Venus of Dreams (8 page)

The women began to murmur to one another as soon as Celia was outside. Iris went to the window and watched as the Linker's hovercar moved down the road on its cushion of air, raising small dust clouds as it floated west. Constance and Sheryl had crossed the road, where they were now telling the neighbors the news. Iris clasped her hands together. A Linker had traveled here to praise her, and thought enough of her to have her lessons paid for by the Nomarchies. She shivered, almost afraid to show her joy.

Angharad moved closer to her. "She didn't make a special trip just for you," she said to Iris. "She just happened to be passing by—she said so. I suppose it amuses her to throw a little something your way just to keep you from being troublesome or unhappy. Well, I'm pleased for you, but don't let it go to your head."

Iris averted her eyes from her mother. She continued to gaze out the window; the women across the road were pointing at her and shaking their heads.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up at Wenda's wrinkled face. "You will learn much," Wenda said in the low but forceful tone she usually reserved for pronouncements and predictions. "But your learning will only bring you into conflict with yourself."

Iris pulled away, afraid that the old woman had seen too deeply into her soul.

Four

An armada of floaters arrived in Lincoln in the fall. These airships were freighters; their elongated shadows floated over rooftops and darkened the streets as they moved toward the town silos at the edge of the fields. The silos were emptied; the winnowed and harvested wheat was carried to the granaries in Winnipeg, Omaha, and Kansas City. There had not been as much of a surplus that year, but the weather in other parts of the world had been favorable; the Nomarchies would be able to feed all of Earth's citizens.

The people of the town had prepared a celebration. Tables had been carried to the town hall; special dishes and delicacies had been cooked, and Lincoln would feast until dawn.

Iris was helping Eric load their household's contributions to the festival into a cart. Constance had prepared a stew; Sheryl and Wenda had baked a ham. They did not usually eat so much meat, but this was their most important feast, and Iris knew that even the Muslim citizens would surreptitiously sample Sheryl's renowned ham. There were loaves of Angharad's bread and bowls of LaDonna's bean casserole and a salad Elisabeth had prepared. The women had been cooking for days.

"You're going to be late," Iris said to Eric as Tyree climbed into the cart. Lincoln's few adult male residents, most of the older boys, and any men who were visiting would already be at the town hall setting the tables and keeping the food warm until the women returned from the fields.

Eric shrugged. "Can't eat until later anyway." Tyree stretched one chubby arm toward a covered dish; Eric pulled the younger boy's hand away. "Aren't you coming?"

"I'll come over soon." She searched her mind for an excuse. "I promised Angharad I'd make sure the common room was clean for when people come over later, and I forgot to do it."

Eric pressed the panel underneath the cart's visor; the vehicle began to roll toward the square. Iris walked back into the house. Her friends would be at the town hall, playing games and anticipating the feast; a few men would sneak them some tidbits. More men would be there than usual, some of them old friends or lovers, others strangers who had been near enough to Lincoln to travel there for the festival.

Iris went into the common room and surveyed the polished tabletops. The room needed no more cleaning, as she had known. She now had the house to herself, and relished the silence; even little Mira was at the town hall, left there with the other small children in a crib-filled room.

The women of the household, and all of the women of Lincoln, had gone to the fields for one of their most important ceremonies, as they did every year. The autumn night was clear, a good sign; a full moon would shine down on the assemblage. All of the young girls who had passed menarche during the past year would be honored in the ceremony, and Elisabeth's daughter Lilia was among them. Lilia had begun to bleed shortly after last year's ceremony, and a small party had been held for her then, but she had needed to wait until now before being officially welcomed into the ranks of Lincoln's women.

Iris sprawled on the sofa, letting her feet hang over the side. One day, she would be taken to the field and would return to town as a woman. She was already beginning to dread it, and that had to mean that there was something wrong with her; other girls looked forward to the rite. She would lose her child's allotment and have to earn her credit with labor; the Nomarchies were not likely to continue the payments for her lessons then, for she would be more valuable as a working farmer. Her lessons would become only a pastime. She knew that children at schools postponed puberty with various biological techniques so that they would not be distracted from their studies; they prolonged their childhoods until it was time to work or attend a university for more training.

