by Paul Anlee
“I don’t know. Greed worked well enough on Earth.”
“For a long time, yes. But only because people got good at managing collapse. The privileged class always got enough advance notice that they were able to protect the majority of their wealth and power to get them through the changes that accompanied revolution and war. I actually think that Alum’s system has the potential for stability without sacrificing growth and innovation.”
“It surprises me to hear you say that,” Jared replied. “The system’s essentially built on Cybrid slavery.”
“Humans don’t make out much better. Besides, it’s not much different than what we Cybrids were already doing. We get the opportunity to do work we’re good at, and to build new worlds. We get free energy, free movement, and a great place to rest and enjoy our free time. Vacationland makes up for a lot of drudgery and dissatisfaction. It might be wise to explore the creation of more virtual worlds like Vacationland that would give us a better variety of outlets for our creativity.”
“You’d take refuge in your inner worlds?”
“What would be so bad about that? It’s impossible to enslave our thoughts, Jared. The worlds we build in our imaginations could be as real as anywhere else. We could be whoever we wanted, do anything we dream of. If we had an easy way for any of us to create our own worlds….”
DAR-K set up an internal routine to design the base code for programming such a virtual world. The code would have to be relatively user friendly—not all Cybrids would have her raw intelligence—and yet still be capable of simulating a wide variety of rich environments.
Strang couldn’t leave the conversation there. “I can’t imagine your people would be happy simply twiddling their cybernetic thumbs.”
“For a while, anyway. Alum isn’t giving us much choice. He’s taking away many of our jobs. Don’t forget, besides the twenty million of us presently active, there’s over five times that number in storage.”
“What of them?” Strang asked.
“As Alum said, ‘People must have purpose in their lives.’ Every one of those minds will hunger for meaningful activity. There are scientists, engineers, managers, writers, musicians, artists, and many other professions encoded in those semiconductor brains. If we can’t make rewarding contributions to this society, perhaps we’ll need to establish another one.”
Strang was horrified. “You’d abandon us?”
DAR-K didn’t reply, which made Jared more nervous.
“DAR-K?” he prompted.
“No,” she said. “We pledged to help save humanity. We will not treat humans the way they’ve treated us. We were built to serve, whether out of enlightenment, duty, or obligation, that doesn’t matter. We’ll continue to fulfill our role as long as humans need our services.”
“And we’re grateful to you for that, DAR-K. We are. At least, most of us are.”
“For the moment, that’ll have to do. We’ll leave the political problems to the human realm. You people brought Alum into power. You deal with him.”
14
Through poor planning and plain bad luck, Hiram’s Bar found itself on the outskirts of town in a pool of shadows, surrounded by drab high-rises that blocked the light from every angle for blocks. The nearest town square was a full klick away. The sentinel of tired, scraggly trees dotting the street out front did little to lift the dreary mood that permeated the neighborhood for blocks around.
The bar’s outdoor patio collected more dust than patrons. People avoided the block altogether or passed through quickly, slowing only once they reached better lit streets a few blocks away. The environs invited a shiver. Despite a constant internal temperature throughout the asteroid habitat, the meager light cast from the illuminating strips kilometers above was swallowed up by the shadows, leaving an eerie illusion of cold.
Had the bar been located on Earth instead of in the asteroid habitat of Vesta 4, it would’ve been considered unsavoury. The cliché wall of mirrors gleamed behind a polished wood counter. A dozen high-back booths and dim lighting completed the effect, offering its precious few patrons convenient seclusion from prying eyes.
Hiram had collected a few priceless, authentic liquor bottles through obscure connections, and displayed them proudly on a narrow glass shelf for all to admire. The bottles and their defunct labels gave a museum quality to the place, and urged a nostalgic longing for things lost in the emergency evacuation to the colonies, a longing that could only be fulfilled through black market deals.
But whether or not it had been his intention, Hiram’s generally poor stock, the sour-faced bartender, and a lack of foot traffic all conspired to make the bar unpopular.
The perfect place for discreet meetings—Councillor Nigel Hodge had thought the first time he’d stumbled into it. From that very day forward, he’d made sure Hiram always had a bottle of twelve year old scotch whiskey on hand and at least one keg of his favorite dark ale. He paid a little extra cash under the table to ensure Hiram remained in business. Never too much; he didn’t want the bar to prosper, just to survive.
Hodge’s smartly dressed fellow Councillor, Debbie Cutter, pushed through the main entrance and paused to let her eyes adjust. She spotted Hodge’s beckoning hand and joined him at his booth against the far wall.
Cutter was an American; at least she used to be when America still existed. She’d been among the elite of the elite at one of the country’s largest brokerage firms, one that had their hands in everything: banking, insurance, arbitrage, treasuries, currencies, commodities, private equities, and public companies. She’d mastered the art of convincing powerful players and industry lobbyists to keep governments in line. Through years of grueling dedication and razor-sharp insight, she’d climbed the ranks until she was considered a preeminent contender for successor to the CEO.
Then the planet was destroyed.
