Boaz had never stated this view so baldly before. Chimene looked into Matthew's gray-green eyes; the blond man seemed untroubled by Boaz's words. She wanted to protest; such an agreement would make their talk of free Cytherians a lie.
She knew what Boaz would say to that. “Your faith does you credit.” He often told her that. “But to serve the Spirit sometimes requires that you temper your faith with practicality. You can't be wrong if the means you use serve our ends,”
She set her cup on the floor. “We may have other alternatives,” she said. “The Council of Mukhtars is still far from being united. Maybe Earth will be so grateful when the Habbers are gone that they won't ask us for anything in exchange for more of their aid, since we will have eliminated their rivals here.” She got to her feet. “I must sleep.”
She went to her room. Kichi had slept in the large bed, had sat at the desk in the corner, had rested on the cushions while speaking to Chimene about her faith. She suddenly wished, as she so often did, that Kichi were still alive and here to advise her. Kichi had promised Chimene that she would find her own faith, but she hadn't told her how precarious that faith might be. Moments of enlightenment, of sensing the Spirit inside her, came only rarely before slipping away. Chimene often had to struggle to recall how such moments felt. Kichi had died too soon, before Chimene was ready to replace her.
She undressed and got into bed, huddling under the sheet. She had thought that, after she became the Guide, she would escape the need for deviousness and actions that seemed contrary to the right way. That had been a foolish hope. She might soon have to deal with Earth, and some deviousness in working around Sigurd was already required; more secrets would have to be kept.
This was one of the paradoxes of being the Guide or one of those closest to her; while leading as perfect a life as possible, one also had to accept necessary evils in the furtherance of Ishtar's aims. She would have to engage in repugnant actions in order to bring her perfect world into being and yet keep her own faith pure. She would not be able to avoid certain decisions, but she had ways in which to reason about them and come to the proper conclusions. Kichi had tested her mind with paradoxes, mental puzzles, and apparent contradictions often enough to prepare her for that.
Her door hissed softly as it opened; she heard the sound of footsteps and then the rustle of clothing. The bed shifted slightly under her; she felt a hand on her head.
She caught a glimpse of Boaz's brown-skinned face before she closed her eyes once more. He stroked her hair, apparently sensing that she wanted only to be held. She had never admitted it to him, but Boaz had to know how difficult it had become for her to take pleasure with a lover alone; he had tried often enough to please her. Only during the rite could she give herself freely.
“You do love me, don't you?” he said.
“You know that I do.”
“As you love all your brothers in Ishtar. I still hope that you love me just a little more than that, even though I know you must love us all.” He was silent for a while. “I can still long for your child.”
He had been pressing her about this for some time now. “Is that why you want me to give up teaching, so that I'd have more time for a child?”
“Of course not. There's the nursery and the rest of the household to help out. The child wouldn't be ours alone, but Ishtar's. We have no children in this house, and we've been content with that, but I can't help thinking that a child might draw us all closer to the Spirit. She could know a nearly perfect love—she could grow up to be an example of what we hope all Cytherians will become.”
She nestled closer to him. “Why would she have to be ours? Any child would do. Our love should extend to all children. Whether a particular child is mine or not shouldn't matter.”
“I know what you're thinking. You're afraid that if you had your own child, that might inhibit your love for others, that you'd fall into error by feeling that your child mattered above all others. It doesn't have to be that way. You could see her as a gift to Ishtar, one who will give more love to others, who will never know the barriers that hold people back from the truth.”
The temptation was too great; she did fear that too much of her love might go to her child. Perhaps if her faith were as strong as Kichi's had been, she might have risked it.
“You want a child,” he went on, “but you're afraid to have one. I want one with you because I know that then there would always be that bond between us, apart from the love you'd give to any of your brothers. Shouldn't we confront this temptation and overcome it instead of shying away from it? There's virtue in struggling with one's flaws and conquering them. There's nothing praiseworthy in trying to pretend they don't exist and refusing to confront them. Do you want to go through life always wondering if the love you have for others is no more than a substitute for the love you couldn't give a child? Kichi knew that love for all often begins with love for one.”
Boaz could be so persuasive. She might have more learning than he did, but she often felt helpless during their gentle, restrained arguments. Both he and Matthew, in spite of being only two mechanics who had found their way here from Earth's camps, often seemed more learned than most such people. But then, they had always been quick, and they had also had Kichi to instruct them.
“I feel that the Spirit may be preparing you for this child,” Boaz said. “I've thought about this deeply, and never once have I had the feeling that this is merely a temptation and no more, I think the Spirit wants this child. It may even be that someday she'll take your place as the Guide.”
She tensed. That was too great a temptation, one even Kichi had avoided by choosing to have a son. She wanted to tell Boaz that he was wrong, but the words did not come.
“I'm still young,” she said at last. “We have many years ahead of us to consider this. I can't think of it now when there's so much else to worry about.”
