Ark (31 page)

There was a rumble of assent. Crucially, Kelly, Venus and Wilson all nodded. But Wilson sneered. “That’s typical of you, Groundwater. Why aren’t you up here challenging yourself? Pointless little mouse.”

Holle ignored him. “Let’s wrap this up as quickly as possible. We need a new speaker. Can I have a show of candidates? Raise your hand if you want to put yourself forward.”

Kelly’s arm snapped up.

Venus raised her hand, grave.

And then, slowly, as if reluctantly, as if his arm was being dragged up, Wilson raised his right hand. Kelly shot him a look of sheer loathing.

Holle proceeded cautiously. “OK. Kelly Kenzie, Venus Jenning, Wilson Argent, all declare their interest. But not all the crew is here.” She glanced up at the nearest camera. “Grace, you’re in the cupola?”

Grace Gray was on watch today. Her voice boomed from the PA. “Here, Holle. We see you. Helen says hi.”

Holle grinned. “I wish I was in there with you,” she said ruefully. “Grace, please send a message out through Seba, and over to Halivah. Anybody who wants to declare their candidacy for this post should show themselves now.” She looked up into the nearest camera. “Guys, everybody, let’s be thorough about this. We don’t want any second-guessing. If your neighbor is sleeping wake him up, and don’t let him miss his chance. I’ll allow fifteen minutes for responses. Everybody comfortable with that?” She glanced around again. There were no objections.

It was the longest fifteen minutes in Holle’s life, at least since she’d waited on the pad at Gunnison for a nuclear bomb to go off under her butt. Everybody on Deck Ten stayed where they were, silent as stones.

After the fifteen minutes there were no more candidates, to Holle’s relief.

“OK,” she said. “Then I guess we proceed to the choice itself. How do you want to do this—a show of hands? Grace, if you can keep track of what’s happening in Halivah—”

“No,” said Wilson. He spoke strongly and clearly. “This is too important a decision to screw around with. It’s not like when we left Jupiter, when we didn’t have any serious divisions over policy, any personal splits. Now there’s an argument to be had.”

“Then what do you propose?”

“That we take our time. Say, a week. What’s the rush? In that interval Holle can stand as acting speaker. In that time we will have a chance to debate where we’re going as a crew, as a community. And then we can hold a proper election.”

Neither Venus nor Kelly looked happy, but neither was objecting out loud.

“OK. So at the end of the week, then what? We gather for a vote by acclamation?”

“Hell, no. We have a secret ballot. We can find some way to manage that. I suggest we have two rounds—eliminate third place, have a runoff between the top two—”

Kelly snorted. “A secret ballot? You’d really condone such a waste of resources?”

Wilson looked back at her steadily, then significantly at Masayo. “There has to be no intimidation. A secret ballot is the way to ensure that.”

He carried the day. And when the wider group broke up, chattering with excitement, Holle kept the three of them back, Kelly, Venus and Wilson, with Grace watching remotely as a witness, to thrash out a basic schedule for the coming week. Kelly and Wilson stayed apart, and wouldn’t even look at each other.

Then, when it was done, hugely relieved, Holle fled to the calm and silence of her cabin where she began the business of picking up Kelly’s workload, and figuring how she was going to juggle it with her own responsibilities.

But Wilson Argent came knocking on the door. “We need to talk. I need your vote—for all our sakes.”

66

“M
ake yourself comfortable on the couch,” Wetherbee said. Zane, restrained by a loosely fastened belt, was in a foldout couch in Wetherbee’s surgery on Halivah, the one on Seba still being out of action. He said, “It’s hard not to be comfortable in free fall, Doctor.”

Wetherbee bit back on his irritation. This was the alter, the partial personality, that he had tentatively labeled Zane 3, the passive, shadowy, depressive relic left behind when the other alters had taken away their various loads of guilt and responsibility. But even Zane 3 was a smartass. He kept his tone moderate. “You know what we’re going to do, the hypnotic procedure?”

“It’s not a problem. It’s worked for us before. You may know I was noted as readily hypnotizable back in the Academy.”

“So you were.” And in fact a willingness to submit to hypnotic commands was, Wetherbee had learned, a characteristic of people with Zane’s peculiar disorder. “So let’s begin. Take deep slow breaths. Feel the tension washing out of your arms, your hands, your feet. Let your shoulders relax, your neck. Let your head just float. You’re falling gently, falling inside yourself. Deeper and deeper you go, you’re more and more relaxed. You find yourself in the Academy, in your cabin, the old museum building in Denver . . .” With his father close by, long before the damaging serial abuse by Harry Smith had started and the flood was still a remote threat, Zane had felt as safe in the DMNS as he had ever felt in his life. Now Wetherbee returned him there, to that place and time, as a secure place to begin his analysis.

