Culture Shock

by Christopher Nuttall

  He glanced up as the intercom hissed. “If you’ll look to your left,” the driver said, “you’ll see a rather interesting tourist attraction.”

  Joel frowned, then did as he was told. The motorway was lined with trees, but they parted as the car drove past, revealing a small wooden and stone cottage in the middle of a field. There was something strikingly rustic about the sight, calling to him. And yet, there were holes in the roof and decay marks on the walls ...

  Hannah spoke into the silence. “What is it?”

  “The sole surviving building from the first landings,” the driver said. “They built hundreds of such buildings in the first two years, but almost all of them fell apart before the second landings began. This one was preserved, after the original settlers moved into better homes; the remainder were just allowed to decay into dust. Even now ... if it wasn't for a team of custodians, it would be gone too.”

  John elbowed Hannah, making her yelp in pain. Joel nodded in approval. It was good that John was finally taking his brotherly duties seriously. Hannah shouldn't have spoken to the driver at all. Maybe he was finally growing up ... John had a brain, when he chose to use it, even if he did lack nerve. Joel made a mental note to spend more time when him, then opened his mouth. He wanted an answer.

  “What happened to them?”

  The driver snorted. “Lots of little things, all adding up to disaster,” he said. “This planet’s biosphere is unusually tough. Much of the vegetation is inedible. The seeds the original settlers brought didn't stand a chance. They lost hundreds of people trying to figure out what could and couldn't be eaten, forcing them to struggle to clear enough fields to grow their own crops. Then the weather got a great deal colder throughout the third year ... it killed too many of them as well as blighting the crops. They would have died out if the second wave of settlers hadn't arrived.”

  Joel shuddered. He’d heard several versions of the story, but they all boiled down to the same thing. Outsiders were not to be trusted. The original reports on Arthur’s Seat had made it out to be paradise, a Garden of Eden where the Forsakers could finally live the way they chose. But they had been conned and the settlement had almost died ...

  The car turned off the motorway, passing a line of trees as it headed towards a large wire fence. Beyond the fence, Joel could see dozens of dark buildings, ranging from giant warehouses and industrial complexes to apartment blocks and stone cottages. Someone had attempted to lay out grassy fields and flower gardens, he noted, but they were so badly overgrown that they looked like small jungles. No one had tended to them in years. The driver stopped the car and waited. A policeman appeared from nowhere and opened the gate, beckoning for them to drive into the complex.

  “Welcome to the Kinsman Estate,” the driver said. He parked the car and yawned, loudly. “I’ll be here when you want to go back.”

  Joel exchanged a long glance with his father, then opened the door and scrambled out of the car. The smell hit him at once, a faint scent of pollen and flowers, mingled with something he couldn't identify. He looked towards the nearest flowerbed and spotted a number of weird-looking plants, mixed with flowers and greenery he vaguely recognised. The planet’s own native plant life had invaded the estate.

  Or maybe it was there all along, he thought, as John and Hannah emerged from the car. The second wave of settlers didn't find it to be quite as dangerous.

  His father followed them out, clutching a map in one hand. The estate was huge, easily large enough to hold twenty thousand or so settlers ... although Joel was sure they would still be cramped. There were a number of fields at the outer edge of the estate, all seemingly empty ... they’d have to be used for tents, at least until they managed to set up more buildings or started to drift out to the farms. And Joel was sure there would be farms, eventually. The government was weak, unwilling to seek or accept confrontation. They’d give the Forsakers whatever they wanted, as long as it looked like they were coming out ahead.

  They have to make excuses, Joel thought, as he picked a building at random. And as long as they can make excuses, they won’t try to change us.

  He led the way towards the giant grey building, pushing his way through the towering grass and overgrown flowerbeds. It felt almost as if he’d shrunk, as if the world was suddenly a much larger place ... he’d seen fields and farmland, but even the cornfields had been smaller to him. Small insects buzzed around, some spinning around his head curiously before flying off into the undergrowth. They weren't threatening, he thought, but it was hard to be sure.

  John broke the silence. “How many of those insects are native to Arthur’s Seat?”

  Joel shrugged. He didn't know. And, in all honesty, he didn't care.

  The door was open, allowing him to step into the building. There were no lights, but bright sunlight was streaming through the windows. It was huge, utterly immense ... and utterly barren. There was nothing within the building, no industrial machinery or living space. Dust lay everywhere, a great carpet that shimmered under the light. He couldn't help feeling as though he was walking through snow.

  Hannah choked, then turned and hurried back outside. Joel turned, just in time to see John follow her. He’d help her, Joel was sure. He looked around the giant chamber, silently assessing what they’d need to do to make it habitable. The dust would have to be swept up, of course, and supplies brought down from orbit ... it would be a pain, he knew, but it was doable. The women would handle the cleaning while the men pruned back the undergrowth and readied their defences.

