“I’ll have plenty of time to get it in before then, Mother,” Ayan’we said. Entara couldn’t help but be pleased that her daughter referred to her with the proper honorific “Mother,” as opposed to the casual “Dad” she always used to refer to Tays’she. Entara nodded to her daughter and angrily stalked off to the bedroom she shared with Tays’she.
She passively fell onto the massive brown mating bed in the center of the room, the only place in the house that Tays’she cared enough to keep in proper order. After all she did to keep her family in harmony, it seemed to fall further into chaos with each passing day. Seemingly her only reward -- and the only memory of the genuine passion Tays’she had shared with her -- was this lusciously furnished room where they bedded together, and for the past year, only on the too-frequent occasions when Tays’she insisted on mating. When her mate was building up to a lusty rage, she would send the girls off to the care of her near-sisters at the mahäme and they would not have to send more than two attendants to help Entara through the following day. She had discovered that she was remarkably resilient and recovered from mating injuries much more rapidly than most Forlani wives. Perhaps the attendants from her matriline were not really necessary any more for her health. That did not prevent her, though, from enjoying their company and compassion. It helped dispel the disgust of pleasing her self-absorbed mate and the tendency to get lost in reverie about the fun she had had with Klein when she was technically no more than a pleasure worker.
The shelves of the mating bedroom were filled with elaborate geometric woodcarving from Tays’she’s days as a young artist. There was a stunning painting depicting the Great Spiral of Being on the left wall, and a beautiful ceiling fan imported from Earth spun above the bed. Entara stared at the gold and silver fan, hypnotized by the dance of its luscious colors as it whirled around endlessly. She had concentrated on it during the first mating, the most excruciating, as the passing of each blade promised it would soon be over very soon. Except it was not soon at all, and when her husband had eventually pulled himself away from her with a grimace and called the attendants to come in and care for the bride, she had lost so much blood that she was in a deep coma for three days. But since the plieh changes had rearranged her physiology, she’d learned to minimize the shock from piercing and the blood loss. It was worse psychologically. The pain of the fundamental emptiness of her relationship with Tays’she contrasted with a dim passing memory of the few early days after the marriage rituals, when they had first moved into the house and she had seen the beautiful room he had prepared for her, little realizing, despite her bride’s training, what an ordeal faced her, or how often she would fantasize at the mahäme about her innocent bedtime games with Klein back on Domremy.
Entara thought back to Ayan’we’s words; though her daughter was uncharacteristically blunt for a Forlani, she spoke out of a sense of justice for her mother, not out of maliciousness. If Tays’she divorced her, she would be banished from this room except for the times when he asked her to come in; she would be cast off to the mahäme or into some small alcove, only allowed in when Tays’she and his new First Wife permitted it. The past few months, she wondered more and more about the female she had replaced, for in her case First Wife meant only first for the moment. Even her own matriline would tell her little of the one whom Tays’she had rejected immediately after a first mating and who had subsequently disappeared from the area. Entara realized she didn’t even know her predecessor’s name, only that she was from the Picks-the-Fruit people. She had a strange feeling that perhaps her daughter knew more about this than she and was holding something back. Almost as if she were a child of Klein rather than Tays’she – poor Klein who always held back so much. Perhaps I’ve been too harsh to Ayan’we, Entara reasoned. She does not act un-Forlani because she does not care about her education. She behaves as she does because she cares too much about me, and will not restrain herself as custom demands. Perhaps it is good that some do not behave “properly” in society. But Entara did not want her daughter to see her in her moment of doubt—she would have to be a disciplined, resolute mother to maintain order in her family, for the good of all of them. Ayan’we must still be disciplined, for she must realize that our laws are not for the good of the individual or the immediate family, but for the good of all.
