Child of Venus

by Pamela Sargent

  Mahala heard Solveig yawn behind her. She turned to see her friend sit up in her bed. “I just found out,” Mahala said, “that you’re going to Anwara.”

  Solveig grinned. “I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I couldn’t. I will miss you, but—”

  “You won’t miss me. I was advised to go to Anwara, too. Naturally, I said I would.”

  Solveig’s smile broadened. “But that’s wonderful.”

  “I am happy about that,” Mahala said. “I’ll see a different place. I just wish I knew what it meant.”

  Her screen chimed at her. She turned back to it to see the face of Jamilah al-Hussaini. The Administrator and Liaison to the Project Council wore a white scarf over her dark hair and had a grim look on her face.

  “In the name of God,” Jamilah began, “the Compassionate and Merciful, Whose hand guides us all.”

  Solveig got up, came to Mahala’s side, and sat down next to her. “It doesn’t sound as though she has good news,” the blond girl whispered.

  “I wish to announce,” Jamilah continued, “that I am resigning my position as Liaison to the Project Council, effective immediately. I am giving up my post solely of my own volition and willingly, so that I may devote my time to my specialty of geology and to my family on Earth.”

  Her family on Earth? Mahala shook her head. Any family Jamilah had on Earth would most likely be strangers to her. The Linker had been born here; she had been to Earth only during her years of study at the Cytherian Institute.

  “Much as I will miss my Island home,” the Administrator said, “I am looking forward to what lies ahead. I am also pleased to tell you that Masud al-Tikriti has been appointed as Liaison in my place. Since he is already on his way to Anwara, he should, God willing, be here and ready to assume his new position within the month. I trust that he will be treated with the courtesy and kindness all Cytherians have shown to me. My thoughts and prayers will be with you always.”

  The image of Jamilah vanished, to be replaced by the image of another Administrator, a brown-bearded man who was one of Jamilah’s aides. “That concludes the official statement of our departing Administrator and Liaison, Jamilah al-Hussaini,” the man said. “We wish her well as she prepares to journey to Earth to become a member of the geology department at the University of Tashkent. The Administrator’s statement will be repeated at one-hour intervals for the next eight hours.”

  The screen went blank. Jamilah had been the most powerful Linker and Administrator here ever since Mahala’s childhood, the Administrator who dealt with the members of the Project Council on Anwara and with the Council of Mukhtars on Earth.

  “The University of Tashkent,” Solveig said. “If they’re sending her there, she can’t be in disgrace.” The university was one of the most selective schools on Earth.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Mahala said. “She’s kept everything going, new settlements are being built on schedule, and there haven’t been any real disputes between the settlement Councilors and the Island Administrators. Why wouldn’t they keep her here?”

  “Obviously because they want her on Earth,” Solveig said, “and since she’s being given a position at such a prestigious university, they must want her there so that they can consult with her. It must mean they’re planning for changes involving the Project.”

  “Administrator Masud al-Tikriti, public record, written form, in Anglaic,” Mahala said. Rows of Anglaic letters appeared on the screen; Solveig moved closer to read the record. Masud al-Tikriti had been born in the New Islamic Nomarchy, in a town not for from Baghdad, had been educated at the University of Damascus, and had been a professor of physics at the Cytherian Institute before being promoted to an administrative post in his native Nomarchy. He came from a family of Linkers and numbered a few Mukhtars among his ancestors. He had been given his own Link while in his early twenties and was considered brilliant and accomplished. There appeared to be no black marks on his record. He and his bondmate, Aisha Alzubra, had one child, a son who was now a student at the University of Amman.

  “Quite a record,” Solveig said. “Looks as though the Mukhtars have decided that we deserve one of their best.”

  Mahala called up an image of the man. Masud al-Tikriti was a lean-faced man with black hair and dark penetrating eyes. “I don’t know,” Mahala murmured. “It could mean that the Council of Mukhtars wants tighter control over everything here.” She stood up, forcing herself to ignore her apprehensions. “We’d better start thinking about what we’re going to take with us to Anwara and what we’re going to give away.”

