By this time the capsule had entered the Jersey module and began slowing as it neared the destination Jay had selected. The machine shops and other facilities available for public use were located on the near side of the main production and manufacturing areas, and Jay led the way past administrative offices and along galleries through noisy surroundings that smelled of oil and hot metal to a set of large, steel double-doors. A smaller side door brought them to a check-in counter topped by a glass partition behind which the attendant and a watchman were playing cribbage across a scratched and battered metal desk. The attendant stood and shuffled over when Jay and Pernak appeared, and Jay presented a school pass which entitled him to free use of the facilities. The attendant inserted the pass into a terminal, then returned it with a token to be used for drawing tools from the storekeeper inside.
“There’s something for you here,” the attendant noted as Jay was turning away. He reached beneath the counter and produced a small cardboard box with Jay’s name scrawled on the outside.
Puzzled, Jay broke the sealing tape and opened the box to reveal a layer of foam padding and a piece of folded notepaper. Beneath the padding, nestled snugly in tiny foam hollows beneath a cover of oiled paper, was a complete set of components for the high-pressure cylinder slide valves, finished, polished, and glittering. The note read:
Jay,
I thought you might need a hand with these so I did them last night. If my hunch is right, things have probably gotten a bit difficult for you. There’s no sense in upsetting people who don’t mean any harm. Take it from me, he’s not such a bad guy.
STEVE
Jay blinked and looked up to find Pernak watching him curiously. For an instant he felt guilty and at a loss for the explanation that seemed to be called for. “Bernard told me about it,” Pernak said before Jay could offer anything. “I guess he’s under a lot of pressure right now, so don’t read too much into it.” He stared at the box in Jay’s hand. “I don’t see anything—not a darn thing. Come on, Jay. Let’s take a look at that loco of yours.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Chiron was almost nine thousand miles in diameter, but its nickel-iron core was somewhat smaller than Earth’s, which gave it a comparable gravitational force at the surface. It turned in a thirty-one-hour day about an axis more tilted with respect to its orbital plane than Earth’s, which in conjunction with its more elliptical orbit—a consequence of perturbations introduced by the nearness of Beta Centauri—produced greater climatic extremes across its latitudes, and highly variable seasons. Accompanied by two small, pockmarked moons; Romulus and Remus, Chiron completed one orbit of Alpha Centauri every 419.66 days. Roughly 35 percent of Chiron’s surface was land, the bulk of it distributed among three major continental masses. The largest of these was Terranova, a vast, east-west sprawling conglomeration of every conceivable type of geographic region, dominating the southern hemisphere and extending from beyond the pole to cross the equator at its most northerly extremity. Selene, with its jagged coastlines and numerous islands, was connected to the western part of Terranova via an isthmus that narrowed to a neck below the equator; Artemia lay farther to the east, separated by oceans.
Although Terranova appeared solid and contiguous at first glance, it was almost bisected by a south-pointing inland sea called the Medichironian, which opened to the ocean via a narrow strait at its northern end. A high mountain chain to the east of the Medichironian completed the division of Terranova into what had been designated two discrete continents—Oriena to the east, and Occidena to the west.
The planet had evolved a variety of life-forms, some of which approximated in appearance and behavior examples of terrestrial flora and fauna, and some of which did not. Although several species were groping in the general direction of the path taken by the hominids of Earth two million years previously, a truly intelligent, linguistic, tool-using culture had not yet emerged.
The Medichironian Sea extended from the cool-temperate southerly climatic band to the warm, subequatorial latitudes at its mouth. Its eastern shore lay along narrow coastal plains, open in some parts and thickly forested in others, that rapidly rose into the foothills of the Great Barrier Chain, beyond which stretched the vast plains and deserts of central Oriena. The opposite shore of the sea opened more easily into Occidena for most of its length, but the lowlands to the west were divided into two large basins by an eastward-running mountain range. An extension of this range projected into the sea as a rocky spine of fold valleys fringed by picturesque green plains, sandy bays, and rugged headlands, and was known as the Mandel Peninsula, after a well-known statesman of the 2010s. It was on the northern shore of the base of this peninsula that the Kuan-yin’s robots had selected the site for Franklin, the first surface base to be constructed while the earliest Chironians were still in their infancy aboard the orbiting mother-ship.
