CHAPTER FOUR  Loss of Confidence

They were dying before her eyes. Neshobe Kalzant stood on the observation deck and watched the stampede for the last shuttlecraft. They were shoving, screaming, shouting to get past each other, clawing at each other in a futile attempt to win one of the pathetically small number of seats on the shuttle—seats that were already taken, and already being defended by determined men and women at the shuttle hatch. Neshobe had counted at least four people crushed to death already.

The proud citizens of Solace were trampling one another in the rain-darkened night, forcing past one another in a futile attempt to get aboard what was merely rumored to be the last ship out. The public-address system bellowed its promises that there would be more transport on the way, that the rumors were false. But the crowd could not hear, or would not believe, the mechanical voice.

The storm shouted and thundered over and around the mob outside on the spaceport landing pad, and the rain surged in harder, pummeling the observation-deck window, making it all but impossible to see the madness outside.

For one brief, cruel moment, Neshobe wished that she herself could be on that shuttle. She could do it. Neshobe Kalzant’s word was law on Solace. She got what she wanted. Even now, at this late moment, she could give a quiet order to the spaceport guards, and they would bash through the crowd for her, let her take her place aboard that shuttle. She could get the devil off this miserable planet. Even in the midst of this mob, this chaos, none would have dared oppose her. No one could have stopped her.

Neshobe imagined the pleasure of getting herself into the ship and up into the clean sky, away from both the literal and figurative rot and stink of Solace.

She could leave. And she sorely wanted to do so. She all but spoke the words of-command, almost made the gesture with her hand that would have summoned the nearest guards. But she stood silent, motionless, instead. If her word was law here, it was because she held the law in high respect. Neshobe Kalzant had sworn to govern her people, and keep faith with them. She would do so—even as her people scratched and clawed each other to get aboard a spacecraft that wasn’t going much of anywhere anyway.

Neshobe felt ill. It had been a mistake to come to the spaceport. She had told herself that she needed to see this firsthand, but seeing the latest liftoff riot had served no useful purpose. Perhaps she had been attempting to assuage her own guilt. Instead, she had simply added a layer of shame and disgust over it.

There had been a run on the Planetary Bank of Solace two years before. The depositors had panicked because of their perfectly accurate perception that the bank’s supply of a valuable resource—money—was in short supply. The bank had responded by acting as if its cash reserves were ample to meet any contingency and calmly paying out all withdrawal requests in full—while frantically scrambling in the background to come up with secret short-term credits and bridge loans from every possible source. Most of the planet’s other financial institutions were happy to cooperate—for if the Planetary Bank had gone under, it would have taken a miracle to keep the rest of them from following her down.

The financiers met the shortage of natural confidence by manufacturing the artificial variety. After the immediate problem was resolved, after the institution had survived, they had started to worry about long-term survival and the need for reforms and tighter credit controls.

That was the way to go here, now, in this crisis. She turned toward the local guard commander. “Link me to Commander Raenau on Solace Central Orbital Station,” she said. “Voice only will do.”

The guard commander gestured to one of his troopers, who pulled a secure-line comm-pad from his equipment belt and spoke to it in a low whisper, doing call-and-response code clearances, working his way through the layers of subordinate humans and robotic Artlnts and intels that worked for spaceside ops.

Neshobe let the guard do his work on the comm-pad. She stepped forward closer to the reinforced glass of the floor-to-ceiling observation window and looked down on her people, looked down on the panicky rabble that was, sad to say, something close to a representative sample of the good people of Solace, or at least the working classes of Solace.

Solacian society was deeply stratified, and always had been, going back to the first days of the terraforming project. A small, well-to-do, and largely hereditary upper class of administrators, engineers, politicians, and space-based workers presided over a much larger lower class of less-educated small-plot farmers, semiskilled laborers, and, these days, a large leavening of Glistern refugees as well. Neshobe knew all about the history and traditions of her world, and how they had produced a strong tradition of paternalism in the upper classes, a sense of being obligated to the masses, while still being quite well aware of being superior to them. But knowing how her culture’s social patterns had come to be did not make them seem any less significant or meaningful.

She was sworn to protect those scared, angry people out there. Mob or no mob, it was her duty to serve them, and by all the Gods of Legend, she would do it, even if it got her killed—and some of them killed too, for that matter. Hard to.avoid that, if the members of her flock insisted on killing each other. The best Neshobe could do would be to keep the casualties to a minimum. And she thought she saw a way to do that.

