The crowds might have been dispersed, but the Council of Mukhtars had been wiser than that. Better to let some of the discontented gather where Guardians could keep an eye on them, and where their restlessness could cause trouble only to themselves.
Near three of Earth's cities, including Tashkent, isolated land at a distance from each city's port had been set aside for those who wanted passage to Venus. There, they were allowed to wait until passage could be found for them, but a price was extracted for this. Those traveling there had to pay for their journey and surrender the rest of their credit when they reached a camp. They had to wait, with no guarantee that they would ever leave Earth. If they then chose to give up waiting, they had to take whatever labor was found for them elsewhere, and Malik knew that only the most burdensome work and conditions were offered to such people.
Malik had heard of riots in the camps, outbursts born of despair; some had died in the violence. The Mukhtars, although they prided themselves on their restraint, did not trouble to hide measures taken to quell the disturbances; there was no point in encouraging too many people to join those in the camps. Given the uncertainty of life there, and the capriciousness involved in choosing those who would be allowed to leave, it was a wonder that thousands still dreamed of finding a new life on Venus.
“Look there,” the Mongolian man said as he pointed toward the horizon. A few lights were shining in the distance; a beam from a tower swept across the ground. The group strode more rapidly. A large, egg-shaped cradle was to the east of the tower; a floater rested inside it.
As the travelers came nearer, two Guardians left the tower and waited outside. The camp was now visible; prefabricated shacks, tents, and yurts, rounded structures made of felt and wood, were surrounded by posts with scanners. Three other towers loomed over the dwellings below.
“Halt right there,” one of the Guardians, a short, stocky man with dark eyes, called out in Anglaic. “I trust you understand me. You can speak whatever you like here, but you'll need Anglaic on Venus.”
“Don't you think we know that?” a woman asked.
“We've seen a few who thought they could fool us. They had to be turned away.” The Guardian motioned toward the tower door. “Line up there—we'll take you one at a time. We have to do a med-scan before you go in.”
“We're tired,” Alexei said in accented Anglaic. “Can't we rest and get something to eat before—”
“Quiet!” the taller Guardian shouted. “The sooner we get through this, the sooner you can rest.”
People began to line up behind Malik. Tired as they were, they seemed willing to let him go first and find out what was in store for the rest of them; maybe they thought they'd be treated better when the Guardians learned Malik's identity. He walked toward the door, then glanced back at Yekaterina; the dark-eyed Guardian shoved him inside.
He was in a small room. A man with an officer's pin on his collar sat behind the desk; three other Guardians, all in black uniforms, were sitting at a table. Two were women; one lifted a brow as she stared at him.
“Let's see your bracelet,” the officer said. Malik moved toward the desk and thrust his arm toward the ID console; the officer gazed at the screen. “Well, well—never thought I'd see one of you here.” The officer glanced at the other Guardians. “We've got a scholar and a Linker here, comrades—a former Linker, I should say.” He narrowed his eyes. “Fair amount of credit, too. Maybe this place will break even this month.” The officer motioned with one hand. “Drop the pack and strip.”
Malik tensed.
“Come on, man—you heard me. Take off your clothes for a med-scan. We can't have medical problems here.”
“I need not undress,” Malik replied. “The med-scan will pick up anything I might have anyway, and you'll see from my record that I'm—”
“Strip!” The officer rose a little from his seat. “Get those clothes off now, or you and your friends can sleep outside the camp tonight. They might not like that, and I'll tell them who's to blame. Better drop your Linker airs if you want to get along here.”
Malik shrugged out of his pack, then took off his clothes. One of the women giggled as the stocky Guardian circled him with a portable scanner; Malik lowered his eyes, shamed. “There's one for you, Lana,” a man said.
“Too bad they aren't all like that,” a woman's voice replied.
The room was silent as the Guardians studied the results. “Guess we can pass him through,” the officer muttered. “Get dressed and wait outside until we're done with the others.”
Malik pulled on his clothes, grabbed his pack, and hurried outside as Yekaterina entered. He sat down a few paces from the others, refusing to look at them. He wondered when they would be fed. There was a little food in his pack, but if he took it out, the others might expect him to share it.
He looked up as Yekaterina left the tower; her face was red as she settled next to him.
“That officer,” she whispered, cursing in Russian. “I wanted to spit in his face. He didn't have to—
“ “I know.”
“Alexei won't stand for it.”
“He'd better, or they won't let him in.”
Alexei came outside. He had a bruise near one eye. His hands were clenched fists as he sat down next to his sister.
* * * *
The sky was almost completely dark by the time the rest of the group had been scanned. The stocky Guardian left the tower, then beckoned to them. “Follow me.”
As they drew nearer to the camp, Malik saw tents with torn flaps, shacks with painted walls, and worn-down paths winding among the yurts. Several people were standing near one long, low building; the Guardian waved an arm in their direction. “Showers and toilets,” he said. “You go to the one closest to your part of the camp—someone'll show you which one. You get two showers a week, and the scanner keeps a record, so don't try for more unless you want to lose the privilege for a month.” He chuckled. “That wouldn't make you too popular.”
