“On half a bottle of wine?”
“Drinking alcohol is against my religion,” said Maliha, “both of them.”
“I am trying to make a point.”
“Sorry.”
Françoise pushed Maliha off her shoulders and brought their faces close enough to kiss. “Do you think I would love just anyone?”
“Truthfully?” said Maliha.
Françoise pursed her lips. “Very well, perhaps that was not a good example. What about Valentine?”
Maliha shook her head, and regretted it. “No, he would not love just anyone.”
“But he loved you.”
Maliha could not suppress the sudden outburst of tears and sobbing. She felt Françoise get up and move away.
“Sorry,” said Françoise. “This is the wrong time for that.”
Moments later a kerchief was being thrust into Maliha’s hand. It took her a few minutes to get herself under control.
“What was it you wanted to tell me earlier?”
“Can I have some coffee?”
“I didn’t think you drank coffee.”
“I don’t.”
Françoise paused. “I’ll get them to send up a good, strong pot.”
* * *
When room service knocked it was Françoise who went to the door and brought in the trolley. In addition to the coffee, there was a selection of light sandwiches, toast and boiled eggs.
Maliha munched her way through toast and drank the coffee. There was no milk, but that was no loss—she had not had milk until she went to England and she avoided it as much as she could, though milk-based puddings had made regular appearances on the school menu. No animal that gave milk could survive on Venus unless completely coddled, which made it a very rare and extremely expensive commodity.
Maliha felt better and the lack of order in her thoughts withdrew as she consumed more. There were no fruits either and the bread tasted strange; Maliha assumed it must contain local replacements for the difficult-to-acquire ingredients.
But the local food supply must be sufficient to feed the population which, as she had established, was far larger than expected.
“They cannot be importing it all,” Maliha said out loud. “There are not enough ships coming and going.”
“What are we talking about now?” asked Françoise.
“Food,” said Maliha, taking another bite out of her slice of toast. There was something on it that could not be butter. “This is bread that is not bread, and butter that is not butter.”
“Foreign food always tastes strange.”
“Is that how you felt about Indian food?”
“This,” she held up a sandwich, “I do not know what this meat is, but it is a good sandwich. In India, no sandwiches. No proper bread unless I demanded it.”
“What would it be like to be born and grow up here?” said Maliha. “With your government millions of miles away.”
“I suppose there must be children who have never known anything else.”
“They would be Venusians; they would hate Earth if they visited. They would resent being at the mercy of men so far away.” Maliha thought again of India. The British had always ruthlessly suppressed any hint of rebellion, especially since the mutiny of ’57.
The resentment was there. It bubbled beneath the surface always. It was the reason she was now called a goddess, all because one priest had thought it would be clever to name her thus. He wanted a figurehead people could rally around. Perhaps he thought a woman would be easy to manipulate, but Maliha was not interested in playing his game.
The name had stuck anyway.
“The Indian Mutiny was caused by the East India Company,” she said.
Françoise shook her head. “What is the subject now?”
“If you ran a business more powerful than most governments, with more money than most countries, and someone told you to stop what you were doing, would you do it?”
“I think I would ignore that person.”
“What if you were told to do it by the most powerful country in the world?”
“I suppose I might do it.”
“What if you secretly owned a fleet of Voidships more powerful than anything in the world?”
Françoise put her head on one side. “I think you have had too much to drink and have been reading too much Jules Verne, or your H. G. Wells.”
Maliha ignored her. A planet with a large population that had reached self-sufficiency. A fleet of ships—who knew how many—that possessed almost complete nullification of gravity without the Rutherford-Tesla device. Those whose families had been part of the EIC were still powerful back in England; they were lords and commanders of great trade empires—just like Timmons.
For a moment she thought about the scale of it: not just Venus but perhaps Mars, mining operations on Mercury and perhaps further. What about the remains of the planet Phaeton, and beyond—all while the great and good of Earth took their little health tours around the Moon.
“But none of that matters,” she said.
Françoise pulled a face and poured herself another coffee. “Is it always like this around you? I do not remember you being so like a ... butterfly.”
Maliha smiled. “No, I was not. I have had some ideas. They may be nothing, just a fancy, as you say something Verne or Wells might have dreamed up.” Especially Herbert George, who is always so keen on social reform.
An ache had started up in her temple, but it was only a pain and an improvement on her earlier inability to think in a straight line.
“Françoise, I am going to ask you to do something,” she said.
“I will do anything.”
Maliha held up her hand. “No, listen, I will tell you what it is and then you will decide, not before.”
“I will say yes whatever it is.”
“Please stop arguing with me.”
“Yes, Goddess.”
Inside, Maliha screamed. Françoise had a way of needling that always got under her skin.
So be it.
iv
Françoise strolled into the disreputable travel agent at nine o’clock the following morning in her gentleman’s outfit. There had been a rainstorm, but it had passed quickly and the temperature had soared.
