Solar Flare, page 11
“You know that’s not fair. We weren’t planning to attend the assembly anyway. Even most of you Returners aren’t planning to attend.”
“I am.” Sara reached down to scratch Jupiter’s ears. “I wouldn’t miss voting in person for the world, even if there are only two of us. If I pod over to 3 now, there’s no way I can get back in time for the vote tomorrow.”
“Not even to try and patch things up?”
“We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”
“Maybe.” For a moment, Tai looked like he wanted to say something more.
Sara’s voice sharpened. “What do you mean, maybe? Don’t tell me you Alts would rather stay up here after you lose?”
“It has been discussed.”
“Seriously? You’re all crazy.”
“Maybe our resolve will help you change your mind.”
“I doubt it.”
Sara gestured at the planet swirling behind her, then waved her arm at the rest of her miniscule office. Even with fewer than a thousand inhabitants left from the original millions, the orbital still felt suffocating. “An entire planet, versus a tin can that fills less than a cubic kilometer and has no sky? No thank you. Even if it’s just to visit, I want to go to Gaia.”
Tai stiffened for one final plea. “What if you’re wrong? What if a hundred years from now Gaia starts to deteriorate again? Will the next generation really come back up to the orbitals? We barely made it up here the first time fifteen hundred years ago.”
“I fully believe that humanity, having done the right thing once, is capable of doing it again.” Sara gave Jupiter one last pet before depositing him back on the floor. “At the very least we’ll have stabilized our population by then. Which reminds me, as long as you’re over on 3, make sure to stop by the tanks. One of those future children may end up being ours.”
Tai scowled. “At this point, I sincerely doubt it,” he said, and abruptly terminated the conversation.
The next day, with Gaia’s blue image swirling across every screen and wall in the orbital, Sara counterspun confidently through the empty passageways to the assembly. She’d visited Founders Hall before—it had been one of the required group trips back in school, though it was hard to call something a group trip when you only had one classmate. Other than the parks and hydroponics, Founders Hall was the largest space in the orbitals. Once it had barely been large enough to hold the council representatives from all six habitats, with the meetings streamed back to everyone else in their cramped apartments. Now Sara was one of maybe only a dozen other occupants, far fewer than she expected. Her spirits picked up when Professor Jeuneau arrived with all three of the orbitals’ children in tow. At least some people understood how special this moment was. The children could boast about being here for the rest of their long lives. By the time the meeting began, however, Sara had only counted twenty-nine present, including herself. Her internal told her three more were on the way, but the other nine hundred and sixty-five residents had chosen to participate from home. Still, it was the largest gathering she’d ever attended other than the announcement itself. That event had drawn a crowd of almost fifty.
At the appointed time, Dean Igwe and the other four Council members took their seats on the small rotunda in the middle of the hall. Empty banks of chairs rose up the curving floor on either side, faces scattered among them like spots on a butterfly’s wings. The blank ceramic ceiling loomed close above their heads.
Sara’s internal pinged to signal the start of the meeting. Dean Igwe’s voice filled the chamber, and her head.
“Greetings, faculty. Welcome to the most important day of our lives. And the most important day of all our ancestors’ lives as well. Indeed, one might call it the most important day in the history of humanity, the day we decide whether or not we, as a species, have matured enough to rejoin our planet.”
The vidwalls sprang to life. All around the room, and on the ceiling above their heads, hundreds of panels glowed with vibrant, ecstatic life. Sara refrained from rolling her eyes. Although she agreed with the Dean, she still believed this sort of emotional display wasn’t necessary. People did not need to be reminded this dramatically of what they were missing. Everyone knew. Despite the gardens at either end of the orbital, they had spent their entire domestic and working lives in cubicles and closets. The images flashing brightly around them had been with them forever. Even Tai, no matter how deeply felt his Altruism, knew the bottomless pull of loneliness from their brilliant blue home. He might hide it behind the belief of a squandered inheritance, but he still felt it. She had seen his tears at the sight of gorillas browsing in the deep forest, or jellies pulsing through the waves. She’d shed the same tears herself.