“Commander Raenau,” the guard said, handing her the comm-pad.

“Thank you, Corporal,” she said, and took the pad. She pushed the stud that converted it to handset mode and held it to her head, the mike by her mouth and the speaker to her ear. “Commander, this is Planetary Executive Kalzant. We have a panic here. We need to shut it down.”

“Yes, Madam PlanEx, I guess you do.” The tone of his voice made it as plain as his words that he didn’t consider the groundside situation to be of any concern for a man in orbit.

“When I used the word we I was including you, Commander. In fact, you’re going to be the one who solves this problem for the rest of us.”

“Ma’am?”

“The panic here was set off by the rumor that we were going to order an evacuation of the population from the flooded-out areas to orbit, but that we didn’t because of a ground-to-orbit transport shortage. We need to convince the people it’s not true.”

“That might be a problem, ma’am. I can tell you right now that the part about the transport shortage is no rumor at all. Two of our heavy transports are in orbital dry-dock for maintenance checks.”

“Get them out,” Neshobe said. “Stop whatever work isn’t needed for safe ground-to-space operation, and get them back in service, along with every other transport you have. Put them all into round-the-clock shuttle service. Anyone who wants to go topside can. Anyone who wants to go groundside can. Relax the safety rules, and clear anything that can fly to orbit.”

“But ma’am—”

“And make it look easy, like your people aren’t even making an effort. Go all out, but don’t let the strain show.”

“But all the spaceside habitats are close to carrying capacity already,” Raenau protested.

Neshobe shut her eyes for a moment and let tiredness sweep over her. It occurred to her she had spent her entire term of office doing what she had just told Raenau to try doing—working like mad while making it look easy. “Get creative, Commander. Welcome anyone who wants to go topside—but don’t make them too welcome, or too comfortable. Put them in nice, clean, safe, uncomfortable, un-private barracks accommodations. Run the air pressure just a trifle thin, and the temperature just a little cool. Find some reasonable excuse for splitting up families—men in one tempo barracks, women in another. Don’t let it get out of hand, but let your people overcharge the groundsiders just a bit. And make sure everyone knows the ships are flying back empty.”

“I get the idea, ma’am. But it won’t come easy, or cheap. It’s going to run into a lot of overtime pay and emergency requisitions.”

“Whatever it comes to is going to be cheaper than having Solace City Spaceport wrecked and riots downtown,” she said. “Can you do the job, and get things coordinated with the groundside teams?”

Raenau sighed wearily. “Yes, ma’am. We can do it—but I can’t promise we’ll enjoy it.”

“Just see to it that the clientele doesn’t enjoy it either,” she said. “Kalzant out.”

She closed up the comm-pad, handed it back to the corporal, and turned her back on the view of the riot below. Without another word to anyone, she walked out of the observation lounge and back toward her private skycar. She stepped into the car, let the hatch seal shut behind her, and dropped.back into the luxurious upholstery. Privacy.

“Transport destination, instruct regarding,” the car said in the backwards syntax of Solacian Artlnts.

“Away,” said Neshobe Kalzant. “Out. To someplace clean.”

The car was tactful enough not to observe that that would require quite a long drive indeed.

Jorl Parrige told himself that he should have been a happy man as he knelt among his tomato plants and toiled in his garden. The sun was hot, the sky was blue and laced with lazy white clouds, the ground was warm and redolent of life and the smells of fertile earth and green plants.

Jorl Parrige, Grand Senyor of the Planetary Council and Legislative Member for the Riket’s Town Constituency, was a tall, broad-shouldered man, large rather than merely tall, his long grey-black beard adding much to his massively dignified appearance. Even now, kneeling in the dirt, wearing old gardening clothes and a battered, foolish-looking straw sun hat, his serious expression and deliberate movement preserved the aura of stateliness and steadiness he had so carefully built up around himself.

Parrige was a man who enjoyed his garden. There was peace in his garden, and life, and the comforts of home. But, unfortunately, there was also his personal assistant, Aither Fribart, standing just a meter or two away, wearing his formal working clothes and, worse, his formal working attitude.

“There was another altercation at Solace City Spaceport last night,” Fribart said—or, more accurately, announced. There was always something judgmental in the tone of Fribart’s reports, a disapproving note that seemed directed as much at Parrige as at the fools and yokels whose misbehavior had attracted Fribart’s attention. Just about everyone was a fool or a yokel, or worse, in Fribart’s estimation.

