‘It is, and it does. It’s about 90% the size of Earth, except Lynthax owns it all. Even Go Down’s built on land leased from them. And they decide just how much land to release each year for development—which isn’t a lot.’
‘So?’
‘Well, with all the Earth-based tax shelters being closed down, more and more rich people are buying properties to qualify for Trevon residency, which they must do if they want to shift their assets off Earth and into a low tax environment. That means less and less second- and third-generation Trevons can afford to buy, or even rent, an apartment. So they’re forced out. Either onto the Plain, if they can afford it, or into one of the illegal settlements further out.’
‘But Lynthax is only one Corporate Constituency. There are what, 50 in the House. Surely you’d get some of them to vote for change?’
Nettles shrugged.
‘Some, maybe, but probably not enough to replace the Public Reps the corporations have bought. They get up to 65 votes if they issue a 3-line whip. And we need 60 to amend the mandate.’
Scat raised an eyebrow and leaned back into his seat. Nettles had noticed the sceptical look.
‘Yes, some are paid-for Scat,’ he affirmed, nodding slowly. ‘It’s a sad state of affairs, but our greatest problem is that not all of the Public Reps can ignore what Lynthax, Raddox or even Heavenly Industries wants.’
He gave Scat an example:
‘Imagine you own a Trevon company that makes widgets, and you’re bidding to win a Lynthax-issued contract on Constitution.’
‘OK.’
‘You’re bidding against a couple of companies from Earth.’
‘OK.’
‘Then Lynthax tells you that you’re close to winning it, but …’
‘But what?’
‘They need a favour. They ask, “Would you ask your Public Rep to vote with the Corporates in the upcoming finance bill?” And you badly need this contract. You’ve 20 employees relying on you. What do you do?’
‘Smack the guy around the head.’
Nettles grinned.
‘I don’t doubt that you would, Scat,’ Nettles acknowledged. ‘But try to imagine your life savings and livelihood are at stake: You’re making payments on an overpriced 150 square metre apartment in Go Down; you’ve two kids in private school. What do you do?’
‘Smack the bastard around the head twice more.’
Nettles shook his head, and smiled, almost laughing.
‘Well, I guess you’re not like most people, Scat. Most people cave and agree to help. And that’s how they get their votes. They only need one Public Rep to vote alongside of them. There are fifty to choose from. And they know how to pick on the most desperate or needy. It’s how they keep taxes low, and the rules bent in their favour.’
Scat leaned back as he took the point. On the face of it, Trevon worked pretty well—at least that’s what they thought on Earth. And he knew that, behind any well-ordered or managed society, there were always unfortunate people with gripes—after all, you cannot please everyone. But from what he had learned over the past week or so, the problem here appeared deeper than that. It was structural. Maybe no one had looked under the hood. Or didn’t want to.
‘And there’s one more thing,’ Nettles added, looking Scat directly in the eye. ‘Most people don’t give a fig whether we humans survive or not; they only care that their families do, along with enough people to sustain a viable society. They aren’t interested in the survival of the species if it doesn’t include them: why should they be? When scientists talk of human survival, and corporations pump billions into space exploration, they aren’t talking about the survival of everyone, just enough of us to perpetuate the species.’
Scat wasn’t sure how this fitted in.
‘OK …’
‘Well, the families who own these corporations are very, very rich and very influential. When the time comes, they’ll have the resources to get off Earth: their bloodlines will survive. So why should they care about the 98% of humanity that’ll never, ever, afford a ticket to get off-world?’
‘And …’
‘They’re running the show, Scat. Whose best interest do you think they have at heart?’
That added a new dimension to the conversation. So it wasn’t just about the local politics.
Scat turned to stare into the three-bar electric fire, resting his chin on his chest. Nettles sounded reasonable enough. He obviously was sincere in his beliefs, though quite cynical of man’s prospects in the longer-term. In fact, his views weren’t too dissimilar to his own views—they were just more developed and, well, they ran a little deeper.
