by Kris Schnee
* * *
Martin and Garrett sat in the deckhouse. They'd brief Phillip, Zephyr and Tess in the morning. Martin suddenly felt the weight of his fatigue after the evening's excitement, and yawned.
Martin said, "We got caught up in the Cuba dance."
The liberation of Cuba had led to a movement in the US to annex the place and make it a new state. The trouble was, nobody was sure how its people would vote if they became citizens, and the Senate hung in the balance. To hear pundits tell it, whether Cuba joined the Union could decide permanent control of Congress and the Supreme Court for one faction or the other. For the last year there'd been ongoing passive-aggressive courtship of Cuba, which now meant US Coast Guard troops being used as pawns to harass the seastead. Garrett had heard that Texas went through the same kind of trouble, shortly before war broke out.
Garrett said, "All that effort, and we've got no engineers to replace Tess next year. I don't blame you, understand. I've been asking around too. Our Net fan club hasn't yet turned up anyone qualified who'd work for the pittance we can pay."
Martin nodded. "'Go fish' on the engineers, but I've got a pair of restauranteurs." He explained his encounter at the convention.
"A restaurant? But we haven't got the people to support that."
"So get more. In the meantime, they can cater to the tourist crowd."
"We haven't got a crowd either."
Martin grinned. "Get one. Also, these guys will be available as workers. We can expand the farm area."
They looked over various reports, with neither man eager to deal with the real problem. "We did nothing wrong," said Garrett eventually. "Not with the drug situation. If they had cocaine, that wasn't our doing."
"We should have had a policy."
"I did. I posted rules saying that people were forbidden to hurt each other or damage this station. Everything else was allowed by default."
"Was that a deliberate choice, though, or laziness on our parts?"
"Are you testing me again?"
"No, the world is."
"It was a choice on my part, then. I'm an engineer. I don't do public policy."
"'I send the rockets up; where they come down is not my concern', eh?"
"I'm not designing missiles for the Nazis, I'm growing seaweed! Why can't I be left alone with my toys?"
Martin eyed him calmly. "Now I will test you. You've told me about your encounter with your uncle, at your father's funeral. How did you feel when he asked you about building this place?"
"Haskell was pushing me into it," said Garrett, obviously resenting being reminded.
"But he wasn't threatening you, right?"
Garrett squeezed his eyes shut. "He demanded that I answer. He was holding the idea out and making me look at it. In a way it made me angry. It was like once I knew it was possible to live something other than a mediocre life -- to have a new kind of freedom, I guess -- I could never be happy again with what I'd been doing." Garrett looked away, swiping tears from his eyes. "He didn't force anything on me. But he convinced me I could change my life, and for a little while I hated him for it."
Martin nodded and put a map of the world on the table between them. He pointed. "An example that goads people to better themselves."
"That situation has happened before," said Martin, with his finger on America. He moved his focus a little south. "And it's starting again, here."
16. Garrett
He tugged at his clothes, the most expensive and least comfortable he owned. "I don't see why this has to be live video."
The topdeck was crowded; everyone was up there with him, and the video feed put far more people here in spirit. Samuel was among the virtual crowd, with his voice in Garrett's head. "Pageantry, baby."
Martin, present in person, heard it too. "Exactly. It has to be your face presenting the authentic pioneer spirit."
"How are this shirt and tie 'authentic'?"
Martin said, "They were worn by you. Today. Buffalo Bill used to make 'authentic' cowboy outfits the same way."
"I feel like a fraud."
"So don't be."
It felt scarier to stand under the clear sky and talk than it had been to ride beneath the hurricane. Garrett would have been happy to keep his head down and focus on the physical, technical problems or even the finances. Let's get this over with, he thought, checking his notes yet again.
Tess gave him a thumbs-up and a radioed, "Kick ass."
Garrett cleared his throat, fighting a desire to slink away. "Thanks, everyone. I've decided to speak because, as you've heard, Castor had a run-in with the United States Coast Guard. No resident was arrested or hurt, and the Guardsmen acted responsibly. The people who were arrested were our guests, who had brought marijuana onboard from elsewhere. To clear up any confusion, they were actually arrested for cocaine possession in the mainland US, and we have no reason to think they got the stuff here."
He felt boredom seeping over him from his own words, and from the carefully arranged policy statement Martin had written. "There is no good solution for a group of our size faced with criminal activity condemned by the world community." Say 'community' a lot, Martin had advised. Buzzwords soothe. "We lack the resources to enforce the complexities of international law, though of course --"
He couldn't make himself say, of course we seek to coordinate in multilateral globalized community. Besides being a tongue-twister, it made him wince. The plan was to be as ambiguous as possible, offering enough cooperation with law enforcement agencies to keep them from raiding Castor, while avoiding submission to so many laws that they'd go out of business. It was a bureaucratic, weaseling, dishonest position, and his mouth wouldn't form the words. Neither his father, nor his uncle, nobody he cared for would have approved, and he'd be breaking the law even if he pretended meek submission. To apologize and beg meant living in constant guilt.
