New Planetary Blues

 

ELEVEN

 

Harvest Gleam had spent a great deal of time and energy deciding where to live on Planet History. Much as he admired the Ancient Greeks' seminal contributions to politics, the arts, philosophy and even sport, he found Plato altogether too much like a twentieth-century Old Earth theme park – a sort of Disneyland with tunics – to contemplate living there. He fundamentally disapproved of slavery, even the holographic variety, so Plato's Roman equivalent, Cicero, was also ruled out as a potential Gleam base. Camelot, a Dark Ages hodge-podge crammed with holographic soothsayers, wizards, enigmatic but aggressive knights of all hues, helpless fair ladies and a variety of semi-mythical creatures with names like griffins and wyverns, had its appeal – chiefly for its remoteness – but was eventually discarded because it attracted far too many tourists in the high season. Tudor and Stuart, Franklin and Lincoln – not to mention Seljuk and Jerusalem – were also too tourist-oriented to attract Gleam's serious attention; he eventually narrowed his options down to Kissinger and Darwin.

The former, in Gleam's opinion, was to twentieth-century America what Camelot was to Arthurian England: a bouillabaisse of half-truths, myth and legend. The problem was that both its residents and its many visitors – who, after all, provided the revenue that kept the hideously expensive place going – regarded everything in the city as a lovingly accurate re-creation of daily life in America's heyday. From its suburbs filled with diligent, family-centred commuters, clapboard houses and holographic, newspaper-flinging delivery boys, to its busy hub bristling with skyscrapers – the actual as well as virtual political and business centre of the New Planetary Confederation – the whole city filled Gleam with helpless rage.

As he constituted only one vote on the HoloCorp board, and consequently wielded negligible influence on New Planetary political and administrative affairs, Gleam had been able to do little about the original decision to site the New Planetary parliament building in a prime location on the bend of Kissinger's river, but he had managed to have a decisive say, courtesy of his position as Coordinator, in the naming of the planet's new capital. Gleam's motives, in thus memorializing a man whose Nobel Peace Prize he (along with one of his great heroes, Tom Lehrer) regarded as one of the twentieth century's grimmest jokes, were far too subtle to have attracted the attention of any of his fellow board members. The ambiguous, two-edged nature of the city's nomenclature – it was as if he had called a town dedicated to the United Nations Waldheim – enabled him to feel the tiniest bat-squeak of private satisfaction every time he visited the place, even if it didn't encourage him to live there, and this small esoteric victory was sufficient to silence his conscience's promptings about inauthenticity and meretriciousness.

Darwin, therefore, with its slower pace and elegant rusticity – it resembled nineteenth-century Kent with a small urban settlement at its centre; its closest New Planetary equivalent was Trollope – was Gleamïs chosen dwelling place, and Down House, modelled on Darwin's own home, was his much-loved residence there. At present, having just returned from a lightning tour of Mecca, the History Coordinator was revelling in Down House's peace and rural tranquillity. He was pacing around a re-creation of Darwin's Sand-walk, a path the nineteenth-century naturalist had used for solitary meditation and theorizing, which Gleam now found indispensable for identical purposes. His recent visits to Planets Literature and Religion had given him much food for thought. In a few short months, since Thatch's Sleeper programme had been put into operation, Gleam had slowly transformed himself from respected radical and occasional HoloCorp gadfly, through disaffected critic, to outright subversive. True, the two-pronged plan he had worked out with Falcon was hardly revolutionary – he imagined, indeed hoped, that New Planetary society would not be radically changed, just substantially modified, after its successful implementation – but he found it none the less difficult to suppress a couple of anxieties springing from it.

The more serious of these concerned freedom of speech. He had visited Mecca to judge for himself the likelihood of adverse consequences if New Planetary laws on self-expression were relaxed, as his co-conspirators wished them to be. He had specifically chosen the strictest Muslim centre for this purpose, anxious to take its emotional temperature in advance of any irreversible action. He had not been encouraged by what he had seen there: over and over again, his Adept's robes had attracted unwelcome and occasionally hostile attention from the city's inhabitants. Of course, to many Muslims, the whole idea of Adepts, with their genetic enhancements and their disdain for the corporeal – not to mention their entirely humanistic worldview – was anathema. The less sophisticated tended to be straightforwardly scared by Gleam and his colleagues, seeing them, perhaps, as modern-day djinns. The more worldly of their brethren (and, Gleam reflected sadly, 'brethren' was the correct word, women being almost entirely excluded from Muslims' non-domestic sphere), while willing at least to meet and dispute with representatives of the corporation to which they, after all, owed their safe retreat in the mountain fastnesses of Planet Religion, were at best deeply suspicious of the non-Muslim world, and at worst implacably hostile to it.