‘So what brought you to Trevon?’ Nettles asked.
‘Prebos. Lynthax. Your declaration of independence and a work stoppage.’
‘I mean, why out-of-system.’
‘Freedom.’
‘So we’ve got something in common, then, despite our differences over how to achieve it.’
‘I don’t follow you. What do you mean?’ Scat asked.
‘Well ... I believe we should dump the mandates and adopt a democratic system, a truly democratic system. I think you do too. Only I sense we disagree on how. You see, I believe in being proactive and, if necessary, taking direct action. You’re a floater. You’re uninvolved: you’re passing through. Don’t take offense when I say this, Scat, but I doubt you’ll act until you're pushed.’
Scat did flinch a little. That had stung. What could he say? He was keeping his life as simple as possible. It was already getting more complicated than he would like.
Nettles stopped talking and appeared to be marshalling more thoughts. Scat sat quietly, not wanting to interfere with them. Nettles then sat up from his slouch and smiled.
‘Ironically, from what Thomas tells me, you’re most probably the best prepared person on Trevon to take direct action. And me? Well, I’m probably the least well prepared, which is unfortunate, really. I don’t see Lynthax, or any of the others, ceding their New World leases without a struggle: none of them is going to set a precedent by conceding anything.’
Nettles then stared into the fire before laying out what he feared the most.
‘We may need to fight for what we want.’
Scat’s expression hardened. So they were already thinking about it.
‘Well, unless you have a starflyer fleet you’ll have your butts handed to you,’ he said. Someone had to point that out.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Scat.’
‘They’ll roll right over you.’
‘I know,’ Nettles replied, accepting the inevitable. ‘But I’d rather they roll over us and hand us our butts than we roll over and take it in the butt,’ he said, lightening the mood with a wink, adding, ‘It’s more dignified.’
43
The corridors of Lynthax-Maersk V4 were quiet, save the humming of the air-conditioners, and the swish of glass doors as Earth Delegation staff walked in and out of the various offices in the gravity ring. The clock said it was three in the morning Eastern Standard Time, although, while the ship was in ftl-mode, the differences between day and night only mattered to one’s biological rhythm. In any event, it was customary to quieten down in the wee hours.
The Commander had asked the Earth Delegation not to disturb the V4’s routine, or to venture into the forward cargo area, so, although the 203 delegates, security, news crews, corporate executives and social partners outnumbered the V4 crew four to one, they made a point of staying as quiet as possible between 12 midnight and six am. They also stuck to the gravity ring unless they needed to check on their own stores and transports in the smaller rear cargo area.
Ambassador Samuel Cohen had been pacing up and down the gravity ring corridor, to exercise his legs and show his face to the 20 or so night-staffers who were working on the briefs that would help the delegates when they entered into talks with the Trevon locals. He admired their enthusiasm and envied them their youth.
As a young staffer, he had
appreciated the interest shown in his work by his immediate superiors, and felt honoured if the local Ambassador paid any attention at all. He had been grateful for any encouragement he received, remembering those bosses with particular affection, but did not seriously expect his bosses to pass on any credit, even though he might have been due some.
It was not in the nature of this business to share the credit, so when it was his turn to develop the younger talent, he made it his trademark to pay particular attention to their efforts and commitment, and he would always pass the credit on where it was due.
Cohen was forgiving of failure, so long as it was well intended and the screw-up learned his or her lesson. He passed responsibility down to the lowest possible pay-grade and encouraged them to step up and gain experience. And he took it on the chin if things went wrong, which was why he was still an Ambassador and not the Director of External Relations, or Director of Diplomatic Development, at the Inter-Space Regulatory Authority.
It had been a long time since he had enjoyed his work. Cohen was often bored with the cliché he had become, and, at 78, he looked forward to an early retirement. Next year, possibly.
In the meantime, he was on a mission, a mission to save Earth. It was a heavy burden, but one of his choosing.
