“An allegation can be enough to ruin a man’s social and professional standing,” Puddeck was meanwhile gleefully telling Brandon. He playfully punched the young man in the shoulder. “Today she may blow you, a year from now she may conclude she was talked into it, which is to say, she was sexually coerced. Today you may kiss her without explicit permission, twenty years from now she may conclude she felt ashamed and demeaned, which is to say, she was sexually assaulted.” He gave Brandon a conspiratorial wink. “If you want to be safe, have an affirmative-consent protocol set in place. And videotape the sex act in case you need to rebut any false allegations that may materialize later.”
The young man looked at him dimly, not caring to peel back the layer of dark humor and get to the bottom of what Puddeck was trying to tell him.
“It’s brilliant, really,” Puddeck chortled. “Feminists went after the one group of people wired to protect and to suck it up: men. They take this very trait of manhood and exploit it to the hilt, pun intended. Men can’t win this one. As it is argued: A man more educated or have a higher-status job than a woman? ‘Privileged!’ A man less educated than a woman or has a lowly position? ‘Loser!’ A man offers to protect a woman? ‘Benevolent sexist!’ A man proclaims he won’t protect women? ‘Misogynist!’
“Feminist attack dogs will shame a man if he gripes loudly about being physically assaulted by his spouse, feeling deep inadequacy as a provider, being imprisoned longer for the same crimes, being a potential subject of draft in times of war, and the presumption of his innocence being undermined. A man will draw scorn from female chauvinists if he loudly moans about male-bashing male-shaming male-jeering in the media, higher numbers of fatalities on the job, higher rates of homelessness, higher suicide rates, higher school expulsion rates, discriminatory custody and domestic-violence court rulings, or hiring policies that favor females. But female activists need not bother. Other men will demand the complainer to man up, namely, shut up and take it on the chin. As I said, brilliant. You see, women can be viewed as victims without the loss of social standing. However, practically by definition, men cannot, as nothing unman them more than having a victim identity associated with their manhood.”
Brandon was sullen. “I have done nothing wrong. Anyway, in New Mexico, the age of consent is seventeen, and she is a few months after—”
“Ready?” Aratta’s voice suddenly came from behind.
“As I ever going to be,” said Puddeck mournfully. “But then again, I guess all bad things must come to an end.”
Aratta glanced at the wall. “The clock is about to strike midnight,” he murmured, “and the carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin.” He shut his eyes then opened them. He took a deep breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would,” he called out, “please join us in the main drawing room.”
He waited until all the remaining guests filed in, about two dozen in all. Puddeck and Rafirre joined him and stood by his side.
“What’s up?” one guest asked.
“The party,” said Aratta, “is over.”
He clapped once. And one of the walls dissolved.
People cried out in shock.
Cool air blasted into the room from the other side of the rift, and they could make out gray skies with dark ocean waves afar.
“My name,” he said. He waited for the cries and exclamations to die down. “My name is Aratta’Gwa’Nar, Lord Aratta’Gwa’Nar. And I first took residence on Earth in 1543.”
Stunned silence—but for the sound of remote pounding of the surf, a world distance away.
“I assumed the role of a monitor on Earth with the hope this moment would not come.” He surveyed the dazed, pale faces. “Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. One can never quite tell the path humanity will take on any given planet.”
Aratta stood motionless, his back to the chilly wind, which stirred some of the curtains in the drawing room.
“The future is not cast in stone,” Aratta declared. “But I can state one thing with certainty. Today is the day that will be remembered as a turning point. The dividing line in your history. Today will be remembered as the great wake-up call.
“If you wish to hear the rest of it in person, step through this portal. Otherwise, you may listen to it like everyone else: on your television screens, radios, and the Internet.”
“What’s awaiting on the other side of this gateway?” called out Galecki in a voice gone hoarse.
“A god,” replied Aratta. “If you can’t muster respect, exercise caution.”
He inclined his head and vanished along with his two companions.
Chapter 30
Bering, Commander Islands, Earth
Under cloudy sky and chilly wind, a dozen party guests staggered through the gateway at Lee’s villa onto a small coastal strip of gray sand, moss-green vegetation, and steep bluffs strewn with patches of fog.
The Earth people looked about, nervous and watchful.
“Do you see anyone?” asked Susan in a shrill, high voice. More shrill than high.
Galecki motioned to a far-off solitary figure seated on a park bench.
Warily, slowly, the small party approached the figure who, up close, appeared to be that of an elderly man wearing a double-breasted overcoat and a charcoal-gray fedora. From under bushy, white-gray eyebrows, he glanced at them before returning his gaze to the surf. A single murre bird darted about, seemingly oblivious to the approaching group.
The seated old man casually gestured, and a few park benches materialized next to him. There was no explicit invitation, but the intent was clear enough.
Galecki licked his lips, uneasy. He watched the faces around him and saw fear, hesitancy, and anxiety reflected back at him. Galecki wasn’t sure how to address a god. Until a few minutes ago, he’d not even thought there was anything sentient aside from humans. His heart pounded in his chest. “Are we”—he cleared his throat—“are we still on…Earth?”
