“Most people here would call this roomy,” Solveig murmured. The blond girl went on to tell her about the school. The teachers expected their students to take some initiative in designing their courses of study, so Mahala would largely be on her own. She was required to meet with each of her teachers at least once every fourteen days, but Solveig advised her to do so more often than that. Depending on which subjects she pursued, she would be assigned to classes that would include lectures by a teacher and discussion among the students; she could attend them either in person or by screen. She could work at what she liked, but eventually the faculty would have to assess her progress and decide if she would be allowed to remain a student and do university-level work or else encouraged to turn her thoughts to an apprenticeship. Mahala knew most of this already, but said nothing.
“What I’d advise,” Solveig continued, “is that you go to the classes most of the time and miss a few occasionally. That way, you look as though you’re taking the work seriously without seeming to be too dependent on the teachers and other students. Same goes for projects—do at least one by yourself and then try to interest a few students in working on another with you as a team.” She sighed as she shifted on her cushion. “The trick is not to be either too solitary or too tied to a group—you want to show you can be cooperative, but still able to work alone. They want to see you show initiative without being domineering. After all, that’s the kind of person we want on the Project.”
Mahala heard a sardonic tone in her friend’s voice. It sounded like some of the advice she had overheard others telling young people who aspired to the Cytherian Institute: It won’t hurt you to learn Arabic, even if all the classes are in Anglaic. The Administrators will be flattered and impressed if you can master their official, ceremonial language; that will show you’re serious and mean to rise. It’s wrong to submit to a faith you don’t truly hold, but if you’re sincere about becoming a Muslim, submission to that faith certainly won’t do your future prospects any harm.
If she weighed everything that way long enough, Mahala wondered, would she forget how to distinguish between what she genuinely felt and what was only pragmatic?
“I came here knowing I’d have to work hard,” Mahala said. “If I have to worry about whether I’m missing the right number of classes or some of those other things—”
“Yes, I know. You’re right—you can’t really plan it out that way.” Solveig sounded more like herself. “But I figured you should know how some of our more calculating schoolmates go about their business.”
Mahala stifled a yawn, then smiled apologetically. “I’m more tired than I thought.”
“Get some rest, then.” Solveig got to her feet. “We can have supper together later, if you like.”
“I think Benzi’s expecting to dine with me.” He had not told her that, but he would surely come to their quarters by last light to greet her. She wanted to find out more about Malik from him, and as soon as possible; better to be prepared in case she ran into her grandfather unexpectedly.
“If you’re not doing anything after that, call,” Solveig went on. “I’ll introduce you to some of my friends.”
“All right.”
After Solveig was gone, Mahala went into one of the bedrooms. The drawers set into the wall were empty, so she assumed that Benzi had taken the other room. She unpacked one of her duffels, then stretched out on the bed.
Even though she felt tired, sleep was elusive. Mahala lay there, thinking of what she might have been doing now. Her grandmother would expect her to call up everyone on the list of Risa’s Island Two acquaintances and leave messages saying that she had arrived and was looking forward to meeting them. She might also have been getting an early start on her studies.
A door whispered open, and then she heard footsteps in the outer room. “Mahala?” She recognized Benzi’s voice. “Are you here?”
She slipped from the bed and hurried out to him. He was the same as he had been, his hair still black, his golden-skinned face that of a much younger man. She drew back slightly from him as he caught her by the arms.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
“You haven’t.”
He smiled. “I have—it just doesn’t show.” He let go of her and looked down, seeming uncertain for a moment. “You were a lot shorter when we said farewell last time.”
“I’m still short.” Her head came only to his shoulder, and Benzi was not a tall man. “This is about as tall as I’m likely to get.” She stepped toward a cushion and sat down.
Her great-uncle seated himself across from her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the bay,” he said.
“That’s all right. Solveig was there to greet me.”
“I know you didn’t expect to live here.” Benzi crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees. “I assumed I’d be living in the Habber quarters again.”
“Why did you come back?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “What do you want, anyway—a chance to pretend you still have a family here before you go back to your Hab again?”
“Mahala—”
“Balin left Turing. Dyami doesn’t know if he’s ever coming back. Obviously it isn’t a good idea to get too attached to any of you.”
“You don’t understand. Balin had to—”
“That’s what he told Dyami, that he had to go. Dyami was probably just a diversion to him all along. He loves him—he deserved better than that from Balin.”
“Balin loves Dyami, too.”
“But not enough to stay. You must get bored after a while, living your long lives. After a while, it’s time to move on.”
Benzi’s eyes narrowed. If she had not known better, she might have thought he was angry. He bowed his head; when he looked up again, he seemed calm.
“Your people would resent us even more if we stayed here too long,” he said. “The time when people we know start noticing that we haven’t aged at all and begin wondering exactly how long we can keep rejuvenating ourselves is often what strains the limits of their tolerance, and it’s usually better for individual Habbers to make a departure earlier than that.” He paused. “As it is, we have all those groups of young people demonstrating and making their demands. What kinds of demonstrations do you think they would stage if we—”
“Is that the only reason?” Mahala asked.