“What can you see?”

“My handheld, my books, my sports stuff. My AxysCorp coveralls. We’re supposed to go on a hike tomorrow.”

“OK. Now look around, Zane. Can you see that special door we talked about? The extra one, that leads into the other room.”

“I see it. It’s open.”

“Good. Good.” The “door” had always been closed before, and sometimes locked. “Can you see through the doorway? What do you see?”

“People.”

“How many? Who are they?”

“There is a boy, and kind of a young man, and an older man.”

“All right. Do you think any of them would like to speak to me?”

“I think the older man. He’s smiling and nodding.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He’s about my height. He’s a little bulky. He has silver hair and glasses.”

Wetherbee was pretty certain this was the alter called Jerry. The description closely matched Zane’s father, as did the name—“Jerry” for “Jerzy.” Zane was a smartass, but not always very inventive in the details of his alters.

“Would you let the man talk to me? You just have to step back a bit.”

“We’ve done that before.”

“Yes, we have. You’ll still be in your cabin, your safe place. And you know that if you aren’t happy at any point you can just come right back, and the man will go back outside and the door will be locked up, just like that.”

“OK.”

Zane 3 sounded passive rather than convinced. He was so malleable, so lacking in self-motivation, it was extraordinarily hard not to direct him. “Thanks, Zane. I’ll speak to you later.”

Wetherbee knew he had a few minutes before the alter communicated with him. He murmured to the camera overhead, “Wetherbee medical log, 30th June 2048. With Zane Glemp. I believe I’ve been communicating with the alter I call Zane 3, the alter that first presented. I expect to be talking in a moment to the alter known as Jerry, the older man. For the record it’s three days since I last repeated the appropriate structured clinical interview as recommended by the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders of the American Psychiatric Association,
2015 edition; I still uphold my diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder—”

“Hi, Dr. Wetherbee.” Zane was smiling, his eyes open; he was looking around curiously. Everything about his body posture was changed. He looked alert, inquisitive, confident, not passive. His accent was faintly middle European.

“Hello. Who am I speaking to?”

“Well, this is Jerry, but I think you guessed that. How are you?”

“Very well.”

“And how’s the fake mission going? Still happy with your Las Vegas hotel?”

Jerry actively mocked Zane 3’s suspicions that the whole mission was unreal, a fake mounted on Earth. “Not enough ice with the room service champagne.”

Jerry laughed. He liked it if you played along with him, treated him as a peer.

“You’ve been busy, Jerry.” Wetherbee held up his handheld. “You seem to be running Wilson Argent’s election campaign for him.”

“Well, I guess I am. That’s why I exist, you know, to work. Zane spun me off because he needs organizing skills, which is what I contribute, and I come out to take over when things get on top of him and he can’t cope. But Zane’s life is pretty small scale. I have time to do other things.” He winked at Wetherbee. “Wilson knows I’m just an alter. Oh, he wouldn’t put it like that . . . When he asks Zane a question to do with me, and Zane can’t remember the previous conversation, Wilson just smiles and backs off and waits until I can come out to talk to him. He doesn’t know the medical stuff, but he has an intuitive understanding of people, I think. Even of us!” He laughed.

“Maybe that will make him a good speaker.”

“Well, I think so,” “Jerry” said. “You decided which way you’re going to vote yet, Doc?”

“I’m still considering. I’m impressed that you put out a manifesto.” He scrolled through it now on the handheld. “You caught the other candidates on the hop with this.”

“Nothing wrong with being professional. We put a lot of thought into the proposals in there, especially the bill of rights.”

“I see that.” This was a document, still in draft form, that would assure the crew of what Wilson called fundamental human rights. This included the right to the basics of life, to free air and water—a right you wouldn’t have to spell out on Earth, but in a ship like this where every cubic centimeter of air had to be supplied by a machine that somebody else maintained, it wasn’t a given. “Alongside our rights, you also spell out our responsibilities. Maintaining the ship’s systems, not threatening its integrity. I see you’re planning to introduce a credit system.”

“Hell, yes.” He smiled. “That’s one of mine. We need basic incentivization. Do more good work and you accumulate wealth, you can buy stuff from other people, and your status goes up. Simple human nature. We have to move away from the vague socialist stuff Kelly spouted. This isn’t a kibbutz. We’re all Americans, for God’s sake.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, mostly. No offense. Oh, some of the stuff in Ship’s Law can stand. We figured most of it out by precedent, after all, and much of it is fit for purpose. But we need clearer thinking about the rest.”

“Such as, you specify here, the freedom to marry who you choose, to have babies with who you choose.”

“Yeah. We’re restoring the right of each woman to control her own body, her womb.”

