Culture Shock

by Christopher Nuttall

  The streets seemed surprisingly quiet for a weekday. Adults should have been heading into work while children headed into school, but there were only a handful of people on the streets. Mike couldn't help finding that ominous. He lived in a residential area - there were only a handful of small shops in the district - but it was usually more lively than this. His skin prickled as he turned the corner and walked towards the police station. Thankfully, it looked reassuringly normal.

  “Hey, Mike,” the Duty Sergeant called. He had a cheerful voice that made half the officers in the station want to hit him. So far, no one had, but there were no shortage of bets on who would be the first to snap. “You’re going down Main Street today. Isn't that grand?”

  “I suppose,” Mike grunted. He picked up the briefing folder and blinked in surprise at the sheer number of reports. “How many reports have been submitted overnight?”

  “Fifty-seven,” the Duty Sergeant said. His voice was suddenly serious. “Mostly complaints about refugees.”

  Mike looked up. “Complaints?”

  “Nothing too serious,” the Duty Sergeant said. “People complaining about being stared at ... nothing else. Apparently, harsh words were exchanged between a husband, a wife and a refugee. The report wasn't too clear.”

  “I see,” Mike said. He glanced at the first couple of reports and wondered, nastily, if they’d been filed by the PCA. There were more weasel words on the first page than he recalled from his last datanet access contract. Policemen were meant to be precise - and stick to the facts - but the report was vague to the point of uselessness. “Anything from HQ?”

  “Just a warning to be on the alert,” the Duty Sergeant told him. “We’ve had about nine different reports of shoplifting. It might be nothing more than a random upswing, but it's still worrying.”

  “I see,” Mike said. The door opened, revealing Constable Bobbie Parkhurst. “Bobbie?”

  “I’m partnering you today,” Bobbie said. She was blonde and bubbly. Few people would have taken her for a policewoman if she hadn't been wearing her uniform. “Excited?”

  “It's just Main Street,” the Duty Sergeant put in. “Bring me back an ice cream?”

  Mike snorted. “We’d eat it on the way home,” he said. He winked at Bobbie. “Shall we go?”

  Main Street was normally the busiest street in Lothian, even though cars and trucks were permanently banned. It was lined with shops and stalls, ranging from farmer’s markets to giant clothing stores headquartered hundreds of light-years away. The latter had never been particularly big on Arthur’s Seat, but their garments were popular with a certain subset of the city’s youth. Mike remembered his father angrily pointing out that he wasn't going to spend five hundred pounds on a pair of jeans from a million light-years away, even if they were in fashion. He’d been right, Mike thought, although his younger self had thought otherwise. He could have bought enough clothing for his entire family for the price of a single pair of imported jeans.

  And my kid will do the same, he thought, as he caught sight of a young girl arguing with her mother. He couldn't hear their words, but he could guess. She wanted something fashionable and expensive; her mother had no intention of blowing a month’s wages on something that would probably go out of fashion in a week. I’ll wind up having to tell him no, too.

  They strode on, glancing unobtrusively from side to side. Everything seemed normal, yet there was ... something ... in the air. A wariness, Mike thought. Main Street was normally safe - he wouldn't have walked through a CityBlock on Earth without powered armour and armed backup - but now ... a couple of the farmers had weapons clearly visible, while others were moving with exaggerated care. Mike had no difficulty in telling they were armed.

  They’re uneasy, he thought. And so are we.

  He saw the first couple of refugees as they reached the middle of the street. They were easy to spot, wearing clothes that wouldn't have been out of place in a historical novel or entertainment flick. The two young men eyed him warily, keeping their hands clearly visible at all times. Mike puzzled over it for a moment, then realised that someone who grew up on a more dangerous world would have developed ways to prove he was harmless. He glanced past them and saw three more boys, all peering into a bookshop window. There were no refugee women in sight.

  Bobbie coughed. “Should we move them along?”

  Mike shrugged. “They’re not doing anything wrong,” he said. Main Street was full of wandering citizens, browsing the stalls and chatting to vendors. “Just keep an eye on them.”

  A wolf-whistle split the air. Mike swung around, just in time to see one of the refugees waving cheerfully to the girl - and her mother - he’d seen earlier. The refugee glanced at him, then took to his heels and ran. Mike hesitated, honestly unsure if he should give chase or not. Wolf-whistling was normally harmless ...

  ... But, in the current political climate, he had a feeling it meant trouble.

  ***

  “It’s quiet,” Sondra said, as she stepped into his office. “Too quiet.”

  William rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement. There had been a bunch of leaked reports from the tent city, starting with a witness account of an attempted kidnap that had turned into a riot. And those reports had been joined by a whole series of horror stories - theft, rape, murder - that had spread through the datanet faster than a starship could travel from world to world. And yet ...

