Kismet

by Watts Martin

  “Mmm. If you’re going to speak about mom, you’re going to have to know not just what it was like for her to be your mother, but what it was like for her to be an activist.” She picks up a tablet from the end table and starts tapping on it. “So you’re going to watch this with me.”

  “What, we have home videos?”

  “No, but we have public appearances. This is one I’ve watched…I don’t know how many times. I don’t even know how I came across it when I lived on Earth, but I saw it when I was eleven.”

  A rectangular part of the wall they’re facing darkens, then brightens again as the video starts.

  “I know this show,” Gail says after a moment. “‘Crosstalk.’ It’s still being produced. I hate it.”

  “Shush.”

  She does hate it. It’s less an interview show than the host and a panel of three other people arguing about a timely topic. Of course, on this video it’s a different host, a cisform woman who looks Spanish or Mexican. Not a New Coyoacán connection, though; the show’s from Panorica. Two of the three panelists are totemics, full transforms—

  One of them is Gail’s mother.

  At first it’s like seeing a slightly younger version of herself: rat woman, about the same build, about the same height. Darker hair, more of a honey blonde. Longer.

  The host introduces everyone, then the panel topic: the RTEA and its “controversial” tactics. When Judith launches into a casual but practiced response, Gail realizes it’s one she recognizes. Not word for word, but she’s heard it. She might have heard a version of it just before her mother was killed. She shivers.

  And Sky was right: it’s not the fiery speech of a mad bomber. It’s all careful, acceptable, non-confrontational language. Yes, everyone has the same rights, and as insightful as it might be that rights aren’t granted by a state, if you take the state out of the equation what happens? A state can use brute force to police rights, but on the River we can’t. We have to use education and demonstration. In the long run, our way’s more effective because it’s about changing attitudes.

  Gail figures the one who’s going to speak against her—on Crosstalk, that’s the whole point—will be the cisform guest, but it isn’t. It’s the other totemic. She thinks he’s a horse. He’s got a kind of creepy-looking biomod job; equines are hard to do well. “That’s what you say, but it’s not what you do. You’re just appropriating the use of force for yourself. The whole premise of your group’s actions is extortion: give us what we want, or we’ll make your life difficult. We’ll scare away your customers, we’ll block access to your business, we’ll vilify you in the media.” Scattered audience clapping. “How is that any different from a protection racket?”

  “This is one of the things I find fascinating and frustrating about the River,” the cisform cuts in. He’s got grey hair, looks like he’s in his sixties; he was introduced as a famous novelist from the United States, although Gail has never heard of him. “You take some very noble, worthwhile ideas—like this strong stance against coercion—and apply them with no sense of proportion.”

  The horse splutters, but the host holds up her hand. “What do you mean, John?”

  “Well, take the argument that taxation is theft. I hear that out here so much. It’s taken as a given, like water is wet. Theft is obviously coercive, and taxation is obviously coercive, so they must be the same. But in every other detail—implementation, risk, individual cost, intended benefit—they’re nothing alike. It’s like saying a cat is a mammal, a dog is a mammal, therefore a cat is a dog. Our friend here,” he gestures at the horse (who snorts), “and I think he’s like a lot of the River’s founders, wants to argue that coercion renders everything else irrelevant.”

  “They’re not identical, but they’re still on the same continuum.”

  Judith spreads her hands, in a gesture very similar to the one Gail makes when she’s making a point. “If you ask my daughter, telling her to eat her vegetables is coercive.”

  The host laughs, along with some of the audience. Sky glances in Gail’s direction with a smirk. Gail’s ears lower. Oh God, she’s an example.

  She goes on. “But we don’t really consider that coercion, right? Because we don’t want our moral code to be something you can reduce down to ‘never make somebody do something they don’t want to.’ Sometimes the right thing to do is something you don’t want to do. And if we say, ‘oh, if it’s even slightly coercive we can’t do it, end of discussion,’ that makes us have to rationalize really stupid positions in the name of consistency. We can argue about which side of the line things like taxation and mandatory insurance are on, but only idiots would argue that ‘give me all your money or I’ll kill you’ and ‘eat your vegetables or you’re grounded’ are on the same side. Idiots and political theorists, I guess.”

