Pamela Sargent - Venus of Shadows

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VENUS OF DREAMS

CLONED LIVES

WATCHSTAR

To George, again

CONTENTS:

The Dream

Part 1The Dreamers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part 2The Monument

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part 3The Councilor

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Part 4The Guide

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Part 5The Cauldron

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

The Cytherians

THE DREAM

Malik's visitor was late. “Salaam, Linker Malik,” she murmured, bowing her head slightly as she entered

his apartment.

“Salaam,” Malik replied. He led her to a chair and sat down across from her. He had been wary when

the woman first called and asked for a meeting with him. Malik's uncle, in his last message, had warned

him to be careful; there were complaints about some of Malik's recent writings. The warning had been

vague, as most of Muhammad's messages were lately, with hints that the older man felt threatened and

might no longer be able to protect his nephew.

Yet this woman seemed innocuous enough. He glanced at her as he poured coffee. Her name was

Wadzia Zayed, and she claimed to be one of his former students. Malik had verified that much through

his forehead implant; it was still something of a novelty to be Linked, to have all of the information in

Earth's cyberminds open to him.

He had remembered her only after viewing an image in the university's records. Wadzia Zayed had been

a shy girl with sad dark eyes, another female student from one of his Nomarchy's outlying villages who

wore a scarf over her head and kept her eyes lowered whenever she spoke. The attractive, self-assured

woman who sat in front of him now hardly seemed the same person.

“I am honored that you agreed to see me,” Wadzia said in formal Arabic with a trace of a rural accent. “I

was surprised to learn that you are now Linked, although your accomplishments surely merit that honor.”

Malik touched the small jewel on his forehead that marked him as a Linker. “I have tried to be worthy of

it.” His uncle's influence had helped to win him the Link; Muhammad was grooming him for better things.

Grateful as he was, he wasn't sure if he shared his uncle's ambitions.

“Well.” Wadzia set down her cup, then shook back her uncovered black hair. “I assume you've already

viewed my mind-tour.” She was speaking in Anglaic now, the official language of Earth, although any

truly educated person knew Arabic as well.

“Indeed I have,” he answered in the same tongue.

“And what did you think?”

“Your depiction has an impact,” Malik said carefully, “but I'm puzzled by your reasons for asking me to

see it. I used to view such things as a boy, and had many happy moments experiencing them through my

band, but I'm hardly an expert on mind-tours and sensory entertainments.” Such visual images and

simulated, experiences, some of which depicted historical incidents, could impart a bit of knowledge to

the many illiterate and unschooled people of Earth's Nomarchies, but to Malik, they seemed much like

the more trivial mind-tours with which such people amused themselves.

“I value your opinion,” Wadzia replied. “I wouldn't ask for a recommendation, even though one from a

historian of your standing might help in promoting it, but I would appreciate any suggestions you'd care to

make.” She lifted her head and gazed directly at him.

Malik's lingering suspicions vanished; apparently this meeting was partly an excuse to entice him. Women

had begun to seek him out when he was hardly more than a boy, attracted by his handsome face and

well-formed body. It had become easy to enjoy the novelty of each new love while knowing that he was

certain to find another before that love died. Wadzia might have nursed an infatuation since her student

days, although any intimate encounter with her then would have been dishonorable on his part. He sighed;

anticipation of a new love was now often tinged with weariness.

“Your subject is fascinating, of course,” he said. “That by itself makes your mind-tour quite dramatic.

You simplified events somewhat, but I didn't note blatant inaccuracies. I know these events have been

used in other depictions, but your treatment seemed fresh. I especially enjoyed the way you thrust the

observer into various scenes before contrasting them with more distant perspectives.”

Wadzia smiled a little. He was being honest; the story of the Venus Project could still move him. The

efforts of people to create a livable world from such a hellish planet, a world none of them would survive

to see, was surely testimony to the human spirit.

Terraforming Venus had been the dream of Karim al-Anwar, one of the earliest of Earth's Mukhtars. The

Earth that Karim and his fellow Mukhtars had ruled more than five hundred years ago was a world

ravaged by wars over resources. Many people had abandoned the home world for habitats in space,

hollowed-out asteroids and vast globes built from the resources space offered. Karim's Earth was a

wounded world, deserted by those who had become the Habitat-dwellers, with the people left behind

clinging to the little that remained.

