by Jean Johnson
“There are closed-door meetings where sensitive information is discussed—a lot of it pertaining to the military—but while the recordings of those sessions are almost never released, the current Fellows are still expected to attend. They must sign privacy and nondisclosure agreements, but they cannot be barred from attending those meetings once they do so.
“Most will not break their word,” Jackie added soberly. “To be selected for the Lottery, to be granted the title of Fellow for two weeks and Former Fellow for the rest of their lives—unless it is stripped from them through the breaking of their oaths or the law—is to be given the rare opportunity to represent their local communities directly to the highest levels of power. This has a very great impact upon how their local region will be treated. It confers a great deal of prestige upon the people who are selected to attend. Former Fellows have been known to go into civil service after having walked the halls of the Department of Departments, and are often all the more valued for their comprehension of its workings.
“Anyway . . . These are the main three buildings that house the government and the defense of the United Planets. There is one more building involved in the government,” she continued, “and it is this building here, which is called the Terrace, or the Blue Terrace.”
The image that appeared was of a long, curved, blue metallic building set in the outer wall of the crater, not the inner. Ba’oul lifted his chin. “What happens there? It seems to be set apart from the other three.”
“Deliberately so,” Ja’ki confirmed. “This is where the Advisors interact with special interest groups. There was a serious problem with corruption a couple hundred years back, and in the wake of the tragedy following the destruction of the city of Vladistad by cultist extremists, the government reformation acknowledged that special interest groups would have to be handled a lot better than previously. Corporation representatives are no longer allowed to make closed-door deals with government representatives, nor can any other form of organization do the same. They must instead bring their proposed deals openly to an Advisor, who is a permanently retired Councilor—once you become an Advisor, you can never again be picked for office—and they review the case. Anyone can visit those petition meetings, but they have to request an invitation to attend, they must pay their own way, and they cannot stay overnight.
“Anyone caught petitioning outside of these areas, particularly in private, is immediately suspended pending a thorough investigation, including investigation by telepathic truth disclosure. Any corporation or interest group found attempting to influence the government directly can be banned from contact, including travel to the Hawai’ian Islands, the individuals directly responsible will be imprisoned, they and their corporation may have any associated assets seized, or even be disbanded and its ownership redistributed by law . . . and no one involved will ever be allowed to take office.
“The individuals directly responsible are also banned from being entered into the Lottery for the rest of their lives. Any Councilor accepting that influence is thrown in jail for a period of no less than five years and is banned permanently from ever holding any sort of office again. If bribery transactions took place, assets may be confiscated or frozen, so on and so forth. It’s a very serious accusation. In fact, just making the accusation puts the accuser’s motivations under tight scrutiny, too,” Ja’ki told them. “They, too, will be investigated in the fullest measure of the law.”
Surprisingly, it was Shi’ol who reacted the strongest to the Ambassador’s explanation. Hand at the base of her throat, she blinked and stared at the structure of the Blue Terrace. “That sounds rather severe as a punishment. Perhaps even overly severe.”
“We got rather sick and tired of the oligarchic corruption, the failure to enforce laws against corrupt activities, and the rampant ignorance polluting the histories of our late-twentieth through early-twenty-second centuries. After the city of Vladistad was destroyed, our ancestors finally did something about it,” Ja’kie stated dryly. “On the other hand, to become a Councilor these days, you do not have to have served at lower levels of government, so you don’t have to know the right people, or worse, pay the right people. You do have to pass a strict and rigorous series of tests covering the functioning of governance, all major common laws, and what we call STEM subjects, being science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.
“On top of that, you have to have a vote of confidence from your population, starting at 60 percent, and rising every five years by 5 percent with each attempt at a new term. The most popular of Councilors in this century was Rosa McCrary, who served for an unprecedented six terms—90-percent approval rating—before being requested to become the Secondaire to her predecessor, and then our Premiere. She just stepped down a few weeks ago as the Premiere, highest-ranked official in the land, and was replaced in turn by her Secondaire, Augustus Callan, who is now our Premiere.
“Just before her retirement, Premiere McCrary began authorizing the missions that resulted in the Aloha 9 being selected to go on the mission that in turn rescued you. Premiere Callan took over her project at the beginning of this year and has been kept informed of all the pertinent details at every step along the way. So, on the military side of things, Admiral Nayak and Admiral-General Kurtz are my immediate superiors, yes. This makes me a midlevel officer at most. On the civilian side, as the Ambassador of the Terran United Planets . . . my only superiors are the Secondaire and Premiere of the Council.
“I no longer represent Oceania when I stand before the Council. I represent all of the Terran United Planets, every single person you have seen, and every single person you will see. Just as the Premiere and Secondaire must represent every single person, my constituency, my region, is the entire United Planets,” she stated, finishing her explanations. “That, Shi’ol Nanu’oc, is the level of civilian authority I hold. I represent the needs and interests of billions of people. I suspect that places me at the equivalent of an Imperial Princess.”
Ja’ki leaned on her palms, staring straight at the rosette-spotted blonde. Shi’ol blinked, but did not look away.
