“It'll be different there,” she replied.
“Do you think so? He may just find something else to resent. Perhaps I should have said something to Kolya, so Alexei could learn that he can't just do as he likes, but I wasn't really thinking of him then. I was thinking of how upset you'd be if he got in serious trouble.”
“I spoke to him,” she said softly. “He won't do anything like that again. It's time we saw no more of each other, I think. I don't want to part from you now, but seeing you only makes him angry, and we always knew that our time together wouldn't last.”
“Do you think that's the only reason he struck out at me?” Malik clutched his screen tightly. “He hates what I am—he would have hated me even if I'd never welcomed you to my bed. I represent all the privileged people he hates—he doesn't see what I am now. He can work out his resentments on someone who's lost the power to do much about it.”
“He may be willful,” she said, “and he's done reckless things, but is it wrong for him to want more than he was given? Venus will give him a chance to change, and I should do what I can to see that he gets there safely. I shouldn't give him any more reasons to be angry with you—I can put my own wants aside for a time. Maybe later—”
“Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for.” He clenched his teeth. He had not meant to say that; she was glaring at him now. He had wanted to speak of his need for her, of his feeling that there might be more for both of them in time. Could he grow to love her that much? Could he ask her to consider a bond with him later? Or did he want to cling to her desperately only because he feared being alone and was trying to convince himself he was capable of love? He probably did not love her at all but only wanted her to love him, as he had with all the other women he had known.
“I must go,” she said quietly. “You aren't losing so much, Malik. There will always be other women for you.”
“Katya—”
She left the yurt before he could say more. Perhaps it was just as well. If that Habber pilot did find a way to speak to him, he now knew what he would ask the man.
Four
Benzi waited by the tower. The man from the camp was walking toward him, two Guardians at his sides. The inmate's whispered request to speak to him had roused Benzi's curiosity; the officer in command here had told him there was one former Linker in the camp and that his name was Malik Haddad. He wondered if he should be speaking to this man at all, and then remembered the desperate look in his dark eyes.
Malik Haddad bowed his head a little as he halted; the Guardians lingered near him. “Your officer told me,” Benzi said, “that I might speak to this man in private.”
The female Guardian shrugged. “Think you can worm some secrets out of him?” she muttered. “He probably won't tell you anything you don't already know—I mean, if he knew anything important, he wouldn't be here now, would he?”
Benzi tried to look indifferent. “As interesting as I find your company, and that of your commander, one does occasionally long to see a new face, and I ought to know a little more about the people who may soon be aboard my ship.”
The male Guardian glanced at Malik. “Maybe it isn't just talk he's looking for,” he said. The other Guardian laughed as the pair entered the tower.
Benzi motioned to Malik Haddad. “Do you mind taking a walk?”
“Not at all. They said I was wanted here, but not why.”
“I hope I won't cause you any difficulty,” Benzi said as they ambled away from the tower. “Your friends may see us and wonder why I wanted to talk to you.”
“They find me odd enough already,” Malik replied. “I can always tell them that even Habbers want to hear gossip about the Mukhtars and their foibles—that might make you seem a bit more human.”
“Keir Renin is humoring me lately,” Benzi said, “although I don't know why. When I told him I was bored and wanted to talk to the Linker in this camp, he seemed amenable.”
“I'm not a Linker now.”
“You were, and a scholar as well—so I was told.”
Malik's mouth twisted. “That'll be of little use to me on Venus.”
The man was taller than Benzi and quite striking; even life in this camp had not noticeably marred his appearance. His thick black hair curled a bit around his chiseled, pale-brown face, and he wore his plain gray clothes and sheepskin coat with an easy grace.
“Even Venus may need scholars,” Benzi said.
“Disgraced historians? I doubt that very much.” Malik's Anglaic was clear and unaccented, but his voice had a musical lilt. “How strange it is to be talking to one of you, and yet I suppose it's exactly what those who disgraced me might expect me to do.”
“How so?” Benzi asked.
“I was criticized for, among other things, implying that Earth would be better off with closer ties to your people. It was a convenient excuse for those who wanted to shame my family to use, since it meant I was questioning the assumptions behind the Mukhtars’ power. I might have been ignored if my family had been less prominent and my uncle hadn't had enemies close to the Council. The Mukhtars might have settled for suggesting that I make my comments more ambiguous.”
“I'm mystified,” Benzi said, “as to why your Mukhtars remain so distrustful of us. Oh, I can understand why Habbers would be resented for abandoning Earth centuries ago, but can't the Mukhtars see that our intentions aren't hostile? We aid you in whatever way we can, and our confrontations with you were provoked by Earth. We have all of space to live in—surely the Mukhtars can see that we have no designs on Earth.”
“It doesn't matter whether you do or not,” Malik replied. “Even your existence is a kind of affront, and the Mukhtars are bound by a certain historical perspective.”
“I was never much of a student of history.”