  “Troutman’s said nothing,” he mused. “Why?”

  Sondra made a face. “He’s up to something.”

  William was inclined to agree. There were hundreds of Freeholders - including most of their MPs - arguing against both the refugees and the planned resettlement committee, which the Unionists had demanded as the price for their support. And yet Troutman himself had said nothing. William had wondered if Troutman was deliberately trying to keep his options open - the Freeholders weren't as hostile to outside contact as the Isolationists - but sooner or later he would start to lose support within his own party. His silence was mystifying.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens,” he mused. “Did the whips get back to you?”

  “Yeah,” Sondra said. “Apparently, both deserters had” - she held up her fingers to make quotation marks - “emergency medical appointments that could not be delayed. They didn't even have time to arrange a swap with opposition MPs. The whips would like to put their positions to a vote.”

  William weighed up their chances for a long moment. A political party could expel an MP who hadn't toed the party line, but that would only force a by-election. If the expelled MP hung on to his seat in the house, the party would have a new enemy. And there was no guarantee that the party’s chosen candidate would win, even if the expelled MP lost. The election might throw another seat to the Freeholders.

  He shook his head, slowly. “Remind them of the need for party unity,” he said. “And inform them that repeated absences will result in discipline.”

  Sondra didn't look pleased. “Are you going to let them get away with it?”

  “We might lose,” William pointed out. The Empire Loyalist MPs wouldn't react well to any attempt to discipline their fellows, even if they had technically betrayed the party. They certainly wouldn't like having their support taken for granted. “And even if we win, it will set an awkward precedent.”

  “I suppose,” Sondra said. “We can't afford a prolonged period of in-fighting.”

  William nodded. Troutman had the same problem, of course, but he didn't have to worry about commanding a majority in the house. His position was not at stake, nor was his party’s grip on power. There was much more room for him to discipline his balky MPs without risking himself. Maybe that was why he was so quiet. He was getting his own house in order before resuming the attack.

  He cleared his throat. “Did you get anywhere with the negotiations over the Kinsman Estate?”

  “The owners are holding out for a sizable rent, but I think they’ll change their minds in the nex
t couple of days,” Sondra said. “We’ll probably wind up having to underwrite the property, just in case the galactic economy suddenly takes an upswing ...”

  She shrugged. “Right now, the whole estate is a costly drain on their resources,” she added, dryly. “I think they’ll be glad to have someone else paying for it.”

  “As long as we can pay for it out of the original funds Parliament voted us,” William warned, sharply. “The Freeholders won’t be the only ones opposed to paying for that ... that white elephant.”

  He rose and paced over to the window, his eyes searching out the estate in the distance. The Kinsman Corporation had established a local franchise twenty years ago, building an industrial estate that - they’d promised - would bring off-world money flowing into Arthur’s Seat. But none of the industrial equipment had ever materialised, let alone the investment that would defray the money the original investors had ploughed into the project. William had been a teenager at the time, but he still remembered how the collapse had nearly destroyed the Unionist Party. The Empire Loyalists had been lucky to escape most of the political fallout.

  “It isn't as if they can do anything else with it,” Sondra said. “The owners have been trying to find a buyer for fifteen years.”

  William snorted. He would have been more sympathetic if the original investors hadn't done a staggering amount of damage to the planet’s economy. Millions of pounds had been tied up in the whole project, only to evaporate when the off-world investors had pulled out. The Freeholders believed - or claimed to believe - that the whole scheme had been intended to provide an excuse for outside intervention. There were times when William wondered if they had a point.

  “At least they’ll be getting some money out of the deal,” he said, reluctantly. Technically, the government could just seize the property - and the owners might be glad to see it seized - but it would cause too many political headaches. He could name a dozen MPs who would switch sides instantly if the government started seizing private property. “And it will give us somewhere to put the refugees.”

  “For a while,” Sondra said. “There's no way we can fit fifty thousand people into a single estate.”

  “And they’ll certainly have an effect on the electoral roll,” William added.

  He considered it for a long moment. There were roughly five hundred thousand people in Lothian, assuming one counted the suburbs surrounding the capital city. The sudden infusion of fifty thousand - or even ten thousand - would definitely shake up the population. It would be better, he suspected, to have the refugees scattered over the continent, but the Forsakers had made it clear they wanted to stay together. Splitting them up might be impossible.

  “It favours us,” Sondra pointed out.

  “Troutman will see that too,” William countered. The Freeholders believed - with reason - that the cities were unduly represented in Parliament. Adding an extra fifty thousand voters to the electoral roll would give the Empire Loyalists a major boost. “We’ll have to be careful.”

  “Of course,” Sondra said. She smiled. “And we are already making progress in offering medical treatment. There will be some teething problems, I think, but the newcomers will integrate smoother than Troutman thinks.”

  “Let us hope so,” William said.