She could go to Letty Charlottes, the town physician. Iris sat up, shocked that she would even consider such an action. Letty would have to keep Iris's request confidential, but others were bound to find out Iris had gone to the doctor for more than the usual complaints if she could not make up a convincing story; illness was rarely kept a secret. Anyway, Iris was sure that Letty would refuse her. The physician had only basic medical training, and no Link; she always called in specialists for difficult cases, or sent such patients to the hospital in Omaha. Letty was not even likely to know the proper techniques for prolonging childhood. Plainswomen took pride in being women; menarche, the signal of womanhood, had become a symbol in their minds representing the fertility of their fields. If Angharad even guessed that her daughter had considered postponing maturity, Iris would suffer much more than the loss of her lessons. Wenda would probably say that Iris would put a curse on the farm if she succeeded in prolonging her childhood.

Iris leaned back. It might have been better if Celia had advised her to give up the studies. The pain of the loss would have faded by now; she would have been at the town hall with her friends, stealing bites of food and looking forward to her own celebration, instead of sitting in an empty house with her dark and irresponsible thoughts. She could still give up the lessons. Celia would not care, the Nomarchies would save that small expenditure, and Angharad would be relieved to see her daughter accept her responsibilities.

I can't, Iris thought. I can't give it up.

She had a little time; the women would probably not get to the town hall for another hour. She could review some of her work and put the time to use. As she stood up, a chime suddenly began to sound; someone was calling.

Iris hurried toward the screen console in the corner and pressed a button, wondering who could be calling now; everyone who knew them would be aware of the festival and would have called the town hall instead. She pressed another button, preparing to record the call for the household.

A woman appeared on the wall screen. Iris approached the image hesitantly; the caller's light brown face was contorted with grief.

"I am Miriam Acella," the lifelike image said, sounding as though the words were strangling her. She was sitting on a small bed that jutted out from a white wall.

"I'm Iris Angharads," the girl replied.

"Of course. Isn't anyone else there?"

Iris shook her head. "They're at our festival." She had noticed that there was a slight delay between her words and the woman's response; that meant Miriam had to be calling from space.

"I was going to send just a message, but I couldn't do that—it didn't seem enough. You'd better sit down, Iris."

Iris took a few steps backward and settled in one of the chairs, terrified of what she was going to hear.

"I don't know how to tell you this." Tears were trickling from Miriam's brown eyes. "Your father's dead. I don't know if anyone's sent you a notice yet—he only died twelve hours ago."

Iris was numb. She covered her mouth, unable to speak. As the full meaning of the words struck her, she nearly doubled over, feeling as though she had been hit in the chest.

"Oh, Iris, I'm so sorry. I know you never knew him well, but I saw your three letters to him here, and I know he meant something to you. He'd ask me to read the letters to him once in a while. He was going to send you a long one soon—he'd asked me to—to—" Miriam shook her head. "He was so proud of you. He used to brag about you to the crew here, how you could read, all the things you were learning. He used to say it showed he must be clever, to have a child like that."

"How?" Iris managed to ask.

Miriam had started to weep during the delay; she lifted her head and wiped at her eyes with a small handkerchief. "Micrometeorites. You probably know about them. He was outside, working on one of the solar panels. One went right through his helmet, like a bullet. He never knew." Miriam coughed, then cleared her throat; her eyes were narrow with rage. "Damn the Nomarchies. They kept saying they'd get our systems repaired. If they had, we would have been warned. Tad should never have been outside."

Iris stared at the screen mutely.