Luckily for Debbie Cutter, she was also a member of the right faith at the right time. In truth, she belonged to a number of denominations. Most were Christian, but she’d been smart enough to diversify her religious affiliations as much as her investments. She’d sensed the growing shift in power over the preceding decade, and adjusted her contributions to the various faiths accordingly. At some point they became—some might claim, presciently—larger than her political donations. “Getting on the right side with God” apparently required greasing the skids of the right spiritual leaders.
An ancient and honored tradition—she reasoned.
When word came down that there was to be an “exceptional service” of the YTG Church, and all members were encouraged to attend if they wanted to find ultimate salvation, Debbie Cutter bumped her normal monthly Catholic mass attendance for a visit to the Crystal Cathedral. She’d missed an earlier service when Reverend LaMontagne promoted Alum as his successor to lead the Church. It had been an unfortunate slip in judgement on her part, and she was determined not to repeat the mistake.
Unexpectedly, but happily, her loyalty to the Church earned her extraction from Earth to the Vesta colonies and, in recognition of her expertise and generous support over the years, eventually secured her a seat on the newly formed Governing Council.
Debbie nursed a short, neat scotch while Nigel stared at the door.
“Are we expecting someone else?” she asked after a minute of studying the unfamiliar brownish liquid.
“Eh? Oh. No, just us.”
“Then, what do you want, Nigel? And why are we meeting in this dump again?” She glanced over at Hiram polishing the bar and lifted her glass. “No offence.”
“As long as he’s paying, you can say anything you want,” the owner said. “It is a free country, ain’t it?” He immediately realized the absurdity of what he’d said and turned his gaze to the street outside as if expecting a new customer to enter.
Debbie returned her attention to Nigel. “Well?”
“We’re meeting so we can get our plans sorted out. And we’re meeting here because it’s one of the few places I trust is sti
ll secure.”
Debbie laughed. “Oh, really, Nigel. Secure? Do we need to be secure now?”
Nigel shuffled nervously in his seat. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t like the way things went.”
“Are you referring to Alum’s ‘declaration of war’ or the Council’s attempt at ‘appeasement’?”
“That’s a good way to put it: Declaration of War. He really has declared war on our class, hasn’t he? At any rate, I meant both. Mainly, the Council. I truly thought they’d realize how his actions are going to affect us.”
“Well you can’t expect blindly obedient sheep to suddenly grow a pair now, can you?”
Hodge blinked at the oddly mixed metaphor. These Americans—he thought. Can one ever hope to understand them? He sipped his drink.
“True, I shouldn’t be surprised. They were overjoyed at the prospect of Alum as their President.”
“There’s no way to lose with him as the candidate.”
Nigel leaned forward, and set his glass down hard. “It’s not all about winning, you know. Why do you Americans persist in viewing politics as a team sport?” he glowered.
“Isn’t it?”
“Well, certainly it’s rough and tumble. All’s fair and all that, you know. But as for policy, now that is something different.”
“Okay, I may not be a wonk but even I know policy is flexible. It can be adjusted once victory is achieved.”
“True. But with victory assured, shouldn’t the Council be looking a little more closely at his specific proposals? There’s no way to make this a close race. Shouldn’t we be a little concerned about where our glorious leader will be leading us?”
“So which policy do you not like?” Debbie shot back. “The minimum wage, the labor policy, the socialistic support of motherhood, or the control of money and credit?” She took another sip and sat back, waiting for Hodge’s reply. A devilish glint sparkled in her eyes.
Nigel’s jaw worked at imaginary gristle until he caught the glint of humor in her eyes, and they broke into laughter. He raised his glass to her and finished the contents with a single swallow. He motioned for Hiram to bring the bottle over to the table.
“Alright, you got me. It’s all an enormous mess, isn’t it?” Nigel said.
“It’s a disaster,” Debbie agreed.
Nigel powered on. “Centralized control of the economy. It’s what the conspiracy theorists have been harping on about for decades, the elite controlling the world.”
Debbie sighed. “What can we do? The man is all powerful.”
“We still have Jackson and Lindon,” Nigel suggested.
“Counting us, that’s four of eighteen.”
“Plus the three from the old Administration.”
“What, Strang and his crew? Do you think they’d join us in opposing Alum?”
“I expect they’re planning to form a separate party,” Nigel replied. “He and his friends aspire to form the Official Opposition. But I know Strang. He’ll do everything strictly on the up-and-up and with the utmost of integrity. He does not like intrigue.”
“Well, we might count on them for some support, no?”
“Still not enough votes. Anyway, who could we possibly convince to run for President against Alum?”
“Maybe we can talk to Alum, and try to convince him of the foolishness of his proposals.”
“Are you mad? Have you seen his draft of the Constitution?” the man asked.
Debbie nodded. “I have. It’s scary.”
“Bloody right. No term limit, the ability to fire the House, and call for new elections whenever he wants.”
“And his vote counts for forty percent of the House. I know. It would take a revolt to outvote any of his proposed legislation.”
“Not likely with this lot.”
