Uranus

by Ben Bova

  Her earliest memories were of the seedy, roach-crawling, rat-infested orphanage where she’d grown up. She’d been ten years old when she had her first period—and her first sexual experience. She quickly learned that sex was a sort of equalizer: as poor and ragged as she was, sex was the one path to money and safety open to her.

  As she grew into a slim, sleek, dark-haired beauty, she learned about sex. She learned how to turn the sweaty passions of men—and women—into money and a scant measure of security.

  She was nearing twenty when one of the occasional police sweeps scooped her off the streets and landed her in a dark and dismal jail. Her cell was crowded with other women: some defiant, some bitter and hopeless, some offering themselves to the prison guards. She almost laughed at the irony of it. I’m back among the rats and the filth, she told herself. Back where I started.

  To her surprise, the next morning she was taken by a pair of guards from her overcrowded cell to a tiny office several levels above the cellblock. The cramped little room had a single slit of a window, set too high in the wall for Raven to see the street. Nothing out there but a jumble of slanted rooftops. Bright warm sunshine made the sky glow.

  A dumpy, overweight woman in a starched white blouse and dull gray skirt came in and sat behind the table that took up almost all the room’s floor space. The table was bare except for a hand-sized notebook computer. A stiff wooden chair stood empty in front of the table. On the stone wall behind the table a large round clock silently showed the time flowing by: almost 10:00 A.M.

  “Sit,” said the woman, in a voice like a cobra’s hiss.

  Raven sat. Her stomach rumbled slightly; she’d had nothing to eat except a candy bar the night before.

  The woman flicked her computer open and, without looking up, asked in Tuscan dialect, “Your name?”

  Noting that the woman’s fingers bore no rings, Raven replied, “Raven Marchesi, signorina.”

  The woman looked up at Raven, her brow cocked. In English she said, “Let’s leave my marital status out of this, Miss Marchesi.”

  Raven nodded and replied in barely accented English, “Very well.”

  Continuing in English, the interviewer asked, “Your occupation?”

  Raven shrugged. “Sex therapist.”

  The woman said to her computer, “Whore.”

  “No!” Raven protested. “I—”

  “A sex therapist?” The woman scoffed. “Where did you get your degree?”

  “I’ve been trying to save enough money for the classes, but—”

  “Shut up! You’re a whore and we both know it.”

  Raven glowered at her but said nothing.

  The woman went through a series of questions, almost automatically. Just as mechanically, Raven gave answers—some of them the truth, the rest fables from her imagination.

  At last the woman closed her notebook and studied Raven’s face for long, silent moments. The clock’s second hand swung silently.

  “The police can hold you here for twenty-four hours, then they are required to turn you loose. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course.”

  With a bitter smile, the woman said, “You won’t get much sleep during those twenty-four hours.”

  Raven shrugged her slim shoulders. “It won’t be the first time.”

  “I can offer you something better.”

  “Sex with you?” Raven sneered.

  The woman seemed shocked, repelled. “Sex? With you? Good lord, no!”

  “You might like it,” Raven said.

  Looking halfway between disgusted and ashamed, the woman said sternly, “I am empowered to invite you to join a journey to a space habitat named Haven, orbiting the planet Uranus. It will be a one-way journey; you will spend the rest of your life there. Not as a prisoner or a convict. Haven is a self-sufficient community for the poor and disadvantaged. You can start a new life there. A better life.”

  The woman spoke for more than twenty minutes, nonstop, promoting the advantages of the Haven habitat. After ten of those minutes, Raven was ready to sign up and start a new life.

  She made up her mind when the woman told Raven that during the flight out to the distant planet, she would undergo medical procedures that would cleanse her of any narcotics or disease organisms her body housed.

  “You’ll arrive at Uranus clean and healthy,” the woman promised, “ready to begin a better life. A new beginning for you.”

  A new beginning, Raven said to herself. A new, clean life. It might even be true.

