“Nonetheless, it is an interesting possibility,” Daniel rubbed his chin. “Mifuro, have we tried communicating on all available bands other than Chameleon?”
“All but radio. But we're certain to receive no response. It has been many decades since radio was phased out for Chameleon. It was only programmed into Andorran to expand the possibility of contact with another civilization.”
Daniel turned to Lara and lowered his voice. “Perhaps? A try?”
“Yes, I think so,” she told Mifuro, who started to object. “I realize radio will probably be futile, but we should make the effort. Every effort we can.”
Mifuro nodded, said nothing. There was a time, Lara told herself, when Mifuro would have been more agreeable to her suggestions.
“I'd like to get back to a point Boris sort of touched on,” Fran said. “You mentioned the discontent in 2110. Let's not forget it was more than just discontent. There was grassroots sentiment across most of the globe for dramatic change. Remember the borders in Europe? Essentially nonexistent. The whole bloody continent had homogenized. No more nationalism, no more religious or ethnic crusades. Country names were incidental. Europe was the one place on the globe where it didn't look like the whole economic base was going to crash and burn.
“The Trans-Euro was a hell of a model, and there were movements on every other continent to bring about something like it. First time in history where people were actually willing to burn their flags and hook up with the folks across the border to become one society. And there was even talk of killing the GATES treaty. It was up for renewal a couple years after we left. Without the money from GATES, the whole damn colonial program would have collapsed in a few years.”
Daniel continued: “You're right, of course. I remember hearing one of the top futurists conceding that it was only a matter of time. One day you wouldn't even have to bother knowing what country you came from. No Americans, no Brits, no Russians.”
“Just comrades,” Boris said with a grim face.
“Something like that,” Fran continued. “My point is this, folks. What if we've come back to an Earth that is completely different? A set of priorities, political systems we've never seen before. And what if, in the process of making all these changes, the powers-that-be decide to make the switch to a new form of communication system, regardless of the cost? What if they found a technology that offered greater range, greater universal efficiency, or simply a greater means of control?”
It took a few seconds for this concept to settle in. Finally, Daniel responded.
“Control, you say? Of the people?”
“Why not? Think of it,” Fran’s expression was unchanging. “Homogenized blocks of people brought together strictly for economic reasons, and without the fear of nationalism. A great opportunity for the power brokers to get a firm stranglehold. You must remember, nationalism was essentially at the root of almost every war that's ever been fought. Eliminate that factor, and control should be quite simple. It's a thought.”
“Intriguing theory,” Daniel said, but before he could utter another syllable, Peter Stewart laid a heavy fist on the table.
“I don't get angry very often,” he said, taking a long, deep breath. “But I don't particularly care for people who try to avoid the heart of an issue by using inane diversions.” He turned to Fran. “I respect your opinion, Ms. Conner. And you have so many. But I sincerely do not believe this is a matter that can be solved by a political science lecture.”
Fran raised an eyebrow. “And you propose?”
“I propose we all start dealing with what is foremost on each of our minds. We deal with what we know is most likely the reason there is no response.” He lowered his voice. “The Fyal have already been here. They somehow managed to come ahead of us. They've come and done as they promised they would.”
Shaking heads along with a strong round of “No” and “Too soon” echoed across the Commons.
“It is the only possibility that makes sense,” Peter insisted.
“But we know the population is intact,” Daniel returned fire. “There have been no abnormalities detected on the surface. If the Fyal had come, we all know things could have been catastrophically different.”
“Must also remember that Fyal were not interstellar travelers before contact with us,” Boris added. “Yes, they would have learned everything about our ion propulsion system, but craft could not have been built and flown here so quickly. Is not possible.”
There were several nods of agreement.
“Are we sure?” Peter objected. “They certainly learned more about us than we did of them. Have you forgotten their symbiotic relationship to their, well, machines? We can't begin to know what that might mean in terms of how fast they could build anything. They told us they did not go to space by choice, not for lack of ability. And their intelligence? We quickly accepted that their minds were far more evolved than our own. Could they not take the ion propulsion knowledge to another plateau? Create a faster, more powerful system? They showed us, even on a small scale, how advanced their engineering skills are. They build with organics – it’s faster and more efficient.”
“That argument is valid,” Daniel said. “But it still does not explain why Earth's population is consistent relative to 34 years of growth. If the Fyal had come ... The Fyal were desperate to save themselves. We know that. And I have to believe that in their desperation, they would have been ruthless.”
“Maybe they were,” Peter snapped. “They claimed they would need two billion live humans for lymphocyte production to feed every generation of Fyal still capable of procreation. If they hit Earth quickly with the organic weapons I’m sure they could make, who’s to say they couldn’t walk off with 20 percent of the population?
“So, let’s say they succeeded. And now, Earth is prepared if they should return. A communication blackout would certainly be one step in any such defense, wouldn't it? They've heard our transmissions, but they aren't sure about the validity. They can determine that this is, indeed, the Andorran. But they also know where this ship has been. So they wonder if perhaps it's a ruse. So they wait. In silence. Defenses at the ready."
