Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  ***

  When Santiago answered Alistair’s request to come see him, he found the ex marine with his hands clasped behind his back, pacing about his conference room with a bounce in his step indicative of good humor. Alistair did not at first notice Santiago, who leaned against the door frame at the entrance, the automatic doors being left permanently open. The Argentinean eyed him as he sauntered about the room, examining walls like he was at an art gallery, except there was nothing more interesting to see than a few Gaian designs he had seen many times before. Santiago finally cleared his throat to announce his presence, and Alistair turned to him with a pleased expression, his lips hovering on the edge of a grin.

  “Santiago. Thank you for coming.”

  “I had a few things I wanted to discuss as well.”

  They sat down at the table and Alistair leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head and resting his right foot on his left knee. Santiago remained in a more formal posture.

  “The steam engine is almost finished,” Alistair said.

  “That’s good.”

  “The tracks between the mines and the foundry will be finished about the same time.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I wish my brother were here to see it. Not to gloat, I just want him to see it. There are three hundred men working to transport materials from the mines right now. In a couple weeks all but a handful will be out of a job… but Darion and I are going to hire them as miners and increase our output from the mines. That’s how progress is made. Almost ninety percent of the population are farmers. They just need more capital, then ten percent, or five percent, or one percent will be able to grow the same amount of food that requires ninety percent right now. The rest can go on to do other things.”

  “I believe the expression is ‘preaching to the choir’,” said Santiago with a faint grin covering an underlying tenseness which, had Alistair been more observant, he would have noticed. “I am here right now for saying that kind of thing too often, too loudly and to the wrong people.”

  “To the right people,” Alistair corrected him. “They were the ones who needed to hear it.”

  Rather than disagree, Santiago gave him the same faint smile.

  “I have the finished report on the most recent shipment of prisoners,” he told his boss. Alistair demonstrated his interest by sitting up in a more formal fashion. “It’s hard to tell what to expect. According to Bert every Incarcerator ship that arrives makes routine contact with each Gaian city. The last ship must have confirmed the destruction of Floralel. That ship will be…” Santiago paused a moment to run a rough estimate in his head. “… over halfway back to Earth.”

  “There’s no reason for them to be particularly alarmed,” reasoned Alistair. “They would have been told by the other Gaians there was an insurrection, but they ended the insurrection according to protocol. At worst, a few escaped and some equipment is out among the prison populace. The last ship would probably just head back to its next planet, alert their branch manager there. That takes a couple months or so, depending on where their next stop is. That branch sends a ship for the main offices on Earth… another nine months, give or take. Their likely decision will simply be to rebuild Floralel, so they assemble a team, launch a ship and nine, maybe ten months later it arrives. They’ll have a security force, of course, but nothing too formidable. At that time we either choose to ambush them, or let them go without any knowledge of us.”

  Santiago picked up the thread. “The main problem will be having a Gaian city in the vicinity once again. When the Incarcerator construction team leaves, we’ll have to take it out again.” He leaned forward and assumed a conspiratorial tone. “We should attack the other Gaian cities before the construction team arrives. We have about a year to do it.” Alistair began to shake his head so Santiago hurried on. “Just listen a moment. These are religious zealots who want us living a hunter-gatherer existence. They have agreed to maintain a system where petty thieves and political prisoners are exiled to a planet that is overloaded with so many people the land cannot support them all. This forces the population to turn to slaughter and cannibalism. There are incurable murderers and rapists here, yes, but most of the prisoners are guilty of selling specnine, or stealing an auto, or voicing unpopular political opinions. What do we do when a man steals?”

  “He is forced to pay back twice the amount he stole, and more for the emotional trauma he caused, plus any expenses incurred in his arrest and trial, plus more for any interest that accrues.”

  “But he is not thrown in jail.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because that would be kidnapping, which is far worse than stealing.”

  “Without question.”

  “It is absurd and offensive to resort to a jail every time a crime is committed. Some crimes… no, most crimes require nothing more than compensation. And most things that are considered crimes by governments are not even crimes. Darion was sent here for importing goods the government decided he should not import. How much worse is it to go beyond kidnapping and send the person to Srillium to either be slaughtered within hours of arriving or forced to live this sort of existence?

  “The Gaians oversee this. They are murderers, and when we fought back, they tried to murder us. We know when they discover us, they will attack. They are bound to. Peace cannot be negotiated. We are fully justified, both for past offenses and the certainty of future ones, in destroying them. What’s more, this is not a situation where an innocent civilian populace will be killed as collateral damage. Every Gaian here comes knowing full well what they are coming for, and they come eager to do it.

  “We need to develop a plan of attack. We need to capture what cities we can, and destroy the rest. Enough time has passed that their guard is likely to be down. We have a year or so to do it, so… what is your phrase?… let’s get to it.”

  Alistair had his arms crossed and his right hand cupping his chin. Long after Santiago finished speaking he was still staring at the floor.

  “I’ll consider it,” he finally conceded.