". . . fucking pile of junk," Miriam was saying. "Calculate the cost and figure the odds. It'd cost more to repair the system right away than to risk the small chance of losing a worker or two. That's how Linkers think. They might as well be cyberminds themselves. It's enough to make you want to escape to the Habs. I don't care what they say about them—at least Habbers look after their people." Miriam coughed again; her eyes seemed glazed. "Well, I guess they'd have to, wouldn't they? Habbers all have Links, so they're all equal. Habbers wouldn't let anyone get away with this shit."

Iris swallowed hard. "What—" She paused, not knowing how to ask the question.

"I don't think Tad wanted his body sent back to Earth, and he probably couldn't have afforded it anyway." Miriam had apparently guessed what Iris wanted to ask. "His friends and I said a few words for him before he—before he was put into the recycler. Of course, he'll get his plaque on our memorial wall."

The woman was crying again. Iris sat very still. A lump in her throat was making it hard to swallow, but her eyes were dry. It was all a mistake; Miriam would look up and tell her it was all a mistake. She would wake up and know that her father was still alive.

"Iris, I loved him very much. We had just started sharing a room. I'm going to miss him dreadfully."

"Mother would be glad to know you were with him," Iris forced herself to say. "She'll be happy to know he had a woman there, to say some words for him."

Miriam wiped her nose, then shook back her long black hair. Her tangled curls had hidden the small symbol on her collar; Iris gazed at it now with some surprise. The woman wore a tiny gold protractor, the sign of an engineer; she must have loved Tad deeply to ally herself with a simple laborer. Tad must have been more than even Iris had suspected. She would never know the part of her father that had attracted this woman; she could not bear the thought.

"I should speak to your mother too," Miriam said.

"It's all right," Iris replied. "She'll see your call. It must be hard for you—you don't have to make another one. You could send her a letter, if that would be easier. You don't have to program a voice—I can read it to her."

"That might be best," Miriam answered. "Maybe I'll call again another time, when I—Well, at least I got to talk to you. I won't ever forget Tad." Miriam paused. "I'll send you a letter, too, about his life here. You might like to know about that." She lifted a hand to her lips. "Now I'll have to call his mother, let her know—" Her shoulders shook.

"Thank you for calling," Iris said.

Miriam and her room disappeared. Iris gazed at the empty screen. Angharad would grieve for a bit, and she supposed Constance, who had lured Tad to her room a couple of times, would also feel the loss. But to them, Tad was still just one of a number of men who had dallied with them for a while, an occasional visitor who had left a daughter for the commune. Miriam had clearly loved him.

Iris's shoulders slumped as she began to cry.

Iris strode toward the square, fighting to hold back her tears. The feast might already have begun; for Lilia, it would be one of the most important days of her life. Iris couldn't walk into the hall carrying this news; her grief would cast a shadow on the feast, and some were sure to call her message an evil omen. She could not spoil the celebration for others.

Angharad would tell her that mourning so much for a man she hardly knew was inappropriate, that most fathers vanished from their daughters' lives sooner or later. She would probably say that Tad had chosen to risk his life by leaving the safety of the Plains, and make a lesson out of his fate for her daughter. Angharad would say a prayer for Tad, perhaps even arrange for a mass, and then go on with her own life. She had never known the Tad who had smiled as Iris displayed symbols on her screen and pointed them out to him.

Iris would have to go into the town hall and pretend to be as happy as the others, keeping her bitter news to herself until the feast was over. It was going to be the hardest thing she had ever done.

The square was bright with light; she could hear the sounds of merriment through the open doors of the columned town hall. She felt as though she were going to start crying again. Halting near the shadows around the church, she concealed herself as the silhouettes of two women appeared in the doorway of the hall. They might be wondering where she was; Angharad might assume that she was reading, and had forgotten the time.

She could not face anyone yet. She waited until the women had gone back inside the town hall, then hurried up the steps and opened the church doors.

The church was dark, its only illumination the moonlight that shone through the plain glass windows. Iris crossed herself and then cupped one hand over her belly for a moment as she crept past the simple, straight-backed pews. When she reached the railing in front of the altar, she knelt and gazed at the crucifix and the images before her.