Peter scanned a roomful of somber faces, and added: “All of you know it's possible. We may be too late.”
Lara anticipated this topic would arise in some form, and she dreaded it. Just as Peter said, she too wanted to deny it was possible. Could they be flying into a trap set by Earth itself?
She stuttered, remembered Navarro's words of warning, then managed: “Does anyone see a likelihood the Fyal may be present on Earth now?”
“Doesn't seem conceivable, given the evidence,” Fran said.
“I could envision one scenario that might explain our problem,” Mifuro turned to Lara. “If the Fyal were in orbit around the planet, it is possible they could have created an energy field that would cause our communications to fragment or dissipate.”
Lara frowned. “But if there were Fyal ships in orbit, wouldn't we have detected them by now?”
“Yes, if they were built to specifications familiar to us,” Mifuro responded. “But considering their technology, it is possible they could shield themselves from detection.”
“Too bad we can’t play 20 questions with the bastard in stasis,” said Peter, referring to a Fyal once named Sh’hun, the second ambassador killed onboard Andorran after the planetary disaster.
Unlike its compatriot, Aan-g’har, which was blown out of an airlock, Sh’hun had been trapped in the cargo bay, and died falling from a catwalk 15 meters on top of a surface rover after attempting to avoid a lazgun blast. Fran championed the notion of preserving the body purely on principles of scientific study, but the argument that such knowledge could become a necessity for human survival carried more weight. Peter and Boris dragged the carcass to an airlock when Fran stopped them, making the proposal to place the alien in stasis. Peter and Fran barked at each other for several minutes, but they finally comp
romised, leaving the carcass where it laid until Andorran was safely away from the planet.
Another voice entered the fray: “But for whatever the reason, it would seem we're just not wanted on Earth.”
Olivia had been conspicuously absent from the debate for quite some time, and this comment struck a different chord.
“Well, I certainly wouldn't say that,” Fran said. “There are obviously reasons, logical or otherwise, why we are not communicating successfully. But I seriously doubt those people down there don't want to hear from us.”
“It's been a long time,” Olivia continued. “So much could have happened. History has changed so dramatically, so quickly over the past 200 years. Who is to say that we aren't about to return to a world that simply has no use for us any longer? What if no one even cares we made contact with another civilization? The sentiment was already turning when we departed. And the colonies have also failed to respond to us. Could it have gone to the extreme?”
Olivia scanned her crewmates, but there was no immediate response.
Boris and Peter shifted uneasily in their swivels, and Daniel tapped a finger against the table.
Lara thought hard about the medical officer's theory, but in her heart, she just couldn't buy into it. Yes, the issue of zero response from the colonies was highly troubling. But such a radical shift in such a short time?
The theories of an earlier Fyal arrival or even the conversion to a new communications technology seemed more practical.
Lara respected Olivia. They shared the first eight-month rotation on the return voyage. Those first few months after the escape from Centauri III proved particularly difficult, and for them to connect on a deep, emotional level took time. She remembered listening for hours as Olivia talked about growing up in Norway, of suffering as she watched her father's North Sea fishing business slowly die along with the sea itself, and of finally choosing a career with ASTROcom just so she could distance herself from that early pain.
Not until after they had opened up to each other, began to heal from the trauma of Centauri III, did they come together physically. It only happened once, when they felt they needed each other most, and Lara remembered it in vivid detail.
She wanted to reach out and comfort Olivia now.
But she resisted, knowing Boris would be there for his lover.
“I think what this discussion has told us,” Lara started slowly, “is that we shouldn't rule out anything. We have to be careful, but also hopeful. We've come too far and defied too many odds, and now we're almost home.” Her smile quickly changed to a frown as she remembered Navarro's warning.
“But I do think we should be prepared for anything, just in case. I think we should take our ideas and, well, develop a plan. We should know what we're going to do once we reach orbit.”
“Exactly,” Daniel was quick to enter. “We need to set up stations, prep a duty roster, consider as many forms of alternative communication as possible. View and review the data we're receiving with as many eyes as we have available. And we need to get moving. We're under 11 hours to orbital rendezvous. That doesn't give us much of a window to fool with.”
Their eyes, as usual, were much more attentive when Daniel spoke than they ever were toward her. No surprise. She witnessed this before – right after she assumed command of Andorran.
They still don't respect my leadership, she repeated to herself. I never wanted this! But it's OK. They'll listen to Daniel.
As long as they listen to someone.
She didn't have to say a word for the next 15 minutes, as the man she deeply loved took charge of the planning of the next 11 hours.
9
T
his part of the overtrial disgusted Bryan Drenette the most. The defendant was a tiny man who committed financial thievery in a world where country-club prisons for white-collar criminals were only remembered through history vids.
“Your decision, Mr. Bowles?” The judge asked, unconcerned.
“I love my children.”
“Very well, Mr. Bowles. This court sentences you to immediate termination. No penalties will be placed upon your family. Clerk, will you please hand these documents to Mr. Drenette?”
