The Pilots of Borealis

by David Nabhan

  Rittener waited for some composure to return, and then held up a fair-minded hand. “Be that as it may, it really doesn’t matter which side is pushing harder. The Terran Ring has always pulled its punches with Borealis. I’m telling you—they’re willing to hit you as hard as they can right now.” He said the next sentence very quietly, very honestly, as amicably as he could. “Councilor, you don’t have to buy me. If you’re asking if I have good reasons for my beliefs about Terra’s intentions, formally swearing me into your service isn’t required.”

  Stanislaus was still stuck on the word. “Provocations?” He laughed aloud. “You mean like the provocation we offered them when we refused to hand you over to Terra?” Stanislaus’ left eyebrow raised. By his exasperated expression Rittener could see quite easily that many a heated debate about just that must have raged within the Council lately.

  Rittener didn’t utter a sound, allowing the councilor to nod affirmatively to his own question.

  “But if you’re here as a friend and you have some knowledge that poses a danger to Borealis . . .” Stanislaus paused, trying to bring the right words out. “Then it’s the request of the Council that you make us aware of it.”

  Rittener replied as simply as he could. “The old policy of ‘inviolable Borealis’ . . . well, Councilor, you’re going to need a defense stronger than that.”

  That had been Borealis’ great protection against powerful neighbors: her incomparable allure. Paris wasn’t destroyed in the World Wars for the same reason. To obliterate Borealis, though, would be as unconscionable as burning down a hundred Parises. The Borelians had let this go to their heads though, imagining themselves bullet-proof. They were at times petulant and uncompromising and their adversaries were tired of it. “Who does own the Moon?” was now accompanied by another question. “Why shouldn’t the Borelians get exactly what they deserve?” Many people on Terra were saying out loud for the first time what sort of treatment was best suited for the unspeakably arrogant Borelians.

  “Mr. Rittener, I must tell you,” Stanislaus was shaking his head ‘no’ as he spoke, “if you’ve come so far to advise surrender, you might just as well have stayed on Mars. I have to deal with plenty here who are entertaining the same thought.”

  Rittener was shaking his head ‘yes’ as he spoke. “I’m aware of that. Was that stunt involving Nerissa during the previous race concocted to depreciate their counsel?” That might have been too blunt. He was speaking to a Borelian councilor—and Nerissa was his niece.

  “Explain yourself,” Stanislaus growled.

  Since it was too late to do otherwise, Rittener did. He had determined already that it was time for Borelians to experience first-hand what bare knuckles felt like. Maybe they’d come to their senses after all?

  “I’ve trained flying virtually with Nerissa a hundred times. But I’ve never seen her fly so clumsily and recklessly. I have to say I was a bit embarrassed for Borealis, watching such an amateurish display.” He stopped for a moment and shrugged. “It might have pushed subliminal buttons with a few fence-straddlers still unsure about the faithless nature of Terrans, true. That’s the wrong medicine right now.”

  Stanislaus had determined something of his own: that Rittener had passed into the realm of impertinence. He was sure about that, but since that never happened—ever—he wasn’t quite so sure how to react. He sat there staring wordlessly.

  “And how surprising that all those tangles should have involved Demetrius Sehene,” Rittener added sarcastically. “He’s a Terran spy, you know, don’t you?” Everyone in the Inner knew that. Having all this pointed out was the final straw though.

  With that the interview was concluded. Stanislaus made that clear when he called his amanuensis’ name, Hippocrates.

  “Yes, Councilor?” He appeared instantly—bald, bearded, clad in a toga—with stylus and papyrus at the ready, just as if it were 400 BC.

  “Ask Daiyu to schedule a meeting with Clinton Rittener, at her earliest convenience. It’s about that matter we discussed.”

  “Immediately, Councilor.” Hippocrates gently tried to remind him about some color code for the message but Stanislaus ignored the prompt. He rose and motioned Rittener to follow him. “The Council will be waiting. It’s time for your oath.”

