What are you trying to distract me from?
Abruptly Warden leaned forward, planted his palms on the bare surface of the desk. His voice was soft, but he pitched it to reach her. His single eye glittered with intensity.
“Min, I want you to survive this. If it can be done, I want you to be the next director of the police.”
With those words he bound her to him; caught her in a grip she would never be able to break. Implications came into focus in the light as if his strong fingers held them down on the desktop for her to see. Without transition he restored her convictions; remade himself into the man to whom she’d fixed her heart.
Too astonished for anger or sorrow, she breathed, “You think you’re finished.” The idea seemed to throw illumination into the most obscure corners of the office. “We need a Bill of Severance—we need some way to change ourselves into what we were supposed to be in the first place, the servants of humankind. But it can’t pass because the Dragon has too many votes. So you’ve decided to sacrifice yourself in order to create the conditions that will enable it to pass. But of course if it passes you’ll be removed as director. Nobody will trust you. And if it doesn’t pass, the Dragon will get rid of you himself, if only because you’ve become a liability.”
You want to push me away from you, make me keep my distance. That’s what all these distractions are for—that’s why you’re encouraging me to doubt you. You want Enforcement Division to retain its credibility when your position collapses. You want to make me look like the only one the GCES can rely on to pick up the pieces.
Dios seemed to shrink in his seat. Substance appeared to drain out of him, as if her understanding bled his hope away. Or maybe it was her new ferocity which defeated him. Slowly he turned his palms upward.
“I’ll tell you why I’m finished,” he murmured softly. “As long as I’m telling you things you shouldn’t hear, I’ll give you one more.
“You’ve been angry ever since I signed the order quashing Intertech’s immunity research. You wanted me to fight Fasner on that one. You probably thought I should have gone public—exposed what he was doing, forced his hand.” Hints of ire reached her through her veiled hearing. “But what would that accomplish? If I pushed him far enough, he could always publish the research himself. Tell the GCES I’d misunderstood him. He might be damaged, but he would survive. He would still be here—and I would be gone.
“Of course, I could have just quit. But that would have accomplished even less.
“So I didn’t do any of those things.
“I didn’t quash Intertech’s research. I took it away. The order I signed was just a sham. I took the research and gave it to Hashi. He completed it himself.”
Warden’s eye was full of darkness. Hints of pain tugged at the muscles of his cheeks. “We have a mutagen immunity drug. It works. Hashi is the only one who knows about it. He’s the only one allowed to use it.
“That was my idea.” The director closed his fists, knotted them on the desktop in front of him. “Fasner wanted to stop the whole project. I persuaded him to let Hashi finish it—to let me have it and keep it secret.
“If that comes out, I won’t just lose my job. I’ll be executed for treason.
“But it’s the only lever I have with the Dragon. It’s the kind of collusion he understands. It implicates me. More than anything I’ve ever done, that convinced him to trust me—convinced him to let me make my own decisions.
“He would kill me if he knew I’m responsible for that bill. He might kill me anyway, if he thinks the bill could pass—or if he even starts to suspect I might tell anybody else what I know.”
The familiar fire in Min’s palms seemed to spread up through her body to her face; her eyes burned. Another woman would have been on the verge of tears: Min was on the verge of an explosion. Simply to control the brisance fighting for release inside her, she asked, “But what does he get out of it? How does it help UMC profits if DA has a secret immunity drug?
“What do you get?”
Warden took a deep breath. When he expelled it, the intensity seemed to flow out of him. The tension faded from his hands and shoulders; his face resumed its impassivity. He looked like a man who’d taken a desperate risk and lost, and now had nothing left to do but accept the consequences.
“I’m sorry.” He sighed. “Sometimes I’m appalled by my own weakness. I should have let you go on believing I simply quashed the research. That would have been easier for you.”
Easier? She didn’t understand. Easier how?
Did he mean, easier for her to keep her distance? to separate herself from him, preserve ED’s integrity?
Was her loyalty such a threat that he wanted—no, needed—to drive her away?
“How does it help UMC profits?” he continued. “It preserves the conflict with the Amnion. It scares them—that’s what Hashi is using it for—which makes them both more hostile and more cautious. Which in turn makes them more dependent on trade. With the UMC, of course—but also with illegals. And that makes the cops more necessary. More violent. More self-righteous. More dangerous. Which produces more hostility and caution.
“Anything that escalates the conflict short of actual war increases UMC profits.
“What do I get? I get to keep my job. Right now that’s more important to me than my life.”
Min couldn’t stomach what he was saying. The ideas sickened her: the thought that her loyalty was hazardous to him sickened her. Again she asked, “Warden, why are you telling me this?” Where was her clean, simple anger when she needed it? Why couldn’t she hate him now? “If you want easy, you could have avoided the whole subject. Hell, you could have avoided me. There’s nothing I can do about it when you decide to sequester yourself.”
He didn’t look away, but his quiet answer ached with defeat. “That kaze nearly killed you. He nearly killed Captain Vertigus. Knowing you, I assume you feel responsible for the woman who died in the explosion. I owed you an explanation.”
