Tomorrow’s Heritage (5 page)

AGAINST his will, the moment was escaping. Apprehension overrode hope. The tenseness in his shoulders crept back as Todd looked at the screen. Pat’s pale-eyed stare never wavered. His eyes were so like Ward’s and Mari’s, an unusual, very light blue that could reach out, grab the person seeing them, and hold their fascinated victim. Pat used no prompter, not even an out-of-frame holo-mode cue that could easily be hidden from both the global audience and the V.I.P.’s assembled in the theater. But Todd knew Pat was taking in the instant feedback response from the techs’ monitor directly in front of the podium. If the response from the voters was steady, Pat would plow ahead. If it wavered, he would cut and trim his words without telltale hesitation, suiting his speech to the audience’s mood. He made it work, making their viewpoint his own, convincing them he was leading them, not the opposite.

He began spelling out the peace treaty’s terms. Mostly standard form. P.O.E. was accumulating a good arbitration record. By now its committees had the science of truce-making worked out. Opposing rulers would usually concede this and argue about that. Give here, compromise there . . .

“. . . no further missile launches. All missiles on site have been disarmed by P.O.E. enforcement teams. Five: Full stop on all chemico-viral experiments. Total destruction of all lethal materials currently on hand. Total ban on any further stockpiling.”

The world shuddered on hearing that. Mutations stimulated by man’s scientific experiments had already escaped the labs and outrun their creators’ intentions. The viruses had mutated numerous times and the planned protective measures proved useless against the new strains. Pandemics swept the Earth. Mankind had conquered smallpox, once. The Trans-Pacific conflict and earlier wars and their experimentations had let loose a similar but more ruthless killer to fill smallpox’s vacant niche in the biological chain. Millions died in those plagues and the ones caused by the neo-anthrax virus.

“Six: All military units will disarm. They will place themselves under the command of P.O.E. enforcement troops and be dispersed to their respective home countries.”

Fairchild and Dabrowski began squirming as the audience-reaction lenses panned the theater. How could they or any of Patrick’s rivals rebut this speech? Who could take a stand against peace? Even the combatants were glad to be out of it. The arbitration team had given the region’s rulers a way out of disaster and helped them save face. Todd sympathized with the Spacer candidates’ dilemma. Yet his own doubts grew. What would be the price of this wonderful news? He read Pat’s face. Something unpleasant was coming. Pat was leading up to it very skillfully. Some of the peace terms must be hard to swallow. There was a giveaway look in those eyes. Todd leaned forward, intent on the screen.

“Both groups have signed a mutual confinement pact. To facilitate the move toward peace, all convicted war criminals and rebellious factors on either side will be taken into custody at once by P.O.E. forces. These will be transported and confined in Saunder Enterprises Antarctic Enclave Cryogenic Preservement chambers.”

Patrick made no mention of trials. The “convictions” were a foregone conclusion. Guilty, guilty, guilty. Nippon-Malaysia and the Maui-Andeans each had expendable “war criminals” and would-be usurpers in their ranks. The arbitration committee had given them a chance to swap and get rid of the human problems, under the guise of a peace treaty. The P.O.E. not only had brought order to their war-ravaged countries but provided them with a convenient hole in which to drop genuine military mass murderers, political embarrassments, and all future rivals for the surviving generals and premiers. Peace accomplished through merciless amputation and a Saunder Enterprises enclave.

A print crawl had started up the sides of the screen while Pat explained the details of the confinement. The lettering moved rapidly, faster than normal scan speed. The names of the war criminals and rebels zipped upward and disappeared. Since most of the global audience was functionally illiterate, they would never be able to read that crawl. The highly trained ComLink techs and the pilots watching in Geosynch HQ could read the names, however. Elation turned to fury. The Malaysian pilot who had been so gleeful moments before pointed to a name being sucked off the top of the screen. “Djailolo?” he cried out. “He’s no war criminal! Halmahera and Takeda just want him out of the way. They’ll starve off the rest of Djailolo’s people and crush the outer islands! Damn them! Damn those fucking Earth Firsters!” His companions tried to calm him, even though they, too, were bitter. Protests were futile. The peace pact had already been agreed to. By now the condemned were probably in their icy coffins in Antarctica, beyond hope of rescue by their adherents or relatives. The world desperately wanted peace, enough to sacrifice these victims to cryogenic sleep.

