Captain Stewart’s lips twitched. “It wasn't that dangerous a job.”
“It is now,” Mike pointed out. “Most of the refugees are on their way to Bellwether, but there’s still a lot of trouble on the streets. People lost faith in the government, sir. The social compact was broken.”
He sighed. “That’s why I intend to run for Parliament,” he added. “Someone has to try to talk sense into their heads.”
“You might be my boss, one day,” Captain Stewart said. He met Mike’s eyes. “Do you really feel betrayed?”
“Yes, sir,” Mike said.
He held up a hand. “I understand that there is - sometimes - a need to investigate what actually happened,” he said. “But I feel that the PCA went too far. They preferred to put the blame on the police, on me, rather than the refugees. And that was a deadly mistake. I am not the only one resigning.”
“I know,” Captain Stewart said.
He rose, holding out a hand. “I wish you the very best in your future career, in or out of Parliament,” he added. “And if you ever change your mind, feel free to reapply.”
“It won’t happen,” Mike said. He shook Stewart’s hand, gravely. “Like it or not, we lost much of our innocence over the past few months. Too many deadly precedents were set, sir. Nothing will ever be the same again.”
“We shall see,” Captain Stewart said. “And if you do become an MP, I look forward to licking your ass at some later date.”
Mike laughed, then strode out of the office. By tradition, a retiring officer was supposed to take one last tour of the station, but he found it hard to turn away from the doors. He’d cleared a leave of absence first, just to make sure he could retire without a formal notice period ... it wasn't entirely honest, yet he didn't want to stay another day. He thought, briefly, of his desk ... where he’d worked hard, once upon a time ... and then walked out of the doors, heading down the road. He’d promised Jane he’d be home for lunch.
Goodbye, he thought, as he passed a pair of officers on patrol. Both of them carried guns on their belts. The sight still bothered him, despite everything. And good luck.
He sighed as he walked down the road. He’d already started to lay the groundwork for his run for office. Being a hero helped, but so did the lack of uncompromised candidates from all four main parties. And if he won election ... he promised himself, silently, that he would never allow such a crisis to get out of hand again.
***
“You seem happier now,” her father said, as he poked his head into the stable. “Are you feeling happier?”
Judith shrugged, expressively. Mucking out the horses was great, if one wanted an excuse not to think. Her father had made it clear, years ago, that cleaning up after the animals built character, although Judith privately suspected it also concentrated one’s mind on what was truly important. Very few of her fellow students at university had ever owned anything larger than a dog.
“It has its moments,” she said, finally. “She hasn't called me.”
Gayle had talked to her once, after she’d been released. She'd confessed that Judith had been right all along, then admitted they probably needed some time apart. Judith had agreed, even though part of her had just wanted to take Gayle back to her bed. Their relationship had been damaged, perhaps destroyed, simply because they had different opinions. They needed a break just to know where they stood.
“Not a keeper, then,” her father said. He leaned against the wooden wall. “At least your friends are doing well.”
Judith nodded. Hannah and John had moved out to the farm, the former studying medicine in the nearby town while the latter was working on the farm itself. John had a long way to go before he matched Judith’s father or brother, but he was working on it. He’d lost his reluctance to use modern farming technology very quickly, after experiencing life with and without it. Judith wasn't surprised. Hardscrabble farming was a great deal of effort for very little return.
“Hannah thinks highly of you,” her father added. “Perhaps you should chase her instead. Or John.”
“Hannah isn't interested in women,” Judith said. Hannah’s reactions were a little odd, by local standards, but she seemed utterly unaware of homosexual relationships. And yet, she also seemed unaware of local men trying to court her. “She may be asexual.”
“She’s also been through very hard times,” her father said, dryly. “I think it will be a long time before she trusts anyone enough to let them get close to her.”
Judith nodded. Apart from John, who was her brother, and Judith herself, Hannah didn't seem interested in making friends. But then, she’d been betrayed by her mother, her stepfather and stepbrother. Maybe it wasn't so odd after all.
“John’s a decent lad,” her father said. “Hard worker, which is more than can be said for that last layabout you dated ...”
“Dad,” Judith protested. She’d been in a rebellious frame of mind, dating a young man she knew her father wouldn't like. It hadn't worked out, unsurprisingly. Her father rarely hesitated to remind her of it, whenever she dismissed his opinion. “I don’t know, to be honest. He’s a good man, but ...”
She sighed. She’d been raised to believe that brothers were supposed to look after sisters, although she suspected the age difference between her and her elder brother had made that a little more prominent. He’d practically been a second father to her, after their mother had died. And John ... John had failed to protect his sister. Whatever his reasons, whatever his culture, it wasn't something Judith could ever condone.
“I have time,” she said, finally. “It isn't as if I have to get married tomorrow.”
