Final count, fifteen million people. The entire human species, represented in a two-page list. That was definitely a downer, and Arthur was not letting the opportunity pass him by.
“We’re not going to be able to get them all off-planet, you know.” Arthur shook his head, eyes downcast.
I wondered if he was really sad, or reveling in the irony. I sat back, put an arm over the back of my chair, and gazed at him in silence until he stopped.
“Arthur…”
“Yes?”
“Please shut the hell up.”
Arthur gave a half-grin and a shrug by way of response. “You know I’m right.”
“Yes, and you were right the last twenty-five tis you said it. Are you keeping score?”
Arthur shrugged and, without another word, popped up the latest Construction Status report. Ah, blessed silence, at last.
Just the sa, I couldn’t really bla him.
We’d accounted for every group of people larger than about a hundred on the planet, with very high confidence. It seed very likely that groups smaller than that simply couldn’t survive, or had seen the advantages of joining larger groups. There’d definitely been consolidation. A few locations actually had a higher population now than they had pre-war.
About half of the global population was currently living in New Zealand, Madagascar, and, strangely, Florianópolis, Brazil. The two island nations made sense. They hadn’t really been part of any conflict, and didn’t represent strategic targets. Their populations were way down, but their climates were still mild enough to maintain the current numbers.
Florianópolis was a weird one. Most of South Arica was a blasted, jagged moonscape. Between Brazil pounding their neighbors, and China pounding Brazil, there was very little livable land left. But for so reason, the southern tip of Brazil had been spared. It was likely that the population had been augnted by refugees coming in from other areas.
The rest of the global population was scattered around the planet. A lot of people had ended up in island clusters, such as the Maldives, French Polynesia, Marshal Islands, and so forth. Again, probably not pri targets, and their climates would be comfortable for the longest.
Then there were the marginal locations, such as Spitsbergen island, San Diego, Okinawa, and the USE enclave outside Augsburg, Germany. It seed likely that a lot of the current populations had migrated there over ti. And mortality must have been significant for the first couple of years.
It would be our job to keep them alive. I hadn’t discussed it yet with the others, but I’m sure it had occurred to them… Fifteen million people couldn’t be moved off-planet in any reasonable ti, even if we had a destination. Most of these people would have to be kept alive on Earth.
And according to the colonel, over the last decade or so the climate had begun to degrade significantly. Each year had less sunlight, lower temperatures, more snow. The ice caps and glaciers were growing again, for the first ti since the 1600’s. Spitsbergen in particular probably didn’t have more than five years left, even given their innovative adaptations. Our current projections, admittedly rough, showed the Earth completely encased in glaciers within fifty to a hundred years.
I looked over at Eeyore, I an Arthur. He knew what I was thinking, and he didn’t have to say anything. At least he had the decency to not gloat.
“Okay, Arthur. I get it. We have to organize these groups, and try to get so cooperation. How are you doing with communication?”
Arthur gave one of his rare smiles. “The drive-in-movie-sized holographic presentation helped a whole bunch. People couldn’t turn it off or smash it, so they had to listen. The next ti we dropped off a communicator, we got almost no breakages or assaults. I think we still only have five places that won’t accept contact, and they’re not big.” РÀɴỒ฿Ës
“And they’ll probably join once they find out everyone else has. Good. Let know when everything is tested and ready, and we’ll issue invitations to the first eting of the new United Nations.”
***
I don’t know what could possibly have made think this was a good idea. I sat with my elbow on the armrest, forehead in my hand, while the delegates displayed complete contempt for Robert’s Rules of Order. At any mont, at least a half-dozen people were yelling into their caras, trying to drown out the others. Thirty-eight different video windows, displaying miniature, gesticulating, yelling dervishes, floated in the air before . It would be funny if the fate of the world wasn’t resting on this group. Every candidate had the sa view as myself; and yet not one was cringing with embarrassnt.
Oh, there was so consensus, so it wasn’t a complete loss. For instance, many groups hated the idea that the USE enclave would be getting off-planet first, even though the USE had been the first to contact us and supplied the plans for the colony ships. Even more groups were incensed at the Spitsbergen group’s demand that they be given priority because of their tenuous situation.
