Exile (8 page)

The sky, she saw, was lightening in the east, but the stars still shone overhead, though less brightly as the distant Sun now rose, a small yellow orb, looking cold and inaccessible.

"Daylight on Titan," Tabrel whispered to herself, and now saw that lights were coming on in the distance, around the perimeter of the lake, which shone with silver brilliance; around the cluster of nearby buildings and at the horizon's skyline, where their massed luminescence washed out the stars overhead and made the edge of the world glow.

There came a soft knock on the door behind Tabrel, and the troubadour's voice sang her name.

Tabrel?

The door opened, and she beheld Jamal Clan,
who entered the room tentatively, as if afraid to intrude.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Of course," Tabrel said, aware suddenly that she was dressed in a diaphanous nightgown and that the soft lights brightening the window behind her might outline her body through it.

Jamal stared at her, then looked away, which proved to her that this was true.

"There is a . . . robe in the closet," he said with embarrassment.

"And where is the closet?" Tabrel asked, amused at his reaction.

"It's . . ."

He reached behind him, fumbling for a switch—and then the room was flooded with light and they were both blinking.

Still blinking, Jamal Clan fumbled along the wall and found the crack of a door. His hand found the switch and the door slid smoothly open.

"In here, I think," Jamal said, pushing clothing back and forth on a rack before producing a dressing gown nearly as diaphanous as what Tabrel already wore.

"Oh . . ." Jamal said in consternation, holding it out for her inspection and making her laugh.

He was not as dreamlike or perfect as her first impressions had led her to believe. He was rather short; and he was burly in the chest and his hands were small. But his smile was beguiling, and his
voice nearly as melodious as her stupored state had presented it to her.

"It's all right, I'm not cold," Tabrel said, turning back to the window."

"They turn on lights here during the day?" Tabrel asked.

"Oh, yes," Jamal said, daring to move closer to her. He still bore the dressing gown, and Tabrel turned to take it from him and put it on, to put him at ease.

"I should welcome you," Jamal said, standing by the window with her; outside, the world had come alive, with people leaving buildings to make their way from one end of the compound to the other. Out on the waved water a few sturdy-looking boats had set out, sails unfurled; in their midst a sleek powered craft shot over the waves, pushing water aside in a deep trough, becoming a tiny dot at the distant shore in a matter of moments, while in the sky the two Saturnian moons, now joined by a third, moved languidly among the lighter wash of stars.

"It all looks so ... peaceful," Tabrel said.

"For now," Jamal answered, a note of despondency entering his voice. "These are unsettled times, Tabrel. The people of Titan have many grave decisions to make. The Four Worlds are facing a serious crisis. With the changes on Mars—"

As if waking from a dream, Tabrel turned to regard him.

"How did I get here, Jamal? And what happened to Captain Weens?"

Jamal looked at her blankly.

"There was a navigator, and a pilot also, on the ship that was taking me here—what became of them?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Jamal answered.

"How did I get on Titan?"

"Wrath-Pei brought you to me; he said you had

been adrift in a derelict after an attack by pirates—"

"That's not true! There were others with me!" With a sincere look, Jamal shrugged and said,

"I'm afraid I don't know."

"Then I must talk with this Wrath-Pei. My father entrusted me to Captain Weens, and I have an obligation to see that he's all right."

Jamal frowned. "That is not something you would be wise to do."

"Then you must help me. And I wish to have news of Mars—and of my father. I claim these rights under diplomatic privilege."

Jamal studied her for a moment. Tabrel was not sure that he liked what he saw; she had the feeling that he was about to speak to her the way a parent speaks to a headstrong and foolish child.

"Tabrel," he said softly, in his beautiful voice, "you and I are betrothed. We are to be wed. Though I never laid eyes upon you until three days ago, I already feel close to you. Please listen to me when I tell you this: There is much about Titan that you do not know. We are an insular people, peaceful when left alone, fierce when stepped upon. Though originally of Mars, Wrath-Pei is.. . indicative of the Titan personality, only more so. He is larger than life, if you will. But one does not bother him. He comes and goes as he pleases; he does not bother us, we do not bother him. This is a tacit agreement—"

With barely contained fury, Tabrel said, "He is a pirate!"

Jamal took a deep breath. "Not a pirate, exactly. More of a free spirit. In fact, he has been very helpful with our pirate problem. In return we . . . leave him to his own devices."

Tabrel's anger had not flagged. "Do you pay him?"

Jamal Clan's manner suddenly resolved itself in Tabrel's eyes: He was acting like any diplomat in a tight situation. This Tabrel understood.

"Not in coin, so much . . ."

"What does he take, then?"

Flustered, Jamal threw up his hands and said, "Pretty much .. . anything he wants."

"So he rules Titan!"

Splitting hairs, Jamal said, "I . . . wouldn't say rules After all, that is my job. And my mother's. I would say rather that he . . ."

Again he shrugged.

"Leave me alone," Tabrel Kris commanded. Suddenly her diplomatic aura dissolved into frustration and disgust. "Get out of my sight! You are a coward, coming to me like this! I wouldn't marry you if you were the last slug on the underside of the last rock!"

"Tabrel. . ." Jamal Clan said soothingly, his melodious voice suddenly sounding slick, Unctuous. "You must understand the way things are done here—"

"I cannot believe .1 was betrothed to you! My parents must have been insane when I was born! The marriage will never take place!"

Jamal brought himself up to his full height and put a stern look on his face.