“No, it isn’t,” her father agreed.
And I am lucky to have you, Judith thought, as her father left her to finish the job. A refugee father might have treated me quite differently.
***
It wasn't entirely healthy - it wasn't remotely healthy - but John carried a small photograph in his wallet, taking it out to look at it whenever he felt insecure. Joel, dangling from a rope ... the hangman watching as John’s stepbrother breathed his last. It had been a public execution, the first in Arthur’s Seat’s history ... Judith had said, afterwards, that it was a sign of trouble to come. Criminals were rarely executed when they could be exiled afterwards.
He strode down the woodland walk until he reached the small town, waving cheerfully at a pair of teenage boys playing football. He’d played with them and the other teenagers and, once he’d got used to the idea of women playing football, he’d found it surprisingly relaxing, even fun. There was none of the sheer violence that Joel had brought to the game, none of the sadistic amusement Colin and his ilk had taken in injuring their players. It was ... it was fun.
The small medical centre was set within a garden, half-hidden behind a line of trees. It looked very much like the ideal Forsaker cottage, a house built from natural materials and woven into its surroundings rather than something imposed on them. He walked up the path and knocked on the door, waiting patiently. Hannah emerged a moment later, wearing a white shirt and black trousers. John had thought he’d never quite get used to seeing his sister in a shirt and trousers, but now - their fourth month in the countryside - it was almost unremarkable. Besides, there were a couple of girls in the town who wore them very well indeed.
“Time to go home,” he said. He stopped, astonished. “It is home, isn't it?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “This is our home.”
She said nothing as they walked back to the farm. John suspected she was remembering their mother, wherever the old woman was now. It still cost him a pang, sometimes, to remember her. She'd betrayed them both, but ... but she was their mother. And she’d refused the chance to remain in Lothian when the majority of the Forsakers had gone to Bellwether.
“I’m going to be going to the city in two months,” Hannah told him. “I’ll have to complete my training there.”
John swallowed, then looked at her. “Will you be all right?”<
br />
“I hope so,” Hannah said. “I have hope.”
And that, John knew, was all that mattered.
***
“What made you play it like that?”
Troutman cocked his head as the maid poured them both tea, then withdrew. “What do you mean?”
“I’m glad you didn't kill them,” William said. “And ... and I’m glad that something of their nature will be preserved. But ... but why did you give them Bellwether?”
Troutman raised his cup in silent salute. “Did you have a claim to the island?”
“No,” William said. Troutman was good at getting under his skin. “And you know it.”
“Bellwether is large enough to support an expanding community,” Troutman said, sipping his tea. “And isolated enough to make it difficult for that community to cause troubles elsewhere. Or have someone else cause problems on its behalf.”
He smiled, rather coldly. “Was it actually suicide?”
William scowled. “The police report insists it was suicide,” he said. He knew precisely what Troutman meant. “There’s certainly no evidence to suggest otherwise.”
He took a sip of his tea. In truth, he found it hard to believe that anyone could have murdered Sondra and convinced the police it was suicide, but he had to admit it was possible. And yet ... Sondra’s career had been destroyed and she was on the verge of facing a string of both criminal and civil charges. Her clients were either dead or turning on her. Suicide might have seemed the only way out.
“Of course not,” Troutman agreed. “But that woman could turn a silk purse into a sow’s ear, given time.”
William snorted. “Thank you for reminding me you’re an asshole,” he said. It was undiplomatic, but he didn't care. He was just a private citizen now, paying his respects to the Premier. “Even if you did give them an island ...”
His voice trailed off. “What is it?”
Troutman raised his eyebrows. “What’s what?”
William stared back at him, evenly. “What’s the sting in the tail?”
“There’s enough land to support them - and a community several times their size,” Troutman said. “And they have the tools to farm, to build their ideal community ... if they wish?”
“And the catch?”
Troutman shrugged. “Nothing much,” he said. “Just a little ... precaution.”
“A precaution,” William repeated. He should have known. Troutman wouldn't have hesitated to put the boot in when he had a chance. “What have you done?”
Troutman leaned back in his chair. “Do you know what killed Earth?”
He went on before William could even begin to formulate an answer. “The planet’s carrying capacity, thanks to modern technology, was huge,” he said. “Everyone had enough to eat, so they just kept churning out more and more kids. And those kids grew up and started churning out their own kids. The population just kept rising until the CityBlocks started to explode.”
His face twisted. “Someone did come up with a solution,” he added. “It was easy enough to add a mild contraceptive to ration bars. Men who ate a steady diet of ration bars - and nothing but ration bars - would find it a great deal harder to impregnate a woman. But the bureaucrats on Earth preferred to have a vast population they could administer ...”
“You put the contraceptives in the ration bars you send to the island,” William said, flatly.