“Morning, sir,” said the man behind the desk. He was dressed in a jacket and trousers that were too small for him, over a shirt that needed a wash. He did not move from his position with his feet up on the desk, lounging back in the chair that looked as though it ought to collapse under his weight.
“My name is Francis Gray,” she said. “You are expecting me.” Françoise had a voice with a naturally low pitch and, coupled with her male appearance, it gave the impression of a slightly effete man. She had discovered that women found this to be less threatening, making it all the easier to make their acquaintance and get them into bed. By the time they discovered she was not a man they were usually past caring.
True, it was deceitful and she knew Maliha would not approve. That is why they did not discuss it.
The man brushed off his hands and climbed to his feet. The chair creaked as his weight lifted from it.
“Ferdie.” He stuck out his hand to shake; Françoise was not happy about that, but she was wearing grey gloves so she did not have to come in contact with his skin. The man’s hand was soft and his grip was weaker than hers.
“No time to waste, we’d better be off,” he said and walked out of the shop. Françoise followed. He did not seem concerned with security and did no more than shut the door after turning over the sign to ‘Closed’. There was no lock.
“Do you want a gun?” he asked as he led the way to the stairs.
“I am armed.”
They climbed the stairs and he said no more, but she could hear him wheezing as the steps took their toll. Françoise wondered how he fared in such a damp environment—surely he must have difficulties with his lungs?
He walked slower as they went along the next floor, not in the direction of the taxi rank
for the public but through a door between two stalls and into a narrow corridor that led out to a private service area.
“Borrowed this,” he said. They approached a small, three-wheeled, diesel-powered carriage that had clearly seen better days. Its exposed metal was rusted and the suspension springs looked worn through. “Doesn’t look like much, but it will get us there.”
Fully open to the elements, thought Françoise. “If we don’t drown.” She fetched her dark glasses from an inner pocket and put them on. She glanced up at the burning clouds. The earlier storm was already gone from sight and only a few small, low-level clouds remained.
He fired up the engine—at least it was quicker than steam—as Françoise settled herself in the cracked leather seat that may have once been red but now had a layer of green mold. She shook her head.
The carriage shook as the engine caught and its vibrations threatened to throw her out. She grabbed the side of the vehicle to steady herself. It will probably be better when it’s moving.
It was worse. The wheels were almost bare of their shock-absorbing rubber and every bump and crack in the road was transmitted through to her seat. It must be like riding an old velocipede over cobblestones.
She had no idea in what direction they were heading. The light came from all directions in the day and there were no landmark buildings for orientation.
The machine rattled along the wooden road. It seemed to be a major thoroughfare, because of the other vehicles of all sizes, including large omnibuses and lorries, but it did not compare to the traffic of a major city back on Earth.
Finally she recognised the air-dock. The shuttle on which they had arrived, or something similar, sat on its raised platform and there were other landing areas further out. Her driver took them on a side road that led around the dock, until they slowed and turned off into the private yard.
Françoise clambered from the vehicle. Her body still felt as though it was being shaken by the vibration of the machine.
“Good little thing, eh?” said the man, laughing and slapping the front of the carriage. “Looks like nothing, but it goes well.”
She managed to force a smile onto her face. “Good, yes.” Maliha had given her an envelope stuffed with notes. Françoise pulled it out and held it out.
The man snatched it and ripped open the seal. He spent a minute counting the notes, twice, then looked up with a smile and nodded. He separated out a wedge of notes and pocketed it.
“Where are the flyer and the pilot?” she said, suddenly nervous they might be betrayed. She put her hand on the gun in her pocket. She saw his eyes follow the movement of her hand.
“Don’t you worry, mate,” he said. Françoise could not place his accent. “Your friend wanted things nice and secret, that’s what it’s all about. I got you a pilot who can do the job you need—no questions asked.”
“No questions asked?”
He looked suddenly serious. “None.”
The yard they were in was bordered on one side by a solid, wooden fence along the road, and a building on the other three sides, as if someone had built a stable, forgetting there were no horses on Venus.
Ferdie headed to a door and hammered on it. “Reggie’s a bit deaf,” he said by way of explanation before he started up hammering again. The door opened beneath his fist.
“Orright, Reggie, job’s ’ere.”
Françoise was expecting a face to appear about the level of Ferdie’s, but instead it appeared a good foot and a half lower, a pale face, peering out from the shadows. It stared at Françoise and then looked up at Ferdie. “Gots da leaf?”
Ferdie handed over the envelope. Reggie stepped out. He was dressed head to foot in grey leather that was old and torn in places. It matched Reggie’s wrinkled skin, though whether that was an indication of age, Françoise was not sure. His face was in shadow under an equally tatty helmet. Reggie counted the notes.
“Good leaf, you garn.”
Ferdie shook hands with the diminutive Reggie and headed back to the carriage. “See ya, mate,” he shouted to Françoise as he re-ignited the engine and climbed into the driving seat. Françoise shook her head as he pulled round in a tight circle and thundered out of the gate.
