Venus of Shadowsby Pamela Sargent
Iris Angharads, a determined, independent woman, sets herself one massive goal: to make the poison-filled atmosphere of Venus hospitable to humans. She works day and night to realize her dream, with only one person sharing her passion, Liang Chen. It seems impossible to make Venus, with its intolerable air and waterless environment, into a paradise, but Iris succeeds. And in doing so, she also creates a powerful dynasty, beginning with her first born, Benzi Liangharad.
- The Doubleday Religious Publishing Group
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- 1st ed
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Malik's visitor was late. "Salaam, Linker Malik," she murmured, bowing her head slightly as she entered his apartment.
"Salaam," Malik replied. He led her to a chair and sat down across from her. He had been wary when the woman first called and asked for a meeting with him. Malik's uncle, in his last message, had warned him to be careful; there were complaints about some of Malik's recent writings. The warning had been vague, as most of Muhammad's messages were lately, with hints that the older man felt threatened and might no longer be able to protect his nephew.
Yet this woman seemed innocuous enough. He glanced at her as he poured coffee. Her name was Wadzia Zayed, and she claimed to be one of his former students. Malik had verified that much through his forehead implant; it was still something of a novelty to be Linked, to have all of the information in Earth's cyberminds open to him.
He had remembered her only after viewing an image in the university's records. Wadzia Zayed had been a shy girl with sad dark eyes, another female student from one of his Nomarchy's outlying villages who wore a scarf over her head and kept her eyes lowered whenever she spoke. The attractive, self-assured woman who sat in front of him now hardly seemed the same person.
"I am honored that you agreed to see me," Wadzia said in formal Arabic with a trace of a rural accent. "I was surprised to learn that you are now Linked, although your accomplishments surely merit that honor."
Malik touched the small jewel on his forehead that marked him as a Linker. "I have tried to be worthy of it." His uncle's influence had helped to win him the Link; Muhammad wasgrooming him for better things. Grateful as he was, he wasn't sure if he shared his uncle's ambitions.
"Well." Wadzia set down her cup, then shook back her uncovered black hair. "I assume you've already viewed my mind-tour." She was speaking in Anglaic now, the official language of Earth, although any truly educated person knew Arabic as well.
"Indeed I have," he answered in the same tongue.
"And what did you think?"
"Your depiction has an impact," Malik said carefully, "but I'm puzzled by your reasons for asking me to see it. I used to view such things as a boy, and had many happy moments experiencing them through my band, but I'm hardly an expert on mind-tours and sensory entertainments." Such visual images and simulated, experiences, some of which depicted historical incidents, could impart a bit of knowledge to the many illiterate and unschooled people of Earth's Nomarchies, but to Malik, they seemed much like the more trivial mind-tours with which such people amused themselves. "I value your opinion," Wadzia replied. "I wouldn't ask for a recommendation, even though one from a historian of your standing might help in promoting it, but I would appreciate any suggestions you'd care to make." She lifted her head and gazed directly at him.
Malik's lingering suspicions vanished; apparently this meeting was partly an excuse to entice him. Women had begun to seek him out when he was hardly more than a boy, attracted by his handsome face and well-formed body. It had become easy to enjoy the novelty of each new love while knowing that he was certain to find another before that love died. Wadzia might have nursed an infatuation since her student days, although any intimate encounter with her then would have been dishonorable on his part. He sighed; anticipation of a new love was now often tinged with weariness.
"Your subject is fascinating, of course," he said. "That by itself makes your mind-tour quite dramatic. You simplified events somewhat, but I didn't note blatant inaccuracies. I know these events have been used in other depictions, but your treatment seemed fresh. I especially enjoyed the way you thrust the observer into various scenes before contrasting them with more distant perspectives."
Wadzia smiled a little. He was being honest; the story of the Venus Project could still move him. The efforts of people to create a livable world from such a hellish planet, a world none of them would survive to see, was surely testimony to the human spirit.
Terraforming Venus had been the dream of Karim al-Anwar, one of the earliest of Earth's Mukhtars. The Earth that Karim and his fellow Mukhtars had ruled more than five hundred years ago was a world ravaged by wars over resources. Many people had abandoned the home world for habitats in space, hollowed-out asteroids and vast globes built from the resources space offered. Karim's Earth was a wounded world, deserted by those who had become the Habitat-dwellers, with the people left behind clinging to the little that remained.