“Every single person you are about to meet—even the Lottery winners—in turn represents millions of people. That is my warning to all of you, to be respectful of that power,” Ja’ki added, looking at the faces of the other V’Dan. Just as her gaze met Li’eth’s, numbers started flashing on the screen, counting down from one hundred. “I give it in good faith because I honestly would like to see you V’Dan give a good impression of yourselves to my fellow Terrans. I give it as a warning because this will not be a secret session. You are about to be seen live by billions of people. Billions, many of whom are awake specifically for this momentous event, even though it may be their sleep cycle. Even though they may be at work, there will be very few who are not watching it right now, or who will not be watching it later when they have enough time.
“As I said, if you are unsure what to say, say nothing. Or if addressed directly, say, ‘I am uncertain what to say at this time on that subject matter,’ or some variation along those lines. Your honesty will be more appreciated than any lie . . . and lies will be found out, sooner or later, even if they’re only the littlest of lies by exaggeration. We are a culture of honor, honesty, and personal responsibility.” Straightening, she checked the time and tugged her jacket into alignment. “Now, we’re about to go live to the whole world. If you are not sure where to look, just look at the eyes of the centermost person in any of the three screen sections. The camera will be behind that spot. Please take seats on this side of the table, so that you face everyone respectfully. There will be a very lengthy oath the representatives will recite, then the actual interview will begin.”
That meant V’kol and Dai’a had to move, though both left a chair between the Ambassador and them. Li’eth stayed in his seat, but he did turn his chair somewhat to face the monitor screen. A few moments later, when the countdown of Terranglo numbers reached zero, the maps all vanished. They were
replaced by a seamless, visually curved image of a vast chamber lined with tiers of seats. One section, off to the far left, had the white-lined seats as promised; those were filled with people in a wide variety of clothes, each with the short white vest unifying them in appearance.
The rest of the seats were all edged and padded in dark gray. Every single one was filled with a Terran. Many held older, age-lined faces, some with youthful features, but all of them were clad in a sleeveless, calf-length robe. Each robe was a solid color, but they came in various subdued shades of the rainbow; most wore clothing beneath them that varied a bit less than the extreme ends of what the Lottery winners wore. A bit more subdued in style, a bit more formal, for all they were foreign to his eyes. The garments were not quite as layered or intricately cut as First Tier clothes, but the quality was still easily somewhere between Second and Third.
Had they been marked, the Terran officials would have looked fully adult to him . . . and the moment Li’eth caught himself thinking that, he firmly steered his thoughts away from that trap. They are adults. They are adults . . .
The audio portion of the communications link thrummed with the rustling murmurs of dozens and scores of quiet conversations, until a pair of white-robed figures strode into view from a corridor between the tiers of seats. Theirs were the only calf-length, all-white overgarments; Li’eth guessed it was a way to unify the two long-robed Councilors with the short-vested Fellows as well as the others.
A middle-aged, slightly graying man with a dark gray robe—the only color not in the seats surrounding him—stood and spoke into some sort of wire, an audio pickup. “Premiere Augustus Callan and Secondaire Jorong Que Pong have entered the Hall. Everyone, please rise for the opening ceremonies of this session, number 40,618, of the United Planets Council, taking place on this day of February 1, in the year 2287.”
Everyone in the Council Hall—those who were seated—surged to their feet. Those who were already standing broke off their conversations and faced the center of the hall. So did the Terrans, standing as Ja’ki did. Li’eth, accustomed to the flow of ritual and protocol, chose to stand as well out of respect for their government since it was obvious the two clad in white floor-length vests were the Premiere and Secondaire she kept mentioning. Belatedly, the others in his crew stood as well. Thankfully, Shi’ol was the first after him to do so. She, too, was accustomed to the rituals of formality even if these people were not V’Dan.
The shorter, lighter-skinned of the two men in white, the one with the gray outfit that matched the silver streaks in his dark hair, lifted his hands palm upward almost exactly like a Temple High Priest would have. Li’eth found himself abruptly amused, since despite their plain appearance, those outer vest-robes were sort of like the formal outer vestments of the priesthood. Minus all of the embroidery, beadwork, and more, of course. A name flashed on the screen underneath him, scrolling from left to right in Terranglo lettering: Premiere Augustus Callan.
“We now begin this session, number 40,618, of the Terran United Planets Council with the traditional recitation of the Oath of Civil Service.”
CHAPTER 11
The trio of Terran soldiers at the far end of the table immediately shifted, feet planting shoulder-width apart and hands tucking behind their back in an easy stance, the sort that could be maintained for long stretches of time. So did the doctor, and after a moment, the geophysicist shrugged and tucked his hands behind his back as well. Ja’ki, however, drew herself up square-shouldered and proud, her left hand covering her sternum, her right hand raised palm out . . . just as everyone else on the other side of the screen was doing.
Or rather, everyone not in the white-seated section. The Lottery winners, the Fellowship members, all stood, but only a few of them raised their hands; it seemed to be purely voluntary for them but mandatory for the rest. Certainly, everyone else did, even the ones in the dark gray robes, which seemed to indicate that they served as Hall staff of some sort. In a mass of voices, high and low, age-grizzled and youth-smooth, they all began their recitation.