  Santiago reacted with stoicism. He received neither the answer he longed for nor the one he feared, but rather the careful one he expected. “I will formulate a plan. We can talk more later.”

  “I’m not saying I’ll do it.”

  “I understand.” There was a moment’s pause before Santiago continued. “I spoke of the last shipment of prisoners. There were some men from Aldra in it.”

  This instantly tore Alistair out of his brooding state.

  “It sounds like they were collected by the Incarcerator almost exactly a year after you were… I guess you call them cycles. There was no one from Arcarius, but the entire planet was in civil war. The government at Rendral reliably controls only a parcel of territory around the city; most everything else is either seceded or changes hands from week to week.” Santiago fixed a pointed gaze on Alistair. “Every one of them recognized the name Oliver Keegan.”

  Alistair’s expression was like dark clouds threatening a storm. “Is he a king or a president?”

  “Unclear.”

  Nodding once, the Aldran changed the topic. Though everything in him yearned to ask more questions, even the same ones again for no other reason than to continue talking about Aldra, resisting that temptation felt like a victory over Oliver.

  “What of the Juggernaut?”

  “No news. As of the last date of embarkation, no one heard anything new.”

  A light rapping on the door frame drew both men’s attention to Giselle, who smiled a greeting and, not concerned with formalities, entered and sat next to Santiago.

  “Did you start without me?” she asked as she took a seat, but before any answer was returned she continued. “Santiago and I were talking, and we wanted to discuss a few things with you.”

  Alistair detected in her voice some impending criticism, and he folded his arms as if to shield himself.

  “We are concerned about the company, about
where it’s heading,” said Santiago.

  Giselle continued, her comment overlapping Santiago’s, “I think we need to consider how we are doing business.”

  “We started with a tremendous advantage in market share,” resumed Santiago. “But we are getting fewer and fewer of the people who move here, or of the shipments of new exiles. And we are losing existing members at a greater rate than we are recruiting new ones from other firms.”

  “Santi and I think we have identified a few problems; easy to fix.”

  These statements, made calmly and assertively by Santiago and passionately and breathlessly by Giselle, induced no reaction from Alistair. Neither spurred on by encouragement nor dissuaded by a scowl, Giselle allowed only a moment to quietly pass before she related the details to her boss and lover.

  “Our clients are murdered at a higher rate than Bedrock’s and The Shield’s. There is no likely explanation for this other than the fact that Bedrock and The Shield execute murderers. And they continue to demand we turn over the three convicted murderers we are holding who murdered their clients. That’s something we’ll have to resolve.”

  “And it will be resolved,” said Santiago. “They can charge more for their services because they are advertising the fact their clients are killed less frequently than ours. They will either drive us out of business or, to stay in business, we’ll have to change our practices and turn over the convicted murderers.”

  “No one is under any illusions about what kind of population we have here,” said Giselle. “They are a bunch of horny men who get laid, at most, once a month and then only by spending a king’s ransom… and many were violent offenders in the first place. We have yet to see a convicted murderer not plead for his life rather than face the death penalty. That means he prefers the other punishment, which means the death penalty increases the cost of murder, and an increase in cost will lead to a decrease in quantity demanded. I believe it was you who taught me that.”

  Alistair was impassivity itself before the avalanche of her words.

  “Also, the fact our society is divided into ex slaves and ex slave masters is unavoidable, and right now reconciliation seems far away. Bedrock is attracting all the former warriors, and The Shield has become the champion of the slaves. That doesn’t leave us with a whole lot. I know you preach neutrality for a security firm… we thought maybe we should try to attract the religious… the Gaians. Maybe…”

  Giselle trailed off and looked for a reaction from Alistair, but he gave her nothing.

  “Another thing: we have to change our sales pitch. We’re too brutally honest. A Bedrock salesman sits down with a client and tells him about how Bedrock is committed to his well being, that nothing could ever break the bond between them, that Bedrock employees take delight in making their customers happy… none of which is necessarily false across the board but… When we talk to a potential customer, we tell them the only way we can make a living is by serving them, that we try to hire only committed employees, but that this dependency is an extra insurance against bad service from us. And we always give them a long lecture on the wisdom of saving instead of spending, which really is irrelevant to our business… Alistair, people don’t want to hear the naked truth. I’m not saying we should lie, but we can dress the truth up nicely… that’s what advertising is for; that’s what makes a good sales pitch.”

  “A business is supposed to make money,” said Santiago, his calm voice a foil to the pitch to which Giselle’s had risen. “It’s not an instrument of social change, for improving people. A business caters to customers. It does not guarantee those customers have reasonable desires; it merely satisfies those desires. If everyone were as rational and logical as you, they wouldn’t be persuaded by a flashy presentation, or a well turned phrase. They would look at the heart of the matter, dispense with the unnecessary and that would be all. But not everyone is like you, and a business operates in the real world, a world with people who want to be told niceties, who want rhetoric to cushion life’s sharp edges, who aren’t willing to deal with pure, cold logic and reason.

