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Jun. 18th, 2006 10:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
regan_tamHe clears his throat, and blinks in the lights.
"Secret prisoners are like bottles of ink. They are useful, often colorful, and deeply enthralling -- a word which here means 'fun to look at if you're into that sort of thing' -- when they are inside their containers. If a bottle of ink spills, you have a mess. And if you spill that bottle of ink -- the mess is on your head."
"The Anglo-Sino Union of Allied Planets has spilled the ink, and unfortunately for them, keeping secret prisoners is a violation of their own law. Here we see a young man and a young woman aboard the Alliance vessel Kelowna."
Jerome gestures to a screen beside him: uniformed figures escort two individuals (the girl cuffed and hobbled, the man with cuffs) separately down a corridor. "The intake reports that we also obtained -- a word which here means 'received in our office' -- from an anonymous source declare these two to be Simon Tam and River Tam, son and daughter of Senator Gabriel Tam of Osiris. Upon sending inquiries to Alliance officials of various rank, we were told that the Tam siblings, wanted for years in connection with various crimes, were not in the custody of any Alliance vessel, much less the Kelowna."
Jerome clears his throat again; his rumpled suit seems somehow to rumple a bit more as he straightens up at the lectern.
"The Alliance is lying," he says, simply. "The Alliance is violating its own laws, and we have the right to know why. We have the right to expect that our government listen to us, and we have the right to expect that our government treat all its citizens fairly. And certainly Simon and River Tam have the right to due process -- which the Alliance does not seem to be prepared to grant."
"We call on every man, woman, and child in the 'verse to speak up and demand answers. We call on everybody to raise a hue and cry, a phrase which here means 'yell until the Alliance starts listening', until we get what we are owed by the government under right of law. And we call on everybody to demand fair treatment for Simon and River Tam in this most unfortunate situation. Today it is the Tam siblings. Tomorrow it could be any one of us. Verrou Faire Denouement will work tirelessly, as we have done for years, to be a light unto the 'verse -- a phrase which here means 'to make things better for everybody'. With your help, we can make sure the Alliance enforces its own laws for the benefit of us all. Check our Cortex node for updates; they will be made regularly. Thank you."
Jerome adjusts his glasses, and steps away from the lectern.
Ms. Johanssen -- Polly to her friends, but never to the media or senior senators, at her own strident insistence -- ran on a platform of governmental change, promising public advocacy and an outlet for citizen's outrage. She never quite managed to stir the same level of grassroots support that Gabriel Tam pulled in, much to her campaign manager's frustration. But her district had a lot of families who'd sent cousins and children to settle on Miranda, some years back, and a lot of discreet Browncoat sympathizers, and she's always had a certain rough-edged charm. So here she is, three times Mayor Johanssen of the tiny city of Chittenden, turned Senator Johanssen, and working hard to balance her strongly held beliefs and the practical realities of being a very junior senator.
"Look, I don't want to say this," she says now. Not ungently, for her. "But, your kids -- you're going to have to have everything paper-legal before you start anything, because you know every shark in the pool is going to tear at any hole."
"Oh," says Gabriel Tam, on the comm-box's tiny screen. His eyes glitter with grim triumph. "I've got proof, Polly."
A discreet chime behind her announces an incoming file-transfer. Polly Johanssen spins in her chair, sticking the pen behind her ear, and punches the key sequence to accept download to her data-pad.
Gabriel watches in expectant silence as she spins back around. As she begins to skim the display.
As her eyebrows slowly rise.
"You'll find the preliminary Verrou Faire Denouement briefs in the third section," he says, low and grimly satisfied, watching her read more slowly.
"No arrest report filed." The pen's still behind her ear, so she's tapping her fingers in rapid percussion against the table edge. "No notification --" She looks up at the commscreen, over the top of the datapad, her eyes wide. "Tam, this is huge."
"You'll help, then." It's not a question.
Polly grins, sharp and unamused. "You're gorram right I will."
