by Sean O'Brien
Jene knew she had caused a major breach of etiquette by insulting him, but she could not bring herself to utter an apology. She was not sorry, and all Ship’s unspoken rules of politeness could not make her say she was.
* * *
The shuttle trip to the central core was uneventful and brief. She knew that the Council Chambers were located behind the sunrod on one end of the core, though she did not know if it was the front or the back of Ship. She also knew that the Panoptikon was located in the core. The thought took her back to the last time she had visited the core fourteen years ago. She had gone to listen to her grandfather argue, one last time, for the Council to return to the ground-level and govern from there.
“You have operated in this chamber for a year now,” she remembered him saying, “and in that time, you have moved the constabulary up here and increased its staff from three officers to thirty-one. Why?”
Jene had not listened to the Council’s answer—she had been only twelve years old and had venerated her grandfather. The argument soon left her behind as her grandfather and the Council argued esoteric points she could not follow. Only one thing had struck her. Towards the end, when it was clear the Council was not going to move, her grandfather had said, “This Council and its Panoptikon will begin the end of the happy egalitarian paradise we have enjoyed for nearly ninety years. I am glad I will not be alive to suffer through what you have done.”
He had died a few weeks later. Jene had looked up the word “Panoptikon” – the all seeing watchtower – and had taken to using it as a tribute to her grandfather whenever she referred to the constabulary. The word had taken root and was now the common term for the police facility.
Jene wiped her eyes as the shuttle entered the tiny port within the sunrod’s housing. The craft’s polarized windows cleared instantly when the shuttle passed the outer ring of the sunrod and was, effectively, behind the sun. It was early evening, and although the sunrod was dim, at such close range the mammoth banks of light would still blind.
The queer sensation of weightlessness had not suited her fourteen years ago, nor did it now. She debarked from the shuttle and entered the Council antechamber in ill humor, to find Sorensen there, waiting for her. His oyster-white uniform blended in almost completely with the white simulated-marble interior. For a split second, Jene imagined him as a disembodied face floating in the room.
“On time,” he mumbled.
“Let’s get this started so I can get back home.”
Sorensen shrugged and pushed off the wall where he had been hovering. Jene followed, clumsily. Sorensen opened an irising door and entered a larger room. Jene collided with the wall near the door and had to scrape her way towards the opening. She fumbled her way into the Council Chamber and gasped.
Almost the entire chamber was glass: she could see the expanse of Ship from her vantage point. The mere turning of her head was enough to survey her entire world. She could easily make out people, livestock, machinery, everything.
“Breathtaking, is it not?” one of the Councilmen said pleasantly, swimming gracefully over to her. “I find myself looking down all the time.”
Jene knew the voice. It was Benj Arnson, de facto head of the Council. His had been the hand behind the changes in Ship. He was a Gen Three, and a young one at that—only some twenty years older than Jene. He floated next to her, to all appearances completely at ease in the weightless environment. He wore the same jumpsuit-uniform as the others, but something about his bearing gave his suit a military appearance.
“I imagine so.” Jene tore her eyes from the ground below and looked at Arnson. “Perhaps you should visit us down there, Councilman.”
It was a credit to the man that he managed to smile disarmingly at the barb. He spent most of his time in the central core now, as did many of the Council. “Well. I am glad you decided to visit us, Doctor. But I am sure you would like to know why we have invited you here. If you’d like to start, please,” he indicated the rest of the Council, and began introductions. They weren’t necessary—Jene knew all five Councilmembers, as did the entire Ship. But Arnson was nothing if not smooth.
“Councilmembers, this is Doctor Jene Halfner, director of medicine at Balgeti Hospital. You may recall her grandfather, Orson Halfner, who worked with Ship’s Council until his death some years ago.”
Jene started at the comment. Her grandfather had not worked with the Council—he had opposed virtually every new program they had put forward. It was a desecration of his memory to remark on a collaboration that had never existed. Jene suddenly felt ashamed she had accepted the invitation to come here.
Arnson addressed the rest of the Council, who were hovering near what must have been their personal stations. Jene saw electronic clipboards floating near the Councilmembers. “No doubt Doctor Halfner wishes us to conduct our business with her quickly, so let us begin. Doctor Halfner,” Arnson said, pivoting in air to face her, “I understand there was a birth today.”
“Yes. Ute and Howard. They had a daughter.”
“Ah. Good. Always a pleasure to introduce a new life into Ship.” He paused just long enough for his comment to hang in air, then continued with mock casualness, “How was she?”
“What do you mean?”
“The infant. How was she?”
“I’m not allowed to divulge medical data, Councilman Arnson.”
“Please, you can refer to me—all of us, in fact—informally. As to the child, Ernst happened to see her as she was being sent to infant intensive care.” Arnson nodded toward Sorensen. “He’s not a doctor, but he seemed to think the girl was in distress. I hope everything is all right with her.”
Jene frowned. Arnson must have known that the baby was severely malformed: why was he doing this? “She’ll be all right. We’ll take care of her.”
