The board members stared at him blankly. If they weren’t interested in the fundamental goals of the Garden Earth Project, what hope was there? “What are you planning to do?” he bellowed. “Defrost them and say, sorry, we changed our minds?”
They didn’t even blink. He couldn’t believe it. He gaped at them in bewilderment: Chapwoman, whose company supplied the Oships with heavy extruders and particle target electronics; Jaspersen, whose Borealis Botanicals stocked them with zoological and botanical libraries; Fagan’s automated hospitals and rejuvenation tech; Adam Gest’s shipyards at Trailing Earth; and on and on. They all had a piece of the Oship pie, even Zoranna, his only ally, who owned Applied People, which provided the clone labor and security.
“Seeing no further discussion,” Jaspersen said, “all in favor?”
Meewee buried his head in his hands. A dozen years of ceaseless struggle for nothing. His bitterness knew no bounds, but then a voice spoke to him, Call a point of order.
Arrow? he said, looking up. It didn’t sound like his mentar. It sounded like Zoranna’s mentar. Nick?
Yes, it’s me, Merrill Call a point of order quickly before the vote is taken.
“Point of order! Point of order!” Meewee said.
“What is it now, your grace?” Jaspersen said with exasperation.
Meewee waited several long moments for Nicholas or Arrow or someone to prompt him. When no one spoke up, he took a stab at it himself. “When this issue came up the first time, Eleanor vetoed it. Eleanor is no longer with us, and I don’t presume to possess a fraction of her persuasive talent.” Meewee paused, treading water, while the members’ expressions glazed over. Several of them were obviously conducting other business through their mentars while this meeting dragged on.
“What exactly is your point of order?” said Jaspersen.
“I’m coming to that,” Meewee said and added, Nick?
Chapwoman’s motion is disallowed under the GEP mission statement.
“Chapwoman’s motion is disallowed under the Garden Earth Project Consortium Mission Statement,” Meewee said and went on to quote the mission statement from memory: “The Garden Earth Project shall resettle humans outside Sol System in exchange for enforceable title and user rights to real estate on Earth.”
Jaspersen said, “And how does the mere issuance of an RFP contradict that?”
Meewee didn’t have a clue, but he tried to bluster his point across, “Do I have to spell it out for you, Myr Chair? Why don’t we skip the sparring and cut to the chase?”
Jaspersen looked bewildered. “I’m not sure I know what chase you mean, Meewee, but go ahead and cut to it if that’s what you want.”
But Nicholas remained silent until Meewee pleaded, Please?
Bylaw 13, paragraph 3.
“Bylaw 13, paragraph 3,” Meewee said.
Also bylaw 13, paragraph 26.
“Also bylaw 13, paragraph 26!” Meewee said defiantly. The discussion stalled while the members’ mentars glossed them the relevant passages. Meewee waited for a gloss, himself. Nick? Arrow?
“Bylaw 13, paragraph 26?” Jaspersen said. “Are you sure? We have a super quorum. We’re all here. How can you get any more quorum than that?”
Trina Warbeloo said, “I’m afraid he’s right, Saul, and I’m embarrassed to say I missed it. To take any action, even issuing an RFP, for activities not covered by our mission statement requires a super quorum, which requires ten of us to be in the same physical location in realbody.”
“In realbody? Who ever set up a stupid rule like that?”
“Eleanor did, and by extension, so did we.”
“Fine, fine,” Jaspersen said. “I’ll table the Chinas motion—for now. And I’m calling a mandatory realbody meeting for this Thursday, here at the Starke Enterprises’ headquarters, to begin at 9:00 AM sharp local time.”
There were loud objections around the table.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Chapwoman.
“This is not a good time to travel,” Andie Tiekel said.
“I would never have voted for you if I thought you were going to pull a stupid stunt like that,” said Warbeloo.
“Nonsense,” said Jaspersen. “It’s safe, and I’ll be traveling as far as anyone here.”
“Please tell me,” Adam Gest said, “how you’re traveling as far as me. I’m at Trailing Earth. Isn’t this what holopresence was invented for?”
“Fine, fine,” Jaspersen said. “In the interest of members’ personal security, I am setting the realbody meeting date to four weeks from today. That’ll give us time for things to settle down. Any objections? Seeing none, I send it to the calendar. Does anyone have agenda items for that meeting? I’ll go ahead and place the first one, namely: Let’s revisit our mission statement that Meewee is so fond of quoting.”
Meewee felt the words like a slap across the face. They had decided they no longer needed a goodwill ambassador, which meant that when they met again in four weeks they would vote him off the board and gut the project entirely.
The other members were mollified, and the meeting began to wind down. Suddenly, there was a frisson in the room, and Jaspersen’s buoyant expression fell.
“It has come to my attention,” he said, none too happily, “that Cabinet has passed probate and wishes to join us. Any objections?”
Cabinet? Meewee looked around the room. “Cabinet’s through probate?”
2.6
“Cabinet?” Fred Londenstane said. He seemed to recall a valet by that name.
“Yes,” Inspector Costa said, “one of the highest-value mentars in the solar system. Its sponsor, Eleanor Starke, has just been declared irretrievable, so it’s probate time for the pastehead.”
Oh, that Cabinet, Fred thought. It had been—what?—half a century since he had pulled duty for the Starke household. That was before valets had evolved into today’s mentars, but Cabinet had been an impressive AI even back then. And Starke was dead?
“Are you sure? Something that big I think I would’ve been briefed.”
“It’s classified for another hour or so. Someone way over my head is keeping a lid on it for who knows what political advantage.”
“Anyone else hurt?” Fred asked.
“There were no russies involved, if that’s what you mean,” Inspector Costa said with a smirk. Smirking made her look a bit like a lulu.
Fred sat in a scape booth at the Chicago headquarters of the Beneficent Brotherhood of Russ on North Wabash. He was finishing up a week of duty as acting commander of the watch for the regional branch of the HomCom, and Costa’s scape was only one of about a dozen he was juggling. There were four more live meetings in which he appeared in different uniforms, depending upon the venue and nature of his involvement, and he was feeling stretched a little thin.
“Why me?” he said. “I’m doing commander of the watch today.”
“Exactly,” said Inspector Costa. “A big fugitive requires a big cop.”
“Cabinet is resisting probate?”
“Let’s just say it’s not being very cooperative.”
Nevertheless, it was Fred’s option to pass the assignment on to another officer of equal rank, and he felt inclined to do so.
“I say, Myr Russ,” said a voice from another scape. “Hello?” It was Myr Pacfin, chair of the 57th World Charter Rendezvous Organizing Committee for which Fred was chief of security. “I would rather expect your full attention for a matter of this magnitude.” Pacfin crossed the arms of his lime-brick-avocado-colored jumpsuit.