On Verbena, a journalist who'd once shown an interest in accountability and direct action gets a call advising him of some new information. On Paquin, it's a young lady who hosts a very popular newsfeed; her wave comes in the early afternoon, when her attention's the most focused. On Shadow, the anchor at NewsWave 24 receives word of something far more interesting than who might have been seen where. On Ariel, the message goes first to the network reporter whose reputation for asking hard-hitting questions ensures that her broadcast is both widespread and closely watched. On Osiris, the story about the shocking revelation affecting their own newly-elected Senator races across the feeds like wildfire through dry grass.
Lavinia. Londinium. Bernadette. Boros. Hera. Ezra. Persephone. Sihnon.
And wherever the story is told, whatever spin it receives, Gabriel Tam's statement is part of it. The great clock tower of Londinium, known across the 'verse as a symbol of Parliament's Hall, can be seen clearly rising against the sky behind him as he speaks.
"When I first announced that I would seek election, I told the citizens of the Alliance that I supported the law -- no matter who it might affect. When I took office, I swore an oath to uphold that law. I keep my promises, but as recent events have shown to all our sorrow, it seems that there are still those who prefer to act in shadow and in secret."
His expression of grave concern is as clear as each steady, distinct word.
"My daughter River and my son Simon have been taken into custody, ostensibly because of an outstanding warrant, but no report of an arrest was made, and no notification of their status given. Once again, it took someone else -- someone willing to act, someone who refused to be a bystander -- to do what was right, so that the worlds would know what was happening."
"If my children have in fact committed any crime, then justice must be done. A great trust has been placed in me, and I intend to live up to it. However, there is no justice to be found behind closed doors, where none can see."
Gabriel looks directly into the camera, and although the weariness of long hours spent on the behalf of others is easily seen, it doesn't seem to matter. His expression, filled now with expectation and the magnetic energy of belief, is familiar to anyone who has seen this man in the past few months.
"The people of the Alliance have trusted me, and I likewise trust in them. I believe that they are unwilling to sit back and watch old mistakes being made anew. I am confident that every citizen who thinks as I do in this will act, and quickly. Let your government hear your voice. Demand true justice."
He seems taller, when he does - or broader across the shoulders. Or perhaps simply more charismatic, as though it adds somehow to his gravitational pull. As though it makes him seem a little more... more than the others in the room. His words seem more important.
They'll ponder it later, though.
It's a little hard to be distracted when he turns from a sweating Alliance representative to face the viewer, reminds them with a voice as grave as centuries and eyes as blue as the Sihnon sky that he swore not to be a bystander, and, when they voted for Gabriel Tam, so did they.
They'll ponder it later, because when they turn off the feed, they won't be doing anything except nodding angrily in agreement.
The camera loves Andronicus Crowley.
He'd been distracted, gazing down at a muted newsfeed on a screen tucked away behind the register; Wen hadn't been able to see it, but she'd picked up a few words - something about that Gabriel Tam again, something something transparent justice, something something those two fugitive kids of his that reporters who don't like him tend to bring up from time to time.
She'd nearly broken a heel on the way into work - hadn't, and that's the only bright spot of the day so far - and she'd swear the climb (last five flights of stairs; Wen's trying to shift a few pounds for the summer) had been harder today than yesterday.
She'd arrived in work to an uproar. It'd been impossible to work out what any one person was losing their nut about, so she'd simply hung up her coat and settled in behind her desk at the New Hamburg Central Federal Station (Ariel).
Ding. A wave from overnight.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
Waiting for her inbox to pull up, Wen had been on the verge of checking her hub speakers for a malfunction. Then a slightly deeper chiming started, as a little light appeared under Incoming Wave started to blink. And then another, and then another.
And all that had been before the district Superintendent had arrived.
