by K. Makansi
He starts to turn away.
“Why do I even—”
I slam my palm into the wall. Vale stops moving. He glances back at me, his eyes wide now. His hands turn into fists at his sides.
“I don’t want your fucking pity,” I spit, “Don’t tell me you hope everything goes well when you’ve got plenty at stake in this game.”
“Soren,” Jeremiah cautions. “Calm down.”
I turn my glare on him, too, but the sight of Jeremiah, palms out, calling for peace, calms me against my will. I take a deep breath.
“Don’t worry, Soren,” Vale says. He turns away from us and calls back to me as he walks away, “Next time, I won’t bother.”
II.
I sit alone at the Chancellor’s house with the vidscreen on, watching as the College Guardian calls on the Corporate Assembly for a vote of no confidence in my mother’s chancellorship. The camera zooms in on my mother’s face, pale but composed. She knew this was coming. We all did.
Jeremiah left earlier with steeled eyes and a half-apology, saying he had to make a sudden trip to visit his mother. He booked a last minute train to Ellas and left in a rush. I asked what had happened, but he responded vaguely about it having been a long time since he’d been home and he needed to check in, and that was all he’d say. I dropped the subject. I sensed there was something under the surface he didn’t want to tell me, but I knew he’d let me know when he was ready.
“And now they’ll collect the votes from the College of the People,” the Sector’s political spokesperson, Lian Desi, says on a voiceover. He’s been doing the job for about twenty years now, and everyone’s sick to death of him. He’s got a new, young assistant named Linnea, whom I vaguely remember from school, but she’s only done minor announcements so far. “The elected representatives from the factory towns and the Farms will log their votes here, of course. This is an incredibly important vote for these representatives; quite literally a life or death matter for many of their constituents, and it’s important that they be absolutely confident in the chancellor if the Sector is to find a solution to the troubles of the last six months.”
Most, if not all, of the representatives from the Farms will vote against my mother. They were hit the hardest in the initial famine and the protracted suffering that’s come after.
Objectively, it’s easy to see why this is happening, why my mother will most likely lose this vote. From the outside, it looks like government incompetence and indecision from above has led to a lack of commitment to any solution. Why not just engineer new crops? some have asked. Well, it’s not that simple, the OAC’s scientists have responded. They need money, time, and manpower in order to engineer crops that are immune to the virus’ spread. Why not focus on growing crops that aren’t susceptible to the virus? We’ve invested decades of research and experimentation into creating structured ecosystems that work to maximize nutrient production per acre, and to change those ecosystems so quickly could drastically affect the landscape on the Farms. There’s no guarantee that it would work, and in a worst case scenario, we could undo almost a century of careful work to create those ecosystems.
What about Philip Orleán’s proposition? That’s the question everyone is asking, publicly or privately, today. Even though no one really knows what his proposition is. And ultimately, it’s the question that’s going to result in my mother’s removal from office this evening.
“And so we have forty-five votes of no confidence to five confident from the College of the People,” the announcer says. I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the cushion, unwilling to watch as the vote count flashes on the screen. “That’s going to be a hard balance for Chancellor Skaarsgard to overcome in the College of the Deans, though not impossible. She does, however, have to win at least forty votes of confidence from the Deans, a challenge given today’s atmosphere of opposition—”
“Is Philip Orleán the new Chancellor yet?” I hear a gruff voice call from the kitchen. I open my eyes and crane my head around.
“James?”
“Didn’t even hear me come in, did you?” he asks, appearing in the door, his beard unshaven and dappled grey, his eye cloudy and narrow. I start to stand up, but he waves me back down. “No, don’t get up,” he says. “I’m going to join you, anyway.”
He sits in his usual chair, the one no one but him ever sits in. It’s more an act of controlled falling than sitting, per se, as he collapses with a low grunt.
“Leg okay?” I ask.
“Stem cells are finally starting to take.” He nods. “So they say. Unparalleled muscle and tendon regrowth.” He shoots me a rare, fleeting smile. “But the real triumph is that I convinced them to add hydrocodone to my pain regimen last week.”
I try to laugh, but the best I can manage is a kind of mangled grimace. The traces of his smile fade as quickly as it appeared.
“Not the day for jokes.” He squints at me, and then turns his attention to the vidscreen. “Guess it’s just a matter of time.”
I don’t respond. He’s right. To pretend that my family will still be living in this house two weeks from now is delusional. Trying to convince myself that my mother has a chance of winning this vote is useless. Worse than useless: a waste of time. In fifteen minutes, it’ll be over.
James’ honesty is refreshing. In a house that’s been choking with tension, indecision, and fear, under the weight of lives lost and ongoing suffering, no one has been willing to voice this inevitable truth. Hearing it said aloud feels like fresh rain on parched ground.
“Not a day too soon,” I respond. “One less politician in the world can’t be a bad thing.”
James turns a cocked eyebrow at me as Lian goes on about the relationships between the various members of the colleges.
