Vin of Venus Read online

  "That's making a huge leap. The law of parsimony says—"

  Vin tapped the ruby bracelet. "Occam's Razor can't explain this."

  "No." Muroc frowned. "I suppose it can't."

  "Or that picture I showed you, taken in the '70s."

  "What about the picture?"

  "Doctor, that was over thirty years ago. How old do I look to you now?"

  "Ah, about 35."

  "Which means I should've been a baby, when that photo was taken."

  "Well, some people just don't look their age ... the lack of hair makes it harder to tell ..."

  Vin stared at him.

  "Alright," Muroc said, "what do you want me to conclude? You're some kind of immortal, from Venus? Sent through space and time to scout the way for a dying planet?"

  "I like that better than assuming I'm crazy-eight bonkers."

  "Whoever you were, pre-amnesia, you must've had an appreciation for the fantastic." Muroc patted at the fronds of white hair jutting from either side of his dome. "It's too bad Dr. Dorian turned out to be a crook. From what you've told me, I think he has some of the answers."

  "Has? He's still alive? Last time I saw him, he'd been shot, stabbed, and nearly missing a hand."

  "His assault was all over the telly. You were so tired when Marta brought you here, I let you sleep through it. Dorian's recovering in hospital. The police aren't saying much about what happened, but he's a suspect. So is Charlotte. They're the only two survivors—besides you, of course. The Mirror has been implying the whole thing was a shadowy art-deal gone wrong."

  "Nothing about me?"

  "Not a peep so far. I suppose being a cipher has its advantages."

  Vin studied his hand. "My fingerprints are on the gun I dropped there." He squinted. There were no lines, whorls, or ridges anywhere on his fingers or thumb. Just smooth skin. "Scratch that. I don't have fingerprints, it seems."

  "Let me see." Muroc examined him for a moment, holding his hand up to the track lighting over the table. "You could've filed them off, I suppose. Or used acid. Professional criminals sometimes do that."

  Vin smiled. "So I'm an immortal Venusian criminal, now?"

  "I'm not one to judge. But a DNA swab might settle some of these questions. Would you be game for that?"

  "Of course."

  "There's also the matter of your missing prostheses. Trying to track down the old ones would draw too much attention."

  "I've got money," Vin said, remembering the brown envelope. "Plenty. I know that robotic arm must've cost a small fortune—"

  Muroc held up his hand. "None of this would've occurred if I hadn't sent you to Dorian. I feel responsible. And money isn't an issue for me. As it happens, I have a leg prototype I've been meaning to test. We can have you practice with it, while you lay low here."

  "I don't like the thought of either you or Marta getting into trouble, if it develops I'm a fugitive."

  "We'll handle that as it comes. You wouldn't be safe in Kensington by yourself, and frankly, your situation is too intellectually stimulating for me to pass up."

  "So I'm staying."

  Muroc folded his arms across his chest. "Doctor's orders."

  * * *

  Vin slept on the couch. Muroc was gone in the morning when he awoke, but Doyle showed up later with an early lunch of kebabs and cask-conditioned ale. Vin spent the afternoon on the back porch, gently buzzed, watching kites raise their cellophane tails over the heath's clear skies.

  Muroc returned home after five, hustling a leg-shaped bundle into the house. His face flushed with pride and excitement when he showed Vin the prosthesis.

  "I saved your fittings from before," he explained. "Let's hurry up and get it on you."

  Muroc attached the socket to Vin's stump. The leg fit flush with a hiss of vacuum-seal. "There's a lot more hardware on this one," Vin said, examining the limb.

  "It's a modification of a C-Leg. The knee joint can flex faster for something approximating running. Well, more like a fast hobble, really, but that's a huge advancement for hip disarticulation. Mind, you've got to hit this switch here to change to running-mode. Think of it like shifting on a car. Also, this thing practically eats lithium batteries. The maintenance is fairly extensive as well ..."

  Muroc went on for another five minutes, boasting and fretting over the leg. Vin felt like he had the man's baby strapped to his hip. "Seriously, how much does this thing cost?"

  "Well, the titanium alone ..." Muroc fluttered his hands.

  "And you're giving it away? What if the cops nab me?"