‘Sir, the Constitutional Brief is ready,’ said an aide who had appeared at his side holding a 10 centimetres-thick rivet-bound document in both hands. She was struggling with it, hardly able to keep the thing held out.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ he replied looking down at it, not attempting to take it off her. ‘Do you think I’ll be taking that to bed with me tonight?’
‘No, sir, not at all. I’ll leave it in your office.’
‘Does it come with an Idiot’s Guide or a summary of some kind?’
‘Yes, sir: the last 40 pages. I’ve also flagged the e-version. The senior staffers can neuralnet the directory and retrieve any section in less than half a second.’
‘Very good, excellent work! Now it’s done, we can conduct an exercise—tomorrow, before we arrive. Compile 20 questions involving retrievals across multiple sections, then organise a competition. Perhaps you could get all of the grade-two and -three staffers to take part. It’ll be amusing to see who of our Young Turks has taken to this neuralnet thing.’
He noticed Mary trying to hide a smile. She was a grade-four staffer on a fast track programme but still not entitled to the neuralnet procedure. She would get some satisfaction in seeing her more senior and increasingly haughty colleagues squirm a little, no doubt.
‘Consider it done, sir,’ she replied, enthusiastically. ‘I’ll add them to the brief before I drop them off at your office.’ She looked at her graf. ‘You’ll have it by five am. And we can do the test during the shift change tomorrow at 12 noon—that should get them all.’ She then blushed, as though realising he may not quite get the same kick out of watching them squirm.
Cohen smiled back at her and added a wink.
‘Make it difficult for them, Mary. Good night.’
‘Yes, sir. Good night.’
He thought of having a nightcap before getting his head down, but that would mean inconveniencing his junior staff in the recreation room. Maybe, instead, he could introduce himself to the Lynthax passengers. There were lots of them listed on the passenger manifest, although none had attempted to mingle with his staff.
Then he realised he couldn’t.
His security detail would go ape.
That reminded him—his military attaché had a difficult decision to make, and he wondered if he had already made it. He walked along the ring to his bunk and knocked on a door.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Ronald …’ he said, noticing the bedside light still burned.
Colonel Ronald Cotton eased himself up from the mattress and onto an elbow. He pushed a hand back over a shiny, bald head and then looked at the clock on the side of his bed.
‘No problem, Samuel. I must have dozed off.’
‘Well you needn’t wake up fully. I just thought to ask if you’d made your choice.’
Cotton stared at him without moving.
‘Yes, I have. Actually, the decision was made for me. It’ll be Booni.’
Cohen was surprised. Booni was on Cotton’s staff. He was up and coming. Young, but promising.
‘Booni, eh? What made you decide it was going to be him?’
‘CD. More specifically, Accelerated Cell Death. He was exposed on Constitution a few years ago.’
‘Booni's got ACD?’
‘Yes. Sadly. Who would have guessed it, eh? It’s rare.’
‘But how do you know it’s accelerating? Does he know? Can’t they fix that?’
‘No. I’ve been reading up on it. They can dose him up for a while longer, perhaps play with some stem cells, but not forever, and perhaps not fast enough. And I know, because he’s just had his annual CD scan and I got a copy just before we went to ftl. And no, he hasn’t seen the results and I haven’t told him yet. Now I may never need to.’
Cohen nodded slowly.
‘Well that’s a shame. ... OK, so Booni’s it! Now that we’ve decided on that, when we get in-system, will you please be sure to remind the Trevons of our increasing concerns?’
‘Don’t worry, Samuel. I’ve got it in hand.’
‘OK, then. Go back to sleep. Sorry to bother you.’
He pulled the door closed, cocked his head to one side and thought he should spend some time with the young Booni before the conference. Maybe give him some things to do, things that would make him feel special.
It was the least he could do for a man who was going to give his all for democracy.
44
It was a well-attended funeral. Scat stood at the back of the hall alongside Thomas who, like him, didn’t really know any of the deceased. They were there because they had been close to the tragedy and the Irwins had stepped in to make the funeral arrangements.
