Thirty-Seven #2
“On the contrary, I’m concerned for the well-being of every single person on this planet,” Uchi retorted, the flush of emotion climbing his face all the way to his scalp.
“With every passing year, we get closer to achieving the Founders’ Vision.
The gas production divisions are exceeding all Company benchmarks—we will have a warm planet with abundant oxygen, water, and life, perhaps not in my lifetime, but within a few centuries.
What would happen if the Great Silence were to suddenly end? ”
“People will turn their eyes toward the stars. They’ll seek connection with Earth and a future on more hospitable worlds.”
“In other words, the reunionists will seize political power and abandon terraforming priorities.”
The Executive waved a thin alabaster hand toward Uchi. “Naturally, it’s in your interest to prevent that from happening.”
“It’s in the Company’s interest. The interest of our entire civilization !
” The director rocked forward and nearly rose out of his chair.
He looked as if he was holding himself back from leaping to his feet and towering over the Executive’s diminutive, slender form.
“The Great Silence was the worst and the best thing to happen to us. It tested us, forced us to become self-reliant, made us fully own our destiny. You spoke about the violent chaos at the start of the Great Silence. The end of it would be just as disruptive and terrible. It’ll ruin everything we’ve worked toward, all the progress we’ve made as a society. ”
The Executive gazed upon Uchi’s fervor dispassionately. “Have you considered that this outstretched hand from Earth could be our salvation? With supplies and technology from the homeworld, we might terraform Aquilo faster than we could ever achieve on our own.”
“At what cost?” Uchi demanded fiercely, cutting the air with his hands.
“No matter what fanciful theories people wish to believe about the Great Silence, the most logical and well-supported explanation is simple: The parent supercorporation PVK Capital shut down Starhome Exploration Group overnight when it ran out of political support and funding. They left our ancestors to die because they lost faith in the colony’s profitability.
If the homeworld is trying to reestablish contact now, it’s undoubtedly out of self-interest. We have no idea what’s changed on Earth over the past five hundred years, and no reason to trust the motives of its current leaders. ”
Martim had heard his client speak passionately before, but never with a desperation that made his mouth tremble.
“The homeworld has billions of people and abundant resources. When two cultures collide, the stronger will subjugate and exploit the weaker. That’s how it’s been throughout all of human history, from the earliest societies on Earth itself to the System Wars of the space era.
Sure, they’ll claim to be our benefactors, our saviors —and then they’ll install their own people to rule over us. We will lose Aquilo. ”
With a rustle of blue silk, the Executive swept an arm toward the windows overlooking the cityhab. “Some would say that despite the risk, what we know is too important to withhold from the public. That every citizen of the colony has a right to the truth.”
“Nonsense,” Uchi exclaimed. “ You’re the head of the Company. You determine the correct course of action on behalf of everyone under the airshield.”
“And what is your role, to presume to remind me of duty?” A sudden frostiness entered the lilting voice that issued slightly out of time with the movement of the Executive’s mouth. “You’re a young man in your first stage of life, not yet a member of the Board that you hope to control.”
Taken aback, Director Uchi fell silent at the reproach.
Martim’s hands were clammy, and his back ached from the effort of sitting motionless in zanshin. In his experience, whenever his client was stunned into speechlessness, those around him began to sweat with fear.
“I understand your concerns, Uchi, but you are wrong about one important thing. I am not the one who should make such an important decision.” The Executive rose with jointed, insectile movement and walked to the windows, speaking over one birdlike shoulder.
“I’m retiring soon. I’ve instructed the Board to vote on my replacement at next year’s annual general meeting. ”
The statement itself was not a surprise; speculation had been going on for some time as to when the Executive would step down and who would be next in line. But there hadn’t been a date attached, not until now. Director Uchi opened his mouth as if to argue, but all he did was close it again.
“When I went through the Process, synthtech wasn’t what it is today,” the Executive said.
