by Greg Bear
"You're here, and that's enough," Charles said. We crossed the walkways to the lounge and booked tickets for the return. Ylla dug into the northern outskirts of Jiddah Planum. Smaller, slower trains fanned from Kowloon to Jiddah and Ylla and even smaller stations east.
Charles's face seemed thinner. We had been apart for just over a week, yet he had changed drastically in both feature and mood. He held me close as we boarded our train, and fell back into his seat with a sigh. "God, it is good to see you," he said. "Tell me what you've been doing."
"I told you in my letters," I said.
"Tell me in person. I worried, just getting letters."
"Letters require much more effort," I said.
"Tell me."
I told him about applying for a Majumdar apprenticeship. He approved without reservation. "Brave and noble Casseia," he said. "Go right to the top in the face of tradition."
"Just my father," I said. "My mother's actually pretty neutral about politics."
"We're none of us going to be neutral for long," Charles said. "Klein is wounded. Others are going to be hit next."
"By Earth? By GEWA?"
He shrugged and looked out the window at the dull ochre prairies and shallow, kilometer-wide valleys and ditches called fossas. "We're some sort of threat. Nobody seems to know what sort, but they're using obvious muscle on us. We're going to the Charter Council next week to ask for solidarity and relief."
"Relief?" I was incredulous; Martian BMs rarely asked for relief. So much had to be conceded with competing BMs to get inter-family guarantees.
"We're in big trouble, as I said. I hope Majumdar misses all this."
"What will you do if you get the Council to call for solidarity? That's the step before appealing for unified action by all the BMs — "
"Shh," he said, holding up a finger. "Don't use that word, unified." He smiled, but the smile was not convincing.
"How did you get time off to come here?"
"I've done my share and more in the planning phase. I have three days before I return."
"The next eighth at Durrey starts in four days," I said.
"I'll have to miss it."
"You're quitting school?"
"Family emergency sabbatical," he said. "I'll be on call until the crisis passes."
"That could put you a year behind ..."
"Martian year," Charles said, patting my arm. "I'll make it. Just my luck to be in a vulnerable BM. If you're going into high-level govmanagement, maybe we can transfer your contract ..."
Suddenly that wasn't funny. I turned away, unable to hide my irritation, and Charles was dismayed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not being disrespectful. I really wanted to come here and persuade you to . . . and you said ... I know, Casseia, I'm sorry."
"Never mind." He was missing the cause of my anger, couldn't possibly understand — not yet. "We have a lot to talk about, Charles."
"So serious," he said. He closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. "This isn't going to be a vacation?"
"Of course it is," I said. That wasn't quite a lie.
Charles arrived in the middle of a most unusual paucity — most of my blood relations and relations by marriage, who normally trooped through Ylla and our warrens like a herd of friendly cats, had trooped elsewhere, spreading out across Mars on errands or vacations. We would have a rare time of privacy, and neither Charles nor I would have to suffer the staring eyes of curious urchins, impolite questions from my aunts, hints of liaisons from my elder cousins. Even my brother was away. Ylla Station would be empty and quiet, and for this I was supremely grateful.
Ylla occupied sixty hectares of an almost featureless prairie of little interest but for aquifers and solid ice lenses. Prospectors had mapped out a chain of stations along the Athene Aquifer in the first decade of the Mars expansion, thirty years ago; three of a possible six had been built, Ylla the first. It had originally been known as Where's Ylla.
The lack of sentient Martians had disappointed few. Martian settlers landing on their new home, and taking station assignments, quickly became hard-bitten and practical; it was no picnic. Keeping a station open and staying alive was tough enough in those decades without having to deal with unhappy natives. Still, I had played Ylla as a girl, and my brother had played the defensive Mr. Ttt with his gun of golden bees, stalking human astronauts . . .
I related much of this nervously to Charles as the small train whined over the ditches and onto the main prairie, trying to keep an appearance of calm when in fact I was miserable. I had asked Charles to come to Ylla to ask him a question I now thought rude and unnecessary; rude, because he would have mentioned his desire to be enhanced had he wished to, and unnecessary, because I was determined to end our brief relationship. But I couldn't simply tell him on the train.
And I couldn't tell him at dinner. My parents of course went all-out with this meal, celebrating the first time I had brought a young man to our station.
Father was particularly interested in Charles, asking endless questions about the Terrie embargoes on Klein. Charles answered politely and to the best of his knowledge; there was no reason to keep any of this secret from someone as highly placed as Father.
My parents generally eschewed nano food, preferring garden growth and syn products. We ate potato and syn cheese pie and fruit salad and for desert, my father's syn prime cheesecake with hot tea. After dinner, we sat in the memory room, small and tightly decorated as most old Mars station rooms are, with the inevitable living shadow box from Earth, the self-cycling fish tank, the small, antique wall-mount projectors for LitVid.
I loved my parents, and what they felt was important to me, but their immediate and natural affection for Charles was distressing. Charles fit right in. He and my father leaned forward in their chairs, almost knocking heads, talking about the possibility of hard financial times ahead, like old friends.