  As the two men strode in the gentle gravity through the stone-cleaved corridor between Stanislaus’ office and the Council Chambers, Rittener, out of the blue, told him the rest. Rittener had chosen to take the councilor into his deepest, personal confidence at the very last moment, when it was too late for any discussion. It was cheeky in the extreme but it was powerfully delivered, and when Stanislaus had time to think about it, taking his seat on the dais, it didn’t surprise him after all. This particular condottiero was famous for being impossible to predict.

  “I’m quite well-informed about the question you were afraid to ask. As a matter of fact, I know the whole thing—and a bit more, too.”

  Stanislaus detected nerves in his voice, for the first time. That assured him that Rittener was telling the truth more than anything. “I did come to Borealis for no reason other than to live correctly.” Rittener paused. Stanislaus couldn’t really make out the expression in the dimly lit corridor, the voice sounded pained though. “And, maybe to make up for the parts of my life when I didn’t live correctly.”

  Rittener pointed to Stanislaus’ golden caduceus. It gleamed even in the low light. “Fate has put you here and now, just like me. It won’t do for either of us to pretend otherwise. Think about what that insignia means to you as you listen to me speak before the Council. And then support me.”

  The impractical, childish part of Stanislaus told the doctor that Rittener’s words, certainly unusual and strangely delivered, still meant nothing more than what tension and emotion might produce. Rittener was a man who had been escaping death regularly for many years and now had found himself safe and sound in the unassailable harbor of Borelian citizenship. Why shouldn’t he be giving voice to strange, garbled utterances?

  Sitting in his august councilor’s chair, going over syllable by syllable what Rittener had just told him, that’s what Stanislaus told himself, anyway.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IMMINENT DANGER

  IT WAS STANDING ROOM only for Clinton Rittener’s swearing-in ceremony. A vacant seat would have been unusual for any session of the Council, though. Borelians were keen on politics and the Council rarely sat unless under the eyes of a full house. The chamber itself wasn’t that big—about the size of an arenaball auditorium, and in the design of an ancient semicircular theater, the rows of seats carved in the rock itself, rising one on the other at a noticeably steep angle. The councilors sat on a raised dais against the far wall, in the center.

  Above the councilors, ascending a good portion of the height between them and the ceiling, stood—or rather floated—a ten-foot-tall, three-dimensional, holographic representation of the goddess of the Moon: Borealis’ Central System Amanuensis, Diana. She wasn’t dressed in the flowing regal gowns that Hera and Athena wore, nor in the noble robes worn by queens in images stamped on coins or cut into marble. It was a rather perky Diana, a deity in her early twenties, perpetually. She wore a huntress’ tunic, cut well above the knees and made of a material silky and still rustic, translucently diaphanous and yet opaque. The programmers had played other tricks to infuse her with convincing divine characteristics. Her skin radiated a heavenly glow, her lips painted in a red too rubicund for reality, her eyes the color and sheen of the finest sapphires in the Titan Consortium’s mural of the Rings of Saturn. At her hip hung a quiver of arrows, and over her shoulder she wore her bow.

  Diana’s hair was modestly restrained, pulled back in a Hellenic twist into a flaxen braid that fell down her back. And, for certain, one look into Diana’s face is all that is required to tell that Borealis had something other than a coquette in mind when they crafted their amanuensis. She wore the same expression the goddess in myth had shown to the hunter Orion, who
had accidentally come upon the deity bathing in her sacred pool one midnight in the sylvan thickets of the woods. Diana had set the wild dogs of the forest to tear Orion limb from limb—not spending a thought on the hunter’s blamelessness. She was upholding the common sense dictum that embarrassing a goddess would be the last act of any human—innocent or guilty.

  Borealis had meant to send a similar message with the look they’d given Diana, and the air desired was well conveyed. Here was a gilded city, beautiful and rich, cultured and open-minded, and unique in all of creation; that’s what Diana’s body said. Here was a state with the muscle to tame any inimical force in space, a people that had conquered every challenge put in their path, a power on the ascendant, young enough to be perhaps reckless with that strength. That’s what the face said.

