Venus of Dreams (5 page)

"Did you hear about Teresa and Devlin?" Constance asked; her voice was slurred. "Gena told me he didn't leave on the Tuesday floater, the last one that came through before the storm. She says that Teresa and Devlin are in love—he won't even look at anyone else."

"Those first days with a new man are the best," Angharad said.

Iris rose. The women would gossip now until the whiskey made them too groggy to talk. She tiptoed across the room, feeling her way so that she would not have to turn on her light, and sat down in front of the screen.

This screen, no larger than her window, was much smaller than the one in the common room, which covered a wall. Her band, a flexible golden circlet, lay on the table in front of her small screen. The screen could show her words, numbers, and three-dimensional images, but the band, by linking her mind directly to Earth's artificial intellligences, could feed her sensations. She could travel in a mind-tour, experience an adventure, take on any of a number of roles in a story. She could even experience, in a small way, what it might be like to be a Linker, one of those whose implants permanently linked them to the cyberminds. Such people could call up any fact they needed at any time; the cyberminds were always at their command. But their training was rigorous; they had to know what to ask, how to direct their minds so that they weren't overwhelmed by an ocean of data, how to sort, how to know what was relevant and how an isolated fact might fit a pattern. Iris had begun to wonder if Linkers controlled the cyberminds or if those intelligences viewed the Linkers as extensions of themselves.

Iris put on her band. The dark world of Venus, shaded by its Parasol, was suddenly below her. She struggled with vertigo as her perspective shifted and the planet seemed to float overhead. Already, the Project's labors had changed that world. Venus's surface temperature had begun to drop, though it was still too hot for life.

As Iris fell toward the clouds, several tanks dropped past her and flared up into bright light as they opened to release their cargo into the atmosphere. These tanks, she knew, contained hydrogen siphoned off from Saturn; they had been hurled from that distant, ringed world years earlier. Here, they would combine with the free oxygen the changes in Venus had produced, and form water, while traces of ammonia in the Saturnian elements would also produce needed nitrogen. Another tank flared as it opened to release its solid, compressed hydrogen.

People had ventured far, out to the gas giants beyond the inner solar system, to get what they needed for the Project. Some of them had died out there, too, far away from Earth and the world they were transforming. It came to Iris that there was wealth in the solar system, more resources than Earth could possibly use; yet Earth reached for little while clinging to the few it still possessed. The Project was showing them what could be created from that wealth.

Iris continued to fall, dropping through the seeded cloud layer. Life was already present in these clouds, for an altered, hardy strain of algae was feeding on the sulfuric acid and expelling it in the form of iron and copper sulfides. A veil of soft rain surrounded her as she left the clouds and entered the mist; below, a sterile ocean had begun to form, an ocean that would have boiled away in the fierce heat if not for the intense atmospheric pressure.

She bobbed on the shallow sea, letting the waves carry her toward the black land. A small beam lighted her way; she was a probe, surveying one of humanity's future homes. Venus would cool, more oceans would form; the land, which had been locked into place by the heat for uncounted millennia, would begin to shift on its tectonic plates. Venus would writhe as the forces in its mantle and crust were released; new continents would form.

Iris's light suddenly went out; she was surrounded by a blackness darker than night. This was how Venus would look to her unaided eye, hidden as it now was from the sun. The blackness was that of a grave.

She took off her band. Someday, people would walk unprotected under those clouds, and the sun would reach Venus again. Everything would be new to them; they would be at the beginnings of their history. They would not hear stories from their mothers which made it seem that all greatness and accomplishment were past. They wouldn't live in mind-tours and adventure games; their lives would be their adventure. She, or her children, might even be among them.

Iris stiffened. It was the first time that thought had come to her—the possibility that she might leave Lincoln forever.

Three

The snow was beginning to melt, and the roads of Lincoln were clogged with mud and melting ice. The mud sucked at Iris's boots as she walked south. Carts of cargo were already rolling past her, moving north toward the town square.

A crowd had gathered by the time she reached the clearing outside the town. The first floater of the spring had arrived, and many were there to see it. The large airships came only infrequently during the winter months; now, they would arrive every Tuesday until winter came again.

