Vin of Venus (11 page)

"I think so."

"Good. For several centuries this rotation has been slowing down. Likely, it will become much slower still. This lack of motion has been rendering our planet vulnerable to certain emanations from the sun. Vital substances called 'volatiles,' among which water is one, float up into the atmosphere and are torn away by solar radiation."

"This process alone would destroy all Venusian life. But there is another threat, even more imminent. The volcanoes that created both the northern and southern continents will erupt again soon, spewing heavy gasses into our already thick atmosphere. Heat radiating from the sun will pass down through these gasses, but not be able to escape. Temperature and pressure will soar."

I did not understand his predictions completely, but the general message was clear. "You're saying we're doomed."

"Our planet is doomed, yes." Siroth pointed to the third orb out, colored blue and swirling white. "This crude world, however, shows promise. It has water, in abundance. Breathable gasses. And interestingly, the same celestial wanderers that struck our world and seeded it with life have struck there as well. Ice covers most of the surface now, but my calculations show it will be quite comfortable in a couple millennia."

"What do you call this world?"

Siroth paused for effect. "'Dirt.'"

I frowned. "Even if it were possible to somehow reach this Dirt ... a couple millennia? Do we have that long to wait, here on Venus?"

"No."

"Then we
are
doomed."

"Not quite. In the chambers below I have preserved certain examples of ancient technology. One of them is a tunnel that penetrates both space and time. I have yet to thoroughly test the mechanism, but in theory it should allow travel to Dirt several thousand years into the future."

"How many people can this tunnel accommodate?"

"One person at a time."

My thoughts flashed to Rhadma and our unborn child.

"You're wondering if I intend to save anyone from Venus," Siroth said. "Besides myself, of course. The answer is: perhaps. I suspect you would have some suggestions, along those lines."

I nodded.

"Ah, but would you be willing to perform a task for me in return? You seem able-bodied and competent. Your successful journey here proves that."

"What do you ask?"

Siroth reached up and slid the bronze helm from his head. I had a moment of shock, for in many ways the visage staring at me was like my own. Hairless. Similar features, though on a larger scale. His broad mouth stretched into a smile.

"I want you to test out my tunnel."

PART III

Vin set the paperback with the cracked and yellowed spine down.

His heart pounded. The walls of Dr. Muroc's small but comfortable living room seemed to recede into the distance.

Revelation.

Hours before, he'd stretched out with a blanket and a cup of tea. Marta had just brought all his worldly possessions over from his Kensington flat. They fit into a cardboard box: electric kettle, socks and underwear, the black sweat-suit Dr. Krol had given him, raincoat, brown envelope stuffed with his Warsaw reward money, and two slim paperbacks.
Scion of the Evening Star
and
Blades of the Evening Star
. Marta had bought them from a used bookstore in Croydon. On a whim, he'd cracked
Scion
and started reading.

Now, with his eyes blurred and a mild headache, he'd just finished
Blades
.

Every vision he'd had about Venus was described in the flaking pages of those two books. Even the parts in the story he hadn't remembered seemed familiar. And the hero was a hairless man named Vin. With a ruby bracelet that warned him of danger.

What did it mean?

The lantern carriage clock above the mantle read 8:20 p.m. Muroc was out for the evening, but he'd asked Doyle, his groundskeeper, to stay late and keep a watch. The battle between Tony the Paki and Dr. Dorian had raged less than 24 hours before.

Vin slipped on a pair of crutches and hobbled over to the sliding glass door. Doyle sat on the other side, a silhouette reclining in a rattan chair. A low stone wall rose behind him, bordering the gardens where Muroc's two Bullmastiffs roamed. Beyond that, in the failing light, curved the gentle green of Hampstead Heath.

Vin slid the door back. Light from the house played over the long barrels of a shotgun, resting across Doyle's lap.

"Watcha want, then?" Doyle said.

"Does Dr. Muroc have internet access?"

"'Course he does." Though difficult to tell in the darkness, Vin thought he saw the man's eyes glimmer. "You're not wanting to watch video nasties, are you? I've got today's
Sun
right here, you want to look at some tits."

"That's not what I was thinking."

