Culture Shock

by Christopher Nuttall

She held out a datapad. “The refugees are putting a major strain on our economy, directly and indirectly,” she said. “On one hand, we have to provide enough food, drink, bedding and shelter to keep them alive. That’s a major drain on our finances. On the other, large numbers of people are leaving Lothian and heading out to the countryside. That’s hit local companies quite hard. Our tax revenue for the rest of the year will be down.”

  “Making it harder to fund the resettlement efforts,” William muttered.

  “Yes, sir,” Sally said. She crossed her long legs and leaned forward. “For political reasons, it will be difficult to set up new farms on Maxima. Large swathes of the continent have not been claimed, but it was always envisaged that the land would go to our descendants. There would be opposition even if there weren't claims that the refugees would eventually set up a country of their own. However, establishing new farms and settlements on Minoa will be extremely costly. We are in no position to afford it.”

  “Then raise taxes,” Sondra said. “We have the authority to propose emergency taxation, don’t we?”

  “Parliament would probably not approve it,” Sally said, flatly. “And even if we did, the levels of taxation we’d require would ruin our economy. My most optimistic projection is that seventy percent of our businesses would collapse within the year.”

  “Our economy is not that brittle,” Sondra snapped.

  “These are not normal times,” Sally countered. “Every business that depended on the interstellar market is already on the brink of collapse. We simply don’t have the money to shore them up when there’s no guarantee of restoring our access to interstellar markets. It’s impossible to do more than soften the blow as much as possible.”

  She shrugged. “And we can't even take out a loan,” she added. “There’s no one who could offer it to us, even if they wanted to.”

  William groaned as he turned back to the window. God damn the Imperial Navy. If there had been a few weeks - or months - of warning, the entire crisis could have been handled relatively easily. Or if they’d had the nerve to insist that the Forsakers be dumped on Minoa ... but he’d allowed himself to be talked into providing humanitarian aid. He couldn't have just left them to die, could he?

  But it had caused a crisis. His government was shaky, the only thing keeping him in power was Troutman’s reluctance to risk a vote of no-confidence. And yet, the odds were steadily swinging in Troutman’s direction. The alliance with the Unionists - and the price they’d demanded for their support - would cost him dearly, in the next set of elections. If, of course, he remained in office long enough to face the next set of elections. One more crisis would be enough to ruin him.

  “The immediate crisis has been solved,” Sondra said. “We have a working understanding now ...”

  “That’s disputable,” Sally said. William turned back to face her. “The polls are clear. A large percentage of our population now hates and fears the refugees - hatred which is blurring over to the descendants of Forsakers across the continent. The attack on the police, the near-rape of a police officer, the deal we made ...”

  She shook her head. “People are fearful,” she warned. “And fearful people do stupid things.”

  “Like attacking their fellow citizens,” Sondra said.

  Sally leaned forward. “Our planet has - had - a relatively homogeneous culture,” she said, flatly. “Sure, we have people who are descended from the original settlers and others who are descended from later immigrants, but there really aren't that many differences between them and the rest of us. The former had a crisis of cultural confidence; the latter intended to integrate from the start. There was no serious conflict when they arrived.”

  “They would have lost,” William said.

  Sally shrugged. “The point, sir, is that the vast majority of people on our world operate from the same set of assumptions about how the universe works, about what is acceptable behaviour in society. There really isn't that great a difference, whatever the Freeholders may claim, between a farmer and a city-slicker. They may have different upbringings, but they agree far more than they disagree. And the differences are comparatively minor.”

  “True,” Sondra said. “And your point is ...?”

  “The refugees do not share that set of assumptions,” Sally said. “To us, attacking a group of policemen is unforgivable; to them, it was the only way to save their people from an automatic death sentence. To us, a woman’s clothing is of no concern; to them, a woman wearing skimpy clothes is signalling her availability. To us, individuality is of paramount concern; to them, the good of the commune is more important than any individual. To us, a person may marry whoever he or she wants; to them, marriage is a union between families, rather than two people ...”

  “So they’re different,” Sondra snapped. “So what?”

  “So their behaviour appears unpredictable,” Sally said. “What is intolerable to us might be tolerable to them. Their behaviour therefore seems horrific to us. Worse, our government seems to accept their explanations and excuses - putting them ahead of its own people. And so social trust is worn down to a nub.”

  She sighed. “Right now, people are preparing for trouble,” she added. “And the reason they are preparing for trouble is because they have lost faith in our ability to handle the crisis.”

  Sondra scowled. “The problem will solve itself within a couple of generations,” she insisted, sharply.

  “That may be true,” Sally said. “It is also irrelevant.”

  William turned back from the window. “How so?”

  “We have compromised ourselves in the eyes of the population,” Sally said, bluntly. “We attempted to cover up the ... incidents ... at the spaceport, then the full details of the riot in Lothian. Our cover-ups failed, making us look both evil and incompetent. They no longer have faith in us.”

