by Greg Bear
Thomas seemed to sink into his chair, chin in hand, gray hair in disarray. He glanced at me once, gave me something like a leer, and retreated into glum contemplation.
Our two outside advocates sat plumb-line in their chairs, hardly blinking.
Janis Granger read out the next item on the agenda: “Inter-family disputes regarding purchase by Sandoval BM of human remains from terrestrial preservation societies.”
Societies. That was a subtlety that could speak volumes of misinterpretation. Thomas closed his eyes, opened them again after a long moment.
“The representative from Gorrie BM would like to address this issue,” the president said. “Chair allots five minutes to Achmed Bani Sadr of Gorrie BM.”
Thomas straightened, leaned forward. Bani Sadr stood with slate held at waist-level for prompting.
“The syndics of Gorrie BM have expressed some concern over the strain on Triple relations this purchase might provoke. As the major transportation utility between Earth and Moon, and on many translunar links, our business would be very adversely affected by any shift in terrestrial attitudes …”
And so it began. Even I in my naïveté could see that this had been brilliantly orchestrated. One by one, politely, the BMs stood in council and voiced their collective concern. Earth had rattled its pocketbooks at us; Mars had chided us for rocking the Triple boat in a time of economic instability. The United States of the Western Hemisphere had voted to restrict lunar trade if this matter was not resolved to its satisfaction.
Thomas’s expression was intense, sorrowful but alert. He had not been inactive. Cailetet expressed an interest in pursuing potentially very lucrative, even revolutionary, research on the deceased; Onnes BM testified that there was no conceivable way these heads could be resurrected and made active members of society within the next twenty years; the technology simply did not yet exist, despite decades of promising research.
Surprisingly, the representative from Gorrie BM reversed himself and expressed an interest in the medical aspects of this research; he asked how long such work might take to mature, in a business sense, but the president—not unreasonably—ruled that this was beyond the scope of the present discussion.
The representative from Richter BM expressed sympathy for Sandoval’s attempts to open a new field of lunar business, but said that disturbances in lunar raw materials supply lines to Earth could be disastrous in the short term. “If Earth boycotts lunar minerals, the Outer can supply them almost immediately, and we lose one third of our gross lunar export business.”
Thomas requested time to speak in reply. The president granted him ten minutes to state Sandoval’s case. He conferred briefly with the advocates. They nodded agreement to several whispered comments, and he stood, slate at waist-level—the formal posture in this room—to begin his response.
“Madame President, honored Representatives, I’ll be brief and I’ll be blunt. I am ashamed of these proceedings, and I am ashamed that this council has been so blind as to make them necessary. I have never, in my thirty-nine years of service to the Sandoval BM, and in my seventy-five years of lunar citizenship, felt the anguish I feel now, knowing what is about to happen. Knowing what is about to be done to lunar ideals in the name of expediency.
“Sandoval BM has made an entirely reasonable business transaction with a fully authorized terrestrial legal entity. For reasons none of us can fathom, Task-Felder BM, and Madame President, have raised a flare of protest and carefully planned and executed a series of maneuvers to force an autonomous lunar family to divest itself of legally acquired resources. To my knowledge, this has never before been attempted in the history of the Moon.”
“You speak of actions not yet taken, perhaps not even contemplated,” the president said.
Thomas looked around the room and smiled. “Madame President, I address those who have already received their instructions.”
“Are you accusing the president of participating in this so-called conspiracy?” Fiona Task-Felder continued.
Calls of, “Let him speak,” “Let him have his say.” She nodded and motioned for Thomas to resume.
“I have not much more to say, but to recount a tale of masterful politics, conducted by an extra-lunar organization across the Solar System, in support of a policy that has nothing to do with lunar prosperity. Even my assistant, Mickey Sandoval, has been trapped into giving testimony on private family affairs, through a ruse involving an old council law not invoked since its creation. My fellow citizens, he will testify under protest if this council so wishes—but think of the precedent! Think of the power you give to this council, and to those who have the skills to manipulate it—skills which we have not ourselves acquired, and are not likely to acquire, because such activity goes against our basic nature. We are naive weaklings in such a fight, and because of our weakness, our lack of foresight and planning, we will give in, and my family’s activities will be interfered with, perhaps even forbidden—all because a religious organization, based on our home planet, does not wish us to do things we have every legal right to do. I voice my protest now, that it may be put in the record before the council votes. Our shame will be complete by day’s end, Madame President, and I will not wish to show my face here thereafter.”
The president’s face was cold and pale. “Do you accuse me, or my chartered BM, of being controlled by extra-lunar interests?”
Thomas, who had sat quickly after his short talk, stood again, looked around the council, and nodded curtly. “I do.”
“It is not traditional to libel one’s fellow BMs in this council,” the president said.
Thomas did not speak.
“I believe I must reply to the charge of manipulation,” the president said. “At my invitation, Mickey Sandoval came to Port Yin to render voluntary testimony to the president. Under old council rules, designed to prevent the president from keeping information that rightfully should be given to the council, the president has the duty to request testimony be given to the council as a whole. If that is manipulation, then I am guilty.”