  Mahala had meant to visit Malik after sorting through her belongings and attending a party several students had hastily organized for those who would be leaving for Anwara. She left the student quarters with Solveig at last light only to find her grandfather waiting outside for her.

  Solveig greeted Malik while Mahala hung back, resenting him just a little for showing up now. “We’ve both been chosen to go to Anwara,” Solveig said.

  “You look most pleased about that,” Malik said.

  “Of course we are,” Solveig replied. “I was there before and always hoped I could go back.”

  “We were just on our way to a party,” Mahala said pointedly.

  “I will not take up much of your time, Mahala,” her grandfather said, “but I must speak to you.”

  “Go on,” Mahala murmured to Solveig. “Tell the others I’ll be there soon.” The other girl nodded her head in Malik’s direction, then walked away. “What is it, Malik?”

  “Not here,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  She followed him, keeping at his side. “That party is being given for us,” she said. “I should at least be polite enough to be there when it starts.”

  “This is something you should know.”

  He stopped abruptly, looked around, then led her toward a small grove of trees. “I’ll tell you here, Mahala,” he continued. There was no one near them; she could barely see his face in the shadows under the trees. “This new Liaison, this Masud al-Tikriti—he is a kinsman of mine and of yours. One of my uncles lived in the town of Tikrit. His son attached the name of the town to his own. Masud is the grandson of my uncle.”

  She took a breath. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. It was easy enough to find out. Had you sorted through the records, you could have discovered it for yourself, but there was no need for you to think you had any connection to him. I was curious because I knew that I once had an uncle in Tikrit, and I thought Masud might be related to people he knew.”

  “The Council of Mukhtars would have to know he’s a relative of yours,” Mahala said.

  “Of course. Perhaps we should simply assume that enough time has gone by that members of my family are no longer disgraced by their connection to me, a man who left Venus for the Habitats, and that they are now free to rise again to positions of some influence. Perhaps we should not be too quick to suspect that this might mark a change in how the Project is to be conducted.”

  She was already wondering if this new Liaison had anything to do with sending her to Anwara. That could not be; other students would be going with her. She was too insignificant for anyone close to the Mukhtars, even a kinsman, to take an interest in her. But Earth’s rulers had the power, and maybe the inclination, to manipulate people as if they were pieces in a larger game, to move them around simply to see what might come of that. Her great-grandmother was the martyred Iris Angharads, her grandmother was the respected Risa Liangharads, and her mother, Chimene Liang-Haddad, had threatened the survival of her world before acting finally to save it.

  And, she thought, there was Malik. Maybe the Mukhtars did not think of her as unimportant.

  “This may mean little,” Malik continued, “but now I wonder if this means I should leave the Islands. The Administrators might have canceled my lectures so as not to risk offending my relative when he arrives.”

  “I’d miss you,” she said, almost as an automatic courte
sy, then realized that she meant it. Knowing that Malik was here, that he had come back at least in part to see what had become of his grandchild, had been a kind of comfort.

  He smiled. “You would miss me anyway,” he said, “since you’ll be going to Anwara.”

  “But if I knew you were still nearby, I wouldn’t miss you as much.”

  “We’ll see.” He rested his back against a tree. “I’ll ask if there’s a place for me on the Habber ship orbiting Venus. I wouldn’t be so far away then.”

  Yes, you would be, she thought. The only time her people had any contact with those aboard that vessel was during the rare times the ship docked at Anwara. Malik would be almost as distant from her as he would be if he returned to one of the Habs.

  “I should have spent more time with you when I had the chance,” Mahala said.

  “I understand, child. You needn’t sound so apologetic. I came into your life abruptly—I am not surprised that you needed time to get used to that.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Go to your party and look forward to your time on Anwara, and I will wait to see what the future may hold for us.”

