The Jumping Jehosophat came catapulting out of the endlessly circling storm forty thousand meters high, pointing almost straight up. The fans began to lose their purchase in the thin air. For a moment the ship hung suspended, either to fall like a stone or rise to even greater heights.
Kelvin goosed the fans, made the slightest adjustment, and lined the ship up absolutely vertical for a straight ride to the stars. Then he hit the one-shot orbitmaker.
There was a second where he thought that the rocket booster wasn’t going to activate, where he felt his stomach rise up before the fall.
Then there was a roar greater and closer than the storm. Kelvin was savagely thrust back into his chair and he blacked out.
He came to feeling intensely aggrieved. How could he have blacked out? He never blacked out. He’d been designed from birth to be a pilot! But the emotion only lasted the merest instant. Already, he was automatically taking stock of his situation. There was no massive pressure holding him back. The orbitmaker was off and … he wriggled in place … they were in zero G. In some sort of orbit, at least for the time being.
His eyes raced over the displays, his full senses returning. With them came a sudden shock. How long had he been out? Kelvin’s arm jerked but his watch wasn’t there, it had fallen off his suit and was floating somewhere. The ship’s time was meaningless, the display set to Venus Above.
His fingers sped across controls, bringing up comms. Radio, laser-link, maser, every damn thing the ship possessed. At the same time, he activated scans, looking for his own position, the picket ships, Venus Above, and, most important, the Rotarua.
There she was, a massive blip coming around the curve of the planet, heading in fast and almost … almost but not quite … in attack range, either to take out him or launch on the crash site.
Automatic queries were coming in, answering the hails he had set in motion. Venusport Traffic Control, the familiar hoarse lungy voice of the expert system, emotionlessly asking where he had come from, what he was doing, why his transponder was off.
Kelvin used the manual board to flick on the backup emergency transponder and plugged his suit into the comm system, to broadcast by all means across many channels.
“Anyone receiving, anyone receiving, this is Kelvin Kelvin 21, pilot in charge of the salvaged vessel Jumping Jehosophat. We have damage, comms issues, request relay from any receiving party to Venusport Traffic, Venus Above Orbit Control. Please relay position as per data blip, and relay following to Terran Navy NOIC Aphrodite. Vessel located planetside, no survivors. Lieutenant Mazith killed by fungal hostile. Despite damage, ship is maneuverable, I intend docking Venus Above Hazard Area, please be advised need high-level de con.”
As his words went out, Kelvin settled back in his seat. On the scan, he saw the Rotarua change course and slow, as if it were never intending any kind of attack run anyway. A Martian picket ship was coming in over the pole, closely followed by a Mercury Corp patrol vessel and some small civilian craft that might well be a newshound.
Vinnie and the others would be safe, at least from an attack from space, and he figured they were good for anything else.
Beneath him, the clouds of Venus roiled, the Roar like some dark, unwavering eye looking up toward him, as if to get a good look for the next time he came to visit.
“Not a chance,” said Kelvin, waving. “I am never going back to see you, buddy. I’m not stepping one meter outside of Venusport, no matter what!”
At that moment, the audible alerts that had diminished to a whisper grew raucous again, and a flashing holograph bigger and brighter than any before erupted in front of his face.
“Orbital decay! Orbital decay!”
Kelvin sighed, and reached for the controls.
MICHAEL CASSUTT
As a print author, Michael Cassutt is mostly known for his incisive short work, but he has worked intensively in the television industry over the past few decades, where he is a major Mover and Shaker. He was co–executive producer for Showtime’s The Outer Limits—which won a CableACE Award for best dramatic series—and also served in the same or similar capacities for series such as Eerie, Indiana and Strange Luck, as well as having worked as the story editor for Max Headroom, as a staff writer on The Twilight Zone, and having contributed scripts to Farscape, Stargate SG-1, and many other television series. His books include the novels The Star Country, Dragon Season, Missing Man, Red Moon, Tango Midnight, the anthology Sacred Visions, coedited with Andrew M. Greeley, and a biographical encyclopedia, Who’s Who in Space: The First 25 Years. He also collaborated with the late astronaut Deke Slayton on Slayton’s autobiography Deke! His most recent books are the Heaven’s Shadow series, written with David S. Goyer, and consisting of Heaven’s Shadow, Heaven’s War, and Heaven’s Fall.