  DIANA MADE THE FORMAL announcement. “Councilors, next on the agenda: Clinton Rittener, taking an oath of citizenship, matter number AE 1432-C.” The five hundred Borelians in attendance erupted, applauding fiercely. By the time Rittener had reached his place in the witness’ platform in front of one of the podiums, the crowd was on its feet. The ovation was strong enough and lasted long enough to require that Rittener bow politely to the audience behind him, and then turn to the Council. He could see, as could many nearby, that even though decorum prevented the councilors from clapping had they wanted to, one of them, Daiyu, was gently wiping away tears. It had been a long time since the last honorary citizen was sworn in—Daiyu herself—twelve years ago. Everyone understood her feelings.

  The emotions that drove Rittener’s supporters were much more complicated. For starters, where did loyalties lie with Clinton Rittener? Every time a close look was taken at him he was in the service of some different power. Everything about him was in dichotomy. He was born on Earth and fought with the Eastern Alliance, yet as a liaison of the European Union. He was both a privateer of the Terran Ring while at the same time currently a wanted fugitive of Terran power, convicted of mutiny and treason. Between all this he’d rubbed elbows with the riff-raff of Mars and the underground, lightless world of the Outer. Now here he was on Borealis, piloting, of all things, and becoming a citizen.

  For as beautiful, rich, exciting, and splendid as living on Borealis was, the plain fact was that a profound and abiding homesickness afflicted Borelians. After so many centuries, the people really just missed Earth. Blue skies, weather, rain, fog, sweat, humidity, and more—all the good, along with all the bad—but mostly the freedom of uncertainty was missed over everything. Rittener possessed the swashbuckling hubris that Borelians found earthy and appealing, that mixture of thinking and irrational, cowardly and brave, honorable and dastardly that humans used to make sense of the cacophony of life on Mother Earth. And, for better or worse, wasn’t Clinton Rittener the best, at what he did and was? Hadn’t Borealis been the harbor of the most superlative personalities in the Solar System, for centuries now? Lastly, not a few of the pilot-crazed aficionados on Borealis stuck up for him for no other reason than that. Many of them were calling out piloting slogans and catch phrases. So he got quite a reception from the live audience taking in the proceedings; many other Borelians were watching through their amanuenses.

  When the applause abated, Stanislaus directed him to raise his right hand and had Rittener repeat an ancient promise to uphold, protect, honor, and defend Borealis, over all others, unto death. “I do swear,” Rittener repeated at the end.

  “Then the Council of Borealis recognizes you, Clinton Rittener, as a citizen of Borealis, from this moment forward, entitled to all the rights, privileges, and protections thereto, unto death.”

  Now a real ovation broke out. It was long enough that Stanislaus had to bring his gavel down a few times. Diana was attempting to move things along too, repeating to the Council, but actually addressing the onlookers, “Mr. Rittener has requested to make a citizen’s oration.” Indeed, there was an old-fashioned, genteel part in the ceremony, going back to Settlement Times, where the new citizen should say a few words about his feelings for his new home. The audience was hushed, and five hundred fellow citizens listened intently to what the newest should have to say. The councilors were keen to listen too, each guaranteed to hear the words through their own particular filters.

  THERE WERE FIVE “HAWKS” on the Council, led by two military men: the admiral of the Borelian fleet, Albrecht, and the commandant of the Security Forces, General Gellhinger. Two CEOs of the largest helium-3 concerns in existence, along with the very eccentric philosopher-artiste, Mariah, made up the rest of the voting bloc. Four “doves” opposed them currently. The Caretaker General of the Garden, Breonia, spoke for them, because hardly a more pleasant voice could be heard. She acted the part of everyone’s green-thumbed, well-intentioned, nurturing grandmother on Borealis. The commissioner of the Goldilocks Array’s workers voted with her. So did two labor representatives from the most at-risk areas on the Moon—those operators in the Field working to mine helium-3 and sunlight—and outside the protection of shields. Stanislaus and Daiyu were the tenth and eleventh councilors, the swing vote.