  There was no sign of John and Hannah when they emerged from the building, but he could see dusty footprints leading towards a smaller apartment block. Joel shrugged, then led Konrad towards another cottage. It had probably been designed for one of the owners, he guessed. He would make sure that his family got one of them, of course. The cottage was not only defensible, it would be easy to seal off if necessary.

  “It’s suitable,” he said, finally. “Don't you think?”

  His father shrugged, his hands toying with his worry beads. “As long as we can live here safely,” he said, finally. “But it came at a cost.”

  Joel turned away, hoping his father wouldn't see the contempt on his face. The Elders, the doddering old men ... they clung to their powers when they were unchallenged, but they rolled over whenever anyone put up a fight. He’d listened to his father for too long, back on Tarsus. They needed to stand up for themselves, if only to get the local government to leave them alone. And their new home ...

  He peered west, towards Lothian. They were close enough to be visible, close enough to put pressure on the government ... it wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

  Keep your eye on the prize, he told himself, firmly. Once their tools arrived, they could start planning their farms. It wasn't as if Arthur’s Seat didn't have plenty of unclaimed land for farms. And remember to play for the long game.

  ***

  “Premier,” Sally said. “Steven Troutman requests an immediate audience.”

  William nodded, sourly. He’d expected as much. Technically, if Troutman wanted to push for a vote of no-confidence, he had to do it in Parliament, but there was nothing stopping him from delivering the message in person. Besides, Parliament wasn't due to meet again for another week. Troutman could have requested an emergency session, yet that would have given the game away ahead of time.

  “Show him in,” he ordered, looking up from his desk. He didn't feel particularly welcoming, but the formalities had to be observed. “And have tea sent in, too.”

  Sally nodded and headed out of the room. Five minutes later, she showed Troutman into the chamber. The Leader of the Opposition looked grim, William noted, but he didn't look determined enough to demand an immediate vote of no-confidence. That, at least, was a relief.

  Of course not, William thought, as he rose to greet his rival. If he loses, he has to surrender his own position; if he wins, he has to cope with the crisis himself.

  “Steven,
” he said, flatly.

  “William,” Troutman said. He sat down, his eyes never leaving William’s face. “A rumour reached my ears, suggesting that you signed the Kinsman Estate over to the refugees. Is that true?”

  William briefly considered denying it, just to waste Troutman’s time, but it would be nothing more than pointless spite. A rumour ... by now, Troutman would probably have people en route to the estate, if they weren’t already there. They’d see the refugees as they planned the move into their new homes. And besides, enough policemen knew about the arrangement to make a leak inevitable, sooner or later. The Chief Constable had made it clear that parts of his force were on the verge of mutiny.

  We’ve already had a number of resignations, William recalled. They’re starting to think they won’t be backed up if necessary.

  “It’s true,” he said, flatly.

  “Tell me,” Troutman said. “Are you out of your mind? Or have you decided to pull a Phelps?”

  William winced. Grand Senator Phelps had cleared the way for the Tyrant Emperor, the last Galactic Emperor with any real power. No one knew precisely what Phelps had had in mind, but he’d stripped away all the long-established safeguards and allowed the Tyrant a completely free hand. Phelps himself had died in the aftermath of the Tyrant’s assassination as the Grand Senate regained control. His name had become a byword for traitor in the waning years of empire.

  “No,” he said, stiffly.

  Troutman snorted, rudely. “You are rewarding bad behaviour,” he said, sharply. “Do you really feel that giving them an estate will solve the problem?”

  “It’s a start,” William said.

  He felt a sudden surge of hatred for the man in front of him, a surge shocking in its intensity. Troutman wasn't the man in the hot seat. He wasn't the one who had to make the final call, any more than he was the man who’d take the blame if something went wrong. Troutman was free to carp and criticize like an upper-class housewife because he wasn't the one in charge. No wonder he hadn't moved to unseat William! The crisis offered plenty of opportunity to strengthen his hand without actually taking power.

  Bastard, William thought.

  “It is another surrender,” Troutman said.

  “We will have the prisoners handed over to us,” William said. “We compromised ...”

  “One does not compromise when there is no reason to compromise,” Troutman snapped, sharply. “Either we are in control of our territory or we are not! Either we are the sole source of power and legitimacy on this world or we are not. Either ...”

  “We’re not in Parliament now,” William said, tiredly. “You can save the bullshit rhetoric for your supporters.”

  Troutman shrugged. “Here’s an interesting question for you,” he said. “The Forsakers believe in the virtues of large families, do they not?”

  “So do farmers like you,” William countered. “I believe the average number of children per couple in rural areas is five.”

  “It is,” Troutman confirmed. “I’ve been going through the data collected by the registers, up at the spaceport. As of yesterday, there were roughly thirty-five thousand Forsakers on the ground, two-fifths of them women of childbearing age. There’s actually a very definite imbalance between males and females, something that ought to worry us.”