Inevitably, Father asked him what he planned to do with himself.
"A lot of things," Charles answered. "I'm much too ambitious for a Martian."
Mother offered him more tea. "We don't see any reason why Martians shouldn't be ambitious," she said, lips pursed as if mildly chiding.
"It's simply impractical to do what I want to do, here, at this time," Charles said. He shook his head and grinned awkwardly. "I'm not very practical."
"Why?" Father asked.
He has come all this way to be with me, I thought, and he spends this time talking with my parents . . . about what he is going to do in physics.
"Mars doesn't have the research tools necessary, not yet, perhaps not for decades," Charles said. "There are only two thinkers on the planet dedicated to physics, and a few dozen barely adequate computers tied up in universities with long waiting lists. I'm too young to get on any of the lists. My work is too primitive. But . . . " He stopped, hands held in mid-air, parallel to each other, emphasizing his point with a little jerking gesture. "The work I hope to do would take all of Earth's resources."
"Then why not go to Earth?" my father asked.
"Why not?" I put in. "It would be a marvelous experience."
"No chance," Charles said. "My grades aren't perfect, my psych evaluations aren't promising, to work on Earth they make outsiders pass rigid tests . . . We have to be ten times better than any Terrie."
My father smelled a young man with ambitions but insufficient drive. "You have to do what you have to do," he said gruffly.
Instantly I was on Charles's side, saying abruptly, "Charles knows what to do. He knows more than most Terrestrials."
My father lifted an eyebrow at the vehemence of my defense. Charles took my hand in appreciation.
"Worse scholars than you have filtered through," Father said. "You just have to know how to handle people."
"I don't know anything about handling people," Charles said. "I've never known anything but how to be straight with them."
He looked at me as if that were a trait I might admire, and though I thought it disingenuous
, not admirable, I smiled. Concern passed from his face in a flash, replaced by adoration. His brown eyes even crossed a little, like a puppy's. I turned away, not wanting to have such an effect on him. I wanted to be away from my parents, alone with Charles, to express my affection but tell him this was not the time. I felt horrible and a little queasy.
"Casseia would go to Earth in a moment if the opportunity arose," my mother said. "Wouldn't you?" She grinned at me proudly.
I stared at the fish tank, sealed decades ago on Earth, lovingly tended by my father and given to my mother on the day of their nuptials. "Nobody's offered," I said.
"You're good, though," Charles said. "You can jump the hurdles. You have a way with people."
"Our sentiments exactly," Father said, smiling proudly. "She just needs a little self-confidence. Support from people other than her parents."
Father took me aside while Mother and Charles talked. "You're not happy, Casseia," he said. "I see it, your mother sees it — Charles must see it. Why?"
I shook my head. "This is going all wrong," I said. "You like him."
"Why shouldn't we?"
"I asked him here ... to talk with him. And I can't be alone with him to talk ..."
Father smiled. "You can be alone later."
"That isn't why I'm unhappy. You're examining him as if I'm going to lawbond him."
My father narrowed one eye and stared at me like a prospector examining a vein in rock. "He meets my approval so far."
"He's a friend, and he's here to talk. I'm not asking for your approval."
"We're embarrassing you?"
"I just have some important things to talk about with him, and this is taking so much time."
"Sorry," Father said. "I'll try to keep the inquisition short."
We returned to the memory room. Slowly, my father pried Mother away from the conversation and suggested they inspect the tea garden. When they were gone, Charles settled back contentedly, well-fed and relaxed. "They're good people," he said. "I can see where you come from."
He could have said anything and it would have irritated me. This irritated me more. "I'm my own woman," I said.
He lifted his hands helplessly and sighed. "Casseia, you're going to tell me something. Tell me now. You're driving me muddy."
"Why didn't you say you applied for a link?"
He frowned. "Pardon?"
"You've applied to link with a QL thinker."
"Of course," he said, face blank. "So has a third of my physics fourth form."
"I know what a QL thinker is, Charles. I've heard what it can do to people ..."
"It doesn't make them into monsters."
"It doesn't do them any good as human beings," I said.
"Is that what's going wrong between us?"
"No."
"Something is going wrong, though."
"What kind of life would there be for someone ..." I was getting myself into a mire and couldn't find a solid path out.
"Married to a QL?" He seemed to think that was funny. "It was a whim, Casseia. It's been talked about on Earth. Some of our senior physicists think it could help break tough conceptual problems. It would be temporary."
"You didn't tell me," I said.
He tried to skirt the issue. "I'll never get the chance now," Charles said.
"But you didn't tell me."
"Is that what's upsetting you?"
"You didn't trust me enough to tell me." I couldn't believe we were getting stuck in the wrong topic ... all to avoid the words I knew would be hurtful, words I actually had no clear reason for saying.
Here was Charles directly in front of me. Part of me — an energetic and substantial part — wanted to apologize to him, to take him to the tea garden and make love with him again. I would not allow that. I had reached my decision and I would follow through, no matter how painful for both of us.
"I have a lot of growing to do," I said.
"So do I. We — "
"But not together."
His mouth went slack and his eyes half-lidded. He looked down, closed his mouth, and said, "All right."
