Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

“Yes.”

“I’m Karin Oker. Welcome to Prainha, Professor.” She nodded toward the window. “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

Both the honorary title she used and the assumption that this was his first visit to Brazil were in error. He noted the lapses, but did not trouble himself to correct them. It was enough to learn from them that she was ignorant of who he was and that she viewed meeting with him as a necessary annoyance.

“I was just contemplating that fact,” he said, settling in a chair facing away from the window. “Will we have privacy here?”

“If we ask for it,” she said, selecting her own chair. “Privacy Level Two, please.”

The offcom acknowledged with a musical note.

“There,” she said. “We won’t be interrupted except by the Director or a base emergency.”

“Thank you,” he said with a polite smile. “I appreciate it the more for knowing that I, too, am an interruption. I very much regret finding it necessary to come here. But this seemed the most direct way of ending the running battle between your people and mine.”

“Battle?”

“My staff’s struggle to collect the information I require, and your staff’s struggle to keep it from us. It’s a sorry business when one branch of Allied has more difficulty getting cooperation from another branch than it does dealing with outsiders who have no reason to help us.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were having such problems,” Oker said. “If there have been, I’m sure that they’re based on misunderstandings. What have you been denied?”

“I’m less concerned about what we’ve been denied than with the fact that the working relationship between us has turned for the worse. We were partners with you. Now we are treated as supplicants, and reasonable, routine requests are met with excuses, delays, denials, and half-answers.”

Oker was unhappy and unpracticed at hiding it. “Professor Tidwell, surely you understand that Selection’s work is the most sensitive area of the Project. Much of the data, even the procedures we use, is personal or proprietary. Obviously, any release—even to the Historian’s Office—needs to be screened and reviewed. And just as obviously, some requests might need to be denied.”

Drawing himself up in his chair, Tidwell said in measured tones, “I am responsible for creating the definitive history of the expedition. That includes the personal histories of every pioneer. Remember, please, that this history is not only for us but for them. I have to anticipate questions which may not be asked for fifty years.”

“I have to ask again—what have you been denied?”

“Personal histories include genetic histories. But we have been told we may not have access to your genetic library,” Tidwell said. “And when we request a briefing on the final selection criteria, I expect more than a copy of the application file you made available to prospective pioneers.”

Oker was shaking her head. “Hordes of lawyers are poised waiting to file suit on behalf of unsuccessful candidates. Every lawsuit has the potential for disrupting the prep schedule, or worse, taking the selection decision out of our hands.”

“We are neither lawyers nor litigants. What has that to do with us?”

“There are thousands of Allied employees holding options,” Oker said stubbornly. “Letting detailed selection data out into the corporation is an invitation to trouble.”

“Perhaps, being comparatively new to the Project,” said Tidwell, “you don’t realize that this sort of information was made available to us for the Ur library.”

“Times are different now,” Oker said.

“Not in any meaningful way. Surely, the first thing that any competent lawyer would do is subpoena our records.”

“And he would fight any order to release them. We would destroy them rather than release them.”

“Interesting,” Tidwell said. “Are the selections that subjective? Are we afraid to defend our selection practices in public?”

“No,” Oker said. “They’re as objective as possible. They’re blind selections, made by AI engines at the proc centers.”

“According to what criteria?”

“By the criteria spelled out in the application file—skill training, psych screenings, genetic screenings, intelligence and adaptability—”

“Weighted.”

“Of course.”

“What are the weightings?”

“The weightings are necessarily subjective,” Oker admitted. “But that doesn’t mean they were set casually. And I’m not about to let the process we went through to set them be picked apart by a know-nothing judge or a well-meaning but ignorant layman.”

“That seems arrogant, Dr. Oker.”

She bristled. “We don’t even tell the nominees why they’ve been chosen. Or the rejects why they weren’t. Why should we tell you?”

Tidwell studied her. “Are you afraid of the genetic discrimination issue?”

The question seemed to surprise her. “Of course,” she said, recovering. “Almost half of our options are held in countries with antidiscrimination or bodily privacy laws. The American law is particularly troublesome.”

“And yet it’s well known that you’ve expanded your genetic screening since Ur .”

“Is it?”

“Your staff chart shows the section has sixty-five more geneticists than it did six years ago, when you arrived. The obvious conclusion is that the genetic factor has become more important.”

“We were understaffed when I arrived. And we are more thorough now with the genetics. We do full genotypes for every candidate, for example.”

“I know,” said Tidwell. “But why you do them, and what you look for? These questions you have not answered, except in generalities. ‘For screening.’ ‘To create a healthy gene pool.’ I must have better answers.”

She shook her head. “I can’t release that data. You’ll have to do what you can to work around it.”

“It’s not your decision to make,” Tidwell said. “The decision was made by Director Sasaki fifteen years ago. My right of access is unrestricted.”

“Times are different now,” Oker repeated. “We’re prepared to upload standard adoption biographies for each of the donor packages, sometime before departure. The living passengers can obtain private testing and see to their own genealogies, if they think it important.”

“I see,” Tidwell said, sitting back. “Apparently, there was no misunderstanding, after all.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking for, Professor.”

“For the record, it’s Doctor Tidwell, twice over, in history and sociology,” Tidwell said, crossing his right leg over his left. “You see, we are educable, Dr. Oker—not a one of my staff is dead yet.”

Oker flushed, the first sign of an emotion other than anger. “This isn’t personal, Doctor,” she said. “We have a monopoly on the kind of expertise needed to interpret the raw data. I know, because if we could have found more experts, we’d have put them on staff, too.”

“Then you should be prepared to make one of your experts available to us along with the data,” Tidwell said, rising.

“If the Director requires me to.”

“She will,” Tidwell said. “Aren’t you aware that the Director intends to sell the genetic library to at least three governments as a research base?”

Oker went white. “That hasn’t been announced,” she said stiffly.

“But it’s so, all the same,” Tidwell said.

He saw in her eyes that she knew she had underestimated him; she saw in his that he would not gloat in victory. “The raw data is almost unimaginably voluminous,” she said slowly. “A single genotype is hundreds of thousands of genes, millions of codons—”