Gleam sighed to himself, even as he drank in the peace surrounding him. By allying himself with James Malcolm, he ran a considerable risk vis-¦-vis the religious communities in the New Planetary system. If some of the people to whom he had recently spoken – a fierce-eyed mullah who still referred to enemies as 'agents of the Great Satan' sprang irresistibly to mind – ever found out that one of his co-conspirators had actually been murdered in the twenty-first century for his militant and scornful atheism, they were unlikely to give the conspiracy their support, and would, moreover, most likely use their newfound freedom of expression merely to encourage fellow Islamists to revolt. The Christians, too, were equally unlikely to embrace the sentiments of anyone even remotely connected with Malcolm; he had not, according to Falcon, actually misbehaved on his tour of Jesuit's Retreat, but the eponymous order, with their meticulous approach to record-keeping, had only to look their former pupil up to find that they had angrily expelled him from their midst – something to do with an organization called the Black Sodality whose members kept consecrated Hosts in their wallets, Gleam gathered from his own research – on their previous encounter with him.

A bird's strident alarm call brought Gleam's attention back to his immediate surroundings. He decided to do one more circuit of the Sand-walk before flying to Kissinger in his air car. On this last portion of his walk, he meditated on his other anxiety: the possibility of being caught red-handed mid-conspiracy. The plan involving coordinated hallucinogenic interference with farsense surveillance might prove hopelessly inadequate, and land not only him, but also Falcon, Jane Riley and James Malcolm, in Father Pringle's Retreat. It was not a pleasant thought. All the more reason, he told himself sternly, to get it right, to be bold but not reckless, and see things through to their conclusion.

A large crow-like bird clattered out of a nearby tree. Attempting to still the beating of his startled heart, Gleam headed back towards Down House.

The New Planetary parliament building never failed to make Harvest Gleam smile. There, amid all the shiny glass stumps that made up the riverfront settlement of central Kissinger, nestled a near-perfect replica of the Mother of Parliaments, complete with Big Ben. It always reminded Gleam of an elderly dowager duchess surrounded by supermodels, but as this was an analogy he was unable to share with his less Old Earth-literate fellow Adepts, his amusement was faintly tinged with loneliness and melancholy.

He landed his air car on Parliament Green, and received a shiny green tag, serving as both parking docket and visitor's pass, from a smiling attendant. As he strode through the parliament building, practically everyone he passed nodded amiably at him, a familiar figure going about his regular business. His destination was the office of Mayflower Breeze, a female Adept whose fierce moral probity, acknowledged and respected throughout the entire New Planetary system, made her the perfect Chairperson for the parliament's conscience, the Ethics Committee.

Gleam had not alerted the veteran moralist to the fact that he had extraordinary business with her this day. As far as she was concerned, their forthcoming discussion would be concerned solely with the lofty, abstract topics they always discussed at these fortnightly affairs: the perpetual balancing act between the rights of the individual and the need for social cohesion, the interface between the entertainment and educational functions of HoloCorp, the adherence (or lack of same) of New Planetary society to the ideals of its founders. Breeze was therefore startled when, in the middle of what appeared to be a perfectly routine discussion about the latest changes on Planets Music and Literature, her interlocutor suddenly flashed her a masked signal containing a request for tp privacy. Without missing a beat in their surface conversation about the new passion for authenticity and its effects on the New Planetary economy, Breeze immediately made herself receptive to Gleam's carefully prepared, private sequence of tp images.

Slowly, an overall picture of Gleam's concerns built up in her mind. Certain images – Thatch decanting essences into PortoPsyches, Heather's bodysnatching, Rhett's arrest and incarceration in Jesuit – she found so shocking that it was all she could do to maintain the composure essential to mislead the farsensers, but she managed to stay outwardly calm while subliminally flashing answering messages to Gleam.

When he'd given her all the information he'd prepared, Gleam suggested they adjourn to the Members' Common Room to meet Benchmark Waiver. This further meeting, if the overseer had succeeded in implementing their plan to set up a pre-recorded 'chaff' conversation for the farsensers' benefit, should enable the three Adepts to have a swift strategy discussion while appearing to talk banalities.

Waiver stood up to greet them as they swept into the Common Room.

'Such a polite boy,' Breeze murmured to Gleam as they approached the overseer's table. 'If he ever wants a proper job, closer to real power, you must let me know. I've always got room on my staff for bright young things like him.'

'Hands off, you old pirate. He's mine.' Gleam smiled at his assistant. 'OK, Waiver, my lad?'

