Derner crossed his arms defensively. “You didn’t approve the last one.”
“You didn’t give me sufficient justification to.”
“The Old Man would have,” Derner blurted. The metallurgist shrank in on himself as soon as he uttered the words.
So we’ve come around to that, Hal thought. The Old Man’s death had come without warning. Hal never expected to be thrust into the heart of the business so soon and neither had anyone else, obviously.
“I’m sorry,” Derner stammered, “I didn’t—”
“If you have a problem with my decision, you tell me to my face,” Hal said. “Go behind my back again and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Derner’s face grayed. “I understand.”
Having settled the issue, Hal’s voice took on a friendlier tone. “Why do you want a reassignment? You’ve been heavily involved in our production of optical semiconductors and earned top bonuses for the past ten years.”
Derner took a moment to adjust. “I came on board as a researcher,” he said. “We were trying to develop a monoisotopic semiconductor through molecular beam epitaxy. Granted, we didn’t get anywhere, but I think the refinements I brought to our first-stage production warrant my request.”
Derner’s contributions had been instrumental in establishing the Family’s profitable trade in exotic crystals, particularly indium gallium antimonide, a substance vital to the optoelectronic and thermophotovoltaic energy industries. Better than ninety percent now came off the line defect-free, at a quarter the overhead of any other producer, and received legitimate certification after laundering. The culls still went the old route, entering the market through counterfeited certification as a competitor’s product.
“Production and quality peaked five years ago,” Hal noted. “Why didn’t you request transfer then?”
Derner nodded. “My project was still making progress. Two years ago success seemed imminent but we hit a dead end, scrapped years of work. Since then the metallurgy community has pretty much given up serious research in that area and I’d like to move on.”
“I’ll take your request under advisement,” Hal assured him.
“Thank you.” Derner left a happier man.
Hal remained for a few minutes. Solitude would be a rare commodity for the next few days, given his next task: paying a personal visit to each of the department heads, answering what complaints and requests he could, giving lip service to those he could not. “Pressing the flesh,” his father called it—politicking. Hal had never developed the stomach for it. Real and perceived nuances attributed meaning to the most innocent comment, the most mundane action. The Old Man had a gift for it and decades of credit in his political accounts.
The Derners of the world would never have dreamed of pulling a stunt like that on the Old Man.
Saint Anatone: 2709:05:01 Standard
Virene pounded on the bathroom door irritably. “Terson, come on! You can go when we get there.”
“Just give me a minute,” he sighed. She’d been frantic about the appointment all morning and the extra half hour she spent primping had suddenly become his fault.
Automated traffic monitors issued three speeding citations between their apartment and the freeway. Virene weaved through traffic all the way to the downtown exit and put the wheel hard over, cutting across traffic in the right-hand lane, ignoring angry gestures as the little sports car dropped to street level. Terson endured the reckless exhibition silently.
Virene pulled into a parking space in front of the Social Services building, breaking hard. They hopped out and dashed through the entrance. Terson wrestled briefly with the idea of continuing out the back, but his wife would beat him bloody if he cut out regardless of his abhorrence of bureaucracy.
Virene squeezed his hand as the elevator doors parted.
The Reproductive Service Center took up the entire sixth floor. The reception area held seating for at least one hundred and fifty, walls and ceiling covered with sound deadening fabric and acoustical tile. A path had been worn in the light maroon carpet between the elevators and an island of computer screens and desks inside a circular counter. They signed in with the receptionist less than five minutes after their scheduled appointment. She gave each of them a pamphlet and clipboard.
“Fill these out as completely as you can,” she said. “A family counselor will call you shortly.”
They found seats, instinctively leaving unoccupied chairs on either side to insulate themselves from the other applicants. Terson sensed observation almost immediately after starting on their forms. He cast about with a surreptitious glance to see eyes and faces turn swiftly aside. The anxiety in the room was palpable. No one spoke. Except for an occasional whispered murmur the only sounds were those of pen and paper. A few locked eyes with him and stiffened, offended that he did not alter his gaze as quickly as etiquette demanded. One or two took it as a challenge and stared back with open hostility.
These were not fellow applicants, he realized, they were competitors, each couple seeking to outdo the others, to prove themselves more fit to receive the gift of fertility than any of the rest. The colonists of Nivia had made a prize of the most basic biological drive and began fighting for their children’s lives before they’ve even been conceived. Terson knew, without a doubt, that somewhere in the room was a person willing to destroy a friendship, betray a spouse, and perhaps even plot murder if they believed it could get them a child.
“Mr. and Mrs. Reilly?” The counselor’s eyes fixed on them when they rose. “This way, please.” She turned and led them into the warren of cubicles. Terson felt like a rat in a maze, trapped with desperate wrecks of his own kind, about to be tortured by a civil servant with a degree in witch-doctor psychology.
The faces he spied in the labyrinth were naked, stripped of the masks they wore in the reception area. He saw young, hopeful couples, first-time applicants like Virene and himself. There were slightly more mature faces, some relaxed, comfortable that they’d had one child already and expected to again, some uneasy and concerned because they’d been turned down before.
