Venus of Shadows

by Pamela Sargent

  “Yes,” she whispered. For the first time since he had met her, he saw her weep.

  * * * *

  Boaz Huerta arrived at Risa's house just as she and her household were preparing to eat supper. Risa greeted him at the door, then ushered him into the common room while his two male companions waited outside.

  “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Theron asked.

  Boaz waved a hand. “I'm not here to dine with you. Sit down with the others, Risa. I have something to say to all of you.”

  Risa seated herself at the table. Boaz continued to stand, glancing from her to the others. Sef tensed; Theron stroked his beard. Noella moved a little closer to Nikolai; Grazie and Paul kept their eyes lowered.

  Boaz said, “Every one of you voted against expelling the Habbers. Frankly, I was a little disappointed to hear it, but perhaps you've been misled by Dyami. Maybe he's told you in his messages about his fine Habber friends and made you think they're not the wretches they are. It hardly matters now. His friends left quickly enough, and soon the ones on the Islands will be gone. This world belongs to us at last.”

  Risa hated the man; he spoke as if he were Venus's ruler. She struggled to keep her composure. “I have no particular fondness for Habbers,” she said. “It only seemed to me, and to my household, that it was unwise to expel them when we can still make use of their help. We should have been building more domes by now—being without the Habbers will only set us back.”

  “We can go on without them.”

  “Not easily.”

  “All things are possible for Ishtar.” Boaz smiled; Risa longed to hurl a plate at his handsome face. “A great deal of work lies ahead for our Guide during this new era. We'll all share her burden, of course, but between her spiritual duties and her consultations with both dome Councilors and Island Administrators, much will be asked of her. She is reluctantly giving up her position as a teacher in order to be better able to serve us all.”

  “So I've heard,” Risa said.

  “We also see that it's time for some changes in the patrol,” Boaz said. “Several have shown how valuable they are in that capacity and should no longer be distracted by other work. They will become permanent members of the patrol, although volunteers will continue to work with them. That will mean others will have to take on their former duties, but with a few adjustments, that additional burden shouldn't fall too heavily on anyone.”

  “What a striking innovation.” Risa's mouth twisted. “For the first time, we'll have people among us who contribute no real labor to the Project.”

  Boaz lifted his brows. “That comment is unworthy of you. The patrol guarantees our safety, and the Guide serves all of us. Surely that is as important as tending our crops or working a shift in external operations, or anything else we have to do. It is true that these people will lose the credit their other jobs gave them. Their allotments must come from elsewhere.”

  “Indeed,” Theron muttered. “From the accounts of others, no doubt.”

  “Can any of us really call what we use ours?” Boaz asked. “In the end, doesn't everything we have belong to every Cytherian? Clinging to possessions only makes us unable to share as we should.”

  Tell that to my daughter, Risa thought; see how willing Chimene would be to give away the clothes others make for her, the jewelry Kichi Timsen left her, the provisions her followers bring to her.

  “You will make your contributions to the patrol and to our Guide,” Boaz continued. “You'll be asked for only a small percentage of what your household has, to be used for sustaining the permanent members of our patrol and maintaining our Guide. I know I can count on your cooperation. Anything in excess of their requirements will go to those who have less than others.”

  “A tax,” Risa murmured. “It's called a tax. They used to have them on Earth before the Mukhtars devised other ways to distribute resources, before the cyberminds were able to keep records of—”

  “Spare me the history lesson, Risa. It isn't a tax, it's a contribution.”

  “And will we all have to make these contributions?” Noella asked.

  “Those who are members of the fellowship have always made their contributions to Ishtar—some more willingly than others.” Boaz focused on Nikolai, then Sef. “They are already doing what they can to follow the right way. But others, I'm afraid, must be persuaded—namely, those of you who unwisely voted to keep our enemies on Venus. It's time you learned how to share, and maybe by doing so, you'll be moved to see how much pleasure there is in giving to your brothers and sisters. You will provide a record of everything you hold, including what you make or produce for your own use or for trading. You'll be told what to contribute after that. I've always felt that allowing households to keep such records private only furthers avarice.”