“Perhaps Habbers see themselves as free of it.” Malik paused. “Centuries ago the Mukhtars united Earth under their rule. They were wise enough to see that allowing some autonomy and diversity in various regions would be beneficial, but, even so, part of our destiny as Muslims had been achieved. The world had become what we call the Dar al-Islam— the Abode of Islam. Long before the era of the Nomarchies, we had believed that the reign of those we called infidels was only temporary, and then Earth was ours. It didn't matter that many still held to other faiths; the Mukhtars could afford to be tolerant. Islam ruled. Most of the Mukhtars, whatever their origins, have submitted to Islam, however lightly some of them wear their faith. Islamic law, with appropriate modifications and a great deal of leniency in certain areas, prevails. Much of the land in our New Islamic Nomarchy—the first of Earth's Nomarchies—had once been ruled by a socialistic empire, and those people had once believed that their way would prevail. It wasn't too hard for the earliest Mukhtars to adopt a few of their ideas and reshape them in accordance with Islam.”
The historian was silent for a bit as they walked on. “This world was ours,” Malik continued, “but other worlds remained. The time for holy wars to expand the Abode of Islam was past, or so my people thought. There was Venus to conquer and make our own, and perhaps other worlds in times to come. But there were also the Habitats and a people who believed the future might be theirs. As long as you exist as you are, we're still far from the destiny Islam has ordained for us.”
“And if your Abode of Islam doesn't eventually include us,” Benzi murmured, “the Mukhtars have lost, and their faith becomes more dubious.”
“Even the most skeptical Mukhtar knows where the justification for his power lies. Those who oppose the Mukhtars aren't just their enemies, but God's. Earth will make its agreements with you and hold to them. The Mukhtars always honor their formal agreements, but they also see any they make with Habbers as temporary ones. Surely your people still know that Islam means surrender and submission to the truth. I would have done well to remember that myself, but my faith was always weak and my practical sense almost nonexistent.” Malik glanced at Benzi. “Well, I've lectured enough—old habits are s
trong. I don't believe I've heard your name.”
“Benzi. I was named for a friend of my father's.”
“Your father? I was under the impression your people don't have family ties.”
“That isn't quite true. Some are raised by their genetic parents, while others have close ties to the adults who brought them up and to those children among whom they were raised. Habbers are encouraged not to assign those connections the importance they have here, where a family can often put its own interests above those of their community.” He was speaking of Habbers as though he weren't really part of them, but then that was how he often felt. “Benzi Liangharad is my full name.” The words sounded strange to him; he had not said his full name aloud in years. Habitat-dwellers did not customarily use family or ancestral surnames.
“Then you weren't always a Habber,” Malik said. Benzi tensed a little. “I think I've heard your name before or seen it somewhere, but I can't place it now. It's one of the few drawbacks to a Link. Your memory gets weaker, since you don't have to rely on it, but you must know about that.”
Benzi hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal. The Guardians here knew nothing of his past. They could have done nothing to him even if they had known, but it was simpler to keep his history to himself. The secret now seemed like a burden, and a man in Malik's position would hardly be anxious to admit to others that he had spoken to one whom Earth would see as a traitor.
Maybe, Benzi thought, I still feel the need to justify my actions.
“You may recall,” he said, “that a group of pilots fled from Venus's Islands to the nearest Hab almost forty years ago. You might remember that incident, since it was partly responsible for various problems afterward. I was one of those pilots.”
Malik slowed his pace. “Of course. Iris Angharads, the specialist who—part of your name is like hers. Can you be—”
“Yes, I'm the martyr's son.” His throat tightened a little. “Your memory's better than you think.”
The Earthman shook his head. “Not really. As it happens, a mind-tour producer spoke to me about Iris Angharads not long before my subsequent difficulties, although it seems your mother is more widely known on Venus than here. That was something this particular producer hoped to remedy. Your own name is fairly obscure. When Iris Angharads lost her life, I suppose it was better to forget what her son had done.”
“So that her memory wouldn't be tarnished,” Benzi whispered.
“So that her act could be seen as a sacrifice for the Nomarchies and the future of the Project rather than, perhaps, as an attempt to make up for her son's deed.” Malik did not appear terribly shocked by Benzi's admission or disgusted by his action. “How fascinating that you should come here.”
Benzi felt the familiar twinge of guilt. “Iris is something of a minor heroine to Habbers, too, since she managed to save Habber lives. That was one of the reasons some of us decided that the Habs owed her a debt and continued to aid the Project she so loved.”
“It must have been hard for you when you learned of her death.”
“It was. It still is. But Iris acted as she did for her own reasons. I doubt that she was thinking of me, or had any fondness for those Habbers she saved—she would have been concerned with the Project's future and the fact that it still needed our help. I'm sure she had no intention of dying. She'd simply lived so long for the Project that she couldn't imagine her life without it.” Even after all this time, he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“I'm sorry,” Malik said.
Benzi knew that he had said too much already; being on Earth again had awakened too many memories. “No need to be sorry,” he said tonelessly. “My mother would have been gratified to know that some remember her and that a daughter of hers now lives with my father on Venus.” He paused. “You seemed anxious to speak to me, but I'm sure that history is not what you had in mind.”