They held it inside a large auditorium, a part of a sports complex that Lynthax Properties leased to City Hall during the day and to an amateur drama group three nights a week. The dead lay in aluminium boxes, side by side on the stage floor. The mourners sat out front, sitting in banked rows of flip-down seats.
It was a dignified, yet simple affair, meant to give the Trevon friends and business partners of the dead a chance to say their farewells. Reggie, Old Man Spelling and an old woman from the Spencer clan sat in the front row, as did a dozen or so of the Spencer family’s business executives, all of whom had barbecued with the deceased in happier times.
When Scat asked what the old lady was doing there on her own with no family in support, Thomas replied that the rest of the Spencer family had died in the super-snap: she was all there was left.
When he then asked why there were only 12 and not 15 bodies out front, he learned that the old girl was not interring her husband and sons on Trevon. She had threatened to kill all of her family’s investments on Trevon were she not permitted to bring their bodies back to Earth with her. She had had enough.
He was going to ask what would happen to the Spencer family business and its employees, but guessed the answer could be just as depressing. He shut up.
When the funeral ended, and the mood music died, city workers removed the bodies for the drive out onto the Gap Plain where they would lay them out to refreeze, and then vibrate them into microscopic, powdery pieces.
Thomas explained that the funeral director would then burn a small amount of the icy powder from each body and scoop the resulting ashes into separate vials. He would then send the vials to the spaceport where, traditionally, Lynthax-Maersk added them to a pile of buoy express packages. Sometime over the next few days, they would travel, free of charge, back to their relatives on Earth: a gesture of goodwill that always went down well with the press at home. The icy powders that they did not burn would then be scattered at the southern end of the Gap Plain where the annual thaw would eventually flush them out to sea.
It
was a tradition, he said. It went back to the early days, when the ground was too hard for burial, the City too small for a cemetery and cargo space too precious to waste on something that would not make a profit.
Scat was quickly learning that life on Trevon could be a tough one, even in death.
Having paid his respects, Scat broke away to drop off the first of his weekly reports at the Lynthax Centre. By necessity, it contained a brief summary of his weekend with the Irwins. He hadn’t wanted to mention it, but the police activity up at the bunker; the statements they made and the personal details he was forced to give up, meant he couldn’t hide his involvement in what, for Trevon, was the biggest tragedy of the year so far.
He mentioned he had broken bread with them; gone on a shoot; it had ended badly and he had learned nothing other than the background to some grievances. He carefully worded the report so as not to implicate anyone as being especially anti-corporate, or to imply he was getting closer to a rebel faction.
One thing he did not mention at all: he left out that Nettles had asked him if he needed work—now that he was unemployed. He gave himself the option of adding that to a later report—if he needed to.
‘Reps are always looking for staff, Scat,’ Nettles had said. ‘The pay isn’t great, but at least you can learn some more of what goes on in the House, and what makes the place tick. Or who pays whom for votes or favours,’ he had added by way of incentive. ‘If you want, I can introduce you to some “friendlies”.’
Scat appreciated the offer: it could work for him. If it went well, his luck would be on the up at last: he could soon be earning two salaries. He tried not to feel too conflicted by that. Were he was to stick to his goal of remaining non-partisan then surely it was right for both sides to contribute to his neutrality. If not right, then at least he shouldn’t feel guilty. Not overly guilty, anyway …
By the time he was free of the Lynthax Centre, it was close to 10 o’clock. He had half an hour to kill before his appointment with Nettles. He decided against using a taxi, and chose, instead, to walk the mile to Trevon House.
The road was busy and the sidewalks full. On the other side of the road, wisps of steam escaped from the underground heating system. Up above, a wane light made its way into Go Down, leaving only faint shadows and giving the city a ghostly feel. As always the air smelled of cooked food and dampness, and, despite the hustle and bustle at street level, it was very still—until he arrived onto Trevon Square.