Troutman nodded. “Correct.”
William stared at him. “You ... you utter bastard! You’ve doomed them!”
“Hardly,” Troutman said. “They have everything they need to establish their own farms and grow food. If they move away from the ration bars, their fertility will rapidly return to normal. And then ...”
“And then what?” William asked. “What else have you done?”
“They’ll face limits on what they can grow,” Troutman said. “They don’t allow themselves anything more advanced than horse-drawn ploughs. No gene-modified seeds, no combine harvesters ... not even modern medicine. If they choose to remain trapped at that level, and we won’t be keeping them there, there will be limits on just how far their community can expand. Either way, they won’t pose a threat ...”
“I’ll tell the media,” William snapped. “This is ... this is abominable!”
Troutman gave him a wintry smile. “Go right ahead,” he said. “The vast majority of the population will cheer.”
He rose, meeting William’s eyes. “You made choices, bad choices,” he said. “Taking the refugees was a mistake, allowing them to dictate to you was a mistake, trying to appease them was a mistake ... we hovered on the brink of outright civil war because of you and your sentimental decisions. And now ... and now, half the population thinks we were too damn merciful in exiling them to Bellwether.
“Go tell the people, if you wish,” he added. “You’ll just wind up looking like a fool.”
“You’re a bastard,” William said, stunned.
“An unsentimental bastard,” Troutman said. “I put the interests of my people, my world, ahead of anything else. And you know what? That is why I have the biggest majority in Parliament! Go tell the media, if you like. Go tell the people. They think you caused this problem.”
He took a breath. “And you know what? They’re right. And now everyone else is paying the price.”
William stared at him. For once, he had nothing to say.
End of Book Thirteen
The Series Will Continue In ...
Wolf’s Bane.
Afterword
Today’s Western elites, in the U.S. as much as in Europe, have never been so self-confident. Products of meritocratic selection who hold key positions in the social machine, the bien-pensant custodians of post-historical ideology—editorial writers at the NY Times, staffers in cultural and educational bureaucracies, Eurocratic functionaries, much of the professoriat, the human rights priesthood and so on—are utterly convinced that they see farther and deeper than the less credentialed, less educated, less tolerant and less sophisticated knuckle-dragging also-rans outside the magic circle of post historical groupthink.
And while the meritocratic priesthood isn’t wrong about everything—and the knuckle-draggers aren’t right about everything—there are a few big issues on which the priests are dead wrong and the knuckle-draggers know it.
- Walter Russell Mead
When I outlined The Empire’s Corps for the first time, intending to split the books between mainline stories and side-stories covering modern-day issues, I knew I would eventually have to tackle the subject of immigration. My original plot for Culture Shock, which was first marked down for development back in 2010, was very different. This was after the shockwaves of 9/11 and 7/7, but before Cologne and assorted other Jihadist attacks across Europe. In a sense, my attitudes had hardened well before the current Migrant Crisis, yet the Crisis - and the lacklustre response of establishment politicians - brought the looming demographic disaster into sharp relief.
Immigration is not an easy subject to tackle. Like many issues today, it requires maturity, a cold grasp of the facts and a determination to put the interests of the West - and its population - ahead of everything else. There can be no room for sentiment, yet sentiment is what the extremists on both sides use to fuel their arguments. A rational analysis of the situation is very difficult precisely because it is so highly charged. And yet, a rational analysis of the situation is precisely what we need.
I know, in writing this, that I will be accused of:
A) Racism.
B) Hypocrisy.
C) Both.
This will not surprise me. People on both sides are resistant to any sort of measured analysis of the situation. Instead, they scream emotive words and accusations, trying to bury valid points - such as they are - by branding their speaker all sorts of horrible things. But this is not an attitude that can be allowed to stand. A jerk may be a jerk, but that doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't have a point. Truth - objective and subjec
tive - doesn't change, even when the speaker is a complete monster.
The charge of racism can be easily dismissed. These days, ‘racism’ is a meaningless word. It is, at best, an irrational reaction to skin colour and general appearance, not to culture, behaviour or anything that can be helped. A murderer is a murderer if his skin is white or black, regardless of the excuses he uses to justify his behaviour. It is not racist to call out a murderer, whatever his skin colour.
The charge of hypocrisy is rather more likely to stick. I am married to an immigrant woman and father to a mixed-race child. Furthermore, I spent several years in Malaysia as a long-term guest, during which time I cannot be said to have integrated. In my defence, my wife is a practicing medical doctor and harmless. She poses no threat to the country. And I certainly never intended to spend the remainder of my life in Malaysia. I did not believe that I would never leave, save for short holidays. My very limited grasp of Malaysian was not helped by a form of dyslexia. My linguistic skills have always been pitiful.
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