  The laughter makes Horse scowl more deeply. “But that’s not what we’re talking about with the RTEA, we’re talking about you stirring up mobs to bring pressure on people you don’t like. We’re talking about you potentially putting people out of business or even putting them in harm’s way.”

  Judith remains unruffled but firm. “No, we’re talking about forcing—and yes, I’ll own that word—forcing people to face how their attitudes affect others. You may technically have a right to discriminate against me, but I damn well have a right to let everyone know that’s not acceptable.”

  “But you don’t have any right to force me to stop.”

  “Me saying things you don’t want to hear isn’t coercion. Me saying things you don’t want other people to hear because they might agree with me and stop agreeing with you isn’t coercion, either, even if it makes you feel threatened. Don’t try and argue that me holding a protest rally is functionally the same as me holding a gun on you. It just isn’t.”

  The cisform cuts in. “You’ve been attacked before physically, haven’t you?”

  “Regularly.” She laughs. “Three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, broken foot, bruises in places I didn’t know I had.”

  The horse crosses his arms. “No one’s defending that kind of behavior. But we have to defend people’s freedom to express unpopular thoughts.”

  “These aren’t just thoughts. They’re actions. We’re being denied housing and jobs and credit. You’re telling me that I shouldn’t make anyone feel threatened or uncomfortable, because that’s interfering with their right to discriminate.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Yes, it is. Look. If you spin this story to make us into the aggressors, that makes the other side into victims. When they shut us down, when they meet our protests with actual violence, they’re just defending themselves, right?” She spreads her hands. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the kind of people we should be. That’s drawing the line between coercion and non-coercion in the wrong place.”

  Most—well, at least half—of the audience applauds. “I think Judith just told you to eat your vegetables,” the host says to the horse. His snort gets drowned out by laughter.

  Gail smiles a little at Sky. “Maybe I should be taking notes.” She means it to sound lighter than it does.

  “Maybe,” Sky agrees.

  Gail sighs, leaning back against the wolf. Sky puts her arm around the rat’s shoulder as they keep watching.

  Chapter 16

  This time when she wakes up on Sky’s sofa she’s disoriented because it doesn’t feel strange. Getting used to couch-crashing with her sister? No. Tomorrow she’s going back to the hotel.

  Instead of waking to the scent of coffee, though, she’s waking to the sound of Sky arguing. Gail can only hear her sister’s side of the conversation, so the wolf must be using an earpiece.

  “Warrants from the PFS only apply to Panorica. Here you need—”

  Gail sits up, rubbing her eyes. Sky’s pacing in the kitchen, tail bristled.

  “I don’t care what you call it, Captain Taylor. You know full well you wouldn’t allow me to execute a raid on—”

  Sky’s l
ips pull back in a silent snarl. Gail stands and pads over toward her.

  “I don’t care if you call it a raid or a recovery operation or a fucking hula dance, you’re going to show us the respect you’d expect—you’d demand—from us if we were operating in your jurisdiction. You will go to the RJC building right now, you will wait for me, and everyone will tell me you’ve been on your best behavior, or I will personally send you back to Panorica by railgun.” She stabs her viewcard hard enough to flex it, cutting off the call.

  “So, good morning.” Gail forces her voice into exaggerated humor.

  “Somewhere, I’m sure.” She pulls the speaker clip off her ear and tosses it onto the dining table. “Taylor showed up at your hotel room trying to take the damn databox back. Again.”

  Oh, God. If it goes back with him she’s screwed seven ways to Neptune. “He can’t just—Jack wouldn’t give it to him just like that!”

  “He couldn’t even if he wanted to, since it’s not in your hotel room. Karen took it back to the RJC office. All Taylor’s done is make Agent Thomas more annoyed with him, and probably scared the hell out of Ansel.”