Parrige made no reply. The bees were not doing well this spring, but Grand Senyor Jorl Parrige almost did not mind. It meant he was compelled to hand-pollinate much of his garden, and he found the slow, delicate work to be soothing. Or he would have, if he had been permitted the chance to get on with it.

“I said there was another altercation at Solace—” Fribart began again.

“I heard you the first time,” Parrige said, glancing up at the sticklike figure of his assistant. Fribart was actually something above average height, but so thin and wiry that people took him to be much shorter than he was. He was dark-skinned, and, today, as usual, wore dark, drab formal colors, his knee breeches and leggings and frock coat and blouse all one shade or another of dark grey or brownish black.

There was something about Fribart that put Parrige in mind of a black-feathered, long-legged, predatory shore bird, stepping through the muck and mire of everyday life with absurdly overdone care and exaggerated caution. He was a bird who moved slowly and woodenly, watching everything, but then stabbed his beak down hard and fast into any tempting morsel of news that was fool enough to attract his attention.

“Well, sir, you did not respond the first time. How was I to know that you heard?”

There was a bit of discoloration on some of the leaves on this plant. Parrige took up his pruning shears and carefully cut away the stem that bore the offending leaves. “I don’t honestly care how you were to know,” he replied. “I don’t see that it makes any difference if I did hear or not.”

“Sir! This was a major disturbance. It was—”

“It was widely reported quite some hours ago by every news medium. I can read, you know, and I am capable of operating a viewscreen and comprehending the images on it. In short, there was, as usual, little point in your coming here to report what I already know.”

“But if you knew about it, surely it was your duty to act.”

“Act?” Parrige repeated, allowing a certain testiness to edge into his voice. He stood up and regarded his assistant closely. “Act? And what was I supposed to do? Bustle out to the spaceport and slap the rioters on the wrists? Shake my finger at the corpses and say I hoped that they had learned their lessons? Show up at security headquarters and disrupt their investigation by calling in a bunch of reporters and asking them to avoid disrupting the investigation? I suppose there were a great number of things I could have done, but none of them would have been useful. Did you know Madam Neshobe Kalzant was on the scene, an eyewitness?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Which is my point. She went out there to see the situation for herself. When she saw she could do no good, she got out of the way, called no attention to herself, and managed the situation from elsewhere. I took my cue from her. I suggest you do the same in future.”

Fribart sniffed audibly. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not regard Madam Kalzant as a role model. She is impulsive, and her actions are often rash.”

“Quite right,” Parrige replied as he moved along to the next plant. “And it is a good thing too.”

“Sir!” Fribart was genuinely shocked, as if Parrige was voicing approval for Neshobe Kalzant being degenerate or insane.

Parrige let out a sigh. He often wondered why he employed Fribart, but in his heart, Parrige knew the reason. Ironically, it was for moments precisely like this one. Fribart was rigid and cautious—every bit as rigid and cautious as the average Solacian. His reaction served as a highly reliable barometer of the average citizen’s reaction, whatever the circumstance. Oftentimes, as now, his behavior was immensely irritating, but it was at precisely those times that it was most informative.

Fribart’s scandalized reaction served to remind Parrige of how even an offhand remark could cause trouble. Parrige could just imagine the sort of thundering editorials and headlines that would have poured out of the various infostream centers if he had said any such thing in public.

PARRIGE  CALLS   KALZANT  RASH  AND  APPROVES.   PARRIGE CALLS FOR IMPULSIVE ACTION.

Parrige deliberately chose not to get out before the public very often. For the most part, that choice served him well. But there were times he could not avoid public speaking, and at such times, it was painfully clear how little skill and practice he had in the art.

Fribart, with all his rigid moods and prejudices, made a useful stand-in for the Solacian public. But it was best to remember that Fribart spoke to the public himself. “Perhaps,” Parrige said, “I could persuade you to rephrase that just a trifle when you speak of Kalzant in public. Say rather that she makes choices quickly, and acts decisively.”

“But sir—”

“I know this will be a novel concept for you, Fribart, but theory has it that, in your capacity as my spokesman, you are to express my thoughts, views, and attitudes—not your own. And I might also remind you to look beyond the end of your nose now and again. If Madam Neshobe Kalzant goes down, and brings the present government down with her, there will be chaos. I myself often do not agree with her. But she is all we have, and, for the moment at least, none of all her potential successors have anything like the political depth of support needed to build a new coalition.” Parrige raised his hand, open-palmed, to silence Fribart before he could speak. “And before you tell me, once again, how I myself am best suited to succeed her, let me say that I include myself when I say no one has the depth of support to build a new coalition. I don’t want her job, and even if I did, I would not be able to get it. Is that clear enough?”