And everybody was beyond apoplectic that the Brazil group was even allowed in. Brazil was generally considered to have started the war, and everyone was holding a grudge. Couldn’t say I entirely disagreed, but most of the people in Florianópolis were under the age of ten when the war started, if they had been born at all. Nevertheless, Brazil.
I looked over at Hor’s video feed. He had fallen over, laughing. I spared him a small smile. Over the last little while, I’d started to understand where Hor’s humor was coming from. He was laughing less at the people themselves than the utter ridiculousness of the situation. When push ca to shove, he’d give his all to help.
I decided I’d given them enough rope. Ti to rein things in. I pressed the override button. Imdiately, every delegate’s microphone was cut off, every communicator emitted a loud air-horn sound, and every video feed switched to an image of .
“Ladies and Gentlen, and I use those terms loosely, we’re done for the day. We’ll be signing in tomorrow, at the sa ti, but with shiny new rules. Your microphones will only be active when the chairperson—that’s for the mont—recognizes you. If you’d like the other mbers to watch you having a fit in pantomi, that’s fine too. Let say up front that I don’t care if you don’t like it. Good night.”
I hit the end button and all sessions were closed.
I leaned back in my chair with a groan, while Hor climbed back into his and tried to catch his breath.
“Wow, number two, that was intense. Those are so thoroughly pissed-off people.”
I waved a hand in dismissal. “On the one hand, Hor, these are people fighting to get into a lifeboat while the ship sinks. I can sympathize. On the other hand, their behavior is not helping things along.”
“They’re just passengers, Riker,” Hor said in a serious tone. “They feel helpless, they feel like their fate is being decided by soone else without their input. You need to give them sothing to do, so way to contribute. So way to feel like they’re controlling their destiny, at least a little bit.”
Huh. That was actually very perceptive, and my opinion of Hor took another small ratchet upwards. My handling of the situation, truthfully, had probably been less than ideal, but this didn’t resemble any job description I’d ever had.
Hor began to pace, sothing I don’t think I’d ever seen. “Look, Riker, you have to ease up on them. These people are scared, and you aren’t giving them any reason to believe that you care about their concerns. You aren’t actually the Star Trek character, you know. You need to loosen up a little.
“Chrissake, Hor, you actually think fifteen million people are going ballistic because I don’t smile enough? I get it about them being scared, but their reactions are their responsibility, not mine. You want to do a cody routine, feel free. Bring back your cartoon avatar. That should be good for so laughs. Or not. When you’re done, they’ll still be at each other’s throats, and maybe we can go back to trying to actually fix things.”
Hor stared at for a few monts, then shook his head and disappeared. Okay, maybe I’d laid it on a little thick, and I probably owed him an apology, but I just didn’t have ti for this.
***
“The chair recognizes the delegate from Maldives.”
A green light ca on over the delegate’s image, and she visibly made an effort not to adjust her clothing. “Mr. Riker, we do not appreciate your high-handed actions yesterday…”
She berated for several minutes. Typical politician. Never use ten words when a thousand will do. I waited patiently until she was done, then took the floor.
“Representative Sharma, I didn’t enjoy shutting you down yesterday any more than I enjoy chairing these etings in general. I’d like the delegates to self-police. But at the sa ti, there are decisions that must be made in a tily manner. You don’t have the luxury of a free-for-all. So, here’s the thing. I want you—as in the assembly—to decide how a chairperson will be picked, whether they’ll have control over the microphones, and so on. Once that’s done, I will sit back and be just another delegate. How does that sound?”
There was stunned silence for a mont, then everyone started talking at once. Then another mont of stunned silence as they realized I’d turned on all the microphones, followed by general laughter.
When order had been restored, the delegate from the Maldives, still smiling, said, “Point well taken, Mr. Riker. Leave it to us. We’ll hamr sothing out.”
I nodded to her and took myself offline.
***
I looked at my call queue. A dozen calls from various delegates awaited . Wonderful.