But not now. Now was too important. Now they had to make the hard decision to make everything they’d done, and everything their forebears worked and sacrificed so hard for, worthwhile. Now they had to decide to return. If they didn’t, who knew when they ever would?
“…we have earned this,” the Dean was saying. “Our long years of isolation have paid off. Gaia is healed. She is more vibrant now than she has been at any time in the history of homo agricolis. The seas are full. The veldts are lush and vital. The forests brush the sky. Rivers flood and dry, predator and prey ebb through generations. The pulse of life beats strongly in all its many forms. This is what the Founders hoped and planned for. This is the promise we were given. That, once we had fixed the world we so nearly ruined, we could return.”
“Blasphemy!” cried a voice.
Sara’s internal broadcast the woman’s loud complaint before she saw her, a botanist on the other side of the hall, her lone fist raised in protest. Apparently not every Alt had gone to Orbital 3 with Tai. Several more protestors joined the botanist remotely, their voices and faces filling Sara’s internal, their upraised fists jabbing straight into her consciousness. She thought of Tai, and his face displayed immediately, his fist also raised in righteous rage.
“Gaia holds no place for humans!” he shouted. “Blasphemy! This is not the end!”
“It is not blasphemy!” cried someone else. Sara couldn’t find the speaker in the raucous internal crowd, but she recognized the name. A woman from the plankton department. “Humans are as much a part of Gaia as any other living creature. Gaia made us, too!”
Dozens of voices joined the chorus, and the original protestors were quickly drowned out as the majority voiced their support for the measure.
Dean Igwe raised a patient hand. The tumult from Sara’s internal ceased. Until the Dean restored the connection, the only voices that would be heard were the council’s and anyone actually present in the hall. The botanist, embarrassed at being the only one still shouting, quickly sat down.
When everyone was silent, the Dean spoke again. “We’ve discussed these concerns before. Everyone has read the report. Everyone is present, either in person or internal. It’s time to vote.”
Vote totals immediately began to flash across everyone’s screens, though not everyone voted right away. Sara wondered if anyone else was savoring the moment as much as she was. The moment when humanity chose to return to the beautiful blue planet where it was born. Judging from the running tabulation, the vote was going to be even more lopsided than expected. Maybe, when Tai saw how hopeless the Altruists’ cause was, he’d change his mind.
She flipped the virtual lever, and her tiny green light joined the scores of others illuminating the log, drowning out the few red spots of dissent.
The tally rose. New lights appeared more and more slowly. Sara wondered if anyone would refuse to vote. No one ever had before, but this time was different. This vote changed everything.
Another minute, and the log ceased to change. Dean Igwe glanced dramatically around the room, her demeanor directed more at those not present than anyone actually in the hall.
“System?” she asked. “Is the ballot complete?”
“It is.”
“Fellow citizens,” she inquired again. “Are there any questions? Is anyone unable to vote who wishes to do so?”
This time, the Dean’s appeal was answered with silence.
“Well then,” she said, seeming to finally relax, “the tally is in. System, what is the citizens’ preference?”
“Thirty-seven against. Nine hundred and sixty for. The measure to return to the planet is approved.”
A broad smile burst across the Dean’s face. Around the hall, individuals began to cheer. “Then it is my pleasure to announce, by the power vested in me by my fellow coun—”
The rest of what she said was cut off as Founders Hall began to vibrate. Sara, and everyone else, grabbed their seats to steady themselves, recognizing what was happening at once. Orbits did decay, and 4’s orbit had been adjusted before, but those maneuvers were always announced well in advance. This one was a complete surprise.
“System!” Dean Ingwe demanded. “Report!”
For the first time in the life of everyone on the orbital, there was no answer. Sara’s fear doubled, and doubled again when she realized her internals were also down.