  Risa clenched her teeth. People knew approximately how much others owned anyway, without having access to such records. Each child had an allotment of credit, to be repaid with work later on. The more unpleasant, tedious, or dangerous one's work was, the more credit one earned, but the credit was useful only as another medium of exchange, to be traded for goods or services; there was little point in accumulating much of it. She knew what others had to offer every time she engaged in trading some of her goods for theirs, and this was not a place where large discrepancies in what people owned had yet developed. Chimene's household, which chose to be more open about such things, claimed to own nothing. Their credit was Ishtar's; their possessions only items that they used or that were given to them without payment being asked—so they claimed at any rate. In spite of that, they did not lack for more than their share.

  “And if we don't contribute?” Nikolai asked.

  “Then you'll learn the joy of sharing by having even more taken from you. You'd have your house—we mustn't leave people without a place to live. You'd have to hope that others aren't as selfish as you and that they'd willingly share what you may require.”

  “Too many people will object to that,” Risa said.

  Boaz shook his head. “I wouldn't go to the trouble of testing that hypothesis. You'll make your contribution. I assure you that you won't find it excessive.” He turned toward the door. “I must leave you now.”

  “To speak to other potential contributors, I suppose.”

  “Messages will be sufficient for most of the others. All of the dome Councils are preparing them now. I thought you deserved a personal visit, Risa—you are the mother of our Guide.”

  The door closed behind him. He had not come here as a courtesy but only to display his power. Risa pushed her plate of beans aside. “He's a fool,” she said. “My daughter and all of her friends—they're fools. The Habbers haven't even left the Islands yet, and already they're overreaching themselves. People won't stand for this.”

  “You've said that many times,” Noella said, “and yet they always do stand for it, don't they? Anyway, it's only the people who voted against Ishtar's wishes who will be affected, and we're a minority here.”

  Risa got to her feet. “I'm going to my room.” It was time to arrange another meeting with Yakov Serba; maybe they would finally find a way to act.

  * * * *

  Malik waited in the hallway just outside the shuttle docks, at the edge of the crowd of Habbers and Islanders who had gathered inside the Platform. The people were silent; the dark-haired Habber woman next to him touched his sleeve, then turned away.

  Why was he going? He was not acting out of love for the woman with him; Kyra was only the most recent of those who had shared his bed. He might gain a Habber Link, but he had grown used to living without one. He might be granted a Habber's long” life and accomplish no more with that life than he had here. Yet when Kyra had asked him to come with her, he had accepted without hesitation.

  He could still turn back and say farewell to her here. He surveyed the other Islanders who would soon be exiles on the Habitat. Nearly eighty of them had gathered here, most of them scientists, many of them Linkers; he
could understand their reasons for leaving. They could tell themselves that their obligations to their disciplines outweighed their duty to the Project now, that they would betray themselves by remaining in a place where certain kinds of inquiry would be discouraged and their knowledge used for the cult's ends. Some could cling to the belief that they might return here eventually. The Project would be losing some of its most gifted people, but he could see why they had made this choice.

  He might have shared their feelings once, but he no longer did. He was a historian trying to escape this world's history and his own past. He wanted to be free of his daughter and her mad dream, the child who had failed him and whom he had failed.

  A door to one room opened; a pilot entered the hall. The man shook back his graying sandy-brown hair as he glanced at the crowd. The pilot's name came to Malik then—Evar IngersLens, a former lover of Risa's and a devout member of the cult. He had sought Malik out a few times during short stays on Island Two, apparently feeling that it was his mission to bring the Guide's father closer to Ishtar. Malik had not seen him for nearly three years.

