Earth Unaware

by Orson Scott Card

  Wit hated doing it. The whole process made him sick. But he needed men resourceful enough to take any situation and immediately see their own way out of it. “Your eyes believe you’re staring straight into the sun, Mazer. They’re begging you to stop this useless resistance and surrender the information I want. Tell me the name, and I will stop.”

  Eyes clenched shut, muscles tight, Mazer got back to his feet and continued with the jumping jacks, though with far less fervor and coordination.

  “All right,” said Wit. “We’ll come back to the pet. Let’s try another one. Your mother’s maiden name. Give me that. Surely you remember your mother’s maiden name.”

  Mazer responded by counting his jumping jacks aloud.

  “I am beginning to lose my patience, Mazer. This is not difficult. Surrender the information or I will break you.”

  Mazer’s counting grew louder, almost a shout.

  The shout became a scream.

  Mazer went down, writhing, every muscle taught, back arched, fingers and hands curled awkwardly, his face twisted in a rictus of agony.

  Wit released the pain and paused, giving Mazer a chance to move. Mazer didn’t.

  Wit said, “Perhaps you’re currently telling yourself that since you and I are on the same side, since this is merely a test, I won’t inflict any serious, lasting damage. It’s only natural to reach this conclusion, Mazer, but you’re mistaken. I am not the New Zealand Army, soldier. I am not bound by their codes of ethics. Our army is unique. We do not concern ourselves with oversight. We do what needs to be done, as painful and as gruesome as that may be. That includes torturing men like you to the point of inflicting permanent neurological damage. Should you develop a tick because of my tinkering with your brain or a loss of hearing or a loss of coordination or a paralysis, no one will touch us. If I turn your brain to scrambled eggs, I won’t get so much as a slap on the hand. We are above the influence of those who would protect you. So for your own sake and safety, give me your mother’s maiden name and the name of your first pet or this little exercise will become painful in the extreme.”

  None of it was true. MOPs never tortured the enemy. It wasn’t necessary. If MOPs took any prisoners, the prisoners were usually so terrified that they poured out intel without being asked. But Mazer wouldn’t know that, and Wit wanted to put a deep, gnawing fear in the man.

  Mazer said nothing.

  Wit hit him again.

  Mazer flinched, but then rolled on his stomach and got himself into a sitting position. Wit eased the pain and watched, amazed, as Mazer caught his breath. The man should be on his back, unable to get up, and yet here he was, bullheaded and upright.

  “Are you ready to cooperate, Mazer?” Wit asked. “Can we end this exercise now? I would like to. I’m bored. Give me the names, and we’ll call it a day.”

  Mazer sat with his head bowed, still and quiet. His lips began to move, and at first Wit thought that he had broken; that he was surrendering the names but no longer had the strength to speak them aloud. Then slowly Mazer’s voice grew in volume. It wasn’t English, Wit realized. It was Maori. And the words weren’t names. They were a song. A warrior’s song. Wit didn’t speak the language, but he had seen the traditional singing of Maori warriors before. It was half grunting, half singing, with a stomping dance and exaggerated facial expressions. Mazer’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but the words spilled forth from him, gaining intensity and strength. Soon his voice was filling the room, harsh and booming.

  Wit continued sending sharp bursts of pain. Mazer buckled every time, falling to the floor, his song cut off, his body writhing. But as soon as the pain subsided, Mazer clawed his way back into a sitting position and began to sing again in earnest. Soft at first, as he found his voice, and then louder as his strength returned.

  An hour later, Wit stopped. He shut off the holopad, turned off Mazer’s crown, and went directly into the screening room. Deen and Averbach removed their helmets.

  Mazer was on his hands and knees, his shirt soaked in sweat, his arms and legs trembling.

  “We’re done, Mazer,” said Wit. He typed a command onto the front of Mazer’s crown. The device loosened and came free in Wit’s hand.

  Mazer’s voice was weak. “So soon? I was starting to enjoy this.”

  “We’ve gone long enough,” said Wit.