Malik halted, then turned to face him. Benzi had to lift his head to gaze into the taller man's brown eyes. The Earthman's face was tense; he seemed to be trying to come to a decision. “I can ask you,” Malik said. “Now that I know who you are, I can see you'd understand. You can tell me how to reach your Hab—there must be a way. Maybe you could take me there yourself, but there isn't much chance I'd be chosen to go on your ship.”
Benzi was too startled to speak.
“Habbers don't turn away those who reach a Habitat.” Malik twisted his hands together. “You have a Link—you could easily let any other pilots who'd come here later know of my wishes. It wouldn't be difficult—a Habber ship could head for your Hab instead of Anwara, and by the time anyone knew, it would be too late to stop it. The other passengers could always be sent to Venus from there, and I could stay behind. Your pilots could always claim that something went wrong with the ship—they could think of a likely story.”
The man had apparently been dwelling on this notion. Benzi took a step back, suddenly suspicious; could the Mukhtars have sent this scholar here to lay a trap for unwary Habber pilots? He could not think of why Earth would want to jeopardize its agreement with the Habbers now.
It did not matter whether Malik was being devious or sincere. Benzi would have to give him the same answer in either case.
“It isn't possible,” he replied. “There's nothing any of us can do to help you. If you wanted to flee to a Hab, you came to the wrong place.”
“It doesn't matter why I came here. Every day I'm here convinces me I made a mistake. I don't belong on Venus, and I can hardly go to the Guardians and say that—I'd be even worse off than I am now. I'm not one of those people who thinks of yours with suspicion and distrust—I've always thought that both our societies could find a common purpose.”
“We have one now,” Benzi responded. “The Venus Project has drawn some of us together in a common effort. I'm sorry, Malik. If you found a way to reach a Hab by yourself, which is hardly likely, you'd be welcomed, but none of us will risk the agreement we have with Earth to help one man. I can't do anything for you, and I won't try. Too many other lives would be affected. Some on Venus have grown closer to us, and maybe even Earth will learn to trust us in time.”
Malik moved closer to him. “Were you thinking of that when you made your escape? You, of all people, should understand how I feel.”
“I do, but I also learned what my actions cost others, and I haven't found what I'd hoped to find. Maybe you're thinking that you'd have a Link again and your life would be much as it was, but it wouldn't. A Link gave you power here. It won't in a place where everyone has a Link from late childhood on and there's no power to be had. You'd be an exile. You want to escape Earth, but you'd end up among people who find a purpose in trying to reach out to Earth. I doubt that you'd ever be ready to give up enough of yourself to become one of the others.”
“The others?” Malik asked.
“One might call them the true Habitat-dwellers. Earth thinks all Habbers are much like the ones they see, but they're not. We're only a bridge they choose to maintain.”
“You sound as if you have regrets.”
“It's done,” Benzi said. “Regrets are pointless now.”
“I had to ask. I had to see if there was a chance. Maybe you're just trying to make it easier for me by making me think I'd regret such a choice.”
That was partly true; Benzi would do the Earthman no favor by encouraging his dream. “You'd be better off accepting your lot and making your peace with whatever you find on Venus.” He kept his voice as firm as possible. “You don't really want to escape to a Hab—you want to recapture what you've lost—your easy life, your quiet pursuits. If you were offered your old life now, you'd take it without a qualm, I suspect. You're probably used to having others ease your way, but no Habber's going to do that for you. Accept what you have now, or you'll never make a life for yourself.”
“Did you?”
Benzi smiled ruefully. “I was young then and not overly reflective, and now I'm here, helping others reach the
world I abandoned. A new world needs such people—those who take a risk to get there and who will value what they find. Maybe you should try to become more like them.”
Malik was silent. Benzi turned away from him and walked back to the tower; there was nothing more to say.
* * * *
Keir Renin, the officer in charge of the camp, was a broad-faced man, who seemed to regard his assignment as some sort of punishment. He skulked in the tower for much of the day, complaining about supplies, glancing at records, and questioning his subordinates about matters in the camp, which he rarely entered. He seemed as much a prisoner as the people he guarded.
The officer had unexpectedly invited Benzi to share a meal with him, and Benzi had accepted, unsure of how to refuse without offending the man. The invitation included Te-yu, who had come along so that Benzi would not have to endure Keir's company alone.
The small table in Keir's room was laden with fresh vegetables and melons appropriated from supplies sent to the camp, whose people could survive on minimal allotments. Many of the Guardians were not above trading the food to inmates for favors. The would-be emigrants were in no position to complain, and records would show that the provisions had reached the camp safely.
Benzi was expecting Keir to ask him about his conversation with Malik Haddad; he had prepared an innocuous story about their talk. Instead, the officer was droning on about his home near Odessa and his hopes for his next assignment. Te-yu's face was calm, her eyes blank, her lips curved in a half-smile; Benzi saw that she was profoundly bored.
Keir got up, rummaged among some belongings on a shelf, and pulled out a bottle. He waved it at Te-yu's cup as he sat down again. “We aren't supposed to drink here,” Keir said, “but I've got a little trade going with a village nearby, and I don't see the harm in a bit of refreshment.” He motioned at the cup once more.
“No, thank you,” Te-yu said.
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