“Yes, sir. But—” Fribart stopped, as if expecting to be interrupted again.

“Go on,” Parrige said. It did not do to bully one’s subordinates too far. Even ones like Fribart, who were so easy to bully, and who deserved it so much. The man had a right to say what he thought, at least now and again.

“Sir—I can say whatever you like about her style, her attitude. But—but, sir, she is sincerely dangerous.”

Parrige looked at Fribart in surprise. It was rare indeed for anything to break through the man’s control. Fribart was, quite suddenly, speaking with genuine passion—and genuine fear. “Dangerous how?” Parrige asked.

“Sir, I should think that was obvious. She has spoken many times, to many people, about the recent weather problems. She has said far too much. There is no doubt in my mind that she contributed to—perhaps even created— the panic that produced last night’s mob.”

“ ‘The recent weather problems,’ “ Parrige repeated. Remarkable what passed for thinking sometimes. “Is that how you refer to the situation? I should think ‘ongoing climatic crisis’ would sum it up better.”

“Surely, sir, the worst is over and past.”

“Is it indeed? That, I expect, will come as news to most of the climate people. Do you have any basis for that statement?”

“Things are bound to return to normal sooner or later.”

“Possibly so. But there have been people on this planet for something less than three hundred standard years, and it was only certified as fully terraformed a bit over one hundred years ago. There are researchers up on Greenhouse who would tell you the job still isn’t finished, and that is why the climate is so unstable. What would you describe as ‘normal’ for a presently life-bearing planet that was a lifeless ball of rock for the first niftety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of its existence?”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Parrige replied. “Please bear in mind that you do not the next time you feel the urge to discuss the matter with others.”

“Sir?” The hurt on Fribart’s face was plain to see.

Parrige sighed wearily. It was difficult to avoid bullying Fribart. The man all but invited it. At least he had broken through that barrier of haughty reserve. “Forgive me,” he said. “That was quite uncalled for. But my point is a valid one. We have not been on this planet long enough to know for sure what normal is. The terraformed climate itself has not been here long enough to establish a valid baseline. Some of our scientists on Greenhouse say there is good reason to think that it could be years before the climate restabilizes properly in a state that we would call normal. We could well be in for a prolonged period of violent and unpredictable weather in many inhabited areas—including the food-production areas. Unless we take the proper precautions, the people of Solace could be facing famine. Should Madam Kalzant simply ignore the problem in the hope that it will get better by itself?”

“Well, perhaps it will,” Fribart said. Parrige did not reply, but instead regarded his assistant with a steady and reproachful eye. At last Fribart gave in. “It’s unlikely, I grant,” he said. “And I suppose we can’t govern the planet by wishful thinking. But I still believe it is irresponsible of Madam Kalzant to stir things up as much as she does. I doubt you can argue with me on that point.”

Parrige bent down to collect his things. He put his trowel and his gardening shears back in his carry-basket, and straightened up. Enough for today. Best not to fuss too much over the flowers. Tend them too much and you could kill them.

He had not answered Fribart for the very good reason that he agreed with Fribart, and no doubt Fribart knew that he had scored a point. Madam Kalzant did stir things up too much. She was impulsive. But even if Parrige was unable to give Fribart any further argument on either point, neither could he give Fribart the satisfaction of hearing him concede.

“Fm done here,” he said, brushing the dirt from the knees of his trousers. “Come with me back into the house.”

Fribart nodded gravely and fell in step with him as Parrige walked toward the exit. Parrige paused a moment at the exit hatch. He always hated to leave his garden. It was not just that he regretted leaving the place where he was happiest. It was that the very act of leaving, the complicated process of going in and out, forced him to break out of his own denials and illusions. When it was time to leave, he could no longer pretend that all was normal, that the garden was as it once had been. He could no longer pretend he did not notice the bubble-dome, no longer pretend he could not hear the low hum of the atmosphere re-processor.

Fribart stepped into the airlock ahead of him, and Parrige, reluctantly, followed him in, taking one last breath of the fresh, fecund, moist air, one last indulgence in the scent of green and living things. He sealed the inner hatch and waited as the force-filter field activated.

There was breathable air on both sides of the lock, of course—but the air inside the garden dome was conditioned, humidified, ion-balanced, invigorating. The outside air was none of those things—and Parrige had no desire to expose his flowers to the rogue microbes and molds and parasites that seemed to be evolving into new and cruder forms with every passing day. The filter-field airlock kept the inner and outer air away from each other with all but perfect efficiency.