The floater's cabin had been locked into the bowl of the cradle that made up the only port Lincoln had. The speeding trains that linked great cities did not come here, and there was no place for a shuttle to land. The ribbons of roadways on which streams of vehicles had once crossed the continent were no more than rubble beyond the fields. Only floaters carried the outside world's gifts to them.

Iris watched as a few passengers came down the ramp. Others stared out at her from the windows of the floater's cabin, which could carry as many as three hundred passengers. Chutes jutted out from the rear of the cabin, where crates and boxes rolled down on small, wheeled wagons, then on toward the town. The shopkeepers had gathered to claim their wares; a few people were following the carts back to the town square. Those shops, which surrounded the square, would not officially open until the next day, but farmers and children always came to see this early spring shipment, hoping to guess what might be in the crates.

No one had to make use of a shopkeeper's services. Orders for almost anything could be placed directly from one's home, and a floater would deliver them. But using a shopkeeper was simpler; the shopkeeper would meet the shipment, convey packages from the square to the customer's home, place new orders for goods at specified times, and issue advice on the relative merits of different products. Iris's mother, like almost everyone else in Lincoln, thought it was worth the extra credit for the service. But the shopkeepers also sold items in their stores that no one had ordered; much of their money was made anticipating what someone might want to buy immediately on impulse.

Iris looked up at the long, silvery, sausage-shaped dirigible attached to the cabin, then lowered her eyes to the ramp. Two men carrying satchels were making their way down to the muddy ground. Iris searched the crowd for Laiza and finally saw her friend, who was standing with her mother, Maria, and Peter, the head of Maria's commune. Iris waved; Laiza and the bearded Peter began to walk toward her. Peter was the only male farmer among the people of Lincoln; instead of wandering, he had stayed to take over his mother's farm. Iris liked the quiet, gentle man, hardly thinking of him as a man at all.

"You, there!" Iris started; one of the two men with satchels was speaking to her. "Yeah, you." His face was broad, his hair dark blond. "You look familiar."

She walked up to the man, sure now that she had seen him before, but unable to remember when. "I'm Iris Angharads," she said tentatively.

The young man grinned, barked a laugh, and suddenly lifted her up by the arms, swinging her through the air. He was hurting her; she felt as though her arms were being torn from her shoulders. She winced as he set her down. "Don't you remember me, girl?" He ruffled her hair; his sturdy face seemed to swoop toward her from a great distance as he bent over her. "I'm Tad Ruths, your father."

Iris rubbed her shoulder, not knowing what to say, dimly recalling a visit two or three springs ago. Tad slapped her on the back, then pushed her toward the other man, nearly knocking her over in the process. "Donny, meet my daughter Iris."

"Hello," she said, trying to smile.

"Why, hello." Donny's hand darted toward her. She was about to duck, then saw that he only wanted to shake hands. She reached out and touched his palm, reassured by his kindly brown eyes.

Tad clutched her shoulder. "You're growing up. I bet you'll be as pretty as your ma someday. Don't have much time—I'm only here for a week. Let's go to the house, kid."

A week, she thought, wondering how she could bear it. Details of Tad's last visit were coming back to her now. He had teased her in a rough, coarse way while sending her off to fetch him whiskey or sweets, and she had soon been avoiding him. "I can't," she said. "I promised my friend—" Iris caught Laiza's eye. "I mean, we were going to—"

"Sure, sure." His grayish-green eyes softened a little as he patted her more gently on her head. "It's all right—I think I can find my way." He picked up his satchel. "See you later, kid." He and Donny strode off through the crowd.

"You be home by suppertime," Peter shouted as Laiza and Iris scampered closer to the floater. Iris stared up at the helium-filled dirigible as she entered its shadow; Laiza craned her neck as she peered around at the remaining shopkeepers.

"There she is," the black-haired Laiza murmured. "Hey, Winnie!"

A stout, gray-haired woman smiled at the girls as they approached her. Two boys and another girl were already tugging at the woman's long coat. "Oh, Winnie," Laiza said, "I have to have some chocolate. I just have to, oh, please."

