“Almost makes it all worthwhile,” he says. The construction has been a struggle, consuming most of his energies for the fifteen years he has lived on Venus. The same for D’Yquem, who has been here even longer. “One year of tests …”
“And then,” D’Yquem said, “everyone with the money can walk in a door on Earth and step out into this glorious Venerian landscape.” He examines the bottom of his empty glass. “I do wonder, Jor, if we aren’t working against our best interests here.”
“When haven’t we?”
D’Yquem laughs. He is capable of amusement at Jor’s attempts at cynicism. “This is a new low, even for the TA.” He belches. “We prosper here—”
“—If you call this prospering.”
“—Because it takes real effort to get to Venus.” D’Yquem’s point cannot be argued. Interplanetary spaceships are crowded and unpleasant, the tickets expensive, the voyage long. “No one wants to follow us with a warrant, then haul us back.”
Jor realizes that D’Yquem, in his fashion, has raised a legitimate point: with no exceptions worth noting, not even among the political leaders of the TA, no Terrestrian is free of an Exile Quotient … a public rating of his or her sins against the morals and behavioral standards of Earth, the headings being:
1 General maladjustment
2 Poor family relations
3 Substance abuse
4 Financial incompetence
5 Political unreliability
6 Sexual misconduct
7 Religious heresy
Each Terrestrian wears the EQ as a badge of honor—the denizens of 13-Plus glory in it; you can’t enter unless your score is thirteen or higher.
D’Yquem reaches across to Jor’s brue, takes it, drains it, a not-remotely-subtle signal to get the next round. “And by the way,” D’Yquem says, in one of his famous conversational veerings, “she will show.”
Jordan Lennox is the project manager for the Lens, a job he could not have imagined having when he first arrived at Venus Port. But politics, personalities, and the challenges of constructing an advanced technological facility on an alien world have seen the Lens run through eleven prior managers.
Now into his third year, Jor holds the record for tenure, largely—he believes—due to Charles D’Yquem.
The drunken aristo is a specialist in computing and calculating devices, tools that were banished from Earth a century past and rejected by Jor’s predecessors on Venus. (Jor feels that the EQ should have an eighth category … some Terrestrians are sent to Venus because they are just too fucking stupid.) Having listened to D’Yquem touting the devices for the best part of a decade, Jor was willing to try them once he moved into the top job.
Thanks to them, and Jor’s own relentless energy, the Lens now approaches completion.
Jor rises to head for the bar, a bit surprised by D’Yquem’s encouraging remark. His friend’s attitude toward Abdera usually starts out cold and judgmental, growing warmer only with increased alcoholic intake. Who knew D’Yquem was quite that drunk?
As he waits for a new pitcher of brue, Jor busies himself glancing from the entrance to the terrifying vista in the huge window: the blunt Terrestrian towers giving way to the more exotic—to human eyes, anyway—Venerian columns and galleries and mounds—all of them in the process of disassembly.
And, beyond both, the glittering thousand-foot diameter of the Lens shining in the perma-twilight.
He knows every foot of the Lens, of course. It feels as though he has personally lifted each I-beam, welded each structural plate, drilled each cable run, and even pulled each wire.
He has approved the design for all of these elements … while also ensuring quality control and integration. And he has seen the Lens grow from a stubby foundation formed from hardened Venerian slime to the tallest, broadest, most spectacular human structure this side of the Trans-Atlantic Tunnel.
One month away from its first tests … will it really work?
“Hey, Jordan!”
D’Yquem’s voice from across the bar.
He realizes that the pitcher has been sitting in front of him for perhaps two minutes … an eternity to a drinker like D’Yquem.
He is on his way back to the table when Abdera enters, looking sick with worry. Jor knows that while Venerian facial features are much like humans, their expressions are more extreme. A grown Venerian who is happy will glow like a human infant being tickled … one who is unhappy would have the expression of St. John regarding the Opening of the Graves.
Abdera looks like that now. “Jordan,” she says, as if she only has strength to utter his name.
“You’re late,” he says, feeling stupid.
Which only seems to make Abdera feel worse. “I was trapped.”
Jor moves her to the table, where D’Yquem helps her take a seat. Jor offers her a sip of brue, which she gulps in a single swallow. The beverage is designed to bolster human resistance to Venerian germs and other environmental factors; in small doses, it will not hurt Abdera.
But she downs Jor’s drink before being able to speak. “My clan ordered us to stay indoors for a cycle.” Cycle being the Venerian equivalent of thirty Earth hours.
“Why?”
“They never say. But this order came without warning, on a day that is usually devoted to business. There were many protests, none successful.”
“Yet here you are.”
And now she smiles. And in a less worried voice, says, “And here I am.”
Although Abdera would strike most human males as attractive, it is not her looks that continue to inflame Jor’s passion. Rather, it is her voice—throaty, articulate, versatile, capable of terrifying low anger and inspiring high laughter … a true Siren song.
Fluent in English, she has no accent, or none that Jor, a Midwestern American of the twenty-second century, can detect. (D’Yquem is merciless about Jor’s “absurd nasal honk” and “questionable pronunciation.”)
And now, D’Yquem, who occasionally exhibits a finely tuned set of social graces, excuses himself, leaving Jor and Abdera alone. The Venerian female watches him cross to the far side of 13-Plus. It’s as if she has never seen him walk before.
“What do you think of the place?” Jor says.
“It’s exactly as you described it though with fewer Terrestrians.”
“It’s a slow night.” He feels the moment is right. “Why did you want to come here? After all this time, I mean.”
There is a long pause, as if Abdera has a message, but can’t find the words. “Your Lens is almost finished,” she finally says.
“Months at most, yes.” Then Jor realizes: she thinks I am going to leave. They have never talked about a future together … their relationship is unique in the Venus Port community, subject to so much gossip and speculation that their conversation has frequently been consumed by mutual sharing of same, and subsequent amusement.
A relationship of the moment.
“Would you ever consider leaving Venus Port?” he says, trying to sound casual in spite of the improvisation.
Casual or not, the question clearly surprises her. “And go where?”
“Elsewhere on the planet. There will be a second Lens in the southern hemisphere. Maybe a third.”
She smiles faintly. “Southern clans aren’t as welcoming to outsiders as your people.” Which suggests outright hostility.
“Then how about Mars?” he says. “Lots of opportunities there.”
“For you. But the adaptation—”
“—Would be a challenge, yes.” Then he thinks, for the first time in fifteen years: “How about Earth?”
The sheer audacity of this suggestion makes Abdera laugh, and a Venerian laugh is always worth witnessing; it draws sympathetic laughter from Jor, as he imagines the look on Miller Lennox’s face when confronted with his prodigal son. “I thought you couldn’t!” she says, meaning the reverse adaptation, Venus to Earth.