The Dean turned quickly to her fellow councilors. “Are we connected to anyone?” she demanded. Her unamplified voice flattened weakly across the nearly empty room. Everyone felt horrifyingly alone.
Until suddenly they weren’t. A new voice snapped on throughout the external—but not the internal—system. With a shock, Sara recognized it immediately.
Though it really didn’t sound like Tai at all.
“Attention, Orbital 4! Do not be alarmed by the test you have just experienced. 4’s orbit has not been affected. We only did that to demonstrate our total control of 4’s System and to announce our demand. If the current council doesn’t immediately surrender power to a new council appointed by the Orbital Committee for Stochastic Altruism, we will destroy the genetic banks here on 3.”
Loud gasps echoed faintly around the hall. Even the botanist was shocked. Although there were small genetic banks on the other orbitals, without 3’s massive storage they would not have nearly enough to ensure a diverse gene pool for repopulating the planet, even at the small scale planned. There wouldn’t be enough for the orbitals to survive either.
“You wouldn’t dare,” breathed the Dean.
“We would,” Tai answered. “And we will. We have explosives set at all the key points within the facility. If you launch so much as a single security team toward 3, we will detonate our devices immediately and the databanks will be destroyed. You have twelve hours to comply.”
“System, can they do that?” the Dean asked, but System’s silence confirmed the AI was still down.
“We can and will,” Tai repeated. “We are not bluffing.”
Overcome by the shock of what she had just heard, Sara collapsed into her seat. Tai and his fellow Altruists were completely against violence of any kind, just like everyone else. She didn’t believe there’d been so much as a fistfight in the orbitals in over a hundred years. Despite the dreary drabness, society was content, especially now that there were so few people to annoy one another and so much extra space. Tai did tend to sulk when he didn’t get his way, but this was another level entirely. He’d need years of therapy before anyone would forgive him for what he and the rest of the Altruists had done.
Had they gone completely insane?
With half an ear, she listened as the Dean tried to persuade Tai and his associates that this wasn’t a decision the Council could make on its own. Meanwhile the rest of the council did their best to calm everyone down.
Tai finally accepted the Dean’s plea. “Fine. OCSA is willing to extend you an extra twelve hours to make the necessary arrangements at your end. But no more.”
Tai’s voice cut off, and a new one took its place almost immediately.
“Dean Igwe! Can you hear me?”
The Dean and the rest of the Council snapped to attention.
“We hear you, Xao,” the Dean replied. “Are you in Central Control?”
“I am. Officer Korrivar is here as well. We’ve switched to the emergency frequency. System has been restored, but we’re keeping it shut down while we reboot. We believe that’s the safer path.”
“Excellent. Can the Altruists still hear us?”
“Negative, ma’am. I’ve told them we’re running a system check, which they seem to have accepted for the moment. Hopefully we’ll be able to engage them with dummy AI soon, which should give the council maximum privacy.”
“Thank you, Xao. Council, if you’ll follow me to the Orbital Office.”
The botanist, who had descended to the dais during the commotion, stopped them before they could leave. “If you please, Dean, I think you should know that I believe Professor Higato is acting alone. This is the first I’ve heard of any of this.”
Sara leaned forward, her attention suddenly sharp as a knife. The botanist’s claim disagreed completely with what Tai had told her yesterday.
The botanist went on. “I just want to make sure the Council understands we Altruists have nothing to do with this, this…”
“Act of terrorism?” the Dean finished for her. Sara remembered the Dean was an historian as well as a politician. “I believe that is the correct archaism.”
“…foolishness.” The botanist pursed her lips primly.
Sara waved her hand. “Excuse me? Dean, may I say something?”
With a long, patient breath, the Dean waved a hand for Sara to continue. The traditions of the Academy were difficult to put aside even in the most extreme circumstances.
Sara took a deep breath of her own. “I spoke to Professor Higato yesterday, and he specifically told me that he was not alone on 3. He wanted me to join him as well.”