Her attention was yanked back by the screeching of wood on stone as Reggie pulled open one of a pair of double doors.
v
Reggie pushed both doors back until they were wide open. Françoise could see nothing in the interior; electric lights did not seem to be much in use on Venus. The hotel had them, as did the immigration building and the Mayberry house, but most other places did not.
How could any civilised place work without electricity? The answer was simple enough: they could not. Venus was a very great distance from being civilised. What was it Maliha had talked about last night? Would these Venusian hordes descend on Earth and go the way of the Roman Empire?
An engine spluttered into life in the dark beyond the double doors.
What emerged, bumping out into the open, did not look like anything that could fly. It had neither balloon nor wings, and there was no horizontal rotor for lift, but there was a vertical one at the rear for forward thrust. It was not much bigger than the rusted machine she had arrived here in.
It did, however, have what looked like wine barrels. There were four of them: two mounted at the rear and two at the front. They might have been thought of as wheels except they were far too wide and did not touch the ground. In the middle of all this was a small enclosed space for the pilot and an engine behind.
Tiny Reggie was leaning against the frame and pushing it out into the space. He stopped when he had it more or less central. “You in.”
Françoise looked at her watch. They were still in good time; Maliha’s transport was not going to leave for fifteen to twenty minutes and they needed to be ready to follow.
“You in!” shouted Reggie. He had moved to the cage in the middle and was holding open a door. Françoise raised her hand as if to deflect his ire. She headed forward and stared into the compartment. It was not large. The pilot sat at the front; the space available for a passenger was almost sitting atop the engine.
It was just as well she was being a man; it would have been impossible to climb into the space in women’s clothes. She pulled herself in as the light levels dropped and water tumbled from the sky.
She had not been paying attention and had not realised she was not standing on a raised platform. The yard was stone-flagged. Within moments it was inches deep in water, which was rising fast.
Reggie did not seem concerned. Françoise glanced back to the engine thudding beneath her. Water steamed off the casing as it struck. The ceiling withstood the onslaught of rain without leaking, though the racket it made was deafening.
Reggie climbed up in front of her, splashing water everywhere, and slammed the door shut. He sat and threw a couple of levers. Something ground painfully against something else. The metal barrels whipped into motion, spinning faster and faster. Water flew from them.
Françoise looked out at the yard as the water continued to rise. She could see it pouring in through the doors of the buildings. She shook her head; this was not a world she wanted any part of.
She felt herself lighten, not the fully powered gravity reduction of a modern flyer but something less. The water had reached the bottom of the door and was seeping in as Reggie increased the power of the engine. The drums spun even faster and the strange craft wobbled into the air.
The worrying lurches of the vessel evened out as they gained altitude, but there was an intense vibration from the engine and the rotating drums that jarred her teeth.
Françoise relaxed the death grip she had on the back of Reggie’s chair, then grabbed it again as he powered up the thruster and they moved forward. The whole vehicle tilted to the left as they turned in that direction. Françoise had never felt so unsafe in a flying vehicle and she considered herself a seasoned traveller.
The rain was still pouring and the ground below
was almost invisible through the grey, waterlogged air. But Reggie seemed certain enough as to the direction, so she tried to relax and sit back, leaning against the back of the compartment. There was no backrest.
The letter Maliha had received at the hotel gave instructions for meeting with a vessel that would take her to the ‘mountain’. The plan was that Françoise would follow and land there too. She, however, was not to interfere with Maliha. She had her own instructions.
Françoise sighed. She had agreed, of course. She was unable to fathom what it was about Maliha that made her so compelling. Françoise had always been the one in control: she knew she was beautiful, and men would do anything for her in the hope she might bless them with a kiss—or something more—and women almost always fell before her and were grateful.
But Maliha? Françoise had not even seduced her; Maliha had kissed Françoise first. Maliha had come to her bed unbidden, though she had been distraught and in need. It was Maliha who saw through Françoise’s lies and dominated her. And it was Françoise who had sent Maliha away to be with her true love, despite wanting to keep her.
Françoise looked out into the grey. Maliha was the better person and Françoise would be happy to be half the woman she was. Even if she was reckless and impulsive.
Maliha believed she was going to die today and yet she still went.
Françoise brushed back a tear. There was no point making this water-world any wetter than it already was. She leaned forward and put her mouth near to Reggie’s ear.
“How long?”
“Five and five.” Reggie lifted his left hand from the controls and opened and closed his gauntleted fist twice.
“Ten.”
“Five and five.”
Françoise sat back and glanced at her watch. What did he mean?
A few minutes later they burst from the wall of water. The light of the burning clouds flooded the cabin with light. Françoise blinked behind her glasses. It was as if they had broken through a curtain.
She looked back at the plummeting rain, which looked more like a waterfall stretching into the distance. Coruscating rainbows danced through the air, moving to the song of the wind. This planet may be appalling, but when it chose to show its beauty it poured it out by the bucketful.
Under the Burning Clouds Page 24