“I have to go,” Mahala said. “My grandfather’ll wonder where I am—I’m supposed to meet him.” She tried to think of something more compelling to add to that lie. “My uncle’s coming to visit—my uncle Dyami.”
Karin smiled. “Then you must greet him for me. I was one of his schoolmates—he’s welcome to visit at my house any time.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then you’d better go meet your grandfather,” Karin said, still looking concerned. “Maybe I’ll call your household later and speak to Dyami myself.”
“Peace, Karin,” Mahala said absently, then got up and wandered from the room.
Down the hallway, three doors to classrooms had been left open. Some of the older students often stayed after hours to do extra work or tutor younger students. In one classroom, Eugenio Tokugawa sat with three children. Mahala could not see the point of asking another student for help when a teaching image on the screen could offer guidance, but some students preferred a tutor. Eugenio, according to rumor, planned to become a teacher. In a way, his mother, Lena Kerein, was a kind of teacher herself.
Lena was Ishtar’s Guide. The story was that Mahala’s mother, her close friend, had chosen her for that position, even though Lena had turned against much of what the Ishtar cult had tried to do during Chimene’s time. The Guide occasionally put one of her speeches to her followers on the public channels. The speeches were about sharing possessions with others, being honest and truthful, and the dangers of being secretive or of lusting for power. Ishtar’s followers were encouraged, through good deeds, to work toward making their world the perfect world it could be and also to seek to know the will of the Spirit that was slowly coming to life on Venus. Mahala had sometimes wondered what the appeal of the cult was; Lena was a kind, easygoing woman, but not much of a speaker. Those in Ishtar had once hoped to bring everyone in the settlements to their beliefs, but many had fallen away from the cult, and few people were members of the group now. Those who wanted spiritual solace were Muslims, Buddhists, Christians of various sects, or followers of other faiths imported from Earth. Some, like her grandmother, did not look beyond the world they knew for meaning.
She came to the side doorway, then halted. Ragnar knew that she used this exit. Mahala steadied herself. If he was outside when the door opened, she could duck back inside; he wouldn’t chase her down the hallway with teachers and students still in the building.
She pressed her hand against the door; it slid open. Outside, a tall girl with white-blond hair was sitting near the path. Mahala tensed, wondering what Solveig Einarsdottir was doing there. She was about to retreat inside when Solveig lifted a hand.
“Hey,” the blond girl called out. “Hey, Mahala. If you’re looking for my brother, he isn’t here.”
Mahala walked slowly toward Solveig, ready to escape back to the school if necessary. “I know he’s mad at you,” Solveig went on. “I saw him head into the woods.” The tall girl gestured toward the trees near the school. “He’s waiting somewhere along the path between here and the greenhouses. That’s the way you always go, isn’t it?”
Mahala was suddenly suspicious. “Is this some kind of trick?”
“It isn’t a trick—honest.”
“Ragnar tried to beat me up a couple of days ago.”
“I know.” Solveig got to her feet. “It couldn’t have been much of a fight. You’re so much smaller.”
“This woman came along and scared him off. I didn’t tell my grandparents about it. My teacher asked me what was wrong with me today, and I didn’t say anything. I won’t tell on him, but if he keeps it up, somebody’ll find out, and it won’t be my fault if he gets a black mark and a bad name.”
“If anybody’s going to get black marks and a Council hearing, it’s Ragnar,” Solveig said; her husky voice made her sound like an adult. “He is an awful bastard sometimes, isn’t he?”
Mahala gaped at her, not knowing what to say.
“Oh, I care about him.” Solveig took a step toward her. “He is my brother, but he does act like a shit sometimes. Anyway, he’s getting tired of being mad at you. He’ll give up soon, and if he bothers you any more after that, I’ll fix him.”
“Maybe that’ll just get him madder at me,” Mahala said.
“I told you—he’ll get tired of this.” Solveig brushed some grass and dirt from the back of her pale green tunic. “I’ll walk with you, if you want. If Ragnar sees us together, he’ll leave you alone. We don’t have to go through the park—we can take another way.”