The Nomarchies of Earth had finally won peace. A Mukhtar had ruled each region ever since, and the armed force known as the Guardians of the Nomarchies preserved that peace. But Karim al-Anwar had seen that Earth needed a new dream, one that might rival the accomplishments of the Associated Habitats; without such an achievement, human history might pass into the hands of the Habitat-dwellers. Karim had looked toward Venus, that planet of intense heat held in by a thick atmosphere of carbon dioxide with a barometric pressure ninety times that of Earth, and had seen a place human beings might transform. The Habitat-dwellers might believe that humanity's future lay in space; Earth's people would show that they were wrong.
Karim had lived only long enough to see a feasibility study begun, but his dream had won out. Anwara, the space station named for him, circled Earth's sister-world in a high orbit. The shield called the Parasol, an umbrella of giant panels with a diameter as large as the planet's, hid Venus from the sun, enabling that world to cool. Frozen hydrogen had been siphoned off from distant Saturn and hurled toward Venus in tanks, where the hydrogen combined with free oxygen to form water. The atmosphere had been seeded with new strains of algae that fed on sulfuric acid and then expelled it as iron and copper sulfides.
Venus's first settlements had been the Islands, constructed to float in the planet's upper atmosphere slightly to the north of the equator. Platforms built on rows of large metal cells filled with helium were covered with dirt and then enclosed in impermeable domes. On the surface, construction equipment guided by engineers on these Islands had erected three metallic pyramids housing gravitational pulse engines; rods anchoring those engines had penetrated the basaltic mantle to the edge of Venus's nickel and iron core. The planet, after being assaulted by the release of their powerful antigravitational pulse, had begun to turn more rapidly. Its tectonic plates, locked for eons, began to shift; speeding up the world's rotation would also provide Earth-like weather patterns in later centuries, and the spinning iron core had generated a magnetic field that would protect Venus's settlers from solar radiation when the Parasol no longer cast its shadow.
Now at last, Malik thought, so long after Karim al-Anwar had first had his vision, domed settlements were rising in the Maxwell Mountains of the northern landmass known as Ishtar Terra. The people who called themselves Cytherians, after the Mediterranean island of Cythera where the goddess Aphrodite had once been worshipped, were living on the world that bore one of that ancient deity's names.
Wadzia's mind-tour had hurled him into this world. Malik had stood on barren, rocky ground, peering through a misty darkness as lightning flashed above a volcano. He bad seen the Parasol, a giant flower reflecting sunlight away from a world that would bloom. He had watched as tanks of frozen hydrogen flared brightly in the planet's hot, black clouds, brief candles doused by the darkness. He had glimpsed two satellites appearing over the poles, their construction compressed into seconds, and seen their winged panels reach past the Parasol's shade to catch the light of the sun. The ground had lurched and heaved under his feet while thunder slapped his ears as a pyramid, with veins of light bulging from its black walls, released its pulse of energy.
The mind-tour had been filled with great spectacles interspersed with images of individuals who seemed to have no life apart from their obsession with the Venus Project. Wadzia had not mentioned the drain placed on Earth's limited resources by more than four centuries of support for the Project. She had barely hinted at the agreement the Mukhtars and their Project Council had reluctantly made with the Habitat-dwellers, who had decided to aid the Project for their own obscure reasons. Without Habber aid and technology, Malik knew, the Project could not have advanced this far.
Wadzia had also passed over more recent events. The pyramids had finally released their mighty pulse of energy in 555, nearly forty years ago; Wadzia had quickly moved to scenes of settlers inside the surface domes. She had avoided darker events, incidents that might have marred her tale of noble souls and grand feats of terraforming, the years when it seemed that Earth might lose the Venus Project.
The possibility of that loss was not yet past, even with Guardians stationed on Venus's Islands and with settlers moving to the surface. Malik thought again of his uncle's messages and the dilemmas that now faced Muhammad's allies among the Mukhtars.
"Do you have any other comments?" Wadzia asked.
He forced his attention back to her. "It's incomplete, isn't it? Those experiencing this mind-tour will have at least a hazy knowledge of more recent events, and wonder why they were omitted."
"I thought you might say that," she said.
"I don't see how you can avoid mentioning Pavel Gvishiani's ambitions."
"That's exactly what I think." The woman leaned forward. "The rest of my team disagrees. That's why I wanted you to see this. The opinion of a scholar who has a family so close to the Council of Mukhtars might carry some weight with my colleagues."
"The part of the story you left out has its pitfalls. You'd have to be careful in what you show, but since the tale ends with Pavel's defeat--" He reached for the pot and poured more coffee.
"Dealing with Pavel would also add some drama," Wadzia said. "After all those scenes of grandeur and self-sacrifice, we'd see the most influential of the Island Administrators trying to seize control of the Project for himself, even if it means an alliance with Habbers."