"Listen up!" he said. The plain speech made his voice feel deep and clear. "I personally don't like drinking and drugs -- hell, or even hookers and gambling. But I'm trying to run a business and make money, so as long as you're not actually hurting anybody, you'll get no trouble from me. I've got better things to do than be your nanny."
Garrett saw his local audience sitting there stunned. It felt good to speak so openly. "We've got some space out here. Want to join us?"
* * *
"We're so screwed," said Tess and Zephyr.
The Net broadcast was over, and Martin and Phillip had stormed up to him.
Phillip said, "This is an interesting decision, Captain. It would have been nice to have known of it."
"I'd like to know," said Martin, "how you decided to throw away my speech."
Garrett felt rising panic -- how could words alone cause so much trouble? -- but forced it away from him. "I said what you were thinking. We need money, and we can't operate as an official national outpost."
Now Phillip exploded. "That doesn't mean 'bring on the hookers'!"
Martin said, "Unfortunately, it does." Phillip glared at him and he said, "Our rules allow nearly anything, and we're in international waters, EEZ or no. There's a matter of principle here: are we able to do what we want, where no country has a claim of territory?"
"I've found," said Phillip, "that whenever people say they're acting on principle, their real motive is money."
Garrett said, "I don't care about the money. It's, I guess, a way of keeping score." He realized that was wrong. "It's the fuel that lets us be here."
Phillip said, "This is about power, which we lack, and morality, which we apparently also lack. If we aren't willing to police ourselves, others will."
"I didn't say we wouldn't. We'll still work out something against actual crime."
Tess looked confused. "Actual crime?"
"Stuff that violates people's rights."
"But that means all kinds of things. What about the right to education, housing, and all that?"
It was talk like this that reminded Garrett he was too old for
Tess, but really the difference was more in education than between generations. He'd been raised not to demand much from people, which made him different even from some of his classmates.
Phillip said, "We need to retreat and accept responsibility."
"I accept responsibility," said Garrett. "Not conformity."
Phillip fumed. "Martin, where do you stand?"
"This isn't what I wanted, not at this stage. But it's too late to retreat."
"Well and good! I suppose you'll have no trouble replacing my Confederacy, then. Best of luck to you."
Garrett smiled toothily, recalling what he'd been reading of Castor's documents. "All right. We'll keep your equipment, in which you've invested so heavily, per the terms of our contract."
"And how do you propose to enforce that?"
"I honored our deal when we had our first little dispute. Will you do the same?"
"Honor won't save you, Captain, if that smirk is the only thing protecting you from enforcers with guns." Phillip stared darkly into the sea. "Why did you really do it?"
Garrett thought. "I was being told to act based on what other people think instead of what's right. I didn't want to live that way. People should be allowed to live their lives, and I can help myself by offering one place in the world where they can do that." Martin was appraising him again, damn it, but Garrett meant what he said.
Phillip said, "Is that what you stand for, then -- the petty freedom to get laid and get high?"
"No, look." Garrett grasped for an example. "Doctor Alexander Fleming was a slob. He had the habit of leaving used petri dishes lying around in his bio-lab to see what would grow. One day a colleague was working with mold under a faulty vacuum hood, and Fleming glanced at a dish he was going to trash, which led him to discover penicillin."
Tess piped up, "We studied that. Dumb luck."
"No! It happened only because he'd set himself up to use good luck, and because he lived in a culture where a good idea could take root. So that's what I think we should work towards. Making a place where breakthroughs can happen, by creating the conditions where people can get lucky."
Tess said, "Hence the brothels?"
"Whatever. And Phillip, you'll have the chance to play missionary! Think of finding downtrodden visitors and winning their souls for the South."
"The Gospel of Lee isn't a regional message."
"I repeat: whatever. There's potential benefit for all of us."
Phillip said, "And as for the getting-arrested part?"
Martin looked out to sea. "It's a game of chicken. Do politicians have the, ah, fortitude to strike us down? I suspect not. But since playing meek and quiet has failed us, what we need is enough media attention to win us sympathy and make a secretive police raid difficult."
Phillip ran hands through his hair in agitation. "Gentlemen, it seems we must all hang together, or we will all hang separately."
* * *
Castor had a respectable Net presence between the official site, their store and the public forum. Several hundred people and even a few AIs had already commented on the speech. Garrett and the others browsed the discussion. Some of the less obscene posts said:
"You secessionists make me sick. Die in a fire."
"Sign me up for a time-share!"
"It seems to me that you're wrecking the original purpose of Castor as a farming station. I hope you know what you're doing."
"This was bound to happen. You guys need more than farming to profit."
"You're being irresponsible, trying to fob your duties off on others."
"Right on, Fox!"
Garrett smiled at the last comment but saw some truth in the one before it. He would need a security plan if they were going to expand.
Tess rested from her own end of the publicity work -- consulting with her friends on the Net and all the people they knew -- to approach Garrett with a sparkle in her eyes. "We've got an idea! We can rent birds to buy energy and win goodwill!"
"What?"
"You know the SeaSheet situation?"
He shrugged. "I only know Sally sells them by the seashore."
"Maybe Martin forgot to tell you. There's a new version of our 'suncloth' solar panels, but the company isn't willing to make them without a big order."