“Why did he want that?”
“He said he wanted to talk. We’ve been partnered for nearly fifty years, and this is the first major fight we’ve ever had.”
The Dean tipped her head toward the ceiling. “Xao? How many people are on 3?”
“According to the logs, Professor Higato is the only one.”
The Dean turned back to Sara and the botanist. “Professors, if you would both care to join the Council and me in the Orbital Office. I believe we have a lot to discuss.”
An hour later, Sara was climbing into a rocket in the bow. Not a pod, but an actual rocket that would get her to 3 in half an hour instead of the normal five. The Council had decided, given the gravity of the situation, the need for speed required the employment of one of humanity’s few non-solar powered tools. They had also decided to send Sara to negotiate with Tai alone. Not only did she know him best, she was also the least threatening. Plus, she was the only one Tai would allow the Council to send.
Sara was eager to go. “If I’d only gone yesterday when he asked me,” she told them, “maybe none of this would have happened.”
A harness slithered into place across her waist and shoulders as she climbed inside. Acceleration began. Gradually the pressure increased, until the rocket burst out of the orbital’s bow into the piercing darkness of the full night sky and the rockets engaged. Weight heavier than Sara had ever felt before squashed her firmly into her seat; she had to concentrate to breathe. Bracing herself against the relentless pressure, she struggled not to panic. What if Tai actually was a terrorist? No. He might be adamantly against the Return, but that still wouldn’t be enough to make him violent. You might as well ask him to kick Jupiter.
The acceleration didn’t last long and, when it was gone, she found herself looking out through the cockpit at the world beyond the orbitals for the very first time. She hadn’t expected that. Unlike a pod, the cockpit was translucent, and the orbitals were all too heavily shielded to allow windows. The view was even more beautiful than she’d imagined, a hundred times more brilliant than anything she’d seen from a screen, in- or external. To her left, a sliver of blue clung to the side of the shadowed globe. To her right, the starry night gaped unblinking. Mouth open, she gawked at the two views, each so different, each so fascinating. Each so filled with life in its own way. How many of those points of blazing light held bright blue worlds of their own?
If only she could show this moment to Tai, she was sure he’d agree. The universe would always need someone to appreciate it, unlike the nearly empty barrel she’d just left, or the even emptier barrel in front of her.
Silhouetted against a thousand stars, Orbital 3 grew quickly larger, then slowed as deceleration began. Sara again struggled for breath, the underlying anxiety of perhaps meeting a very different Tai than the one she knew not helping. Finally, 3 filled her view like a gigantic pine cone, thousands of solar panels covering its ceramic hull like scales. The rockets shut down; a hatch opened in the orbital. Long grapples hooked onto her floating ship and pulled it carefully inside. The bay re-pressurized. The cockpit sprang open.
“I hope you have enjoyed your trip,” the rocket chirped.
“I did, thank you,” Sara answered. “Very much.”
Clambering carefully out of the rocket, she propelled herself weightlessly into the Main Shaft. The walls rotated slowly around her, but navigating weightlessness was a skill you never forgot no matter how long it had been since you last lost weight.
Behind her, robots began disassembling the rocket for refueling and reuse. Before her stretched the Main Shaft. Although its length was divided into many large storage compartments and a few labs that benefitted from weightlessness, shuttles stood ready to whisk her away down long side tubes directly to Central Control at the far end.
“I’m glad you finally decided to talk,” Tai said as Sara launched herself toward the nearest shuttle.
“You were right,” she agreed. “I should have come yesterday. Then I could’ve talked you out of this insanity.”
“You really think you could?”
Sara heard his false confidence immediately. When asked by the council, Psychiatrics had suggested there was a strong possibility Tai was bluffing, and the more Sara thought about it, the more she thought that might be true. Tai did tend toward sulkiness when he didn’t get his way, but he also tended to always back down in the end.