After his visit with Peebo, Klein returned to Site 89 and found the settlement celebrating a new holiday. He had stayed on at Stafford Station as long as possible, alleging all sorts of aches and pains, in hopes of learning more about Entara, but to no avail. Now all the buildings in Site 89 were festooned with red, blue, and gold streamers, the colors of the Hyperion corporative logo, and he saw men wandering through the streets drunk in the afternoon, when they normally would have been working. A man who had clearly had one too many Domremy Specials slowly lurched towards Klein, and he yelled out “Better get your ass to the Town Center, mankiller! Big meetin’ in ten minutes!”
“Why the meeting and the sudden celebration? Nobody told me about this when I left on the train last month,” Klein asked.
“Didn’t you see the fliers they put up this mornin’? It’s Government Day, the day we citizens of Site 89 get to choose the candidates for Marshall!” The man was violently swaying in his drunken excitement and stretching his arms out to try to keep balance.
“Free two beers for everybody, just go the th’ meetin’ and see the candidates!”
This guy’s gone way over those “free two beers” by now, Klein thought.
“Best day since I been shipped off here,” bellowed the reveler. “I’d go too, if I was…presentable.”
Klein had no idea who the prospective “candidates” for Marshall were, but the speed at which the political development had been announced shocked him. He rushed off to the Town Center, aware that a momentous occasion in the development of Site 89 might be occurring. As he dashed through the town, Klein took a glance at Erskine’s bar, seeing that it had a giant cardboard sign proclaiming the “First Annual Government Day” that had been put up hastily; many of the other buildings had similar billboards announcing that they were honoring Government Day by taking off work. Once Klein reached the Town Center, he quickly learned why.
There was a massive assembly of men in the central square, standing in disorganized clumps rather than the orderly rows the company usually expected. Like Klein’s acquaintance from the alley, many of them had gone far past the point of the two free beers and were stumbling around in a drunken haze. There was a fat man on stage whose uniform identified him as an employee of Hyperion Corporation who was pontificating about the “great future and growth of this settlement” in such a long-winded style that drunken hecklers were jeering him from the front row. Klein heard the familiar voice of Guzman yell to him, “Hey, get over here! They’re about to announce the candidates.” Klein moved in the direction of the voice, slogging through the milling crowd to find him.
Although not nearly as drunk as the man from the alley, Guzman had clearly been enjoying himself during the First Annual Government Day. “Hey man, where were you? We heard you was sick,” he inquired, almost slapping Klein on the shoulder, but thinking better of it at the last second. Klein had been secretive about lining up a temporary replacement for himself after a few chaotic months in the post-Cashman era.
“Playing hooky. I was off visiting with my old landlord at Stafford Station for a little while. This all came as kind of a surprise to me when I came back,” Klein confessed.
“Don’t worry, nothing important happened so far. This guy up here has just been gassing off about a bunch of crap about progress and hope for the future. Nothing important got announced yet.”
The man on stage was finally preparing to end his speech. “And with prosperity and anticipation for the coming years, indeed the coming centuries, it brings me great pleasure to announce the candidates for Marshall of Site 89. Your first candidate…,” the man briefly fumbled with an envelope, “is a man who has uncovered a conspira
cy involving the enemies of Hyperion Corporation amidst this settlement, through his own grit and brilliant analysis. The name of this man is…Aleksandrov.”
Klein recoiled in disgust at the thought of the brutal Alek becoming Marshall of Site 89.
The man on stage yelled out, “Aleksandrov is the only man who has declared his candidacy for Marshall so far. Anyone else who wishes to declare their candidacy should step forward now!”
Klein felt a hard shove from behind push him forward. Guzman whispered to him, “Get up there, you can’t let that asshole win!”
The momentum had thrust him in front of the crowd, and he tentatively began to walk forward, becoming less hesitant with each step, until he reached the stage. He’d be damned if he was going to let himself become a laughing stock because of this mob of drunks!
“What’s your name, sir? “the fat man asked him.
“Wilhel…Willie Klein,” Klein said. Gotta make the name sound as informal as possible if I’m going to preserve any pride. I’m not anxious to start telling tales of old home week when nobody in this town even knows where I come from. Willie will have to do, for now, he thought.