  "If they do, I'll get it back, I assure you. For the time being, consider the leg a 'loaner'. Now let's try standing."

  Muroc helped him up from the couch. Vin, with a previous month's worth of practice using artificial limbs, was able to balance easily enough.

  "How's it feel?" Muroc asked.

  "Very steady."

  "A microprocessor is sensing your weight, and adjusting the hydraulics in the foreleg accordingly. After a couple more weeks, you might not need a cane."

  Vin recalled how awkward walking with the first leg had been. On impulse, he took a step forward. For a split-second the room seemed to teeter, and he imagined flailing into the coffee table. But the C-Leg helped him find his balance.

  "There you go," Muroc said, beaming. "I've got another myoelectric arm in the car's boot. Tomorrow's Sunday, and we'll spend it practicing with your new limbs."

  * * *

  Outside her villa, the waters have turned a dun color, reflecting the thickening sky. Rhadma raises herself from the couch. Sweat beads on her pale skin; every move is an exertion now, with the extra weight she's carrying. The Wise Women say she is fast approaching her birthing-time. But the sweltering heat would slow anyone, pregnant or not. And the sea continues to drop.

  "Soon enough, I'll be queen of the Desert Clans," she mutters to herself, watching the waves slosh outside her window. For some reason the winds have grown slower, but stronger, pushing the water into huge, sluggish rolls.

  A polite cough sounds outside her bedchamber.

  "Enter," she says, eyes still on the dismal seascape.

  Advisor Quorl shuffles into the room, his wrinkled, scrawny form made ridiculous by an elaborate headdress of feathers. He prostrates himself for a full minute before rising, as if the news he bears weighs heavy on his old bones.

  "The nets are full of dead fish, my Queen. Covered with film."

  "We eat sea-birds, then," she says.

  "Their numbers dwindle too, since they eat the fish."

  Rhadma sighs. "How do the Mainlanders fare?"

  "Worse, or so I've been told. The heat has been driving many to higher elevations, where the Crimson Men hold sway. Old allegiances are swiftly forgotten. There has already been bloodshed. In the city of Nuran, the people have overthrown their Philosopher-King. They seek answers to the crisis."

  Rhadma returns her gaze to the window, imagining a distant continent. "Only Siroth Hadz has the answers."

  "Aye, but your Champion, Vin, has been gone many months now. Very likely, he did not survive his journey. We must—"

  "He's alive," Rhadma says, eyes sharp. "I can feel it."

  "As you say, my Queen."

  "We'll wait until Vin returns with Siroth's counsel. Any other action would be premature. In the meantime, encourage the Wise Men to speak favorable portents. It'll calm the people."

  Qourl lowered his head again and left without further word. Rhadma waited until his shuffling feet had receded some distance, before allowing the flow of tears to sting her cheeks.

  * * *

  After an hour Vin could walk around the house with ease. Another hour and he'd tackled the garden's uneven surfaces.

  "This is kid's stuff," Muroc said, walking back from the porch. He carried two fencing foils. "Let's try something a bit more stimulating."

  "Swords?"

  "Why not? You were a great swordsman on Venus, weren't you?"

  Muroc toss
ed him a foil. Vin caught it—with his right arm. The myoelectric left, now attached, could do some amazing things. But fencing wasn't one of them. Vin got a good grip on the foil and settled into guard position.

  Muroc watched with a quizzical expression. "What's wrong, Vin?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've been out of it all morning. You'd think getting your mobility back would be, well, more exciting."

  Vin lowered the foil. "I had a dream last night."

  "Let me guess. Venus."

  "It was about Rhadma. My queen. I'm not sure how to describe it. Usually, when I have visions I'm in them. This time I was just a spectator. Venus was dying, and Rhadma close to giving birth to our child. She was ... waiting for me."

  "A dream doesn't prove anything.

  "I know that logically. It felt real enough, though."

  "You must've gotten the idea from reading those books."

  "Probably." He didn't want to argue with Muroc. But this morning, he'd woken with a sense of urgency. Before, he'd only had to worry about himself. Now there was something else; an obligation, pressing at him from a distant world. A distant time.