"The computer's in the study, then. If there's a password or some such, you're out of luck."

"Thanks." Vin made his way to the dark oak paneled study. Like the doctor's waiting room, it was stuffed with antiques. Swords and scalpels predominated, each neatly labeled as to its origins. A writing desk stood next to a rack of 18th century Flemish rapiers. He found a laptop inside, with the internet connection still open.

Fingers shaking, he typed "Scion of the Evening Star," "Vincent Smith," and "Tordaw Books" into a search engine.

Several hits came up. He clicked on the first, a site dedicated to obscure sci-fi novels from the '60s and '70s. After scrolling down, he read the entry.

'Vincent Smith' was the pseudonym of an unknown British (some speculated Welsh) author, who wrote two novels of the Planetary Romance, or Sword-and-Planet genre:
Scion of the Evening Star
and
Blades of the Evening Star
(Tordaw books, copyright 1974 and 1976, respectively). Both novels describe the ongoing adventures of Vin, a sort of bald Conan, who wanders Venus's steamy jungles. Though generally considered an uninspired Edgar Rice Burroughs pastiche, the novels generated some interest with fans. In 1977, there was talk of a comic book adaptation, and a third novel,
Exodus from the Evening Star
. Speaking before a panel at the World Fantasy Convention that year, Mr. Smith joked he hadn't finished the latest installment "because it hasn't happened to me yet."

The troubled Tordaw publishing house filed for bankruptcy in 1979, and shortly thereafter Vincent Smith fell back into obscurity. Some hardcore fans claimed to have tracked him down to a writing studio in Oxford, but nothing else has been heard from or about the author since.

Beneath the entry was a black and white photo depicting a bald man wearing a corduroy blazer, speaking before a small gathering. From the hairstyles and clothing, the picture had been taken during the '70s.

The bald man, though thicker around the shoulders, looked exactly like Vin.

"I don't see how any of this disproves Marta's original theory," Muroc said, before pausing to take a sip of lager. "In fact, it seems to confirm it."

The doctor had returned a little after nine with an armful of takeaways. Curry, Nan, and Tandoori chicken. He and Vin sat in the dining room, shoveling food straight from the Styrofoam containers. Doyle had already been sent home for the night.

"She thought I read the books before my amnesia," Vin said, "absorbed them, so what I took to be flashbacks were actually memories of certain scenes."

"Exactly. And if you wrote those scenes, instead of just reading them, they'd be all the more vivid."

Vin set his drumstick down. "How about this: I
lived
those scenes, then wrote them later, from memory."

"That's making a huge leap. The law of parsimony says—"

Vin tapped the ruby bracelet. "Occam's Razor can't explain this."

"No." Muroc frowned. "I suppose it can't."

"Or that picture I showed you, taken in the '70s."

"What about the picture?"

"Doctor, that was over thirty years ago. How old do I look to you now?"

"Ah, about 35."

"Which means I should've been a baby, when that photo was taken."

"Well, some people just don't look their age ... the lack of hair makes it harder to tell ..."

Vin stared at him.

"Alright," Muroc said, "what do you want me to conclude? You're some kind of immortal, from Venus? Sent through space and time to scout the way for a dying planet?"

"I like that better than assuming I'm crazy-eight bonkers."

"Whoever you were, pre-amnesia, you must've had an appreciation for the fantastic." Muroc patted at the fronds of white hair jutting from either side of his dome. "It's too bad Dr. Dorian turned out to be a crook. From what you've told me, I think he has some of the answers."

"
Has?
He's still alive? Last time I saw him, he'd been shot, stabbed, and nearly missing a hand."

"His assault was all over the telly. You were so tired when Marta brought you here, I let you sleep through it. Dorian's recovering in hospital. The police aren't saying much about what happened, but he's a suspect. So is Charlotte. They're the only two survivors—besides you, of course. The
Mirror
has been implying the whole thing was a shadowy art-deal gone wrong."

"Nothing about me?"

"Not a peep so far. I suppose being a cipher has its advantages."

Vin studied his hand. "My fingerprints are on the gun I dropped there." He squinted. There were no lines, whorls, or ridges anywhere on his fingers or thumb. Just smooth skin. "Scratch that. I don't have fingerprints, it seems."