In the compelling story that follows, he demonstrates that dangers that you ignore are still dangers, and that some warnings had better be listened to, whether you think you know better or not.
The Sunset of Time
MICHAEL CASSUTT
“DON’T WORRY, YOUR GIRLFRIEND WILL BE HERE.”
D’Yquem (Exile Quotient 1,2,3,4,5,6,7) gestures with his brue, the cheap brand created by Petros (1,3,4,6), owner of the 13-Plus Tap, which is the least of the three bars that cater to the Terrestrian population of Venus Port. It is the one Jor (2,4,7) prefers, for its low prices, panoramic view, and especially the absence of Terrestrian Authority figures—or anyone whose EQ is under 12.
“You keep calling her my girlfriend.”
“Suggest another name then,” D’Yquem snaps. He emigrated to Venus from England, and his manner is still annoyingly upper-class, aristocratic. “We’ve already rejected ‘tart,’ and ‘sweetie’ is unbearably cloying. ‘Impedimenta’ is clearly inaccurate since she’s more independent than you.”
“Drink your brue,” Jor snaps, turning so he can watch the entrance. Having fled Chicago and a suffocating Midwestern American existence, he is an unlikely friend to D’Yquem.
Yet they do share similarities. Both are tall and thin, though Jor’s complexion is darker, and his stomach is beginning to expand, thanks to the nightly ingestions of brue. D’Yquem remains pale and almost skeletal.
Their other commonality is, according to D’Yquem, “We’re both hereditary kicks. Horse-holders. Second-raters. Never heroes.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m the snarky one at every meeting,” he says, which Jor knows to be true. “And you’re the one who trails behind the boss but does all the work.”
“But I’m a project manager!”
“But not the head of TA.” Which is Harrison Tuttle (4,5), a dull, petty American from New York who controls every aspect of Terrestrian life, from the assignment of living quarters in the four towers to approved styles of clothing—but pays no attention to the progress of the Lens.
Unlikely friends or not, nine out of every tenday, Jor and D’Yquem can be found in 13-Plus … though normally at the bar, not at a table. In days past, they used the vantage point to evaluate newly arrived female Terrestrians.
But tonight Jor is anticipating the arrival of the Cherished Abdera, Golden Glowing of the Clan Bright Sea—“Abdera” for sanity’s sake—the female Venerian with whom he has been friendly for a considerable time. Jor has pondered the nature of their relationship since its beginning two years past. “Girlfriend” is certainly not the correct term, not in his mind, and certainly not in hers. Venerians don’t have unauthorized, prematrimonial associations among themselves … understandable given their five identified genders, bitter clannish rivalries, complicated inheritances, ridiculously long life spans, and uncertain periods of sexual activity.
Nevertheless, it is fair to state that Abdera—who, in the permanent twilight of the Twi-Land, and allowing for oddities of dress and her light green coloring, could pass for a human female of thirty—is indeed Jor’s girlfriend.
And tonight, for the first time in their relationship, Abdera has n
ot only volunteered to enter the 13-Plus—where Venerians of any gender are rarely present—she has fixed a rendezvous.
Which she has now missed! And by a considerable amount of time. In all their time together, Abdera has never been late. “Tardiness,” as D’Yquem frequently says, “is a Venerial sin.”
(In addition to the labeling of Jor’s relationship, D’Yquem’s favorite topic is Foolish Terrestrian Terminology. His usual starting point is the Terrestrian name for natives of the second solar planet, frequently reducing it to a joke at Jor’s expense, as in, “Wouldn’t you rather have a Venusian girlfriend than a Venereal one?” Or similar.)
