“You say ‘to help build Haven,’” one of the other men called, from his seat. “How large do you intend to make this habitat?”
Umber spread his arms. “As large as we can. And we intend to build more habitats, to house more immigrants. Haven II is already under construction next to us. We intend to take all those who seek shelter and solace and peace into our community. There will never be an end to this endeavor; we will keep growing as long as we need to.”
“Where’s the money going to come from?”
“From generous patrons such as Mr. Waxman, here,” Umber replied. “And from others like him. God will provide, never fear.”
RAVEN MARCHESI
Sitting on the aisle seat of the auditorium’s front row—next to Quincy O’Donnell standing out in the aisle—Raven Marchesi watched and listened intently to Kyle Umber and Evan Waxman.
They’re good salesmen, she thought. Smooth and slick. Promising heaven and peace and joy. But what’s it going to cost us?
Raven always worried about the costs of life, from the time she’d been six years old in the decaying slums of Naples, within sight of the smoldering old Mt. Vesuvius, looming over her.
Her home—such as it was—had been buried in Vesuvius’s latest eruption. No one came to her neighborhood to warn the people to get out. Most of them were buried when the skies rained white-hot ashes and choking gas.
But Raven had noticed the exodus of private cars and hired buses from the high-rent condominiums on the edge of her rundown district; she followed barefoot the evacuation trail of her wealthier neighbors. She had no parents to guide her; her only warning of the coming eruption was the evacuation by the rich.
Her earliest memories were of the seedy, roach-crawling, rat-infested orphanage where she’d grown up. She’d been ten years old when she had her first period—and her first sexual experience. She quickly learned that sex was a sort of equalizer: as poor and ragged as she was, sex was the one path to money and safety open to her.
As she grew into a slim, sleek, dark-haired beauty, she learned about sex. She learned how to turn the sweaty passions of men—and women—into money and a scant measure of security.
She was nearing twenty when one of the occasional police sweeps scooped her off the streets and landed her in a dark and dismal jail. Her cell was crowded with other women: some defiant, some bitter and hopeless, some offering themselves to the prison guards. She almost laughed at the irony of it. I’m back among the rats and the filth, she told herself. Back where I started.
To her surprise, the next morning she was taken by a pair of guards from her overcrowded cell to a tiny office several levels above the cellblock. The cramped little room had a single slit of a window, set too high in the wall for Raven to see the street. Nothing out there but a jumble of slanted rooftops. Bright warm sunshine made the sky glow.
A dumpy, overweight woman in a starched white blouse and dull gray skirt came in and sat behind the table that took up almost all the room’s floor space. The table was bare except for a hand-sized notebook computer. A stiff wooden chair stood empty in front of the table. On the stone wall behind the table a large round clock silently showed the time flowing by: almost 10:00 A.M.
“Sit,” said the woman, in a voice like a cobra’s hiss.
Raven sat. Her stomach rumbled slightly; she’d had nothing to eat except a candy bar the night before.
The woman flicked her computer open and, without looking up, asked in Tuscan dialect, “Your name?”
Noting that the woman’s fingers bore no rings, Raven replied, “Raven Marchesi, signorina.”
The woman looked up at Raven, her brow cocked. In English she said, “Let’s leave my marital status out of this, Miss Marchesi.”
Raven nodded and replied in barely accented English, “Very well.”
Continuing in English, the interviewer asked, “Your occupation?”
Raven shrugged. “Sex therapist.”
The woman said to her computer, “Whore.”
“No!” Raven protested. “I—”
“A sex therapist?” The woman scoffed. “Where did you get your degree?”
“I’ve been trying to save enough money for the classes, but—”
“Shut up! You’re a whore and we both know it.”
Raven glowered at her but said nothing.
The woman went through a series of questions, almost automatically. Just as mechanically, Raven gave answers—some of them the truth, the rest fables from her imagination.
At last the woman closed her notebook and studied Raven’s face for long, silent moments. The clock’s second hand swung silently.
“The police can hold you here for twenty-four hours, then they are required to turn you loose. Is that what you want?”
“Of course.”
With a bitter smile, the woman said, “You won’t get much sleep during those twenty-four hours.”
Raven shrugged her slim shoulders. “It won’t be the first time.”
“I can offer you something better.”
“Sex with you?” Raven sneered.
The woman seemed shocked, repelled. “Sex? With you? Good lord, no!”
“You might like it,” Raven said.
Looking halfway between disgusted and ashamed, the woman said sternly, “I am empowered to invite you to join a journey to a space habitat named Haven, orbiting the planet Uranus. It will be a one-way journey; you will spend the rest of your life there. Not as a prisoner or a convict. Haven is a self-sufficient community for the poor and disadvantaged. You can start a new life there. A better life.”
The woman spoke for more than twenty minutes, nonstop, promoting the advantages of the Haven habitat. After ten of those minutes, Raven was ready to sign up and start a new life.
She made up her mind when the woman told Raven that during the flight out to the distant planet, she would undergo medical procedures that would cleanse her of any narcotics or disease organisms her body housed.
“You’ll arrive at Uranus clean and healthy,” the woman promised, “ready to begin a better life. A new beginning for you.”
A new beginning, Raven said to herself. A new, clean life. It might even be true.
A NEW HOME
Now, seven weeks later and billions of kilometers from Naples, Raven sat in Haven’s auditorium and studied Kyle Umber and Evan Waxman as they explained about the world they had created here at the cold, dark end of the solar system.
The Reverend Kyle Umber, she said to herself. He doesn’t look like a priest. Doesn’t act much like one, either. She had known her share of priests back in Naples. Some were furtive, haunted. Others were haughty, self-important, even sadistic. Umber looked like a pleasant-enough man, smiling, friendly. But Raven thought she detected a hard shell beneath his amiable exterior.
The man is dedicated, she decided. Driven to build this new paradise far from the filth and indecencies of old Earth. Behind his smiling eyes was a dedication, a mission, an inflexible drive to make his vision into reality.
Not him, she decided.
She turned her chestnut-brown eyes to Evan Waxman. Tall, graceful, rich. Good smile, the kind of smile that comes from never having to worry about where your next meal might come from, or where you can spend the night. Successful, she realized. Clever enough to be born to incredibly wealthy parents.