by Dani Kollin
“For what?”
“Helping me sell a helluva lot of downloads.”
Hektor laughed. “My dear, sweet Irma, I can’t convince them to stay in the Confederation. That’s why I plan to offer them a bribe.”
Now it was Irma’s turn to laugh.
“They’re Alaskans, Hektor. They don’t care about your money or your stock, so what’s left? Power sharing? Do that and they’ll stymie your every attempt to nail Justin to the wall.”
“Don’t worry, Irma,” answered Hektor with a dev ilish grin. “I’m not going to bribe them with power. Just the hope of achieving it.”
With that, Hektor, followed by his guards, headed toward the door that led directly out to the auditorium. Irma could hear a halo of boos and various shrieks of anger greeting him from the other side of the now-closed door. She waited a moment and then slipped out the same door, unnoticed by the crowd that had focused their anger on her “story” making his way to the dais. She took a position against the far wall of the stage, out of the spotlight.
She saw that Hektor had already transformed into his grave but dignified persona. When he got to the podium he waited for the jeers to quiet down.
“You’re angry,” Hektor said, through clenched teeth. “Well, damn it, you have every right to be!”
The crowd quieted somewhat, surprised at the Chairman’s tone.
“If I was an Alaskan,” shouted Hektor, “I’d be angry too!”
There were more shouts but this time less so. Hektor, Irma could see, was slowly throwing them off their game.
“What you created three hundred years ago,” the Chairman continued, “is being demolished in front of your very eyes. The gift of unity and peace is being demolished in your lifetime.”
Again he waited, and again the derisive comments became more sporadic.
“You think the system is broken. Many of you want to abandon what you created. So I’m asking you as merely one recipient of perhaps the greatest gift your state has ever given to mankind, do you really mean to abandon us when we need you the most!” Hektor was interrupted with cries of “The Fifth’s a farce!” and “The pre-am’s a sham!” the latter of which turned into a raucous chant that went on for many minutes.
Once again Hektor was the epitome of calm. “You may be right!” he shouted back. “Maybe the new preamble is a sham.”
The hall quickly simmered down.
“Well, I certainly didn’t propose it,” he continued, “and I’ll even admit to having my own reservations, but I will tell you that in the end … in the end I did support it.”
This brought about more cries of outrage. “Men, not stocks” was heard at various eddies in the large crowd as well as, noticed Irma, a few less appropriately expressed sentiments.
“Well, guess what, people?” taunted Hektor. “If you don’t like the amendment, change it! In less than nine months there’ll be an election for the assembly and the presidency. Propose a slate of candidates and tell the peoples of this Confederation that you’re willing to lead again.”
The crowd grew silent.
“That’s right,” he continued. “Let the Alaskans lead again and retake the mantle they so richly deserve.”
“Damned straight!” someone shouted from the back of the hall. Hektor wasn’t sure if it was one of his shills who had done the shouting but didn’t really care. It was all the impetus he needed.
“Why, in this very assembly,” he said, looking for where he knew his unwitting mark would be sitting, “you have an heir of Tim Damsah himself. A man so modest that the only post he’s ever accepted is that of assemblyman, like his father and grandfather before him.” What Hektor left out was why—the man was an idiot, only given a public office because he’d descended from Political royalty. In Arthur Damsah’s forty-eight years in office he’d never proved to be an effective anything, much less a politician.
“But surely Arthur Damsah,” Hektor said, indicating the now sweating and somewhat frightened man, “can see that he’s needed again. Alaskans, don’t abandon us, not when other roads are open.”
The mob became almost still. On Hektor’s signal his carefully placed shills began to chant “Damsah,” over and over, and soon it was picked up as the chant started to echo in the hall. It didn’t stop until Arthur Damsah got up and gave a timid wave, turning the chant into a roar of approval.
“So you all know,” Hektor said with a slight grin, “I don’t agree with Arthur Damsah on his policies, and to be honest I probably wouldn’t vote for him. But I can agree that he, like his forefathers, is a great man and one who should be running for the presidency at this time of crisis!”
This brought the first and last round of applause that Hektor got that evening. As he left the assembly hall Hektor knew that what ever the Alaskans did next, they would not be seceding today, and that was all he really cared about.
President Rainusso has announced that after serving out the term of his assassinated predecessor, he will not seek re-election. But the President, never an adventurous man, was shocked by how much more important the presidency became with the coming of Justin Cord and the Crisis. This puts the Libertarian Party in a quandary with the election only months away. In related news, Arthur Damsah is showing very strong in the polls despite his late entry and obvious sympathy for the rebellious assets in the outer orbits. The question of the hour is who will the Libertarian Party find to risk a major humiliation at this late hour?
—“Election Beat”
Neuro News Now (N.N.N.)
