I finished a very long and somewhat interminable book called The Scramble for Africa by Thomas Pakenham recently. It had its issues: it was written in the early 90s, so I wonder how well some of his conclusions held up over time, and it was a very Eurocentric account of the time. (To be fair: The Scramble for Africa was a very Eurocentric affair, as imperialism usually is.) But buried within its chapters, I came across the following quotation:
On August 29th, under a glowering sky (for the dry season was ending) Brazza took his farewell of the town to which he had given his name and so much else. The ferry to the station was a long way off, on the other side of town. He ordered a litter, then insisted he would go on foot- tottering, like an old man, and leaning his weight on his umbrella. He hardly spoke and seemed not to see anything he passed. His face was the face of a dreamer. Challaye wondered if he was considering the past or the future: his triumphs as a young man or the future grandeur of Brazzaville. Brazza crossed the whole town on foot, ‘pale and grey, silent and proud.’
For some reason, the imagery of it stuck in my head. But I didn’t want to write an alternate history of Brazza’s ultimate fate. (He too, wrote a scathing report about the treatment of native workers that ultimately did nothing, but was eventually found to be correct.) So I flipped it into the future and set it in the same universe as another one of my stories, Dreams of Hope. Whether there will be more from these characters or this universe, I don’t know. But I hope you enjoy reading this. I’m very happy to present, One Last Throw.
~~~
How does one live with regret? The old man, leaning heavily on his umbrella, his back straight, his face unreadable marched down the main boulevard of the town, heading for the docks. There, a ship was scheduled to take him back upriver, to the spaceport which bore his name. It was generally assumed, that afternoon, by all who watched him walk to the docks that the old man, once he had departed the planet, would not be returning.
Violet skies were scudded with cotton candy pink clouds, remnants of the storms that had passed through that morning. The colonists all knew that the dry season was ending. Maybe a week, maybe two, and then the skies would open and rain would pore down, unceasing for months. They would long for shipboard air, stale and recycled though it was because it was cool and had none of the cloying, soupy humidity that they were unable to escape from.
The old man was nearing the center of town now and curiously, no one gave him so much as a second glance. Had they done so and looked a little closer, they would have seen his fingers, white-knuckled around the handle of his umbrella. They would have noticed the clenched jaw, the rippling muscles struggling to contain suppressed emotions. They would have seen his grey eyes, blazing with incandescent fury.
He was Baron Alessandro Pietro de Talangai, sent, no, entreated, begged, by his government to travel back to the planet he discovered to find the truth of a matter that was threatening to upend the government entirely. Two months prior, news had exploded across Cosmara that six indentured workers had been murdered on Brazza VI. The holo-broadsheets had exploded in outrage and the opposition had been all too eager to make political hay out of the matter. Someone had to be sent, they had found him and here he was.
“I should never have come here in the first place,” he growled. “Damned, foolish thing, and for what? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We cannot be another Altair. We cannot. The Republic cannot stand…”
Muttering to himself, he kept walking towards the docks.
~~
The mood in the cafe was ebullient and Challaye couldn’t help but grin. They had been nervous that morning, especially when the jury had come back so quickly with a verdict, but honestly–
“Challaye!”
He turned and saw Fernan waving from across the room. He had managed to secure them a table along the perimeter of the cafe, with a beautiful view of the town square. Challaye acknowledged Fernan with a wave of his own and began weaving his way through the crowds, stopping occasionally to shake a hand or acknowledge a celebratory pat on the back, but finally, he reached Fernan.
“Took you long enough,” Fernan grinned. “Shall I have them fetch more wine?”
“Depends on what you have,” Challaye nodded to the bottle on the table. “Tell me it’s not that god-awful blend you like and we can talk.”
“I’m shocked, Challaye,” Fernan assumed an expression of injured innocence. “How could you accuse me of drinking cheap wine on an afternoon like this?”
“I know you, Fernan,” Challaye grinned. “You’re tight with your credits.”
“But not today,” Fernan said, rotating the bottle to reveal the label. “Today, we celebrate.”
Challaye raised an eyebrow. The vintage was from the mountainous far western region of Brazza VI and extraordinarily expensive- especially for colonial budgets. Back on Cosmara, it was the premium vintage that every high-end bar had to have and the bottle that every young aristocratic wastrel would drop obscene amounts of credits on. “Mountain White?”
“We have to celebrate this,” Fernan raised his hand and caught the eye of a passing waiter, who looked quite frazzled with the crowds in the cafe. “Another glass for my friend!”
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter nodded before bustling off.
“How much celebration are you planning today?” Challaye arched his eyebrow. “The verdict was better than we expected, but…”
“Challaye, I never thought you were a progressive,” Fernan looked surprised. “Don’t tell me…”
“No, no, I agree with the verdict, it’s…” he left the sentence unfinished, but Fernan didn’t notice, as the waiter returned and dropped off an extra glass.
“Ah, here we are,” Fernan said. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured a generous measure into each glass before setting the bottle between them. He raised his glass in salute to Challaye. “To justice!”