  “We did what was necessary to prevent a greater crisis,” Sondra snapped.

  “The public doesn't see it that way,” Sally pointed out. “They see it as a betrayal.”

  William eyed Sondra thoughtfully as the two women argued. Sondra had taken over principal responsibility for the crisis, after all. It would be easy enough to blame her for the problems. But even now, Sondra had allies in the party. If she refused to resign, he would have to sack her ... and that would cause a civil war within the party. And if enough MPs refused to back him, he might find himself being openly challenged for his post.

  And it might be too late to force her to take the blame, he thought, grimly. There’s enough of it to go around.

  “Then we work to mitigate the scale of the problem,” he said. “And do what we can to feed refugees into the job market.”

  “That will be problematic, of course,” Sally said. “The job market has been shrinking for the last few months.”

  She paused. “And there is another problem,” she added. “What happens if we get lumbered with more refugees?”

  William blinked. “More?”

  “Tarsus wasn't the only world with large Forsaker communities,” Sally said. “Durian, Paradise Rock and Calandos have nearly a million Forsakers between them. What’s to stop them transporting their unwanted populations here and dumping them on us?”

  “They wouldn't,” Sondra said.

  Sally smiled, humourlessly. “Why not? Sending them here is quicker and cleaner than committing genocide. And ... why, look! We have a population that includes a large number of Forsakers! Why not send their distant cousins here? I believe that was the logic Tarsus used.”

  “It was,” William said.

  “We need to worry about the future,” Sally warned. “Even if there’s no prospect of more refugees, Troutman and his ilk won’t hesitate to use it against you.”

  William nodded. But there was nothing he could say.

  ***

  “I feel like a rookie again,” Constable Paul Smith muttered as they marched through the gates. “I haven’t been here since I was told that the streets would be safe
r with me on them.”

  “The trainers must have been drunk,” Mike muttered back. “Or maybe they thought everyone would be rendered helpless by laughter when they saw you.”

  He took a breath as he glanced around, feeling oddly out of place. Lestrade Training Centre - the origins of the name lost in the mists of time - was where every police officer on Arthur’s Seat had been trained, six months of everything from memorising the law to practicing unarmed combat and studying detective techniques. He’d lost a great many of his illusions about humanity during his basic training, even though Arthur’s Seat lacked the giant crime rings and mass incivility of Earth. And yet, the day he’d first walked the beat in uniform, he’d still felt as though he knew nothing. Training was good, but nothing could beat experience.

  A handful of rookies were running around the field, their progress monitored by a grim-faced officer in a green uniform. Another group were bending over a mock crime scene in the distance, being tested on their conduct. The five low buildings in the centre of the complex, he recalled, held everything from classrooms to a small library of law-related materials from across the universe. He’d been required to read case studies from a dozen different worlds before being allowed to pass his written exams.

  “Over here,” a voice called. An older man, wearing another green uniform, was waving to them. Mike didn't recognise him. “Get your asses over here!”

  Mike did as he was told, joining a small group of experienced policemen. There were no women in the group, he noted; indeed, the orders to report to Lestrade hadn't been too clear on what they’d actually be doing. He recognised a couple of faces from Lothian, but the remainder were strangers. It looked as though someone had been selecting officers from all over the continent.

  “I am Instructor Javier,” the man said, once they were assembled. “For those of you who graduated more than three years ago, I am the Firearms Training Officer for Lestrade.”

  He turned. “Follow me.”

  Mike glanced at Smith, then fell into a jog as Javier led them down a path, round a building and past the unarmed combat training field. A female rookie was trying desperately to take down a man easily twice her size, but she didn't seem to be having much luck. Mike caught a glimpse of her instructor’s face and smiled, knowing the poor rookie was going to be told off in no uncertain terms. There was no room for doubt or hesitation when one’s target was so much bigger.

  Javier stopped outside another long, low building, pressing his hand against a fingerprint sensor. Mike lifted his eyebrows in surprise - he hadn't seen such technology in mainstream use, not even in Lothian - as the door clicked open, revealing a firing range. Javier counted them in, then closed the door with an ominous click. Mike felt himself shuffling nervously as Javier stalked past them, then swung around to face the group. His face suggested, very strongly, that he was not a man to be taken lightly.

  “Your records confirm that you all passed the basic firearms course with flying colours,” Javier said, without preamble. “How many of you, since then, have used a firearm on duty?”

  Mike glanced from side to side. No one seemed inclined to speak.

  “You gentlemen have been chosen to be the first full-sized firearms squad for the past three hundred years,” Javier continued. “You’ll be charged with carrying firearms on duty and, if necessary, using them to protect the public. Some of you will find this morally objectionable, as we pride ourselves in not using lethal force. Others will be concerned about the possibility of being blamed for mistakes, mistakes that result in serious injuries or deaths.”