“But this flies against what the social engineers recommended for optimal genetic mixing. That was a basic requirement of the mission.”

“The social engineers aren’t here,” Jerry said firmly. “We are. And no policy is going to fly if it’s rejected by the people, no matter how smart those long-drowned guys who thought it up were. My own and Wilson’s belief is that we should put our trust in the collective wisdom of the crew—of us.”

“You’re proposing education reform too.”

“Certainly. The curriculum we’ve developed for the kids so far has been based on wishy-washy stuff from the Academy. Ethics, for God’s sake. Philosophy. Comparative theology. Blah, blah, blah. Thank God none of the kids are old enough yet to have been too damaged by this stuff. We should stick to what these kids are going to need to learn in order to survive.”

“Such as, don’t dismantle the life support? You’re even restricting the science they’ll be taught. Usually in a school you’d reward curiosity, initiative, an ability to learn.”

“This mission is all about balances. Curiosity can come later, when we’re safely established on Earth II, and we have the luxury to wonder what’s over the next hill.”

“Hmm. Interesting experiment.”

Zane smiled. “In time basic human nature will reassert itself. But that time isn’t now. For now, we have to consider ourselves at war with an environment that will kill us unless we manage to maintain our defenses, without a single waver of concentration. And that’s the message we have to hammer home to the kids.”

“You assert we have rights concerning a supply of air and water. But that hands a lot of power to the central functions that maintain those resources.”

“Sure. Which is why Wilson is courting Holle Groundwater, getting her on his side, as I’m sure you already know. Because that kind of power resides with her and her team.”

Wetherbee came to the most controversial piece of proposed legislation. “You’re going to stop in-hull surveillance, the routine recording of everything that goes on.”

“Unless it’s for a specific purpose—yes. Humans have a basic right to privacy, of thought and deed. We need to trust our people, Doctor.”

“Thomas Windrup—”

“Was a one-off. And besides the surveillance didn’t stop him, it just proved his guilt when he’d already committed his crime, been caught, and confessed.” He laughed. “Of course Zane 3 thinks that if we pull the plug on the reality show, the controllers in Las Vegas will come in and shut us down, or punish us.”

“You know there’s a lot of debate over this. The crew will have no means of surveilling
you,
I mean Wilson and his team.”

“Oh, that’s just a theoretical quibble.”

“Theoretical? Maybe.” Wetherbee pressed his fingers to his lips, wondering how far he should take this discussion. His concern was Zane, not Wilson and his manifesto. His long-term goal was the reintegration of all Zane’s partial personalities. But to achieve that he was going to have to understand and work with each of them. He said carefully, “Kelly Kenzie is openly calling this a coup.”

Zane laughed. “Well, she would.” He actually winked at Wetherbee. “Listen, Doc—I think you and I can talk freely. I mean, you’re under no threat no matter who wins out on Friday. You can look at this on a number of levels. The social engineers tried to set up our little ship-based society the way the hunter-gatherer bands used to organize. There you have leaders on sufferance, their most important quality being prestige—ability. That’s Kelly all over, isn’t it? But Wilson looks ahead to tougher times—times like now, times when we came close to being destroyed by our unrelenting enemy the environment. At such times you need a more basic kind of leader.”

“Basic how?”

“Well, Wilson was always taller than Kelly. He’s been pumping up for years. And he’s a man—”

“Being a big strong man qualifies him as leader? Are you kidding?” Zane smiled again. “You have to consider what reassures people. And then there’s the timing. This is the year the flood wins . . .”

They had had no news of Earth, not since going to warp, but they had all followed the likely progress of the flood with simulations based on the best science models available. This year and the next were seeing the succumbing of whole continents. In January, Europe must finally have gone when Mount Elbrus, Russia’s highest point, was covered. In May it was Africa’s turn, when Kilimanjaro drowned. And the continental US would all be gone too by now, save a couple of mountains in Alaska. Next year South America, even the Andes, would be covered, and there would be nothing left in the western hemisphere at all, no trace of land.

Zane said, “Wilson always thought there would be trouble this particular year, the year the survivor guilt really cuts in. What people want above all else is stability, and that’s what Wilson will provide. People will welcome his rule, believe me.” His smile flickered. “I think Zane 3 is getting restless. Maybe I should go back now?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s always stimulating talking to you, Dr. Wetherbee.”

“For me too. Thanks, Jerry . . . Zane? Are you there?”

Zane slumped in the chair, and his face crumpled, as if he was about to cry. “Dr. Wetherbee?”

“Do you remember anything?”

“I don’t think so. I thought I saw you . . . I don’t remember.”

“It went very well. Close the door and lock up your room now. Have you done that?”

“Yes.”

“OK, come back to the surgery with me. Here we go, come back as I count backward from five. Five, four, three . . .”