“Oh, of course,” Arnson said quickly, waving his hands gently in front of him, as if trying to drive away any implication to the contrary. “We know that you and your staff will commit all the necessary resources to the welfare of the child. And yet.…”
“What?”
“Well, I hate to be the one who must say it, Doctor, but as you seem unwilling to face the unpleasant truth, allow me to remind you and the Council that no Class D has survived without intense, round-the-clock medical care.”
Jene fought to control her anger. Three times in one week she was having this discussion—and in both cases, she found herself the only advocate for the unlucky children of radiation’s curse. “Even if you’re right, what of it? The girl will receive the necessary care. Bobby Yancey has been with us for six years, and he’s doing fine.”
“Yes, the Yancey child. I’ve met him. The Yanceys live near me, you know.”
Jene grunted.
“I’ve no doubt you are right about your conclusions, Doctor, but you are aware we are within half a year of planetfall?”
“So?”
“At which time, resources will be slim indeed. You and the medical staff have all you need on Ship, but when we disembark and begin the colonization process, you will no longer be able to practice the kind of medicine you have become accustomed to. You will have to adapt to rather harsh conditions. I believe the term you doctors use is ‘frontier medicine.’” Arnson chuckled once, then grew serious again. He looked away, focusing neither on Jene nor the Councilmembers. “It will be at least two years before Ship is fully dismantled and shuttled down to the surface. What do you plan to do with Yancey and the other Class D’s during this process?”
Jene clenched her fists. “You are proposing—”
“I propose nothing, Doctor. I simply asked a question. What will you do with the Class D’s?”
Jene stared at him for a moment, then her gaze found the other Councilmembers. They were all awaiting her answer. They seemed quite content to let Arnson do their talking for them—no doubt his views were the views of the Council. Jene wondered how many other colonists shared the Council’s attitude.
“The
medical staff will handle the children.” She said it evenly, as close to emotionlessly as she could.
“How?”
“That’s not a concern of yours.”
“I should think it is a concern of all aboard. If you don’t have a plan, it is up to the Council to formulate one and execute it.”
Jene’s voice raised on its own. “This Council you’ve formed is simply, by your own admission, an oversight committee. You have no power to enact legislation. Ship has been a direct democracy for one hundred and eight years and all your comic-opera meetings won’t change that.”
Arnson matched her fury with coolness. “You are quite right, Doctor. The Council has no power. No formal power, at least. I simply asked you, from one shipmate to another, what is going to be done. Surely, the medical personnel aren’t keeping their plans a secret?”
Jene saw a slight shifting in the positions of the other Councilmembers. They had heard the implication in the last remark. She also heard Arnson use the term “shipmate,” a recent innovation of the Council.
“You know there’s no secret agenda among the medical staff.”
Arnson paused a fraction of a second and allowed a smile to spread across his orderly face. “If you say so, Doctor. And yet, you still have not answered my question. I am concerned for the safety and well-being of Ship and all in her. Why will you not answer?”
Jene glared at him. She knew he was not asking out of genuine human concern for the unfortunate mutants under constant care; he was playing rhetorical games with her. She thought of storming out of the Council Chambers, but the urge to resist authority, to “fight the good fight,” as her grandfather used to say, made her answer.
“All colonists will continue to receive care at the highest level we can provide them.”
“And if that means choosing between a Double-A and a D for medical resources?”
“I can’t make a blanket answer. Such developments must be dealt with on a case-by-case basis.”
Arnson sighed—the first real sign of annoyance he had displayed. If he was tiring of the game, good. Jene wanted to leave, but her grandfather’s memory would not let her depart until she had won some sort of victory, however small.
“Surely, Doctor, you are familiar with the procedures of triage? Producing a treatment hierarchy when medical resources are overmatched by medical emergencies?”
“Of course. If you know what triage is, you know that under triage procedure, the most severe cases receive immediate care while the less critical patients wait. The strong help carry the weak. Such a system has always been in place in Ship and it has worked. I see no reason to abandon it once we begin planetfall.” There! Jene smiled at him smugly. Let him chew on that.
“Yes, yes. Your description of triage is accurate, as far as it goes. But tell me this, Doctor—is it not true that in following triage procedure, the terminal cases are abandoned so as not to waste resources that might be going to patients who have a chance at survival?”
Jene’s smile faded. He had trumped her.
He continued. “I agree with your description of Ship’s history. We have until now existed in a communal socialism that has worked well.” There was something in his voice, Jene noted, that hinted at bitterness. Arnson swept on. “But we are fast approaching a crisis the likes of which we have not seen in the entire history of Ship. It will be two years before Ship is completely stripped and shuttled to the surface. In those two years, resources planetside will be extremely thin.”
“We can’t just let them die,” Jene whispered, anticipating his conclusion.
“The strong must carry the weak, Doctor, but should they also carry the dying?”
Jene had no answer for that. She had been manipulated adroitly by the Councilman, and although she knew, at a level deeper than logic, that she was right, she could not match his rhetoric. She simply looked at him, then at the other Councilmembers. Her eye rested briefly on the sole woman among the five-member council, Luise Ryu.