  High Orbit

  15

  To travel to Anwara, the large space station orbiting Venus, required going to the port of the Island Platform by airship and then taking a shuttle from the Platform to the satellite. Mahala and Solveig were traveling with Chike Enu-Barnes and Stephan AnnasLeonards; the six students from the other Islands would be going to Anwara on later shuttle flights.

  She and Solveig boarded their airship, stored their duffels under their seats, and were about to strap themselves in when she heard a few passengers behind her whispering to one another. “Salaam, Linker Jamilah,” a man said. Mahala peered around the back of her seat and saw Jamilah al-Hussaini making her way down the aisle.

  Other passengers greeted the Administrator—the former Administrator and past Liaison to the Council, Mahala reminded herself—touching their foreheads with their fingers as she passed them. Jamilah wore a plain brown tunic and pants instead of her usual formal white robe and had covered her hair with a plain white scarf; she nodded at each passenger in turn as she walked by.

  “I didn’t know she was leaving this soon,” Solveig whispered, then touched her forehead as Jamilah came to the front of the airship. Mahala did the same, wondering if she should also get to her feet. Jamilah nodded absently at both of them.

  The two pilots were already standing in the open entrance to their control cabin. “Please do go back to your stations,”

  Jamilah murmured to the pilots, “and continue to run your checks.” She turned to face the other passengers. “I should tell you now that it is my privilege, and also my great pleasure, to be among those who will welcome Masud al-Tikriti when he arrives on Anwara in a few days. I will greatly miss the friends I’ve made among those I have served here, but please be reassured that all Cytherians will be in Linker Masud’s most capable hands and that he is most sympathetic to our interests. And perhaps, God willing, I will not be separated from you for so very long, much as I am looking forward to my new position on Earth.”

  Mahala studied Jamilah’s face, but could read nothing in the Linker’s impassive expression. However sudden her resignation had seemed, it was now obvious that her departure had been planned for some time; otherwise, her replacement would not already be on his way here from Earth.

  Jamilah sat down in one of the seats in the front row. Mahala finished securing her safety harness, then leaned back. There was no point in worrying over what was going on among the Administrators and the Project Council; there would be enough to occupy her once she got to Anwara.

  On the Platform, standing at the bottom of the enclosed cylinder of their dock and waiting to board the shuttlecraft with Solveig, Chike, and Stephan, Mahala discreetly studied the other passengers gathered at the base of the ship. Most of the people aboard the airship had been mechanics coming here to work on repairs and maintenance, while others had come to the port to connect with shuttles that would take them to the Bats. Except for Jamilah and the three students with Mahala, the people who were to board this shuttle had arrived at the Platform from the other Islands, and several of them wore the pins of specialists on their collars—silvery clouds for climatologists, tiny hammers for metallurgical engineers, a green leaf for a botanist, a small disk with an equation for a physicist. Two were marked as Linkers by the diamondlike gems on their foreheads.

  As she had done aboard the airship, Jamilah was soon greeting her fellow shuttle passengers as though she were still Liaison to the Project Council, touching her hand to the diamond on her brow as they nodded back. The Linker stopped to gaze at Mahala and her three companions for a few moments in silence. Mahala lowered her eyes, feeling distinctly uneasy, thinking of how easily Jamilah could call up any information she wanted through her Link. The cyberminds could provide her with the public record of anyone aboard this shuttle, and perhaps some private records as well.

  “These four young people with us,” Jamilah continued, “are students at Island Two’s secondary school. They have been chosen to go to Anwara to study.”

  “I heard about that,” one man said. “Isn’t that out of the ordinary, sending young students at that level to Anwara?”

