by Hao Jingfang
“I understand.”
“Of course, I’m basing this on rough estimates,” said Reini. “I didn’t perform any detailed calculations.”
“That’s all right,” said Hans. “I was just trying to get a sense. The final result doesn’t just depend on me.”
Reini hesitated. “How far … has the plan progressed?”
“It’s still just a proposal being evaluated. Right now the focus is on fleshing out technical details for the feasibility analysis. It hasn’t yet been submitted to the Boule for debate.”
“Will this be decided by the Boule or require a full plebiscite?”
“That has yet to be determined.”
“Which way are you leaning?”
“I haven’t decided either.” Hans paused, and then added, “I have to be extremely careful here. That’s probably all I can do.”
There was a hint of anguish in Hans’s tone that touched Reini. After a long moment he nodded. “I understand.”
He understood what Hans was struggling with. Hans wanted to stay in the city, but he didn’t have much chance to see his wish fulfilled.
Hans was no longer a warrior but the consul. A warrior could cheer on the ideals of his comrades, but the consul had no such freedom. The consul had no power to dictate policy; rather, he was like a judge in court. His function was to ensure the fairness of the policy debate process and to decide the most effective way to continue the discussion. He himself, however, was not allowed to decide the outcome of the debate on his own. His interest in the technical principles of this project was like a judge’s interest in the facts of the case.
The debate had grown more fierce the last few days. Since Ceres had been brought into orbit around Mars, planning for the city’s future became part of the Boule’s agenda. As the negotiations with Earth progressed, plans for Ceres developed from the conceptual stage into detailed reports. Following Boule protocol, every proposal must first be disclosed in the central archive’s policy zone, along with supporting research and data. Rounds of open debate then followed until a final vote by the Boule or a plebiscite.
The two proposals drawing most of the attention right now were referred to as “migration” and “continuation.” The former advocated moving all Martians into a crater and constructing an open-air ecosystem, while the latter advocated remaining in the crystal box that was Mars City and turning the water of Ceres into a river flowing around it. Both proposals had advantages and difficulties, and they drew about the same amount of support. Hans was in charge of presiding over this debate, and if the ultimate decision of the people was to abandon the city and move away, he had no choice but to follow their will.
“Actually, I also invited you to come because I wanted to ask you a favor,” said Hans quietly.
“Of course,” said Reini.
“I’d like to ask you to pay attention to what people around you are saying about this matter,” said Hans, his tone cautious. “It’s helpful to understand the public mood.”
“I understand.”
“But don’t make too big a deal of it,” said Hans with some hesitation. “We both know this is not entirely proper.”
“You don’t need to worry.”
Hans nodded. Reini could tell that he was struggling with two competing impulses. One was his personal desire to prevent the accomplishments of his old friend, Galiman, from being abandoned. The other was his duty to the system to protect the fairness of the process against manipulation by selfish desires. He cared about both deeply.
As consul, Hans had the power to decide the form of the final vote, and thus could pick the form most beneficial to Galiman’s crystal city legacy. Theoretically, the choice of form should be decided by the nature of the question, not the ultimate answer desired, but everyone knew that there were inevitably going to be differences between the perspective of the Boule, largely composed of elite citizens of the republic, and the views of the public as a whole. A consul who understood the public’s mood accurately could thus, within the framework of the law, choose the form that most favored the outcome they desired. The influence was subtle but possibly critical in close votes. Hans had always despised such tricks, but this time he was forced to resort to them. Reini felt a pang of pity. He understood how much Hans Sloan had always prized fairness of process. The democracy of Mars was a planned democracy, and the fairness of the plan was always the heart and soul that kept the republic going.
Reini thought that perhaps the greatest irony of Hans’s life was that he was forever forced to make choices that he did not want to make but had to.
He gazed at the old man sitting across from him. Hans poured for himself and drank. His brown hair, slightly curled, was combed back neatly. His dense beard was showing streaks of white, and the corners of his mouth drooped. Though he hadn’t changed his look in twenty years, a careful observer would have noticed that he was aging every day, as his skin sagged and more wrinkles appeared under his eyes and on his neck. Even a body hammered out of iron was no match for the power of time.
“I think you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself,” said Reini, trying to keep his tone casual. “Que será, será. Whatever the final outcome, I don’t think Archon Galiman would blame you.”
Hans looked out the window as though gazing into the distant past or discerning a pessimistic future. The setting sun deepened the shadows cast by his wrinkles. When he spoke again, he sounded tired.
“I’ve had to live with so many regrets in my life … I’m afraid this is going to be yet another.”
“You’ve done the best you could,” said Reini.
“I’ve had to bid farewell to all my friends and loved ones,” said Hans. He turned and regarded Reini. “All of them.”
Reini had no answer for that. In Hans’s dark brown eyes, there was a sorrow that he rarely expressed. It was like looking into a deep sea, only the surface of which appeared tranquil.
“Perhaps … you should have retired earlier.”