“We wish to stress that the transportees accepted their sentences voluntarily,” Pat explained. Most of the world would believe him, because it wanted to, and because doing so was easier than thinking about the dark implications behind this aspect of the truce.

Todd swallowed nausea. Voluntary? What choice did the condemned have? None. Such things had happened before, were happening more and more frequently as Earth’s governments became used to the convenience of the polar Enclave. They had learned it wasn’t wise to make martyrs out of their enemies, so they didn’t execute them nowadays; instead they ran through mock trials and shipped the convicts off to limbo. In the past ten years, ever since the initial successful revival of a volunteer Cryogenic Preservement, the facility had become the world’s most popular prison as well as a refuge for the wealthy and beloved of every nation. Ward Saunder had planned the Antarctic enclave as a hedge against death for artists, religious leaders, altruistic scientists, and public servants who would otherwise be lost to disease, age, or accident. Of course, there were also the wealthy ill and elderly, who could pay handsomely for their cubicles in the Enclave.

Furthermore, since the Death Years, Earth’s genetic pool had been carefully tended in the Enclave as well; sperm and ova and tissue samples collected from millions of people were stored and filed against a global disaster. Sterility had followed some of the plagues and the nuclear and toxic catastrophes. Protectors of Earth had accepted Saunder Enterprises’ offer to make the Enclave a neutral storehouse for the human race’s future inheritance. The new mysticism preached that life was infinitely precious and must be protected. The Saunders had been praised as selfless saviors of people who would have died without their aid, and as preservers of Earth’s population yet to be born. The costs were kept minimal, more proof of Saunder generosity.

Pat had launched his political career on the wave of that gratitude. He was still riding the wave. He made it sound so right. No messy executions. No expensive long-term imprisonments. Just frozen sleep, and the would-be martyrs lost all chance to die nobly for their causes. They disappeared, along with the interred wealthy and the geniuses and the criminals. They were all visible on relay vid images from the Pole. P.O.E.’s Human Rights Committee monitored the steadily growing suspended population via twice-annual tours, reassuring the world that all was in order. The willing and unwilling confinees weren’t dead. They weren’t exactly alive, either, and all too soon the political dissidents’ followers lost hope and gave up their fights for freedom or rebellion.

“. . . will live into the future, Listeners, that marvelous, peaceful future we are all working for, a future where war and hunger and disease do not exist.” Then Pat said, as if as an afterthought, “The people of the Trans-Pacific area need all their resources to bind their wounds and rebuild their ruined cities and lands. Therefore, as executive in charge of Saunder Enterprises Antarctic Enclave, I hereby cancel all debts involved in this confinement pact. We will donate the use of the cryogenic cubicles involved in perpetuity. This is our contribution to a lasting peace.”

As he spoke, the last of the long list of “confinees” rolled up off the screen and was gone. Too many of those names had been supporters of Pat’s political rivals. His contribution must have sounded very generous. In fact, be could well afford it, financially and, especially, politically. The gesture would buy him millions of votes in the war zone and elsewhere, and his opponents had nothing to equal the tactic. There was only one P.O.E. chartered cryogenic facility on Earth, and it belonged to Saunder Enterprises.

But Pat still wasn’t finished. Todd hunched his shoulders, afraid to hear what other deals his brother had made. “To replace the loss of the Galapagos Geothermal Seabed Installation, we are providing, at basic cost, labor, material, and supportive funding from CNAU Western Power Corporation . . .”

Todd slammed a fist down hard on the supervisor’s console. Inertial reaction slung him into the webbing, and he had to grab for an anchor to keep from being rebounded painfully. Dian and Beth jumped with surprise as Todd growled, “That’s your company, Pat. Damn you. Ground-based fusion and fossil energy. You’re using this to squeeze out Goddard Power Sats throughout the Pacific!”