The first was from the FAITH enclave in San Diego. I really didn’t know what to expect. It was generally known that I was a FAITH interstellar probe, but I’d been going to great lengths to make it clear that I was a sentient, independent entity. Well, only one way to find out.
“Good day, Minister Cranston. What can I do for you?”
“Good day, replicant. I wanted to talk to you about your duty.”
“It’s Riker, and I’m very aware of my duty. I have fifteen million people depending on . That’s never very far from my mind.”
“You have a duty to FAITH, over and above that. You were built by us, you owe your existence to us. I expect to see our group get a more favorable treatnt in the future.”
Wow. Dude was blunt, anyway. I hadn’t been looking forward to the typical dancing-around-the-point conversation that people called ‘diplomacy’. I guess this was better. Sort of.
“Not going to happen, minister.”
“That’s not your decision, replicant.”
“Well, actually it is. That’s what cos from being an independent sentient entity. And you might want to work on your social skills. Good day, minister.”
Before he could respond, I cut off the connection.
The next one was from the leader of the Spitsbergen island refuge. This would be a difficult conversation. The Spits enclave would very likely be the first place to beco uninhabitable.
“Good day, Mr. Valter.”
Gudmund Valter blinked owlishly at the video. Ex-military, he had an abrupt style that would have sunk him in traditional politics but that was well-suited for this post-apocalyptic world.
“Good day, Mr. Riker. I, of course, am calling to press the case for my people. You have hopefully by now received our food production projections for the winter upcoming. It is not well, not well at all.”
“I know, Mr. Valter. And I reiterate that I will not let people starve. However, bumping your group up in the emigration queue isn’t the answer. That’s still maybe a decade off. We should be concentrating on more short-term solutions.”
“Hope is part of that short-term solution, sir. We can hold on if we know there is an end in the sight. At the mont, most of my people expect to be dead, one way or another, before our turn cos.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. The Spits were a relatively small group—perhaps four thousand people—who had managed to survive on the island of Spitsbergen. Their techniques were impressive, involving intensive agriculture during the arctic sumrs, combined with seal-hunting and reindeer herding to provide enough calories. But the deteriorating climate was making their job harder every year. They might have another decade or two, at most, before it beca impossible.
“Mr. Riker, have you knowledge of the Svalbard Global Seed Vault and the Svalbard Global Genetic Diversity Vault?”
The na was familiar. I did a quick library dive. The Svalbard Global Seed Vault had been built in 2008, which was why I’d heard of it. It was intended as a backup seed bank for other national seed banks. According to the library, in 2025 the Svalbard Trust had expanded the mandate of the Seed Vault to include all species of plant, dosticated or not, from dandelions to sequoias. They’d also established the Genetic Diversity Vault to store animal genetic material.
I was stunned, and sat frozen for almost a hundred milliseconds. This was huge, and Valter knew it. The viability of a colony would increase trendously with even a fraction of what was in those vaults. Uh, assuming they were still there.
Valter wouldn’t have noticed my hesitation at the human tiscale. “Yes, I’m familiar with it from the historical records, sir. Is it still in existence?”
“It is, sir, unlike I would imagine, most of the other vaults around the planet. We did not get rocks and nuclear weapons dropped on us.”
“So…” I was pretty sure there was a punch line coming.
“So, the utility is obvious for colonists. We have it, you need it. Unless you can find one of the other vaults. Think on that, Mr. Riker. Assu any implied threat you care to. We will discuss this further in a few days upcoming.”
And with that, Mr. Valter nodded to , reached forward out of fra, and ended the connection.
Well, that was one fine pickle. I looked at the remaining calls still on hold. I couldn’t see any that needed imdiate handling, so I instructed Guppy to take a ssage from each and to promise that I would phone them back. Guppy made an excellent secretary slash receptionist. His appearance was off-putting enough so that people didn’t stay online long, and he was absolutely unfazed by bullying, threats, bribery, or insults. Great poker face, too.
I sent out a connection request to Colonel Butterworth. This was going to be one of those good news, bad news things.
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