Metaplanetary (A Novel of Interplanetary Civil War)

by Tony Daniel

  “When it comes to freedom, there can be no compromise. When the bully is confronted, he shall back down. When right is right, might cannot prevail!”

  Oh yeah? thought Sherman. Maybe somebody should have told that to Genghis Khan. Would have stopped him in his tracks.

  “How much freedom will you take for a pound of tomatoes?” cried someone in the back of the hall.

  “I’ll double it!” yelled another.

  De Ronsard glared defiantly in the direction of the first voice. “I’ll have you know this, Melanga—shout all you want. Anything is better than thosedung pies you call poems! You are incapable of the expression of a dog, much less a sentient being of refined sentiment, you son of ayak, you—”

  “Bow wow wow!” shouted Melanga.

  “You two take it outside,” said the mayor, cutting in. De Ronsard and Melanga continued screaming at one another until the mayor nodded to the recorder, and both poets were summarily tuned out of the proceedings. Instantly, the well was empty.

  The Neo-Flare tribe modeled themselves on the poet Beat Myers, who had perished in the sun centuries before. Every once in a while, some group of them or another would get together and plunge in themselves, completely missing the point that the last thing Myers wanted was to take that dive. But poets weren’t exactly known for their logical ability.

  Thoreau Delgado rose among the Free Integrationists, and the mayor recognized him. Delgado was known as the Thin Man, both for his name and for his size, which was entirely Triton-adapted. If tall Thoreau Delgado ever visited Earth—which was highly unlikely since he had never been off Triton, except in the virtuality—he would have immediately crumpled like a crushed balsawood construction. Delgado was the leader of the Free Integrationists on Triton.

  “I would like to apologize for some of the excesses of my colleague,” Delgado said. “For, though excess in the cause of freedom may be no vice, it certainly has the virtue of halting all other discussion and calling a lot of goddamn attention to itself.”

  Some one in the Clinical section hissed at Delgado’s use of the wordgoddamn, but the hall quieted down.

  “The issue before us is a simple one,” Delgado continued. “It is whether or not to pay a portion of a tax that his been placed on us by a government to which we have, in the past, subscribed and whose benefits we have undoubtedly enjoyed. The question before us is this: Have those benefits begun to be outweighed by this burden? Indeed, have—as I believe—those benefits altered themselves or ceased altogether? In other words, are we getting what we’re paying for out of the Met?

  “Some have cast this as a moral conflict. It is the slaveholders of the inner system against us, the champions of liberty. While I have a great deal of sympathy for this position—”

  Here there was a low chorus of “boos” from the right side of the hall, but it did not grow louder than a murmur.

  “—while I sympathize, I cannot, as yet, cast the problem in that light. The situation of the free converts of the Met is a complicated one. Some are, indeed, held in conditions of intolerable servitude, and this must end.”

  Cheers from the F.I. section, joined by an assortment of others across the Meet Hall.

  “But I am still of the hope, perhaps forlorn, that change can be brought about by a reform of the system, and not by its dissolution. I would say to you that a vote for the resolution that is before us would be a message containing that fervent hope and desire. To the Interlocking Directorate, we would be saying: Hear us out. We have a problem. But it is a problem we wish to discuss. The resolution is not worded as an ultimatum. On the contrary, it is a request for clarification, a suggestion for compromise. I, myself, am a great believer in compromise, when it is in the cause of justice. Half a pie is, very often, better than no pie at all.”

  After Delgado spoke, there was a vote. Sherman voted “aye,” along with most of the other Free Integrationists, and the latest in a string of antitax initiatives went down in the law books of Triton.

  Next, there were a series of sector reports, and when the time came for Weather, Sherman rose to speak. He felt a calm readiness to say what must be said.

  “What I can tell you,” he said in his usual gravelly tone (it would be amplified), “is that current conditions are good. We’ve got sufficient heat production to meet our needs and then some. All export quotas should be met within the next week or so. We’ve noticed a few radioactivity fluctuations on the planet surface, but this is nothing to be worried overly about. It falls within standard deviation parameters, and shouldn’t have any chaotic effects on the Eye’s rotation rate or wind speeds.” Sherman ended with his customary locution: “The Blue Eye is open for business, ladies and gentlemen.”

