The Collected Short Fiction, page 75
William kept tapping my hand until I jerked it away. “I’m sorry, Micko,” he said, his tone unchanged—telling it like it is. “I’ve never been afraid to admit when I’ve made a mistake. It nearly drives me nuts sometimes, making mistakes, I keep telling myself I should be perfect, but that isn’t what we’re here for. Perfection isn’t an option for us; perfection is death, Micko. We’re here to learn and change, and that means making mistakes.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” I said, glancing at him resentfully.
“I’m twelve years older than you are. I’ve made maybe twelve times more major mistakes. What can I tell you? That it gets any easier to fap it up? Well, yes, it gets easier and easier with more and more responsibilities—but hell, Micko, it doesn’t feel any better.”
“I can’t just think of it as a mistake,” I said softly. “I was betrayed. The president was dishonest and underhanded.”
William leaned back in his chair and shook his head, incredulous. “Hay-soos, Micko. Who expects anything different? That’s what politics is all about—coercion and lies.”
Suddenly my anger reached white heat. “Goddamn it, no, that isn’t what politics is all about, William, and people thinking that it is has gotten us into this mess!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Politics is management and guidance and feedback, William. We seem to have forgotten that on the Moon. Politics is the art of managing large groups of people in good times and bad. When the people know what they want and when they don’t know what they want. ‘Cut the politics . . .’ Hay-soos yourself, William!” I waved my arm out and shook my fist in the air. “You can’t get rid of politics, any more than you can . . .” I struggled to find a metaphor. “Any more than you can cut out manners and talking and all the other ways we interact.”
“Thanks for the lecture, Micko,” William said, not unpleasantly.
I dropped my fist on the table.
“What you’re saying is, the whole Moon is screwing this up,” William said. “I agree. And the Task-Felder BM is leading us all into temptation. But my point is, I’m never going to be a politician or an administrator. Present company excepted, I hate the breed, Micko. They’re put on this Moon to stand in my way. This council stuff only reinforces my prejudices. So what can you do about it?” He looked at me with frank inquiry.
“I can wise up,” I said. “I can be a better . . . administrator, politician.”
William smiled ironically. “More devious? Play their own game?”
I shook my head. Deviousness and playing the Task-Felder game were not what I meant. I was thinking of some more idealistic superiority, playing within the ethical boundaries as well as the law.
William continued. “We can plan ahead for the worse yet to come. They might cut off our resources, beyond just stopping other BMs from helping us. We can survive an interdict for some time, maybe even forge a separate business alliance within the Triple.”
“That would be . . . very dangerous,” I said.
“If we’re forced into it, what can we do? We have business interests all over the Triple. We have to survive.”
The QL toned softly on the platform. “Temperature stability has been broken,” it said. William jerked up in his chair. “Report,” he said.
“Unknown effect has caused temperature to rotate in unknown phase. The cells have no known temperature at this time.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
William grabbed his thinker remote and pushed through the curtain to the bridge. He walked out to the Cavity and I followed, glad to have an interruption. The Cailetet and Onnes techs had retired to get some rest; the Ice Pit was quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” William said in a low voice, concentrating on the Cavity’s status display. “There are drains on four of the eight cells. The QL refuses to interpret temperature readings. QL, please explain.” The remote said, “Phase rotation in lambda. Fluctuation between banks of four cells.”
“Shit,” William said. “Now the other four cells are absorbing, and the first four are stable. QL, do you have any idea what’s happening here?” He looked up at me with a worried expression.
“Second bank is now in down cycle of rotation. Up cycle in three seconds.”
“It’s reversed,” William said after the short interval had passed. “Back and forth. QL, what’s causing a power drain?”
“Temperature maintenance,” the QL said. “Explain, please,” William pursued with waning patience.
“Energy is being accepted by the phase down cells in an attempt to maintain temperature.”
“Not by the refrigerators or the pumps?”
“It is necessary to put energy directly into the cells in the form of microwave radiation to try to maintain temperature.”
“I don’t understand, QL.”
“I apologize,” the QL said. “The cells accept radiation to remain stable, but they have no temperature this thinker can interpret.”
“We have to raise the temperature?” William guessed, face slack with incredulity.
“Phase down reversal,” the QL said.
“QL, the temperatures have jumped to below absolute zero?”
“That is an interpretation, although not a very good one.”
William swore and stood back from the Cavity. The QL reported, “All eight cells have stabilized in lambda phase down. Fluctuation has stopped.” William went pale. “Micko, tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” I said, starting to become frightened.
“The cells are draining microwave energy and maintaining a stable temperature. Christ, they must be accessing new spin dimensions, radiating into a direction outside status geometry . . . Does that mean they’re operating in negative time? Micko, if any of Rho’s outsiders have messed with the lab, or if their goddamn equipment is causing this . . .” He balled his fists up and shook them at the darkness above. “God help them! I was this close, Micko . . . All I had to do was connect the pumps, align the cells, turn the magnetic fields off . . . I was going to do that tomorrow.”