The Nomarchies of Earth had finally won peace. A Mukhtar had ruled each region ever since, and the

armed force known as the Guardians of the Nomarchies preserved that peace. But Karim al-Anwar had

seen that Earth needed a new dream, one that might rival the accomplishments of the Associated

Habitats; without such an achievement, human history might pass into the hands of the Habitat-dwellers.

Karim had looked toward Venus, that planet of intense heat held in by a thick atmosphere of carbon

dioxide with a barometric pressure ninety times that of Earth, and had seen a place human beings might

transform. The Habitat-dwellers might believe that humanity's future lay in space; Earth's people would

show that they were wrong.

Karim had lived only long enough to see a feasibility study begun, but his dream had won out. Anwara,

the space station named for him, circled Earth's sister-world in a high orbit. The shield called the Parasol,

an umbrella of giant panels with a diameter as large as the planet's, hid Venus from the sun, enabling that

world to cool. Frozen hydrogen had been siphoned off from distant Saturn and hurled toward Venus in

tanks, where the hydrogen combined with free oxygen to form water. The atmosphere had been seeded

with new strains of algae that fed on sulfuric acid and then expelled it as iron and copper sulfides.

Venus's first settlements had been the Islands, constructed to float in the planet's upper atmosphere

slightly to the north of the equator. Platforms built on rows of large metal cells filled with helium were

covered with dirt and then enclosed in impermeable domes. On the surface, construction equipment

guided by engineers on these Islands had erected three metallic pyramids housing gravitational pulse

engines; rods anchoring those engines had penetrated the basaltic mantle to the edge of Venus's nickel

and iron core. The planet, after being assaulted by the release of their powerful antigravitational pulse,

had begun to turn more rapidly. Its tectonic plates, locked for eons, began to shift; speeding up the

world's rotation would also provide Earth-like weather patterns in later centuries, and the spinning iron

core had generated a magnetic field that would protect Venus's settlers from solar radiation when the

Parasol no longer cast its shadow.

Now at last, Malik thought, so long after Karim al-Anwar had first had his vision, domed settlements

were rising in the Maxwell Mountains of the northern landmass known as Ishtar Terra. The people who

called themselves Cytherians, after the Mediterranean island of Cythera where the goddess Aphrodite

had once been worshipped, were living on the world that bore one of that ancient deity's names.

Wadzia's mind-tour had hurled him into this world. Malik had stood on barren, rocky ground, peering

through a misty darkness as lightning flashed above a volcano. He bad seen the Parasol, a giant flower

reflecting sunlight away from a world that would bloom. He had watched as tanks of frozen hydrogen

flared brightly in the planet's hot, black clouds, brief candles doused by the darkness. He had glimpsed

two satellites appearing over the poles, their construction compressed into seconds, and seen their

winged panels reach past the Parasol's shade to catch the light of the sun. The ground had lurched and

heaved under his feet while thunder slapped his ears as a pyramid, with veins of light bulging from its

black walls, released its pulse of energy.

The mind-tour had been filled with great spectacles interspersed with images of individuals who seemed

to have no life apart from their obsession with the Venus Project. Wadzia had not mentioned the drain

placed on Earth's limited resources by more than four centuries of support for the Project. She had

barely hinted at the agreement the Mukhtars and their Project Council had reluctantly made with the

Habitat-dwellers, who had decided to aid the Project for their own obscure reasons. Without Habber aid

and technology, Malik knew, the Project could not have advanced this far.

Wadzia had also passed over more recent events. The pyramids had finally released their mighty pulse of

energy in 555, nearly forty years ago; Wadzia had quickly moved to scenes of settlers inside the surface

domes. She had avoided darker events, incidents that might have marred her tale of noble souls and

grand feats of terraforming, the years when it seemed that Earth might lose the Venus Project.

The possibility of that loss was not yet past, even with Guardians stationed on Venus's Islands and with

settlers moving to the surface. Malik thought again of his uncle's messages and the dilemmas that now

faced Muhammad's allies among the Mukhtars.

“Do you have any other comments?” Wadzia asked.