  “Alistair,” here Santiago turned his hands palms up in supplication, “a single man cannot remake a society. You’ve done so much. You’ve done more, I think, than any one man ever has. But you’re not going to be able to remake everyone. Some men are born murderers; you can’t educate that out of them. Some are thieves, and you can’t help them either. Some men don’t like the market, or don’t like freedom, or don’t like that other people have freedom. You’re never going to completely change this. A business must make money, and yet we’re always steps behind the other security firms while you are playing with the Singulatarians. A business has to accede to people’s wishes, not remake them. You’re not a businessman, Alistair, you’re a crusader. Giselle and I have worked hard for this and we don’t want to see Ashley Security & Arbitration fail.”

  Alistair held up a hand and Santiago fell silent.

  “I have said my peace on the death penalty. Killing in self defense is justified, but never in cold blood. After my time on Kaldis I have sworn never to kill again unless I have to, and when a murderer has been caught we don’t have to execute him.”

  “It isn’t even consistent with your philosophy of punishment,” muttered Giselle, but he held up his hand again.

  “We are not going to sell ourselves as a Gaian security firm. I have spoken with our subscribers and I know many of them appreciate a neutral firm. Not everyone is ready to split society up into factions and live only with his own kind. And even if I didn’t believe in neutrality, I would never cater to Gaians.” Alistair made the word sound pejorative. “I am even considering adding a clause to our contract in which our subscribers must renounce hard line Gaianism.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” said Santiago, while Giselle’s jaw simply dropped open.

  “As for our sales pitch, I don’t deny for a second I am hurting business by preaching. I can’t preach myself… I can’t speak in front of crowds… you know this. But I can pay people to do it for me, and suddenly I have the money to do it. Darion and I have brought numerous business ventures – successful ones – into being and after contributing so much to the market I am now entitled to consume. This is me spending money on me. I don’t know if I can remake society, but I am going to try.”

  “What’s the point of banging your head against the wall like that?” demanded Santiago, and for the first time his voice rose and color tinged his cheeks. “What good comes of these farsighted plans that have the slimmest chance of coming to fruition but only after you are dead?” He collapsed back into his chair, coming as close as Alistair had ever seen him to outright sulking. “Better to make the most of anything you do have. Get along quietly and enjoy the time given to you.”

  “Or else get sent to a prison planet,” said Alistair with the tone of a man who has just had an insight.

  “Yes!” Santiago abruptly hollered in his native tongue. “They send you to Srillium and your son grows up without you! And never knows you! And all the good you tried to do is laughed at while you’re doing it and forgotten the moment you’re taken away!”

  Santiago winced as if immediately regretting his outburst. The tension drained out of him and, hanging his head to look at the floor, he shook it like a ballplayer who has just committed a senseless error.

  For his part, Alistair was as careful as a guest in a foreign temple, afraid what he was about to say would be sacrilege. His voice was hushed and infinitely gentle.

  “And yet, here on Srillium, you chose to continue the fight.”

  Despite his precaution, the words were an incitement. Santiago tensed up once more and slammed the top of the table with his open palm. The stout wood absorbed the blow without so much as a shiver, and Santiago grimaced as he stood up. Casting the chair aside with a violent swing of his arm, the Argentinean stormed out of the room, leaving behind a trail of curses and the thuds of stomping feet.

  Alistair stared at the
door through which Santiago left until he could no longer hear him and then turned his attention to Giselle.

  “I need you to stop agitating.”

  “Agitating what?”

  “You know very well what. You heard about the mob that killed seven men the other day?”

  “I had nothing to do with that!”

  “Of course you didn’t! But you’re stirring people up.”

  “People are already stirred up. And they have a right to be.”

  “I don’t need you adding to the discontent,” said Alistair, and then hurried on when Giselle made as if to protest, “Not if you are working for Ashley Security & Arbitration. We’re neutral. We’re on the side of the Law.” She snapped her mouth shut, folded her arms and started to spin around in her chair, but he grabbed hold of the arms and held her in place. “Giselle, please. I don’t need any histrionics. I’m not saying I don’t want to be with you. I’m not saying you’re right or wrong; I’m not even really telling you to stop. What I mean to say is you can’t be a leader in the cause of the ex slaves at the same time you are serving ex warriors as clients, especially when the service is justice and arbitration.

  “If you want to be a leader of this cause, that’s your decision. But I will not allow my workers to participate in that sort of thing. It is not fair to half of my clients who are paying me money to represent their interests.”

  She did not looked convinced but took the information calmly.

  “I don’t know what I prefer to do. I’ll have to think about it.”

  He frowned at her answer, and she at his demand. They exchanged a pair of polite goodbyes and then she was out the door. With her chin tucked into her chest, she walked right by Santiago without noticing him. Only when he called to her did she pop out of her reverie and lift her stare from the ground.

  “You seem out of sorts,” he offered after she returned his greeting.

  “I just…” She rolled her eyes rather than complete her sentence.

  “I was thinking, Giselle… maybe we should leave and form our own security agency.”