The very mature couples bothered Terson the most—people conscious of their biological clocks, anguished by the string of rejected applications, following their counselor’s every word praying to learn the reason why.
“But we’ve done everything you’ve said,” he heard one tearful woman cry. “Everything!”
“Have a seat, make yourselves comfortable,” she said when they reached her cubical. “My name is Theresa, and I’ll be helping you with your application.”
“Thank you,” Virene said. She touched a framed picture of two children sitting on the desk. “Are these yours?”
“Yes,” Theresa smiled. “Adam and Joy.”
“You’re very fortunate,” Virene said.
“Oh, I’m sure you will be, too,” she replied.
Terson snorted inwardly. Wonder where you put it when someone not so fortunate shows up, he thought. Or do you leave it there to rub it in?
“Virene, let’s start with you. I see you come from an unusually large family,” the counselor commented. “Do you want several children?”
“We, um, haven’t really decided,” Virene said. “I think I’d by happy with one.”
“Of course,” Theresa said. “Most people would be. Now, your education appears fairly standard; you took the usual childcare and parenting classes in high school; you are due to graduate from college this year with a BA in Liberal Arts. Your work experience seems rather limited. You haven’t held a job for the last two years?”
“I chose to concentrate on my studies,” Virene said.
“Of course. Do you see yourself embarking on a career, or staying at home?”
“I guess I haven’t thought about it,” Virene said weakly.
“That’s not unusual for someone your age,” Theresa said. “Now, I see that you two have had some trouble with the authorities.”
“Not for a while,” Virene
said quickly, concern evident on her face.
“It shouldn’t be a problem if you haven’t had any recent infractions,” the counselor said. “You’ve maintained your contraceptive treatments the whole time and that counts for a lot.
“Now, Terson, I see that you are on probation. Can you tell me about that? Your records aren’t very detailed.”
“If you check your regulations,” Terson smiled thinly, “you’ll see that I’m not obligated to answer.” Virene kicked him in the ankle.
“You are enrolled in the Spaceflight Training School at Malone,” Theresa said, recovering smoothly. “How will your career impact your ability to raise a child? Won’t you be absent from home?”
“My specialty is aerospace operation,” Terson explained. “Shuttle work.”
The woman asked a few more questions, making notes on his application, and finished with: “I’ll need the name of your probation officer, of course.”
“What happens now?” Virene asked.
“Your applications will be sent in for review,” Theresa told her. “You should have a response one way or the other in two weeks. If your applications are declined, there will be some material explaining what you can do to improve your chances next time.
“If you’re approved, your case number will go into the queue, then it’s just a matter of time until your turn comes, based on the monthly quotas.”
Maalan Bragg gazed out a window in the Mental Health reception room on the tenth floor of the Social Services building. He could see his own office window glinting in the sunlight at the Public Safety building, the place he would much rather spend his afternoon than here, waiting for his annual mental health evaluation and counseling session. His eye caught a sleek sports car turning off the street below at high speed. The driver slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop in a parking slip at the curb, wisps of smoke rising behind each tire.
He recognized the couple that emerged all too well even from this height: Terson and Virene Reilly. Maalan stifled the impulse to rush down and confront them and whatever trouble they were about to cause. What he viewed as dedication to duty, however, might be misconstrued as erratic behavior by his counselor, leading to additional sessions, a possibility he wished to avoid.
Doctor Lutz appeared in the doorway. “Maalan,” he smiled, offering his hand. “Please, come in.”
Mario Lutz was a short, portly man twenty years Bragg’s senior, soft-spoken with a kindly face that elicited trust and eyes that could bore through solid concrete at the first hint of deception. Experience taught Bragg to speak frankly or endure more sharply probing questions. The counselor led him to a pleasant sitting room decorated with soothing abstract art and furnished with two comfortable chairs arranged so the occupants could talk without the impression of an interrogation.
“How do you feel about your session today, Maalan?” Lutz began.
“Irritated,” Bragg replied, “but resigned.”
“I see. Why is that, do you think?” Lutz didn’t encumber himself with a notepad, allowing his posture, body language and gestures to fully engage his subject. Bragg had no doubt, however, that the session was carefully documented in some other way.
“I have work to do,” Bragg explained.
“You don’t view this session as a legitimate aspect of your work?”
“I understand the reason for it, intellectually,” Bragg expounded, “and I agree with its purpose, but, no, I don’t view it as significant to my ability to perform my duties.”
“Has anything significant happened since your last interview?”
Bragg hated that question. What qualified as significant and in whose opinion? Significant to Maalan Bragg personally, or significant to the public at large? This time, at least, he had something that qualified on both counts. “I made an arrest in a big case last week.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“I was lead investigator into the deaths at Saint Anatone General last month,” Bragg said.
“I found that incident particularly disturbing myself,” Lutz acknowledged. “Did you find it satisfying to apprehend the perpetrator?”