"One can feel a bit of sympathy for the man," Malik said. "The Project's progress had slowed, the Mukhtars weren't doing anything about it, and Pavel Gvishiani was faced with people who were impatient for surface settlements and resentful of the Guardian force on the Islands. He knew there wouldn't be much progress without more aid from the Habitat-dwellers."
Pavel had taken a chance, believing that Earth might not risk a confrontation, and had lost that gamble. But Wadzia could not acknowledge that without admitting how crucial the help of Habbers had become, an admission that would tarnish the glory Earth claimed for itself through the Venus Project.
How ironic, Malik thought, that Earth had to lean on Habbers for assistance in a venture meant to rival the Habber vision of humanity's future. The Mukhtars did not appreciate the irony, which only deepened their resentment of the Associated Habitats. Some believed that the Habbers had agreed to work with the Project in order to spy on the people there. Malik, however, suspected that the Habbers meant what they claimed -- that working with the Project enabled them to test their own technology in various ways. Perhaps they were also moved by feelings of responsibility to those the ancestors of the Habbers had abandoned. It was hard to know what Habbers thought, given the limited contact Earth had with them.
"I certainly can't portray Pavel sympathetically," Wadzia was saying. "Assuming authority to make all decisions about the Project himself, and issuing what amounted to ultimatums to the Mukhtars, was close to treason."
"Indeed." She also could not discuss the fact that a threat from the Habbers to withdraw all their resources and sever any contact with Earth had persuaded the Mukhtars to resolve the matter peacefully. Pavel had been deprived of his Link; a few of those closest to him, including the Guardian Commander who had supported him, had also been punished. Mercy had been shown to most of the Islanders, since Pavel had misled them; Earth had achieved the semblance of a victory.
"There are also some heroes in this part of the story," Wadzia continued, "who would be inspiring. I'm thinking of Iris Angharads and Amir Azad in particular."
Malik nodded; he had refreshed his memory of recent Project history before his guest's arrival. Iris Angharads had been a climatologist working on the Islands, Amir Azad a Linker and Administrator. Both had died attempting to resolve the situation Pavel had created. Their deaths, according to one sentimental interpretation, had led to Pavel's remorse and his surrendering of himself to Earth for punishment.
"There's a memorial to Iris and Amir in one of the surface settlements." Wadzia sipped some coffee. "Maybe I could show that monument. Earth reclaims its dream, and we end with settlers building a new world for Earth's greater glory."
"A lot of settlers don't quite see it that way," he murmured. "Some still dream of being free of us. A few Mukhtars wonder if they're looking at a world that might try to escape from their grasp again."
"I don't have to dwell on that. We'll see a future Nomarchy, and people who are mindful of their loyalty to Earth."
"I almost think you wouldn't mind going there yourself."
She laughed softly. "I'm happier being a spectator, seeing history's grand sweep and dramatic moments, without being drawn into all the smaller struggles and personal disappointments that also play their role in events." She tilted her head. "I imagine you feel much the same way."
"I suppose I do." She was reminding him of his current worries. His uncle might be too involved in the Mukhtars' political disputes for Malik's family to remain spectators for long.
Wadzia's legs were crossed; the body covered by her blue tunic and pants was slightly arched, as though she was subtly trying to display herself. "You also never touched on one important reason for the Project," he said, "namely, that we might need what we learn from terraforming Venus here on Earth." Karim al-Anwar might have been a dreamer, but he, along with others, had noted the rise in Earth's temperatures, the slow melting of its polar ice caps, the gradual flooding of coastal cities, and the increase of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. He had seen Earth's possible future under Venus's clouds.
"I don't want to alarm people," she responded. "The ones who are likely to experience this tour may not stop to think that Earth will hardly become a desert any time soon. Besides, we've postponed the day of reckoning by moving so much of our industry into near-space, so it's not anything to worry about now." Wadzia's hand tightened around her cup. "May I tell my team that you're in agreement with me, that we should include what this version omits?"
"If you think it'll do any good."
Her face brightened a little. "Oh, it will. Maybe I can show you an early version. It'd be a mock-up, just the images without the sensory effects, and you could point out anything the authorities might find objectionable."
"Be sure that I will." What a mind-tour designed for ignorant people showed could not matter; advising Wadzia to shade the truth could not really count as intellectual dishonesty. Refusing to state certain conclusions in his writings, or keeping his lectures safely ambiguous so that they did not contradict the accepted historical theories, would be more serious failings. I may come to that, Malik thought, wondering exactly how much he might restrict his own thoughts in order to keep what he had.
His cowardice disgusted him. "The Venus Project is problematic," he said. "Here we are, hoping for a new world and a new culture that might revitalize our own, and yet for Venus to have a chance at doing that, it should be left to grow in its own way. By placing too heavy a hand on those Cytherian settlers, we risk losing what we hope to gain."