Winnie's smile widened. "Now, you children know I don't open until tomorrow."

"If I don't have some today," Laiza responded, "I'll just die. Oh, please."

Winnie stooped down, cupping a hand around her mouth. All of the children drew closer. "Tell you what," the shopkeeper whispered. "All of you can come to the shop in a couple of hours, all right? Just knock on the door. There'll be some nice treats in the shipment."

"Oh, thank you," Laiza said dramatically. Iris led her friend away as Winnie followed a cart toward the town. Laiza suddenly clutched at her arm. "Was that man really your father?"

Iris nodded. "I hate it when he calls me kid."

"Peter was giving him the once-over." Laiza giggled. Peter took only men as lovers and that had caused a bit of discord among the women of his household whenever an attractive visitor was more drawn to Peter than to them. "Anyway, he doesn't seem so bad."

Laiza, Iris reflected, could afford to say that; her own father visited her at least twice a year and always took a kindly interest in his daughter. What would Tad think when he found out about her studies? Angharad was bound to mention them and he would probably find her lessons a fruitful subject for more teasing.

The crowd had thinned out. "Look," Iris said, pointing toward the ramp. A small, dark man had left the floater; he carried no satchel and wore white pants and a bright red silken jacket that reached to his knees. He looked around at the remaining townsfolk placidly; everyone had fallen silent at his appearance. He walked toward the town, passing the two girls, who gaped at him. A small white jewel gleamed in his forehead, the only outward sign of the implanted Link he bore.

"A Linker," Laiza gasped.

"What's he doing here?" Iris asked. If a Linker was expected here on a visit, everyone in town would have known about it. She had never seen a Linker before, though Angharad had told her one had come to Lincoln years ago to address the town council.

"A Linker," Laiza said again. The two girls began to trail the man, following him out of the clearing and along the road leading to the town square. A few women stood in the doorways of their houses, shaking their heads in wonderment as the Linker passed.

In the square, the shopkeepers waited as carts parked in front of each shop unloaded the shipments with metal arms. Eric, as usual, was getting in the way, sitting down on one of the crates until he was shooed away. The assembled townspeople were already huddling together as they watched the Linker stroll around the square.

"Let's find out why he's here," Iris said to Laiza.

"How?"

"Let's ask him."

"Mother of God!" Laiza's brown eyes widened. "You're going to talk to him?"

"Come on." Iris ran toward the man; Laiza hesitated and then followed.

The man was standing in front of the Marian Catholic Church, a large steepled wooden building on the west side of the square. His shoes and white pants were unmarked by mud; Iris had seen the soil slither off his clothing as he walked: She took a breath as she stopped in front of the Linker; Laiza nearly collided with her.

"Hello," Iris said.

The man gazed at her solemnly; he was nearly as short as Angharad, who was smaller than most women. "How do you do," he replied.

Laiza snorted and covered her mouth. "Are you visiting someone?" Iris asked.

"I am afraid not. I am only taking a little stroll until the floater's ready to leave. This is my first trip to the Plains, and I thought I would see the sights."

"My name's Iris Angharads. This is my friend, Laiza Marias."

Laiza giggled. Iris wished her friend could control herself; the man would think they were silly. "I'm happy to meet you both," he said. "I am called Jawaharlal." He said his name slowly. Laiza began to giggle even more.

"This is our church," Iris said. "I mean, it's where we go." Her mother and grandmother were not very religious, but attended mass out of habit. "The mosque's over there." She pointed down the street at a small, domed structure, then waved at a building on the opposite side of the square. "And that's where the Spiritists go, to that white building next to the town hall, but only when the weather's bad—when it's nice, they have their meetings outside."

Jawaharlal nodded absently; he was gazing through her. It was foolish to tell him all of that; his Link could provide such information.

"Are you from one of the Indian Nomarchies?" Iris continued. The man's black eyes focused on her; he seemed surprised by the question. "It's your clothes." She felt her cheeks grow warm. "I saw people wearing them on a mind-tour of India. I thought that might be your home."