Jor feels that his friend is tiresome on the subject. But this is one of the topics that recurs under the influence of brue—which is vital to Terrestrian survival on Venus. “Maybe I should have gone to her.”
“And risk being run down by a rogue skiff? Picked up by TA’s curfew cops and brought before Tuttle? Sink in the mud and never be found? Don’t be an idiot.” D’Yquem grins again, tipping his half-empty glass (he is not a glass-half-full person) toward the window that looks north toward the Venus Port, and the human-built tower that looms above it. “Enjoy the view. It’s almost clear this evening, and the Lens actually glows.”
Venus Port lies in the northern third of the Twilight Lands, the broad band of habitable temperatures that circles Venus from pole to pole. Travel too far east, you broil in the Noon Lands if you don’t drown in the Bright Sea, or vanish into the many jungles and swamps.
Too far west, and you freeze in the eternal darkness of Nightside.
Humans know that the sky and stars and sun can be seen from Nightside: the low temperatures freeze any open water and eliminate the otherwise-permanent cloud cover that shrouds the rest of the planet.
But the sky above Venus Port is generally uniform, gray, like Chicago on a dreary winter afternoon, changing colors only when it rains—which is frequently. Terrestrians have no day, no night, no seasons, all of which contributed to TA’s adoption of the brutal tenday workweek, not that the controlling organization needed additional means of exploiting its workers.
Now and then, however, due to some yet-to-be-understood dynamics in the Venerian atmosphere, the gloom lifts a bit, and some stray beams of sunlight brighten the upper reaches of the Lens.
From this distance, Jor can’t see the rivets, the individual girders, the discolorations, the patchwork … just the giant glassy disc and its twin focal arms.
“Almost makes it all worthwhile,” he says. The construction has been a struggle, consuming most of his energies for the fifteen years he has lived on Venus. The same for D’Yquem, who has been here even longer. “One year of tests …”
“And then,” D’Yquem said, “everyone with the money can walk in a door on Earth and step out into this glorious Venerian landscape.” He examines the bottom of his empty glass. “I do wonder, Jor, if we aren’t working against our best interests here.”
“When haven’t we?”
D’Yquem laughs. He is capable of amusement at Jor’s attempts at cynicism. “This is a new low, even for the TA.” He belches. “We prosper here—”
“—If you call this prospering.”
“—Because it takes real effort to get to Venus.” D’Yquem’s point cannot be argued. Interplanetary spaceships are crowded and unpleasant, the tickets expensive, the voyage long. “No one wants to follow us with a warrant, then haul us back.”
Jor realizes that D’Yquem, in his fashion, has raised a legitimate point: with no exceptions worth noting, not even among the political leaders of the TA, no Terrestrian is free of an Exile Quotient … a public rating of his or her sins against the morals and behavioral standards of Earth, the headings being:
1 General maladjustment
2 Poor family relations
3 Substance abuse
4 Financial incompetence
5 Political unreliability
6 Sexual misconduct
7 Religious heresy
Each Terrestrian wears the EQ as a badge of honor—the denizens of 13-Plus glory in it; you can’t enter unless your score is thirteen or higher.
D’Yquem reaches across to Jor’s brue, takes it, drains it, a not-remotely-subtle signal to get the next round. “And by the way,” D’Yquem says, in one of his famous conversational veerings, “she will show.”
Jordan Lennox is the project manager for the Lens, a job he could not have imagined having when he first arrived at Venus Port. But politics, personalities, and the challenges of constructing an advanced technological facility on an alien world have seen the Lens run through eleven prior managers.
Now into his third year, Jor holds the record for tenure, largely—he believes—due to Charles D’Yquem.
The drunken aristo is a specialist in computing and calculating devices, tools that were banished from Earth a century past and rejected by Jor’s predecessors on Venus. (Jor feels that the EQ should have an eighth category … some Terrestrians are sent to Venus because they are just too fucking stupid.) Having listened to D’Yquem touting the devices for the best part of a decade, Jor was willing to try them once he moved into the top job.
Thanks to them, and Jor’s own relentless energy, the Lens now approaches completion.