  A NEW HOME

  Now, seven weeks later and billions of kilometers from Naples, Raven sat in Haven’s auditorium and studied Kyle Umber and Evan Waxman as they explained about the world they had created here at the cold, dark end of the solar system.

  The Reverend Kyle Umber, she said to herself. He doesn’t look like a priest. Doesn’t act much like one, either. She had known her share of priests back in Naples. Some were furtive, haunted. Others were haughty, self-important, even sadistic. Umber looked like a pleasant-enough man, smiling, friendly. But Raven thought she detected a hard shell beneath his amiable exterior.

  The man is dedicated, she decided. Driven to build this new paradise far from the filth and indecencies of old Earth. Behind his smiling eyes was a dedication, a mission, an inflexible drive to make his vision into reality.

  Not him, she decided.

  She turned her chestnut-brown eyes to Evan Waxman. Tall, graceful, rich. Good smile, the kind of smile that comes from never having to worry about where your next meal might come from, or where you can spend the night. Successful, she realized. Clever enough to be born to incredibly wealthy parents.

  And now he’s spending most of that wealth on Umber’s Haven. On the dream of a place where the poor can begin to lead new lives. Where they can leave their miserable existences behind them and start out fresh.

  Like what the priests told us about God and heaven and a perfect life. Does Evan Waxman really believe that? Truly? She guessed not. But she decided that her best path to safety on this new world was to be enfolded in the wings of this very wealthy Evan Waxman.

  But how to get to him? How to make him notice me? Raven realized she was dressed in the dreary uniform they had given her aboard the spacecraft that had carried her and the others from Earth. Mousy-gray, shapeless baggy trousers and an equally loose-fitting long-sleeved blouse.

  He’d never notice me in this sack, she thought. How to attract him? How?

  Standing in front of the row of new arrivals, Kyle Umber clasped his hands together and said, “All right, that’s enough from Evan and me. Now Mr. O’Donnell will show you to your quarters. You’ll have the rest of the day to yourselves, and tomorrow you’ll begin your new lives as citizens of Haven. May God be with you.”

  With that, Umber turned and headed for the stairs that led up to the stage.

  Waxman, beside him, asked in a voice loud enough for all the newcomers to hear, “Aren’t you going to jump up onto the stage?”

  Umber laughed and shook his head. “Thou shalt not tempt the Lord our God,” he said as he took to the stairs.

  * * *

  Quincy O’Donnell led the thirty new arrivals out of the auditorium and down a long, straight passageway. No decorations on the walls. No pictures or windows. Nothing but bare metal and closed, unmarked doors. Raven could see that the passageway was not actually straight: it curved, in the distance, rising up and out of sight. But as she walked along with the others, it seemed perfectly flat. Strange, she thought.

  Raven maneuvered past a rail-thin woman and a pair of reasonably healthy-looking young men to come up next to O’Donnell.

  He towered over her, big and beefy, the expression on his florid face absolutely neutral, as if he were actually walking in his sleep.

  “Will it be much farther?” Raven asked him, in a small voice.

  O’Donnell’s face came alive instantly. Looking down at her, he asked, “Why? Is anything wrong?”

 
Raven temporized, “I’ve got a cramp in my leg.”

  “A cramp?”

  “I’m not accustomed to walking so far,” she said.

  “Oh … well, we’re almost there. See?” He pointed. “There are nameplates on the doors here. Your quarters’ll be just a little bit further on.”

  Raven nodded and conspicuously bit her lip.

  “Are you in a lot of pain? Maybe—”

  “No,” she said softly. “I can manage.” And she made herself limp ever so slightly.

  O’Donnell looked confused, upset, almost guilty. “Only a few more meters now,” he said.

  “That’s good,” said Raven. Inwardly she smiled at the big oaf’s concern. Easy pickings, she said to herself.