The noise from the monitors was just that, measured and paced, but very much the noise of hundreds of representatives speaking all at once. Ja’ki’s words, however, were much clearer and more easily understood. The only problem was, it was a long Oath, very long, and it was a struggle even for Li’eth, accustomed to long-winded speeches from youth onward, to keep his mind on what they were saying.
“I am Ja’ki Maq’en-zi,” she stated, while all the others garbled their names together, along with their locations, “and I represent the people of the Terran United Planets.” There was a pause of so many heartbeats, waiting for those with the longest names for themselves and their districts to be said, then with a slight gesture from the Premiere on the screen, she and everyone else involved continued in a much closer version of unison.
“Today, and for all the days ahead of me, for as long as I shall serve my people and my government in any capacity, I will cling to and abide by the following guidelines, laws, and rules, keeping them carefully and fully in mind every minute and every hour of every single day. I will believe in these rules, and I will follow them to the best of my ability, as payment for the trust which the people have placed in me to represent them to the best of my ability in the halls of law and leadership.
“I will treat every person I meet with respect, dignity, compassion, justice, and consideration, regardless of faction, gender, age, creed, culture, ethnicity, social or financial status, or any other consideration. I shall seek to understand viewpoints, and will not allow differences of opinion between us to alter how I treat them, save only where they have transgressed the law. Even then, I shall still treat them with dignity and justice, for I am here to represent them as fellow citizens.
“I hereby acknowledge that I am not a servant of any one faction, sponsorship, religion, creed, or group of any sort. I am a servant of all of the people within my care, both with those I agree and have such things in common with, and those with whom I disagree or lack such commonalities . . .”
The speech went on and on, hundreds of people reciting in lockstep vows of treating all with equality and consideration, of refraining from using or abusing drugs, alcohol, and other intoxicants both while actively working and while away from the office during one’s term of service, oaths acknowledging that if they did not do their job as representatives, they would not get paid—which was a bit of a shock to Li’eth, since most of the higher-level government officials in the Empire were renowned for taking extra-long “paid vacations” whenever they thought they could get away with it.
It kept going. Oaths about not stockpiling resources, promises of understanding that the laws made applied equally to them as well as to the people they represented, that they were not above the law and could be subjected to arrest and all other such penalties the exact same as any other person, that lying was to be foresworn while in office . . . He began to understand why Ja’ki had coached them on what to say when they didn’t want to answer a question. Following those things were vows to uphold the scientific process of seeking and acknowledging provable facts, relying upon consistent data gathered from multiple sources, and avoiding being swayed by falsehoods and bribes to believe otherwise.
And then they recited a vow of separating religion from government. Shi’ol and Ba’oul audibly gasped, Dai’a looked dismayed, while Li’eth felt shocked. Religion was such an entwined part of his life, of his family’s life, it was hard to fathom a government system that did not lean upon the wisdom of the priesthood to guide it. Only V’kol, a proclaimed atheist, looked happy on hearing that particular part of the lengthy speech; in fact, he outright smiled at hearing it, and flashed that smile toward Li’eth, as if to say, See? They’re superior in at least one way to our people.
Li’eth wasn’t sure if he had mentally heard that, eavesdropping with his mind-speaking gifts . . . with his telepathy, as Ja’ki called it. More of the speech passed by while he struggled with that an
tireligious, or rather, aloof-from-religion statement, until he heard the closing words, and realized the Oath was finally coming to an end.
“. . . Each day, I shall repeat these words not only with my lips and my mind, but with my heart and my will, acknowledging them fully in my mind, and accepting them as the truth and the price for the rights and the powers I now hold,” Ja’ki recited. “Today, I shall serve, and I shall do my best to serve well and fully for the entire time I work. I am Ja’ki Maq’en-zi, and I represent the people of the Terran United Planets.”
The Council Hall fell silent as the last of the oathspeakers gave their own regional identities. The man in white waited a few moments, then spoke. “. . . Thank you for reciting the Oath of Civil Service with me. You may be seated, now.”
Everyone in the Hall, including the Secondaire, took a seat. The taller of the two white-clad men—his suit was a nice shade of dark brown—did so by mounting a dais to take one of two seats at a sort of desk arrangement; it looked something like what a judge would use back home, Li’eth realized, save that the desk surfaces sat to each side of the two chairs. The taller, brown-clad man took the lower of the two seats at that, while everyone else settled into their chairs in the various sections of the auditorium. On the station side of the monitor, the Terrans also seated themselves.
Ja’ki gave a downward press of her right hand toward the V’Dan, settling into her chair by the mysterious box she had brought in. Li’eth in turn gestured for his crew to be seated as well. It felt good to sit after standing for so long; the speech had gone on for several mi-nah, at least eight, maybe ten of them. Since the notepads were handy, blocks of neatly lined white, he pulled one close to him and made a note in V’Dan. Remember to ask for a full copy of this Oath of Civil Service to study it in more depth.