“Yes,” the figure said, still peering at the ocean. “Somewhere between Alaska and Russia, at the very tail end of the Aleutian Islands.” He glanced over the group as they tentatively sat, crowding the benches. “You may address me as Fat Frank,” he said, and a moment later he was staring again at the forlorn coast.
He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “You know, there are two benches at this very spot on a parallel planet. In that other world, people come here to observe the large marine beasts.” The corners of his mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. “Those large marine mammals live in family units. Males and females usually travel together, pushing the offspring before them. With their bristle-like limbs, they scrape off seaweed from the rocks and munch on it.”
The Earth people exchanged questioning glances.
“Imagine manatee-like mammals,” the mysterious figure offered by way of explanation. “But even more massive than killer whales,” he added. “Their gnarled hides are like an ancient dark corkwood, atop of which seagulls oftentimes perch. Moving first one foot and then the other, they half-swim, half-walk in the shallow waters, keeping their heads under for a few minutes at a time. When they wish to snooze, they turn over and allow themselves to drift and bob in the water.” He chuckled. Susan, Heather, and a few others smiled uncertainly. Galecki remained tense, waiting.
The smile of the figure in fedora faded.
“To serve an insatiable Chinese demand for fine furs, some Russians and local Kamchadals banded together to hunt as many of the marine mammals in the area as they could.” He fixed them with an inscrutable look before turning back to the midnight-blue waters.
“The year was 1741,” he continued. “This was when the Europeans chanced upon a few thousand of these gentle, large beasts in what was apparently their last stronghold on your planet: the Commander Islands. Here.” His expression clouded.
“Word of their appealing taste spread through t
he sailing community,” he said. “And for about twenty-five years, your people slaughtered and ate them. That was the final blow. It has been a long time coming, what with the earlier exploitation of sea otters and the subsequent kelp forest collapse—the primary food source of those large mammals.”
His voice was bleak. “By the summer of 1768, so few of them were left that it was almost not worth the trouble. Yet your people persisted and spotted them foraging along the coast. It was right at this cove here.” He motioned. “This is when and where they finished them off. As far as we can ascertain, that was the very last herd on Earth.”
He massaged his temples, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Some of the Terraneans were looking at him wide-eyed, others staring down at the ground. No one cared to study the dark, foaming water and the booming surf, where the tragic event had played out over two centuries past.
“A man with a harpoon stood at the front of the boat,” he said and his eyes blazed. “Once he struck, two dozen others jumped and pummeled the sea cow with repeated blows that wore it out. Then they dragged it ashore. Great pieces of its body were cut while it was still alive and conscious. The giant manatee would sigh but otherwise uttered no sound. As long as it kept its head underwater, the blood was contained. Other members of the herd endeavored to assist it. Some tried to upset the boat of the humans; some bore down upon the rope, seeking to tear it; some attempted to extract the hook from the back of their wounded comrade with strikes of their tails.
“When a female was caught, her mate, after trying with all his strength to free her, followed her to the shore, enduring the many blows dealt by the humans. Some were seen by the sides of their dead companions for days afterward.”
None of the Earth people could think of anything to say. They were tense, unconsciously taking comfort in their proximity to one another and hunching down in the chilly northerly air. There was a reason he was recounting this sordid tale from their common past. The situation had an ominous feel.
Fat Frank took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Did you know that the Gulf of Mexico once sported hundreds of thousands of Caribbean monk seals? That its water once teemed with tens of millions of green turtles? That its islands contained unique primates? Just as it took place here, in the Commander Islands, it took place in the Gulf of Mexico.” He fixed them with a cool glance under heavy eyebrows. “Over one thousand years ago, you people settled the island of Jamaica and transformed Bluefields Bay from a clear, free-circulating seagrass habitat to a muddy mangrove. At about the same time, another group of your people settled the island of Iceland, and their lust for ivory drove the Icelandic walrus to extinction. What took place in those locales took place elsewhere too.
“Once upon a time, the waters of New Zealand hosted upward of thirty thousand southern right whales and millions of seals.” His voice was wistful and soft. “Once, the shores of Queensland sported countless dugongs, forming miles-long columns along the coastline. Once, San Francisco Bay knew white sturgeons up to twenty feet in length.” He grimaced. “Those days disappeared with the arrival of the bad days, which later gave way to worse days.”
Fat Frank chuckled humorlessly. “But you know all that, don’t you?” He regarded them, hands jammed in the pockets of his overcoat.
“During the steamship era, your great granddaddies shoveled over the rail countless tons of burnt coal. The Nature Survey Group has located on the ocean floors anything from sarin gas canisters and mortar bombs to furniture parts and medicine bottles.”