“I don’t think anybody’s messed with your equipment,” I told him, trying to calm him. “These are pros, William, and besides, Rho would kill them.” William lowered his head and swung it back and forth helplessly. “Micko, something has to be wrong. Negative temperature is meaningless.”
“It didn’t say temperatures were negative,” I reminded him.
“This thinker does not interpret the data,” the QL chimed in.
“That’s because you’re a coward,” William accused it.
“This thinker does not relay false information,” it responded.
Suddenly, William laughed, a rocking, angry laugh that seemed to hurt. He opened his eyes wide and patted the QL remote with gritted-teeth paternalism. “Micko, as God is my witness, nothing on this Moon is ever easy, no?”
“Maybe you’ve got something even more important than absolute zero,” I suggested. “A new state of matter.”
The idea sobered him. “That . . .” He ran his hand through his hair, making it even more unruly. “A big idea, that.”
“Need help?” I asked.
“I need time to think,” he said softly. “Thanks, Micko. I need time without interruptions . . . a few hours at least.”
“I can’t guarantee anything,” I said.
He squinted at me. “I’ll let you know if I’ve discovered something big, okay? Now get out of here.” He pushed me gently along the bridge.
The Council Room was circular, panelled with lunar farm oak, centrally lighted, with a big antique display screen at one end, lovingly preserved from the year of the council’s creation. Politicians like to keep an eye on each other; no corners, no chairs facing away from the centre.
I shuffled in behind Thomas and two freelance advocates from Port Yin, hired by Thomas to offer him extrafamilial advice. Within the Triple it has often been said that lunar advocates are the very worst money can rent; there is some truth to that, but Thomas still felt the need of an objective and critical point of view.
The room was mostly empty. Three representatives had already taken their seats—interestingly enough, they were from Cailetet, Onnes and Nernst BMs. Other representatives talked in the hall outside the room. The president and her staff would not enter until just before the meeting began.
The council thinker, a large, antique terrestrial model encased in grey ceramic, rested below the president’s dais at the north end of the room. Thomas nudged me as we sat, pointed at the thinker and said, “Don’t underestimate an old machine. That son of a glitch has more experience in this room than anybody. But it’s the president’s tool, not ours; it will not contradict the president, and it will not speak out against her.”
We sat quietly while the room slowly filled. At the appointed time of commencement, Fiona Task-Felder entered through a door behind the president’s dais, Janis Granger and three council advocates in train.
I knew many of the BM representatives. I had spoken to ten or fifteen of them over the years while doing research for my minor; others I knew by sight from lunar news reports and council broadcasts. They were honourable women and men all; I thought we might not do so badly here after all.
Thomas’s expression revealed a less favourabile opinion.
The Ice Pit controversy was not first on the council agenda. There were matters of who would get contracts to parent lucrative volatiles supply deliveries from the outer planets; who had rights in a BM border dispute to sell aluminium and tungsten mining claims to Richter BM, the huge and generally quiet tri-family merger that had taken over most lunar mining operations. These problems were discussed by the representatives in a way that struck me as exemplary. Resolutions were reached, contracts vetted and cleared, shares assigned. The president remained silent most of the time. When she did speak, her words were well-chosen and to the point. She impressed me.
Thomas seemed to sink into his chair, chin in hand, grey hair in disarray. He glanced at me once, gave me something like a leer, and retreated into glum contemplation.
Our two outside advocates sat plumbline in their chairs, hardly blinking.
Janis Granger read out the next item on the agenda: “Inter-family disputes regarding purchase by Sandoval BM of human remains from terrestrial preservation societies.”
Societies. That was a subtlety that could speak volumes of misinterpretation. Thomas closed his eyes, opened them again after a long moment.
“The representative from Gorrie BM would like to address this issue,” the president said. “Chair allots five minutes to Achmed Bani Sadr of Gorrie BM.”
Thomas straightened, leaned forward. Bani Sadr stood with slate held at waist-level for prompting.
“The syndics of Gorrie BM have expressed some concern over the strain on Triple relations this purchase might provoke. As the major transportation utility between Earth and Moon, and on many translunar links, our business would be very adversely affected by any shift in terrestrial attitudes . . .”
And so it began. Even I in my naivety could see that this had been brilliantly orchestrated. One by one, politely, the BMs stood in council and voiced their collective concern. Earth had rattled its purse at us; Mars had chided us for rocking the Triple boat in a time of economic instability. The United States of the Western Hemisphere had voted to restrict lunar trade if this matter was not resolved to its satisfaction.
Thomas’s expression was intense, sorrowful but alert. He had not been inactive. Cailetet had expressed an interest in pursuing potentially very lucrative, even revolutionary, research on the deceased; Onnes BM testified that there was no conceivable way these heads could be resurrected and made active members of society within the next twenty years; the technology simply did not yet exist, despite decades of promising research.
Surprisingly, the representative from Gorrie BM reversed himself and expressed an interest in the medical aspects of this research; he asked how long such work might take to mature, in a business sense, but the president—not unreasonably—ruled that this was beyond the scope of the present discussion.