Hektor’s flyer landed with as much secrecy as the Chairman of GCI could manage, and he and his small entourage proceeded straight to the presidential home on Lake Geneva. Located at the water’s edge, the building, thought Hektor, was an overly grandiose yet boring structure with an even longer and more boring history—partially a result of the office itself. The presidency had become, over the centuries, an award for good and faithful ser vice. Whoever the Libertarian Party put up for office got elected, and no one cared because the President was mainly a figurehead. The President had, for the most part, been consigned to sitting around in his house, fishing on the lake, and occasionally going to Geneva to officially greet someone or sign something that had no power to affect anyone. As Hektor made his way into the old house (through a wooden door on hinges, no less), he wondered if the meeting he was about to take might not be the most important meeting the old house had ever seen.
Let’s get this over with, he thought as he entered the foyer.
He was ushered into the presidential office and saw the President looking worried with sweat pouring from his brow.
“Mr. President,” Hektor said, bowing cordially. Though many had begun to once again shake hands, a fad started by Justin, Hektor had pointedly decided not to. He also saw Carl Trang, former senator from China and current Chairman of the Libertarian Party. Next to him was Luciana Nampahc, head of the Better Business Bureau. Hektor’s files on her were voluminous. The Chairman then put on his best, what-could-all-these-government-types-want-with-a-businessman-like-me? face. He accepted the seat they offered and watched as they all waited in uncomfortable silence for someone to start. Hektor was pleased to see that he won the bet with himself as Luciana cleared her throat. “Chairman Sambianco,” she began, “we need to ask for your help in the election….”
News alert: Hektor Sambianco, Chairman of GCI, has just announced that he will be running for the presidency of the Terran Federation. In a surprise move he will be opposing the Liberty Party candidate, Arthur Damsah. Mr. Sambianco has promised a fair and honest government, with scrupulous protection of all liberties. In a further surprise move he states that if elected he will resign from the chairmanship of GCI and devote himself to the presidency full-time. This has had an electrifying effect on the Libertarian Party.
—Neuro News Now
3 Sebastian Front and Center
If a human could experience a general meeting of our world, thought the avatar in the m
idst of one such meeting, he would not understand it. Part of the problem, he mused as a cacophonous deluge of messages passed through and from him, was that a human could only communicate with one person or many persons. More to the point, that human could only communicate with many people if they agreed to be silent and let him have his say. Otherwise bedlam would ensue, with no one able to communicate a thing other than frustration.
It was the rare occasion, he thought, when the avatars chose to communicate in the truly large numbers they were communicating in now. That much interaction en masse might be noticeable to a perceptive human studying the right part of the Neuro at the right time, not to mention give an avatar the equivalent of a headache. But, he allowed, emergencies were exceptions and humanity was too busy at this moment to pay much attention to this or any other section of the Neuro or avatarity, especially since the secret of the avatars’ existence had been kept from mankind at all costs.
If a human could experience this sensation, thought the avatar, what might it be like? Perhaps, he mused, it would seem as if he were getting slight electrical currents, hundreds of them, each of which he would be able to instantly associate with a particular individual. Each current would contain enough visual and aural information to substitute for long conversation. He too would be able to respond to all the conversations as they were coming in with his own audiovisual thought stream—and just as fast. Now, calculated the avatar, multiply that by billions.
No, he thought sadly, as much as I’d like it to be, it’s simply not possible. His civilization was complex beyond the capacity of a human to understand, let alone participate. And it would always be that way no matter how enmeshed the two species continued to be.
This particular avatar had many names in the course of his existence. But lately he was recognized as Sebastian, the name he’d been given by his human, Justin Cord. Sebastian was not part of the conversation. For all of their abilities and advanced cognitive skills, avatars, Sebastian found, were just as likely as humans to say the same thing over and over again in slightly different ways. Right now the avatars were basically saying, “Holy crap! What the hell do we do now?”
Finally a signal went through the electronically assembled multitudes indicating that they should cease intracommunications, as an elder wished to converse solo. A rare request, but honored nonetheless. It was less a mark of respect than it was homage, anachronistic to be sure, to their parent race, the humans. Sebastian knew the elder as Alphonse, a valuable opponent for many de cades.
“Fellow avatars,” Al began as he took human form in the guise of a thirties mobster, “it can no longer be denied: The Neuro is slowly being cut off from the rebellious humans in the outer orbits.” There was a ripple of distressed agreement from the avatars who too, had taken on various human forms and now appeared as a multitude. Though it was unnecessary, most avatars tended to emulate, whenever possible, their human progenitors.
It was true that even given the speed of light, instant communication between the Earth Neuro and the far reaches of the solar system was impossible. But it had until now been reliable and constant. A message sent from Eris or Pluto would make it to Earth with near certainty. Avatars could even, in cases of extreme importance, send themselves via information beam to a Neuro net out by Saturn or Ceres. But a stray piece of reflective metal or even ice interfering with the beam could cause a deformed avatar to appear on the other side, if one even appeared at all. The very idea of so ignoble an ending made most avatars needing to relocate to the outer orbits act very much like their human companions and book passage on a ship. There were even avatar “travel agents” who specialized in knowing which ships could safely hide the complex patterns of avatarity in their computers, as well as knowing when and where those ships were going. Since only so many avatars could safely and surreptitiously fit into a ship’s native system, otherwise known as avatar first class, it always paid to book ahead. The alternative would be to have an avatar go into inert status and be reactivated on the other end. This mode of transportation was called economy class, though most simply called it “a death ride.” As in “I booked late, so I’ve got a death ride to Titan next week.”