He forced his attention back to her. “It's incomplete, isn't it? Those experiencing this mind-tour will have

at least a hazy knowledge of more recent events, and wonder why they were omitted.”

“I thought you might say that,” she said.

“I don't see how you can avoid mentioning Pavel Gvishiani's ambitions.”

“That's exactly what I think.” The woman leaned forward. “The rest of my team disagrees. That's why I

wanted you to see this. The opinion of a scholar who has a family so close to the Council of Mukhtars

might carry some weight with my colleagues.”

“The part of the story you left out has its pitfalls. You'd have to be careful in what you show, but since the

tale ends with Pavel's defeat—” He reached for the pot and poured more coffee.

“Dealing with Pavel would also add some drama,” Wadzia said. “After all those scenes of grandeur and

self-sacrifice, we'd see the most influential of the Island Administrators trying to seize control of the

Project for himself, even if it means an alliance with Habbers.”

“One can feel a bit of sympathy for the man,” Malik said. “The Project's progress had slowed, the

Mukhtars weren't doing anything about it, and Pavel Gvishiani was faced with people who were impatient

for surface settlements and resentful of the Guardian force on the Islands. He knew there wouldn't be

much progress without more aid from the Habitat-dwellers.”

Pavel had taken a chance, believing that Earth might not risk a confrontation, and had lost that gamble.

But Wadzia could not acknowledge that without admitting how crucial the help of Habbers had become,

an admission that would tarnish the glory Earth claimed for itself through the Venus Project.

How ironic, Malik thought, that Earth had to lean on Habbers for assistance in a venture meant to rival

the Habber vision of humanity's future. The Mukhtars did not appreciate the irony, which only deepened

their resentment of the Associated Habitats. Some believed that the Habbers had agreed to work with

the Project in order to spy on the people there. Malik, however, suspected that the Habbers meant what

they claimed—that working with the Project enabled them to test their own technology in various ways.

Perhaps they were also moved by feelings of responsibility to those the ancestors of the Habbers had

abandoned. It was hard to know what Habbers thought, given the limited contact Earth had with them.

“I certainly can't portray Pavel sympathetically,” Wadzia was saying. “Assuming authority to make all

decisions about the Project himself, and issuing what amounted to ultimatums to the Mukhtars, was close

to treason.”

“Indeed.” She also could not discuss the fact that a threat from the Habbers to withdraw all their

resources and sever any contact with Earth had persuaded the Mukhtars to resolve the matter peacefully.

Pavel had been deprived of his Link; a few of those closest to him, including the Guardian Commander

who had supported him, had also been punished. Mercy had been shown to most of the Islanders, since

Pavel had misled them; Earth had achieved the semblance of a victory.

“There are also some heroes in this part of the story,” Wadzia continued, “who would be inspiring. I'm

thinking of Iris Angharads and Amir Azad in particular.”

Malik nodded; he had refreshed his memory of recent Project history before his guest's arrival. Iris

Angharads had been a climatologist working on the Islands, Amir Azad a Linker and Administrator. Both

had died attempting to resolve the situation Pavel had created. Their deaths, according to one sentimental

interpretation, had led to Pavel's remorse and his surrendering of himself to Earth for punishment.

“There's a memorial to Iris and Amir in one of the surface settlements.” Wadzia sipped some coffee.

“Maybe I could show that monument. Earth reclaims its dream, and we end with settlers building a new

world for Earth's greater glory.”

“A lot of settlers don't quite see it that way,” he murmured. “Some still dream of being free of us. A few

Mukhtars wonder if they're looking at a world that might try to escape from their grasp again.”

“I don't have to dwell onthat. We'll see a future Nomarchy, and people who are mindful of their loyalty

to Earth.”

“I almost think you wouldn't mind going there yourself.”

She laughed softly. “I'm happier being a spectator, seeing history's grand sweep and dramatic moments,

without being drawn into all the smaller struggles and personal disappointments that also play their role in

events.” She tilted her head. “I imagine you feel much the same way.”

“I suppose I do.” She was reminding him of his current worries. His uncle might be too involved in the

Mukhtars’ political disputes for Malik's family to remain spectators for long.