  Evar beckoned to him; Malik walked toward the pilot. “So you're saying good-bye to the Habbers,” Evar said. “Kind of an inconvenience for you, and one that may prove embarrassing. This isn't exactly a time to show how much feeling you may have for such people.”

  Malik gestured toward Kyra. “The woman's been a close friend. Since I'll never see her again, I wanted these last moments with her.”

  “I hope you can tolerate your quarters in Anwara if a shuttle isn't available to bring you back right away. With this group, they'd have to crowd you in. I'm surprised Administrator Sigurd is allowing this, but then he's been all too close to a Habber himself. It won't do him any good when they're gone.”

  “Are you going to be one of our pilots?” Malik asked.

  Evar shook his head. “I'm just getting ready for the run to Oberg. I'll be attending a meeting at the Guide's house when I'm back. I'll give her your greetings, though she won't be happy to know you came here.”

  “My sins can't touch my daughter,” he said. “After all, she has the consolations of her truth. She proves her virtue by refusing to let even her own father lead her into error.”

  The pilot frowned. “I feel sorry for you, Malik, you and those others. It's hard to say farewell to friends, knowing you won't be with them again.”

  “But of course Habbers can never be our friends. My daughter, the Guide, is always saying so. Maybe when they're gone, we'll be more receptive to the Guide's wisdom.”

  “The Guide is wise,” Evar said quickly. “Even so, I wonder what will happen now.” He lowered his voice. “I've never believed that story about the Habbers loosing the fever on us. I've examined it, and I always come to the conclusion that they had nothing to gain. That they might subvert us with friendliness—that I could believe—but provoking our hostility would be useless. They were useful, whatever reasons they had for being here. Administrator Sigurd might have favored them a little too much, but he kept them in check, and Earth at a distance. He kept us freer than we might otherwise have been.”

  “You sound as though you're sorry they're going.”

  “I'm only saying that Ishtar may not be served by this. If the Guide and those close to her had waited, maybe—” Evar sighed.

  Malik looked away from the man. If Evar, whom Risa had rejected because of his dogged adherence to his faith, was saying such things, others had to be thinking them as well. But maybe this was only a ploy designed to ferret out what Malik was thinking. Ishtar's believers were like that, eliciting confidences from others on the grounds that all should be shared and no secrets kept, and then using the confessions against those who had made them. It did not matter; he would not be here to suffer the consequences for anything he said to the pilot.

  “Driving the Habbers away is a mistake,” Malik said softly. “Earth is probably welcoming this development, even though it will now cost them more to keep the Project going. They'll be able to reassert themselves, and Ishtar may not be strong enough to prevent that. One might almost think that Earth had a hand in bringing this about.”

  “The Guide wouldn't—”

  “The Guide is my daughter. She may talk of being open and honest, but she learned how to hide a great many things from me when she was growing up. She had her reasons, of course—she was preparing to serve a higher truth by sneaking off to see Kichi Timsen. Maybe she has similar rationalizations now for whatever she does.”

  Evar glanced at the timepiece on his finger. “My airship is waiting,” he murmured. “Perhaps we can talk again, when I come back to Island Two. I've been seeing lately that even an unbeliever can sometimes shed some light.”

  “Even if it means questioning your Guide's judgment?”

  “I can't doubt her, but those around her—” Evar paused. “A few near our Guides in the past sometimes strayed from the right way, though never in matters as important as this. Farewell, Malik. I'll hope to see you when you return.”

  The pilot hurried away; Malik returned to Kyra's side. She looked up at him as she motioned in Evar's direction; Malik shook his head. “An old acquaintance,” he said, “trying to tell me I wasn't wise to be here.”

  “You aren't regretting that you are?”

  “No.”

  A cart was rolling toward them, carrying eight pilots, Tesia, and Sigurd. The Administrator had not confided in Malik, but he was convinced that Tesia had told Sigurd everything and that the Linker was planning to join them. That had to be why he was allowing all these people to board the shuttles; he was going to leave with Tesia himself.

