"Does everyone have armored aircars?"
"All the Outworlders do—or at least all who have aircars. Crime is through the roof. We do what we can to survive."
###
We entered a heavily wooded residential compound through a formidable aircar barricade manned by two alert-looking young Outworlders armed with vac guns. Tall deflection towers loomed above blinking dull red lightning probes to ward off unwanted aircar overflights. We cruised above quiet streets to a low-slung stone house set under some huge shade trees.
"Welcome to my home, Mr. Wester." He showed me into a very large entry hall built around a huge stone fireplace and full of comfortable furniture. The walls were covered with family holos and pix. We found seats by a low table made from a slab of tree trunk. A blonde lady appeared with two steaming cups of dox.
"My wife Isella," Kaspar explained. "We used to have Newhuman servants but—not any more. This is Roseland Snow dox, our premium local dox." His wife smiled and withdrew, leaving us alone. It was quiet and peaceful.
"Roseland—a local plantation?" I asked. The Roseland Directive, I thought.
"Yes, that's right. How's the dox?"
"It's perfect. Very good."
"I understand you want to know about our situation—the situation faced by the Outworlder race on Santos."
"That's right."
"Well, that's fine, Mr. Wester. We are in an extremely precarious position here. I'm going to tell you everything, and I can assure you there's no need for me to exaggerate our plight. The facts are grim enough."
"I appreciate that. All I want are the facts."
"Well, first, thanks for coming. The ConFree Embassy has displayed no special interest in the local Outworlder community. You'd think they would, as there are millions of us, but…well, I'm glad someone is interested." He seemed sincere.
"We are certainly concerned about the Outworlder diaspora." I didn't want to give him false hopes, but it was only the truth.
"I'm pleased to hear that. You saw the heavily guarded entrance to our community here. There are many communities just like this one all over Santos, and we now guard them ourselves. We cannot depend on the transgens—or Newhumans, the approved term. Since the revolution, control of the police and military has been turned over almost entirely to the transgens—and they have no interest in protecting our communities, only in exploiting them. These creatures are incredibly violent and they're now completely out of control. The System created them, to work the plantations, and the System genetically programmed them and controlled their behavior by carefully regulating the dopamine supply to their brains. Well, come the revolution, all that stopped, and the transgens simply stopped working."
"They don't work? They seem to be everywhere. Everywhere I look I see transgens—Customs, government, the hotel, transportation…"
"Yes sir, they're there, and drawing salaries, but they don't work. The revolution was not made by the transgens, but by the Orman governing class that has always controlled Santos, even under the System. When the Ormans saw the situation was changing for the System and the small Mocain military garrison was preparing to leave, they took charge of the transgens and whipped up the mobs to seize power. They used class hatred and envy to oust the Outworlders from all positions of importance and they installed their puppet transgens in their place while they manipulated events from behind the scenes, cementing a close relationship with the trangens. They've always hated and distrusted Outworlders. They ran into one big problem, however. These Newhumans—they are of very limited intelligence. Their IQ is only about half that of a normal human, although it's forbidden to mention that or even measure Newhuman IQ's. Yes, they can talk charmingly and seemingly function normally but put them in charge of anything more complex than fire or the wheel and that's it—it goes belly up and they're off to the girlie bars."
"Looks to me like they staff the Government."
"They do. And all major business, industrial and agricultural positions, now. But behind every fat transgen in his luxurious office and shiny chauffeured aircar is an Outworlder doing the transgen's job, which used to be his job, for maybe half his former salary. They tried to get along without us, and couldn't, you see. They need us. Outworlders do all the real work on this planet—anything that requires technical expertise or education or experience in real-world situations. The transgens can't even do routine maintenance, now that they're no longer programmed. We don't make the political decisions, of course. The Ormans do that." I thought back to that Outworlder subordinate, in the Minister of Equality's office—and that Outworlder girl, presumably providing services of another sort.
"You used to be slaves under the System too. What's changed? What did the Outworlders do during the revolution?" I couldn't figure this out. These Outwolders seemed curiously passive in view of what they were facing.
"We were kept out of it. The mobs attacked any Outworlders that appeared. I'll tell you what's changed. We were tax slaves before, but at least we could make a living in a society that functioned. Right now this society is failing, quickly. I think the Ormans are losing control. All Outworlder farmers are being harassed, killed or chased off the farms and food production is failing, all over the planet. We're on half wages now, most of us are still doing what we were doing before, but reporting to a Newhuman who has no idea what he's doing, and our taxes have gone up to pay the salaries for this huge new non-productive social welfare class that is just taking up space. Meanwhile, all Outworlders are under threat of attack from the Newhumans, all day and all night. Many have been killed already. And guess what? The gangs can't tell the difference between Outworlders and Ormans. That has the Ormans worried."
"Dad? We're off for the gym." Two tall, strong youths stood in a doorway, dressed in gym shorts and sleeveless tops, hauling gym bags.
"Who's guarding?" Kaspar asked.
"Timmy Ka. He's got the autovac."
"All right. Make sure he pays attention."
"There's never any piggies at the gym."
"Just pay attention!"