"Let me see." Muroc examined him for a moment, holding his hand up to the track lighting over the table. "You could've filed them off, I suppose. Or used acid. Professional criminals sometimes do that."

Vin smiled. "So I'm an immortal Venusian criminal, now?"

"I'm not one to judge. But a DNA swab might settle some of these questions. Would you be game for that?"

"Of course."

"There's also the matter of your missing prostheses. Trying to track down the old ones would draw too much attention."

"I've got money," Vin said, remembering the brown envelope. "Plenty. I know that robotic arm must've cost a small fortune—"

Muroc held up his hand. "None of this would've occurred if I hadn't sent you to Dorian. I feel responsible. And money isn't an issue for me. As it happens, I have a leg prototype I've been meaning to test. We can have you practice with it, while you lay low here."

"I don't like the thought of either you or Marta getting into trouble, if it develops I'm a fugitive."

"We'll handle that as it comes. You wouldn't be safe in Kensington by yourself, and frankly, your situation is too intellectually stimulating for me to pass up."

"So I'm staying."

Muroc folded his arms across his chest. "Doctor's orders."

Vin slept on the couch. Muroc was gone in the morning when he awoke, but Doyle showed up later with an early lunch of kebabs and cask-conditioned ale. Vin spent the afternoon on the back porch, gently buzzed, watching kites raise their cellophane tails over the heath's clear skies.

Muroc returned home after five, hustling a leg-shaped bundle into the house. His face flushed with pride and excitement when he showed Vin the prosthesis.

"I saved your fittings from before," he explained. "Let's hurry up and get it on you."

Muroc attached the socket to Vin's stump. The leg fit flush with a hiss of vacuum-seal. "There's a lot more hardware on this one," Vin said, examining the limb.

"It's a modification of a C-Leg. The knee joint can flex faster for something approximating running. Well, more like a fast hobble, really, but that's a huge advancement for hip disarticulation. Mind, you've got to hit this switch here to change to running-mode. Think of it like shifting on a car. Also, this thing practically
eats
lithium batteries. The maintenance is fairly extensive as well ..."

Muroc went on for another five minutes, boasting and fretting over the leg. Vin felt like he had the man's baby strapped to his hip. "Seriously, how much does this thing cost?"

"Well, the titanium alone ..." Muroc fluttered his hands.

"And you're giving it away? What if the cops nab me?"

"If they do, I'll get it back, I assure you. For the time being, consider the leg a 'loaner'. Now let's try standing."

Muroc helped him up from the couch. Vin, with a previous month's worth of practice using artificial limbs, was able to balance easily enough.

"How's it feel?" Muroc asked.

"Very steady."

"A microprocessor is sensing your weight, and adjusting the hydraulics in the foreleg accordingly. After a couple more weeks, you might not need a cane."

Vin recalled how awkward walking with the first leg had been. On impulse, he took a step forward. For a split-second the room seemed to teeter, and he imagined flailing into the coffee table. But the C-Leg helped him find his balance.

"There you go," Muroc said, beaming. "I've got another myoelectric arm in the car's boot. Tomorrow's Sunday, and we'll spend it practicing with your new limbs."

Outside her villa, the waters have turned a dun color, reflecting the thickening sky. Rhadma raises herself from the couch. Sweat beads on her pale skin; every move is an exertion now, with the extra weight she's carrying. The Wise Women say she is fast approaching her birthing-time. But the sweltering heat would slow anyone, pregnant or not. And the sea continues to drop.

"Soon enough, I'll be queen of the Desert Clans," she mutters to herself, watching the waves slosh outside her window. For some reason the winds have grown slower, but stronger, pushing the water into huge, sluggish rolls.

A polite cough sounds outside her bedchamber.

"Enter," she says, eyes still on the dismal seascape.

Advisor Quorl shuffles into the room, his wrinkled, scrawny form made ridiculous by an elaborate headdress of feathers. He prostrates himself for a full minute before rising, as if the news he bears weighs heavy on his old bones.

"The nets are full of dead fish, my Queen. Covered with film."