He looked down toward the floor of the chamber as the filter field came to life, a shimmering grey sheet of blank-ness that completely hid the bottom of the chamber from view. The filter field started moving upward, pushing the live air back up into the ceiling vents and back into the garden dome, and drawing in the dry, desiccated air of the outside world from the floor vents. The field flowed upward, looking like a pool of glassy-smooth grey water rising up around them. The field flowed around their bodies with the faintest tremor of contained power as the static charge flowed upward along with the field. The garden air rushed up around him, forced out by the filter field. Parrige watched as the field swallowed up his feet, his legs, his torso. It was impossible to force down altogether the sense of panic as the field rose toward his chest, his throat, his head. It was too easy to believe he was caught in the rising flood, that the water was swallowing him up and he was about to drown.

The field swept up over his face, and the feel of living air against his skin was gone. The harsh dry air of the outside slapped up against him. Parrige looked up to watch the field, still moving upward toward the ceiling of the chamber, where it paused, its work completed, before vanishing as if it had never been. The outer hatch swung open and the unfiltered light of the outside world poured in. They were out of the garden.

Fribart let out a sigh of completely undisguised relief and satisfaction as they stepped out into the too-harsh, too-bright, too-hot light of the unfiltered Solacian day and moved out into the death-dry air and the hot, dusty, brown landscape.

Was Fribart to be pitied because he preferred the harshness of the outside over the coddled confines of the garden dome? Fribart had found a way to pretend that the current climate suited him, and was the way it should be, even as he worried about its decline. Certainly that was foolish.

And yet, Parrige wondered, should he himself be the one to be pitied, or even reviled, for preferring to hide away in a simulation of the world as it no longer was, for pretending that all the world was as lovely as his garden?

“Tell me, Fribart. You don’t really prefer this shriveled landscape over my garden, do you?”

Fribart offered up the slightest of shrugs, the tiniest possible gesture of apology. “I suppose I do, sir. It is what I am used to. Perhaps, once the local climate recovers its normal state, I’ll find it too damp, too muggy—like your garden. If things had remained as they were, it might be that I would enjoy your garden. But whatever went wrong has already gone wrong. I have changed, and the world has too.” Fribart looked up into the sky, and Parrige followed his gaze.

The fat gleaming dot of Solace Central Orbital Station was plainly visible in the western sky. As they watched, a dot of light flared and moved away from the station as a large spacecraft of some sort launched itself.

“Big,” Fribart said. “Probably a timeshaft ship, a star ship,” he said.

“We don’t see many of those anymore,” Parrige said. “I remember when there were ships coming every few days, not every few months.”

“If only we could do what they do,” said Fribart. “The timeshaft ships drop back in time. Wouldn’t it be splendid if we could go back and fix the mistake or the problem, whatever it was that got us into trouble, and then come back?”

Parrige took an involuntary half step back from his assistant, as if he subconsciously expected a bolt of lightning to smite the man in two. “Dangerous talk, friend Fribart,” he said. “The Chronologic Patrol has little sense of humor. Don’t joke, even in private, about such things.”

Fribart blinked hard in surprise and turned his attention from the sky to his companion. His eyes widened in alarm. “What? Oh! No! No, of course not. You’re quite right, Master Parrige. Quite right. Forgive me.”

“Let us be on our way, then, and hear no more about such things.” Parrige was astonished by his companion’s behavior. Fribart was a conformist, if ever any man had been such a thing—and his whimsical little idea about using time travel to fix Solace was as black a heresy as any could be. There could not be any more dangerous thought. In literal fact, the interstellar transport timeshafts allowed for travel back through time, that much was true. But that was not what they were there for. There was no blacker crime than attempting to use the timeshafts to make a purposeful, intentional trip to one’s own past on one’s own world.

Paradoxes, changes to history, unintended consequences— it was impossible to imagine the chaos that would be unleashed by such an act, however well intentioned.

Things were worse than he believed, Parrige told himself. They had to be bad when as unimaginative and rigid a man as Fribart started fantasizing about the commission of desperate crimes in the pursuit of magical answers to their problems.

But the worst of it was this: A man like Fribart would dare imagine such things only after he started to believe, subconsciously at least, that there was no hope outside of desperation and magic.

If even men like Fribart were starting to think that way, then, it seemed to Parrige, things could not hold together very much longer.