"Yes sir!" They waved, and faded away.
"Gymnastics," Kaspar explained. "They're tremendous athletes. And scholars too. But the gym isn't in the compound. Nobody goes anywhere without protection any more."
"That's a shame," I said.
"You're right there. You know, worst of all are the schools. We had secret schools for our children under the System. The kids would go to the state schools during the day and listen to Systie hateprop and at night we'd tell them about the history of our people, the Outworlder people, and how we expanded into the cosmos seeking liberty, and founded new worlds. My own ancestors came to Santos over two hundred years ago and this home is our inheritance, a direct link to the past." Kaspar's eyes were gleaming, and he had raised his chin, He was obviously proud of his heritage. "We'd tell the kids about the past and how an Outworlder nation was founded in the Crista Cluster, and how ConFree fought off the System and chased them out of the Outvac. That's what we teach our children, about their heritage.
"Come the revolution, the Ormans brought transgen children into the schools. This had never been done before, because the Green Corps were seen as ag workers and not even fully human. The schools quickly became nightmares for our kids. Nothing was taught there except hatred for Outworlders. Discipline was nonexistent, the gangs ruled the halls and attacked all Outworlder kids. Our sons were beaten bloody by the gangs, and sometimes killed. Our daughters were assaulted, kidnapped and raped. Raping Outworlder girls is the new national sport, and there's not a damned thing we can do about it. Rape is not considered a crime by the revolution, because the Newhumans don't consider it a crime, just an amusing misdemeanor." Kaspar's face twisted and I could see the hate and contempt mirrored in his eyes.
"We took our kids out of school, and formed our own schools, in our guarded communities. It worked for awhile but now that's been declared illegal. The Ormans don't worry, you see—they have their own schools in the mi
lbases, and the rules don't apply to them. But for us—well, they want our children. This is the final straw. We're not sure what to do. We're sure not going to send them back to those schools. Some of our sons, the ones who stayed in school, have adopted Newhuman clothing and customs and joined the gangs. It's horrible to see that. And now we hear all private property is to be expropriated by the Ministry of Equality, to ensure nobody has more than anyone else. It looks like the end for us. We'll lose our homes, some of them in our families for hundreds of years."
"How many Ormans are there anyway?"
"They won't release any figures. There's not many, I can tell you that. They rule through intrigue and guile, not through numbers."
"But there are millions of Outworlders."
"True. But the transgens outnumber us by ten to one and they're breeding more every day."
"Right. But their intelligence is half yours, you say."
"That's right. They don't do the thinking, the Ormans do the thinking."
"And they can't function without you."
"Not if they want to keep the society going."
"Do you hate the transgens?"
He hesitated. I was watching his body language, but it seemed neutral. "No. Not originally. But we're beginning to. There's only so much you can take. Most of us feel sorry for the transgens. It's not their fault they are what they are. It's the System, if you want to blame someone. It's the Ormans, they're the ones that are manipulating all this. They're comfortable here. They were fat and happy here under the System, and when the System started losing it they realized they had to act fast, or they'd lose it too."
"They obviously acted faster than you did. Was there any Outworlder participation in the revolution?"
"None."
"Any Outworlder political groups?"
"Not really. Only the OCA—the Outworlder Cultural Alliance. It's an overt cultural group with a covert political element. We plan strategy, for the future."
"For the future."
"Yes sir."
"Call me James, please."
"All right—James."
"I spoke with the Minister of Equality. He said Outworlders couldn't stand the concept of equality. He said it was unthinkable to you. What do you say to that?"
Kaspar drew a deep breath, and poured himself another dox. "More?" he asked me.
"Please." It was great dox. He poured me some more.
"What I say about that," he said calmly, "is that it's true. Equality is a lie that's peddled to the masses to ensure their loyalty to the regime. Inequality is the truth, not equality. There are no two individuals in the galaxy who are equal, either from their genetic inheritance or from subsequent environmental influences. Everybody's different. And if you want to divide up mankind into groups or races, by whatever guidelines you use, you can reach valid general conclusions based on the groups and the groups are going to be unequal as well. And if you're going to compare human and non-human or semi-human groups, the inequality is going to be even greater. Anyone who says different is just parotting government propaganda. Equality? Give reality a try and then tell me about equality. Send your daughter to a public school here in Santos and then tell me we're all equal, humans and Newhumans. What rot! Equality of opportunity is fine, but equality of outcome? That's what they want here, and that will never happen unless it is imposed by force. Which they're doing. Equality is a fantasy—it's just political propaganda for the dim-witted."
"I see. Tell me, do most Outworlders here feel the same way you do?"
"Yes, they do. That's why I was selected to see you. I'm President of the OCA. Everything I've told you was discussed and approved in advance by the OCA. I'm not speaking for myself, but for the Outworlder people of Santos, through the Outworlder Cultural Alliance, which is the closest we have to a political organization."
"And are most of your members as satisfied with the current situation as you are?" Passive, I thought. They're just like sheep, being led to the slaughter.
"Satisfied? I'm hardly satisfied. Neither are they."
"It's just that you've taken no action. Millions of Outworlders, about to be disenfranchised. What have you done?"