“No. It can be too easy to forget what we are here, that we’re Habbers. And in the Habitats, we have to try to remember that we’re human.” He folded his arms. “Maybe you and Risa and Dyami are all that’s kept me human.”
“Why did you come back, Benzi?”
He quickly rose to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”
She frowned, but uttered no protest as she followed him from the room. They passed through the pilots’ common room on the way out; the main door had been propped open by a pole, and men and women sat around tables near the entrance, laughing and talking as they ate their evening meal.
Benzi took her arm as they left the building, guiding her along a path. Evening had come to Island Two; the dome’s silvery light seemed dimmer than that of Turing’s night. Others were strolling along the paths, and a few people sat at tables under trees, drinking from cups.
The path of flat white tiles ended at the bottom of a flight of stairs. They had come to the eastern edge of the Island; above them, a curving platform stood against the dome. Mahala climbed the steps, Benzi just behind her. They were alone; apparently few came to the observational platform at this hour. Venus was below, cloaked in the shadow of the Parasol, invisible. She leaned against the railing and gazed through the dome at the blackness.
“This may seem overly suspicious on my part,” Benzi murmured, “but I’d rather discuss certain things here than in our rooms. It wouldn’t be hard for the Administrators to eavesdrop, and I haven’t had a chance yet to block any channels or devices they might use to monitor me.”
“You are too suspicious,” she said.
“Being ushered to the Administrative Center by Guardians upon one’s arrival has the effect of rousing one’s suspicions. They didn’t keep me long, but Malik was still in Jamilah al-Hussaini’s quarters when I left. Since then, I discovered, he hasn’t been seen, and he hasn’t answered any messages from the Habbers here.”
Her hands tightened on the railing. “But what could anyone here want with him?”
“I told him that it might be unwise to come here now,” Benzi responded. “He chose to become a Habber—that makes him different from the others who fled to our Habitat with him. The others came back here after the Revolt, showing that their true loyalties still lay with this Project and that they had sought refuge with us only out of desperation. They could be forgiven. But Malik stayed on when he could have returned.”
“You did the same thing, Benzi,” Mahala said. “How is he any different from you?”
“He still has relatives who are close to the Council of Mukhtars, and he shamed his family with his actions. The Linkers here may want to keep a close watch on him until they see if the Mukhtars are going to take his presence here amiss.” He turned toward her. “He was the father of a woman who caused your people much suffering. His disgrace on Earth and his questioning of the official ideology were what brought him here, what forced him to come here as an exile, and he was never truly devoted to Venus or the Project. He was a coward who feared bringing even more trouble on himself. He escaped from this world when some who might have escaped with him remained behind instead to fight on.”
“You’re judging him harshly.”
“I’ve said only what Malik says about himself,” Benzi said. “He thought that maybe it wouldn’t matter now, that he could come back here for a time, that he might even be of some use. What freedom you Cytherians have was hard-won, Mahala, and our presence here helps to guarantee it. But if some on Earth choose to view Malik’s visit to the Islands as a provocation, there isn’t much we can do.”
“Do you really think—”
Benzi lifted a hand. “I’m saying that it may be in the interests of the Administrators, who have no reason to antagonize Earth, to convince him that he’s not welcome here and to make that clear before the Mukhtars decide it might be worthwhile to make an issue of him. Malik fell into disgrace because he dared to hint that you Cytherians should be more autonomous, that Earth might benefit in the long run by letting you go your own way. He thought Venus might become a bridge between Earth and our Habitats, that this should be the Project’s true purpose. For him to come here now, after the Mukhtars have given up much of their real authority here, might seem overly provocative to some.”
“Then why did he come back?” she asked.
“To see you. To make his peace with the past. He was, after all, a historian once. The past means more to him than it does to many people.”
Mahala said, “He made his choice. It’s useless for him to come back now.”
“How harsh you sound.”
“All I’m saying is that, once you’ve made a decision, it’s pointless to regret it.” She thought of Ragnar. “What good does it do to look back?”
“You’re young. You might feel different when you’re Malik’s age.”
“Is that why you came back, to make your peace with the past?”
“Partly. We need you more than you realize, and you need us—” She waited for him to go on, but he was silent for a long time. “Let’s go back to our rooms,” he said at last. “You’re probably tired.”
She was about to say that she had not eaten yet, but she did not feel very hungry. Benzi led her down the stairs; they had gone only a short distance along the path when she saw him tense.
He was very still, not moving, his head slightly tilted as if he were listening to something. “It’s Malik,” he said at last. “He’s at the Habber residence now. He wants to see you. He also says that—”
She was suddenly irritated with both Benzi and her grandfather. “If he wants to see me,” she said, “he can leave me a message saying so. He doesn’t have to go through you.” She strode ahead of him before he could reply. Deciding to live with Benzi had been a mistake; she should never have agreed to it so readily. Solveig might be able to help her find new quarters, and it made more sense for Benzi to live with the other Habbers instead of among the pilots.