  “I didn’t break, O’Toole.”

  “You didn’t break. Very good.”

  “Could you really have caused permanent neurological damage?” asked Mazer.

  “No,” said Wit. “That was a bluff. The device doesn’t damage tissue. It simply overrides your pain and sensory receptors. I wouldn’t do anything to impair you. You’re too valuable a soldier for that. I was also bluffing about MOPs not having any oversight and being unscrupulously without ethics. Nothing could be further from the truth. Individual freedom and the preservation of human and civil rights motivate everything we do.”

  “Yet your bosses let you torture potential candidates? Those are some interesting ethics.”

  “Our enemies are usually murderers and terrorists, Mazer. They often require a show of strength and brutality equal to their own before they relent. My job is to find the men smart enough to know when brutality is necessary.”

  Mazer struggled to his feet, wobbling a little but soon upright and straight. “Well?” he asked. “Am I such a man? Did I pass your screening? Am I in your unit?”

  “No,” said Wit. “Because nobody gets in my unit unless they break out. Submitting to torture means you already lost once. You have to hate to lose so badly that you’d rather die trying to escape. And then be good enough to escape without dying. Anyone in my unit would have overpowered these two men guarding the door and escaped from this warehouse in three minutes. You just sat there for an hour.”

  Mazer looked back up at him, stunned.

  “Sorry, soldier,” said Wit. “You failed.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Council

  The helm on El Cavador was always buzzing with activity, but today the crew seemed especially occupied. Now that the Italians were gone and a week of trading and banqueting was over, the whole ship was in a rushed frenzy to make up for lost time with the dig. There were quickships to prepare, flight paths to program, scans of the rock to take and decipher, machines to operate for the miners below, dozens of plans and decisions and commands all happening at once—with Concepción at the center of it all, taking questions, interpreting data, issuing orders, and flying from station to station with the nimbleness of a woman half her age.

  Victor and Edimar were floating at the hatch entrance, taking it all in, waiting for a break in the chaos to approach Concepción about the alien spacecraft Edimar had found. From the look of things, it didn’t seem like they were going to get that chance any time soon.

  “Maybe we should come back some other time,” said Edimar. “She seems busy.”

  “Nothing is more important than this, Mar,” said Victor. “Believe me, she’ll be glad we interrupted.”

  Victor turned on his greaves, allowed his feet to descend to the floor, and crossed the room toward Concepción, who had anchored at the holotable with a group of crewmen.

  Dreo, one of the navigators, a big man in his fifties, stepped in front of Victor and lightly put a hand on Victor’s chest, stopping him. “Whoa, whoa. Where you headed, Vico?”

  Victor sighed inside. Dreo fancied himself second in command, even though that position was officially held by Victor’s uncle Selmo. Victor gestured back to Edimar, who hadn’t moved from her spot by the hatch. “Edimar and I need to speak with Concepción immediately. It’s urgent.”

  “Concepción is not to be disturbed,” said Dreo. “We’re almost at the lump.”

  “This is more important than the lump,” said Victor.

  Dreo smiled sardonically. “Really? What is it?”

  “I’d rather speak to Concepción directly, if you don’t mind. It’s an emergency.” He made a move to go aroun
d Dreo, but the man put his hand out again and stopped Victor a second time.

  “What kind of emergency? A leak, a fire, a severed limb? Because it better be life-threatening if you’re going to bother the captain right now.”

  “Call it a very unique emergency,” said Victor.

  “Tell you what,” said Dreo. “You and Edimar go wait in Concepción’s office while I relay your message to her. She’ll come the moment she can.” Dreo turned back to the system chart on his screen.

  Victor didn’t move.

  After a moment, Dreo sighed and turned back to him. “You haven’t gone to the office yet, Vico.”

  “And I won’t until I see you relay my message or you get out of my way.”

  Dreo looked annoyed. “You are all kinds of trouble today, aren’t you?”