  Good. Not that getting it back from the RJC will be any easier than getting it back from the PFS, but there’s a much higher chance she can start gluing her life back together this way. “So you said he came back with a warrant from Panorica? How’d he even get back here this fast?”

  “I don’t think he ever left, he just waited here for new orders. And it’s not even a warrant, it’s ‘authorization for an out of jurisdiction investigation.’” She makes the air quotes with her claws. “Permission from the PFS to take any action he deems reasonable, as long as it doesn’t compromise our property rights. Which they don’t fully recognize.”

  “So he’s claiming permission to do anything, basically. Terrific.”

  Sky growls. “I wasn’t planning on leaving for the RJC quite yet, but I’m going to have to leave immediately. The tribunal representatives from Quanta Biotechnics and Keces Industries should be here by ten, and you should be there, too.”

  Gail’s ears skew. “Why? I’m not on the tribunal, right?”

  “No. I’m representing both you and the Ring, unless Karen decides that’s a conflict. But there might be questions for you, Ansel and Jack as we set the scope. You’ll also need to be at the tribunal itself, of course.”

  “Of course. Uh, okay.” She glances at the clock. That early? She’s so looking forward to getting back to a late to bed, late to rise sleeping schedule. “I’ll catch up with you in three hours. Maybe I’ll try and meet Ansel for coffee somewhere.”

  Ansel meets Gail at a Magnolia Café a few blocks from the Ring Judicial Cooperative building. She knows she was in this neighborhood a few times when she lived here, but she doesn’t remember it being this nice. It’s as urban and crowded as New Coyoacán gets, and she’s still debating with herself about how normal this does—or doesn’t—feel.

  “So is dealing with the PFS always like this?” Ansel hands her one of the cups of coffee he’s holding. She can’t imagine it’s up to his standards, but so far he hasn’t commented.

  “Hey, you live on Panorica, not me. Before now the most I’ve done with them is defend a salvage claim or two. But I think they’re like any fully private judiciary. You’re paying for them to do whatever they can to get the upper hand.”

  “Yes, but I don’t pay my own judiciary to advocate against me. Anywhere but Panorica, Quanta or Keces would have to spend a lot to do this. Well, anywhere but Panorica and here.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’re both paying a lot to pick up where the PFS is leaving off.”

  He sighs. “Thanks for that ray of beautiful starlight.”

  She chuckles. They finish muffins in silence, then head back out.

  “I can’t get over the way the city here mixes in so much greenspace.” Ansel waves around. “They plant bushes down the middle of the street. There’s grass and trees everywhere.”

  “When I moved to Panorica, it seemed like you kept the grass and trees in little boxes. City all on one side of a giant cylinder, all the fields and industry on the other, hard lines between them, no countryside.”

  “As God intended.”

  Like the buildings closer to the spaceport, the ones here are mostly stone and glass. The RJC’s office makes their devotion to transparency painfully literal: the front is entirely see-through. You have to look close to see the translucent framing, to tell it’s not just one pane two stories high and sixty or seventy meters long. You can see into offices, into conference rooms, into the café. It has to be acutely uncomfortable to work there. Maybe it’s a deliberate way to select people who have the temperament for it.

  Ansel stares as they get close. “Surely their walls aren’t glass.”

  “Transparent aluminum, maybe. I’m sure you can’t just break in by throwing rocks.”

  “Still, that’s awfully trusting. I can’t imagine the PFS ever doing this.”

  “No, but I can’t imagine Captain Spitty smiling and waving to people and having them smile and wave back.”

  The reception area’s pleasant, polished beige concrete floors coated for claws, pale green walls, totemic-friendly couches. A few people mill about, but nobody she recognizes.

  The receptionist—guard?—at the desk is a cisform man, who looks up at Ansel and Gail as they approach, down at his screen, then back up at them. “Good morning, Ms. Simmons. I’ll let your sister know you’re here.”

  “Thanks.”