Wadzia's legs were crossed; the body covered by her blue tunic and pants was slightly arched, as though

she was subtly trying to display herself. “You also never touched on one important reason for the

Project,” he said, “namely, that we might need what we learn from terraforming Venus here on Earth.”

Karim al-Anwar might have been a dreamer, but he, along with others, had noted the rise in Earth's

temperatures, the slow melting of its polar ice caps, the gradual flooding of coastal cities, and the increase

of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. He had seen Earth's possible future under Venus's clouds.

“I don't want to alarm people,” she responded. “The ones who are likely to experience this tour may not

stop to think that Earth will hardly become a desert any time soon. Besides, we've postponed the day of

reckoning by moving so much of our industry into near-space, so it's not anything to worry about now.”

Wadzia's hand tightened around her cup. “May I tell my team that you're in agreement with me, that we

should include what this version omits?”

“If you think it'll do any good.”

Her face brightened a little. “Oh, it will. Maybe I can show you an early version. It'd be a mock-up, just

the images without the sensory effects, and you could point out anything the authorities might find

objectionable.”

“Be sure that I will.” What a mind-tour designed for ignorant people showed could not matter; advising

Wadzia to shade the truth could not really count as intellectual dishonesty. Refusing to state certain

conclusions in his writings, or keeping his lectures safely ambiguous so that they did not contradict the

accepted historical theories, would be more serious failings. I may come to that, Malik thought,

wondering exactly how much he might restrict his own thoughts in order to keep what he had.

His cowardice disgusted him. “The Venus Project is problematic,” he said. “Here we are, hoping for a

new world and a new culture that might revitalize our own, and yet for Venus to have a chance at doing

that, it should be left to grow in its own way. By placing too heavy a hand on those Cytherian settlers, we

risk losing what we hope to gain.”

“The Mukhtars wouldn't like to hear that.”

“A few of them think it,” he said. “It'd be more sensible to grant the Cytherians autonomy and allow the

Habbers to contribute even more to the Project. Some resent what it's cost us already.”

“Impossible.” Her eyes widened in shock. “The Mukhtars can't take a Project they've touted as our

greatest effort and turn it over to Habbers who affront us at every opportunity. Even people who don't

care about Venus would see that as a betrayal. It's bad enough that we needed Habber help in the first

place.”

“Does it really matter in the long run?” He suddenly felt a need to display some courage and

recklessness, even if only with words. “Habbers are one branch of humanity, we're another, and the

Cytherians will undoubtedly be a third. We'll diverge for a time, but we may draw together eventually and

find a common destiny, as the different regions of Earth did so long ago. Venus could be a bridge

between Earth and the Habitats, and there's much we could gain from more contact with Habbers.”

Malik fell silent; this was the kind of talk Muhammad had warned him against.

“Dangerous words. Linker Malik.”

He rose, knowing that it was time to end his brief show of bravery. “Much as I would enjoy prolonging

this visit, my duties require my attention.” He was speaking in Arabic now, anxious to find refuge in its

formalities; Wadzia seemed a bit disappointed as she got to her feet. “I shall look forward, God willing,

to your presentation at another time.” Her eyes were lowered, her lips turned down; Malik took her arm

and guided her toward the door. “I would like to hear more about what you've been doing these past

years—perhaps you are free for dinner this evening.”

“That would be most pleasurable,” she replied. “Since my bondmate's work has taken him to Baghdad,

my evenings have often been lonely.” There would be a bondmate, of course; young women of Wadzia's

age in this Nomarchy were rarely unpledged. The man was probably from her village; she might have

been promised to him even before attending the university. The two would have made their pledge, and

perhaps gone through the rite of marriage as well, because their families would be shamed if they refused.

Now, he supposed, they had an understanding that allowed them other companions as long as they were

discreet. It was a common enough arrangement.

Her novelty would divert him for a while; he was already trying to determine which restaurant might

provide the most seductive atmosphere. He sighed as he once more felt his familiar weariness.

* * * *

The University of Amman was near Malik's residence, and he usually walked there instead of taking the

private hovercar provided for his use. The towers of the school and the tall, terraced apartment buildings

surrounding it rose above a city of small, pastel-colored houses packed tightly together on low

mountainsides. Other towers dotted Amman, looming over dwellings that might have been carved from

the multicolored stone.