“I was in a medically induced coma for two weeks. When I awoke, I was as you see me now—and I have remained the same. Everyone I knew in first stage has passed into Waiting. It’s been so long since I felt pain or hunger or thirst that all I have are the vaguest of memories—the sting of cold on my face, the desire for a warm body, the first bite of a crisp apple.
” The second stager made a humming sound that might have been a sigh of longing.
“I’m old, my friend, much too old to decide the future of an entire civilization, and too far removed from the experience of being alive to govern those who are still living. ”
Uchi stood, rigid with tension from his broad shoulders to his planted feet. “So you’re going to entrust the most important issue in our history to your successor?”
“No.” The Executive turned to face them.
Stark sunlight from the windows framed the leader’s slim figure in a white glow and lit the crown of silver hair.
“The fate of the world shouldn’t rest on any single person.
Along with naming my replacement at the next AGM, the Board of Directors will vote on whether to reveal the communication from Earth and what action, if any, ought to be taken.
My concluding act before I finally leave this world and enter the Waiting will be to abide by their decision. ”
The perfectly unblemished face was immovable, as tranquil and angelic as a death mask. “I won’t get to see the future you desire so strongly,” the Executive said, making a hand motion that caused the hatchway doors behind them to scrape open ponderously. “But I’ve already seen enough.”
The twisting, slowly moving stairways carried them to the ground floor. They were back in the director’s car before Uchi spoke. “I need to be confirmed to the Board this year. I’ll do anything it takes.”
It was what Martim had been hoping for months to hear—that his client would commit wholeheartedly to pursuing his due—but the despairing tone of his pronouncement soured what should’ve been an optimistic, triumphant decision. “Are you sure, sir?” Martim asked, surprising himself with the question.
“The future of the planet is at stake,” Uchi declared. “SoCon GasPro must be at the AGM. We need to rally the terraformist vote to prevent disaster.”
“Surely, Tide Sullivan will—”
“We can’t trust Sullivan!” Uchi blurted, so loudly that Martim flinched.
“He’s a politician, not a true believer.
He’s been the director of NorCon GasPro for decades but what has he really accomplished?
He’s not devoted to the technical aspects of gas production.
He has his eye on the Sweetsea, everyone knows it.
If it comes down to it, he’ll cut a deal and sell out the Founders’ Vision to gain himself votes. ”
Martim opened his mouth but had no counterargument. Uchi was right. Sullivan could and would play both sides; his atier was the perfect embodiment of that strategy.
“Why do you think he’s been so hard to pin down about my nomination?
” Uchi went on in a rising temper. “He’s waiting to see which way the wind blows.
When the Board votes on whether to preserve the Great Silence or end it, he’ll want to be on the winning side, so he can secure the top job and take credit for the Company’s direction either way.
” The director made a guttural noise of frustration and dismay.
“The only way to make sure we get the outcome we want is to do it ourselves.”
That was pure Sandbar Uchi. No one else outside his own elite team could be trusted.
Something the Executive had said stuck with Martim, like a festering splinter under the skin. Some would say every citizen of the colony has a right to the truth. Was that the case even if they had no power to do anything with the information? Wouldn’t it be better simply not to know?
Ever since he’d hacked Addison’s security clearance to access the confidential Board files, Martim had been sleeping worse than ever, reliant on Vincent’s offerings to knock himself out each night.
During the day, seeing wagemen going about their ordinary lives, he would sometimes be suddenly struck by the frightening magnitude of his knowledge.
He was nagged by a surreal sense of isolation from normal people, as if he’d been visited by a divine prophecy or had the curtain of the universe drawn back in a psychic vision.
This is all a lie. The Great Silence is a fiction.
It was tempting to run out into the street and grab someone by the shoulders and scream the revelation like a madman, just to get it off his chest. That would only make him one of the conspiracy theorists who cropped up on the offnet from time to time.
For all the secondhand status he derived from his client, he was just a contractor, not someone who would be listened to on his own or who possessed the authority to make decisions on behalf of millions of people.
Thank God he wasn’t in that position, because he couldn’t begin to claim to know the answer.
Was his client right? Would the end of the Great Silence spell disaster on the scale of the Second Uprising?