Those other nations took various stances. Those allied most closely with the United States issued official statements condemning the “rebels” for terrorist acts, but refused to enforce trade embargos. The White House did not push for this. Foreign commentators pointed out, with various degrees of candor, that White House pushing might lead to a too-frank disclosure of just how heavily American allies depended on the pervasive international financing and genemod research controlled from Sanctuary.
Those countries currently not allied with the United States issued statements condemning both sides as moral barbarians with no respect for even their own laws or citizens, a line so expected and so familiar it roused little attention. Only Italy, once more socialist with the peculiarly chaotic, fatalistic flamboyance of Italian socialism, managed an original position. Rome announced that the Sleepless were the leaders in a new liberation of the working classes oppressed by American media governance, and that Sanctuary would lead the world in a new era of responsible use of newsgrids in the service of labor. This puzzling statement went largely unanswered, except in Italy.
A shuttle containing an international scientific coalition launched toward Kagura. Immediately demonstrators in the United States screamed that it not be allowed to return to Earth.
A Sleepless living alone in New York, an inoffensive little man who had shunned other Sleepless for fifty years, was dragged from his apartment and beaten to death.
Sanctuary beamed another message to the United States: “ ‘No man is good enough to govern another man without that other’s consent’—A. Lincoln.”
“That was for you,” Stella said angrily. “The Lincoln quote—it’s the wrong war. They’ve been mangling the Revolution, not the Civil War. Jennifer just put the Lincoln in there because you’re a Lincoln scholar!”
Leisha didn’t answer.
“For us to take over the orbital—just take it over, with no warning—would be as bad as Sanctuary’s releasing the virus on Earth with no warning,” Nikos said. He sent his string program to the other three buildings where Supers had gathered. The string was surprising for Nikos, who usually thought in bold strings with strong, clear cross-references. This string was delicately balanced, ethics and history and community solidarity carefully balanced, opposing values so almost equal that the shape was fragile with internal tension. The string was almost more characteristic of Allen than of Nikos. Miri studied it carefully. She approved of its pressured delicacy.
It meant Nikos was not that strongly committed to opposing her.
Christy said, “What if we gave them a warning?”
The idea had come up over an hour ago. But Christy’s string had new elements in it, drawn from military justification: Pre-emptive strikes versus clear-cut alternatives. The burden of blame in courts of war balanced with the options explored for peace. The weight of moral effort on the perceived extent of permissive force: Pearl Harbor. The Israeli homeland. Hiroshima. General William Tecumseh Sherman. The Paraguay Standoff. The Supers’ strings seldom included military history; Miri hadn’t known Christy’s memory had indexed these military stories enough to build strings on them.
“Yeeesss,” Nikos said slowly. “Yeessss…”
Ludie, only eleven, said, “I can’t threaten my mother. Not even indirectly!”
I could, Miri thought, and watched Nikos, and Christy, and Allen, and the unpredictable Terry.
“Yeeessss,” Nikos said. “And if—”
Strings of probability looped and knotted and spun.
“Will, there’s another group of citizens demanding admittance to the Council dome,” Councilor Renleigh said.
Sandaleros turned. “How did they get this far against the stay-inside order?”
“How?” Councilor Barcheski said, with some disgust; tensions were developing in the Council. “They walked. How many enforcers do you think you’ve got out there? And how afraid do you think our own citizens are of the ones you do have?”
Jennifer said calmly, “No one wants our people afraid.”
“They’re not,” Barbara Barcheski said. “They’re demanding to come in and talk to you.”
“No,” Sandaleros said. “When this is over, when we’ve got the independence from Earth—then we’ll talk.”
“When nobody cares what you did to get it,” Ricky Sharifi said. It was the first time he had spoken in three hours.
Caroline Renleigh said, “They’ve got Hank Kimball with them. I’ve worked with him on systems. The security field around the Council dome may not stand.”
Cassie Blumenthal looked up from her terminal. Her yellowish teeth gleamed. “It’ll stand.”
After a while, the protesters went away.
“Jennifer,” John Wong said, “Newsgrid Four is agitating heavily for a single nuclear surgical strike, blowing up Sanctuary and our ‘alleged detonators’ in one clean blow.”
Jennifer said, “They won’t do that. Not the United States.”
Ricky Sharifi said, “You’re relying on the decency of the beggars to win your war for you.”
“I think, Ricky,” Jennifer said composedly, “that if you remembered the events Will and I remember, you would not talk about the decency of the beggars. I think, too, that you should keep your further opinions silent.”
If her voice splintered a little, it was only a very little, and no one heard it but Ricky and Jennifer herself. Or, at least, no one acted as if they’d heard it.
Richard Keller had entered the holoroom so silently the others didn’t realize at first that he was there. He stood behind Stella and Jordan, far back against the wall, his dark eyes above the heavy beard deep and shadowed. Drew noticed him first. Drew had never much liked Richard, who seemed to him to have given up, retreated, although Drew couldn’t say from what. Richard, after all, had married again, had another child, traveled around the world, learning and working. Leisha, on the other hand, did none of these things. Yet it still seemed to Drew that Leisha, walled up in the desert, had not given up, and Richard had.
That made no sense. Drew wrestled with the abstractions a while longer and then, as usual, abandoned the attempt to think it out in words. Instead, he let cool shapes that were, and were not, Richard and Leisha slide through his mind.
Richard slouched against the wall, listening to strident newsgrid announcers scream for the death of the children he had not seen in forty years.
If the government blew up Sanctuary, Drew thought suddenly, Richard would still have Ada and Sean. And if Sean died in, say, some sort of accident—in Drew’s experience kids frequently died in accidents—then would Richard have another child, either with Ada or with somebody else? Yes, he would. And if that kid died, Richard would replace it with still another child. He would. And then another…
Drew began to see what it was that Richard, unlike Leisha, had given up.
“This is the President of the United States addressing Sanctuary, Incorporated.” Meyerhoff’s face, larger than life, filled the Sanctuary screen. Typical of Sleepers, Jennifer thought—they enlarged images, thinking that enlarged reality. In the Council dome, everyone not engaged in crucial monitoring gathered quickly around the screen. Najla bit her bottom lip and took a step toward her mother. Paul Aleone folded his hands tightly together.