It's nearly eleven, and Wen needs a smoke. But even if she didn't think she'd have her head bitten off for stepping outside for even a second, she's not sure she'd be able to navigate her way out in between the mountains of newly-arrived hardcopy outrage. She stares glumly at the wall of paper where her window used to be, and wonders if she snuck into the bathroom and ate a bar of soap, whether she'd be allowed to go home sick for rabies.
He always feels a little guilty about that. He knows it's important to be a concerned citizen, to be involved, to play a role in the democratic process, and he does believe that, but he's so tired of it all. He's tired of outrage, tired of atrocities and insinuations and bad news. Tired of being helpless to change any of it. He's no politician.
So he votes -- he does that -- and he doesn't watch the news.
So when his little sister Maybelline storms into the living room, brandishing a flex-screen with two photos (a thin girl with hopeless eyes, a glaring young man, both pale-faced and dark-haired), he just waits to hear what she's outraged about this time.
"Have you seen this?" Maybelline demands, and doesn't wait for an answer. "You haven't. You've been holed up with, with chemical compounds. Dex, this is important."
Maybelline watches the news a lot.
"Is it?" he asks, resigned, when it becomes clear that he's going to get informed whether he likes it or not.
"Secret prisoners," Maybelline spits. Maybelline is eighteen, pudgy and intense, and she wears t-shirts with slogans and proud-to-be-Rim-made jackets from the store all the local activists gravitate to, and on her favorite jacket (sort of a brownish color) is a clattering mosaic of buttons with scrolling slogans. "The government is keeping them as secret prisoners, Dex. No warrant, no charges, no media notification. They're keeping them to rot. They'd have succeeded if somebody hadn't tipped off Verrou."
The government is always they, to Maybelline. Dex feels... angry, and annoyed, and tired. The information leaves a sick ache in the pit of his stomach, but what can he do about it? Nobody high-ranking listens to him, and he's pretty sure textwaves protesting this or that get sent straight to the junk bin, whatever the senators say.
Tiredly, "So the VFD's on it. Maybe they'll manage something, this time."
Maybelline glares at him, flex-screen clutched in her fist. "Tiānna-- You can just let them trample all over you if you want. I'm going to do my part against them and their Tóngméng tyranny." She spins on her heel and stalks out. To sign petitions, probably.
Dex exhales, and wonders if she'll manage anything useful with them.
He hopes so.
Oh, he's not unemployed. Just ... thinking of looking for a new job. Working at St. Lucy's keeps reminding him of things he doesn't want to remember. Especially lately.
Everybody knows about the deaths that night: the hapless tech who found the bodies couldn't be made to stop talking about it for days. Everybody knows about the theft too, though it passed unnoticed for nearly a day in the wake of the bizarre slaughter.
Almost nobody knows about the death that didn't happen that night, and why it didn't happen.
The news is more distracting than it has any right to be. That one story, the one everybody's talking about over lunch, over coffee, over autopsies. Especially at St. Lucy's, with an extra little frisson over the hospital's brush with notoriety. Yes, that was really them, they were really here, who'd have thought it?
Ira never joins in the conversations. He hasn't got anything to add.
(Your patient should be dead.)
It doesn't prove anything. He knows that, he's got enough experience with human nature to know that. Just because the man's a competent doctor -- hell, even a competent and dedicated doctor, dedicated enough that he'd risk capture to intervene in a procedure he sees going wrong -- that doesn't make him one of the good guys. It doesn't mean he's not also a murderer, or a madman.
And thinking that makes him feel small and petty and contemptible beyond belief, so he doesn't think about it much either. Insofar as not thinking about it is possible, in this hospital.
Might be time to start looking for a new job, yeah, he thinks every day or so. Somewhere that isn't St. Lucy's.
And he knows he won't.
Only somebody's up in front of the public hub when he wanders by for his three o'clock break. (Next one's up at 3:30.) It's Jintao James. "Jin," Armistead grunts.
"Steady." James nods to the screen. "You checked this out? Gorram feds keep stickin' their gorram feet in it all over the gorram place."