“I’ll go this way.”
They strolled toward the trees. “Why is he after you, anyway?” Solveig asked.
“We had to give those reports, the ones about our people and where they’re from. Ragnar said I should have put Habbers in mine, because of my uncle and grandfather joining them, and then our teacher scolded him for saying mean things about them. He tried to beat me up afterward. He said his report was better than mine and that I made him look bad. He said my parents and some other people in Ishtar had your father beaten and almost killed.”
“It wasn’t right of him to say that.”
“His report was better than mine, though. I told him that, but it didn’t help.”
“He’s smart,” Solveig said. “He could have started school sooner than he did, but our mother thought he needed more time in the nursery learning how to get along. He likes to be alone a lot, with his screen and any wood or clay he can get his hands on.”
“Why?” Mahala asked.
“So he can draw and whittle and make things out of clay. He made a model of our cat once, but he smashed it later. He gets angry.”
“I know,” Mahala said.
“But you don’t know why he’s angry.” Solveig was walking more slowly. “It’s because Ragnar already knows what he wants to do, and he knows he can’t ever do it here.”
“What does he want?”
“To do that—to make things. To draw and carve things out of wood and make clay models.”
“But he can do stuff like that.” Mahala turned her head and looked up at the taller girl. “My grandmother has some of the carvings her father made, and my uncle Dyami makes all kinds of things.”
“I know,” Solveig said. “I’ve seen images of that monument in Turing he made.” Mahala knew that Solveig meant the monument honoring all of those held as prisoners in Turing before the Revolt. “My mother says it’s the only thing on Venus she’d call real art.” The blond girl sighed. “But it’s still something your uncle does on the side, when he isn’t doing his real work. Ragnar doesn’t want to do any other kind of work except his carvings and models, and he knows that’s impossible.”
“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.” That was something Risa would say, and Mahala suddenly did not like the way it sounded.
Solveig stopped and leaned against a tree. “Maybe it’d be easier if the Habbers weren’t around. They help us, but they’re here mostly because they want to be, doing what they want to do when they’re here and then leaving when they feel like it. Ragnar won’t say so, but I think he’d rather be one of them.”
“But he hates them.”
“That’s just what he says.”
Mahala thought about Ragnar’s report. She was beginning to see why it was about the best one any of her schoolmates had given, and it wasn’t just because he had only one part of Earth to show. Every scene had been visually striking in some way; the report had not really needed his words. The images alone would have told the story of his people.
“Anyway,” Mahala said, “even Habbers can’t just do whatever they like. My grandmother’s brother Benzi isn’t staying on the Islands because he really wants to be there—he thought he should be here, working for Venus. That’s what Risa says.” Benzi spoke to them occasionally, and she dimly recalled a visit from him. He and Risa might share some genes, but Benzi Liangharad w
as a Habber, apart from any family he had here. He had already lived a century, as many years as most people ever did, yet age had left him unmarked. Mahala had seen his eyes change when she looked up into his face, as if he had suddenly forgotten her or was gazing beyond her at something else.
They walked on. As they were coming to the road, Mahala glimpsed Ragnar’s blond head among the trees. “I was right,” Solveig said under her breath.
“I didn’t say anything to anybody,” Mahala said hastily. “I don’t want him coming after me because he thinks I told.”
“I’ll tell him that. He won’t bother you—I’ll see that he doesn’t. I have to go.”
“But—”
Solveig hurried toward her brother; the two quickly vanished among the trees.
Why was Solveig being so kind? The blond girl barely knew her and had no reason to look out for her. Mahala came to the road, still tired, and decided to wait for a passenger cart.
“Greetings.”
Mahala looked up, surprised; she had not seen the pretty dark-haired woman near the road.
“I thought I saw that boy who was fighting with you the other day,” the stranger continued. “He didn’t try to hurt you again, did he?”