  He was referring to Janda, of course. As a member of the Council, Dreo would know everything. Victor remained where he was and said nothing.

  Dreo grunted, turned away from his charts, and moved to Concepción. He tapped her on the shoulder, and they spoke in hushed tones. Concepción made eye contact with Victor then looked toward the hatch at Edimar. She gave Dreo brief instructions that Victor couldn’t hear then returned her attention to the holotable.

  Dreo came back with a triumphant smile. “You’re to wait in her office like I told you.”

  “Did you tell her it was an emergency?”

  “Yes.” Dreo raised a hand, gesturing to the office. “Now go.”

  Victor motioned for Edimar, and they both made their way to the office. It was the second time Victor had been ushered into this room today—though the meeting with Concepción that morning about Janda’s departure already felt like a distant memory.

  “What if it turns out to be nothing?” said Edimar. “What if it’s just a glitch in the system? That’s the most likely explanation. That’s far more probable than it being an alien spacecraft or a secret, corporate near-lightspeed ship.”

  “You went over the data several times, Edimar. If you’re wrong, and it’s nothing, which it isn’t, then coming to Concepción was still the right thing to do. She’ll appreciate you bringing it to her attention. You won’t be scolded for doing your job.”

  “Not by Concepción maybe. But my father will be furious.”

  “It’s not too late to go to your father first, Mar.”

  She shook her head. “No. This is right. Concepción first.”

  They had been over this already. Edimar was convinced that if she went first to Toron, her father, he would either sit on the data to review it later or he would dismiss the whole thing outright. Victor seriously doubted that Toron would be dismissive in the face of so much overwhelming evidence, yet Edimar had been adamant. “You don’t know him, Vico.”

  She was wrong on that. Victor did know her father. Toron was Janda’s father as well. But Victor wasn’t going to argue the point.

  Going to Concepción now, Edimar believed, would cause the least friction between her and her father in the long run. If Edimar ended up being right, then the immediacy of the situation could excuse her skipping Toron and going directly to Concepción. But if Edimar went to Toron first and got rejected, she would then feel a moral obligation to circumvent her father and go to Concepción anyway. Edimar had talked herself through every scenario until Victor was pink in the face. It was an alien ship, for crying out loud. One that could potentially be headed to Earth. Are we honestly going to worry about hurting Toron’s feelings?

  “Concepción can read the data herself, Mar,” said Victor. “Let her look at it and decide what it means.”

  They waited for ten minutes. Finally Selmo, Victor’s uncle and Concepción’s true second in command, floated into the room. “Concepción will see you, but she asks that you meet her in the greenhouse.”

  Victor thought that odd. The greenhouse was humid and cramped and a terrible place to meet. “Why not in her office?”

  Selmo shrugged, but Victor could tell from Selmo’s expression and by the way he glanced at Edimar that he did know, or that at least he suspected. It then dawned on Victor what Selmo must be thinking: Selmo was a member of the Council, and here Victor was with Janda’s younger sister asking to meet with Concepción mere hours after Janda’s departure. The natural assumption would be that this had something to do with Janda. But what? That Victor and Edimar were demanding her return? That was lunacy. Victor would never reveal his love for Janda to Edimar. That would be unthinkable. He and Edimar could never be allies in that, and Victor would never want to attempt it anyway.

  But Selmo didn’t know that. He merely saw a brokenhearted boy and the departed girl’s feisty little sister and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Apparently Concepción had as well. Meeting in the greenhouse was her way of being cautious. There they would be far from the eyes and ears of everyone else in case this was about Janda.

  This is what my life will be like if I stay here, Victor realized. No one on the Council will ever look at me without seeing Janda also.

  “The Eye detected something,” said Victor. “That’s why we need to see Concepción.”

  Selmo seemed momentarily relieved until he understood the full implication. He turned to Edimar, concerned. “What is it?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Victor. “We’re hoping Concepción will know. It may be nothing. No cause for alarm. Don’t tell anyone. We just want to be sure. Thanks for your help.” He launched out of the room and made his way down the corridor toward the greenhouse.