Malik had grown up in Damascus, but this city had claimed his heart when he first came here to study. Its

clear, biting air invigorated him, and he had never tired of exploring its rocky hills and twisting streets. He

had been happy to win a position in Amman; it was the city in the New Islamic Nomarchy that he loved

most.

Olive trees and cedars lined the pale paths of the university complex; they were tall, straight trees unlike

the tiny, stunted ones that grew in the crags and small spaces between houses. A small group of students

walked toward him, chattering in Hebrew, then nodded respectfully as they drew near.

“Salaam, Linker Malik,” one of the young men said in Arabic. “May I ask—we have been told that you

will be visiting Jerusalem next term.”

“As God wills.” Malik touched his forehead. “Isaac Alon has invited me, and I am looking forward to

spending more time in the Eastern Mediterranean Nomarchy.”

“I must tell my brother, then—he is a student there. He will be hoping to meet with you.”

One of the female students was ogling him quite blatantly; her large hazel eyes were much like Luciana

Rizzi's. Malik drew his brows together. He had promised Luciana he would see her tonight, before

Wadzia's visit; his Link would have reminded him had he bothered to consult it. Even after two years, he

was not entirely accustomed to the Link; now he would have to change his plans. Perhaps not; he could

find an excuse to give Luciana. It was always a sign that a particular love was fading when he began to

make excuses.

“I shall hope to meet your brother, then,” Malik said. He could not remember this student's name. He

opened his Link to call it up, and heard only a dead silence.

The shock of meeting a block in the Link's channels made him tense; it had to be a malfunction. What

could be wrong? He trembled and swayed unsteadily as another young man caught his arm.

“Is something the matter, Professor?” the student asked. Two other men were coming toward him. One

wore the khaki garb of the local police; the other was in the black uniform of a Guardian.

“Malik Haddad?” The Guardian spoke gruffly, omitting Malik's title. Malik nodded; the student released

his arm and stepped back. “You're to come with us. We have orders to detain you.”

“You must be mistaken,” Malik said. “I have a seminar to conduct.” His Link was still blocked; he was

suddenly afraid. “I think you should know—”

“Come with us,” the Guardian said. The students were watching him with blank expressions as he was

led away.

THE DREAMERS

One

The spires of Tashkent lay far behind him. To the south, above the port outside the city, a shuttle climbed

Earth's sky. Malik trudged east along the side of the road, feeling the weight of the pack on his back. The

people with him had held their heads high as they left Tashkent's port; now their pace was slower, their

heads bowed.

The asphalt of the ancient thoroughfare was broken; hundreds of feet had already worn away a path

under the row of bare-limbed trees that lined the road. A young woman near Malik suddenly stumbled

on a patch of uneven ground. He reached out and caught her by the elbow.

The weariness left her strong-boned face as she smiled up at him. “The Mukhtars dream of their new

world,” she said in Russian, “yet they punish some of those who seek it.”

“They want the way to be hard,” Malik replied in the same language. “If it were otherwise, too many

would want to leave, and even the Habbers couldn't find ships for them all.”

The woman's smile faded as her tilted black eyes grew hard. “They think we'll forget when we're on

Venus, that gratitude will wipe our memories clean and make us honor the Mukhtars again.”

A young man near her turned; his eyes narrowed with suspicion as he glanced at Malik. Malik had seen

that look from others, back in the port. “Do not speak to him, Katya,” the young man muttered.

Malik had done what he could to conceal what he was. His long sheepskin coat was like those many of

these people wore, and he had wound a turban around his head. He had given himself away somehow,

perhaps when he had forgotten himself and addressed the Guardian at the port in formal Arabic.

He could imagine what the man and the woman were thinking—either that he was a spy sent to ferret out

those who might prove troublesome or that he would not be among these people now unless he had

offended someone powerful. In either case, he did not belong, and it would do no good to speak to him.

He would have to live among these people. He had thought they would accept him as a fellow emigrant,

one who shared their dream; now he saw how foolish that hope had been.