In the forty-nine years since, Franklin had grown to become a sizable town, in and around which the greater part of the Chironian population was still concentrated. Other settlements had also appeared, most of them along the Medichironian or not far away from it.
Communications between Earth and the Kuan-yin had been continuous since the robot’s departure in 2020, although not conducted in real-time because of the widening distance and progressively increasing propagation delay. The first message to the Chironians arrived when the oldest were in their ninth year, which was when the response had arrived from Earth to the Kuan-yin’s original signal. Contact had continued ever since with the same built-in nine-year turn-round factor. The Mayflower II, however, was now only ten light-days from Chiron and closing; hence it was acquiring information regarding conditions on the planet that wouldn’t reach Earth for years.
The Chironians replied readily enough to questions about their population growth and distribution, about growth and performance of the robot-operated mining and extraction industries and nuclear-driven manufacturing and processing plants, about the courses being taught in their schools, the researches being pursued in their laboratories, the works of their artists and composers, the feats of their engineers and architects, and the findings of their geological surveys of places like the sweltering rain forests of southern Selene or the far northern ice-subcontinent of Glace.
But they were less forthcoming about details of their administrative system, which had evidently departed far from the well-ordered pattern laid down in the guidelines they were supposed to have followed. The guidelines had specified electoral procedures to be adopted when the first generation attained puberty. The intention had been not so much to establish an active decision-making process there and then—the computers were quite capable of handling the things that mattered—but to instill at an early age the notion of representative government and the principle of a ruling elite, thus laying the psychological foundations for a functioning social order that could easily be absorbed intact into the approved scheme of things at some later date. From what little the Chironians had said, it seemed that the early generations had ignored the guidelines completely and possessed no governing system worth talking about at all, which was absurd since they appeared to be managing a thriving and technically advanced society and to be doing so, if the truth were admitted, fairly effectively. In other words, they had to be covering a lot of things up.
Although they came across as polite but frank in their laser transmissions, they projected a coolness that was enough to arouse suspicions. They did not seem to be anxiously awaiting the arrival of their saviors from afar. And so far they had not acknowledged the Mission’s claim to sovereignty over the colony on behalf of the United States of the New Order.
“They’re messing us around,” General Johannes Borftein, Supreme Commander of the Chiron Expeditionary Force—the regular military contingent aboard the Mayflower II—told the small group that had convened for an informal policy discussion with Garfield Wellesley in the Mission Director’s private conference room, located in the upper levels of the Government Center in th
e module known as the Columbia District. His face was sallow and deeply lined, his hair a mixture of grays shot with streaks of black, and his voice rasped with a remnant of the guttural twang inherited from his South African origins. “We’ve got two years to get this show organized, and they’re playing games. We don’t have the time. We haven’t seen any evidence of a defense program down there. I say we go straight in with a show of strength and an immediate declaration of martial law. It’s the best way.”
Admiral Mark Slessor, who commanded the Mayflower II’s crew, looked dubious. “I’m not so sure it’s that simple.” He rubbed his powerful, blue-shadowed chin. “We could be walking into anything. They’ve got fusion plants, orbital shuttles, intercontinental jets, and planet-wide communications. How do we know they haven’t been working on defense? They’ve got the know-how and the means. I can see John’s point, but his approach is too risky.”
“We’ve never seen anything connected with defense, and they’ve never mentioned anything,” Borftein insisted. “Let’s stick to reality and the facts we know. Why complicate the issue with speculation?”
“What do you say, Howard?” Garfield Wellesley inquired, looking at Howard Kalens, who was sitting next to Matthew Sterm, the grim-faced and so far silent Deputy Mission Director.
