The Raintree Rebellion

by Janet Mcnaughton

  “That not like anything we’ve seen before,” I say.

  “No, and it doesn’t belong here,” Griffin replies. “Finding regeneration therapy morally offensive is not an environmental issue.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Fern Logos is his name.”

  “I suppose he’s dead too?” I ask.

  Griffin consults his scribe. “Yes. Around the same time as everyone else. This is odd, though. He was killed in an eco-terrorist attack. He seems to have been the target.” Griffin looks puzzled. “That doesn’t make sense, does it? The eco-terrorists didn’t kill people, and he wasn’t involved in anything they’d attack.”

  “Well, there’s another mystery. It’s odd. I know I’ve heard something about regeneration therapy recently, but I can’t place it.”

  Soon after Logos speaks, everyone who has spoken over the last few hours comes back out onto the stage as Eric Wong comes forward to stand before the prompter. I’ve seen him often enough now to recognize uneasiness in his manner. Something was troubling him.

  “We call upon all governments to restrict the following types of technology,” he reads. “Any form of nanotechnology, biotechnology, genetic modification of any type including gene therapy, tissue, nerve, and bone regeneration research, any artificial intelligence research . . .”

  “Stop,” I yell. “Stop the recording.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s why I remembered regeneration therapy. I’ve heard that list before. This morning, on RTLM, in the government announcement about registering people at the beginning of the technocaust.”

  “Is that so surprising?”

  “Yes! Griffin, the lists are identical. Come to the archives with me. Wait.” I get out my scribe. “Back it up, will you? I want to record this speech.”

  In the archives, Griffin listens to both recordings. “You’re right. They’re identical.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. The day’s just about over. Why don’t we see if the others have learned anything that can help us make sense of this?”

  Leaving the archives, I almost walk into Hanif. I’m genuinely pleased. I haven’t seen him since the day he rescued me. I’m not even sure I thanked him.

  “I was coming to get you,” he says. “We need to talk.”

  He looks around. Job-seekers still line the hall. There’s no privacy here.

  “We can finish up without you,” Griffin says. “I’ll send my notes to you immediately. You won’t miss a thing.”

  I find myself walking toward my office with Hanif, trying not to wonder what unpleasant surprise he might have for me now. I suddenly remember something. “Can I ask where Spyker is?” I say as we turn into an empty hallway.

  “Not specifically. She’s being educated. I hear she’s fine. Eventually, she can apply for a job in Security. We find homeless children are often adaptable and fearless. They’re good at the work if we catch them young enough. I’m always on the lookout for kids like that. It gives me some satisfaction to do for them what was once done for me.” We enter my office and close the door. “I came looking for you because someone wants to talk to you.”

  “If it’s my father, I’m not ready.” I’ve been expecting this, maybe even waiting for it.

  “Not your father,” he replies.

  A surge of emotion catches me unawares. To my dismay, it’s disappointment. “Oh, who then?” I try to keep my feelings out of my voice.

  “A reporter from The Solar Flare. She says she saw something about you.” Hanif raises one eyebrow. “On a holo-zine? She wants to interview you.”

  This is the last thing I want. “But that’s not allowed, is it?”

  “We’ve learned from experience that it’s unwise to refuse a specific request like this. If we do, The Solar Flare will accuse the Transitional Council of curtailing freedom of speech. People get very upset. We can’t afford that kind of attention. So, you have permission to give an interview, from Dr. Siegel himself.”

  “I have permission to give an interview. Do I have permission to not give an interview?”

  Hanif smiles. “No, Blake, you do not. We have to honour this request.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  He shakes his head. “My identity has to be protected from the media. In fact, if you were accompanied by anyone, the interviewer might portray that as an attempt to control what you could say.”

  “So no one can come with me? Not even Erica?”

  “Not even Erica. You’ll be briefed by a media officer tomorrow morning, to make sure you understand which areas of your work are confidential. Other than that, I’m afraid, you’re on your own.”

  22

  Love those who seek the truth; fear those who find it.

  —An old Truth Seeker saying

  The next morning, while my hair and face are styled into someone I barely resemble, I’m briefed by a brusque government media officer. She does not hide her disapproval of the unwanted attention I’ve attracted as she reminds me not to talk about the internal workings of the Justice Council. Then she takes me to a media room.

  The reporter she introduces me to is a shock. She’s much younger than I was expecting, around my own age. At first glance, her hair, makeup, and clothes make her look like a Tribe member. Then I realize the ripped clothes are new, the skin under the makeup is flawless, and her hair is only styled to resemble a Tribal Mohawk. This is artifice. She introduces herself as Zoe Nova. I wonder if the name is also her creation. We are left alone, cameras running all around us. I can’t believe I’m forced to deal with someone who thinks being part of a Tribe is a fashion statement.

  But, as we talk, I start to like her. She’s focussed and articulate. She quickly explains it won’t be necessary for me to discuss my life in detail. “I’ll summarize in my intro to this interview,” she says, “and I’ll ask you to sign a release, so we can put the whole of your victim statement up as supplementary viewing for those who want more in-depth coverage.” When I agree, she continues for the cameras. “I saw your victim statement and the interview you did with Kayko Miyazaki. Stories like yours must be everywhere, but we can’t get anyone to talk.”