“We want you on our side, Doctor,” Ryu said, breaking the silence.
“Your side?” Jene scowled at her.
“Councilwoman Ryu tends to see things in terms of us and them,” Arnson said, flashing a wolfish smile at Ryu. “She means that we are quickly approaching a pivotal moment in our mission, and Ship will no doubt be spilt between those who see what must regrettably be done and those whose reason is clouded with emotion. At the moment, Doctor, I must say that you belong to the latter category. It is my hope, indeed, the hope of the entire Council, that you see that we are right.” He pushed off the wall and floated slowly towards her. “Doctor, we are not animals. We do not wish to see any of our children hurt or deprived. But we cannot continue our present policy of total care for all. Surely, you must see that.”
Jene kept her voice under control. “All I see is that you are willing to sacrifice human lives for the sake of other human lives.”
Arnson blinked. “Yes. Rather than lose the entire colony, I would. Wouldn’t you?”
“I would not.”
“You would rather all of us die than some of us?”
“I would rather die than make the decision of who will live and who will not.”
Arnson stared at her. “I deeply regret this, Doctor. You realize that the Council will, despite your opposition, attempt to convince Ship of our position?”
“And I will stop you.”
Arnson nodded. “Such is your right to try. I suppose you may go.” He swam away from her and indicated the portal.
Jene made her way awkwardly to the door, but before she exited, Arnson called after her.
“Doctor, one last question.”
She turned.
“What if the choice was between saving a Class D and saving your daughter?”
Jene swallowed with a dry throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She could not answer.
Arnson raised his eyebrows. “I see. Goodbye, Doctor.”
Jene left the chamber, worried for Ship, its future, and, inexplicably, for her own family.
Chapter 3
“The question was not intended to be a rational one, dear. It was purely a rhetorical device designed to elicit an emotional response from you.” Renold spoke softly, at his wife, infuriating her. “Arnson knows full well that—”
“But I still couldn’t answer it!” Jene shouted back, hardly aware of her own shrill voice against Renold’s soft one. She gained a level of control over herself before continuing, more quietly. “Don’t you see, Ren? What would I do if it were my own daughter who had to do without medical attention because someone else was getting it instead?”
“There is no meaningful answer to that. That’s why we have laws in the first place—so people do not make decisions from an emotionally charged state.”
Renold was resorting to his hyper-rational mind again to try to soothe her fears. He always tried the same approach, and Jene hadn’t had the heart to tell him it rarely worked. She did not want to be given answers, like a child; she wanted simply to be heard.
She sighed in frustration. Renold spoke again. “Dear, his question was similar to asking the surviving husband of his wife’s brutal rape and torturous murder what he thinks should be done with the perpetrator. The husband will almost undoubtedly want a brutal death sentence carried out on the criminal, but the husband is not the one who should be making the decision. Of all the people in Ship, he is the least qualified at that time to make a rational choice. Arnson’s hypothetical question is similar. Should Kuarta need medical help at the same time a different child needs it, and only one can be treated, Kuarta’s mother should not be the one deciding.”
Jene imagined she felt pressure building in her head. Renold’s speech was only making her angrier. “And if I am the only one who can decide? I’m a medical doctor, Ren, and an administrator. The decision falls to me. So what do I do? And how do I make a similar decision with two children who are not mine by blood?”
Re
nold hesitated. “It’s not a valid question. The—”
“Dammit, Ren, it is valid!” she shouted. “It’s more than valid—it’s likely to happen. Why do you insist on shoving it aside and dismissing it as hypothetical? I ask again: what would I do if it came down to a choice between Kuarta and a…D?” She loathed herself for saying it—her own words echoed in her mind. It’s a baby, not a label.
Renold did not answer. His normal mask of composure was gone and a look of uncertainty plastered across his strong, chiseled face. She had never seen him like that. It unnerved her at the same time it exhilarated her.
It was a long time before either spoke again. When Jene did, it was to change the subject.
Jene talked with Renold about inconsequential matters, knowing that he was unable to see that she needed an “emotional episode”—what he called any show of anger, joy, guilt, or the like. He wanted to explain away her frustration, while she wanted to scream it out. They went to sleep that night without revisiting the issue.
* * *
She compromised the next morning. Before her shift at the hospital, she visited the Shipwide broadcasting station. The station was run by a small but dedicated collection of young men and women who provided Ship with news, entertainment, and occasionally, opinions. It was this latter function Jene wished to employ. Some years ago, the Council had expressed their desire to restrict public access to the channels, but Jene’s grandfather and others had fought them. The Council had, however, managed to arrange matters so that those who wished to use the communications web had to visit the station in person—computer uploads were not allowed. The Council had argued that no one’s rights were being taken away—the slight commitment required of visiting the center would reduce the number of pranks, hoaxes, and junk on the web. They had been right.
“Doctor Halfner?” The station administrator squeaked in surprise. She was a tiny, birdlike woman wearing tight clothing in defiance of the current fashion towards looseness.