The techs and pilots heard him, but Todd didn’t care. Seething, he wished be could travel with the feedback signal, down to Earth, and confront his brother. Maybe he would pay attention after a good physical shaking-up. But SE employees were barred from responding on the instant feedback circuits. That was only for paying clients—voters. And from Pat’s expression, it was obvious the favorable poll was far outweighing the negative vote. The audience was accepting the peace, convictions, financial fast shuffling, and all. Pat soothed that small, restless remaining portion of his listeners with another sweeping humanitarian donation. “The P.O.E. is taking immediate steps to relieve the breakdown of vital services in the war zone. We will supply food, shelter, and transportation . . .”

“Let me guess,” Todd said. His tone made Beth Isaacs edge away from him warily. “You’re going to ‘donate’ those services from SE Consolidated Industries—your subsidiary, again. And I’ll bet you get a juicy rakeback from Premier Takeda and President Halmaliera and Ybarra and the rest.”

Pat wouldn’t admit that in public, of course. He called no attention to his financial involvements. He made the petty details seem logical and right, selling the truce and himself. “He heads the P.O.E. Transport Committee,” Dian said. “Huh!
And
the Shelter Agency Council
and
the one regulating the fisheries, grain suppliers, and hydro energy outfits. Li’l interest in every one of those humanitarian efforts P.O.E. is providing.”

“Rely on it,” Todd said bitterly. “Technically, if there’s profit to be made out of the Antarctic Enclave, he gets that, too. Talk about grave robbing!”

“Hey!” Dian cut through his tirade, drawing his attention. She scowled and defended the polar installation. “Bad points, yes. But it stopped the killing, in its own way. Don’t rip it down. I know some people who would have been executed if the facility hadn’t been there for them as an out. And I know some people on the Human Rights Committee, which checks up on the Enclave, too. Good people. Honest.”

“Okay, but the system, the political confinements . . . damn,” Todd said without force. “And all the rest of this. Pat’s grabbing right and left, mostly at Goddard’s expense. He’ll take a loss for a while, but it’ll eventually print out black. Kevin McKelvey and some of the Colony Planning Group have been trying to hold down the secessionist talk. Pat’s practically driving them over the brink. He’s not helping
me
, either, financially or with this visit to Mariette. Damn you,” he repeated, glowering impotently at the main screen.

“A little victory. It won’t last,” Dian said softly. Only the three of them in the booth could hear her words amid the uproar from below. Dian glanced at Beth Isaacs, then at Todd. “News conferences. Surprises. They go lots of ways.” Todd smiled, nodding to the women. The alien messenger. A
real
surprise for Pat’s political campaign! He wasn’t going to be able to trade on the side with that element. For once, everything would have to be out in the open. Though he hoped for Pat’s understanding and assistance in explaining the messenger’s significance to the world, Todd began to relish the prospect of dumping the news on his brother’s handsome head.

“. . . thank the Spirit of Humanity, which led us to peace.” Pat was leaving his audience on a prayerful, mystical note. Shrewdly, he planted references to the Earth First Party. The listeners must be reminded that there was a hard-working human agency helping out the spiritual guidance. Todd tried to read the man behind those platitudes, but that was becoming more and more difficult to do as time went on. He wanted to shut off that magnificent voice or pretend it wasn’t Pat spouting this hypocrisy. Did winning the Chairmanship mean so much to Pat that he would throw away his own sister and the Goddard Colony in order to rule Protectors of Earth?

Todd pitied Fairchild and Pat’s other opponents. By the time they prepared their answering speeches, initial sour reactions to the peace treaty details would have faded. Nobody would want to hear an oration reminding them of the disturbing side of that pact.

Just the right pacing, just the right emotional tone. “Listeners, Earth is always first in our hearts. We must cherish her as she has nourished us. We must keep her safe and make Earth and her people once more beautiful, productive, and happy. Let us go together into that future, led by the Spirit of Humanity. Good day and good night, everywhere, Listeners.” Pat signed off with a smile.

He ought to patent that smile, just as Jael patented Ward’s inventions and made us all rich. We Saunders patent everything, even hypocrisy.