“No, not likely at all.”
They stared at their drinks, searching for inspiration.
“Should we throw our weight in with the old Administration crowd?” Debbie finally asked.
“I’m not ready to go quite that far.”
“Well, what do you propose we do, then?”
“We’ve only had the one Council meeting since Alum’s surprise announcements. Why don’t see what happens once the excitement dies down?”
“..and the members have a chance to study his proposals in depth?”
“Exactly. Perhaps a well-placed suggestion, a hint of how the ‘Alum economy’ would actually play out.”
“Do you think that would be enough to tip the scale?”
Nigel frowned. “I don’t know. We may have to help it along.”
“How would we do that?”
“We’d need to mount our own counter-campaign to discredit his ideas.”
Debbie thrummed her fingers along the side of her glass. “Not the most exciting way to rouse the masses, is it?”
“Can our people, I don’t know, slow things down a bit? Make implementation of his plan…problematic?”
“Passive obstruction? Accidental incompetence? That wouldn’t be hard. Have you seen the morons they’ve got working for me?”
He sighed in commiseration. “I must admit, I’ve been less than impressed with most of my department as well. If all we do is help them to be more confused rather than less, that could play well for us.”
“We’ll have to be careful. I don’t want any of this landing back on me.”
“I’m sure you have more than adequate experience in dodging, let’s say, unfortunate collateral damage.”
“They can’t prove a thing,” Debbie said.
“They never can,” Nigel replied. He hoisted his glass for another toast.
15
Jared Strang finished an uncharacteristic AFTERNOOn of housecleaning minutes before his first guest arrived. On his way to the front door, he scanned the open-plan living area for anything he’d missed.
I can’t believe I’m nervous to have people over.
His apartment was large, stylish, and in a nice neighborhood, but he rarely had the time or the inclination to do more than a cursory tidying up. Adele always used to take care of these things.
Early on, the Administration had hoped the two of them would feel inclined to fill the unused bedrooms with young ones. They weren’t.
Their marriage had been coming unravelled for over a decade before the Vesta Project even began. The relocation to the asteroids, adjusting to new circumstances, and the long hours demanded by their different jobs in the colonies drove them even further apart as their separate ambitions led them to focus more on work than on their relationship.
Adele frequently complained how much she missed London and asked when they could return home. He still recalled clearly the first time, three years ago, when he told her there would be no going home, and when he finally confessed the real reason behind the desperate and hurried push to colonize space.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he’d screamed in frustration. “You can’t go back. Soon, there’ll be nothing to go back to, Adele. The Eater will destroy everything. Our only hope to survive at all is to stay right here on these asteroids,” he told her.
She’d left him in disgust and moved to Ceres One. “I can’t live with a man who would keep that kind of thing from me,” she’d said. “I thought we were done with all the secrets after the Norton Affair. You promised.”
She was right; he had sworn he’d never keep anything important from her again after that terrible time.
After Adele left, his job got too busy to concern himself with decorating the extra bedrooms. He threw a utilitarian desk and chair in one, and a weight machine and stationary bike in the other. Nothing else had changed in the three years since he last saw his ex-wife, the day they’d signed the final papers and gone their separate ways. She was still on Ceres, still designing furnishings for dwellings for people she’d never meet. Jared’s apartment was unlikely to ever hear the sound of children playing.
For reasons known only to the Leader himself, Alum had all
owed Strang to keep his over-sized apartment when the YTG Church displaced the old regime. Likely too busy to bother with reassigning the place—he thought. Or maybe he holds out hope that Adele and I will get back together.
This evening’s meeting was the first gathering of the organizing committee of the new opposition party. Two of his guests sat with him on the new Governing Council as well, carryovers from the old Administration.
The doorbell sounded a second time before he reached the door.
“Good evening. Welcome,” he greeted his fellow old-Administration Council members. He seated them on the compact sofa and set three mugs of steaming coffee on the polished rock coffee table in front of them. Tonight was for serious business; they could drink stronger stuff on their own time.
His third guest arrived by the service elevator and had no need for coffee.
Jared sat opposite the sofa in his favorite rocker-recliner, his single nod to luxury in the entire apartment.
He called the meeting to order and reviewed the inherent hopelessness in their assignment: they had no name, no policies, and occupied different regions of the political spectrum.
“Collectively,” he said, “we represent the only hope for opposition to Alum and the new Administration. It will be expected of us to provide at least the semblance of an electoral race.”
“Why bother?” asked Jenny Thurgood, an environmental engineer who’d worked on balancing predator-prey populations in the agriculture tunnels. “I mean, even those with political ambitions in the Governing Council know there’s no point in running against Alum.”
“True enough.” Priyam Kaloor, Manager of Public Transportation for Ceres, agreed. “But all Council positions will be open. If we could find the right candidates, some strong contenders, we might be able to gain a toe hold. Even Alum must recognize the value of a credible opposition party.”
They shifted their attention to the fourth member of their meeting as if drawn by some collective recognition that, whatever they decided, they would need Cybrid support to achieve validity.
