Garrett tried to picture this arrangement. “So you, a stranger, give us money, and you get a semi-permanent robot presence on Castor, powered by big solar panels you buy to cover all our walls with?”
“Not the walls — the waves. The stuff floats and crinkles to absorb wave energy too, and we’ll feed the power back here.”
“On the water? You’d need a lot of it for significant power.”
Tess shrugged. “A few acres’ worth.”
“Acres!” Garrett grabbed pen and paper and did estimates. That was significant energy for a tiny platform. But he forgot the numbers when another thought struck him. “So, this stuff would be a huge crumpled sheet, with patterns of electricity flowing through it?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
Garrett couldn’t speak for a moment. Then: “My God, it’s like a brain.”
The sharks came quickly.
“YOU HAVE BEEN SUED IN COURT. IF YOU DO NOT RESPOND YOU MAY LOSE IMPORTANT RIGHTS. TAKE THIS PAPER TO YOUR LAWYER IMMEDIATELY.”
“National Coalition for Fair Economic Management, Gaian Defense League, Planeteer Youth, and Hands Off Our Sea; Plaintiffs…”
“Defendant refuses to be operated in a responsible manner; Defendant violates its duty of care to the eco-social market economy; Plaintiffs continue to suffer irreparable harm; WHEREFORE Plaintiffs seek judgment…”
Garrett tasted acid; he wanted to vomit. “I was taught that lawyers are like prostitutes: both are best avoided, and for money they’ll assume any position.”
“We’ll see that soon, too,” said Tess.
He looked up from the documents. “You keep harping on that.”
“We shouldn’t be allowing brothels. It’ll be awful having them around.”
“I’m not happy about it either, but it could be the difference between loss and profit.”
“But you said you didn’t care about money.”
“Loss means I fail.”
“But maybe we could get help, you know, from the government. There’s got to be a grant program we can wedge into if we play it clean.”
“I don’t want to do any wedging. We’ll end up as a government project. You saw the original plans; we couldn’t do this at all if we had to operate within the official regulations. We’d have been stopped before we even started by lawsuits like these.” He sighed and waved the computer in his hands. “I don’t even know what half this stuff means! It’s like a fifty-page death threat in Latin. Couldn’t these people have put a horse head on my pillow instead?”
Martin came downstairs. Garrett greeted him wearily, then said, “How about this reply for them? ‘Attention concerned citizens: Get bent.’”
Lack of sleep was taking its toll on Martin too. “It was inevitable that we’d get sued for existing.”
“What does your psychohistorical plan say about getting out of it?”
“Shut it,” Martin snapped. “You’re the one who decided to play arch-capitalist before we had any political clout to back it up.”
“I don’t give a damn about capitalism. I want to do my job in peace and not be robbed and jailed for it.”
“Same thing.” Martin spread his hands. “You’re an actor, Fox. What’s your role?”
“Huh?”
“You’re a public figure. What do you stand for? Look at these lawsuits and the media coverage. You’re being made out as a criminal against God, Nature and Society and you crouch here saying, ‘Nuh-uh’. If you don’t take some kind of stand, you’ll be portrayed as others want to portray you.”
“I did take a stand. That’s why we’re in hot water.”
“No, you said you abdicated responsibility, because you couldn’t be bothered to live up to ‘modern’ moral standards. Pick a stronger role, Fox, or get assigned one you’ll hate. Possibly with a prison-orange costume.”
Tess cleared her throat. “While you boys were arguing, we found a law firm willing to defend us for free.”
17. Pierpont
His disillusionment came quickly, the autumn when his heart was torn out.
Jarvik Pierpont could hardly run the hotel anymore. He’d become an old man over the last few months, and he hated the change. Ragged breaths as the climbed the stairs, sore muscles from stripping sheets from beds, dizziness from pacing behind the counter. Dottie never complained, and always picked up the slack, but he felt himself resenting her endless patience and hating himself for feeling that way. He couldn’t rely on his wife and be an invalid; he’d sworn to provide for her.
She made him go to the doctor even before the legally required annual checkup. That visit had sent him across town to his son’s office.
“I need a new heart,” Pierpont said. The young man sat at a walnut desk with a photo of Pierpont’s grandkids. Seeing it made Pierpont feel old, like he’d already fulfilled his purpose in life and could be thrown away.
The son leafed through Pierpont’s file. “I didn’t know it was this bad, Dad.”
Pierpont swallowed. He needed to be strong. “I was told I’ve got maybe six months.” A lifetime of hard work and hard play had caught up with him. “But I’ve been reading about the latest research. I can be fixed.”
The son folded his hands. “I wish it were that simple.”
“I know it’s complicated surgery. But we’re all covered, thanks to men like you.”
“Yes. But… the National Health Service is hard pressed. Congress isn’t giving us the funding we need.” His voice took on an edge. “And those God-damned corporations aren’t paying their fair share. And the doctors are bitching about not being able to gold-plate their Lexuses. And now with the riots, funding for everything is up in the air.”
“What are you saying?”
“I can’t do my job properly. We need more power, more authority to centralize things and keep costs down.”
Pierpont nearly forgot about his own problem. “Is the job that bad, son?”
A sigh. “No. Not always. Things feel out of control, and it scares me. I’m doing the best I can to keep people healthy.”
“You’ve got a chance to help me, at least.”
The young man stared at his hands. “We have to set limits. Allocate scarce resources and all that. There aren’t enough hearts in the world.”
Pierpont’s own heart beat a little faster, using up time. “Are you saying I’m not covered after all?”
“There aren’t enough donors and there are limits on the vat-grown type.”
“I could pay a bounty.”
“You can’t buy and sell human organs. That’s immoral. And people are too selfish to opt-in to the donation program.”
Pierpont said, “I was mostly thinking of the mechanical ones anyway. They’re good these days, right?” Artificial hearts had gone from fridge-sized torture devices to gleaming plastic implants that might be more enduring than the real thing.
“They’re in short supply too. Can’t goad the companies to make enough.”
“How much is the NHS paying?”
“We don’t pay, exactly. They’re a bunch of lazy nonprofits, and they whine when we set production quotas.”
“I’ll pay out of pocket. Sell the hotel if I have to.”
The son looked horrified. “But you’ve spent years on that place! You put, well, heart and soul into it.”
“Giving up the hotel is better than dying.”
“But selling it for money — life shouldn’t be about money. We can’t let the quality of care hinge on that. How would you feel if you were poor and I had to turn you away?”
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other, it sounds like. Are you telling me I can’t get treated?”
“I’ll put you on the list. It’s all I can do. But it’s two years long.” The son wouldn’t look at him. “It’s because the rules say a man of your age is considered a losing investment. The state has to allocate its resources where they’ll do the most good; it’s the only fair way. Health is a zero-sum game, and I’m starting to hate it.”