  The cart came to a stop; the blue-clad pilots climbed out and began to station themselves in front of the four nearest dock entrances. Sigurd helped Tesia down, then gripped her arms for a moment.

  People turned toward the Administrator. “We can all be grateful to the Habbers here,” Sigurd called out, “for seeing that it was our will that all of them depart, instead of staying here and trying to work against that decision. Because of that, I am allowing you to make this journey together and to share these final few moments. God go with you. I shall await the return of you Islanders, when we'll redouble our efforts on the Project's behalf.”

  The crowd stirred. Tesia trembled as Sigurd released her. Malik shot the Administrator a glance; Sigurd stared directly at him as he climbed back into the cart, then bowed his blond head. The cart turned and rolled back down the wide hall. Tesia leaned against another Habber woman, her face pale.

  Malik was suddenly afraid. How could Sigurd remain behind? Would anyone believe that he didn't know what was about to happen, that his Habber woman would conceal that from him? Even if others imagined that Sigurd had been deceived, that would hardly strengthen his already shaky position. No, Malik thought, Sigurd would betray them all first. He could demonstrate his loyalty by revealing more Habber perfidy and punishing the Islanders who had rashly hoped to escape. Perhaps he was already summoning others through his Link, people who would come for the Islanders and then release some of their anger against the Habbers before allowing them to leave.

  He waited, expecting to see other carts move down the hall toward them, carrying people who would drag him away to certain punishment. But the doors to the docks were opening; people began to file inside. The two pilots by each entrance stared at their pocket screens, checking the names.

  Malik and Kyra were soon at one entrance. They murmured their names; the female pilot seemed surprised as she peered at Malik, but did not speak. They entered the wide cylindrical dock and moved toward the ladder that led to the shuttle's entrance. Kyra climbed up first; Malik followed. Perhaps Sigurd was only waiting to give one last chance to anyone who might have second thoughts. Malik could still rum back. The familiar weariness settled over him, the same lassitude he had felt when he decided to travel to the camp near Tashkent. He no longer had the strength to resist whatever happened to him.

  The other passenge
rs were already strapped into their seats. Malik and Kyra climbed to the front of the shuttle along the handholds and rungs jutting out from each seat until they found two empty places. He waited until Kyra had settled herself, then eased into the seat next to her and stretched out, his feet against the wall.

  He wondered if life was truly different among the Habbers. Did they oppose one another, or struggle and quarrel among themselves? Was their history more than the merry-go-round he knew so well? Had they found a better way?

  The two pilots climbed toward the front of the ship. Malik watched as two Habbers in seats across from his loosened their harnesses and crept out onto the rungs. The pilots were just below the door leading into their cabin; Malik's mouth was dry.

  The male pilot looked down as a third Habber began to leave his seat. “Get back,” the pilot shouted, the Habber just below him suddenly pressed a metal cylinder against his calf. The pilot fell backward; one Habber man caught him and pushed him into one of the empty seats.

  The female pilot was trying to get inside the cabin. The Habber nearest to her lashed out with his cylinder and missed. She grabbed at a rung and lost her grip; her body twisted to one side as she fell across Malik. Her hands clawed at him; the Habber man pressed his cylinder against her spine. She sagged into unconsciousness; her fingers loosened their grip on Malik's arm. Someone pulled her away and dumped her into another seat as the two Habbers in the front of the ship disappeared behind the door of the pilots’ cabin.

  Malik trembled; they still might not be safe. If the female pilot had been able to reach the cabin, she might have had just enough time to send out a warning; a pilot in one of the other ships could already be doing so. He stared at the small screen in front of him, his body tense. Kyra brushed his hand lightly, then gazed at the other small screen, which also showed the inside of the dock.

  A message would come now; someone was probably already preparing it. They would be told that they would have to leave the ship and return to the Islands for certain punishment. No one would believe that the Islanders aboard these shuttles were ignorant of the Habbers’ plans.