She ground her fingers into the tops of her thighs in a fierce effort to contain her distress. She wanted to shout, What kind of explanation have you given me? Do you call supplying me with reasons to distrust you an explanation? Do you call saying you want me to survive an explanation? Nevertheless she crushed down her protest. If she gave him another reason to look beaten, she didn’t think she could bear it.
“Then I guess,” she rasped, “you’ll be glad to hear Captain Vertigus has decided to sponsor your bill. He should have it ready by the time the Council convenes tomorrow morning.”
The director shrugged. “Too bad. You haven’t heard the latest news. Abrim Len has already announced that the Council won’t reconvene until Security has a chance to investigate that kaze. Until the Members can be sure they’re safe. Another day or two at least.”
The keening in Min’s ears seemed to grow louder. She began to think it would never go away.
ANCILLARY DOCUMENTATION
TRANSCRIPT OF A COMMISSIONING ADDRESS DELIVERED BY WARDEN DIOS TO CADETS OF THE UNITED MINING COMPANIES POLICE ACADEMY ON THE OCCASION OF THEIR FIRST ASSIGNMENT
en and women, cadets of the United Mining Companies Police Academy, it’s time.
Your training is over, to the extent that the Academy can provide it—to the extent that any of us can ever say our training is over. You’ve spent many hundreds of hours in classrooms, absorbing advice, memorizing data, squinting at screens and hardcopy, being hectored by pedants, purists, and philosophers—in short, studying until you thought your skulls were going to crack, [laughter] You’ve spent months of real time in simulators and simulations, learning to use our equipment, the best as well as the worst of it, learning the basic skills to survive and function when your life depends on your machinery and your companions—learning everything it’s humanly possible to learn from a mock-up. You’ve been marched, stressed, exercised, taught, and beaten up until even the smallest of you could face entire guttergangs and take less damage than you give. Y
ou’ve been under hard g—you’ve been through the gap. And some of you—I say, some of you—have even contrived to squeeze in a little sleep. [laughter]
Now it’s over. [applause, cheers] Over at last. You’ve learned what the Academy can teach you. Every one of you is stronger and smarter than you were when you arrived, better equipped to take care of yourselves and the people who trust you, better prepared to meet any future you choose.
It’s time you went to work. [groans, laughter]
I want to talk to you about that work. [applause]
We’re the UMCP. In crude terms, we stand against the Amnion: we control their impulse to encroach on our space, our interests, and our survival. And we chase pirates. [laughter] In other words, we do what the police have done since humankind started keeping historical records. The only difference between us and the uncountable legions of our predecessors is that our jurisdiction, our “turf,” begins where theirs left off—at the limits of this planet’s gravity well.
Men and women, cadets, we are responsible for all human space.
That makes us unique in history. It makes us unique in our own time. In every other way, we’re just cops. Like every cop before us who ever put his heart into his job or her life on the line, we’re here to serve and protect the people who gave us birth, the people who nurtured and educated us, the people who taught us inspiration and imagination, the people who invented our technologies and our arts, the people who made us who we are. In that way, we’re no different than our predecessors. We’re simply another link in the long chain of men and women who took the same oath we do—the men and women who swore to defend what they called civilization against whatever they understood as external and internal threats.
But in this way, in the matter of “turf,” we are without precedent, in our time or any other. Never before have the police been responsible for the continued existence of their entire species in the whole created universe.
External and internal threats we’ve had aplenty since the beginning of time. That’s inevitable. We’re human beings. Most of us can’t get out of bed in the morning without causing trouble for somebody. [laughter] But the internal and external threats have always been human ones. What one clan or tribe or nation calls civilization, another calls barbarism—or a violation of natural sovereignty. Racial distrust fosters violence. Economic imbalance breeds greed and jealousy. And the planet is a closed ecosystem. Therefore conflicts occur within and between civilizations over the allocation of resources—an understandable struggle which has typically been disguised by masks of religion and politics.
Make no mistake about it. The cops have always had their hands full.
But only on our turf is the continuance of humankind itself at issue. All the struggles of our long, bloody, and unscrupulous past have produced survivors and corpses—but the survivors, like the corpses, have always been human.
That isn’t true on our turf.
Of course, the word “turf is something of an oversimplification in this context. I’m not referring only to questions of jurisdiction. The Amnion exist. They have no discernible desire for war. On the other hand, they’re profoundly imperialistic—I say profoundly because their imperialism reaches to the core of our genetic existence, the core of what makes us human beings. All human space is our “turf” because that is our jurisdiction—and because the Amnion will take it away from us if they can. They will take who we are away from us if they can.
For that reason—and no other—we are utterly and essentially unique.