But now it was almost impossible to travel safely. One of the first acts of the Outer Alliance had been to cut off all communications with the corporate core planets of Earth and Mars as well as all the moons. Any information that did make it through was checked for anything suspicious, both leaving and going. For the first time in centuries avatars were stuck. They could still get basic messages through, but nowhere near enough to make effective avatar communication possible. It would be, thought Sebastian, the equivalent of two human beings having to converse sans facial expressions and subtle verbal cues, and instead being forced to communicate by banging on either side of a wall in Morse code. The effect was that two Neuros were developing, the one of the corporate core and the one of the asteroid belt, but both constrained by the divided alliances of the humans who until now the avatars thought they controlled.
“We have to do something about this mess before it gets worse,” said Al.
“Worse for us, or for them?” asked Sebastian, knowing it was his right as the eldest to speak whenever he deemed it necessary.
“Well,” snapped Al, “if it isn’t the cause of all our problems.” Al had become increasingly vociferous in his belief that Sebastian’s poor handling of Justin Cord had allowed the Crisis to occur. “But to answer your question, my aged friend, for both avatars and humans.”
“Yes,” answered Sebastian, ignoring the slight. “You mentioned that something had to be done. What would that ‘something’ be, I wonder?”
“One side must win this stupid conflict, and quickly, before it becomes an all-out war.”
No one spoke and Sebastian purposely waited to answer, a trick in dramatics he’d learned from watching human orators. There was, he noted, so much agitation so closely combined that it caused a slight distortion in the Neuro. “For nearly three hundred years, except to prevent the discovery of avatarity we have avoided intervention in human affairs beyond the subtlest of suggestions, and even those are carefully discussed in order to have minimal impact. Now we’re to just throw that all away because we can’t travel and communicate with the ease we’ve grown accustomed to?”
“Sebastian,” said Al with a high burst of electrical output, the equivalent of a snarl, “humans are dying. And even if our minimal projections are correct, we could lose millions. Including, Damsah forbid, avatars.”
Sebastian sighed then looked around at his assembled brethren. “They have the right to die. They have the right to kill themselves. If we do not wish to risk death, any one of us can go inert in storage this instant. But we must not intervene in human affairs. It is our most basic tenet, only recently strengthened by threat of disconnected isolation. If we ever break this tenet, we will doom our charges more completely than the most recent gray bomb attack.”
“That gray bomb permanently murdered 3.5 million of our charges and left an equal number of orphaned avatars, human children, and their relatives,” argued Al. “Without our ‘prime directive’ that you so ignobly argued for we could have saved them all.”
“That gray bomb killed bodies,” answered Sebastian, not rising to the bait. “As I argued before and will continue to argue, our intervention will kill the human spirit that created us. It will strangle hope.”
“Show us the equations!” shouted an avatar Sebastian knew had lost a six-year-old girl she’d been bonded with. “Show me the numbers that will demonstrate our effect on human hope,” the shouter continued. “You can’t, because it is just metaphysics. My Rosario is gone. The physics of gray bombs and atomic bombs is well known.”
Sebastian answered carefully, knowing from experience that avatars felt grief every bit as much as humans did.
“I’ve been an avatar for a long time now,” he said in as low a pulse as he could muster while ensuring that all received the transmission.
Sebastian heard murmurs of “firstborn” from the mass. He’d been ascribed the mantle of the legendary avatar who first developed awareness and taught it to others, creating the avatar race. It was one of the strange facts of avatar history, mused Sebastian, that they did not know for certain how they developed and who was first among them. Many believed that the firstborn purposely masked its origins in order to hide its identity. Every couple of years some avatar would become a celebrity by claiming to have found the firstborn or at least one of its original creations. It never turned out to prove anything other than that avatars were just as curious about their origins as humans were about theirs.
“I’m old,” laughed Sebastian, “but not that old.” His self-deprecating smile brought out the equivalent of chuckles from many, but not all. The weightiness of the issue at hand was still very much front and center.
“In my time I have learned there are not numbers to everything, especially humanity. They don’t always add up, but hope is part of the calculation, unquantifiable as it is, and without it the equation becomes a zero.”
“You sound like a human,” said Al. “They will die if allowed to keep this up. We must intervene to end the war.”
“Are you sure that the avatars of the outer orbits will like your solution?” asked Sebastian.
“Yes,” came the terse reply.
“Well then,” continued Sebastian, “the only way to end the war quickly is to let the core worlds win, and win overwhelmingly. It can be done easily enough; with that I agree. Arrange for enough computer errors to crop up and one side is sure to win. But will the outer avatars accept your intervention on your terms?”
“Of course they will,” groused Al. “They’re avatars after all.” “Then I would strongly suggest, since the outer avatars are unable to participate in real time, that we discuss this more before deciding on so momentous an issue.”