“Not particularly,” Bragg replied. “He was an idiot—there was no way he couldn’t get caught and he missed his intended victims by about as wide a margin as could exist.” The man worked at a medical supply service and filled medical oxygen bottles with carbon dioxide. He intended them for an elder care center but they found their way to Saint Anatone General instead. It was a simple matter to track the serial numbers to their source, where company records identified the person who prepared and inspected them.
“You felt the case was a waste of your investigative skills.”
“No. Well, maybe, in a way—it wasn’t a challenge, if that’s what you mean, but I’d rather get someone like that off the street as quickly as possible than be challenged.”
“How do you feel about the suspect himself?”
“Contemptuous,” Bragg said without hesitation. “He wasn’t remorseful over the mistake. He said—now, get this—he said ‘At least they aren’t suffering anymore.’ I’ll tell you what, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to pistol whipping a suspect.”
“Was that his motivation?” Lutz asked. “The relief of suffering?”
“Not at all,” Bragg chuckled bitterly. “His son and daughter-in-law had their application for contraception reversal denied a few months ago. They were about to reapply and he decided that he could improve their chances by reducing the population by a few dozen. He figured anyone who was both old and on oxygen probably didn’t have a decent quality of life anyway.”
“Do you agree with his conclusion?”
“That’s hard to answer,” Bragg said. “Logic would seem to dictate that life shouldn’t be extended beyond a certain point if it means preventing someone else from being born. I’ve filed legal instruments to prevent anyone from putting me on permanent life support because I think that it’s socially irresponsible to do otherwise, but that was my choice.
“Making that choice for someone else is unconscionably arrogant and cowardly. You’ll notice he didn’t feel strongly enough about it to kill himself.”
“Would you feel differently about him if he had?” Lutz asked.
Bragg shook his head. “His targets were still helpless and vulnerable.”
“I’m referring to those who engage in descendant-motivated suicide,” Lutz clarified.
“It makes me angry,” Bragg told him.
“But it’s clearly an act of personal choice,” Lutz said. “Many people view it as commendably altruistic.”
“I’m angry that a system exists that makes suicide seem like a reasonable option,” Bragg said. “Once you accept it as such you’re one step closer to justifying euthanasia of the elderly or the mentally and physically challenged.”
“You don’t have any children yourself,” Lutz noted. “Is that a choice you made because you disagree with the system?”
“I guess that depends on how you look at it,” Bragg said tightly. “My wife and I applied several times. Eventually the stress and disappointment outweighed our desire and we stopped. It’s open to debate whether that constitutes personal choice or concession.”
Bragg shifted in his seat, trying to swallow the acidic anger welling up in his gut. They’d done everything the bastards suggested to the letter, striving for an impossible perfection until it became the central focus of their lives. The strain showed in the psychological screening and their last failed application cited marital instability.
“I take it you wouldn’t object to loosening of the reproductive laws,” Lutz guessed.
“That, Doctor, is a political issue that I certainly don’t intend to discuss,” Bragg said, getting to his feet. “I believe I’ve had enough.”
“I apologize for upsetting you,” Lutz told him. “It wasn’t my intent.”
“I never thought otherwise,” Bragg assured him. “I appreciate the opportunity to get these
things off my chest; I feel much better, and I look forward to next year’s session.”
He drove the highway that circled Saint Anatone three times before he calmed enough to go home.
Beta Continent: 2709:05:01 Standard
Cargo damage proved to be as bad as Hal feared. The depth had crushed fifty percent of the containers; nine out of ten intact containers had leaked. For all practical purposes, the entire shipment was a loss.
If the customers on the other end could abide a delay, or accept partial shipment, he might be able to get things back on schedule. If not, the only choice was to refund those with the most power and stiff the ones without. No doubt Den Tun saw an opportunity to gain concessions in return for stepped up delivery of the raw materials needed to increase production.
Hal sat at his desk through the day and remained there hours after his shoulders cramped, dividing his gaze between the computer screen and the clock. There had to be more work, something he could use as an excuse to avoid Sergio Cirilo’s hospitality.
The vidcom buzzed.
Hal considered ignoring it, locking the door and pretending he wasn’t there, but feigning absence would only put the Fort’s security people in a spin. Better to face Sergio and deliver a bald faced lie.
McKeon’s visage appeared instead of the Deputy Administrator’s. “We’ve got a live video feed from the crash site,” McKeon said. “You’d better come to the command post.”
“On my way,” Hal said, disturbed by the edge in the security officer’s voice. As soon as he entered the Fort’s command post his eyes locked on the over-sized video screen mounted on one wall. Against the gray-brown sediment, pinned by a submersible’s spotlight, lay a broken cargo container. Not crushed.
Burst.
The ribs bulged outward; one side sported a gaping hole, the edges peeled back and blackened by a tremendous explosion. Sea creatures swam slowly through the gap, investigating the unusual addition to their habitat.
“Collateral damage from whatever brought down the shuttle,” Hal surmised.
Pale Boundaries Page 9