“I'm not saying we should have this child right away. But we could at least store our genetic material. Plenty of people do that, just in case—”
That was true enough. Those who were certain they wanted children, but who wanted to wait, sometimes stored their sperm or eggs in the medical laboratories. If an accident befell one's bondmate in the meantime, the surviving partner could then petition for a child created from the stored material. If the survivor was a male or a woman too old or otherwise unable to carry a child safely, an embryo could be brought to term in an ectogenetic chamber.
Such practices were more common among the Islanders, who had somewhat more advanced medical facilities than the dome-dwellers, but even Islanders did not want to rely too much upon these techniques. Most people in the settlements had their children while still young, with only basic scans and whatever gene transplants might be necessary to repair any defects. But lately, more dome-dwellers had taken to preserving their genetic material; they remembered the casualties that the quake and fever of 615 had brought.
It was also possible to store an embryo or a fetus cryonically, but this was resorted to only in special circumstances; neither the Islanders nor the surface settlers wanted to overburden their medical facilities with such additional responsibilities. Chimene had other reasons for looking askance at this practice; unlike other medical procedures, it did not further natural ends and was too close to the kinds of things Habbers did.
She could not find any theoretical objection to Boaz's suggestion. Until the time Cytherians would be free of their dependence on such technologies, when the Spirit's power gave them control over their minds and bodies, they could make use of tools that furthered the natural end of having young. She could, however, see practical problems. The laboratories were still limited in how many they could aid. Those who had lost a child, who were exposed to the more hazardous work on the Bats, or who did not yet have children but were committed to having them with a particular partner would have their requests to store their genetic material granted. Others without compelling reasons were usually turned away.
Ch
imene sat up. Boaz was slouched against a pillow, his muscular arms folded across his bare chest. She glimpsed a distant, icy look in his dark eyes before they warmed with his familiar concerned expression.
“I wonder if we have the right to ask for this,” she said.
“I don't see why not. You're thirty, older than most are before having children. I'm a few years older, and I'm childless. You also leave this settlement more often than most people, and one can never discount the possibility of an airship accident. And even if those reasons aren't enough by themselves, you're also our Guide. Several physicians are part of the fellowship, and Galina would plead your case with them.”
“Being the Guide doesn't give me special privileges—that's contrary to everything we believe. Anyway, the physicians would have to know that we're both committed to having this child. Taking this step is tantamount to saying we've already made that decision, whatever happens and however long we might postpone it—we can't have people burdening the infirmary's lab for capricious reasons. What kind of example would I set as Guide if I do this without being sure?”
“You want a child,” he said. “I see it even when you try to deny it. I've waited and I've hoped—” He leaned forward, draping one arm across his raised knees. “I'm thinking of what's best for you as the Guide. You want a child, but you're afraid to have one because you worry that such a particular love will outweigh the love you should have for all. You'll go on postponing any decision, and then one day you'll realize that you made a needless sacrifice to duty, when it may be too late to change your mind. How much love will you have for your sisters and brothers then? You may only resent them because of what you gave up. How will that make you a better Guide?”
“A Guide must live in a way others can't,” she replied. “This isn't even something I have to decide now. Later, when I'm—”
“You may wait too long—until more medical intervention is required. The physicians might decide it isn't worth the use of their resources to help one who couldn't make up her mind earlier.” He took her hand. “Chimene, making this decision now, knowing that you had committed yourself to having our child, would force you to confront your fears and work through them. When she's with us, you'll see how groundless your worries were. You'll be stronger, and you'll have more love for others growing out of that love. Your child will be one of your contributions to Ishtar's future.”
She slipped her hand from his. “Those aren't your only reasons. You can't just be thinking of me—you want this child too much. You must be thinking of yourself, too.”
“I want this bond between us—I'll admit that. I'm not yet so close to perfection that having a child with the woman I love most wouldn't mean more to me than the rest of Ishtar's children. But that isn't the only reason. If anything happened to you—”
He pulled her gently toward him. “I couldn't bear it,” he continued. “I love you too much, Chimene. I tell myself nothing will happen, and then I think of how I felt when I learned you were ill with the fever. I knew I loved you the first time we shared the rite together—I always prayed you'd choose me after that or that I could be with you every time you showed your love for others. I knew that, if you died, any love I bore my sisters in Ishtar would die with you. I couldn't stand living in a world where no part of you was left for me. Can't you show some love for me by saving me from that sin—hating instead of loving? Can't you assure me that something of you would remain with me?”
She could not reply.
“If anything happened to you,” he said, “all of Ishtar would rejoice at knowing that at least a child of yours would live. But that won't come to pass, and you can help me put aside my fear. We'll prepare for this child, and when the time comes, when you know you're ready—” He swallowed. “Maybe you'll be ready sooner than you think, and we may never have to use what we've stored. But it would give me such joy to know that our child will exist, however long you wait. When it's done, you'll feel the same way.”