  Muroc whipped his foil through the air, making a whistling noise. "Put it out of your head. We're here to practice, remember?"

  "I'll try."

  "Good. En garde."

  Muroc leaned forward, left hand tucked behind his back. The tip of his foil pointed straight towards Vin's eyes. Vin copied the stance. It felt natural enough, though the weight for any thrusts he might make would have to come from the C-Leg."Go easy, now," Muroc said. "We don't have masks."

  He skipped forward and lunged for the body. Vin parried, twisting his foil clockwise. Instead of countering, he tried to take a step back. Too quick. The C-Leg's unfamiliar foot groped behind him, unable to find purchase. Vin stumbled and fell on his ass.

  "Garden's soft, I hope," Muroc said, a faint smile on his lips.

  "Nothing damaged." Vin ignored Muroc's outstretched hand. He rocked himself forward, got his right knee under him. Rose shakily, all his weight on the right foot, until he could flex the C-Leg and brace it against the turf. He stood."Excellent." Muroc resumed his guard. "And again!"Their foils wove and struck for several minutes, neither man trying anything complicated. Vin felt a sweat break out. By keeping his footwork simple, and relying on the suppleness and speed of his arm, he found he could maintain his balance easy enough.

  "You have fenced before," Muroc observed, breathing heavy. "Not sure of the style. Spanish?"

  Vin shrugged. His muscles seemed to know what to do, without having to consult his mind. In fact, the less he thought about it, the better he did. Muroc danced in, feinted high, and thrust low. Vin riposted, smacking the foil's length against his opponent's wrist. Muroc yelped.

  "I was second in my class, at Heidelberg," he said. "You must've had some extensive training."

  "Or life experiences."

  "Hmmmph."

  But Muroc didn't sound so assured as before.

  * * *

  Six days later, Muroc and Marta took Vin to a private track for running practice. He wore sunglasses and a flat tweed cap pulled low over his forehead. Despite the precautions, he felt like every one of the track's well-heeled patrons was memorizing his description for the police.

  He found he could lope around the track quickly enough. The repeated shock was hard on the socket attachment and the stump underneath. Muroc, at times holding a stopwatch and laptop computer, hummed to himself as he took notes.

  They drove back to the house in Marta's car. Muroc tossed a folder into the back seat, where Vin was toweling off sweat. The folder contained several graphs and tables, none of which were comprehensible.

  "What's this?" Vin asked.

  "Your DNA results," Muroc said. "Congratulations. You're one hundred percent human."

  "Oh." He wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or mildly disappointed.

  "On the puzzling side, I couldn't find a consistent ethnic match. According to the database, your ancestors were either from some yet-undiscovered Mediterranean offshoot or Ethiopian. Does either sound familiar to you?"

  Vin shook his head. "How does this explain my age?"

  "Longevity genes. That's all. There are many documented cases of people who look drastically younger than they're supposed to. Though I'll admit—you've got the resiliency of a twenty year-old, the way you've shrugged off those bruises. And you haven't put on much weight, either, despite all the lager and takeaways."

  Marta smirked. "The perfect bachelor."

  The car pulled into Muroc's estate. Doyle had a pot of Ceylon waiting in the kitchen, along with sandwiches. Vin figured this was as good a time as any to talk about his decision.

  "I'm leaving here, tomorrow," he said. "I'd appreciate a ride to Paddington Station."

  Dr. Muroc and Marta traded looks.

  "I don't mean to sound like an ingrate. You two have done so much for me, beyond restoring my limbs. I might've slit my wrists by now if not for your friendship. But there's some questions begging answers, and I'm not going to find them sleeping on your couch. I've got to go."

  "What about the police?" Marta said. "Dr. Dorian?"

  "I can't wait for all that to settle. Who knows how long it'll take."

  Muroc rubbed his thumb over the white goatee he'd been growing. "You escaped the mental hospital with that woman, Charlotte. Dorian might hold back mentioning you for his own reasons, but I doubt if she will. And you don't exactly blend in with a crowd."

  "London's got what, seven million people?" Vin said. "Plus, I was in a wheelchair then. They haven't seen me walking around."

  "It's still a substantial risk."