  These were the words of the first engineer, old Janry Craig, when she flipped the switch that first set the Mill to spinning, nine years ago.

  The report was accepted, and a question and answer period followed. The only question came from the mayor himself. Frank Chan was short and squat. Despite his almost pure Chinese ancestry, he managed to look like a cigar-chomping wise guy from some ancient gangster show. His eyes were two perfect almonds with preternaturally tiny pupils, as if he were perpetually caught in bright light. His thin hair was parted near the top of his round head, and his ears stuck out on either side like handles. Chan had one of the most perceptive minds on Triton, though, and this bodily aspect was merely the front man for a LAP. Chan had told Sherman he was going to ask the “big question” tonight.

  “I would like to draw on the other side of your expertise,Colonel, ” Chan said, emphasizing Sherman’s honorific. “We’ve all seen reports on the merci of the Department of Immunity Enforcement Division ships that are on their way to Ganymede. I would like to hear your assessment of the current, er, security situation on Triton.”

  “Well, sir,” said Sherman. “That is a question that I’m trying to answer even as we speak. I don’t want to go into specifics—” And broadcast the exact fortifications of Triton across the merci, Sherman thought. “—but I can say that preparations are being made to protect our interests.Extensive preparations.”

  “That is exactly what I was hoping to hear,” Chan replied. “And can you, without going into lengthy explanations which would be far too technical for me, at least, characterize what sort of threat we might face? That is, should our current negotiation, which I have every hope for, not succeed, or should it be taken the wrong way . . . since such things do happen on occasion.”

  This was Chan’s signal that the time had come for a little plain talking. It was as direct a question as Sherman had ever heard the man utter.

  “There are several ways to attack Triton with a military force,” Sherman said. He heard the intake of breath across the room. The words had been uttered. Military. Attack. The words Chan had been afraid to say—hell, the words everybody rightly blanched from. But the truth, nonetheless. “The most obvious move would be to set up some kind of blockade or embargo. But that would be a difficult thing to do in the long run, and I don’t expect it, to tell you the truth. That is much more likely in the Jovian local system.”

  “Why not here?” Chan sat back and took a drag on his smoke. The mayor was back in his own element, now that the difficult political subject had been broached and the Meet was discussing the technical details of it.

  “Two reasons. The first is the problem of information. There’s no way to blockade information, what with the merci and the Army’s knit. And it is a truism back at the Point—West Point, I mean—that where information can flow, ordnance and goods can eventually follow. My other reason is a bit more subjective. It’s Director Amés himself. I’ve given the man a bit of study. A blockade is not his style.”

  “Style? In an attack?”

  “Oh yes,” Sherman replied.

  “So what do you expect Director Amés to do, should it come to it?”

  Sherman fingered the bone of his chin. He was always clean-shaven in virtual. “I don’t know,” he sai
d. “He might go after the Mill.”

  The Meet gave a collective gasp.

  “But he wouldn’t want to destroy it, not if he didn’t have to. The Mill is why you would want to take Triton in the first place. That and the location.”

  “But we’re practically on the edge of the solar system.”

  “And what lies on the real edge of the system?” Sherman asked. “Or, I should say, who?”

  “The cloudships. That is the cloudships’ domain.”

  “If you want to rule the outer system,” Sherman said, “you have to bring the cloudships to their knees.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Impossible? Tell that to Amés.”

  Chan took his cigar from his mouth and carefully ashed it. He put a good two inches into the ashtray. The man knows how to smoke a cigar, Sherman thought, even if it’s only a virtual representation of a stogie.

  “You’re talking about a general war, sir,” Chan finally said.

  So. Here was the moment. It was all he’d been thinking about since he’d discovered that the Met was willing to use its military to enforce its insane tax requirements.

  It was the overarching concern that shaped all of Sherman’s preparations.

  But when the time came to say the words, Sherman hesitated for a moment. In a way, even though they were just words, saying them made something real.

