Venus Rising (12 page)

“Where is my uniform?”

“I spread it out in one of the storerooms
until it’s dry enough to shake off the dirt. Use some of the
clothing left in the personal rooms. That’s what I’m going to
do.”

Narisa nodded agreement and went to see what
she could find. Service uniforms were made of a specially
formulated material that kept the wearer warm or cool as necessary,
and never needed to be cleaned. When a uniform got wet, as hers
had, it needed only to be dried, then shaken hard to release any
dirt trapped in the fibers. Aboard ship, with its clean, filtered
air, Narisa had never felt uncomfortable wearing the same uniform
day after day. But on this planet, after tramping across a desert
and through a forest, she found she did not want to put it on
again.

She quickly overcame any scruples she had
about using the clothing of Dulan’s long-dead friends, and selected
a silvery gray robe from one of the drawers in the room she had
been using, and a pair of matching low-heeled slippers that had
straps only across the toes. They were a little small, but they
would do.

Tarik had stocked the bathing room with
cleansers, some of them scented, and after washing her much-worn
undergarments and hanging them to dry, Narisa luxuriated in hot
water and perfume until she felt clean once more. The silver robe
she had chosen was simply styled, with a wide round neck and long
loose sleeves, both edged with pale blue braid. There was a
matching braid sash, which she fastened about her slender waist. It
had been a long time since she had worn anything other than a
Service uniform. She found she liked the feeling of the smooth,
delicate material against her skin and the way the skirt of the
gown moved against her bare legs when she walked back into the
central room.

“I’ve finished, if you want to bathe,” she
said to Tarik.

He was still bending over the console. He
looked up as she spoke and straightened slowly. He stared at her
like one entranced, taking in every detail of her appearance, from
her freshly washed golden brown hair and lovely face to the
exquisite robe she wore and the delicate sandals showing beneath
the garment’s shining folds.

“‘So fair she takes the breath of men away
who gaze upon her …’“ he whispered. “You are unbelievably
beautiful, Narisa.”

“Thank you,” she whispered back, stunned by
his reaction. No one had ever called her beautiful before. She was
absurdly pleased by the compliment. As for his strange, rhythmic
words, they reminded her of the broken phrases he had uttered while
he was sick and only partly conscious. She was going to ask him
about that, had her mouth opened to do so, when he spoke.

“I had better use the bathing room at once,”
he said, rubbing his face with one hand and thereby streaking mud
more thoroughly across his cheeks. “I’m ashamed to be in the same
room with you when you look so lovely and I’m in this condition.
I’ll do something about it right away. I even found something to
take off this beard. I won’t be long.”

He disappeared into the bathing room and
closed the door. Narisa was going to call after him, to ask if he
wanted her to begin preparing their meal, but she heard the water
running and knew he couldn’t hear her.

Instead she walked across the room to the
console. Tarik had left the computer on. Displayed on the screen
was an inventory of one of the storerooms. It listed irradiated and
dried food. She touched a few buttons, easily calling up more
information on food supplies. Listed in order were the dried herbs
and spices she would need to make a stew.

The simple machine was remarkably easy to
use, and she stood with her fingers resting lightly on the buttons,
wrestling with the temptation they presented. The turmoil in her
mind was intensely painful. She wanted to obey Tarik. He was her
superior officer, and she owed him her obedience. More than that,
she had begun to care for him and therefore wanted to please him by
doing as he wished. She did not want to destroy the emotion that
had led him to call her beautiful, nor end the tender mood that had
enveloped them just minutes ago.

And yet she, who had memorized the rule book,
knew they ought to have sent a rescue call as soon as they had the
machine working. It was wrong, and possibly dangerous, to delay any
longer. Should she do what Tarik wanted and wait, or should she
follow Service regulations and send a message?