"You figured out a new piece of foulness other'n 'gorram' yet?"
"Bìzuĭ. This's serious."
Armistead can see that; he takes his eyes off of Jin's ugly mug and puts them on the screen. All he sees are two lily-white kids from the Core. But the crawl under -- ALLIANCE KEEPING TAM CHILDREN SECRET PRISONERS, ACCUSES HUMAN RIGHTS ORGANIZATION VERROU FAIRE DENOUEMENT; SENATOR GABRIEL TAM TO HOLD A PRESS CONFERENCE -- makes it clear enough. "Feds ain't supposed to do that."
"Hell no," says Jin, and he sounds pretty righteous. He's got good reason, Armistead knows: he lost a son in the Unification war, in a prison camp, and only found out he was there after all was said and done. "Do me a favor, Steady?"
"Shi a, if it don't involve lendin' you money."
"Húndàn." But Jin says it more because it's what comes next. "No. Call folk up, tell 'em what's goin'. I'm liftin' off to Vidalia here in a bit."
"What the hell good's that gonna do?" Maybe Jin's lost it.
"Folk ought to watch the news more anyhow. Figure you'd've learnt somethin', your time in that fancy school over to Vidalia. No -- if folk don't get riled, nobody ever gets nothin' done. You oughta know that, bossin' folk around like you do."
Now it's Armistead's turn to call Jintao a bastard. But after Jin lifts off -- manly cuffs on the shoulder exchanged, as per usual -- Armistead looks thoughtful, and hangs a back in thirty sign on the office door, and goes to make the rounds down the main street.
Sixteen hours later, at the very beginning of a new day in session, the planetary legislature in the city of Vidalia on Three Hills sends a resolution to Londinium, and the five biggest news outlets: a statement taking the Union of Allied Planets to task for their apparent willingness to repeat bad history.
There's always people clustered around the public Cortex feed in the pub, but tonight it's mobbed. David Chin has to squeeze through to get to the bar, where he buys two beers -- one for him, one for Edwen Nakamura, who's far too big to make it through the press of people without hurting anyone.
He glances at the screen to see what's so interesting, and forgets all about Edwen waiting back at the table.
He knows the two faces being displayed in an upper corner of the screen; of course, everybody knows them by now, but he recognized one of them the first time they were shown. It's not quite a year yet since the day he stopped that young man from running into the hands of
(blue)
that unmarked Alliance ship with the è méng aboard her. Let go of me, you don't understand, they've got my sister--
And there she is, the other face beside his, the sister in question no doubt.
A ripple of reaction goes through the crowd at the news that the Alliance has just been forced to formally acknowledge that yes, Simon and River Tam are in custody: anger, grim satisfaction, cynical mockery at the Feds' expense. Money changes hands; there was some wagering on the subject.
Chin didn't wager. He's one of a very few people who know that the Feds had the girl, at least, in custody once before. He doesn't know why, but he's fairly certain that that time she got away. That her brother got her away.
There's no good reason to think that. And no good reason to suspect it was somehow connected to that burst of white, of yes, that came on the heels of the Saranac Event. Except that the alternative, that two inexplicable events so close to each other were completely unconnected ....
It hardly matters. David Chin knows what he believes, if not why.
You don't get to make them disappear, he says silently, with fierce glee -- to the Feds, to the blue-handed frights in their too-normal suits, to the Alliance representative on the screen. Oh no. Not this time.
He turns away from the feed and resumes the attempt to get back to the table without spilling either beer.
(serene)
calm. It's brought up in a hollow-eyed conference over a rushed cup of horrendous coffee, when Crowley and the Tams slowly allow themselves a hard-edged smile of hope; Simon and River will need a lawyer.
(The growing certainty that they will is like a grim hotwire to the top of the spine; rather better than the caffeine.)