  Ah, hell, I don’t believe in magic, Sherman thought. Words are just words until there are actions to back them up.

  “Systemwide total war,” he said.

  “Surely . . .”

  “It’s not my job to comment on such a thing’s likelihood, only to consider the possibility and plan for it.”

  “But what can we do, if . . . he . . . the Director wants one? What can Triton do?”

  “We can start by protecting ourselves. That’s our first duty, as a matter of fact. My first duty, and that of my soldiers. That is a difficult enough task. And if we succeed with that . . . well, then, we work outward.”

  “Colonel Sherman!” A strong, clear voice from the middle of the Meet Hall. It was Kali Mfud, the leader of the Trade Economists, and the de facto representative of most of Triton’s middle-management types.

  “Chair recognizes Dr. Mfud,” said Chan.

  “Colonel Sherman,” Mfud continued smoothly, “surely there is no cause for such extreme rhetoric in these chambers. Perhaps you would do better to confine yourself to the weather. That is your role in this body, after all.”

  “I was merely answering a question,” Sherman replied.

  “The colonel is correct,” Chan said. “It was I who asked him to comment on these matters.”

  “But you did not ask the colonel for a call to arms, sir,” said Mfud. “And that is what I believe I have just heard.”

  Sherman swore under his breath, but maintained a calm demeanor. He might dislike Mfud, but the man was not some sputtering poet. He represented legitimate interests.

  Sherman slowly stood up. Met war ships were on the way to the outer system. The facts seemed so plain and clear. There was nothing to do but lay them on the table.

  “You believe that you have heard a call to arms? You believe that I’m exciting the unstable and irresponsibly aggrandizing myself and my place on Triton without considering what the effects might be on the citizenry and the economy? Is that it, sir? Well, I must tell you that I take such charges very seriously. I am an officer in the Federal Army of the Planets, and if such charges are true, then it is my obligation not only to repudiate them, but to immediately resign my post and my commission.”

  “Colonel, I didn’t mean—” Mfud began, but Sherman cut him off.

  “War,” said Sherman, “is idiocy by other means. I am not in favor of idiocy. I am not in favor of it, sir. As a matter of fact, I consider it my personal obligation, my reason for existence, if you want to know the truth of it, to fight idiocy at every turn. That is why I became a soldier in the first place. To mitigate the effects of idiocy. If there is to be a war, it will be the supremest act of idiocy that has perhaps occurred in the history of humankind. I am against it, sir. Inalterably opposed. But, I tell you this, that if it should come down to it—if, in fact, idiocy has its day—then the worst possible response leading to the most horrible of outcomes will be to respond with idiocy of our own.”

  Sherman patted himself on the leg, as if he were trying to make sure that he was really there, listening to himself express these thoughts that had been brewing quietly for so many months.

  “To do nothing is to become a fool,” he continued. “To provoke such a potentially dangerous foe is to become a fool. The only response, as I see it, ladies and gentlemen, is to remain wary. To keep our eyes open. To prepare for the worst. If someone has a better suggestion, let him make it. But, for the moment, my course is clear. Amés is not going to take my moon, my home, without a price to himself. And I aim to make that price dear. Now, it is within power of this body to remove me from my office. That is a power granted to all local bodies of a sufficient size over the Federal Army. It is one of the things that marks us as a different sort of military organization than the Department of Immunity Enforcement Division. You may demand my immediate reassignment, and it will be acted on forthwith by my superiors.”

  “We will do nothing of the sort,” Chan said, glaring at Mfud dangerously.

  “Nevertheless, youcan . And Iwill go. I am your servant, and not you mine. That is the role of a soldier in a democracy. But as long as you have me, I pray God that you at least listen to me. And allow me to do my job. It may be that you will soon see whether or not I am any good at it. I hope that you won’t have occasion to see. I pray not. But it may come down to it, and soon. That is your business. But when and if it does, well, then, ladies and gentleman—that ismine .”

  Sherman quickly sat down. Even in virtual, he was breathing hard. He adjusted the representation algorithm and fumbled for the remains of his cigar.

