Tomorrow’s Heritage (4 page)

“Compared to Worldwide TeleCom’s and Incorporated Network’s, it’s gorgeous. For ComLink, it’s merely adequate. We have standards to keep up,” Beth stated with pride. “I’ve put it on the top of Maintenance’s list. They’ll have it in A-One shape for the next global campaign speech.”

“Acceptable. Bet that’s a rebuttal from the Third Millennium Movement or the United Theocracies at the other end of the scale.” Dian made jokes out of the political parties’ names, speaking with mocking awe. “No matter what Patrick says, they’ll scream and demand equal time under P.O.E.’s campaign rules. . .”

The women’s conversation, other murmuring voices, and the audio confusion lapped at the fringes of Todd’s awareness. Dian’s earlier comment drummed in his mind: “
Goddard will be the last to know.
” True, if only by a second and a fraction. And it was likely this would be one more blow to the shaky situation existing between the space station and Earth. Pat’s speeches had hurt Goddard Colony—and Mariette Saunder—often this past year. Saunder Enterprises was a family quasi-nation. But Pat and Mariette were heading in opposite directions fast, philosophically and literally.

And who’s in the middle? Me, as usual.

The famous newscaster’s image was crisp. Color phasing good. The modified holo-mode gave his face and form three dimensions. Pat’s treasurer ought to be pleased with the product; Numbers would move from Pat’s accounts over to Todd’s ledgers. Mariette would contribute a small sum also, buying the broadcast for Goddard Colony in order to keep up to the minute re the anti-Spacer campaign. Three ledgers, three siblings—separate, scrupulously maintained and audited. Jael hired only the best, whether it was a cook for Saunderhome, a sharpshooter security guard, or a bookkeeper. In places where they didn’t own an enclave, the Saunders cheerfully paid taxes to the government in charge. But whenever possible, the input and outgo of the family corporation went from one sibling’s pocket to another. Jael called it intrafamily courtesy. Their rivals, particularly the other family-owned quasi-nations, like the Nakamuras, Alamshahs, and LeFevre Société, called them a power-grabbing monopoly threatening to consume the entire world.

Click-click status on the ComLink signal. Jael leased Todd’s best techs to handle their political broadcasts.

The newsman’s voice was mellifluous, almost as persuasive as Pat’s. Kirshon’s Slavic accent didn’t matter. ComLink’s translator-splitter instantly converted his words into a thousand tongues and dialects. One world, one language, with a little help from Ward Saunder’s patents and ComLink’s satellites.

Alien messenger, listening to us out there at thirty A.U., what will you make of Pat’s speech, once the signal crosses the gulf and reaches you? And what will your response be?

Maybe the next response would include that all-important key that would help them break down the remaining mysteries in the alien’s signal. Convert it all to real language, not blips and patterned static, testing each other’s ability to riddle out spectra or numerical sequences.

Todd glanced at the satellite’s watchdog monitors. Little orbiting cameras provided an exterior view of Geosynch HQ, Todd’s home in space. The satellite was a silly-looking structure, by planetside standards. Gravity didn’t matter here, nor did neatly rounded corners or roofs over warehouses. The orbiter’s offices, shuttleport, living quarters, and maintenance facilities bulged with knobby extensions, spindly girders, and connecting tunnels sticking out at odd angles. Robot teleoperators crept over the satellite’s skin, repairing or adding onto the original massive structure. Annexes held clusters of com and power sats, ready for placement in various orbits. Old sats, brought in for repair or recycling, rode in the collection shack “ahead” of the main body of Geosynch HQ. Five spacecraft rode in parking orbit. Access tunnels and electronic umbilici tethered them to docking. Todd’s private ship, an interorbital shuttle he share-leased with Mariette, waited first in line to depart.

In a couple of hours, Gib Owens and I will ride her up to Goddard. And if Pat kicks Mari with this speech, I’ll walk into a million-megaton explosion.