  He paused. “If any of you want to withdraw now, you may do so,” he added. “It will not be held against you. However, if you stick with the course, you are committed.”

  Mike swallowed, hard. He’d taken the firearms course, just like everyone else. But he’d never carried a weapon on duty. He knew, all too well, that the PCA was just waiting for a chance to nail him. And yet ... he wanted to do his duty. If he had to carry a loaded gun to do his duty, he’d carry a loaded gun.

  Two constables turned and left, heading out the door. Javier spoke briefly to them, then closed the door again. “Last chance to back out,” he warned. “Anyone who chooses to leave after this will be classed as a deserter.”

  There were no takers. Javier studied them all for a long moment, then nodded curtly. “These are MAG-47 military assault rifles,” he said, removing a case from the shelves and putting it on a table. Mike and the others gathered round and watched as Javier opened the case, revealing a dark metal gun. “Unlike hunting rifles, they can be switched to fire bursts as well as single shots ... depending, of course, on the exact situation. You can shoot yourselves dry very quickly if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Mike nodded, feeling sweat trickle down his spine. He’d used police rifles - and civilian pistols - back when he’d taken the course, but the military weapons looked ... nastier, somehow. There was something about them, as Javier talked about the different features and settings, that worried him. And yet, there was something about the weapons that drew him to them too. Firearms were the great equaliser. An angry mob could be scythed down in a moment.

  Which is the great temptation, he thought, grimly. He knew enough about guns to know that most shooting flicks were utter nonsense. Guns don't make you superman.

  “You’ll be able to quote the manual automatically when you’re finished,” Javier said. He smiled, rather coldly. “And believe me, you’ll be firing these weapons in your sleep.”

  “I hope not,” a constable said. “My wife will never forgive me.”

  Javier shrugged. “Once you have completed the course, you’ll be bound by the guidelines on armed police officers,” he added. “I imagine you won’t have bothered to review them since you graduated, so you’ll be given a copy to study at the end of the day. For the moment, all you really need to know is that any horseplay, particularly in front of impressionable civilians, will have the most dire consequences. Do you have any questions?”

  Mike hesitated. He hadn't reviewed the guidelines in years. He’d never needed to review the guidelines. Now ... what if he panicked and opened fire on innocent civilians? Or what if he accidentally lost the weapon? Or ...

  “Yes, sir,” Smith said. “Where did the weapons actually come from?”

  “A small stash of military-grade weapons was amassed by the Orbital Guard, a few decades ago,” Javier said. He didn't seem surprised by the question. “Only a handful of guardsmen - and police officers - were told they existed. Ideally, they would never have been brought out of storage.”

  Mike nodded. No one had seriously expected trouble on Arthur’s Seat, certainly nothing the police or a posse armed with hunting rifles couldn't handle. The idea of forming a standing army had been ludicrous, once upon a time. There was no threat, nothing to justify the existence of an army ... and even if they did, any interstellar invader would have no trouble at all destroying the army from orbit. But now ...

  He shivered as he looked down at the rifle. It didn't look hard to use - all the military flicks he’d seen had suggested that soldiers were idiots - yet ... he couldn't help thinking that his people had lost some of their innocence. Armed police on the streets, a genuine internal threat ... what next? Interstellar war? Or a rogue government? Or what? He didn't want to know.

  You have no choice, he told himself, sternly. None of us have a choice.

  “No more questions?” Javier asked. He sounded pleased. “Good.”

  He took the rifle and held it up. “It is time to begin.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The refusal to recognise the existence of the underlying problems practically ensured it. It was unthinkable, politically speaking, to remove one of the ethnic groups or force it to assimilate. All the Empire succeeded in doing was removing any incentive for moderation on both sides.

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

  “Where is she?” />
  Joel paced the room, feeling oddly out of sorts. Hannah had been told to meet him - and her mother and stepfather - at 1300, but it was now 1323 and she was still not present. She’d gone out with her brother, he’d been told. It was something he'd put a stop to, once she was his wife. Even with John’s company, a young girl shouldn't be wandering out of the home, let alone going into town. But he’d been too busy with his other projects to do anything about it.

  “Women are always late,” his father said. He sounded amused. “Don’t be so impatient.”

  “Yes, father,” Joel said, turning away so his father wouldn't see his reddening face. It was all right for Konrad, wasn't it? He was old and settled, his only son already a man. He’d never known a time when he hadn't been able to marry, when there might not have been a young woman of good stock suitable for him. “I am sorry.”

  He bowed his head, his mind elsewhere. The estate had changed in three weeks, becoming more and more habitable as the crates were unpacked and their contents distributed amongst the commune. There were still dozens of tents going up all over the place, but most of the population had a solid roof over their heads. And there were dozens of semi-Forsakers from Lothian coming in to help, bringing food and supplies to their brethren ...