Waiver gave a cheery thumbs-up signal as Gleam and Breeze sat down.

'Right, let's be quick about this,' said Gleam, his manner suddenly becoming urgent. 'I've filled Breeze in and she wants to help. Two things she can do. First, bring round to our side any members she feels will be sympathetic, so that when D-Day comes they'll know what's going on and support us, if possible. Second, use the parliament's Earth hook-up to alert Simon Bland to our little scheme. If we can get a message of support from the boss of HoloCorp that we can show to the other board members after the coup, they'll come over to us, I imagine.'

'I can stir up the members, no problem,' said Breeze. 'Most of them will be as horrified as I was to hear about Thatch and Heather's antics. Stealing essences and using bodies that don't belong to you flies in the face of everything New Planetary society is supposed to stand for. The Ethics Committee was formed to ensure things like that don't happen, and I'm determined to assert the overrule power enshrined in our constitution if necessary –'

'Last resort, that; I'd like this whole thing to look like a purely internal HoloCorp disciplinary matter, if possible,' said Gleam. 'I'm alerting you in case things go wrong and I suddenly disappear, or get carted off to Jesuit. Please be careful whom you tell. Secrecy's essential, because we need the boardroom coup and the flooding of the database with non-approved artworks to be precisely coordinated. If we can present the whole thing to the people as a sort of planned jubilee, an overdue relaxation of outdated restrictions, we might avoid social upheaval.'

'OK, I'll start putting the word out to selected members this afternoon. The Bland call I can also do straight away. I report to him pretty regularly, so it won't attract undue attention, and it's a secure system, so HoloCorp snoopers won't be able to eavesdrop.'

Waiver fluttered his hands to gain his superiors' attention and pointed to his ear to alert them to the fact that they could now be overheard by HoloCorp farsensers. For the rest of their time together they chatted easily about innocuous subjects, Gleam's frequent bursts of raucous laughter causing both amusement and – from the more priggish members – mumblings of disapproval in this usually staid environment.

Sitting in her office after Waiver and Gleam had left, Mayflower Breeze was conscious of two conflicting emotions. Part of her felt almost exhilarated: despite the New Planetary constitution, which gave her Ethics Committee the right to vet and, if necessary, overrule any decision made by the parliament, her powers had never been needed in the century or so she had held her present position. Indeed, when he wished to tease her, Gleam would compare her with a queen in an Old Earth constitutional monarchy, addressing her with mocking respect as 'Ma'am' and – to her considerable chagrin – occasionally curtseying to her in the crowded corridors of the parliament building. Now, with this crisis on his hands, such frivolity would be seen as wholly inappropriate. Instead of merely rubber-stamping the decisions of the HoloCorp board, the parliament, and Breeze's Ethics Committee in particular, would reassert itself, reassume its rightful position at the helm of New Planetary affairs. On the other hand, Breeze also felt despondent: the inactivity of her Ethics Committee betokened a degree of calm and continuity in New Planetary society that contrasted extremely favourably with the history of Old Earth, with all its waste, conflict and wanton destruction. Who knew what could happen if the people were suddenly given free rein? Much as she disapproved, in theory, of dictatorships, corporate or personal, vicious or apparently benign, she couldn't help feeling a sneaking affection for a system that had kept New Planetary society peaceful and prosperous for so long. The people might not be – strictly speaking – wholly liberated, but they all ate, they all lived to a ripe old age, they all had access to entertainment and instruction. In such a society, it was easy to ignore the naggingly persistent inner voice that told her that the people were free only to make HoloCorp rich and powerful, that their liberty consisted mainly of the right to choose between one HoloCorp product and another, and that she, as an Adept, preyed on their passivity, relied on it to provide the setting for her rich and varied life.

A discreet tinkling sound told her that her call to London, Earth, had been set up. She pressed a flashing button on her desk, and a wavering image appeared on a small, desk-mounted console: the head and shoulders of Simon Bland, owner of HoloCorp. He looked irritated; what little remained of his iron-grey hair stood up from his bird-like head in wisps and tendrils. He resembled a tetchy vulture, dragged reluctantly from a post-prandial snooze.

'Not quite your usual time, is it?' he complained, without preamble or social niceties.

Over the years, Breeze had learned never to apologize to the old man; he preferred a species of quickfire mutual rudeness that always reminded Breeze of Old Earth Cary Grant films to the smooth diplomatic blandishments favoured by some of her parliamentary colleagues. 'Unusual situation, unusual time,' she said shortly, hoping to put him on the back foot by piquing his curiosity.