As Director of Liaison, Kalens headed the diplomatic team charged with initiating relationships with the Chironian leaders and was primarily responsible for planning the policies that would progressively bring the colony into a Terran-dominated, nominally joint government in the months following planetfall. Hence the question probably concerned him more than anybody else. Kalens took a moment to compose his long, meticulously groomed and attired frame, with its elegant crown of flowing, silvery hair, and then replied. “I agree with John that a rigid rule needs to be asserted early on . . . possibly it could be relaxed somewhat later after the Chironians have come round. However, Mark has a point too. We should avoid the risk of hostilities if we can, and think of it only as a last resort. We’re going to need those resources working for us, not against. And they’re still very thin. We can’t permit them to be frittered away or destroyed. Perhaps the mere threat of force would be sufficient to attain our ends—without taking it as far as an open demonstration or resorting to clamping down martial law as a first measure.”
Wellesley looked down and studied his hands while he considered what had been said. In his sixties, he had shouldered twenty years of extraterrestrial senior responsibilities and two consecutive terms as Mission Director, Although a metallic glitter still remained in the pale eyes looking out below his thinning, sandy hair, and the lines of his hawkish features were still sharp and clear, a hint of inner weariness showed through in the hollows beginning to appear in his cheeks and neck, and in the barely detectable sag of his shoulders beneath his jacket. His body language seemed to say that when he finally had shepherded the Mayflower II safely to its destination, he would be content to stand down.
“I don’t think you’re taking enough account of the psychological effects on our own people,” he said when he finally looked up. “Morale is high now that we’re nearly there, and I don’t want to spoil it. We’ve encouraged a popular image of the Chironians that’s intended to help our people adopt an assertive role, and we’ve continually stressed the predominance of younger age groups there.” He shook his head. “Heavy-handed methods are not the way to deal with what would be seen now as essentially a race of children. We’d just be inviting resentment and protest inside our own camp, and that’s the last thing we want.
“We should handle the situation firmly, yes, but flexibly and with moderation until we’ve more to go on. Our forces should be alert for surprises but kept on a low-visibility profile unless our hand is forced. That’s my formula, gentlemen—firm, low-key, but flexible.”
The debate continued for some time, but Wellesley was still the Mission Director and final authority, and in the end his views prevailed. “I’ll go along with you, but I have to say I’m not happy about it,” Borftein said. “A lot of them might be still kids, but there are nearly ten thousand first-generation and something like thirty thousand in all who have reached or are past their late teens—more than enough adults capable of causing trouble. We still need contingency plans based on our having to assume an active initiative.”
“Is that a proposal?” Wellesley asked. “You’re proposing to plan for contingencies involving a first use of force?”
“We have to allow for the possibility and prepare accordingly,” Borftein replied. “Yes, it is.”
“I agree,” Howard Kalens murmured. Wellesley looked at Slessor, who, while still showing signs of apprehension, appeared curiously to feel relieved at the same time. Wellesley nodded heavily. “Very well. Proceed on that basis, John. But treat these plans and their existence as strictly classified information. Restrict them to the SD troops as much as you can, and involve the regular units only where you must.”
“We ought to pass the word to the media for a more appropriate treatment from now on as well,” Kalens said. “Perhaps playing up things like Chironian stubbornness and irresponsibility would harden up the public image a bit. . . just in case. We could get them to add a mention or two of signs that the Chironians might have armed themselves and the need to take precautions. It could always be dismissed later as overzealous reporting. Should I whisper in Lewis’s ear about it?”
Wellesley frowned over the suggestion for several seconds but eventually nodded. “I suppose you should, yes.” Sterm watched, listened, and said nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
Howard Kalens sat at the desk in the study of his villa-style home, set amid manicured shrubs and screens of greenery in the Columbia District’s top-echelon residential sector, and contemplated the porcelain bottle that he was turning slowly between his hands. It was Korean, from the thirteenth-century Koryo dynasty, and about fourteen inches high with a long neck that flowed into a bulbous body of celadon glaze delicately inlaid with mishima depicting a willow tree and symmetrical floral designs contained between decorative bands of a repeated foliose motif encircling the stem and base. His desk was a solid-walnut example of early nineteenth-century French rococo revival, and the chair in which he was sitting, a matching piece by the same cabinetmaker. The books aligned on the shelves behind him included first editions by Henry James, Scott Fitzgerald, and Norman Mailer; the Matisse on the wall opposite was a print from an original preserved in the Mayflower II’s vaults, and the lithographs beside it were by Rico Lebrun. And as Kalens’s eyes feasted on the fine balance of detail and contrasts of hues, and his fingers traced the textures of the bottle’s surface, he savored the feeling of a tiny fraction of a time and place that were long ago and far away coming back to life to be uniquely his for that brief, fleeting moment.