"The Mukhtars wouldn't like to hear that."
"A few of them think it," he said. "It'd be more sensible to grant the Cytherians autonomy and allow the Habbers to contribute even more to the Project. Some resent what it's cost us already."
"Impossible." Her eyes widened in shock. "The Mukhtars can't take a Project they've touted as our greatest effort and turn it over to Habbers who affront us at every opportunity. Even people who don't care about Venus would see that as a betrayal. It's bad enough that we needed Habber help in the first place."
"Does it really matter in the long run?" He suddenly felt a need to display some courage and recklessness, even if only with words. "Habbers are one branch of humanity, we're another, and the Cytherians will undoubtedly be a third. We'll diverge for a time, but we may draw together eventually and find a common destiny, as the different regions of Earth did so long ago. Venus could be a bridge between Earth and the Habitats, and there's much we could gain from more contact with Habbers." Malik fell silent; this was the kind of talk Muhammad had warned him against.
"Dangerous words. Linker Malik."
He rose, knowing that it was time to end his brief show of bravery. "Much as I would enjoy prolonging this visit, my duties require my attention." He was speaking in Arabic now, anxious to find refuge in its formalities; Wadzia seemed a bit disappointed as she got to her feet. "I shall look forward, God willing, to your presentation at another time." Her eyes were lowered, her lips turned down; Malik took her arm and guided her toward the door. "I would like to hear more about what you've been doing these past years -- perhaps you are free for dinner this evening."
"That would be most pleasurable," she replied. "Since my bondmate's work has taken him to Baghdad, my evenings have often been lonely." There would be a bondmate, of course; young women of Wadzia's age in this Nomarchy were rarely unpledged. The man was probably from her village; she might have been promised to him even before attending the university. The two would have made their pledge, and perhaps gone through the rite of marriage as well, because their families would be shamed if they refused. Now, he supposed, they had an understanding that allowed them other companions as long as they were discreet. It was a common enough arrangement.
Her novelty would divert him for a while; he was already trying to determine which restaurant might provide the most seductive atmosphere. He sighed as he once more felt his familiar weariness.
The University of Amman was near Malik's residence, and he usually walked there instead of taking the private hovercar provided for his use. The towers of the school and the tall, terraced apartment buildings surrounding it rose above a city of small, pastel-colored houses packed tightly together on low mountainsides. Other towers dotted Amman, looming over dwellings that might have been carved from the multicolored stone.
Malik had grown up in Damascus, but this city had claimed his heart when he first came here to study. Its clear, biting air invigorated him, and he had never tired of exploring its rocky hills and twisting streets. He had been happy to win a position in Amman; it was the city in the New Islamic Nomarchy that he loved most.
Olive trees and cedars lined the pale paths of the university complex; they were tall, straight trees unlike the tiny, stunted ones that grew in the crags and small spaces between houses. A small group of students walked toward him, chattering in Hebrew, then nodded respectfully as they drew near.
"Salaam, Linker Malik," one of the young men said in Arabic. "May I ask -- we have been told that you will be visiting Jerusalem next term."
"As God wills." Malik touched his forehead. "Isaac Alon has invited me, and I am looking forward to spending more time in the Eastern Mediterranean Nomarchy."
"I must tell my brother, then -- he is a student there. He will be hoping to meet with you."
One of the female students was ogling him quite blatantly; her large hazel eyes were much like Luciana Rizzi's. Malik drew his brows together. He had promised Luciana he would see her tonight, before Wadzia's visit; his Link would have reminded him had he bothered to consult it. Even after two years, he was not entirely accustomed to the Link; now he would have to change his plans. Perhaps not; he could find an excuse to give Luciana. It was always a sign that a particular love was fading when he began to make excuses.
"I shall hope to meet your brother, then," Malik said. He could not remember this student's name. He opened his Link to call it up, and heard only a dead silence.
The shock of meeting a block in the Link's channels made him tense; it had to be a malfunction. What could be wrong? He trembled and swayed unsteadily as another young man caught his arm.
"Is something the matter, Professor?" the student asked. Two other men were coming toward him. One wore the khaki garb of the local police; the other was in the black uniform of a Guardian. "Malik Haddad?" The Guardian spoke gruffly, omitting Malik's title. Malik nodded; the student released his arm and stepped back. "You're to come with us. We have orders to detain you."
"You must be mistaken," Malik said. "I have a seminar to conduct." His Link was still blocked; he was suddenly afraid. "I think you should know--"
"Come with us," the Guardian said. The students were watching him with blank expressions as he was led away.
Copyright © 1988 by Pamela Sargent
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