29

Oliver Bowen

November 11, 2030. Washington, D.C.

Despite everyone being nothing but holographic images, the ethereal UN assembly hall nothing but keystrokes of computer code, the tension in the room was palpable.

Undoubtedly, the meeting the defenders were having at that very moment was taking place in a less impressive virtual environment, but the fact that they were having it at all was disturbing. Oliver didn’t know what to feel about the defenders’ closed meeting. By necessity, the defenders had been engineered to be fiercely independent, reliant on humans for nothing. It had worked—the plan had saved the human race, but no one had thought beyond defeating the Luyten.

Oliver admired the assembly hall, and fretted, while the assembly argued over whether they should have forbidden the defenders from meeting, cast about for scapegoats to blame for the awkward situation humanity found itself in, and occasionally digressed into debate about the wisdom of allowing the Luyten to live.

The hall had been restored to its full size and splendor, now that a network of satellites had been returned to the outer atmosphere. The structure was stunning, a masterpiece of classical Greek architecture with a dizzying, spiraling ceiling.

President Wood was recognized by Premier Chandar. Oliver lifted his head, paid closer attention.

“Our Japanese brethren have a profound saying that I think is relevant at this moment: Fix the problem, not the blame. The issue we should be discussing in the brief time we have available before the defenders join this meeting is how to tell them that while they certainly have the right to decide their own fate, they do not have the right to retain possession of our property.” Oliver was always impressed by the president’s ability to utterly erase his Brooklyn accent and his cocky, confrontational tone when speaking in public. “I’m of course referring to the substantial cache of state-of-the-art weapons we provided them. They’re entitled to their rights as citizens, as set forth by the recently ratified UN decree, but they are not entitled to our arms.”

Lorenzo Manzanillo, the prime minister of Nicaragua, jumped in without being recognized. An interpreter jumped in just as quickly. “Not only did we build the defenders’ weapons, we built the defenders. I don’t think their status as citizens—”

Premier Chandar interrupted. Her usual calm, dignified demeanor was completely absent; her long white hair was frizzy and unkempt. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. “Excuse me, Minister Manzanillo. The defenders have finished their meeting and are asking to address this assembly.”

It was the moment they’d been waiting for, the sole purpose for this meeting. The defenders had asked to address the assembly at noon, GMT, but had kept it waiting for … (Oliver checked the time) two hours and forty minutes.

The space between the bowl-shaped seating area and the dais where the premier and her deputies were seated expanded to accommodate the defenders’ representatives. When the space was ready, Premier Chandar nodded to the chief of technology, and the defenders materialized.

There were seven defenders, chosen, Oliver had heard, because they’d distinguished themselves during the campaign. One was badly burned, his bone-white skin an angry, puckered swirl down one side of his face and neck, disappearing beneath his black dress uniform. Another was missing an arm at the shoulder.

It was the burned one who spoke, his arms dangling at his sides, fingers flexing and unflexing, as if they were hungry to clutch something. A weapon, maybe. He was breathing heavily, whether because he was nervous or just ramped up, Oliver didn’t know.

“My name is Douglas. I’m not familiar with the protocols of this assembly, so I apologize in advance for breaching them.”

He scowled as he spoke. All of them were scowling, actually. It seemed to be their default expression. “We have spent the past several days trying to determine our mission. During the war our mission was clear, and we were happy. Now we are not. We’re left with nothing to want, no one to hate. You have suggested one solution, to provide us financial resources and vocational training. We’ve decided to decline your offer.”

Douglas looked to the other defenders, who nodded, almost as if the decision were being made on the spot. They seemed awkward, now that they weren’t in battle. Unsure of themselves.

“You are our mothers and fathers. We recognize and celebrate this. But we are not children.”

Again, he looked to the others, who again nodded. One thumped his chest with his fist.

“We will create our own nation, forge our own identity, our own culture.”

Douglas paused, as if to allow time for those assembled to digest what he’d said. Oliver couldn’t digest it, because he didn’t understand it. Their own nation? Did they mean that symbolically, or were they talking about a physical place, with borders, laws, an economy?

“Your population was culled substantially by the war. There were seven-point-two billion humans before the Luyten invaded; now there are two-point-nine billion.” He spread his hands. “There is more than enough space, plenty of resources for all. We’ll claim our prisoners, carry out executions, then leave you in peace.”

Their prisoners? That didn’t sound good. The uneasy feeling Oliver had been nursing became downright dread. Judging from the look on the premier’s face, she felt the same.

“I’m not sure I understand. What are you proposing, exactly?” Premier Chandar asked.

Without hesitation, Douglas replied, “We want Australia.”