“I’m serious,” I say, trying to make myself believe it. “What does it really matter, anyway? So I don’t get to live in a big house and fly around in the Chancellor’s airship anymore. No big deal.” I shrug. In truth, I won’t miss any of those things. I’ve never cared much for the trappings of the rich and powerful.
I only care about this vote because I’m afraid of what the Orleáns will do once they’ve taken control.
“Going to be a goddamned disaster,” James mutters, as if reading my thoughts.
“Why isn’t the chancellorship going to the College Guardian in the interim?” I ask. “Everyone’s saying Philip will be voted in immediately.” Speaking openly about the possibility—the inevitability—of my mother losing the vote, is liberating, like having a yoke removed from around my neck.
He huffs a bit, clearing his throat, before responding.
“Some parts of the Sector are in a state of emergency due to the famine. When that happens, the Doctrine says that the need for an interim chancellor is voided. An acting chancellor who can be elected to full chancellorship in three months’ time is elected so that the Sector can go about resolving whatever problems have arisen.”
“I didn’t know the College Guardian couldn’t be elected to the chancellorship.”
“Conflict of interest,” he says, his eye fixed on the vidscreen. “College Guardian is supposed to be impartial. To seek office while Guardian is considered a breach of impartiality. That’s why they can only ever serve temporarily as interim chancellor.”
I nod, and there’s a silence between us as we watch the vidscreen, Lian’s voice calm as he narrates the proceedings. There’s only one nationally broadcast vid channel in Okaria, and it’s the official Sector network. Okarian News Network. We ON for short. There are plenty of others, mostly low-quality entertainment channels, scattered around from town to town or in the capital, but those aren’t universally available. Although this isn’t mandatory programming, I imagine everyone around the Sector is tuning in as well, waiting to see who will be chosen to save the nation from the throes of famine.
“And now the Guardian will administer the vote with the College of the Deans,” the announcer says. The Guardian calls
for the Deans to register their votes of confidence or no confidence, and opens the voting screen.
The Deans are a different breed than the politicians in the College of the People. In order to be eligible for a seat in the Deans, you have to have an advanced degree from the Sector Research Institute here in Okaria, or from one of the R&D facilities in the factory towns. They’re much more professorial, very research-oriented, less worried about politics and building support among their constituents. My mother came up from the Deans. Philip Orleán, who was originally in the Defense Forces, is a member of the College of the People.
I glance around at my familiar, comfortable surroundings, and realize that this may very well be one of the last days I spend in this house.
“What happens when Philip gets elected?” I ask. In some ways, I don’t want to know the answer.
“We wait,” James says. I watch him, to see if he’ll continue, but he says nothing more.
“But I mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he interrupts. “But we can’t do anything until we know for sure what the Orleáns will do.”
I pause.
“What were you talking about, that night with my parents? You said that what the Orleáns are proposing could kill hundreds of people.”
“Which night?”
“After the piano competition.”
“You were listening to that?” He glances at me, but quickly turns back to the screen. “Guess it’s not your fault. We could’ve closed the door. Can’t blame you for being curious.”
He quiets. I’d prompt him further if I didn’t get the sense that he’s gathering words, preparing an answer. But when he speaks, it’s not what I expected.
“How would you like to research in my department at the SRI?” he asks. It takes a moment for me to process this. It’s the invitation I’ve been waiting—and hoping—for since I decided to continue to the Research Institute. A slow smile finds its way to my face, and I focus on him instead of the vidscreen. He’s still staring straight ahead, looking for all the world as if I weren’t even in the room.
“You’re dodging my question, but I’d love to,” I respond.
“I’m not dodging your question. Your question and my question are related. I’ll explain.” But instead of explaining, he goes off on yet another topic. “As you know, human clinical trials are strictly prohibited at the SRI and the OAC until a substance or a drug has gone through four stages of scientific rigor.”
Of course I know this.
“In recent years, some in the OAC have called for a … relaxation of that standard. Saying that it makes it the process of introducing new chemicals into the Dieticians’ system too lengthy. And in some ways they’re right. There’s never been a death as a result of the clinical trials precisely because of the long and careful process. But shortening it jeopardizes that.”
“Corine Orleán is one of those calling to shorten the process,” I guess.
“Yes. Her lab is involved specifically in programming new drugs, both physical and neurological, that will contribute to individual psychophysical programming. Naturally she wants to get those drugs to human trials more quickly than is currently allowed.”
“That sounds like a problem, but not the end of the world. What does this have to do with working in your lab?”
“You’ll see a lot of this research firsthand. You’ll see the importance of carrying out every step in the process before proceeding to human trials. But with my research in particular in plant biology, you’ll see what Corine and Philip are proposing in order to end the famine.” He takes a deep breath and heaves it out in an enormous sigh. “Even if the whole thing has blown over by then, I can teach you… .”
I sit up straighter.
“What are they proposing?”