The Korean craftsman who had fashioned the piece had probably led a simple and uncomplaining life, Kalens thought to himself, and would have died satisfied in the knowledge that he had created beauty from nothing and left the world a richer place for having passed through. Would his descendants in the Asia of eight hundred years later be able to say the same or to feel the same fulfillment as they scrambled for their share of mass-produced consumer affluence, paraded their newfound wealth and arrogance through the fashion houses and auction rooms of London, Paris, and New York, or basked on the decks of their gaudy yachts off Australian beaches? Kalens very much doubted it. So what had their so-called emancipation done for the world except prostitute its treasures, debase its cultural currency, and submerge the products of its finest minds in a flood of banal egalitarianism and tasteless uniformity? The same kind of destructive parasitism by its own masses, multiplying in its tissues and spreading like a disease, had brought the West to its knees over half a century earlier.
In its natural condition a society was like an iceberg, eight-ninths submerged in crude ignorance and serving no useful purpose other than to elevate and support the worthy minority whose distillation and
embodiment of all that was excellent of the race conferred privilege as a right and authority as a duty. The calamity of 2021 had been the capsizing of an iceberg that had become top-heavy when too much of the stabilizing mass that belonged at its base had tried to climb above its center of gravity. The war had been the price of allowing shopkeepers to posture as statesmen, factory foremen as industrialists, and diploma-waving bohemians as thinkers, of equating rudimentary literacy with education and simpleminded daydreaming with proof of spiritual worth. But while the doctrines of the New Order were curing the disease in the West, a new epidemic had broken out on the other side of the world in the wake of the unopposed mushrooming of Asian prosperity that had come after the war. Mankind as a whole, it seemed, would never learn.
“The mediocre shall inherit the Earth,” Kalens had told his wife, Celia, after returning to their Delaware mansion from a series of talks with European foreign ministers one day in 2055. “Or else, eventually, there will be another war.” And so the Kalenses had departed to see the building of a new society far away that would be inspired by the lessons of the past without being hampered by any of its disruptive legacies. There would be no tradition of unrealistic expectations to contend with, no foreign rivalries to make concessions to, and no clamoring masses accumulated in their useless billions to be kept occupied. Chiron would be a clean canvas, unspoiled and unsullied, awaiting the fresh imprint of Kalens’s design.
Three obstacles now remained between Kalens and the vision that he had nurtured through the years of presiding over the kind of neo-feudal order that would epitomize his ideal social model. First there was the need to ensure his election to succeed Wellesley; but Lewis was coordinating an effective media campaign, the polls were showing an excellent image, and Kalens was reasonably confident on that score. Second was the question of the Chironians. Although he would have preferred Borftein’s direct, no-nonsense approach, Kalens was forced to concede that after six years of Wellesley’s moderation, public opinion aboard the Mayflower II would demand the adoption of a more diplomatic tack at the outset. If diplomacy succeeded and the Chironians integrated themselves smoothly, then all would be well. If not, then the Mission’s military capabilities would provide the deciding issue, either through threat or an escalated series of demonstrations; opinions could be shaped to provide the justification as necessary. Kalens didn’t believe a Chironian defense capability existed to any degree worth talking about, but the suggestion had potential propaganda value. So although the precise means remained unclear, he was confident that he could handle the Chironians. Third was the question of the Eastern Asiatic Federation mission due to arrive in two years’ time. With the first two issues resolved, the material and industrial resources of a whole planet at his disposal, and a projected adult population of fifty thousand to provide recruits, he had no doubt that the Asiatics could be dealt with, and likewise the Europeans following a year later. And then he would be free to sever Chiron’s ties to Earth completely. He hadn’t confided that part of the dream to anyone, not even Celia.
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