  He went on before William could say a word. “The average Forsaker family, based on the data we collected, has around four to six children,” he added. “There’s actually a number who have as many as ten children. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to suggest that the birthrate will decline over the next century. We could wind up being heavily outnumbered within the next few decades.”

  “You’re exaggerating the case,” William said, sharply. “How will they feed so many children?”

  “You know as well as I do that algae can be used to feed millions of people,” Troutman pointed out. “Earth had a high birthrate even though the population was, pardon me, trapped in tiny apartments in hellish CityBlocks. And we have far more room for expansion than a family on Earth.”

  “You’re being paranoid,” William said.

  Troutman looked back at him. “And you’re not being paranoid enough.”

  “These people have been through hell,” William said.

  “Our duty is to our population,” Troutman snapped. “You know, the men and women who voted you into office? The refugees could have the worst sob story in history and I would still put our voters first!”

  “They were kicked off their homeworld,” William said.

  “Tell me,” Troutman said. “Is there anything, over the last few weeks, that suggests Tarsus was wrong in wanting to get rid of them?”

  William felt another surge of sheer hatred. “Is there a point to this meeting?”

  “Just one,” Troutman said. “Do you think I missed your deal with the Unionists?”

  “No,” William said. Too many people were involved for that to stay buried for long, no matter how hard he tried. “I don’t.”

  “You will not get that bill through Parliament,” Troutman hissed. “And even if you do, do you think it will be accepted?”

  “Parliament is the highest authority on the planet,” William said. “I ...”

  “And yet there are strict limits on its power,” Troutman snapped. “Here you are, turning against your own people ... and for what? What the hell are you getting out of it?”

  “I am trying to cope with a crisis,” William snapped back. He waved a hand around the office. “If you want this job, if you want this office, organise a vote and kick me to the backbenches. Until then, shut the hell up!”

  They stared at each other in mutual hatred. “Your attempts to cover everything up are failing,” Troutman said, finally. “And the next time you surrender to the refugees, Premier, I’ll call for a vote of no-confidence. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly,” William said.

  Troutman glared at him for a long moment, then turned and marched out of the room. Sally entered a moment later, carrying a tea tray. William shook his head in grim amusement - he’d forgotten about the tea - and motioned for her to put it down on the desk. He’d just have to drink both cups himself.

  “Call Sondra,” he said. She was in conference with Director Melbourne, if he recalled correctly. “Tell her to get back here as soon as she can. We may have a problem.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sally said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Their grasp of reality, therefore, was poor. It was easier for them to think in soundbites and simplistic answers than understand the underlying issues facing the galaxy.

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

  She was being made to wait.

  Judith sat in an uncomfortable chair outside Director Melbourne’s office, feeling unpleasantly as though she’d been sent to see the principal. The message had been terse, ordering her to report to the office by 0900 or there would be certain unspecified consequences. Judith had been tempted not to show up - she’d been in a foul mood, thanks to a nasty argument with Gayle and her own worries over Hannah - but she suspected that not showing up would merely be used against her.

  She leaned back in the chair, reminding herself - sternly - that she was a grown woman and no longer in school. Director Melbourne might be in charge of coping with the refugees, but she had very limited powers over Judith. Hell, the more she looked at the legal position, the more she thought she could make a case that Director Melbourne had illegally imprisoned her after the riot. She’d been tempted to file charges, even though she knew it would probably go nowhere. The exact legal status of anyone during a state of emergency was very ill-defined.

  And she thinks she can make me sweat, just by forcing me to wait, Judith thought, reaching into her bag. She’d put a couple of books in, along with her e-reader and a small selection of ration bars. And yet, she’s nowhere near as intimidating as Principal Seymour.

  She pulled out a book and sta
rted to read. Her father had been a firm believer in reading fiction, but Judith preferred factual books. She’d taken a couple of books on the Forsakers out of the library, trying to understand them better. It wasn't easy - most of the books had been written by the second or third generation on Arthur’s Seat and were strongly critical of the Forsakers - but she thought she was making progress. And yet, it was becoming increasingly clear that neither Gayle nor Hannah had lived in a true Forsaker community ...

  Someone cleared her throat, loudly. Judith looked up to see a grim-faced older woman, looking down on her.

  “The director will see you now,” the woman said.

  Judith nodded, returned the book to the bag and rose. The woman made no move to stop her carrying the bag into the office, even though she could have hidden something dangerous within its folds. But then, Arthur’s Seat didn't have a tradition of political assassination or even random violence. That might change, she reflected morbidly, but for the moment it was a relief. She met Director Melbourne’s eyes - the woman was sitting behind a desk, reading a datapad - then marched over to stand in front of the desk. There were no chairs for visitors.