“No, and he isn’t going to—at least that’s what his sister says.” Mahala walked on; the woman kept at her side. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what my grandfather said.”
“I can’t imagine why. I knew your parents, child. In fact, I knew them extremely well.”
Mahala was intrigued. “You did?”
“I lived in their house. I was one of those closest to them.”
Neither Sef nor Risa had mentioned that. “Who are you?” Mahala asked.
“My name is Lakshmi Tiris. You look very much like your mother, Mahala.” No one had ever told her that. She had Chimene’s long black hair and Boaz’s large, almost black eyes, but Mahala knew that she was far from being a beauty. Risa would tell her that people were not responsible for their looks and that character was much more important than appearance, but Mahala had sometimes wished for more of her mother’s grace.
“Perhaps we can talk,” Lakshmi went on. “My house isn’t far—it’s just over there.” She waved a hand at a cluster of houses set back from the road. “There are things I’ve wanted to say to you.”
Mahala was curious. “I can’t,” she managed to say. “My uncle’s coming to visit. I should get home—he might already be there.”
The woman raised her brows. “Your uncle?”
“My uncle Dyami.”
“Yes, of course. He never did move back to Oberg, did he?”
“He lives in Turing.”
“Strange, isn’t it, how many of those who were imprisoned in Turing chose to stay there after the Revolt, after they were free again.” Lakshmi was silent for a while, then said, “We have something in common, you and I. Chimene took me into her household when I was only a girl. My parents were so honored when she asked if I could live with her and her companions—they were thrilled that I would be so dose to the Guide. Our family had been part of Ishtar almost from the beginning, you see, and when Chimene and Boaz singled me out, my mother and father were terribly pleased. In a sense, I was your mother’s first child, although I thought of her more as an older sister. You may carry her genes, but I was the child of her spirit.”
“But my grandmother never—”
“Your grandmother didn’t want me to come back here,” Lakshmi interrupted. “I’ve been living in the Tsou Yen settlement between shifts, with an aunt, but I wanted to come back to Oberg. It was time for me to come back.” Lakshmi’s voice was hoarse, as if she had to force herself to speak. “I was close to your father, too. Has your grandmother told you much about him?”
Mahala shook her head.
“I thought not. They were enemies, your father and Risa. She probably thinks it’s wiser not to talk to you about him or about your mother, either. She knows plenty about Boaz and Chimene that others don’t know, things that will never be part of their records.”
“Risa told me about my parents,” Mahala said.
“I wonder if she told you everything. In Ishtar, we were taught to share all of our thoughts and feelings. I have never felt that secrets were necessary.”
Mahala knew that she should not go any farther with this woman, but could not pull herself away. Lakshmi had turned from the road and was following a path made of flat rocks toward the nearest houses. These were new dwellings, set closer together than most of the west dome’s older houses, with greenhouses that were extensions of the residences, since there was so little space for separate structures. Mahala did not see anyone around, but people would be coming home before last light. Someone might mention having seen Mahala with Lakshmi, and that piece of news could easily find its way to Risa; her grandmother had a talent for finding things out.
Lakshmi halted in front of one house. “You may come in if you like,” the pretty woman said. “My housemates are all at work today, so we’ll have the common room to ourselves until they get home. We can talk about your parents. It isn’t right for your grandmother to keep secrets, especially from you about your own mother and father. But Risa Liangharad’s probably used to doing as she likes.”
“She told me everything about my parents,” Mahala said, still drawn to this woman in spite of herself.
“I’m certain she didn’t. You didn’t know about me, did you? Risa must think keeping secrets is best for you, but all it means is that everyone here is hiding things from you and that you’ll never know what they really think. Even your schoolmates probably know more than Risa ever told you. And I can tell you a lot more, things even your grandmother doesn’t know.”
Mahala was frightened now. Her grandparents did not want her talking to this woman, and she had promised to be home early to greet Dyami. Yet Lakshmi drew her. Didn’t she have a right to find out what others already knew? Was it fair to have others whispering behind her back? She would find out sooner or later; why not now?