  After about a minute someone who isn’t Sky walks through an open doorway behind the desk: Karen Dupree, the rabbit woman from their first encounter with Spitty. Somehow Gail had gotten the impression of her being close to the age her mother would have been, but she looks like she’s only a year or two older than Sky. Unlike most—well, maybe two-thirds—of totemics, she doesn’t have human-style hair; there’s an eternal background debate in the community as to whether that’s more “true” to the animal nature. In practice, it’s usually aesthetic preference.

  “Ms. Simmons, Mr. Santara. It’s nice to see you again. Sky’s still in a meeting with Captain Taylor and other PFS officers, but she’s expecting to be able to let you in when the others arrive.”

  To be able to let them in? She can let them in now, unless there’s conversation happening she doesn’t want them to know about. More likely it’s Captain Spitty who doesn’t. Since violating protocol didn’t pay off, he’s probably standing on every millimeter of it he can right now. “People from Quanta and Keces?”

  “Keces is on their way. Quanta may only join us by video. If at all.” She makes a disdainful chuff noise. “So far the extent of their response has been a statement that, if I remember their phrasing, ‘strongly rejects the ridiculous accusation that Quanta Biotechnics has been involved in the criminal activity we reported to Interpol ourselves.’”

  Put that way, it is a ridiculous accusation. She wonders if that’s one of the holes in the story Jack wants to fill.

  “If you’d like to take a seat, it should just be a few minutes.” Dupree gestures at the back wall. “We have coffee if you’d like a refill.”

  “Thanks.” Gail heads to the nearest couch, sprawling across it. “I remember being in this room before, long ago. When I was twelve.”

  The rabbit gives her a smile. “I remember that, too.” She steps back through the door.

  Gail blinks, straightening up and looking after her. Dupree—Karen—has been working here that long? The woman who played cards with her to keep her entertained while Sky was in another room, being told that their father couldn’t be found—that woman had been a rabbit, hadn’t she?

  Ansel walks up to the outer wall/window, looking out on the street. “There’s no way to adjust the transparency?”

  She shakes her head. “Not for us.”

  He pokes at the glass with his claws a couple times, then gives up the investigation and heads to the far interior wall, sliding his cof
fee cup into the dispenser and letting it fill back up. When he gives it a sniff he makes a sour face.

  It’s only another ten minutes before Dupree comes back yet again, still longer than Gail had been expecting. “They should be arriving now. We can meet them at the elevator.”

  They get up—Ansel still has the coffee cup, so it couldn’t have been that bad—and walk back toward the elevator foyer. When Gail sees who’s there, though, she stops stone cold mid-step.

  Jason Nakimura turns toward her and lifts his brows, as if he’s just as surprised to see her as she is to see him.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the bionic rat girl.” She’d been so stuck on Nakimura she hadn’t even noticed Suspicious Detective standing behind him, still in his overcoat, although he’s at least lost the tie. This day gets better and better.

  “Ms. Simmons.” Nakimura returns to his customary stoic expression and inclines his head. “I hadn’t been told to expect your presence, but I suppose I can’t say I’m shocked by it.”

  The rabbit woman presses the elevator call button. “This way.”

  “You’re the one they sent for Bright Sky’s tribunal, huh?” Gail follows along, but keeps her eyes on Nakimura.

  “Who is this?” Ansel murmurs.

  “Ms. Sky demanded the presence of a representative from Keces. Given that I’m the most familiar with the circumstances of this case, it’s logical that I be that representative.” They step into the elevator.

  While she’s pretty sure he was answering her, Ansel nods in understanding. Then the fox’s eyes narrow. “He’s the one who got you into all this?”

  Suspicious Detective snorts. “She’s the one who got her into all this.”

  “No, Randall Corbett is the guy who got me into all this. You know, the guy you saw me tackle at the spaceport, the one who was actually carrying the databox you accused me of stealing. Has it seriously not sunk in yet that everything I’ve told you and your boss has been the truth? Or are you just sulking because you got punched out by a rat lady?”