  Sondra cleared her throat. “There is, of course, a different question,” she said. “We know who did at least one of the leaks from the spaceport.”

  William lifted his eyebrows. “So?”

  “So we should do something about it,” Sondra snapped. “She was told not to disclose anything ...”

  “I don’t think that would stand up in court,” William said, dryly. He'd read the original story when it had been posted to the datanet. It didn't look to be exaggerated, let alone untruthful, but it definitely came down hard against the refugees. “And unless she signed an agreement not to talk, it would be difficult to prove she was forbidden to talk.”

  “But she’s throwing fuel on the fire,” Sondra protested. “We cannot allow it to stand.”

  “But trying to stop her from speaking will make the problem worse,” William countered, bluntly. “We cannot simply put her in jail without due cause, certainly not now. If we try, we will find ourselves under attack from both sides.”

  “Then she can be charged with threatening public order,” Sondra said.

  “And then people will wonder what we are trying to hide,” William pointed out. “I understand that we need this to remain quiet, Sondra, but this is one of those times when doing nothing is the best option.”

  Sondra looked murderous. “She’s slandering my people!”

  “And anything you do to silence her will only cause more problems,” William said. He rubbed his tired eyes. Sondra seemed to be taking the whole affair far too personally. She, far more than anyone else, had staked her political future on it. He'd been glad to let her do it, but if she went too far she’d bring him down too. “Just leave it, Sondra. If things get better, everything will be forgotten.”

  “She’s caused too many problems,” Sondra insisted. “The students alone ...”

  “Silencing her will not solve anything,” William said. He allowed his voice to harden. “We have worse problems.”

  Sondra met his eyes for a long moment, then nodded once. “As you wish, Premier.”

  “Keep working on the estate,” William said. “The spaceport is going to burst soon, whatever happens. The Imperial Navy is keen to drop the last of the refugees on us.”

  “We have shortages everywhere,” Sondra said. “And conditions are growing increasingly unpleasant. We’re just lucky we have plenty of ration bars and the ability to make more.”

  “Yes,” William said. The equipment hadn't been touched since the planet had become self-sufficient. They were just lucky it was still in working order. “But they’re going to become sick of ration bars soon enough.”

  “I know,” Sondra said. “We really need to start establishing farms.”

  “Which will cause other problems,” William pointed out.

  “We can establish them on Minoa,” Sondra said. “It will be costly, but it will solve all our woes.”

  “Costly,” William repeated. “Parliament will not be pleased.”

  He dismissed her, then turned back to the window. Lothian looked unchanged, but opinion polls suggested that the citizens were growing uneasy. And, beyond the capital, other cities and settlements were growing concerned. There was already a resolution in New Glasgow’s District Hall to ban the settlement of refugees within its territory. And there would be others ...

  He caught a glimpse of a shuttle heading towards the distant spaceport. More refugees, all trapped in a nightmare. And he was trapped in a nightmare too. The problem was growing bigger, yet there was little he could do to solve it.

  And if I lose too much support, he reminded himself grimly, Troutman will be the next man to take this office. And who knows what he will do to solve the problem?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The behaviour of these unwanted immigrants was often unspeakable. People raised in the megacities, where bad behaviour was often rewarded, simply had no idea how to behave outside them. The concept of working for food - or money - was alien to them. Crime tended to rise sharply when the newcomers arrived.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.

  Judith sat in the quiet cafe, slowly drinking a steaming mug of coffee and feeling sorry for herself.

  It was the kind of cafe she would have enjoyed visiting with Gayle, a mere two weeks ago. A cafe lined with bookshelves, a barista who knew the difference between good coffee and recycled crap, a chance to just sit back and relax ... it was definitely something she would have enjoyed. But now, after the article had been posted and shared so many times that it had spread around the world, Gayle was no longer talking to her. Nothing official had been said, but Judith suspected she’d been dumped. Their last kiss had been strictly formal.

 
; She closed her eyes in pain, remembering happy hours spent together. They'd shared an apartment, they’d shared classes ... they’d even shared a holiday to the jungle, where they’d made love under the trees. But now ... part of her wanted to go back to Gayle, to beg for forgiveness, to plead to be taken back. The rest of her knew it would never happen.

  I had to tell the world what nearly happened to me, she thought, grimly. But I never knew the cost.

  Her personal com bleeped. Judith scowled, in no great hurry to read the message. She’d had to send several emails before Director Melbourne had deigned to return it, but there were times when Judith wished she hadn't bothered. Someone - she didn't want to think it might have been Gayle - had leaked her personal com code to the datanet, allowing hundreds of people to bombard her with messages accusing her of everything from being cruel and sadistic to being a flat-out liar. She’d blocked each and every one of the senders, but the messages still kept coming. And while there were a number of supportive messages, they seemed thinner on the ground ...