“What are people discussing? Please tell me you’ve been able to talk sense into someone.”
“It’s harder than we thought,” he admitted regretfully. “They’ve been holding their own talks before coming here. There’s already a plan for war.”
Neema ran her hands over her face, disappointed at the direction things were moving. “At least we should hold a debate. That’s what we came here to do, isn’t it?”
They heard the amplified voice of the Novadanian host coming from the assembly hall. “All delegates, please remember to retake your seats for the first session of voting.”
“What voting?” whispered Neema. “Gilberto, do you know what’s going on?”
“There isn’t going to be a debate. Every tribe has done that part already. What they’re going to do today is formalize the decision to attack.”
“No, this can’t be,” she pled to no one. It dawned on her that the delegates who’d called her to their table had not aimed at convincing her, but at distracting her while their associates rushed the order of the day. “Help me get onto the stage, Gilberto.”
“I doubt you’ll be allowed to speak again.”
“Let’s see who dares to try and stop me.”
Afternoon, July 2 (Julian), 1985
Munkhaven
The Novadanian host stood to one side of the stage, visibly confused.
“I’ll be the first to agree with you that something is very wrong with the world,” said Neema, struggling to breathe as she approached the end of her forceful plea. “Today we’ve heard a myriad of reasons why. We’re trapped between an empire that wages a fanatical campaign, every bit as ludicrous as it is bloody, against any thought that contradicts its precious faith; another so terrified of living in peace that it lets its military devour its own children and refuses to trade with us as equals; and another that yearns for an ideal of purity so remote that it has lost sight of the real world.” She paused to breathe again. “And then there are the Novadanians, who are so kind, so sympathetic, so eager to lend their shoulder, but won’t raise a finger against our enemies.” The nervous looks between her listeners didn’t escape her. “Does that mean we have the right to degrade ourselves and become killers? Does that—” her voice faltered, she found no more air in her lungs, and Gilberto hurried to escort her down from the stage.
“You shouldn’t exert yourself in this manner.”
She sat and started weeping, furious at herself. “I couldn’t just do nothing. Do you understand?”
“You’ve done more than could be asked of you.”
“People will die, Gilberto.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He sat next to her and helped her wipe her tears. He was deliberately not checking whether anyone was looking at them.
The host returned to the stage and announced, “A vote has been called for. Delegates will now decide on the question of declaring war against the colonial states and forcing them out with the aid of antonite.”
Gathering the strength she didn’t have, Neema jumped to her feet and proclaimed as loud as she could, “The Esikongo vote against.”
The host nodded and made a mark on a paper. He signaled for the next delegate to speak.
“The Wayuu vote in favor.”
Another. “The Yamanas vote in favor.”
And another. “The Makassar vote in favor.”
The voices started piling up as chains around Neema’s heart.
“The Jingpo vote in favor.”
“The Acehnese vote in favor.”
“The Gwitchin vote in favor.”
“The Meitei vote in favor.”
“The Imazighen vote in favor.”
“The Armenians vote in favor.”
“The Lnu vote in favor.”
“The Chahta vote in favor.”
“The Ewe vote in favor.”
“The Ashanti vote in favor.”
“The Visayans vote in favor.”
“The Sengunthar vote in favor.”
“The Aonikenk vote in favor.”
“The Semai vote against.”
She allowed herself a sigh of brief respite, but didn’t feel capable of hope. In her months-long plea for good sense, she hadn’t seen the need to expend effort in convincing a handful of tribes, like the Semai, who were already known to have a solid tradition of peacefulness and whose negative vote was expected. But it was simply impossible to guess how many of the delegates voting in favor of war were voicing an individual preference as opposed to their leaders’ decision. The Esikongo didn’t have any particular pacifist tradition, but as long as she happened to be the one representing them, the Esikongo would vote against war a million times. As for the rest, she understood why they were doing it. Their pain was her pain. She’d talked to many of them for years; she knew, despite their profound disagreement, that they were being sincere. Everyone had endured enough. They’d finally seen a way out and were clinging to it.
“The Namaqua vote in favor.”
“The Bateq vote against.”
“The Sefwi vote in favor.”
“The Erzyans vote in favor.”
“The Dslala vote in favor.”
“The Aong vote in favor.”
“The Minahasans vote in favor.”
“The Shoshone vote in favor.”
“The Yanomami vote in favor.”
“The Palawa vote in favor.”
“The Baining vote in favor.”
“The Makhuwa vote in favor.”
“The Wolof vote in favor.”
“The Ingush vote in favor.”
“The Bariba vote in favor.”
“The Qaraqalpaqs vote in favor.”
Neema had expected a larger proportion of negative votes, and wondered how many of the delegates were changing their mind at the last second to not contradict the rest. War in the abstract was a deceptively simple thought, but she knew that the technical details of her report needed a baseline of specific knowledge and effort to be fully understood. She’d even received letters from a few tribes who held a more mystical view of the weapon and took it for a miraculous remaker of the world. It might well turn out to be so, but she wished she’d had more time to dispel that belief. By her side she heard Gilberto had started to cry as well.
“The Dule vote in favor.”
“The Igbo vote in favor.”
“The Agikuyu vote in favor.”
“The Hazaras vote in favor.”
“The Misak vote in favor.”
“The Yamato vote in favor.”
“The Huiliche vote in favor.”
“The Paiwan vote in favor.”
“The Albaamaha vote in favor.”
“The Tchamba vote in favor.”
“The Dayaks vote in favor.”
“The Fon vote in favor.”
“The Mandinka vote in favor.”
Her hands trembled as they kept removing tears. She’d lost count of the votes; it must have reached the hundreds. She felt small in the presence of so much hate. Then one part of her mind pointed out that there was a difference between hate and hate. If you were being whipped and you screamed to make it stop, no one could fault you for being loud. But another part of her mind insisted that there was no righteous way to kill thousands.
More votes kept coming and she covered her ears, to quieten both the room and her internal discussion. She wasn’t going to resolve it in one sitting. What could be affirmed for certain, what she was privately screaming at herself to sustain a spark of hope, was that one vote on one issue provided a minuscule amount of information on the general character of a people. As evil as she found the plan, she decided not to hate them. They were wounded. They were tired. For the world to be restored to any semblance of health, the empires had to die. Still, she desperately asked herself whether she could have come up with an alternative. She thought, if the attack succeeded and the empires fell, that she’d be able to live in the resulting world, but she doubted she’d be able to live with not having thought of something else to suggest.