  After a moment’s pause, Chan brought down his gavel. “Thank you for your report, Colonel Sherman. We will certainly consider your words carefully.”

  And then the Meet moved on to other business. Sherman was about ready to call it an evening and go back home, when a sudden cry arose from deep in the back benches.

  “All is lost! All of it, all of it, all!”

  Sherman recognized the voice as belonging to Petra 96. She was a free convert who had migrated—if such were the word for the permanent transferal of a computer program—from Mars only three years before. She was always present at Town Meets, but seldom spoke. Nevertheless, Sherman knew she’d gained respect among the more activist elements in New Miranda as a patient witness for treating free converts as fully human entities. She was the director of a day-care center that had gained such a positive reputation that even some of the Motoserra set sent their young ones there.

  “There’s no way to oppose him! There’s nothing to do but surrender and take punishment! Listen to me! Listen! Our father wants so much that we behave ourselves and stop glucking the foo chickens out their macintoshes!”

  What followed was a stream of more babble. Several others moved to constrain Petra 96, but nothing would shut her up. Finally, Chan had to sequence her out of the Meet. This was more difficult than it might be because Petra 96 was pure algorithm and was able to twist and turn in directions that didn’t normally exist for actual people who were only visiting the virtuality.

  Another grist-based attacked, this time against a free-convert algorithm.

  We’re not ready for how bad this is going to get, Sherman thought.

  Nobody could be.

  Twenty-three

  Within two weeks of Claude Schlencker’s father’s death, Claude was on Mercury, studying at the special school. His scholarship offer had expired, but in view of Claude’s orphan status, the Asap Gymnasium accepted him without tuition on a provisional basis. And for the remainder of Claude’s life, which would be a long one, the particular part of his
personality that resided in Claude Schlencker’s body would never leave Mercury again.

  His classes at Asap were much more difficult than they had been back in the armature. For the first time, Claude found himself challenged by the schoolwork. He did nothing but study the first month he was there, going to class and returning to his dorm to do catch-up work that the teachers had assigned him. He took things a little easier after his first tests came back with high marks, but he never forgot the fact that he was at the gymnasium provisionally and, if his scholarship were not renewed, he would have absolutely nowhere to go but to his old job back in the armature.

  The Asap students were a smart bunch, and all of them were from what, to Claude, seemed rich families. He felt a slight pang of regret, because there was really no one dumb enough at the gymnasium for him to punish and show the error of his ways. At least, no one he had found yet.

  In his second semester, Claude had a new class, which he’d never taken before, music. The teacher’s name was Eynor Jensen, and he was a no-nonsense sort from the very first day of class. He taught music as if it were a science, and Claude liked his strictly logical approach. The man, himself, seemed without emotion, other than an occasional twitch of irritation. He assigned Claude to learn the piano, and Claude took to it quickly. By the end of the term, he had become an excellent sight reader, and his memorization skills were legendary among the other students. Claude found himself spending more and more time practicing at the piano. He even constructed a special virtual instrument and playing room in the grist. There he could sit and work away at scales and bits of pieces until his fingers bled, and he wouldn’t have to worry about staining a real piano’s keys. He had long ago learned how to strip the feedback monitors off of virtuality simulations and feel the grist with maximum intensity.

  It was so ordered, music was. They had begun with traditional Western theory, although Jensen claimed this was only a necessary stage the students must eventually pass through to arrive at the truest wonders of atonality and dissonance. The tone of what is called low C vibrates in an e-mix of gases at sixty-four times per second. At the same time, if the tone is made in a pipe or struck upon a string, theportions of that length vibrate as well, producing overtones. The overtones go on to an infinity in geometric progression. Half of a pipe vibrates, a third, a quarter, and onward. At one-half the length of the pipe—say, an organ pipe—you get the same note, only an octave higher. This “half-pipe” is vibrating at 128 undulations per second. At one-third the length, you get the second most powerful overtone. This is the G above higher C. It is a fifth above and is called the dominant, because it’s the dominant overtone, after C itself. The first C is the tonic.