  Sure enough, the doors on either side of the passageway started to show the names of the thirty newcomers. One by one they entered their quarters. Raven caught glimpses of the compartments inside: they didn’t seem very spacious, but they weren’t cramped, either. Nice enough, she thought. Above everything else, they seemed clean! No rats, no spiderwebs, no water seeping down the walls.

  At last they came to her place. The nameplate on the door read MARCHESI, R.

  O’Donnell clicked the lock and slid the door open for her. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he ushered Raven into her new home.

  She took two steps inside, then stopped.

  “Is it all right?” O’Donnell asked, from out in the passageway.

  Raven saw a sofa, a pair of sling chairs, a coffee table. To the right was a kitchen, with sink, refrigerator, shelves stocked with various cartons and bottles. To her left was an open door and, beyond it, a bed neatly made with sheets and a blanket and plump pillows with real pillowcases over them!

  “Is it all right?” O’Donnell asked again.

  “It’s wonderful!” Raven cried.

  Then she turned, stepped outside again, threw her arms around his neck and kissed O’Donnell on the lips. “It’s wonderful,” she repeated.

  O’Donnell’s face flamed tomato red.

  “Well … it’s all yours,” he managed to mutter as he disentangled himself from her arms.

  Raven stepped back into the living room. Her living room. Her very own. Dimly she heard the door slide shut behind her. Suddenly alone in her new home—her own home, all to herself—she raced into the bedroom and jumped full-length upon the bed.

  It was soft and warm and safe. Raven had never been so happy in her life.

  A NEW LIFE

  Raven woke to the sound of an insistent buzzing. She opened her gummy eyes, blinked several times, then sat up on the bed. It was real. The room, the bed, the warm coverlet tangled around her bare legs.

  “It’s not a dream,” she said aloud.

  Looking around, she saw that her bedroom walls were a soft yellow, the ceiling blank white.

  My bedroom, she said to herself. My own bedroom, all to myself. And out past that door is a living room and a kitchen.

  The buzzing rose a notch. Turning, Raven saw that it came from a phone console on the night table next to her bed.

  “Phone answer,” she called out.

  A woman’s face appeared on the phone’s small screen.

  “Good morning, Miss Marchesi. You are scheduled for an orientation interview at oh-nine-hundred hours. The time is now oh-seven-thirty.”

  “Where is my interview going to be?” Raven asked.

  The woman’s brunette features froze for a moment, long enough for Raven to realize that this wasn’t an actual live person, but a computer image.

  “Your interview will take place in your quarters at oh-nine-hundred hours. One hour and twenty-nine minutes from now.”

  “Thank you,” said Raven.

  The phone screen went blank.

  Raven got up, showered, wrapped a towel around herself, then rummaged through the kitchen and made herself a bowl of cereal and a cup of strong black coffee. By 8:48 A.M. she was dressed in another of the dreary, baggy outfits that she’d found hanging in her closet.

  My closet, she told herself. My very own closet in my very own bedroom in my very own apartment. She felt like dancing.

  But she sat, demure and ladylike, on the living room sofa. They’re probably watching you, she told herself. You’d better behave like a proper lady.

  Precisely at 0900 hours the front door buzzer hummed. Raven got up from the sofa, went to the door, and stopped, puzzled. She could not see any buttons or latches or controls for opening the door. Nothing but a small screen beside the door that showed a middle-aged woman, slim and good-looking, with well-coiffed short blond hair, standing out in the passageway.

  Suddenly desperate, Raven called out, “How do I open the door?”

  The woman outside broke into a bright smile. “Just say ‘Open please.’ The mechanism is tuned to your voice.”

  Raven glared at the door and muttered, “Open please.”

  The door slid open.

  “Hello,” said the blond woman as she extended her hand. “I’m Cathy Fremont. I’m your orientation leader.”

  Raven clasped her hand and gestured her into the living room. The door slid shut behind them.

  “I’m sorry to be so stupid,” said Raven as she led Cathy Fremont to the sofa.