“I have to go home,” Mahala said faintly.
“Then go, child. I’m not about to drag you inside—you may do as you like.” Lakshmi stepped onto the short path that led to the house’s main door.
Mahala hesitated, then followed her.
Lakshmi settled Mahala on a cushion in the common room, then sat down across from her. “Would you like anything?” the woman asked. “Some tea or juice—or perhaps a cookie?”
“I’m not hungry.” Bad enough for her to be talking to the woman; she would not eat her food. This common room was much smaller than Risa’s, with only one small table and a few cushions on the floor. Judging from the size of the house, Lakshmi could not have more than a couple of housemates. “What’s your job, anyway?” Mahala asked.
“I’m just a greenhouse farmer at the moment, but one of the botanists has taken me on as an assistant in his lab. I much prefer it to Bat duty.”
Mahala leaned forward. “You’re on Bat duty?”
“Not anymore. I moved here after finishing my last shift, but I might go back to it in a couple of years if they need me. I did fairly well up there—didn’t mind it as much as some.”
Mahala was impressed. Those who volunteered for Bat duty earned a fair amount of respect. The Bats were the two winged satellites above Venus’s north and south poles, and duty there had its risks, since the workers had to service the robot scooper ships that ferried excess oxygen from the surface installations at the planet’s poles to the Bats. The process of terraforming had released much of Venus’s oxygen and was continuing to do so. Some of the oxygen was combining with hydrogen to form water for the Venusian oceans; some would remain locked in rock, but the rest of the excess oxygen had to be removed if the Cytherian atmosphere was ever to support life. The oxygen was compressed inside the massive structures at the north and south poles, then brought to the Bats in tanks; some of it was used there for Bat
operations, and the rest was hurled into space. There was always a chance that, during this process, the volatile oxygen might explode; Bat duty had claimed a number of lives.
Dangerous as the work was, many young people volunteered to do it. Workers on the Bats were admired for then-courage, and the chance to earn more status, in addition to the extra credit, drew more than enough volunteers.
Risa, Mahala knew, had worked on the northern Bat in her youth. Surely she must know that Lakshmi had taken on the risks of Bat duty; that would be part of the woman’s public record. Risa was quick to praise those who volunteered, so why was she so wary of Lakshmi Tiris?
“I’d be afraid to work on a Bat,” Mahala said. Maybe, she thought, she should not have admitted that. “But my grand-mother’ll expect me to volunteer if I don’t get into an Island school.”
“I once hoped to study there.” Lakshmi’s dark eyes glittered, and her low voice sounded even huskier. “None of the Island schools would take me. I was a good student as a child—some even called me gifted, but studying got harder for me after that, after—” She paused. “I volunteered for the Bats as soon as I could.”
Mahala stirred restlessly on her cushion. “But we didn’t come here to talk about me,” Lakshmi said. The woman was playing with her long dark hair now, twisting the locks around her hands, piling hair up on her head before letting it fall down her back. “I met your mother when I was a girl. I’d seen her on the screen, of course, and we often listened to one of her recorded speeches during the fellowship’s weekly meeting, but there was nothing like seeing her in person. I went to live with her and her household when I was twelve.”
“You told me that already,” Mahala said.
“I wanted to be just like Chimene someday, beautiful and kind and loved by everyone. I longed for someone just like Boaz to love me as much as he loved her. Boaz was an older brother to me at first. He told me that someday, if it was the will of the Spirit, I might be chosen as Ishtar’s Guide.” She stared past Mahala, her arms still; it was almost as if Lakshmi had forgotten she was there. “I dreamed of that, but at the same time hoped it would never happen, because it would have meant living in a world without Chimene.” She plucked at a strand of hair. “The fellowship isn’t the same with Lena Kerein as the Guide, but then I left it some time ago. I suppose you could say that I lost my faith, as so many others did, after Chimene took her life.”
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