Our first extra-familial advocate stood up beside Thomas. “Madame President, a tape of Mickey Sandoval’s visit to your office is sufficient to fulfill the requirements of that rule.”
“Not according to the council thinker’s interpretation,” the president said. “Please render your judgment.”
The thinker spoke. “The spirit of the rule is to encourage more open testimony to the council than to the president in private meetings. A voluntary report to the president implies willingness to testify in full to the council. Such testimony must always be voluntary, and not under threat of subpoena.” Its deep, resonating voice left the council room in silence.
“So much for our auto counselors,” the first advocate muttered to Thomas. Again he addressed the council. “Mickey Sandoval’s testimony was solicited under guise of casual conversation. He was not aware he would later be forced to divulge family business matters to the entire council.”
“The president’s conversations on council matters can hardly be called casual. I am not concerned with your assistant’s lack of education,” the president said. “This council deserves to hear Sandoval BM’s plans for these deceased individuals.”
“In God’s name, why?” Thomas stood, jaw outthrust. “Who asks these questions? Why is private Sandoval business of concern to anyone but us?”
The president did not react as strongly to this outburst as I expected. I cringed, but Fiona Task-Felder said, “The freedom of any family to swing its fist ends at our nose. How the inquiry has arisen is irrelevant; what is relevant is the damage that might occur to lunar interests. Is that enough, Mr. Sandoval-Rice?”
Thomas sat again. I looked at him curiously; how much of this was show, how much loss of control? Seeing his expression, I realized that show and inner turmoil were one. Only then did I understand, gut-level, that he knew things I did not know, and that our situation was truly desperate. Thomas was a consummate and seasoned
professional syndic, a true lunar citizen in the old sense of concerned and responsible free spirit, quickly losing all of his few illusions as to power and government and lunar politics.
I turned my gaze to the president’s dais, to Fiona Task-Felder, feeling for the first time a flash of real hatred. I date my present self to that moment; it was as if I had been re-born, more cynical, more calculating, sharper, no longer young. My hands trembled. I made them be still, wiped their dampness on my pants, swiftly calculated what I might give in testimony and what I might withhold.
The representative from Richter BM stood and was recognized by Janis Granger. “Madame President, I move that we have Mr. Mickey Sandoval stand forward and testify, as required by the rules, but that Mr. Sandoval’s testimony be restricted to those areas that will not reveal information that could adversely affect future profit potential for his family. That is, should this council vote to allow the project to continue.”
Thomas’s expression brightened the merest of a mere. I hoped for the president to falter, to acknowledge this limitation to her success, but she hardly blinked an eye before saying, “Is there a second?”
Cailetet and Nernst reps seconded in unison. A quick vote was taken and the decision was unanimous; even the Task-Felder rep joined the flow.
This was the first block in the path of the juggernaut. It was a small block; it was quickly crushed; but it provided us with an immense amount of needed relief.
I testified, following an outline prepared on the fly by Thomas and vetted by the advocates; the council listened attentively. I did not discuss our success in deciphering some of the mental contents of one of the dead.
At the end of my testimony, the Task-Felder rep stood and urged the council to vote on whether our project would continue. The motion was seconded. Thomas did not object or ask for delay.
Cailetet, Nernst, and Onnes voted for the project to continue.
The remaining fifty-one reps voted for the project to be shut down.
History was made, political paradigms shifted, all according to the rules.
After adjournment, Thomas and I went out to a Port Yin pub and sat over two schooners of fresh ale, saying very little for the first five minutes.
“Not so bad,” Thomas commented after draining the last of his glass. “We didn’t go down in glorious flames. Bless massive old Richter; draw and quarter us, but leave us our dignity before we’re spiked.”
“I don’t want to tell Rho,” I said.
“She already knows, Mickey. My office called the Ice Pit. She wants to talk with you, but I don’t want you to talk to anyone until we chat a while. All right?”
I nodded.
“Do I detect a change in your attitudes?” Thomas asked gently.
I smiled. “Yes. And in yours?”
“I’m not as good a syndic as you might believe, Micko.” He waved off my weak objection. “Save it for your memoirs. I couldn’t stop this. But I can delay the results. The council is going to have to design a plan for us, some way to end the project with minimal loss of resources. That will take a few weeks, and I don’t think Task-Felder—Fiona or her BM—can speed things up. I’ll make sure they don’t if I have to resort to assassination.”
He didn’t smile. In my present frame of mind, I didn’t care whether he was serious or not.
“You know, Micko, I’ve always had my doubts about this project. I think the reasons we lost in the council are less political and more psychological, perhaps even mystical. Deep down, I think they believe—and maybe even I believe—we’re interfering where we shouldn’t. If Rho succeeds, it’s going to change a lot of things. We’re a peculiar kind of conservative lot here on the Moon, spiritually, however much we keep our religious observances to ourselves.”
“She has,” I said.