“You told me that back then,” said Hans. “I imagine you must be puzzled about why I’ve remained at my post. Since it wasn’t what I wanted, why didn’t I retire? I know that I shouldn’t have sought another term five years ago … but I just couldn’t set my mind at ease.” Hans’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t let go. I care.”
He gazed at Reini, a plea for understanding in his eyes.
Reini looked back, watching as the old man struggled with himself inside. He sighed and nodded. The sun continued to shine in the distance, and the old man’s wrinkles seemed to stiffen in that fading light. Hans got himself under control, and his face stopped twitching, but a sense of tragic helplessness radiated from his pose.
Minutes passed. The air in the room gradually relaxed.
Hans set down his cup and refilled it with cold tea, and now he looked just as calm and cool as his beverage. A hand supporting his temple, he conversed with Reini about less contentious topics, such as the proposed reforms to the debate format in the central archive and the Sais Crater’s geology and planned development. Reini listened quietly, occasionally interjecting a quick question or a bit of analysis.
At the end, Reini told Hans that Luoying seemed to have a great deal of interest in history. He didn’t mention the Registry of Files, only saying that she wanted to know about the history of her family.
“What did she ask about?”
“Our life in the past,” Reini said, “and also the causes of the war.”
“How did you answer her?”
“I didn’t say much, but I agreed to give her some books on the topic.”
Hans nodded. “Do as you think is appropriate. If she wants to know, then tell her. She’s old enough.”
Reini agreed. He knew that Hans was more worried about Luoying than about Rudy. After bidding farewell, he got up to leave. At the door, Hans gently patted him on the arm and watched as he walked away.
At the corner, Reini turned and looked back. Hans looked his usual somber self, his face
as tranquil and expressionless as the desert.
MESSAGES
Luoying thought about asking Anka to come with her to the Registry. With him by her side, she thought she would feel braver. No matter what was hidden in the past, she thought it better to have his help than not.
Sitting up in bed, she logged in to her personal space and checked her mailbox. Surprisingly, she found six new messages. During the time she’d been hospitalized, she received on average a message a day. Scanning through the list of senders, she noticed that most were from the Mercury Group. Surrounded by the gentle lilies in the hospital room, she found the blue-hued mail listing particularly cold and attention-grabbing.
She began with the first message, sent by Chania to the whole Mercury Group.
Dear All,
Apologies in advance for the group mail, but I think what I have to say will be of interest to everyone.
Since the Creativity Fair is almost here, I imagine you’ve all been invited to join teams. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think we must resist a certain tendency I’ve detected.
I’m talking about a vain sort of enthusiasm, an overfocus on awards and fame, on grabbing the attention of others. Many other kids our age seem obsessed, thinking not of true wisdom and knowledge but only of how to win the favor of the judges, as if trophies were the measure of life.
I think this is the result of too many competitions in our world. Mathematics, public speaking, drama, debate—everything is structured around competitions. Surrounded by this competitive air, people have forgotten the meaning of reflection, thereby straying even further from wisdom. On Earth, however, things are more practical, and they do not pine after honor the way we do here.
And so I ask that you join me in launching a revolution. We can boycott the Creativity Fair or even speak out publicly against this vanity and superficiality. What do you think? I haven’t thought through the specific form of protest, but I wanted to put the idea out there for us to discuss.
Sincerely,
Chania
Luoying stared at the message for a long time.
She remembered her earlier doubts and recollections and felt sympathy as well as hesitation. Chania, like Luoying, had found the Creativity Fair problematic, but whereas Luoying questioned their government and the means by which it ruled Mars, Chania questioned the purity of the motivation of the youths joining the competition.
Luoying wasn’t sure how she should respond. Chania’s critique was reasonable, but the idea of a revolution gave her pause. She remembered her parents and wondered how they would have responded if they were in her place.
The next message was from Mira to the group, responding to Chania.
Count me out. If you don’t like the competition, then just sit it out. I don’t want to be part of the fair either. But I don’t believe there’s any need for a “revolution.” Young people our age are all vain—who doesn’t want recognition and glory? This isn’t anything worth being upset over.
Mira
Then Runge’s reply.
Count me in! In fact, I wish we started the revolution earlier. Those in power have taken advantage of the pure passion and enthusiasm of so many young people. People need to wake up! This crazy system has turned everyone into a fool. It sucks our intelligence like vampires sucking blood.
Runge
Luoying’s heart pounded. This was what she feared the most: to discover the dark side of the system, to have to fight against it. If it was truly evil, then they had no choice but to fight. But fighting meant confronting her grandfather. She didn’t want that outcome—not at all. The words on the screen stirred the conflicting emotions in her heart.
Sorin was next.
Runge, there’s no reason to blindly accept the judgment of Earth. Terrans view us negatively largely due to lingering resentment from the war and ignorance. The adults are not our oppressors. They devised these institutions, at least initially, with the intent to benefit us.
Sorin
Runge struck back.
“With the intent to benefit us”? Are you serious? Everything is set up for their own benefit. They call this “the ideal education,” but in reality they are interested only in indoctrinating components of the system and loyalists. Even our trip to Earth was part of the system. Do you really think that was for our benefit? No! In reality, we were nothing but hostages, a pledge to secure the negotiations with Earth so that they could obtain more resources.