Gabriel and Regan toss names back and forth - working with company mergers and venturing into politics acquaints one with many such persons, all with reputations as polished as the chrome name-plaques on their office doors. Until Crowley - in that way he has, the one that reminds you that he might be flashy, but so are scalpels - volunteers that he knows an organisation that can help. Hasn't had cause to work with them in a little while, not since the Saranac event, but they're old, old friends (and Andronicus Crowley has everyone's number).
After all, it's best to keep such things in the family.
Trusting in the grand Alliance, on Miranda were betrayed.
On the desk, a soft tone and a flashing window in one corner herald an incoming wave. A quick brush of fingers expands the window, and by the time Hal Carson's face appears, he's reached the chorus.
The image of the ex-Council member opens its mouth, and then closes it again.
"Don't tell me you're a fan of that dreadful thing."
"I'm an ad exec, Hal," Rosse says. He doesn't sound apologetic. He never really does. "I've got a professional appreciation for catchy jingles."
Carson frowns. "That particular catchy jingle, Nick, lost us a Council seat."
"Lost you a Council seat," Rosse says cheerfully. "Was there something in particular you wanted?"
The frown wavers and then deepens. "What do you think of the current...climate?"
"The rain in Spain..." Rosse murmurs. "It's unseasonably wet, you're quite right."
"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Carson snaps.
"Yes." He smiles, sliding the tip of the pen into his mouth. "All right. I'll play. It does seem that Gabriel Tam is possessed of an admirable amount of luck."
"Far too much, if you ask me." Carson rubs at his forehead, frowning. "Despite the crowds of cause-hungry students who think the sun shines out his ass, his kids have to have done something. Crossed a few lines."
"Is that right?" Rosse's eyebrows arch upwards. The pen comes out. Goes in again. Carson is used to this kind of thing, but he still glares at the screen.
"Just a hint. From an old Council friend. My name still has weight, you know," Carson says with as much dignity as he can muster in the face of Rosse's insolent lounging.
"Fancy that."
"Look, you've got no cause to be flippant," Carson says angrily. "Your lauded PR abilities weren't enough to win me -"
"Mr. Carson?" Nicholas Rosse says, all politeness.
Hal Carson's face works for a moment, but he falls quiet. "What?" he says finally.
"Try again."
It takes a moment to sink in. "Why, you -"
Lucifer Morningstar laughs, and cuts the connection without a moment's hesitation.
Try again.
He's not a politician. Not this round.
His hands dart fluidly over the flashing desktop, calling up designs and statistics, comm links and information feeds (both official and...less so) and he's still humming - hide them all beneath a lie - as he settles down to work.
There's nothing but the black in front of them right now to see; the Kelowna is still ahead of them, headed strictly Coreward. Mal shakes his head, a little, and straightens, and turns around, stretching his back, until --
"Wash. Turn it up."
The pilot flicks out a hand, and on with the audio:
" -- from the Alliance is that Simon and River Tam will in fact receive their rights as Alliance citizens: pre-trial proceedings are to commence on the Valerius Judiciary Station two days from now. Legal counsel is currently on its way to the station, and there has been no official statement from the Tam camp regarding this breaking development -- "
Wash and Kaylee turn around to look at Mal.
Mal looks to Wash, jaw set. "We're stayin' on course. We don't let up until they're back on the ship."
Verrou Faire Denouement, the 'verse's best-known human rights organization, known simply as Verrou or VFD, was responsible for forwarding the files sent to them by an anonymous tipper -- a phrase which here means "somebody who was probably covering their own ass" -- to every media outlet in the 'verse, where they were then picked up and distributed. Then Simon and River Tam were no longer secret prisoners, but very public prisoners, and this is an event that is not unfortunate at all.
Now the good men and women in the library are working on another project. They are doing so very quietly, because one must be quiet in libraries. This project is a very long document that will be filed with the appropriate Alliance authorities under the terms of the Full Disclosure Act, with the eventual goal of allowing reporters into the room where Simon and River Tam will be arraigned, a verb which here means "to decide whether or not they might be guilty of anything illegal." If reporters are allowed in the room, it will be much more difficult for the government to try anything sneaky and underhanded; and though governments are supposed to be elected by the people and for the people, it is with great sadness that I tell you that often the governments that people create do not have the best interest of their citizens at heart.
