Part 31 (1/2)
Their second was failing to establish some kind of customs system.
A group, recently expelled from Europa for attempting to ”grow” democracy in alien societies that couldn't understand the concept, needed a new home. Their leader, one Jorge Bouyzon, somehow located Sahara Dome, targeting its export business and its new industries, believing that his group could take over the growing government there.
Bouyzon's big mistake was announcing his intention the moment he and his band of two hundred settlers arrived in Sahara Dome. The settlers took over an abandoned church at the far end of the Dome, and began buying property in the as-yet-unexpanded section of the Dome.
Scott-Olson skipped through the year of back-and-forths. What became clear, as she looked, was that Bouyzon refused to negotiate. When he needed something, he cajoled, threatened, or outright stole it.
The citizens of Sahara Dome hated this new group, and soon worried that the group would overtake the Dome. Bouyzon's people called that democracy-asking for free and fair elections, knowing that their large numbers would at least gain them a few seats on the growing council.
But as the elections were being held, a number of citizens were attacked. Others ”lost” their children for a few days, only to have the children returned with a message. Still others were directly told not to register to vote.
It became clear that the ”free and fair” elections would go to Bouyzon and his cronies in a landslide.
Allard, in his memoir, tried to dispute this. He claimed this part of the record was a distortion-that his family and his people were good people with only the best intentions for Sahara Dome, that Sahara Dome's government was corrupt, and that the beatings came not from Bouyzon and his friends but from the Dome's own government.
The truth was lost somewhere in the middle. Scott-Olson didn't have time to ferret it out. But what she did discover was that Sahara Dome's original population decided to take matters into their own hands.
In a secret meeting held late one night, Sahara Dome's council approved a vigilante committee to ”take care of Bouyzon and his group. Some on the council objected strenuously to the use of violence, and the fact that children were involved. So the new committee and its leaders brokered a truce within the council: Children four and under would not be harmed. Instead, they would go to a foster home and then be farmed out to relatives off-world. The leftover children- those without family elsewhere-would go to a mission off-world and be raised with the stipulation that they could never return to Mars.
Somehow this satisfied the council, many of whom did not want to know what exactly the vigilante committee was going to do.
Da Ponte claimed that the vigilante committee lied to the council, knowing that no one would approve the real plan. The real plan was simple: They took families from the Bouyzon group one at a time, under guard, to a pre-dug hole at the edge of the Dome. The hole was deep, da Ponte said, because that way the good citizens of Sahara Dome wouldn't smell what hid beneath the sand.
The vigilante committee made entire families stand inside that hole, then shot the family members one at a time, from oldest to youngest. Sometimes parents would crumble, clutching a still-breathing baby in their arms.
The vigilante committee would then go into that hole and remove the living children, not bothering to wipe the blood from them as they took the children to the so-called foster home.
My older brother - -he was six - -stood next to me, Allard said in one of his vid interviews, his lower lip shaking. Allard said in one of his vid interviews, his lower lip shaking. He took my hand. He took my hand.
Already they had killed more than a dozen families - - people we all knew. They were lying in the orange dirt, most of their middles gone. The committee's weapons were designed for maximum hurt. The wounds weren't small like those made from most laser weapons. They blasted holes in the center of people, covering everyone around them in warm, sticky goo. people we all knew. They were lying in the orange dirt, most of their middles gone. The committee's weapons were designed for maximum hurt. The wounds weren't small like those made from most laser weapons. They blasted holes in the center of people, covering everyone around them in warm, sticky goo.
My sister-she was ten - -she screamed at them to stop, stop! as first my father, then my mother fell to the ground, covered in their own blood.
Da Ponte had paused then, put a hand to his mouth, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked down, unwilling to stare at the camera any longer.
It was that motion, more than any other, that convinced Scott-Olson this elderly man was telling the truth.
They shot and shot and shot - -my sister went down screaming at them - -and then they turned the gun on my brother. He wet himself - -I could smell it - -but said nothing. His fingers dug into mine. They shot and - - Da Ponte's voice broke. He shook his head, and the vid cut off there. Later, all he added was: For the longest time, they thought I was dead too. For the longest time, they thought I was dead too.
A little boy, less than four years old, his family dead around him, surrounded by maybe fifty other bodies of friends and adults he had known all his life, lying in the sand, clutching his dead brother's hand.
Scott-Olson stopped there. She couldn't take any more.
She didn't know how long she sat there before Nigel opened her door.
”They're starting,” he said.
It took her a moment to understand him. She was thinking of a vigilante committee and humans so intent on protecting their little piece of ground that they had murdered children.
”Doc?” Nigel said. ”Did you hear me?”
She nodded, then realized what he was talking about. The bodies were coming in. From the latest disaster.
There'd be dead children here, too.
She stood up. She was shaking as badly as da Ponte had been when he recorded that remembrance. How did anyone clean the stain of that from his soul?
Maybe the Disty were on to something. Maybe some events did contaminate a place forever.
She stepped out of her office. A dozen techs carried bodies inside. Male, female, human, Disty, adult, child.
Her work had finally begun.
48.
The hour had come and gone, and they had no solution. Jefferson sat on the tabletop in the session room, surrounded by Disty and humans, and a handful of other top officials in the Alliance-Peyti, Nyyzen, Ebe-none of whom seemed to follow the Disty protocol, with bare feet and table sitting.
He felt like a fool. He had felt like one ever since Number Fifty-six had had his apparent change of heart-supporting the Moon boycott, a boycott that had spread to Earth (not that that was any surprise-no one expected Earth to welcome Disty refugees).
Number Fifty-six sat across from him, looking less perturbed than he had when Jefferson first arrived-if, of course, Jefferson was reading Fifty-six correctly. The Disty were being as mysterious as ever, but it felt like they were working together.
The temperature in the room had risen, and Jefferson's feet weren't as cold as they had been. His stomach started growling an hour before and he longed for food, but knew better than to eat in front of a Disty.
The negotiation looked like it would never end.
Jefferson set an information pad in the middle of the table. Then he took his hand off the pad, so that he wasn't touching it or the screen when Number Fifty-six picked it up. That would offend the Disty outrageously.
Jefferson nodded at the information he called up. He said in English, ”We can't find any available land anywhere in this solar system. Not that's big enough or free enough of Disty to take on this refugee crisis.”
”Our information is the same,” Number Fifty-six replied in the same language.
”Then we started looking for empty s.p.a.ce stations,” Jefferson said, ”even some old, still-working generation s.h.i.+ps that we could supply with food and other needs for your people. We have found no one thing big enough, but there are a few combined-”
”How would you propose that we transfer our people there without contaminating anyone else?” Fifty-six asked.
”It would have to be an in-s.p.a.ce transfer. The generation s.h.i.+p, for example, would be towed to your people's location, then left there. They'd have to transfer on their own.”
”Most of these Disty have no s.p.a.ce experience,” Fifty-six said. ”This is a tricky maneuver.”
”I know.” Jefferson nodded to the pad again, trying not to point. Pointing was also considered rude. ”We could just fill some s.h.i.+ps with supplies, and transfer them over until this crisis ends.”
”Thereby contaminating those s.h.i.+p's crews,” Fifty-six said.
”We could use some automation,” Jefferson said. ”It might work. We have-”
”As I said.” Fifty-six spoke curtly. ”Most of these Disty have no s.p.a.ce experience. They won't know how to get the supplies out of the airlock without risking their own lives. We prefer a single transfer to a safe place, which would then allow us the leisure to settle our differences with you, and solve the problems on Mars itself.”