"We're both too young. I've enjoyed our time together."
"You invited me to meet your parents before telling me this? That's hardly fair. You've wasted their time."
"They like you as much as I do," I said. "I wanted to talk to you in a place I was familiar with, because this isn't easy for me to say. I do love you."
"Um hm." He wouldn't look at me directly. He kept searching the walls as if for a way to escape. "You wanted me to tell you about future plans that might never have happened, to get you upset over something . . . probably impossible. And you're disappointed."
"No." I thrust my jaw forward, pushing ahead despite the confusion, only now understanding the core of my response. "I'm telling you straight. Later, perhaps, when we've achieved something, when our minds are settled, when we know what we want to do — "
"I've known that since I was a boy," Charles said.
"Then you should have picked somebody more like you. I don't know what I'm going to do, or where it's going to take me."
Charles nodded. "I pushed too hard," he said.
"Damn it, stop that," I said. "You sound like a ..."
"What?"
"Never mind." I just looked at him, eyes wide, trying to show the real affection I felt for him by the way my eyes tracked the points on his very fine face.
"You're not happy, are you?" he asked.
"We can't grow up in a couple of months," I said.
He held up his hands. "I want to be with you, make love with you, reach out to you . . . watch you when you go to sleep." I found that a particularly frightening picture: domestic coziness. Not what I imagined I needed at all. Youth is a time for adventure, for many changes, not for commitment and life spent on a fixed path. "You could teach me so much about politics and the way people work together. I need that. I think so far into the abstract I get lost. You could balance me."
"I wonder if I'll ever be ready for that," I said. "It might be better if we stayed friends."
"We must always be friends," he said.
"Just friends, for now," I added gently.
"Wise Casseia," he said after a few seconds of silence. "I apologize for being so clumsy."
"Not at all," I said. "It's charming, really."
"Charming. Not convincing."
"I don't know what I want, Charles," I said. "I have to find out for myself."
"Do you believe in me?" he asked. "If you do, you'd know life with me will never be dull."
I have him a glance partly puzzled, partly irritated.
"I'm going to do important things. I don't know how long it will take me, Casseia, but I have glimmers even now. Places where I can contribute. The work I do on my own — I don't show it at the university — it's pretty good stuff. Not seminal, not yet, but pretty good, and it's only the warm-up."
I saw now, for the first time, another side of Charles, and I did not like it. His face wrinkled into a determined frown.
"You don't have to convince me you're smart," I said peevishly.
He took my shoulders, hands light but insistent. "It isn't just being smart," he said. "It's as if I can see into the future. I'll be doing really fine work, great work, and I sometimes think, whoever my partner is, she helps me do that work. I have to choose my partner, my friend, my lover, very carefully, because it isn't going to be easy."
I could have finished the conversation then with a handshake and a firm good-bye. I did not like this aspect of Charles. He was not half as smart as my father, I thought, yet he was full of himself, a raging egotist, full of such big ideas. "I have my own work to do," I said. "I need to be more than just somebody's partner, just a support for their work."
"Of course," he said, a little too quickly.
"I have to follow my own path, not just glue myself to someone and be dragged along," I said.
"Oh, of course." His face wrinkled again.
C
harles, please don't cry, damn it, I thought.
"There's so much inside," he said. "I feel so strongly. I can't express myself adequately, and if I can't do that, I certainly can't convince you. But I've never met a woman like you."
You haven't met many women, I thought, not very kindly.
"Wherever you go, whatever we end up doing, I'll be waiting for you," he said.
I took his hand then, feeling this was an appropriate if not perfect way to get out of a tough situation. "I really feel strongly about you, Charles," I said. "I'll always care for you."
"You don't want to get married, something I can't do now anyway, and you knew that ... So you don't want me to consider you a steady partner, or anything else, either. You don't want to see me again."
"I want the freedom to choose," I said. "I don't have that now."
"I'm in your way."
"Yes," I said.
"Casseia, I have never been so embarrassed and ashamed."
I stared at him without comprehending.
"You have a lot to learn about men."
"Of course."
"About people."
"No doubt."
"And you don't want to learn it from me. What did I do to you to make this end so soon?"
"Nothing!" I cried. I wouldn't be able to control myself much longer. It was agony to realize that after this, Charles would have to stay the night; there were no trains to the Kowloon depot at this hour. We would have to face each other in the morning, with my parents about.
"I would like to live alone, on my own, and make my own life and see what I'm capable of," I said, half-mumbling. My eyes filled with tears and I lifted my head to keep them from spilling down my cheeks. "Don't wait for me. That isn't freedom."
He shook his head rapidly. "I did something wrong."
"No!" I shouted.
We hadn't left the memory room. I took his arm and led him to the warren hub, then opened the door to the tea garden tunnel. I pushed him through, teeth clenched.
The tea garden lay in a cylinder-shaped cell ten meters below the surface. Dense green bushes thrust from walls, ceiling, and floor toward a rippling sheet of portable sun. The leaves rustled in the circulating air. I held his arm and stopped at the south end of the cell.