It worked. 'Hmmm?' Bland's eyebrows rose to emphasize his monosyllabic enquiry, and his head tilted slightly, reminding Breeze of a terrier attempting to discern the faintest of whistles.

'Trouble in Paradise, I'm afraid, sir.' Breeze reserved this deferential term exclusively for Bland, as a tribute to his great age and in recognition of his extraordinary accomplishments; she also found it oddly comforting to adopt the speech pattern of a bygone, more structured social system, as if formally acknowledging Bland's position in it made her more secure in her own. She gave the old man a brisk summary of Thatch's excesses, mentioned Heather's bodysnatching activities, and briefly outlined Gleamïs proposed action.

Bland was always a careful listener, and he digested information slowly and thoughtfully before venturing to comment on it. His jaw working as if chewing her words over, he brought his reply out in stages, dealing with her speech point by point. 'Never quite trusted Thatch. Too damn sure of himself, always was. Cocky, bad listener. Spot of humble pie wouldn't do him any harm at all. No opposition from me on that one. Tell Gleam he has my support, but he must try not to get caught. I'm a long way away. May not be able to give him practical help.' Bland disappeared briefly from the console's frame, and a wheezing noise told Breeze that he was giving his tired old lungs a whiff of oxygen.

Knowing better than to enquire after his health, she kept her tone brisk and businesslike. 'I take it you feel the same way about Heather, sir?'

The oxygen had clearly reinvigorated Bland. He sounded almost perky as he replied: 'Ha! Unnatural behaviour from an unnatural woman. You must make her give that unfortunate woman's body back. I can help you with her. Thatch seldom listens to me, but she does. I'll send her a soft-soap message, tell her how well she's doing, lull her into a sense of false security. I'd also like to send you an authorization, a coded signal of my support, so you can show it if things go wrong. Might help. Any ideas?'

Breeze considered for a moment, then passed on the conspiracy's codeword: Guermantes. Bland chuckled, bringing on a fit of coughing. When he'd recovered sufficiently to reply, he said, 'A self-obsessed neurasthenic in a cork-lined room, waited on hand, foot and finger. I trust you're not being cheeky, young lady.'

'I'm nearly a hundred and fifty years old!' she snapped back in mock indignation. 'Besides, the similarities between you and Proust stop there: he was a kind, thoughtful man, by all accounts.

Bland gave a short bark of laughter. He loved being teased. 'All right. Put a HoloCorp wafer-chip in the console. I'll send you the codeword and my personal seal. If you get into trouble, it might help if you can show it. All my employees should snap to attention when they see it. Anything else?'

Breeze hesitated. The second prong of Gleam's conspiracy, involving flooding New Planetary society with original artwork, she knew would be more controversial to the old man. After all, his fortune, and that of his corporation, had been built on monopoly. HoloCorp owned not only all the consoles that catered for New Planetary information and entertainment needs, but also all the information and entertainment that they contained. They owned all the holoentertainment establishments on the themed planets. They collected rent from the residents of those planets, and revenue from the tourists who visited them. Competition from home-grown artists might fatally weaken the corporation's grip (Breeze resisted the word 'stranglehold', even in the privacy of her own mind) on New Planetary affairs.

No sense in beating about the bush. She took the plunge. 'There's also a growing feeling up here that the ban on the production of original art is stifling people. The Retreat in Jesuit is filling up with detainees whose only crime is to want to express themselves. Gleam and his friends want to put New Planetary art on to the HoloCorp consoles. I must say I agree with them.' A final touch of defiance wouldn't come amiss, she felt.

Another long #8211; and hideously expensive – pause, and then, to Breeze's immense relief, another wheezy cackle. 'Long overdue, in my opinion. Competition might ginger HoloCorp up a bit. I could just authorize it, but I think I'll just let it happen as you suggest. Let people think they've won a right rather than been granted it. Make them value it more. Surprised you, eh?'

'Not a bit, sir. Always knew you were a sweetie under that tough exterior.'

For an appalling moment, Breeze thought she might have gone too far, but then the familiar barking laugh came out of her console. 'The precise opposite of you, my dear. Keep me informed – reverse the charges if necessary.'

'Pardon?' Breeze was thrown by Bland's closing instruction.

'Old Earth custom from before your time. Just keep me in the loop, all right? And good luck. You might need it.' Bland's image faded from the console.

Pressing the eject button on her machine, Breeze carefully removed a small wafer-chip from a concealed slot. It bore a shiny holographic picture of Bland, which shimmered in the light; when tilted, the HoloCorp logo came into view, alongside the word 'Guermantes', tangible proof of the old vulture's support. Breeze hoped she'd never need to use it.

 

© Chris Parker 2006