This is why organizations like VFD exist.
One man who we cannot quite see looks up and whispers, "I think we are done with our paperwork. Now -- we file."
The men and women sitting around the table all nod slowly, solemnly, thoughtfully.
The world is quiet here -- and that is fortunate indeed.
It's perhaps just as well that there aren't more than two, as rather a lot of the whispered chatter around the floor has very little to do with matters of the latest Blue Sun and Iskellian contracts for military appropriations, or the proposal for health systems restructuring between Greenleaf and Regina.
He's quite well aware of the talk. Gabriel leans back in his seat with an expression of polite interest as he listens to a senior Senator -- Rachel Cimino-White, he thinks -- lead discussion about the potential benefits of establishing solar mining on Bellerophon.
At the break, he makes sure to take a moment to publically greet Fred Atwood and their fellow Council member Dorothy Fenimore, both standing together nearby, before moving on to chat with other senators, both junior and senior.
Of course I'm concerned, he says, whenever the topic's broached. A situation like this should be upsetting for everyone, I think. I'm confident justice will be done, however.
It's Marcus Shapiro who finally asks it openly, though, and with his words those gathered nearby turn to look.
"Listen, Gabriel-- do you know who was responsible? I mean, for ordering the secrecy?"
In the sudden hush that spreads across the room like ripples over a pond, Gabriel Tam's answer is easy to hear.
"Oh, I expect I'll find out soon enough, Marcus. Things are changing, I hear, and a lot of people are upset enough to want to see someone pay." He smiles, cordial and bright. "But really, what I think is most important right now isn't pointing fingers at anyone in particular -- it's working together to solve such problems as a whole, now isn't it?"
The message is both subtle and perfectly clear.
Scientia potentia est. Knowledge is power.
They fought the war to make the 'verse safer. And as anybody knows -- you have to be able to prioritize. Collateral damage. It happens. You accept it, you move on, you keep making things better.
He shifts his weight (greater than he's supposed to be bearing, according to his doctors) in his chair, and frowns, eyebrows (beetly, and gone white) drawing together.
They'd wanted to have military minds on the Council of Seven, after the war, and General Frederick Rutherford Atwood has a bit of Shakespeare written in Mandarin and framed on his wall: a certain speech from Henry V. A little rhetoric regarding a band of brothers later, and he found himself the most popular senator Londinium had ever had. Bonhomie goes a long way. So do astute observations. And so does a great ability to keep a secret. Or many secrets.
The picture of Gabriel Tam's (Senator Tam's) daughter is from his personal file. He'd gone himself to see how their new program, run by Dr. Benning Matthias, was progressing. Had stood in the room with six candidates. One of whom: the girl in the picture. One of the minds behind every covert operation in the 'verse, in the same room with a psychic.
And that's the rub, isn't it.
Quite simply, Gabriel Tam's children cannot be allowed to go free. The case is fairly solid against them, but -- you can't be too careful. Too many politicians (and Hal Carson among them, oh yes) have fallen because they weren't careful, they let secrets escape, and River Tam is a living, walking secret that could end his career, and worse.
Atwood stares at the picture, and a plan comes to mind. A safety net. Fred Atwood is a tactician -- one of the greats -- and he's got to be able to plan for any eventuality. It's maybe even more important in politics than it is in the military.
He puts the picture away -- fits it where it belongs, in the anthology of Jia Lir's poetry (he's never cracked it; it belonged to his wife, dead two years) that he keeps next to the small statue depicting Atlas holding a world.
And then Senator Fred Atwood turns around in his chair, and activates his Cortex hub, and begins to look for a man who has something to live for, but thinks he has no reason to live.