“Of course, of course. And your second candidate for Marshall, the town’s newly returned Mankiller, Willie Klein!” The two candidates, Alek and Willie, stood together on stage, facing outward towards the audience. The crowd was no longer expressing itself through jeers and cursing, as it had during the fat man’s long-winded speech; instead, there were loud hoots and yells of the candidates’ names as the settlers awakened to the prospect of some kind of truly democratic government in Site 89. But the joy of democracy was far from Klein’s mind; his thoughts were ruled by uncertainty and fear of retribution from Alek for opposing him. Still waving confidently to the crowd, Alek had given Klein no angry glare or other outward sign that he would be targeted for retribution, but Klein knew that Alek was the kind of man who would always respond to a challenge with violence. It was only of matter of when it would come, and in what form.
Ayan’we’s mind had not stayed idle for long. Even though she was confined to the parents’ home or the matriline’s mahäme during her suspension from the Academy, she had not been denied communication access, and therefore could still exchange messages with the few virtual friends who made her feel comfortable -- the online group that called themselves Echidna’s Children. Ayan’we had never met any of them face to face -- or at least she didn’t think she had, since they all communicated by codenames. They chose their personal codenames of mythological monsters that they had studied during an Earthly Religion and Mythology class at the Academy, never revealing their true identities or residences. The group met in chatrooms on ForlanScape, the most widely used social networking site on the planet.
The leader of the group, Chimaera, was organizing a vote among the membership to determine which site to attack next. We’ve been getting lax lately, and we’re losing our sense of ambition. Taking down the Academy’s Registry of Scholastic Awards for an hour? Pathetic. We need to make a big splash, take out an important government site, Chimaera typed. Nemean Lion answered, Why not take down the Passport Center for a while? The Instructors constantly brag about the Interstellar Passport System, let’s see how they react if their glorious program gets knocked offline for a few hours.
Ayan’we felt a lump rise in her throat at the thought of attacking a government site, especially the one where Entara was an important personality. The Academy would instantly expel her if she was discovered, denying her any productive future and condemning her to the life of a Menial, scrubbing floors and windows all her life for minimum wage. I don’t want this. We could be ruining our futures if we attack the Passport Center. I joined this group to make fun of Instructors flailing around when we took down their web pages overnight, not to have the Network Enforcers come after us when we anger the highest level of government!, she responded.
Nonsense, the Lion replied. We won’t take any vital information from the site on the attack. We’re just going to attack the Network Time Protocol using our botnet to flood the time synchronization servers with false requests from the site. We may not be able to take it down correctly, but it’ll be hours before they know what’s going on!
Smart, Chimaera responded. I read that kind of attack was common on Earth’s primitive Internet for a time, but nobody here has tried it yet. The results should be amusing, if nothing else.
Ayan’we was horrified at the direction of the conversation. I want nothing to do with this attack. If this is the future direction of our group, count me out, she typed.
Then you won’t be missed, the Lion responded. If you don’t have the courage and ambition needed to be one of Echidna’s Children, then you will have no place in our glorious future.
Goodbye, Ayan’we ended the conversation and powered off her computer. There was nothing she could do to prevent the attack, and she believed the only thing she could do was to be offline when the attack occurred so the Network Enforcers wouldn’t trace the attack to her machine. She could only sit on the bed in her room and wait for the after effects of the attack to make themselves apparent.
Ten minutes later, she heard Tays’she bellowing in frustration from the living room, “Meh’tra! Ayan’we, get in here now!” Ayan’we bolted at her father’s command. He barely ever raises his voice, let alone curses. Something must be seriously frustrating him, she thought.
When she reached the living room, she saw Tays’she standing next to the couch, his face red with anger. He roared, “Just when I was filling out the Brotherhood Tax forms through the Revenue Center, the site crashes! I had been working on the forms for hours, just about to submit it, and this happens! Meh’tra!”