"Oh, we will definitely be married, Tabrel. Even if this union means little for Mars at the moment, it means a great deal for the future of Titan to have our two houses joined."

"Never! Our pact is hereby void!"

Jamal's face turned red. "It is very much in effect," he said coldly. "Only by decree of your father and my mother could the betrothal be broken."

"My father has already given his decree in this matter: He made the wedding my choice."

"My mother will never consent. The wedding will go forward."

As Tabrel searched desperately for something to throw at him, Jamal Clan turned and strode from the room, closing the door after him.

Too late, the dressing gown Tabrel had torn from her shoulders, wadded up, and thrown, hit the door.

When Tabrel Kris tried to open the door herself later on, the switch was inoperative, and she realized that she was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner.

T
argon Ramir, leader of the Engineering Corps, highest guild of the Terraformers, and therefore de facto ruler of the planet Venus, hated the mantle that had been thrust on his shoulders. He refused to wear any badge of office; insisted, as he had since his first day on the planet fifty-one years before, on wearing his plain drab uniform of dun overalls and waistshirt tucked in. It was out-of-date garb, even for a Terraformer, and Terraformers were a group not known for their sartorial sharpness. More than one younger Terraformer had made comment, but never in front of Ramir himself—not Out of fear, but out of respect.

Respect was something that Targon Ramir believed in earning, and he had earned it each day of his life. He had grown up literally on the streets of Calcutta on Earth, in the blackest days of the Rolfus Plague. The true tale he had heard was that his mother had lain writhing in death throes during his birth, the pain of the disease—which froze the central nervous system, sending out wild signals which made the body jerk and tremble, earning the disease the nickname "Puppet Death"—even greater than that of birth.

His had not been a happy childhood. Though the Puppet Death had run its course a year after his birthing, he knew no father, and no public house which took him in was able to keep him for very long. Those were tumultuous times in what had once been called India, for the Afrasian Empire was in its own birth pangs. Tribal and multinational wars were rife, and it was only when Targon was nearly thirteen that Sarat Shar was able to unite the various parts of what was left of Free Earth into a cohesive whole.

Though the political nature of Earth settled when Targon Ramir was a teenager, his own life never really settled. He was a thief at nine, a caught thief at ten, twelve, and fourteen. It was only through the intercession of a member of his last jury, an apprentice of the Guild of Terraformers, barely twenty-one himself, that Targon was saved from the exile to the Lost Lands that awaited any three-timer. But during the brief trial the apprentice with the antiquated name of Carter Frolich saw something in Targon Ramir's nature to make him beg clemency for the young man. Without even realizing what he was doing, he found himself promising to take Targon under his own wing and train him in his own profession.

"Do you realize what this means?" the judge, a stern woman with little patience and whose black tunic made her look spectral, had said.

"I do," Frolich had answered.

"This boy will be your responsibility from now on! Are you sure you want that?" With harshness, she added, "And you understand that if he fails, you will pay for his next crime?"

Hardly believing it himself, Carter Frolich had found himself saying, "I understand."

"Very well," the judge had said, having done her duty and quickly losing interest. With a shake of her head she had struck her gavel and called, "Next case!"

And Targon Ramir had suddenly found himself with an older brother.

At first Targon was suspicious as any child of the streets would be. But Carter Frolich would brook no foolishness, for his own burning ambition had no room for it.

Soon that burning hunger—an infectionas rapacious as Puppet Death but infinitely more grand—had been passed on to Targon Ramir, and there were two earthlings whose dream it was to terra-form Venus.

"It can be done
now!"
Frolich said. "Look at Titan! Every technique needed has been successfully tested on Titan!
Every single one!
Forty years ago Titan was a smoggy mess, the air a choking noxious orange mix of sulfides and organic garbage. The surface was no better, a nitric swamp with burning patches of land unfit for habitation.

"But look at it now! It's habitable! The colonists can see the stars at night, can walk outside their habitats with little more than an oxygen clip on their noses!" Carter enthusiastically waved a data generator under Targon's nose, made him watch a series of before-and-after photos of the moon,

"In another twenty years they won't even need oxygen and they'll be swimming and fishing in the oceans!

"And we could start now on Venus! All we have to do is make everything bigger! Drop the first units down on parachutes in titanium tube clusters—one every three hundred square kilometers would do it. Then we work on the atmosphere from above at the same time, start poking holes to let the clusters do their job! I'm telling you . . ."

Targon Ramir had spent most of his time in those early days just calming Carter down. And there had been a lot of calming down to do, since Frolich, even at that early age, had shown no patience for fools and no tolerance for bureaucracy—though he had grown better at it over the years, learning, like any dog needing a bone, that it was better to lick the master's hand than bite it.

And now

Targon Ramir sighed, letting all the years slip away from him until he was left in this time. In this office, on this planet that Carter Frolich, with Targon's help, had begun to turn into the dream they had both shared all those young years ago.

Now they were two old men, and one of them was responsible for possibly destroying all the work that they had devoted their lives to.

Targon sighed again and finally said out loud, knowing that his secretary, Ms. Garn, would hear what she had been waiting to hear in the next room, "Ad! right, Fion, I'll take that call now."

The floor-to-ceiling windows in front of Targon melted away, showing the floor-to-ceiling worn face of Carter Frolich.

"Targon," Carter said. He looked ill, even worse than the last time Targon had spoken with him.

"Carter," Targon said, nodding his head in greeting and respect.

"I'm told that plasma generators are now in place at each facility," Carter said simply.