Kris Schnee - Everyone's Island

“Only over this one. It can’t even feed itself without my control, so I have to pay close attention. Willie acts on his own.”

“Which do you like better?” he said, looking back and forth between the seemingly identical creatures.

“I don’t know,” said Zephyr. “I was hoping Tess would be here to see them. I don’t know how to decide.”

Tess. Right. “While you’re busy transcending biology, I need to make a phone call.”

“Maybe you can get through to her. I can’t.”

“I need your help. Can I get a secure commline, one where I can speak my mind and not have possibly-malevolent agencies listening in?”

“No. In fact there’s a big chance our ‘friend’ Eaton has bugged even Castor’s internal lines, and that some of our tourists have been spies for one of five or six interested countries.” Zephyr made the puppet rat shake the bars of a nearby cage. “If Tess were here we could scan everything thoroughly and make sure.”

Garrett felt the world close in on him. He didn’t feel like he could function if he had to add a layer of defense to every conversation, hedging his words to make sure he wouldn’t trigger some alarm. It was like being on a date with an imposing chaperone: Go ahead, kids, have fun, but I’m watching. Like a spike through part of his mind, the part that he kept in other people’s heads. He sighed. “I think I know how Valerie feels now.”

“You could ask my version of Val if you want. Hey! How about my Tess-model?”

Garrett shivered at the thought of Zephyr’s internal ghost-gallery. “Not now. I want to ask a question to someone I trust. About something I really don’t want to do.”

One of the rats just lay there awaiting fresh commands. The other scuttled over to sniff the human’s fingers curiously and ask for food in English.

Garrett took a breath, and talked to Zephyr about his plan.

Martin had agreed after long thought and prayer. Garrett called a public meeting with no music playing, no cheerful intro speaker. A microphone and camera stood ready to carry his words elsewhere to anyone who cared. Castor’s hundreds of residents and guests looked up to the main platform, not knowing why Garrett stood atop the highest roof.

Garrett did the work himself, as he’d done other awful things. He tugged on a wet, salt-encrusted rope and the American flag came down slowly, for him to fold it reverently into a box. The flagpole stood bare, an empty rod, and he felt an irrational fear of it now. Already he was filled with a mix of anger, shame and despair at what he was doing, and a need to get his pompous speech over with.

He spoke, and the words were broadcast. “I’m an American by birth, and I came here with an American spirit, trying to create wealth and live on a frontier. I’d be happy to live my life and let people join me who want to. But I was told that I was out of line, that I couldn’t both obey the law and be out here. Some have been gentle in their objection, by putting enough regulations on me that I can’t comply. Others have told me that I can’t act without their permission, which they withhold. Still others came openly as thieves and murderers. None have stopped us.

“We’ve reached a point where we’re being used as pawns in some larger dispute, and we can’t continue to play. I don’t blame any specific person or party or ideology; I understand that it’s complicated. I won’t let others’ disputes ruin us. So, very reluctantly, I… I renounce my citizenship. It’s the most American thing I can do: taking care of myself and looking for peaceful, honest interaction with people. This station is no longer flying the official flag, even though I want it to fly again someday.”

And damn it, he did. He hated staring at the bare pole after all the times he’d looked up at it and seen the flag flying in the breeze. The pole was dead, soulless. He knew that was stupid, that he was talking about nothing but a tattered piece of cloth. But the wind was making his eyes water and he clutched the boxed flag to his heart, only reluctantly passing it down and trading it for another. Stupid, crazy, pointless pageantry… Why do I care? I never cared when they made us recite the Pledge in school; I sneered at cheesy war movies my parents showed me; I studied with Europeans and Asians who had no problem leaving home. He looked at the new box and pulled out its contents.

“This is also an American flag!” It was a bright yellow thing in an archaic design, showing a rattlesnake and the motto, Don’t Tread On Me. “I don’t know how other people want to live, here or elsewhere. But I’m choosing to protect my own life and the opportunity that my work creates for people.”

The serpent flag fluttered against the noise of wind and his own echoing voice, and there came another sound from below. Garrett looked down, hardly able to see, and found that folks were clapping. People had gathered on the topdeck, a mix of Pilgrims, tourists, and others. More people in and around the station were looking up at him — or more likely, at the flag. The applause was scattered, with confusion on people’s faces, but he could see that some people shared his thinking.

Well then, that’s enough. The deed’s done; I’m weaseling out of a bad situation. There’s no more I can say. Still he hesitated, longing to say it better, to feel like he wasn’t dishonoring his family and everyone else. He didn’t know how, and it hurt him not to know. The ignorance made him feel weak. If his dispute was force against force, he’d lose. And if someone could make a case for slapping irons on him, and all he had in his defense was a litany of complaints, a reasonable jury would side against him. He didn’t know what to do anymore, and that left him feeling like a criminal and a traitor for doing what he thought was right.

He climbed down and got mobbed by questions. Oh, hell, Martin had brought reporters in. Now that he was aware of them he stammered, trying again to put into words why he’d done this, why he’d had to do it. He was pressed against the deckhouse wall with too many eyes on him.

“Give him some breathing space,” said a commanding voice. People turned to see the speaker, giving Garrett a break. Garrett could see who had caught their attention, the guy who was happy to speak in the absence of more blustering by Garrett:

Bradford Duke, former cultist.

It was a long vacation, or a dream. She only had to do what she was told: homework, dance lessons, eating her vegetables, taking her pills. Mom and Dad said it was great to see her being content, even-keeled and not spending all her time with computers. She sat on the porch, staring vaguely at the sun and glancing at the textbook in her hands.

Mom came outside, where her breath made clouds in the early spring air. “I brought cocoa. Aren’t you cold?”

“I’m okay.”

“You should wear a jacket.” She left and returned with the one Tess had worn sometimes on Castor, then wrapped it over Tess’ shoulders with a hug. Tess shivered.

Mom was still there while Tess stared at the book. “I’ve been thinking,” Mom said. Tess waited. “Do you like being back here with us?”

“It’s okay.”

“Tess, come on. I’m your mother; don’t you want to argue?”

Tess’ thoughts kept dead-ending, like she could be having lofty ideas and plans but didn’t care enough to try. Why bother, when she was being cared for by people who loved her? She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You’ve been getting some calls and e-mails. How are you feeling about the stuff that happened to you? You can tell us if you’re still upset.”