Deep inside herself she felt she had betrayed
the Jurisdiction by her admission that the laws could be unjust.
Dulan’s story had shown her how cruel the Act of Banishment was.
She felt a deep sympathy toward the telepath, not only because of
persecution by an unfair law, but because Dulan had suffered from
Cetan depredations in much the same way as Narisa had, losing both
family and friends.

But the Jurisdiction taught that telepaths
were wicked. She felt guilty for caring about Dulan. Perhaps, she
reasoned, obeying regulations by sending a message would alleviate
her guilt.

Then there was the matter of what the Cetans
had done to the
Reliance.
She owed it to her dead shipmates
to return to the Capital and report what had happened. The Service
might be able to use the information she could provide, to hunt
down and punish the Cetan ship responsible for the attack. The crew
of the
Reliance
deserved that much from her.

They deserved it from Tarik, too, but Narisa
was convinced he would find excuses to delay sending a message, if,
indeed, he ever sent one. She believed he had become so enthralled
by this strange new world, and so eager to remain, that he had
forgotten his duty.

She knew her own responsibility to the
Service. It had been drilled into her for more than ten years, and
she had accepted it, knowing the Service and its regulations must
come before anything else in her life. Regulations required her to
send a message, and send it at once.

Tarik would be furious with her if she went
ahead and did it. His tenderness toward her would end as quickly as
the mist evaporated off the lake at dawn.

Tarik was wrong. He was disobeying
regulations.

Narisa could hear the water still running
behind the closed door of the bathing room. She forced herself to
stop thinking any more of those painful, conflicting thoughts. She
pushed to the back of her mind Tarik’s insistence on waiting. She
tried to forget her feelings for him. She could allow herself only
one thought.

Duty to the Service first. Duty
…

She punched in the standard rescue call and
held the
SEND
button down for as long as she dared.

When Tank reappeared, the exact display he
had left on the computer screen was still showing, and Narisa was
just coming out of one of the storage rooms with an armful of food
packets. She stopped short, staring at him in much the same way as
he had looked at her earlier.

Tarik was not only clean, he was shaved. She
thought how attractive his sharp-featured face was, long and narrow
and rather pale, as though carved out of some fine, smoothly
polished stone. He had chosen a deep crimson robe, made in the same
simple style as Narisa’s, but left unbelted. The neck and sleeves
were edged with wide bands of blue and gold embroidery.

“You look splendid,” Narisa said. “Like some
grand ancient ruler.”

“That’s appropriate,” he responded, smiling
at her.

“Really? Why?” Narisa returned his smile, but
nervously, as she moved toward the kitchen. She knew she had done
the right thing in sending the rescue call, and she searched her
mind for the relief she believed she should feel after having made
that difficult decision.

Even now, somewhere far out in the galaxy,
Service spaceships were receiving the signal and determining where
it had originated. It was a good thing their instruments could do
that, since she did not have an exact idea where she was. But she
was certain that Service ships would find them soon.

“I’ll tell you later,” Tarik said, taking
some of the food packets she was carrying.

“Tell me what?”

“Why it’s appropriate for me to look like an
ancient person.” He laughed at her. “What are you thinking of,
Narisa? Your mind is somewhere off in space.”

“No, it’s not,” she said quickly. “I was only
thinking about the stew I’m going to make.”

“I’ll help you.” He followed her into the
kitchen.

It was a small room, white, as were all the
others in this building, and made even smaller by a wide ledge
around three sides of it, upon which food could be prepared. A
heating surface for cooking took up one section. Narisa reached for
the button to turn the heat on, and bumped into Tarik.

“I’ll do it.” He leaned across her, his arm
brushing her right breast as he did so. Narisa caught her breath at
the contact and stepped back a pace. Tarik turned on the heat, then
reached behind her to pick up one of the food packets she had laid
on the counter. Narisa was still moving backward when she stepped
on his toes.

“Careful, please.” His face was very close to
hers.