They must have spread the attack farther than the Passport Center if they hobbled the Revenue Center, too. Better try to prevent him from getting any angrier, Tays’she thought. “Um, Father…is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.
Tays’she’s voice began to become more measured, although Ayan’we could tell he was still exasperated, ready to explode into rage at a moment’s notice. “Work on some of these tax forms for me. I know it would be just an approximation, without the aid of the Revenue Center…but you are studying mathematics at the Academy, and you might as well put your skills to use, even while you are suspended.”
Ayan’we saw the huge box filled with folders that contained the household’s tax forms, as well as other forms related to her father‘s contacts with the planetary society of males, the Brotherhood. She barely suppressed a groan at the site of her workload. “Certainly Father,” she meekly responded, flattering him with an honorific for a change. ‘I’ll get to work on it right now.”
“Excellent,” Tays’she said. “It’s not as bad as it looks—the only forms you need to work with are in the yellow folders. Do not touch anything in the blue ones—it’s not relevant to your work on the taxes. I’ll be relaxing with a drama.”
“Certainly,” Ayan’we answered, and carried the massive box to her room. She put the box down next to the desk and began to sort through the folders, removing the yellow folders so she could work on them. As she reached for the last yellow folder, she accidentally grasped a blue folder with it, and it fell open as she tried to pick it up. She shuffled through the papers that had fallen out of the blue folder as she tried to put them back in order, but saw a small, seemingly innocuous phrase on the bottom of one:
FastTrack.
Ayan’we had never heard of “FastTrack” before, and was intrigued by the seemingly innocuous name. Why had something as apparently everyday as FastTrack filed in the blue folders? But Tays’she, lazy as he was, could also be remarkably impatient if things he requested were not completed expediently. Mother learned that the hard way, Ayan’we thought as she sighed and put the paper back into the blue folder and prepared to work on the vast assortment of yellow folders that contained the family’s tax forms. Taxes, like other facets of wealth, were largely a matter of abstraction on F
orlan, where everyday economics were minimal and simple. The main reason for meticulous care was that this particular abstraction had a good deal to do with the way the Brotherhood arranged matters of marriage and male education. If I ever do have any brothers, I hope they appreciate the trouble I’m going through for them, the lazy slugs! Ayan’we smiled at her own impolite thoughts.
Klein surveyed his ramshackle campaign office as he sat across the table from Guzman. There were freshly printed campaign posters with the words KLEIN FOR PROGRESS in giant red letters on the walls, an “artist’s rendering” of Klein that was much more clean-shaven and handsome than Klein had ever envisioned himself, and a reasonably professional-looking desk for the candidate to conduct his campaign from. Despite this, Klein felt almost no sense of progress or achievement in his campaign; his biggest forward momentum had been simply setting up his office on the second day of the first week. He was nervously spinning a pencil while Guzman explained the latest woes of the campaign to him.
“Alek got an 11 point lead on us in the early polling,” Guzman said, riffling through his notes like a cub reporter. “He’s got posters everywhere, people supporting him going door to door, and what do we have? A couple of posters in Erskine’s bar? We’ve gotta get better organized, man! We need our posters up, we need more supporters going around getting our message out, we got to get people on our side! It’s been almost two weeks and we haven’t stepped our game up, what’s with you, man?”
Guzman told me he had never been involved in politics back on Earth, but after these last few weeks, I don’t buy that anymore. He’s got such passion for this election, I feel I can never live up to it, Klein thought. “I’ve tried getting those campaign posters for us up, but the business owners on the north side of town won’t even give me the time of day! When I tried going up there to put ‘em up a couple of days ago, all I saw was endless ALEK signs posted all over that part of town. I recruited a couple more people to campaign for us, but they’ll only work in the south side or near the bar, and I spent all last night trying to tell people about the campaign myself! What the hell else am I supposed to do if Alek’s got one whole part of town locked down like that?” Klein said, exasperated.
Life Sentence (Forlani Saga Book 1) Page 13