Thirty-two thousand kilometers away, close-up techs wearing miniaturized chest pack cameras doubled as crowd control around the podium, focusing on various guests and committee members. The screen divided, showing an assortment of group and individual portraits to Earth and space. The media theater of Protectors of Earth had been designed to showcase the organization’s triumphs in just this way. Three decades of wars and disasters had stimulated P.O.E.’s rise to near-absolute global authority. World leaders scrambled to join its ranks, and many of them had gathered in the theater for this occasion. CNAU President Galbraith was there, even though the aging politician was a puppet without much real power. His nation provided the land for P.O.E.’s facilities and he showed up at all its functions, reliving the days when his office had genuine clout. P.O.E. Chairman Li Chu presided over the famous guests and committeemen. She was retiring after her present term and had already named Patrick her political heir. Cynically, Todd wondered if Jael had bought the woman off to gain that favor. The Chairmanship of Protectors of Earth was now, in effect, the command post for Earth, and in a few months that post would belong to Patrick Saunder.

All the power-wielders and would-be rulers who hoped to bask in Pat’s reflected glory were there. So were the military, the P.O.E. enforcement officers. Todd stared at the uniformed group, wishing he could read their minds. Were these men and women going to go along with whatever the committee had worked out at the secret conferences? That was crucial, if there was ever to be peace. Dawes, Ubaldi, Chen Chang . . . the old generals, covered with medals, warriors who had survived the worst the Death Years could throw at them. The only public comments anyone heard from them were totally predictable. “Defense posture.” “A strong protective force is the best peace treaty.” They weren’t likely to be conciliatory. It was the young officers who would carry out the terms—if they were willing to cooperate. Todd looked along the row, assessing. His eyes were drawn to one particular black face. General Ames, Dawes’s second in command. Todd sought his memories but didn’t recall ever reading or hearing any statement from the man, not for the public. Yet the analysts pictured Ames as a potential power behind the throne, thanks to his rapport with the troops. He had come up from the same sort of hell on Earth many of the soldiers had. What was he thinking? Right now, Ames was watching Pat narrowly, his stare never wavering. The intensity of the young general’s gaze unsettled Todd, but he couldn’t read the emotions behind that stare. Ames wore a ghetto mask, hiding his true feelings.

His fellow committeemen crowded around Pat, hoping his glamour would rub off on their own election campaigns. Despite seeming modesty, Pat was aware of his assets. His dark good looks and dominating height and voice he had inherited from his father. The political talent was his own. He had used the combination to climb very high, very fast, but was wise enough not to flaunt those gifts. The Earth First Party candidate ran his hand through his hair in a seemingly absentminded gesture which was pure calculation. Todd smiled, remembering how often he and Mariette had watched Pat rehearse that trick when they were kids, calling Pat a vid ham. Pat had laughed as loudly as they. And be kept on practicing. He found he could call attention to his unusual wavy black hair with its red glints. He found out, too, how to use his sharp, strong features, tall body, and theatrical flair. Most of all, he discovered his voice, honing and polishing it to perfection.

But he wasn’t a kid any more. The tricks were second nature now. The adolescent who had once postured for his siblings could now command billions with his stage presence. Crises and wounds in humanity’s collective psyche had created a demand for answers, and Patrick Saunder promised he would find them. Attractive, likable, and rich, he gave the audience what they wanted and became someone they trusted to show them the way out of the mess.

Techs panned the V.I.P. guests in the theater audience. Carissa gazed adoringly at Pat, on stage as much as he was. Not even Todd’s staff was immune to Carissa’s sweet, blond prettiness. He heard several sighs from the duty stations. Dian cocked her curly head, studying Carissa’s picture. “Is she okay? She looks terribly thin and bleached out.”

“I didn’t notice anything wrong the last time I saw her, a week ago. She’s always seemed kind of delicate. I’m sure Pat wouldn’t let her continue this campaign tour if she were ill.” Guilt nagged at Todd. Carissa did look exceptionally pale and shaky. Had he been so callous he hadn’t noticed those changes last week?

Jael sat almost out of camera frame, next to Carissa. She didn’t edge in or try to hog the lens. Jael preferred the shadows. She was eyeing Carissa sidelong. The lenses caught the distinctive white streaks in Jael’s auburn hair, drawing the eye. Todd watched his mother while Jael looked at Carissa. Jael’s expression was strangely possessive, making Todd squirm, unsure why he felt so uneasy.

Behind his mother and sister-in-law, rival candidates Fairchild and Dabrowski did everything but wave flags and make faces to attract attention. Pat’s competitors wanted to piggyback on Carissa’s photogenic beauty. They knew ComLink would feature her for color shots and must have taken the chairs behind her with exactly that purpose in mind. Even though Fairchild’s Third Millennium Movement and Dabrowski’s World Expansionists were Spacers, Todd was disgusted by their behavior. If only the Spacers had someone as popular as Pat . . .!