“I’m sorry.” She turned around and found
herself almost in his arms. “It’s cramped in here.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” He made what Narisa believed
was an entirely unnecessary reach over her shoulder toward the
counter, which brought his mouth to within a millimeter of the
sensitive place where her throat and shoulder met. She could feel
his warm breath on her skin. “You used the scented cleanser,” he
murmured.

“Tarik, please, you’re pushing me against the
hot section.”

“Then come here.” Placing his hands on her
shoulders, he pulled her against him. She looked straight into his
night-dark eyes. His voice was soft, caressing her when he said her
name. “Narisa.”

She knew he wanted to kiss her. She wanted
it, too, wanted to feel again the way the pressure of his hard body
had made her feel when they kissed in the rain. She fought
valiantly for self-control.

“We will never eat,” she told him severely,
“if I can’t prepare the stew. And I can’t do that if we keep
bumping into each other.”

“Then you stay here.” He moved her to face
the heated section of the counter. “And I’ll work over here. We
need a good meal first.”

First? Before what? Narisa’s heart began to
pound. Did Tarik mean what she thought he meant, that he wanted to
make love to her? Lovemaking would mean nothing to him, for he
loved Suria, not Narisa. She should never forget that. Tarik might
believe they would be marooned on this planet forever, and Narisa
would be the only woman available. In that case, it would still
mean nothing to him.

But the truth, Narisa admitted silently to
herself as she tore open a packet of irradiated vegetables, was
that she wanted Tarik to make love to her. She was already entirely
too fond of him. She warned herself to be very careful, lest she
give away her heart completely, and it be broken. She forced out of
her mind the image of a naked Tarik lying next to her on a couch,
and directed all her attention to the food she was preparing.

In a surprisingly short time, considering how
unfamiliar both the food and implements were, they turned the food
packets into an appetizing stew, which sent its delicious odor
wafting throughout the building. There were round, flat loaves of
dry bread to sop up the juices, and Tarik had discovered a supply
of distilled spirits in one of the storerooms.

“It’s not Falernian wine,” he said, opening a
glazed ceramic bottle and sniffing at the contents, “but it will
do.”

“What is Falernian wine?”

“The Romans used to drink it.”

“Romans?” Narisa looked blank, then
remembered. “Oh, yes, on Old Earth. I see now why you said your
robe is appropriate. It’s because you can talk about ancient
things.”

“Only to you, Narisa. To no one else, not for
long years. I love history, real history, not the censored and
carefully molded version taught in the Jurisdiction. Most people
have no idea what hardships our ancestors endured in ancient times,
or how difficult it was for them to leave Earth and settle
throughout the galaxy. It’s a wonder the Race survived all the wars
and the terrible accidents. There were times when whole planets
died.”

“You’ve said that before, that the
Jurisdiction doesn’t teach the truth about our past.”

“It doesn’t.”

Narisa, still feeling guilty about her
earlier defection from total loyalty to the Jurisdiction, wanted to
argue the point, but decided to let it drop in favor of not
spoiling his agreeable mood or the meal they were about to eat.

They laid the food on the table Tarik had
placed in the central room, along with spoons and bowls for the
stew. Tarik found cups for the liquor, and larger ones for a hot
herbal drink he had brewed according to a recipe Dulan, or someone,
had put into the computer. He pulled out one of the cushioned
chairs for Narisa, seating her with a deep bow and a wave of one
hand that made her laugh at his exaggerated formality. He took the
other chair, across the table from her, and tasted the stew she had
ladled into their bowls.

“This is delicious. Far superior to wafers.”
He began to eat with the relish of a half-starved man.

“Tarik,” she said, changing the subject,
“when you were sick you kept saying the strangest things. The
bread, and your talk about wine, reminded me.”

“Of what?” His eyes were twinkling. “Did I
tell you all my secrets?”

“Among other things, you talked about a loaf
of bread and a jug of wine.”

“Poetry.” He took another mouthful of
stew.

“Poetry?”

“It’s like the words to a song, but without
the music.”

“I know what poetry is. What you said did not
sound like any poetry I’ve ever heard.”