Dmitri Krishon was back on the main screen now, summing up what had been announced. He behaved as if he thought someone might actually listen to him. Most of the cameras remained with Pat and the committee, showing a variety of scenes in the mini-views framing Kirshon’s image. Todd saw well-wishers crowding the platform, offering congratulations. Other cameras followed Jael and Carissa as the Saunder women made their way past the stage toward the V.I.P. lounge. Inevitably, there would be after-the-event up-close interviews with Pat, the ranking members of P.O.E., and representatives from the former combatants. Everybody would say predictable things, but the public wanted to enjoy the news at length and wouldn’t care about content. Todd’s ComLink reporters would ask only the right questions, and they would do their best to shut out the rival nets’ digging inquiries. That was what ComLink got paid for.

Todd took a deep breath, getting his anger in hand. Then he released his safety straps and pushed up out of the chair. He clambered down the outside webbing at a reckless speed, stretching his tether, hurrying through the Main Com Display area toward the living quarters access.

“Boss, what did you—”

The tech who had started to ask a question broke off abruptly as Todd swam past her. He saw his stormcloud mood mirrored in the woman’s shocked face. Gib Owens and the pilots and techs watched him move past the duty stations. No one else tried to detain him. Todd hovered impatiently beside the access, then dived through as it sighed open.

Sometimes this tunnel was busy with two-way traffic. Now he was alone. Everyone else on Geosynch HQ was back in Main Com. The tether made a whispering noise, sliding along the anchor rail. It tugged at his waist, forcibly reminding Todd where he was. Other places and situations intruded on his senses, his orientation still awry. He resisted the temptations. He wasn’t swimming in the warm waters off Saunderhome. He was orbiting Earth. There should be no sensation of “up” or “down.” Yet there was. Moving toward the tunnel’s end, he was a swimmer, rising to the surface. Bright sunlit waters seemed to surround him. No, not water, but a fragile, shimmering, metallic tube. He was breathing recycled air, and beyond the tunnel walls lay high vacuum, not a reef.

Todd arrived at the outer lock and voice-cued it. As he did, he felt air pressure shifting and heard the lock opening at the far end of the tunnel. He glanced that way and saw Dian leaving Main Com. She was following him, but making no effort to overtake him.

He planted his feet against the open door and shoved off hard, pulling his safety tether to its limits, sailing out into the branch corridor which led to his quarters. The small tunnels were too warm, again. He made a mental note to speak to the life-support programmer tech. Things at ComLink ought to run smoothly. Usually, they did, which made glitches that much more irritating. His sweat wouldn’t evaporate properly. When he reached his quarters, he was sticky as well as mad.

Todd jerked loose his tether and floated free along the curve of the spheroid room. He guided his course reflexively, using action and reaction. Steering past the web-shrouded bed, he caught the stanchions and drew himself down into the seat in front of the monitor terminals. Then he snapped the belt in place, glowering at the mini-version of the Main Com Display, on which an excited-sounding reporter was addressing the worldwide audience. “We’re in P.O.E.’s reserved lounge with Jael Hartman Saunder, co-founder of Saunder Enterprises, mother of the candidate. Jael, could we have a moment . . .?”

Todd’s gaze flicked away from the screen, up to an array of tri-di family photos covering the metal and plasticene bulkheads. Jael and Ward’s wedding picture, side by side with Pat and Carissa’s. Childhood candids, showing Mari and Pat knobby kneed and gawky, yet already growing into that pale-eyed, dark-haired physical beauty they possessed now. Even the uninformed viewer, seeing those pictures, would realize they were brother and sister. Todd Saunder was the oddball, too normal, neither ugly nor handsome, a lost-in-the-crowd kid and adult. His siblings got the good looks, he used to admit, then had teased them by claiming that he got the brains in the second generation—Ward’s brains. There was a shot of Mari and Kevin McKelvey, a photo Todd himself had taken last year that captured their vitality and reckless natures. Kevin’s curly mane rested against Mari’s black hair, his heavy, rugged fate close to her vid-star one.
Mari and Pat go for blonds. I’m still the oddball, latching onto Dian.
There were no recent photos of Jael. She had never liked the camera, and hated it now that her once-solid face and body were softening with age.