  I wouldn’t be talking either if I hadn’t trapped myself like this. I wish, one last time, that I could hide my feelings by talking about my work, and then I begin. It feels like jumping off a cliff. “I wasn’t expecting this to happen,” I say.

  “You mean this interview, or what you found out about your father?”

  I shrug. “Any of it. When I came here, I thought everything was black and white. I thought it would be a simple matter of punishing the bad people.” I take a deep breath. “1 know people who feel we’ll never make things right without forgiveness, but I wasn’t one of them. I wanted to see the ones who had ruined my life suffer. My hate sustained me, it gave me a reason to carry on, an excuse to avoid looking at the complexity of the situation.”

  Zoe Nova looks shocked. I guess she wasn’t expecting this kind of honesty. But honesty is the only thing about myself that I can be sure of now. Everything else is in a state of flux.

  “You said in your interview with Kayko Miyazaki that you won’t be allowed to formally present your victim statement because of a ruling by the Justice Council. This is because you are closely related to someone imprisoned for playing a major role in the technocaust, your father. But you haven’t seen your father for years, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. I didn’t even know he was alive until last week.”

  “Is it fair that his activities are going to keep you from making your victim statement?”

  “I thought it was fair when the decision was made. I still do.” I’m glad I’m not allowed to talk about how that happened.

  Now she looks confused. “But, surely your experience must cause you to have more compassion for people in your situation.”

  I find myself smiling. “You’re asking me to have compassion for myself?”

  She
looks totally bewildered now. “Well, basically, yes,” she falters.

  “Look, I was willing to think people deserved to be punished because of their family circumstances.” I search back to that heated conversation in the cafeteria the day the decision was made. “That’s called guilt by association, isn’t it? It sounded like a good idea to me. And now, I find I’m one of those people. I can’t very well say, ‘Oh, this changes everything, I deserve to be treated differently, can I?” I don’t wait for Zoe to reply. “If you’re asking me if I’ve reconsidered my ideas about guilt and innocence, well, then yes, I have. I used to think I was a victim of the technocaust, so that made me innocent. I’d played a small role in the Uprising, so that made me good. Everyone who wasn’t on my side was bad. Then, there was this whole category of people who were guilty. They deserved to be punished, and I wasn’t very careful about who I put into that category. So it turns out I put myself in there.

  “I don’t know exactly what I’ve learned from this experience yet. I haven’t had time to sort it out. But there is one thing I think I have learned. There aren’t just guilty people and innocent people, just good and evil. All of us are innocent, and all of us are guilty to some degree.”

  “So you are more likely to forgive others?” she insists.

  “At this point, I’m less likely to forgive myself. Maybe, eventually, I can work toward being more likely to forgive others. It’s a goal.” I shake my head. “I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

  This isn’t so bad, I think. Maybe I even feel better, getting my feeling out into the open. But then, I hear the next question.

  “Are you going to see your father?”

  The word “no” comes to my lips, but I stop myself. “I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t.”

  Suddenly, Zoe Nova relaxes. “All right, I think that covers everything. This is going to make a big splash.”

  Just what I need, I think, but I don’t say it.

  The morning is almost over. I wonder if the other aides have been working on the holograms. Then suddenly, it hits me. Falcon Edwards and the tent. Have they watched that recording without me? The media rooms all have red lights above the doors. When a room is in use, the light is lit. I pop my head into an occupied room and find Astral with Luisa.

  Luisa smiles and waves me in.

  “Did you look at the tent yet?” I ask.

  “Griffin promised we’d all do it together,” Astral reminds me. “We haven’t even started on that recording.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence. “It’s almost lunchtime, I think I’ll take a break,” Luisa says, and suddenly I’m alone with Astral.

  I’m not prepared for this. Neither is Astral, apparently.

  “I’ve never met anyone like Luisa,” he says. His voice is filled with admiration and I feel a stab of something like jealousy, but he continues. “When this is over, she’s going back to the man she loves. Her parents disapprove, but that doesn’t matter to her. She knows exactly what she wants, how she feels.” He sighs. “Which is more than I can say. Listen, Blake, I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  I remember Griffin’s ambivalence yesterday when we talked about my father. No such complexity of emotion for Astral. Here it comes, I think. “We don’t have to talk about it. I understand how you feel.”

  He shakes his head. “Then you’re doing better than I am. If I’d known about your father when I met you, I’d never have had anything to do with you, I admit that. Because knowing you would contaminate me.”

  This hurts so much, I draw a breath in sharply. I start toward the door, but he grabs my arm. “Wait,” he says. “I didn’t get that right. I don’t mean I’d be contaminated by your guilt. I mean I’d be contaminated by confusion. Because you aren’t guilty. And you aren’t bad. I wanted everyone who was bad to be bad. That sounds so childish now, but it’s true.”