And because we are unique, we have—we must have—a unique relationship with the people we serve and protect. Precisely because we are uniquely responsible for the future existence of our kind, we must also be uniquely responsible to our kind. The sheer scale of the challenge we’ve undertaken requires of us a special integrity, a commensurate valor, a whole new kind of dedication. You know that. But it requires something more as well. It requires a special responsiveness to the will and spirit of humankind. In the purest terms, we must act for the people we serve. If we do not—if the barrier we erect between humanity and extinction in any way violates the trust or the desire or the freedom of the people we serve—then we falsify ourselves as cops. We make ourselves, not the defenders of the future, but its arbiters. Rather than simply and cleanly enabling the future, we choose it for men, women, and children who didn’t ask us to do that job.
Cadets of the United Mining Companies Police Academy, it is the nature of power to resist restrictions, to seek an unfettered expansion and expression of itself. And it is the function of ethics to impose restrictions on power, to weld and wield the potentialities of power so that they serve but do not control the people in whose name they exist. And we have power, never doubt it. That may seem slightly implausible to men and women who’ve suffered for years through what we blandly call “training,” but of course I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about us. We, the cops, hold the future of humankind in our care. We must not misuse it. We must be as vigilant in how we exercise our power as we are diligent when we use it.
I want to be absolutely clear about this. Your oath puts on you a responsibility which extends far beyond the limits of any ordinary employment, any planet-bound or stationer occupation, any less stringent concept of duty. Let me suggest an analogy. Consider the problem of piracy. We don’t “chase pirates” just because they’re illegal. We don’t shoot at them just because they shot at us first—or because they damaged any of the people we protect. We fight piracy for the same organic reason that an antibody fights a virus, because if we don’t—and if we don’t succeed—the whole vast human organism sickens and dies.
But when an antibody begins to change the shape of the larger organism, when the antibody introduces mutations which the larger organism didn’t choose and can’t control, we call it “cancer.” Like the virus, it kills the larger organism. Unlike the virus, however, the cancer is wrong.
The virus resembles the Amnion. It exists. It seeks to perform the functions of which it is capable for its own honest, genetically coded reasons—because it must. But the cancer is a violation of its own code. It is deadly because its protein chains have become twisted and false.
Those of you who are good with analogies will hardly have failed to notice that piracy also is a form of cancer.
Well, if you’re going to die anyway, what difference does it make whether a virus or a cancer killed you? No difference at all—that’s obvious. But while you’re still alive, while you still have a future, the difference is profound. When you contract a virus, you can always hope that your antibodies will be equal to the task of preserving you. But when your antibodies turn to cancer, you can only survive if you accept some kind of fundamental violence against your own organism—surgery which cuts you open, chemotherapy which wreaks havoc with your polymerase, radiation which threatens the very nucleotides of your existence, genetically engineered predator microbes which attack the cancer, but which can never be trusted to attack only the cancer. Whether or not you survive, the cancer has done you more harm than the virus.
If we are not antibodies, an expression of the humanity of the organism to which we belong, then we are cancer, and humankind would be better off without us.
That is the thrust of your oath, the unique and necessary task you swear to undertake. I must tell you frankly that in the end I don’t care whether you succeed at it or not. For the simple and valid reason that we don’t try to choose or control the future, we can’t guarantee it. Space is immense, and the Amnion mysterious. None of us can know what the outcome of our efforts will be. Our responsibility for and to humankind doesn’t require us to know. Ultimately none of us are measured by the degree of our success. We are measured by the quality of our service.
Men and women, cadets of the United Mining Companies Police Academy, it’s time.
It’s time we all went to work. [prolonged applause]
LIETE
iete Corregio, command thir
d, Captain’s Fancy, sat at her station on the bridge with the ship’s best people around her and a long black wind blowing in her ears.
By ordinary standards, she and the watch she’d selected had nothing to do on the bridge. Captain’s Fancy was docked, immobilized, both drives and all her energies dead. Even the power to process water and circulate air came from Billingate; from the fusion generator buried beyond reach in the core of the rock. Clamps and grapples held the ship in place, as rigid as the dock itself. Only communications might conceivably demand some attention; but the board could be set to route incoming messages to her in her cabin—or anywhere else she happened to be.
Nevertheless she had her orders. No one aboard could countermand them. And she had no intention of challenging them herself, despite the long black wind and its burden of dread.
She did her best to ignore the wind. It was metaphoric in any case, a habit of mind or a perceptual trick. Ever since she could remember, she’d experienced her life in images of wind: the arctic pressure of necessity which had blown her from place to place and skill to skill until she gusted aboard Captain’s Fancy; the soaring gale ride of the gap between the stars, the hollow howl of the vacuum; the sweet zephyr of sleep; the solar flare of Nick’s virility; the hungry mistral of flight and battle and command. Even the sensations of food and comradeship were like breezes ruffling her short hair, warming her dark cheeks. And when Nick Succorso had finally taken her to bed, after years of longing as poignant and unanswerable as a sigh in a dark cavern, his touch had felt like wind: a scorched blast from an old, baked, and needy desert, raw with sand and so dry it denatured her heart. By the time he left her again, some part of her had shriveled away, desiccated to powder—the only part still capable of questioning him.
Once she realized that now at last she had no remaining needs or desires that didn’t belong to him, she began to hear the black wind blowing.
It was the wind of her doom.