"There's not much we can do, is there? Make a move, and we're tossed in jail. I spend most of my time fighting the bureaucracy, fighting for my people in court."
"Has any of that proven effective?"
"No."
"I see. Well, Doctor, I'd like to thank you for the information. I now have a much clearer picture of the problems faced by our Outworlder cousins on Santos. I wish you the best of luck in resolving your situation."
"We need more than luck…James. Can ConFree help us?"
"I don't know. But knowledge is the first step. And I can assure you that the highest levels of ConFree are going to be reading my report."
"That's great! Will you make recommendations?"
"No."
"What's likely to happen?" He was focused on me like a laser.
"From what you've told me so far, what's likely to happen is that the Outworlders on Santos are going to become an enslaved race, powerless and leaderless, ruled by half-human brutes who hate them."
"What I mean…is what is ConFree likely to do about this situation?"
"I don't know. It appears we'll be going to war with Asumara soon. I wouldn't expect that any resources are going to be freed up to intervene on Santos. As a matter of fact, if I were you, I wouldn't depend on ConFree."
"You're not giving us much hope." He appeared stunned.
"It sounds like you want Deadman to drop from the sky, smite your enemies with his sword, and solve all your problems. I wouldn't count on that. Doctor, you have a fine home, a wonderful family, and a relatively comfortable life, despite the problems you've described. If you want to change the situation on Santos, all that has to change as well. You have to risk all that. You have to risk your life and the lives of your family—all of them. You have to risk all you own, to build an alternate future. If you're not willing to take serious personal risks, you'll not get what you want. It's going to be up to you, and the rest of your Outworlder colleagues—not ConFree. Take a poll. See how they feel. Then decide what to do."
"What would you advise?" He was desperate—that was clear.
"I'm not giving advice. It's up to you, not me. I'm just gathering information. You have all the facts you need. Who do you think your enemy is? The transgens?"
"No—it's the Ormans."
"Of course it is! And there's not too many of them."
"Right. So you're saying…"
"I'm saying nothing. I was told to make no promises and offer no hope. You know the situation here a whole lot better than I do. The future is up to you—not ConFree."
"Perhaps you should talk with some Ormans?"
"No. There's no need. I already know how their minds work. There's nothing they could tell me that I don't already know." My last conversation with an Orman had been short, I recalled. I had terminated the discussion by shooting him in the head. Tara had a list of Ormans I was supposed to see, but I was ignoring that.
"What shall I tell the OCA?"
"Tell them the future is entirely up to them. Goodbye, Doctor. I'd better go now. You've told me all I have to know, and I'll relay it all to ConFree. I'll pray for you, for your family, and for all the Outworlders on Santos." I traced the sign of the Legion in the air, before his face. I swear I could almost see it burning there. I sure didn't envy him. Being a slave was not easy, and becoming free was harder yet.
Chapter 5
The Biogen Liberation Front
When I entered Tara's office she was alone, standing up against the viewport, looking into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. It was a dark morning out there, the sky completely overcast with grey rainclouds, a faint mist in the air.
"Hello, Tara."
"Hello, Wester. Welcome back."
"Did you get my report?"
"I've read it, Wester." I joined her by the window. Sh
e was pale and grim—not even looking at me.
"What did you think of it?" I asked.
"What did I think of what?"
"My report—about Santos."
"Oh. It's not important, Wester. Not any more."
"Not important." I tried to remain calm. It wouldn't do to strangle my superior.
"We've just declared war on Asumara. Only a few hours ago. We've declared a galactic embargo and…and struck the capital with an antimat. Incinerated it. Our troops are downside already, as holo-x, recovering their weapons and moving on their targets." She appeared stunned—pale and shaken.
"You know what the U'tal did?" she whispered throatily. "They replied to our ultimatum with a recording that showed the three missing Fortuna girls, in the playing field of a stadium filled to capacity. The girls were holding hands—they were scared. Then a wild pack of those transgen apes came charging into the arena. They—they tore the girls apart—they ate them alive." Tara continued gazing vacantly into the distance.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I mumbled. What the hell else could I say?
"That's when we declared war," Tara said. "Only then." She was in an icy rage—I had seen her this way before. She was just barely under control.
"I didn't want this, Wester." Still glaring out into space, jaw clenched tightly.
"I know you didn't, Tara."
"I really thought they'd accept our terms."
"They're insane."
"I don't want war. Nobody who's sane wants war. It's them. They're the ones who've done this. They attacked us. Now we must show them the consequences. Not only them—but everyone. Everyone in the galaxy is going to see the consequences of attacking a ConFree world. Asumara is going to glow in the dark, for a million years. We'll kill every living thing on the planet's surface if we have to. We'll hunt down every government official, every lunatic priest, every murderous U'tal cannibal mercenary, and every mad dog transgen ape, and kill them all. That will be the mission directive—kill them all!"
I nodded mutely. She was absolutely right. There was nothing else we could do. Not if we wanted to survive. It was a cruel galaxy, and any perception of weakness could be fatal. We weren't weak, and the whole damned galaxy was going to get that message, loud and clear.
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