The representative from Richter BM expressed sympathy for Sandoval’s attempts to open a new field of lunar business, but said that disturbances in lunar raw materials supply lines to Earth could be disastrous in the short term. “If Earth boycotts lunar minerals, the outer planets can supply them almost immediately, and we lose one-third of our gross lunar export business.”
Thomas request time to speak in reply. The president granted him ten minutes to state Sandoval’s case.
He conferred briefly with the advocates. They nodded agreement to several whispered comments, and he stood, slate at waist-level, the formal posture in this room, to begin his reply.
“Madam President, honoured Representatives, I’ll be brief, and I’ll be blunt. I am ashamed of these proceedings, and I am ashamed that this council has been so blind as to make them necessary. I have never, in my thirty-nine years of service to the Sandoval BM, and in my seventy-five years of lunar citizenship, felt the anguish I feel now, knowing what is about to happen. Knowing what is about to be done to lunar ideals in the name of expediency.
“Sandoval BM has made an entirely reasonable business transaction with a fully authorized terrestrial legal entity. For reasons none of us can fathom, Task-Felder BM, and Madam President, have raised a flare of protest and carefully planned and executed a series of manoeuvres to force an autonomous lunar family to divest itself of legally acquired resources. To my knowledge, this has never before been attempted in the history of the Moon.”
“You speak of actions not yet taken, perhaps not even contemplated,” the president said.
Thomas looked around the room and smiled. “Madam President, I address those who have already received their instructions.”
“Are you accusing the president of participating in this so-called conspiracy?” Fiona Task-Felder continued.
Calls of “Let him speak.”
“Let him have his say.” She nodded and motioned for Thomas to resume.
“I have not much more to say, but to recount a tale of masterful politics, conducted by an extralunar organization across the solar system, in support of a policy that has nothing to do with lunar well-being or business. Even my assistant, Mickey Sandoval has been trapped into giving testimony on private family affairs, through a ruse involving an old council law not invoked since its creation. My fellow citizens, he will testify under protest if this council so wishes—but think of the precedent! Think of the power you give to this council, and to those who have the skills to manipulate it—skills which we have not ourselves acquired, and are not likely to acquire, because such activity goes against our basic nature. We are naive weaklings in such a fight, and because of our weakness, our lack of foresight and planning, we will give in, and my family’s activities will be interfered with, perhaps even forbidden—all because a religious organization, based on our home planet, does not wish us to do things we have every legal right to do. I voice my protest now, that it may be put in the record before the council votes. Our shame will be complete by day’s end, Madam President, and I will not wish to show my face here thereafter.”
The president’s face was cold and pale. “Do you accuse me, or my chartered BM, of being controlled by extralunar interests?”
Thomas, who had sat quickly after his short talk, stood again, looked around the council and nodded curtly. “I do.”
“It is not traditional to libel one’s fellow BMs in this council,” the president said.
Thomas did not answer.
“I believe I must reply to the charge of manipulation. At my invitation, Mickey Sandoval came to Port Yin to render voluntary testimony to the president. Under old council rules, designed to prevent the president from keeping information that rightfully should be given to the council, the president has the duty to request testimony be given to the council as a whole. If that is manipulation, then I am guilty.”
Our first extrafamilial advocate stood up beside Thomas. “Madam President, a tape of Mickey Sandoval’s visit to your office is sufficient to fulfil the requirements of that rule.”
“Not according to the council thinker’s interpretation,” the president said. “Please render your judgment.”
The thinker spoke. “The spirit of the rule is to encourage more open testimony to the council than to the president in private meetings. A voluntary report to the president implies willingness to testify in full to the council. Such testimony must always be voluntary, and not under threat of subpoena.” Its deep, resonating voice left the council room in silence.
“So much for our auto counsellors,” the first advocate muttered to Thomas. Again he addressed the council. “Mickey Sandoval’s testimony was solicited under guise of casual conversation. He was not aware he would later be forced to divulge family business matters to the entire council.”
“The president’s conversations on council matters can hardly be called casual. I am not concerned with your assistant’s lack of education,” the president said. “This council deserves to hear Sandoval BM’s plans for these deceased individuals.”
“In God’s name, why?” Thomas stood, jaw out-thrust. “Who asks these questions? Why is private Sandoval business of concern to anybody but us?”
The president did not react as strongly to this outburst as I expected. I cringed, but Fiona Task-Felder said, “The freedom of any family to swing its fist ends at our nose. How the inquiry has arisen is irrelevant; what is relevant is the damage that might occur to lunar interests. Is that enough, Mr Sandoval-Rice?”
Thomas sat down without answering. I looked at him curiously; how much of this was show, how much loss of control? Seeing his expression, I realized that show and inner turmoil were one. Only then did I Understand, gut-level, that he knew things I did not know, and that our situation was truly desperate. Thomas was a consummate and seasoned professional syndic, a true lunar citizen in the old sense of concerned and responsible free spirit, quickly losing his few illusions as to power and government and lunar politics.
