned their posts, but with those who might be secretly preparing to defy us. Now they have acted against us, and so we are free to regard them as criminals, to use any means of interrogation necessary to find out if they have other accomplices.” His mouth twisted into what seemed a mockery of a smile. “I can assure you that the death of your grandfather will be avenged by the torments his murderer is likely to suffer during such questioning.”

“Commander Lawrence may not be the only one plotting against you in secret,” Benzi said.

“I sincerely doubt that he is,” Tabib replied.

“He may have no knowledge of others who might be your enemies,” Benzi said.

“Our enemies, Benzi Liangharad. We are in this together, you and I. Commander Lawrence will serve as a useful example in any case. Others may be induced to bow out of our public affairs and to seek retirement.”

Mahala moved closer to Benzi, suddenly wishing that she had never come to this place.

“I know what you are thinking, child,” the Mukhtar continued, “that I am ruthless and cruel and a relic of a violent past. That is true, I suppose, but my ruthlessness is being used in the service of the new era—or so I tell myself. You are thinking that you should never have come here. Be thankful that you have. You have had a demonstration of what we are hoping to escape as we struggle to become something better.”

 

24

Mahala Liangharad:

Excerpts from Journal Entries

June 14, 657:

All of the delegates to the Lincoln Conference, as this gathering is now being called, have been asked to keep records of our thoughts and experiences. Mukhtar Tabib al-Tahir has said that we're free either to keep an oral record or to write our observations down and to use whatever languages come most easily to us. He has also urged us to be completely honest, since only certain scholars will have access to our journals in the near future, and to be mindful of the fact that our words may be an important part of the historical record. Other than that, he hasn't offered any guidance at all.

Over two weeks have passed since I arrived in Lincoln, and our first official meeting is tomorrow. We're still getting past the horror of these past days. Mukhtar Tabib (and presumably the rest of the Council of Mukhtars, although it is increasingly obvious that he has the power to speak for all of them) decided that my grandfather Malik Haddad should be buried in Damascus, with all honor, immediately after Lincoln was secured. Naturally that meant that Mukhtar Tabib had to be present for the funeral, as did Administrator Masud, since he is a kinsman of Malik's. A man who was once a Linker on Earth, and then a Cytherian settler, and after that a Habber—the Mukhtars could hardly have found a better martyr to the new era. There must have been thousands outside the mosque, and thousands more in the procession when Malik's body was carried to the graveyard.