He stopped near one of the posts. “Don't leave the camp without permission. The scanners will alert us to that, too.” He pointed at another large building not far from the nearest yurts. “That's one of the dining halls. You get fed twice a day, and you can eat there or anywhere else, but take your trays back when you're done and don't throw garbage around.”
“Where do we stay?” Yekaterina asked.
The Guardian stared at her for a long time before replying. “I trust you knew enough to bring a tent. You can pitch it here, on the open ground. If you didn't, you'll just have to sleep in the dining hall when people are through eating. Start making friends, and you'll get another place to live. Don't get sick, or you'll have to leave—we can't have disease going around. Don't break any rules, or out you go.”
“What are the rules?” a man asked.
“You'll find out when you've been around long enough.” The Guardian paused. “Too bad this little talk took so long. We can't give you any supper now, so you'll have to wait until breakfast.” He leaned against the post.
Several people had come out of the yurts to look at the new arrivals. Behind them, light wands stood in the ground along the paths or hung over doorways. Malik glanced at these people, noting that most of them seemed very young, as he had expected. Children under a certain age would not be accepted here, and the old would be turned away.
No one spoke or offered any sign of welcome. Malik supposed that he and the rest of his group were being judged. Every additional person meant another competitor for a place aboard a ship; in the meantime, they all had to get along. After a few moments, people disappeared inside the yurts, but one young man remained outside, staring past Malik at the Guardian.
Some of the new arrivals were already drifting away, seeking out places to pitch their tents. Malik turned toward Yekaterina. “I brought a small tent,” he said, “but it's hardly large enough for me.”
“We have our own,” Alexei said stiffly.
“We'll set it up next to yours
,” Yekaterina murmured. Alexei glared at her; she stared back at her brother until the blond man took off his pack.
Malik had carried stakes with him, but the ground was hard. As he pitched his tent, the same one he had used when backpacking in the desert outside Amman, he wondered what Karim al-Anwar would have thought of those now pursuing his dream.
Yekaterina was driving a stake into the ground as the Guardian walked over to her. “If you're hungry,” he said, “I can get you something to eat.”
“That's very kind,” she said, standing up.
The stocky man shrugged. “It depends on how kind you are to me.” He motioned with his head. “I can take you to the tower, or we can use your tent.” He reached out and caught her arm; she shook him off. “Don't be a fool,” he said.
“I'm not that hungry.”
“I'll tell you what it's like here. You might need a little extra food or a warmer place to sleep.”
Alexei stepped toward the Guardian. “You heard my sister.”
“What's the problem?” the Guardian asked. “You want some food for yourself? I can take care of that, as long as she—”
Alexei raised a fist; the Guardian's hand moved toward me wand at his belt. Malik leaped up and grabbed Alexei's arm. “Steady,” he murmured; Alexei twisted away. “Don't strike him—it'll just mean trouble for you.”
The Guardian turned toward Malik. “This isn't your business.”
“The woman doesn't want your attentions.”
“You probably think she'd prefer yours.” The Guardian smiled. “You're not a Linker anymore. Citizen. You can't do a thing to me.”
“I'll complain to your officer,” Malik said. “I'm sure he wants an orderly camp, one where his people don't stir up trouble.”
“Let the woman speak for herself.” The uniformed man reached for Yekaterina; she recoiled.
“I've already spoken,” she said. “I'm not hungry.”
The Guardian spun around, then strode toward the distant tower. The young man standing outside the nearest yurt grinned. “He would have fed you,” he called out.
Yekaterina lifted her chin. “I'm not a whore.”
The man walked toward her. “Just as well that you refused him,” he said. “We don't care for people who get too friendly with Guardians.” He brushed back his unruly brown hair, then bowed slightly from me waist. “I'm Nikolai Andreievich Burian.”
Yekaterina introduced herself and her brother, then motioned at Malik. “His name is Malik Haddad. We met him in the port.”
Nikolai Burian studied Malik for a moment. “That Guardian said something about your being a Linker.”
“I was. I'm not now, as you can see.” Malik lifted his turban a little.
Nikolai frowned. “Let me give you some advice,” he said as he glanced at Yekaterina. “Keep near the camp, and around other people—don't go wandering around in the open alone. The Guardians won't bother you if you're near others, but you might not be safe by yourself.”
“I can look out for Katya,” Alexei said.
“Maybe you can and maybe you can't. That Guardian might still try something when he thinks he can get away with it.”
“His officer—” Malik began.
“It'd be this woman's word against his.” Nikolai folded his arms. “An officer wants discipline, but some are more sympathetic than others. Best thing to do is to just keep away from them.”
“If he comes near Katya again,” Alexei said, “I'll—”
Nikolai waved an arm. “You won't do a thing. The Guardians don't choose people for transport, but if you make trouble, they'll force you out, and you can forget Venus. If you have any questions, come to me. I sort of manage things at this end of the camp, mostly because I've been here longer than anyone else—almost three years.”
Yekaterina let out her breath. “That long?”
“Knew some who waited even longer before they left. Blame the Project Council—blame the Habbers, too. They must have something to say about who gets on their ships.”