  Rittener signaled this was going to be more than the usual citizen’s declaration when he silently, slowly pulled his amanuensis from his thumb, clicked it off, and placed it on display on the podium. This was absolutely voluntary, as it was illegal in any court, deposition, or legal session of any kind in Borealis, or any other civilized place, to demand testimony “naked”—that is, scanned without wearing an amanuensis. Diana would definitely scrutinize for honesty and candidness by default. It made an impression, sending a quizzical murmur through the assemblage and changing the expression on the faces of the councilors.

  “What I have to say to the Council and people of Borealis is important enough that there can be no doubt about its veracity.” He looked over his shoulder at his fellow citizens in attendance; he was talking to them too. “As per the first article of the first section of the Health and Safety Code,” Rittener cleared his throat, quoting a law written back in the very oldest of Settlement Times, “I invoke the ‘imminent danger’ clause.” He looked at each of the eleven members. Not one of them had really understood him. Of course his words made sense, but they were so incongruous, so unexpected. Admiral Albrecht was as puzzled as the rest and seemed on the point of words to Rittener, frowning and pulling himself straight up in his chair. “So I am requesting that the Council take my citizen’s declaration as both that, and also as fulfilling my responsibility in bringing the most extreme emergency to the attention of the Council.”

  That certainly made things clear for the admiral, who addressed him now.

  “Mr. Rittener, first, welcome to Borealis.” He didn’t say it like the Chamber of Commerce did; he was offended already, and deeply. “I commend your knowledge of our legal system. I’m not a lawyer but I am something of an historian, and I don’t believe there is a case of anyone ever being granted Borelian citizenship and then putting it at risk within the first minute.

  “Diana?” he asked.

  “Never.” She responded a few microseconds later. Diana had read the admiral’s mind almost, from his dour expression, from the anger detected in the first syllable of the first word he uttered. She guessed correctly that the councilor was quite interested in the witness, yet not in a friendly way. She was all over Rittener, this unusual testifier sans amanuensis.

  Albrecht lectured him. “Our ancestors were wise enough to put the responsibility for public safety in every citizen’s hand, especially in those old days when disasters could and did strike so often. They were also sensible enough to craft the law so that it shouldn’t be abused.” The admiral fixed Rittener with an extremely frosty look of disapproval. “You are also aware of the risks attendant to misusing this right?”

  Rittener knew that crying wolf could ultimately wind up getting one banished. But that was for repeated infractions, and the few times it had ever been used, candid histories admit, it was more akin to ostracism—for mostly political reasons.

/>   “Yes, I am aware, Councilor,” Rittener responded without emotion. “May I continue?”

  Admiral Albrecht made an airy wave of his arm in Stanislaus’ direction. “The Chair gives and takes permission to speak,” he said plainly, completely unbiased, as if simply reading from the rules book. The admiral was a crew-cut, spit and polished, old-fashioned military man. He didn’t even look to Stanislaus but kept his icy stare on the witness. The admiral’s expression said he wasn’t sure what was going on but that he didn’t like it already.

  Stanislaus wasn’t absolutely certain how much more Rittener might know beyond what he’d already shared, but based off their previous conversation, he knew the direction Rittener’s declaration would certainly take. That was enough to cause the nerves to be written right across his face, making clear to everyone, including the hundreds of citizens who were silently transfixed by the unbelievably strange turn of events, that he really didn’t want Rittener to say another word at all.

  “What are they talking about?” a few voices could be heard to say. No one told them to quiet down because everyone in the crowd was thinking the same thing. The “Twelfth Councilor,” that’s what the congregations of citizens at Council meetings were called. Sometimes the atmosphere could become quite raucous, but that was patently Borelian, too. There were so few citizens on Borealis that a gathering a few hundred strong, if sentiments within this “twelfth member” were united, was a force unto itself, and one that even the Council didn’t anger without care and concern. “Is Clinton Rittener going to give his citizen’s oration or not?” other annoyed voices were asking.

  “It seems to me,” Stanislaus offered, “that what you might have to say to the Council would better be heard in a closed session. I’ll see that this matter is put on the agenda of the next meeting.” Stanislaus said it with such evenhandedness that the finality which came with it sounded equally appropriate. Rittener’s response to this seemingly fair decision, on the other hand, was unexpected and close to an open declaration of war.