“She has what?”
“Succeeded. They have, actually.”
“Yes?”
“They’ve accessed a head. They’re working on a second head now. We know their names. We—”
My face contorted and I shivered, cursed, half-stood. Something walked over my future grave; I almost literally saw a ghost sitting beside us at the table, the image of an immensely fat Pharaoh covered with ice, watching us all balefully. Thomas reached out to take hold of my arm and I sat. The ghost was gone.
“Don’t lose it now, Mickey,” Thomas said. Other customers stared at us. “What’s wrong?”
“Christ, I don’t know. Thomas, I’ve got to go back. To the Ice Pit. Something just occurred to me, something really bad.”
“Can you tell me?”
I stood. “Hell, no,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s a hunch, a ridiculous hunch. It’s too stupid and wild, but I have to check it out. Please forgive me.”
“You’re forgiven,” Thomas said and credited the tab to his personal account.
I caught the regular Ice Pit shuttle; luck and the timetable were on my side. I was in a fever of inspired unease. I could not shake my theory. My head spun with disbelief; this could not be, yet it all fit together so smoothly, but yet again the chances were more than astronomical, and I realized if I were wrong—and I had to be, no doubt about it—I wouldn’t be worthy of my position in the Sandoval BM. I would have to resign.
If I played such wild hunches, if I could become so obsessed by them, I was a useless crank.
We flew over the external generation plant, a bright red building against pale gray dust and rock. The shuttle banked over the Ice Pit radiators, hunkering in their shadowy trenches, glowing dull red-orange as they broadcast heat into the darkness of space.
We landed and I disembarked, small case in hand. I was eight hours past my bedtime, but did not stop. I barely took time to drop off my case in the water tank.
I rang up Rho, waking her.
“Have they pulled their equipment yet?” I asked.
“Who?” she responded sleepily. “Stolbart and Cailetet-Davis? No. They’re waiting to get orders from their BMs. Thomas said you’d fill me in on some things—he was going to talk with you.”
“Yes, well there are delays, and I have to do some research. Have you accessed the third head yet?”
“We’ve downloaded some patterns, but they’re not translated. This mess has kind of put a crimp in our enthusiasm, Micko.”
“I understand. Rho, get them to translate what you have.”
“You sound a bit crazed, brother. Don’t take this personally. This is my screw-up, not yours. Tulips, remember?”
“Just get those patterns translated. Please. Humor me.”
I leaned back in my chair, stunned by all that was happening, assessing my position, our position, if my hunch was correct.
Then I began even deeper research. There was no way around it—what I needed to know would very likely be found only on Earth, and it would cost me dearly.
I would charge it to my personal account.
I crossed the white line six hours later. I still hadn’t slept. My world of warrens and alleys and water tanks and volcanic bubbles and bridges and force disorder pumps was taking on a quality of bitter dream; I do not know why I felt William was the still point at the center of my life, but he was, and I needed above all else to find out how his project was proceeding. There seemed something almost holy and pure in his quest, above human quibbling; I sensed I could take comfort in his presence, in his words.
But William himself was not comfortable. He looked a wreck. He, too, had not slept. I entered the laboratory, ignoring the soft voices from the chamber below, and found him standing by the QL thinker, eyes closed, lips moving as if in prayer. He opened his eyes and faced me with a jerk of his shoulders and head. “Christ,” he said softly. “Are they done down there?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I’ve set them on to something new.”
“I heard you’ve been checkmated,” he said.
I shrugged. “And you?”
“My opponent is far more subtle than any human conspiracy,” he said. “I�
�ve gone so far as to be able to switch between plus and minus.” He chuckled. “I can access this new state at will, but there’s real resistance to reaching the no man’s land between. I have the QL cogitating now. It’s been working five hours on the problem.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Micko, I haven’t even engaged the force disorder pumps to achieve this new state. No magnetic field cut-off, no special efforts—just a sudden jerk-down to this negative state, absorbing energy to maintain an undefined temperature.”
“But why?”
“The best the QL can come up with is we’re approaching some key event that sends signals back in time, affecting our experiment now.”
“So neither of you know what’s actually happened?”
He shook his head. “It’s not only undefined, it’s incomprehensible. Even the QL is befuddled and can’t give me straight answers.”
I sat on the edge of the QL’s platform and caressed the machine with an open palm as if in sympathy. “Everything’s screwed, top to bottom,” I said. “The center cannot hold.”
“Ah, Micko—there’s the question. What is the center? What is this event we’re approaching that can reach back subtle fingers and diddle us now?”
I smiled. “We’re a real pair of loons,” I said.
“Speak for yourself,” William said defensively. “I’ll break this dustover, by God, Micko.” He pointed down. “Solve your little problem, and I’ll solve mine.”
As if on cue, Rho stood in the open laboratory door, face ashen. “Mickey,” she said. “How did you know?”
The shock of confirmation—and confirmation was not in doubt—made me tremble. I glanced at William. “A little ghost told me. A fat nightmare on ice.”