  “This is all new to you, isn’t it?” Fremont replied as she sat down.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You speak English very well, Raven. Is it all right for me to call you by your first name?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Raven, sitting herself on the sling chair nearest the sofa. “I speak Italian, English, Spanish, German, a little Greek and a smattering of a few other languages.”

  Fremont made an obviously forced smile. “How clever of you.”

  Raven cocked her head slightly. “In my profession you learn languages quickly.”

  “Your former profession,” said Fremont.

  “Yes, of course. My former profession. I’m starting a new life here, aren’t I?”

  “Indeed so.”

  It was a long day. Without leaving Raven’s apartment, Fremont used the living room’s wall screen to show her the layout of station Haven, everything from the cafeterias and formal dining rooms to the clinic and the recreational facilities. Raven took it all in, asking questions, nodding at the answers.

  As noon approached, Raven went to the kitchen and found the makings for sandwiches. Cathy Fremont nibbled away happily without stopping the orientation for more than a moment or two.

  Inwardly, Raven was asking herself, How can I get close to Evan Waxman? How can I make him notice me?

  As the digital readout at the bottom of the wall screen reached 4:00 P.M. Fremont said, “I think that’s enough for one day. Tomorrow you will take a battery of aptitude tests, so we can determine what kind of work you’re best suited for.”

  Dropping her eyes respectfully, Raven said, “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience at anything useful.”

  Fremont smiled reassuringly. “Oh, don’t be too sure of that. We’ve found great stores of talent among our new arrivals, talents that most of them didn’t realize that they had.”

  Raven smiled back at her, but she thought, Is fellatio one of the talents you’re looking for?

  FINDING TALENT

  For the next three months, Raven attended school. Back in Naples she had been forced to go to school whenever the authorities picked her off the streets.

  “For your own good,” they would tell her. “To improve yourself.”

  But the dreary classes in the stifling, oppressive rooms taught her nothing except an unbearable yearning to get out, get free, get back on the streets where she could use her brains and her body to live on her own. Even a beating was better than sitting through the droning lectures and pretending to read the stupid books they forced on her.

  Here on Haven, though, school was very different. She studied in her apartment, engrossed in virtual reality programs that immersed her in the subjects she explored. History became real to her:
she lived in ancient Rome, in modern Euro-America. She saw how mathematics worked and stored the new knowledge in her brain. She learned how her own body worked, and marveled at the wonderful intricacy of her cellular machinery.

  Without realizing it, at first, Raven began to learn.

  She learned how the habitat Haven was governed, how the poor, ignorant newcomers were transformed into productive, intelligent citizens who actually helped to govern the habitat’s growing population.

  I could become a councilwoman, Raven realized one afternoon. I could be one of the people who gives orders, who makes decisions, who directs how the others live.

  Evan Waxman would have to notice me then, she told herself.

  * * *

  She made friends among the other newcomers, and even among the people who had been there longer, who were now part of the government of Haven. One of those friends was Quincy O’Donnell, the big, beefy watchman who had guided Raven’s group when they’d first arrived at Haven.

  One afternoon, as she was taking lunch in the main cafeteria after a morning of exhausting examinations by the education department’s central computer, Quincy O’Donnell came up to her table carrying a tray loaded to its edges with a salad, a sandwich, a hefty slab of pie, a big cup of juice and a dainty jewel of chocolate topped by a pink sliver of candy.

  “D’you mind if I sit with you?” he asked, his voice quavering slightly.

  Raven gave him a minimal smile and said, “No, I don’t mind at all. Sit right down.”

  O’Donnell placed his tray carefully on the small table across from her and settled his bulk in the spindly-legged chair.

  Then he picked up the tiny chocolate piece delicately, in two fingers, and placed it on Raven’s tray.

  “For you,” he said, the expression on his heavy-featured face somewhere between expectant and apprehensive.

  “Why, thank you,” said Raven, surprised.

  O’Donnell broke into a sloppy grin, then grabbed his sandwich and tore a huge bite out of it.