"We're okay on energy already."
"But people will be coming, right? So what we can do is make little mechs like our bird and dolphin, and let people remote-control 'em. Only it's like one mech is yours, long-term, because you've invested in helping us buy enough SeaSheet stuff to power it, and then some."
Garrett tried to picture this arrangement. "So you, a stranger, give us money, and you get a semi-permanent robot presence on Castor, powered by big solar panels you buy to cover all our walls with?"
"Not the walls -- the waves. The stuff floats and crinkles to absorb wave energy too, and we'll feed the power back here."
"On the water? You'd need a lot of it for significant power."
Tess shrugged. "A few acres' worth."
"Acres!" Garrett grabbed pen and paper and did estimates. That was significant energy for a tiny platform. But he forgot the numbers when another thought struck him. "So, this stuff would be a huge crumpled sheet, with patterns of electricity flowing through it?"
"Something like that, yeah."
Garrett couldn't speak for a moment. Then: "My God, it's like a brain."
* * *
The sharks came quickly.
"YOU HAVE BEEN SUED IN COURT. IF YOU DO NOT RESPOND YOU MAY LOSE IMPORTANT RIGHTS. TAKE THIS PAPER TO YOUR LAWYER IMMEDIATELY."
"National Coalition for Fair Economic Management, Gaian Defense League, Planeteer Youth, and Hands Off Our Sea; Plaintiffs..."
"Defendant refuses to be operated in a responsible manner; Defendant violates its duty of care to the eco-social market economy; Plaintiffs continue to suffer irreparable harm; WHEREFORE Plaintiffs seek judgment..."
Garrett tasted acid; he wanted to vomit. "I was taught that lawyers are like prostitutes: both are best avoided, and for money they'll assume any position."
"We'll see that soon, too," said Tess.
He looked up from the documents. "You keep harping on that."
"We shouldn't be allowing brothels. It'll be awful having them around."
"I'm not happy about it either, but it could be the difference between loss and profit."
"But you said you didn't care about money."
"Loss means I fail."
"But maybe we could get help, you know, from the government. There's got to be a grant program we can wedge into if we play it clean."
"I don't want to do any wedging. We'll end up as a government project. You saw the original plans; we couldn't do this at all if we had to operate within the official regulations. We'd have been stopped before we even started by lawsuits like these." He sighed and waved the computer in his hands. "I don't even know what half this stuff means! It's like a fifty-page death threat in Latin. Couldn't these people have put a horse head on my pillow instead?"
Martin came downstairs. Garrett greeted him wearily, then said, "How about this reply for them? 'Attention concerned citizens: Get bent.'"
Lack of sleep was taking its toll on Martin too. "It was inevitable that we'd get sued for existing."
"What does your psychohistorical plan say about getting out of it?"
"Shut it," Martin snapped. "You're the one who decided to play arch-capitalist before we had any political clout to back it up."
"I don't give a damn about capitalism. I want to do my job in peace and not be robbed and jailed for it."
"Same thing." Martin spread his hands. "You're an actor, Fox. What's your role?"
"Huh?"
"You're a public figure. What do you stand for? Look at these lawsuits and the media coverage. You're being made out as a criminal against God, Nature and Society and you crouch here saying, 'Nuh-uh'. If you don't take some kind of stand, you'll be portrayed as others want to portray you."
&nb
sp; "I did take a stand. That's why we're in hot water."
"No, you said you abdicated responsibility, because you couldn't be bothered to live up to 'modern' moral standards. Pick a stronger role, Fox, or get assigned one you'll hate. Possibly with a prison-orange costume."
Tess cleared her throat. "While you boys were arguing, we found a law firm willing to defend us for free."
17. Pierpont
His disillusionment came quickly, the autumn when his heart was torn out.
Jarvik Pierpont could hardly run the hotel anymore. He'd become an old man over the last few months, and he hated the change. Ragged breaths as the climbed the stairs, sore muscles from stripping sheets from beds, dizziness from pacing behind the counter. Dottie never complained, and always picked up the slack, but he felt himself resenting her endless patience and hating himself for feeling that way. He couldn't rely on his wife and be an invalid; he'd sworn to provide for her.
She made him go to the doctor even before the legally required annual checkup. That visit had sent him across town to his son's office.
"I need a new heart," Pierpont said. The young man sat at a walnut desk with a photo of Pierpont's grandkids. Seeing it made Pierpont feel old, like he'd already fulfilled his purpose in life and could be thrown away.
The son leafed through Pierpont's file. "I didn't know it was this bad, Dad."
Pierpont swallowed. He needed to be strong. "I was told I've got maybe six months." A lifetime of hard work and hard play had caught up with him. "But I've been reading about the latest research. I can be fixed."
The son folded his hands. "I wish it were that simple."
"I know it's complicated surgery. But we're all covered, thanks to men like you."
"Yes. But... the National Health Service is hard pressed. Congress isn't giving us the funding we need." His voice took on an edge. "And those God-damned corporations aren't paying their fair share. And the doctors are bitching about not being able to gold-plate their Lexuses. And now with the riots, funding for everything is up in the air."