The death warrant was in quadruplicate, and Bryan met the clerk at the prosecutor’s desk, where she handed him both the documents and a pen.
Of course, Bryan knew exactly where to sign – there were five places on each page. And he would have preferred to go about this solemn task without the lawyer getting in his ear.
“So, I'm doing lunch with a handful of guys from the pool today,” the lawyer whispered. “Love for you to come along, give me some feedback. It never hurts to know what the boss thinks about the job I'm doing.”
When the signatures were all there, Bryan offered the clerk a curt smile as he handed her the documents, then he whispered: “I don't think so. Not today.”
Bryan returned to his chair but did not sit down. Once the judge reviewed the signatures, she smiled broadly. “Thank you, Mr. Drenette, for taking time out of your day to complete this proceeding. We will be moving immediately into the final phase, if you care to remain.”
“I apologize, your honor, but my schedule precludes that. If you will excuse me?”
“Of course.”
The deed having been done, Bryan had little desire to see this floor show to its bitter end. Fortunately, it was not required.
The defendant's whines grew louder as Bryan moved to the exit.
“Can't leave my children,” the little man muttered. “I love them. Please, another way? Another way? Wasn't my fault.”
“Bring it in,” the judge said, and as the entryway opened before Bryan, he dared not turn around. He knew another compartment in the chamber was opening behind him, the execution table being rolled out.
As he stepped through, and just before the entryway slipped shut behind him, there were other plaintive wails – the cries of a woman. And someone cursed the PAC.
It would all be over within minutes. The drug, polysarin, would paralyze the nervous system immediately then all but implode the heart within another 60 seconds after air injection. A flicker of pain, no more than a second, and the defendant would be gone. It had been 24 hours since the man was charged with BluCard fraud.
As Bryan made his way out of the headquarters of the corporate Subgroup known as Hathaway Dynamics, he felt a twitch, looked down and saw his left hand quivering. He pulled it in against his body, covered it with his right, and chose not to use the rail as he descended.
When he stepped outside and looked to the still blue sky which hung cloudless above the glass towers of the AFD, Bryan took a very long, deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out. The twitching subsided.
The air was still crisp, as if winter wanted to play one final trick on the Southeast. As the sun rose, he knew that the warmth of rejuvenating spring would rapidly return. An Airtrain whisked above, racing across the PAC's second-largest city on an electromagnetic cushion provided by a single, elevated rail.
The silhouettes of his fellow citizens were intermingled, visible through the Airtrain's tinted windows. Much more room down here, he thought, and a whole helluva lot less conversation.
The broad avenues of the AFD were as suitable for foot traffic as for anything involving the use of an engine. The combined advent of the highly-efficient Airtrain network and the ludicrously high tariffs for a personal citycar kept motorized traffic at a minimum.
In his six years as Chief of Domestic Security, Bryan attended 515 overtrials, more than 80 percent of them directly tied to BluCard fraud. At least 98 percent of the defendants were convicted. The penalty for stealing vallors and placing them into a personal BluCard account offered a choice between the defendant’s execution or generational forfeiture guaranteeing poverty for the next three generations of the defendant’s family. Most of those convicted chose the sacrificial option.
Bryan long ago stopped counting h
ow many death warrants he signed, how many defendants had been injected with polysarin as he watched in stone silence.
He lighted a cigar and inhaled deeply.
But this is where you wanted to be, he reminded himself. It got you inside, got you to the height of power. Put you where you needed to be!
Bryan wondered whether he would have ended this quest had he known what the politicorps doctrine was really about. As much as he hated the six economic communities even before they were officially inaugurated in 2124, a 17-year-old Bryan Drenette believed their plan to eliminate hard currencies and replace them with vallors was a good one. Maintained within personal and corporate BluCard accounts, these “value dollars” represented the exact financial worth of every individual on the planet. No credit, no debt. Absolute financial symmetry. All contained within an interactive, genetically-encrypted passport/debit card/checkbook not much bigger than the palm of a man’s hand.
The 37-year-old Bryan Drenette had enough carcinogens and alcohol flowing through his blood to remind him daily of the reality of that great plan. And what irritated him to no end was that the plan actually worked. If there was true poverty in this world, it was well-hidden. Opulence was equally difficult to uncover, but it didn’t matter: Few people knew the reality of the politicorps game, and almost all were quite satisfied with their state in life.
He remembered the propaganda spewed by the prosecutor during his closing argument at this morning’s trial. “What will this teach the defendant’s children about how to spend and earn money in a world where debt is nonexistent? In a world where all that is gained is earned, and nothing is borrowed? Where financial symmetry is the key to the prosperity of all and the survival of the generations to come?”
And what, Bryan wondered, would this trial teach them about a justice system where such practices as habeas corpus and Miranda were long since abolished?
“What’s the big deal if we have to give up a few basic human rights so long as we’re comfortable?” He mocked in a whisper. “What does it matter if six councils of 10 overstuffed buffoons set policy for the entire world? Some would argue it was like that before the ECs.”
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