“Actually, the Habbers have nothing to say about it,” Malik said. “Their agreement with Earth only allows them to provide pilots and ships.”
“That's what they'd like us to think,” Nikolai answered. “I don't know why you'd want to speak up for Habbers anyway, but you Linkers probably think you know it all.” Nikolai gazed at him steadily until Malik looked away. “They feed us about an hour after dawn, so make sure you get to the hall over there on time. It's breakfast at dawn and supper before sunset until summer comes—then it changes and you get breakfast at sunset.”
“Why is that?” Yekaterina asked.
“The only way we can stand the heat is to sleep during the day then. They don't do a lot to keep us cool and comfortable. You'll see—you'll start feeling as if you're on Venus already when summer's here.”
As Nikolai walked back to his yurt, Alexei knelt to drive in another stake. “Thank you for speaking up for me,” Yekaterina said softly. “You also kept Alexei from doing something foolish.”
“It's nothing. I have a little extra food, and I won't ask any favors for it.”
“I wouldn't mind if you did.” She smiled. “Keep your food, Malik. You may have need of it yourself.”
Alexei motioned to his sister. Yekaterina entered their tent; the young man followed and let the flap fall.
Malik went inside his own tent and rolled out a blanket, grateful that he had come here in early spring but wondering how he would endure the summer. He stretched out, trying to get comfortable. His loneliness deepened as he listened to the voices in the camp. The thought of sex was far from his mind, but he would have welcomed physical closeness with someone who might ease his fears.
He didn't belong here. He could never live among these people. All along, he had assumed an unlikely turn of events, a message from his uncle Muhammad that would call him back to Amman and restore his old life. That could never happen now; by entering this camp, he had cut his ties.
The others in the camp hoped to escape Earth's bonds. Malik only wanted a refuge and a second chance for a quiet, largely uneventful life. There were Habbers living among the Cytherians. Islanders had fled to a Habitat before. Perhaps he could even find a place among them, away from the toil of a new world and safely distant from the pain of the old.
The emigrants around him would despise such dreams, Malik realized as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Two
“I don't know why you called,” Angharad Julias said. “I don't know why I'm speaking to you at all. I thought you'd forgotten us long ago.”
Benzi gazed at the screen. His grandmother's image stared back at him with tired brown eyes. Angharad had to be close to ninety by now, but he was still shocked at how much she had aged. Her once-brown hair was completely white; her skin had been lined and roughened by the prairie winds of North America's Plains. Earth's primitive rejuvenation techniques could postpone aging only for a time; he had been among Habbers for too long and had lost sight of that fact.
“I haven't forgotten you,” Benzi said.
“I see you're calling on a private channel. Do they allow you to send messages from that camp?”
“My room's monitored,” Benzi said, “but I found it easy to block those devices. The Guardians here will think I'm sleeping now, and I won't leave any record of this call. Even if I did, I doubt that anyone would hold the call against you.”
“You can be sure they won't. Erase it if you like, but I'll keep a record. I won't have my Counselor scolding me for talking to a Habber, and he'll see I didn't say anything I shouldn't.” Her flat Plains voice had changed very little. “Mother of God—you must be sixty, and you're still a young man.”
“Fifty-six,” Benzi corrected. “We live long lives in the Habs.” He did not mention the tiny implants that allowed his cells to repair themselves, one of the gifts he had received when he joined the Habbers.
Angharad shook her head. “I never expected to hear from you
again. When you went to the Habbers, you broke your ties with us, with everyone. I can't believe they let you come back to Earth.”
“They had no choice,” Benzi said patiently. “It's part of our agreement. The Nomarchies have to allow pilots to wait in these camps until—”
“So you can spy on us, I suppose. The Mukhtars must have their reasons, but I never understood how such people think.”
“We're only here to take settlers to Venus.”
“Venus!” Angharad's brown eyes were fierce. “Venus took my daughter's life! I have a granddaughter there I'll never know, who sends me a message once a year. That's what Venus and that fine Project did for me.”
There was some justice to her words. Her daughter, Iris Angharads, had left the North American Plains for the Cytherian Institute. Benzi knew that Iris had never expected to be chosen for advanced training at the school; she was sixteen and already pregnant with him when the news came. Iris couldn't have refused the honor; even Angharad had seen that.
Iris had left her home town of Lincoln soon after Benzi's birth. She had become little more to Benzi than a screen image after that; Angharad and her household had cared for him. The mother who returned shortly before his fifth birthday was a stranger, one who had come there only to take her son to the Cytherian Islands.
Iris had claimed that more opportunity awaited them both with the Project. The Plains Communes were households of women who tended their farms and often had children in their teens, choosing fathers for their young from among the workers who passed through their towns. Plainswomen scorned bonds; each might welcome many men to her bed, but none would tie herself to one man. Many Plainswomen were illiterate and had little desire for learning; they preferred to dwell on their people's glorious past. Had Benzi remained with Angharad's household, he would, he supposed, have become yet another wandering Plains mechanic, a man who moved from town to town and shared his bed with any woman who was willing. He would have had no real home in the communities Plainswomen controlled.
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