Boaz wanted her child; he knew her well enough to see that, regardless of her worries, she wanted one as well, if only to fill the void she still sensed inside herself. That was the problem, that emptiness, a sin she would have found hard to confess even to Kichi. The love for her brethren that should have satisfied her was tenuous and unfocused, already a struggle to maintain. Having a child might drag her further back into an imperfect state, where an individual love mattered more than anything else, and make her unworthy to be the Guide.
Yet Boaz could be right. She might have to face this possible obstacle to her faith and overcome it. Could there be anything so wrong in having the child they both wanted? Boaz had admitted that his love for her meant more to him than any other; he was facing a problem not unlike her own. She might not love him any more than she loved the rest of her brothers, but she did not want to lose him and depended on his advice. Refusing him now might only raise a barrier between them and drive Boaz further from the Spirit's love. Surely that was not a desirable end.
She pressed her cheek against his chest. “I'll think about this,” she whispered. “I can't decide it now.”
“At least you haven't dismissed it. You'll see I'm right.” He eased her down beside him and held her until she drifted into sleep.
* * * *
Sef was up. Risa lay in bed, watching him as he dressed. His body had changed very little; from the back, with his slim hips and long, muscled legs, he still looked much like the ardent boy who had come to her room nearly twenty years ago.
Sef pulled on pants and a gray tunic, then tied his red and black sash around his waist. Risa sat up and stretched. “I hate to see you wear that thing.”
“Every time I don't, somebody's always ready to make a remark about it.”
She did not pursue the topic. He had joined Ishtar partly to protect her, and Nikolai had joined so that Sef would not have to attend meetings alone. Neither of them thought any more of the group's tenets than she did.
She had once thought her household might need such protective coloration, back when she, Yakov Serba, and a few others had first begun to meet, trying to think of ways to combat the cult's growing influence. They had spent a lot of time devising elaborate passwords and ways to send coded messages to sympathizers in the other settlements, but their plotting had been largely fruitless.
Ishtar now had more followers, the Councils, and the patrol, and they had always claimed the loyalty of most of the pilots. Grief during the fever's aftermath had brought some to a faith that promised to ease their pain; anger at the Habbers had led others to the cult. Some had joined out of self-interest. Andrew Dinel, as a member, might now have to contribute more of his profits to supporting less prosperous members, in keeping with Ishtar's belief that more should be shared, but he had also increased the sales of his whiskey to people in the cult. Many others were simply passive bystanders, content to live with Ishtar as long as it left them alone.
Risa and those who felt as she did could plot all they liked, but there was little they could do. Violence against individual members of Ishtar would only bring retribution and more sympathy for the victims. Acts of sabotage that might be blamed on Ishtar could endanger too many lives, even threaten the domes themselves.
Some in Ishtar might already have guessed that others gathered in the hope of finding ways to stand against them, but they could probably afford to be indifferent. They had little to fear from disgruntled former Councilors, restless young people, some specialists who considered themselves intellectually above the cult, the few devout Muslims and Christians who muttered about infidels, and an occasional member of Ishtar itself who had trusted Kichi but had doubts about Chimene. Risa and her allies had no weapons other than malicious rumors, lies sometimes told to the patrol to protect someone else from an unnecessary hearing, jokes about the cult, and obscene or mocking inscriptions that appeared in the tunnels only to be covered quickly by the patrol or a team of workers.
More people should have seen what Ishtar was. An in
tellectual disease—that was what Theron called it. The cult was a drug that twisted emotions and lulled thought. Terraforming Venus was to have given part of humanity a chance to begin anew; Ishtar dreamed of returning to an unthinking earlier state. The sun might eventually shine on the Venus Ishtar wanted to create, but shadows would darken the souls of its people.
Reason was one of Risa's weapons, but it was one few people chose to wield. A cold blade that could cut through comforting illusions was no match for the mindless acceptance of a so-called truth that required little thought. It was enough to bring even Risa to think that the Habbers might be right in trying to alter part of their human nature.
“You'd better get up,” Sef said. “You'll be late.”
“I have today off, remember?” Risa got out of bed and pulled a shift from the clothes rod. “Maybe you can come home early.”
He shook his head. “Not tonight. They want a couple of us over in the airship bay to repair two crawlers, and apparently the team there asked for me. I ought to go to the meeting later, too—I haven't been to one for a month. Maybe I'll go to the one at Chimene's house. It usually draws a crowd, so I should be able to lose myself when it's over.”
She looked up at his open, honest face. Sef's attitude toward Ishtar was simpler than hers. Metaphysical speculation bored him, and he was suspicious of anyone who claimed to know the truth. He disliked the cult but persisted in thinking that its adherents would eventually come to their senses. Chimene might have been misguided by her companions; he could not believe that Risa's daughter would knowingly be cruel or unfair.
He attended the meetings as little as possible and avoided the rite whenever he could. He offered the excuses others gave—that he felt unworthy, that he was still far from the right way and could not yet shed some of his ties with his bondmate, or that his thoughts would be with the Spirit when he went to Risa's bed. On the few occasions when he could not avoid the rite, when he was approached by a woman in the throes of religious fervor, he shared it with her apart from others.
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