  “I wanted the same thing,” I say. That’s practically what I said in the interview a few minutes ago.

  Astral searches my face. “But it isn’t possible, is it? Reality has this way of asserting itself.”

  “Not for everyone,” I tell him. “Only for people who let themselves think. I was afraid you’d see everything the way you did before, and lump me in with the people you hate.” Until I speak, I haven’t realized just how afraid of that I’ve been. “But you haven’t. Why not?”

  “I have a father too. For all I know, he’s Attila the Hun.”

  “Who?”

  “Pol Pot, Joseph Stalin, the Mississauga Butcher, some awful tyrant. When I found out about your father, it made me wonder if there was a reason why my mother never told me who my father is. A serious reason. So, who am I to judge you?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and stoops so he can look me squarely in the eyes. “How are you doing?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. This is so confusing. I wish I could sort my feelings out.”

  “Would it help to talk to your mother?”

  It takes me a nanosecond to understand what he’s asking, but then my heart leaps at the idea. “Do you think I could?”

  “Of course,” he says. “There are some great divining parlours here.”

  But when I try to picture myself communicating with the spirit of my dead mother, I draw a complete blank. I shake my head. “It wouldn’t work, Astral.” For the first time, I see the huge gap that lies between us. I could never believe as he does.

  He looks so disappointed. “You won’t even try?”

  “Belief isn’t something you can force. You must know that. Even if I’d like to believe, I can’t make myself.”

  He gives me a wistful smile. “My mother used to say something just like that.”

  And now you talk with her spirit? I think, but I say nothing. Astral’s faith gives him comfort. I have no right to interfere with that.

  And maybe he understands, because he doesn’t press me. “Come on, let’s find the others.”

  When Kayko sees me, her eyes widen in surprise. “You look amazing. Who did the interview?” I tell her, and she says, “They must think this story is important. She’s one of the anchors.”

  “Why does she dress like that?” I ask.

  “Faux Tribe, you mean? It’s very stylish in some circles.”

  “Well, I think it’s perverse.”

  “That is the desired intention,” Luisa says. “How do you say this? The point, I think.”

  Kayko agrees, and I shake my head. “Some things about your culture escape me.”

  On the way to the cafeteria, the halls are still crowded with strangers, but not as many today. “Does anyone know how the hiring is going?” I ask.

  “It should be done by the end of the week,” Kayko replies. “So the hearings will start soon.”

  Through lunch, while the others chat, I can’t help feeling jealous of the people who will make victim statements before the Justice Council. Publishing my statement isn’t the same. Their words will become part of the official record, of history. I thought I’d be one of them. And I’m going to have to listen to them, day after day.

  We normally take an hour for lunch, but as soon as we’ve all finished eating, Kayko says, “We could get back to work, you know.”

  Griffin grins. “What are we waiting for?”

  In the projection room, Kayko goes to load the disk, and soon the tent appears. This summer day in 2353 is so familiar to me now, it’s starting to feel like part of my own past. We pass through the holographic people, closer to the doorway of the tent.

  And there is Swan Gil again, looking worried and somehow diminished. For the first half hour or so, we see only her, talking to the person inside the tent we never see. Sometimes she goes toward the interior and disappears completely. We fast-forward when that happens. When we can hear her, she talks only about organizational details, the schedule for the speakers’ stage, problems with travel arrangements, that sort of thing. Then she says, “I’m not sure about bringing these anti-regenerationists into the coalition
.” There’s a long pause while she listens to the off-camera person. “I know, but this whole idea of broadening our base of support bothers me,” she replies. “Do we want that kind of supporter? Are you opposed to regeneration therapy?” The person off camera says something and she laughs. “Well, I didn’t think so. It’s disingenuous to be cozying up to a cause we can’t support.

  “Lately, I feel everything is getting out of hand. I used to think I knew my causes, I understood our base of support, and I could, well, manage things. If there were conflicts, I knew how to reconcile the different factions, or at least keep them all under the same roof. I don’t feel that way any more.” She runs both hands through her thick, dark hair in a gesture of frustration. “Who’s looking after the cleanup?”

  Nothing of interest happens for a while until a group of people arrives. “How many did you identify when you went through the recording earlier?” ~Kayko asks.

  Astral brings up the notes on his scribe. “All five are persons of interest,” he says. I notice even he has stopped saying “suspects.”

  I recognize Eric Wong, the spokesman from Pollution Watch. Fortunately, he stands in the middle of our wedge of recording. “Listen up, everyone,” he says. “Something really large is happening. We don’t know why, but Internal Protection has requested a meeting with the leaders of all the coalition groups right here this afternoon. The request came from Falcon Edwards.”

  This causes a sensation, but Swan looks alarmed. “What if this is some kind of a trap?”

  Eric laughs. “You think they’d ask to meet us here if they wanted to harm us? We’re surrounded by supporters.”

  Another man speaks. “Eric’s right. It seems the request to meet here was intended to build trust. We’ll be safe.” They debate until they finally agree to meet with Falcon Edwards.