Jor rises to head for the bar, a bit surprised by D’Yquem’s encouraging remark. His friend’s attitude toward Abdera usually starts out cold and judgmental, growing warmer only with increased alcoholic intake. Who knew D’Yquem was quite that drunk?
As he waits for a new pitcher of brue, Jor busies himself glancing from the entrance to the terrifying vista in the huge window: the blunt Terrestrian towers giving way to the more exotic—to human eyes, anyway—Venerian columns and galleries and mounds—all of them in the process of disassembly.
And, beyond both, the glittering thousand-foot diameter of the Lens shining in the perma-twilight.
He knows every foot of the Lens, of course. It feels as though he has personally lifted each I-beam, welded each structural plate, drilled each cable run, and even pulled each wire.
He has approved the design for all of these elements … while also ensuring quality control and integration. And he has seen the Lens grow from a stubby foundation formed from hardened Venerian slime to the tallest, broadest, most spectacular human structure this side of the Trans-Atlantic Tunnel.
One month away from its first tests … will it really work?
“Hey, Jordan!”
D’Yquem’s voice from across the bar.
He realizes that the pitcher has been sitting in front of him for perhaps two minutes … an eternity to a drinker like D’Yquem.
He is on his way back to the table when Abdera enters, looking sick with worry. Jor knows that while Venerian facial features are much like humans, their expressions are more extreme. A grown Venerian who is happy will glow like a human infant being tickled … one who is unhappy would have the expression of St. John regarding the Opening of the Graves.
Abdera looks like that now. “Jordan,” she says, as if she only has strength to utter his name.
“You’re late,” he says, feeling stupid.
Which only seems to make Abdera feel worse. “I was trapped.”
Jor moves her to the table, where D’Yquem helps her take a seat. Jor offers her a sip of brue, which she gulps in a single swallow. The beverage is designed to bolster human resistance to Venerian germs and other environmental factors; in small doses, it will not hurt Abdera.
But she downs Jor’s drink before being able to speak. “My clan ordered us to stay indoors for a cycle.” Cycle being the Venerian equivalent of thirty Earth hours.
“Why?”
“They never say. But this order came without warning, on a day that is usually devoted to business. There were many protests, none successful.”
“Yet here you are.”
And now she smiles. And in a less worried voice, says, “And here I am.”
Although Abdera would strike most
human males as attractive, it is not her looks that continue to inflame Jor’s passion. Rather, it is her voice—throaty, articulate, versatile, capable of terrifying low anger and inspiring high laughter … a true Siren song.
Fluent in English, she has no accent, or none that Jor, a Midwestern American of the twenty-second century, can detect. (D’Yquem is merciless about Jor’s “absurd nasal honk” and “questionable pronunciation.”)
And now, D’Yquem, who occasionally exhibits a finely tuned set of social graces, excuses himself, leaving Jor and Abdera alone. The Venerian female watches him cross to the far side of 13-Plus. It’s as if she has never seen him walk before.
“What do you think of the place?” Jor says.
“It’s exactly as you described it though with fewer Terrestrians.”
“It’s a slow night.” He feels the moment is right. “Why did you want to come here? After all this time, I mean.”
There is a long pause, as if Abdera has a message, but can’t find the words. “Your Lens is almost finished,” she finally says.
“Months at most, yes.” Then Jor realizes: she thinks I am going to leave. They have never talked about a future together … their relationship is unique in the Venus Port community, subject to so much gossip and speculation that their conversation has frequently been consumed by mutual sharing of same, and subsequent amusement.
A relationship of the moment.
“Would you ever consider leaving Venus Port?” he says, trying to sound casual in spite of the improvisation.
Casual or not, the question clearly surprises her. “And go where?”
“Elsewhere on the planet. There will be a second Lens in the southern hemisphere. Maybe a third.”
She smiles faintly. “Southern clans aren’t as welcoming to outsiders as your people.” Which suggests outright hostility.
“Then how about Mars?” he says. “Lots of opportunities there.”
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