The older-looking man studied the small band of Earth people, a look of faint disgust on his face. “Oh, you’re chips off the old block all right,” he said harshly, and they looked away from the set glare of his eyes. “The most common trash we found in the Mediterranean Sea floor was aluminum cans of soft drinks and beer. In the Bay of Fundy, we counted close to two million pieces of junk littering its bottom, from plastic bags to tires.” His frown deepened. “During your lifetime, trillions of microplastics have made their way into the San Francisco Bay.” Fat Frank looked at each person in turn with open disdain. “Your plastic garbage is everywhere. Some of the stuff you’ve dumped in the ocean washed ashore the remote Cocos Islands. We found there over four hundred million pieces of trash. This included close to one million flip-flops.” He sighed. “Along with about half a million dead hermit crabs—trapped in the plastic debris.”
The Earth people said nothing.
He heaved himself to his feet. “This little encounter of ours here has been transmitting on every channel.” For the first time, he gazed straight into one of the hidden cameras, addressing the hundreds of millions of viewers. “Terraneans, a hearing about your future and about the future of this planet will commence in about ten minutes in the grassland steppe of Mongolia.
“Between now and then, I invite you, people of this world, to stand alongside me in memory of all that was. And all that could have been.
“Between now and then, I shut off the engine of your world—powering down all your electric generators and power stations throughout,” he said, made a fist, and it was done: the world plunged into darkness.
The figure in the fedora went still as if carved from stone.
Ten minutes later, Fat Frank disappeared from Earth. At that moment, the small group found itself back in New Mexico, standing in front of a large TV. On the screen, figures gathered on a vast stretch of grassland.
Somewhere in the Grassland Steppe, Mongolia, the Netherworld
An embroidered dark canvas stretched by widely spaced wooden poles delineated a large grassy clearing where the hearing was to take place. For the first session, all were in attendance: the many hundreds of team members of both the nature and man-made survey groups. Based out of the Earth’s netherworld, they had completed their vast research and data collection in secrecy. Their work was now at an end. The curtain was rising.
“Make way! Make way!” intoned a portly man in ornate garb, his voice amplified by speakers placed throughout. He struck down with a large staff and led the way. The chatting and whispers died down, all eyes turning to focus on the procession of seven elders, who walked silently behind the master of ceremonies. Wearing dark forest-green robes with intricate markings, they were the commissioners: the adjudicators whose verdict was to determine the future course of planet Earth. They stepped toward the elevated platform, the only sound in the clearing the snap of fabric in the wind.
They took their seats, and everyone rose.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” called out the master of ceremonies in a baritone voice. “Their Excellencies, the seven members of the hearing, are now in attendance.”
The assembled people bowed.
“The first session of the hearing on the matter of Earth is hereby convened.”
Everyone sat down, and the portly man swiftly withdrew.
The presiding chair of the commission rapped with the ceremonial hammer once. He then looked up. “We have here a motion to fast track the hearing by the Survey Group to the Man-Made World.”
The presiding chair was an elderly black man with long white sideburns and intelligent electric-green eyes. He was in his seventies and had been serving as a commissioner for the past eighteen years. Along with the other commissioners, he had arrived on Earth the day before, fresh from another hearing. The seven of them had first heard of Earth a few weeks earlier, when the case had been added to their dockets.
A single figure rose up. “Yes, Your Grace.” It was the head of the Survey Group to the Man-Made World who responded: Rafirre. Being the director of that group has also made him the Chief Examiner. He quietly regarded the seven robed figures. Each of the commissioners was seated cross-legged on a small, circular wooden pedestal high enough so that they were at an eye level with him as he made his way and came to a stop in front of a lectern.
“Overpopulation is cited as one of the reasons for the request,” st
ated the presiding chair.
“Your Graces, we are less concerned with the one million people added every few days to the planet,” answered the Chief Examiner, “and more concerned with every day that passes, when over seven-thousand million of them wake up and head out into the world, consuming its resources. We feel time is of the essence.”
“So noted,” said the presiding chair. “Going forward, what are we looking at?”
“Our medium projection is close to ten billion humans on this planet by 2050.”
Ten billion. The seven commissioners were bemused. Never before had the commission dealt with a world population that exceeded two billion.
“Well then,” said one of them, “why don’t they have fewer children and reverse the trend?”
“Some do. Some do not. And the individual choices have little to do with concerns over the biosphere. For one reason or another, in the coming decades, Earth people will swell their ranks by thousands of millions of consumers, each with substantial lifetime needs and an unquenchable appetite for material goods.
“Your Graces, I can but state the obvious. Given the fixed surface area of Earth and the fixed amount of solar radiation reaching it at any given moment, the volume of plant matter is capped. In turn, this sets a cap on the number of animals that can graze and in turn on the number of predators that feed on the herbivores. It’s not complicated. The more people placed on the game board—accompanied by the supporting rice paddies, tree plantations, wheat fields, hog farms, cotton fields—the less room there is for other animals, which rely on the same underlying resources.” He spread his hands in a gesture of inevitability. “Within a living system with finite production capacities, it has always been a matter of what people indirectly force out of existence and what is an acceptable degree of environmental impoverishment.”
“So noted.”
“Needless to say, their population figures and their ‘enough-is-never-really-enough’ consumer mindset are the great multipliers of their activities, extractions, and consumption.
The Earth Hearing Page 32