He turns his one eye on me, finally. Judging. Appraising. It’s taken me a long time to get used to the critical, unblinking stare that grips you like a vise when he’s trying to decide how much to say. When he looks away after what seems like a year, I can’t help a sigh of relief.
“You’re old enough to know,” he mutters, less to me than to himself. “Damn your parents. Damn the rules.”
I fight the urge to laugh. But when he speaks again his voice is softer and far too serious for mirth.
“Corine’s used some of my own research to come up with a few different plants that contain genes which promote calorie absorption in the human body. She’s created a corollary drug that stimulates absorption within the digestive system and helps the body break down foods more efficiently.”
That sounds great, I think, waiting with bated breath for the downside, for whatever has made James so worried.
“The problem is that the drug also decreases cognitive function. It’s a side effect, and they haven’t figured out how to negate it yet. Or so they say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure they’re looking all that hard for a way to negate that particular side effect.”
I hold my breath.
“So they want the decrease in cognitive function?”
Rhinehouse shrugs.
“I’ve yet to see the OAC do anything besides trivial research in that direction.”
“Why would they want that?” I demand, anger rising inside me. He turns his inscrutable eyes on me again.
“You’re smarter than that, Soren. Think about it.”
I take a few deep breaths to calm myself and turn back to the vidscreen. The vote count hasn’t been posted yet, but Lian’s voice is rising with anticipation. I watch him, thinking about everything Rhinehouse has just said. Why would the OAC allow, or worse, want decreased brain function in the people they’re trying to feed?
Of course, it’s not like the workers on the Farms need much in the way of intellectual ability to do their jobs. The foremen do, perhaps, but even then, they don’t need much beyond basic organizational and critical thinking skills. They’re not engineering crops or creating ecosystem models. They’re just going about the basic labor on the farms. And if they can’t think for themselves, they have no way of rebelling against the government that feeds them….
I remember Corine Orleán’s voice at the Farms. The OAC has altered their Dieticians’ profiles to make them docile. And then Moriana’s voice of reason, comforting: This is better than a repeat of the Famine Years. Anything is better than that. Of course. Anything to keep the machine oiled and running smoothly. Anything to keep the people in check.
It was never a temporary thing.
“It’s about control,” I whisper, even as the vote count is displayed on screen, thirty-one votes of no confidence and nineteen of confidence, which totals to seventy-six votes of no confidence out of one hundred total representatives in the Assembly.
My mother is no longer the chancellor of the Okarian Sector.
“Cara Skaarsgard, Chancellor for the last four years, has officially been voted out of office,” Lian is saying excitedly. The camera zooms in on her face, as pale as ever. Her mouth is set, and she smiles dimly. I wonder if I can see a trace of relief on her face. At least it’s over now.
“Now it’s just a question of who will be nominated to replace her. This is a special circumstance, of course, with the state of emergency declared in parts of Okaria. Instead of simply appointing the College Guardian to be interim chancellor while a short election cycle begins, the Corporate Assembly is open to nomination from within. It’s an open nomination system where every representative is free to write in the name of the representative he or she believes will make the best chancellor.”
“Of course,” Linnea, the blonde girl next to him, purrs. “My sources in the government are indicating that many of the representatives are leaning towards Philip Orleán of the College of the People as the best choice for interim chancellor.”
“Yes, word on the street is that Mr. Orleán will be voted into office tonight, whether for the short three-month term or to the full five year tenure remains t
o be seen. Many are saying his connections to the Okarian Agricultural Consortium through his wife Corine makes him an ideal choice to head off the starvation that so many citizens in the Farms have been suffering through.”
James and I sit in silence while the political announcers go on. His grizzled face is crinkled with tension. The creases etched there are like lines in the sand dunes far to the south, shifting beneath the winds, morphing with each breath.
“Don’t you have a goddamn hologram display in this room?” he demands.
“There’s one in the conference room.”
“I know that,” he growls.
I shrug.
“Never thought to have one installed here. The vidscreen is enough.”
I think of Jeremiah, called away to his mother so suddenly, and wonder if what he’s going through right now isn’t much more traumatic than our political concerns. I wish he’d told me more. I consider sending him a message on his plasma, but decide against it. He’ll tell me when he wants to.
“Calling all members of the Corporate Assembly to write in their nominations for the high office of Chancellor of the Okarian Sector,” I hear the College Guardian say, stiffly, on screen. I know the woman personally, and I know that she was one of the few opposed to the vote of no confidence in my mother’s administration. I’m sure she’s even less thrilled about the fact that instead of the normal three month period allotted to elect a new chancellor, the interim leader is being declared so quickly. “You have one half hour to declare your nomination.”
“It’s going to be Philip,” I say. “We might as well turn off the—”
“Dr. James Rhinehouse,” I hear Evan, our butler, say over the intercom we never use, “you have a visitor.”
I stare at him blankly. His eyes are wide with surprise.
“Who would come for you here?”
“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming,” he says, his voice dull. He pushes himself to his feet. He picks up his cane and starts out the room.
“Which door?” he hollers, not bothering with the intercom system.