Runge
Luoying was astounded. She couldn’t understand how Runge had come to such a conclusion. Did he have proof? Or was this all just a guess? If his explanation was the truth, then it would represent the tip of a much larger iceberg she hadn’t even imagined. The Mercury Group would no longer just be students but political chips, and not only would her own reasons for being sent to Earth be suspect, but those of all the others as well. It felt too much like a conspiracy theory.
She didn’t know what to think. Staring at the screen, her mind was blank. Woodenly she clicked open the last message.
It wasn’t from anyone in the Mercury Group but from Maearth.
Dear Luoying,
Has your leg fully healed? I’m on Maearth now, in the company of the stars.
I write to you to ask some questions that I hope you won’t mind answering.
As you probably already know, ten years ago Arthur Davosky took back to Earth the technology enabling the Martian central archive, given to him by your father. What you don’t know, however, is that, due to a variety of commercial reasons, his hope of promoting the use of a similar archive on Earth failed. I came to Mars in part to understand my teacher’s final wishes and to continue his dream. As a filmmaker, I know the importance of a stable, responsible commons, and I want to carry on my teacher’s legacy and give creators a space dedicated to art based on freedom, without having to follow the logic of commerce. (As you know, on Earth, lack of sales is the same as death.)
During the last few days, I’ve discovered that there are more hurdles standing in the way of my plan than I had imagined. Besides commercial difficulties, there are also complex social issues. At first I thought this was merely a matter of art that wouldn’t be politically contentious, but when I tried to describe my vision to a few government officials, they all objected, though without giving me clear reasons. Only later did I realize that, for governments, creation isn’t a matter of art but a matter of employment. The one concern that keeps them up at night is unemployment, and the web market, as the world’s largest industry, is also a source of steady jobs. Every creator generates multiple jobs: agents, promoters, business managers, and so on. If these were no longer necessary, if the sharing and enjoyment of art were as simple as it is on Mars, then there would be mass unemployment, which would lead to social panic and threaten the rule of every government.
I suppose I didn’t spend enough time studying Mars. Pulling on a single thread affects the entire social fabric. I don’t know how many people on Mars are in the creative fields or in the noncreative fields and how repetitive labor that must be done is distributed or incentivized. Such work makes up the majority of jobs on Earth, and I can’t imagine Mars could function without such work. If creatives can be encouraged by honors, what is the reward for repetitive labor? Thus, I come to you for answers. You understand Earth as well as I do, and you know the power of money on our planet.
I wish you a speedy recovery and a peaceful and fulfilling life back at home.
Thank you.
Your friend,
Eko Lu
Luoying read through the message with growing unease. She hit REPLY and began to type.
Dear Eko,
It’s a pleasure to hear from you, and thank you for your kind wishes. Unfortunately, I’m not at peace, and I’m far from satisfied.
In fact, I envy you, because you still have a plan for action and have the potential for action. Though you are faced with difficulties, you are on the road. I, on the other hand, don’t
even know the direction I should head in.
I’m uncertain about an answer for your question. Perhaps there is a standard answer, but I think it’s more likely that the question has never been asked. Perhaps you can’t imagine how something so fundamental can just be taken for granted. But then again, if I hadn’t gone to Earth, I wouldn’t be asking so many questions either.
Many jobs on Mars are done by youths: watching over a store or driving a mining rig, for instance. Sometimes these jobs are parts of a class’s curriculum, and in other cases these jobs are simply done for no reward or consideration. You ask how such work is incentivized. Well, the truth is no incentive is necessary. Students volunteer for these tasks, and there are more applicants than posts. On Earth, the mainstream opinion is that the teens are being exploited by the ruling regime, but in reality, many students view the work as fun, more enjoyable than sitting in a classroom. Since no one is paid to do these jobs, no one thinks they should be paid.
I’ll describe for you an example: the Creativity Fair …
Luoying stopped, unable to continue.
Earlier, when she first started writing the reply, she simply let the words flow, conveying her emotional reactions. But now that she had seen the words on the screen, she realized how they sounded. In fact, she was telling Eko that her people were unreflective, blindly following the system without thought. Such an answer was a critique and an accusation, akin to Runge’s view. She couldn’t tell if she should trust it.
Reviewing the messages among the Mercury Group, she found her own answer childish. Even within the Mercury Group, opinions differed greatly on the meaning of the Creativity Fair. How could she claim that they were all blindly following the system?
Composing herself, she saved the draft reply. She needed time to think through the issues before writing Eko.
The Terran delegation had left a couple of weeks earlier, which meant that they still had eighty-some days before arriving at Earth. In her mind, she saw Maearth drifting farther away, on a mission toward a real ocean. The ship was lonely and slow, but its course pointed straight ahead. She read over Eko’s message one more time, moved by the suppressed idealism between the lines. She saw that Eko was trying to accomplish something that he believed his world lacked but needed. Such faith had a strength, a certainty of purpose, that comforted.