A hand brushed against her arm. “I’m sorry,” Benzi said, catching up with her. “I just thought—” He paused. “I was right about one thing. The Administrators don’t particularly want him to stay, but Malik doesn’t know what they’re prepared to do with him if he does stay. They seem uninterested in making a fuss, which is a bit surprising. Perhaps—”
“None of that matters to me.”
“Don’t be so merciless, Mahala. You may be more like your grandfather than you think. Otherwise, you’d still be down in Oberg, happily preparing yourself for the life Risa wants for you and telling yourself you don’t need anything more.”
The words stung, coming from him; Benzi rarely sounded that upset. “I’m tired,” she said. “That’s all. I’ll be in a better mood when I’ve had some sleep.”
The door to the common room was closed now; Mahala and Benzi went to their room. As they entered, Mahala saw a light flashing below the wall screen; someone had left a message.
Malik, she thought, and went to the screen, taking a breath before she spoke. “If the message is for me,” she ordered, “you may deliver it now.” What would Malik’s voice be like, and how would he look? Probably much as he always had. Risa had often told her how handsome he was, and the images Mahala had seen had confirmed that.
The screen lit up. No image appeared, and she heard no voice. Malik had left a written message.
Mahala, the message began, I long to see the grandchild I have never known. You may come to visit with me at the Habber residence here tomorrow, at any time you wish. If you desire no contact with the grandfather who has been absent from your life, you need not respond. I shall assume, if you do not seek me out, that you want nothing to do with me. Please do not feel that you owe me any explanation for your decision. I gave up the right to ask anything of you when I left this world and will not trouble you further. Malik Haddad.
She sank to a cushion as the message flickered out. How clever of him to leave only those words, to reveal nothing of himself. He must have known that her curiosity would be roused and that she would have to see him.
12
The Habber residence was a round building made of gray stone, within sight of the ziggurat of the Administrators and surrounded by a small park of willows and flowering shrubs. The two black-uniformed Guardians on duty stood at attention as Mahala approached. Benzi had offered to come with her, but she wanted to meet Malik Haddad alone.
The Guardians, two young men who looked only two or three years older than Mahala, barely glanced at her as she moved toward the entrance. She pressed her hand against the door; it slid open, revealing a dimly-lit and empty room.
Mahala stepped forward; the door closed behind her. She stood in the large room, wondering where to go next, and then the wall to her right opened, sliding soundlessly across the floor. A curving hallway with closed doors on either side, hidden by the wall, was now revealed.
She had never been inside a Habber residence before, not even in Turing. It came to her then that the Habbers, even Balin and Benzi, had subtly discouraged such visits, that Cytherians had rarely been seen entering their quarters and that the Habbers had seemed content with that arrangement. She had assumed that their residences were much like anyone else’s, but this empty room, obviously meant to be a common room, had no tables and cushions, while the retracting wall in front of the hallway seemed an unnecessary precaution.
Were the Habbers so fearful of their safety here that they needed to seal themselves off until assured that any callers were friendly? Dyami had told her of how Habbers and Cytherians had once felt free to visit one another at any time in Turing and had lived in m
uch the same sorts of quarters while working together, but that had been during the time before her uncle’s imprisonment there. The Habbers still had many reasons to be cautious, and having Guardians on duty outside this building probably added to their anxiety instead of reassuring them.
Mahala moved toward the hallway. A door near her opened and a dark-haired man in a plain gray tunic and trousers stepped through the opening. She recognized Malik Haddad immediately. His handsome beardless face was unchanged from the images of him she had seen, and his dark hair was only lightly touched with gray.
“Salaam,” he said. She hesitated, unable even to utter a greeting. “Please come inside.”
She followed him into the room. The only furnishings were two wide mats that covered much of the floor. Mahala sat down on one; the man who was her biological grandfather settled himself on the other, facing her. Most people would have set out some food and drink for a visitor, even if the provisions were only tea and bits of bread or pastry, but he offered her nothing. It was just as well, she thought nervously, she was too nervous to eat or drink anything.
“Forgive me,” Malik said. She tensed, wondering if he was about to unburden himself now, without preliminaries. “For my lack of hospitality,” he continued. “If you’d like something to eat—”
“No, thank you,” she replied. Now that she was closer to him, he seemed more aged. His black hair had only a few strands of silver, his face was unmarred by lines and wrinkles, his body apparently firm and straight, yet in some indefinable way, he seemed as old as her grandmother. Maybe it was the trace of weariness in his eyes, the slightly hollow cheeks, or the barely detectable slumping of his shoulders.
“This must be awkward for you,” he said. “It was my hope that, since you’d spent more time among Habbers than most here, with Benzi and with others in Turing, that you might be more at ease with me.”
“Are you a Habber?” she asked.
“Your Administrators certainly consider me one. Benzi does, but then there are Habbers who continue to regard him as one who is still apart from them in some ways. And—” His voice trailed off.
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