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Authors: Al Sarrantonio
Tags: Science-Fiction
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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.
Chapter 8
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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 It was out-of-date garb, even for a Terraformer, and Terraformers were a group not known for their sartorial sharpness.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 himselfânot 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 diseaseâwhich froze the central nervous system, sending out wild signals which made the body jerk and tremble, earning the disease the nickname "Puppet Death"âeven 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
"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.
Chapter 8
Â
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 himselfânot 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 diseaseâwhich froze the central nervous system, sending out wild signals which made the body jerk and tremble, earning the disease the nickname "Puppet Death"âeven 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
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