  “Students have gone there before,” Jamilah replied, “but it’s true that they haven’t remained on Anwara for more than very short periods of time.” She gestured at Solveig. “This young woman here, Solveig Einarsdottir, has traveled to Anwara before, but only for a week.” Solveig’s eyes widened, even though the blond girl had to know that Jamilah’s Link had provided her with that small detail. “Some of us felt that it was time we exposed more of our young people to life on Anwara, where Cytherians, Earthfolk, and Habbers regularly meet to discuss the Project’s needs. I myself made that recommendation to the Council, and Masud al-Tikriti apparently concurs.”

  First her comments aboard the airship, Mahala thought, and now this. She did not think that Jamilah was simply making idle chatter. The Linker had to know that most Cytherians were quick to pass along anything they heard from an Administrator, however innocuous. Jamilah wanted them to know that she had been consulted on whatever changes might be coming to the Project and that she still had something to say about its fate.

  August 649

  From: Mahala Liangharad, Anwara, Center Ring, Room 432

  To: Risa Liangharad and Sef Talis, Oberg

  I’ve been on Anwara—inside Anwara—for three days now, and according to what others here have told me, I made the adjustment fairly well. Stephan AnnasLeonards, one of the students who traveled here with me, told me just today that he still feels slightly disoriented and dizzy. We were at zero-g at Anwara’s hub, where our shuttle docked—luckily, none of us found weightlessness hard to take there or during the flight— but in the rings, we’re at one-g, just a little more than the gravity on Venus or the Islands.

  So theoretically we should all adjust fairly quickly, except that some people have more difficulty than others in adjusting to the spin of an orbiting space station. I can’t really sense any difference. I looked up the statistics, and about half of the people who come here have minor problems like Stephan’s for up to a month. A few, about ten percent, need small implants in their inner ears to compensate for their loss of balance, but the physicians won’t bother with that unless you’re really important and are needed here. A very few people, about two percent, end up leaving after a couple of months because they can’t adjust at all, and almost all of them are people who came here directly from Earth rather than from Venus, and whether or not that means anything, I don’t know. Seems peculiar; given that Venus’s gravity is about eighty-five percent of Earth’s, you’d think more Cytherians would have that particular problem. Maybe settlers, and the descendants of settlers, are just more adaptable to begin with. I’m curious, so I’m going to look up some research on the subject.

  I should start at the beginning. I don’t know how much y
ou saw, Sef, when you first came here from Earth on your way to Venus, but Anwara looked to me like three large circular tubes turning slowly around a hub when I saw it on the screen. They keep adding new modules to the rim, and from space the modules almost look like jewels. At the hub, there are docks for shuttles, for the torchships arriving from Earth, and for Habber vessels, and one of the first things we were told is that the docks where Habber ships are berthed are off-limits and can’t be entered. Earth’s Mukhtars and the Project Council here supposedly insisted on those restrictions, but presumably the Habbers have their own reasons for wanting to keep us away from their ships.

  At the Platform, before the shuttle took off, the pilots issued us all adhesive strips for our shoes, but they warned us to be careful moving around in weightlessness. Except for using the lavatory—and I won’t even get into that—most of us stayed in our seats during the flight, floating up against our harnesses. We were in zero-g at the hub, after our ship docked, but we weren’t there that long before a woman came to show us to our quarters. Her name is Orenda Tineka, and even though she trained in environmental systems, she seems more like a psychologist or a Counselor. Apparently her job is to advise the students, answer our questions, and help us get used to Anwara.

  Solveig and I were assigned to the same room, number 432 in the center ring. I haven’t seen much of the other two rings yet, but they look about the same as this one. The passageways are always lighted, and I’m getting used to that, but Chike Enu-Barnes says it starts to bother him if he has to be in the corridors for more than half an hour. I know what he means. I had a long walk back from Orenda’s room to mine last night—yesterday—and it seemed endless, just walking through this gently curving corridor past door after door, peering at the numbers or images on the doors, hearing people’s voices and then seeing tiny figures emerge in the distance from around the curve—well, it isn’t anything like Oberg or the Islands.