Someone who could defeat his anti-Spacer brother in the campaign.

Family treason. No wonder Jael had given him a tongue-lashing a week ago when he dared suggest that maybe Pat’s campaign platform wasn’t in the best interests of Earth, the Saunders, or humanity in general.

Beth Isaacs sensed a windup in the intro. “Ready in case of trouble. Let’s go.” On-duty techs notched their chairs forward, guaranteeing clear-voice countermands if they had to talk to the systems. A sensible precaution, but one that had never been needed. ComLink was overloaded with redundancies and safeguards.

A storm of applause greeted the committee as the newsman recited the last member’s name. The loudest cheers were for Pat, but he graciously included his co-members in the acknowledgment. The others formed a semi-circle behind him on the stage, smiling triumphantly. When the clapping abated, Pat began quietly. “Listeners, Citizens of Earth . . .”

Sound choked off throughout the theater at that key phrase, Patrick Saunder’s trademark speech opener. The hush seemed startling after the tumult.

“Listeners,” Patrick repeated, “we know you have been waiting a long time for the results of our arbitration. We appreciate your patience. Protectors of Earth is very happy to tell you we have succeeded. After intense negotiations, the Nippon-Malaysia Alliance and the Maui-Andean Populist Democracies have agreed to a total and unconditional armistice, effective immediately.”

One of the military pilots, a Malaysian, whooped in joy. Techs and other pilots joined his celebration. Then they turned quiet, eager to hear more good news.

“. . . terrible conflict has hurt us all,” Pat was saying, “not merely those in the war zones. The neo-smallpox mutation, the loss of the Galapagos Geothermal Seabed Installation, the crop failures caused by blockades along the iceberg tow routes, extinction of marine and land animal life, pollution from toxic fallout and nuclear strikes—these affect every man, woman, and child on Earth. Those in the Trans-Pacific have suffered most of all.”

Pat paused for dramatic effect while ComLink’s campaign programmers inserted corroborating images, framing the main screen. Blood, plague, ravaged cities, and lifeless croplands and ocean beds. The viewers had seen it all before, but somehow the ugliness gained fresh impact if they watched while Pat described it. His words flowed, each syllable and hesitation planned. SE’s patented translator carried him into cosmopolitan towers and primitive villages. Instant interpretation. They were hearing him, not a machine voice. In their own languages, Pat came across warm and sincere, all his personality intact. ComLink’s competitors hadn’t yet fully mastered Ward Saunder’s technique. It would be years before they could duplicate that global voice power.

“The killing is over, Listeners. The Trans-Pacific region is at peace. After twelve years, no missiles are being launched, no viral pestilence released from the labs, no wholesale executions. P.O.E. truce teams are stationed now throughout Nippon-Malaysia and the Maui-Andean Democracies to enforce the armistice. The truce is being honored faithfully. Hostilities are over, at last.”

That mesmerizing voice shook with emotion. Pat’s eyes looked teary, and he communicated a profound sense of weary pride and thanksgiving to an entire world. Beth Isaacs sniffled and bowed her head, murmuring prayerfully. “Thank you . . .” Neither Dian nor Todd was a convert to the new mysticism, but they knew what the woman was feeling. Dian pressed Beth’s arm. The black woman was fighting her own flood of tears. Todd’s throat felt thick. He wished he were on Earth at this moment, facing Pat directly, not through a vid signal. He wanted to clasp Pat in a bearhug and share the triumph of peace.

Let it be true. No political fast ones this time, big brother. No deals behind the scenes.

Peace! An ocean, a billion people, exhausted lands and countries—accepting peace, accepting the committee’s arbitration, under Pat’s guidance.

Todd stared at Pat’s image, emotions overwhelming him. He had never loved that face, that person, so much. Nothing thus far compared. Pat helping Jael pull them out of potential financial disaster when Ward died so suddenly and tragically. Pat rescuing Todd from drowning. Pat sweeping Mari up and running like hell ahead of a rioting mob near the crater towns west of Chicago, saving himself and her through superhuman effort.

Now he had saved not only the war zone but the rest of the planet that could have, would have, been destroyed if the war had spread, as it had threatened to do. There were no words. Todd sat helplessly, too moved to weep, the happy shouts and fervent prayers ringing around him throughout the great orbiting viewing room.