Malik glanced back at the distant city and recalled other visits to Tashkent. On his last trip there, he had

taken an airship from Bukhara. From his window, he had enjoyed the sight of a Central Asian

spring—flat green land irrigated by canals, fields white with the cotton that was still grown for the formal

robes of Linkers, slender trees with pink and white blossoms. A student from the university had been sent

to greet him; Administrators had invited him to their homes and accompanied him to Tashkent's lively

markets. He had not been allowed to enter the city this time. A Guardian had greeted him, then scanned

the identity bracelet on Malik's wrist before pushing him roughly in the direction of this road.

The plain stretched before him. A touch of winter was still in the air, but spring came early to this region;

on the horizon, machines were already tilling the soil. He thought of how far they still had to walk, and of

the people who had traveled over this land in past times. Persians and Greeks had carved out their

conquests, caravans had brought silk from China, horsemen of the steppes had come in search of loot,

and Russians had expanded their empire here. Now the land bore the footprints of those seeking a new

world far from Earth.

The small group of fifteen people moved away from the road and settled on the grass to rest. The woman

who had spoken to him looked away as he sat down. The young man seated himself next to her, warning

Malik away with his eyes.

Silence would not help him now; he had to speak. “I have heard,” Malik said in Russian, “that the

barriers separating us on Earth do not exist on the new world, and yet I see those barriers here.” He

looked around at the others as he spoke but saw only cold stares and averted eyes. “I am to labor on

Venus with you. I've given up all I had to join you, yet you shun me.”

No one spoke. He repeated his words in Anglaic, then waited.

“You know why we're here,” the young man near him said at last. “However hard our lives may be on

Venus, we'll have the chance to rise and to see our children rise. The Nomarchies may scorn us now, but

we'll win their respect. You have the look of a man who held a higher place than ours. Why would you

choose to travel with us? Why do you try to hide what you are?”

Malik forced himself to gaze directly at the man. “To show that, whatever I was before, I am one of you

now.”

The young man shook his blond head. “Perhaps you're a spy.” He smiled mirthlessly. “But you'd make a

poor one, since we so easily see what you are. Why would you wait with the likes of us, hoping for

passage on a ship?”

“Because I lost everything.” Malik shrugged out of his pack. “My family was dishonored by my fall from

favor, and told me that their shame might be lessened if I left Earth. There's no chance that, disgraced as I

am, I could be chosen for the Project, so if I want to get to Venus, my only choice is to wait with you.”

“You think your chances will be better than ours,” a bearded man said.

“I have less of a chance. They need willing workers there more than they need my kind.”

“I'm still puzzled,” the black-eyed young woman said. “It seems—”

The young man gestured angrily. “Don't speak to him.”

“I'll speak if I wish, Alexei.” The woman turned back to Malik. “I am Yekaterina Osipova, and this man

who thinks he can speak for me is my younger brother, Alexei Osipov.” The blond man scowled but was

silent. “I would hear more of your story, should you wish to tell it.”

“Our pasts don't matter now,” another woman muttered.

“Unless we find out more about this man,” Yekaterina replied, “we won't be able to trust him. Do you

think we can build a new world on suspicion?”

Her words were sincere, but Malik supposed that the Guardians had planted a few spies among the

hopeful settlers in the camp that was this group's destination. That was one of the reasons for allowing

such camps.

“My name is Malik Haddad,” he said. “I was a professor at the University of Amman, but I also had an

uncle who was close to the Council of Mukhtars. He had hopes of rising to a place on the Council and of

one day giving me a position on his staff.”

Alexei's green eyes narrowed. “Then you had even more than I thought.”

“My uncle's ambitions weren't mine,” Malik responded. “I was happy teaching history and doing my

writing. It's true that my uncle's position smoothed my path, but it was my own work that won me my

place. Some had questions about what I said and wrote. That didn't matter until my uncle lost favor with

those who now have more power among the Mukhtars. My uncle, you see, was close to those who

forced Abdullah Heikal from the Council twenty-six years ago.”

His companions stared at him blankly. Most of them, he realized, were probably illiterates who had only

the sketchiest knowledge of past events.

“In 568,” Malik continued, “you may recall that Earth had to punish an Administrator on Venus's Islands

who had allied himself with Habbers in order to seize power over the Project for himself.”

Pamela Sargent - Venus of Shadows

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