  Vin wanted to tell him he was tired of living in someone else's house, eating off someone else's plates. Tired of having minimal privacy. But that wasn't the reason he was itching to leave. Ever since the dream about Rhadma, he'd been plagued with her memory. And the memory of their child.

  If Siroth had really sent him through time and space to test his magic tunnel, then there was a chance he could go back. A one-way trip made no sense. How would Siroth know if the test was successful?

  But there was another question. By everything he'd figured so far, Vin had been on Earth for decades. Doing what? Writing pulp fantasy novels? Such a mundane existence didn't explain how he'd ended up on that lonely stretch of beach, just before he'd lost his limbs.

  He had one tangible clue left to explore: Oxford.Maybe he'd find his answers there.

  "If you're really set on going ..." Muroc rose from the table, to return a moment later with a black lacquered cane. "A parting gift."

  "Lovely." The cane had a stylized lion's head of polished brass, and a nice heft. "But with the new C-Leg, I'm not sure I need this anymore."

  "You just might. Watch."

  Muroc pressed down on the Lion's head and twisted. A hidden spring flexed; out shot a length of gleaming steel. Muroc drew the small sword with a flourish. "A gentleman's weapon. Also very illegal, so please be discrete about using it."

  Vin tried a few careful swipes with the blade before returning it to its wooden sheath. He felt better already. Complete.

  "You're a regular Adam Adamant," Muroc said, the corners of his eyes glistening.

  "Who's that?"

  "Obscure pop-culture reference. Forget I said it." Muroc turned to Marta. "We've got some goodbyes to celebrate. Let's break out that vodka your father sent me."

  * * *

  The rain was falling in sheets outside Paddington Station when Marta dropped him off. Her farewell consisted of a handshake and an impulsive kiss on the cheek. "I hate goodbyes," she'd said.

  Head pounding, Vin slipped through the commuters to the ticket queue. He wore a black raincoat, flat tweed cap and gray scarf. The brass-headed cane gave him an air of gentility, to offset the traveler's pack slung over one shoulder. Muroc had insisted he take a small hoard of lithium batteries with him, as well as a tourist's guide to Oxf
ord. His reward money was stashed in a wallet clipped to the inside of his slacks. With the raincoat on and the servos in his left arm silent, anyone would be hard-pressed to identify him as a double amputee.

  He purchased a second class ticket, figuring he'd need to stretch his money as far as possible. The passenger coaches were relatively crowded. He squeezed in next to a scarred Nigerian wearing a business suit. One row down students argued about the cause of the previous year's riots.

  Minutes later, the train lurched into movement. Rain-soaked London skyline slid by the window.

  He bought a double espresso from the passing cart. Even that couldn't banish his vodka hangover.

  * * *

  The train slowed into Oxford Station under clearing skies about an hour later. Muroc had booked him an affordable hotel, but Vin decided to wander the city for a while before checking in.

  He'd imagined Oxford as a giant campus of rolling green lawns, with an occasional thatch-roofed cottage on the periphery. The reality was far more industrial. Trucks and cars zipped by on the narrow, medieval streets. Petrol fumes laced the dank air. There were occasional patches of grass, and emerald-colored ivy growing over wrought iron, but the dominant theme was stone; crumbling, smog-stained edifices from previous centuries. He might've felt depressed, but the freedom of complete mobility was too strong.

  A brisk walk over bridges and twisting streets brought him to a circular building, topped by a dome with round windows peeking out the sides. Two artists had set up easels and were painting the structure. One of them, a woman, sat in a cumbersome wheelchair. She clenched a paintbrush between her teeth, pricking out colors on the canvas with minute strokes.

  Vin ambled over on impulse. The woman was in her twenties and had orange hair cropped short. Her left thumb twitched as she worked, perched next to a small joystick mounted on the chair's arm. Strapped to the base of the chair was a plastic jar marked 'DONATIONS,' with a few crumpled Euros and pound coins inside.

  The woman looked up and smiled around her brush. She set it down on a tray beneath the easel, using only her mouth. "Are you an aficionado of art?"

  "I suppose." Vin jerked the muscles in his left shoulder, causing his servo-arm to come whirring up. "What I'm mostly is a man making do with what he's got left."