  Edimar caught up to him, annoyed. “Why’d you go blabbering to Selmo? Now everyone will know I saw something.”

  “Selmo will stay quiet. And everyone will know soon enough anyway.”

  “Not if Concepción says it’s nothing! There’s a chance I’m wrong, Vico. And if I am, I could have forgotten the whole thing and nobody would have been the wiser. Now my father will definitely find out.”

  Victor caught himself on a bulkhead and stopped to face her. “First, it is something. We’ve established that. Let’s stop questioning it. Second, if you want adults and your father to take you seriously, Mar, you need to put this concern about your father aside and think like an adult. Put the safety of the family above your father’s anticipated reactions and do what you know is your job.” He hadn’t meant it to sound like a rebuke, but it had come out that way.

  “You’re right,” said Edimar. “Of course you’re right.”

  Victor felt the tiniest pang of guilt then. He had put an end to Selmo’s misconception but by doing so he had made it possible for Toron to find out through the wrong channels. But what could Victor do? The alternative was far worse. Having Selmo or others believe that Edimar was somehow aware of or implicated in Victor and Janda’s taboo relationship would be a devastating blow to Edimar’s reputation on the Council. Victor couldn’t stomach that. He wouldn’t let the shame of him and Janda spread to Edimar.

  “I won’t say another word to anyone,” said Victor. “I won’t even go to the greenhouse if you’d prefer. This is your discovery, not mine.”

  Her answer was quick. “No, no. I want you there.”

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  The greenhouse was a long tube four meters wide, with vegetables growing from pipes running the length of the room. The pipes took up every available space on the wall, creating a thick tunnel of green all around you. Tomatoes, okra, cilantro, sprouts, all with their leaves and bodies floating out from the holes in the pipes like seaweed. It was an aeroponic, soilless system, and although the atomized, nutrient-rich mists were sprayed through the pipes onto the root systems only twice an hour, some of the mist always escaped, and the room was always uncomfortably humid. It was also exceptionally bright, and as Victor and Edimar passed through the anteroom and into the actual greenhouse, it took Victor’s eyes a moment to adjust to the vapor lamps. The air was thick with the scent of greenery and cilantro and the nutrient solution.

  Concepción was deep in the room with her feet pointed
toward them, her body perpendicular to their orientation, waiting. Victor and Edimar changed their orientation to match hers and launched what was now up, deeper into the greenhouse. Now the greenhouse felt like a silo, and Victor could see why Concepción would prefer to meet with their bodies positioned this way. They wouldn’t have to stoop to keep their feet and heads out of the plants.

  Concepción was floating beside a long section of sprouts. Here the plants were shorter, so the “tunnel” was wider, giving the three of them more room to face each other. Victor caught himself on one of the handholds and stopped in front of Concepción.

  “I’m sure I need not tell you both how busy we are with the dig,” said Concepción. “But I also know that neither of you would call something an emergency unless it absolutely was one.”

  Victor looked at Edimar and waited.

  “The Eye detected something,” said Edimar. “A movement out in deep space. I’ve been over the data dozens of times, and the only explanation that I can see is that it’s some type of spacecraft decelerating from near-lightspeed.”

  Concepción blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense,” said Edimar. “I hardly believe it myself, but unless I’m wrong, and I absolutely could be, there is something out there that is moving faster than humanly possible. I even showed it to Victor to see what he thought because it all seemed completely ridiculous to me.”

  Victor nodded. “It looks legit.”

  “Did you show your father?” asked Concepción.

  “Not yet. I’ve been manning the Eye myself today. Father is helping with the dig. Victor and I thought it best to come straight to you.”

  Concepción looked at each of them before gesturing to Edimar’s goggles. “Is that the data there?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Edimar, handing over the goggles.

  Concepción put them on and tightened the straps. As she blinked her way through the data, Victor and Edimar waited. After five minutes, Concepción removed the goggles and held them in her hands. “Who else knows about this?”