Trying to hide his discomfort, Challaye raised his glass and replied. “To justice!” He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the wine, closing his eyes as the taste of it flooded his mouth before he swallowed it and felt the warmth creeping down into his belly. People had been saying for months now that this year’s Mountain White was so good they might have to declare it a vintage year and Challaye could see why. It was light, delicate, bursting with fruit flavor.
“The charges were ridiculous to begin with, of course,” Fernan said. “To think the cheek of that idiot Judge…”
Challaye made a face and Fernan arched an eyebrow in surprise. “You are a Progressive, after all, I am surprised at you, Challaye.”
“If you consider the question, it’s hard not to be,” Challaye admitted. “It’s one thing when clones are designed and settle planets and set up basic infrastructure and perform resource extraction, but this was murder, Fernan. Cold-blooded murder.”
“Murder is a bit strong,” Fernan said. “They’re only clones after all.”
“So what do we call it then? Deletion? Termination of contract?” Challaye sighed and took another sip of his wine. “I don’t disagree with the verdict, Fernan, it’s just you have to admit it raises some… uncomfortable questions we should consider.”
“Perhaps,” Fernan replied. “But that is a problem for tomorrow…”
Challaye, sensing the opening to change the subject raised his glass. “I will drink to that,” he said. “Tomorrow!”
Fernan raised his glass to meet Challaye’s and the two men carefully steered the conversation to safer ground. The latest harvest data from the mountains. The local cricket club and how it was faring this season. Stock, bonds, Cosmaran politics, and the prospects of the fall of the government, anything but the uncomfortable truth everyone on Brazza VI and all the other colonized planets in the Argolis Cluster did their best to avoid.
Clones had been seen as a cost-effective way for various galactic powers to colonize planets. Why risk your actual populace when clones were an easy investment and expendable to boot? Hell, even terraforming could be handled by clones if you didn’t want to rely on machines to do it. Find a planet, and send in the clones! They could do all the dirty work, build the towns, cities, spaceports, and then you send in the first wave of colonists and they would sort of… fade into the background to become… well, not slaves, exactly. But… you know, the help.
Fernan waved to someone behind Challaye and leaned forward. “Please, excuse me for a few minutes, my friend. My fellow barristers have arrived, I must greet them.”
“By all means,” Challaye replied. Then he grinned. “As long as you leave the bottle.”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking it with me,” Fernan replied as he pushed back from the table and stood. Then, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Challaye alone with his thoughts. Maybe Fernan was right, maybe he was turning into a Progressive, but he… just couldn’t be one of those people. The rich, the entitled, the fops and dandies viewed clones as barely human and treated them like little more than furniture. The Republic of Cosmara at least had some laws that were supposed to protect them. The Star Union had banned the use of them in colonization decades before and as for Altair…
Challaye shuddered. It was barbaric how they treated their clones. Everyone knew it, but no one said anything because-
“Penny for your thoughts, monsieur?”
He glanced up and found himself rising to his feet as he was in the presence of a lady. He bowed deeply, took her outstretched hand, and kissed it gently. “Madame Beauharnais, such a pleasure to see you again. I did not think we would, today.”
“May I join you?” Marie-Isabella Beauharnais asked and Challaye gestured to the open seat between him and Fernan. “But, of course, it would be my pleasure. May I?” He stepped over to pull out the chair for her but she raised a hand to stop him.
“Thank you, kind sir, but I have always seated myself and will continue to do so until I am too old and too tired to care anymore.” She pulled the chair out and with a motion that Challaye knew was long practiced, gathered her skirts and sat down.
Challaye caught the eye of the waiter again and nodded toward her, raising one finger. The waiter nodded in understanding and bustled off. Challaye sat down. “I have asked them to fetch us another glass, Madame.”
“You wish to share your delightful vintage?” Madame Beauharnais arched an eyebrow before nodding in approval. “You are polite, monsieur. Most of the people in this room would happily spit in my face rather than share a glass of wine with me.”
“I, Madame, am not most people,” Challaye replied. The waiter returned with a glass and, setting it down on the table, inclined his head respectfully to Madame Beauharnais before bustling off again. “May I?”
“Please,” she nodded idly wrapped her fingers around the stem of the glass, and waited patiently as he poured a generous measure of the Mountain White into her glass. He set the bottle down and she raised her glass. “To what shall we drink, Monsieur? Please don’t tell me justice.”
Challaye raised his glass. “To the weather?”
Madame Beauharnais chuckled appreciatively and raised her glass. “All right, Monsieur, the weather it is.” They both took sips of the wine, but she held her glass out appreciatively. “I shall have to pay a visit to these vineyards I think. This is an exceptional wine.”
“My friend thought it was appropriate, given today’s events,” Challaye tried to hide his grimace but was unsuccessful and Madame Bearharnais arched an eyebrow in surprise.
“You do not like this verdict.”
“What I like has very little to do with it,” Challaye replied. “It is just…” he groped for the words.
“Uncomfortable to consider?”
“Yes.”
“The truth,” Madame Beauharnais said slowly, “is rarely comfortable to consider. Say it.”
“Say what?”
“What crime were those two young idiots accused of?”
“Murder.”
“Did you agree with the charges?”
Challaye hesitated, unsure of how to respond. He felt as if Madame Beauharnais was testing him somehow, which wouldn’t be surprising given her reputation. She was, for lack of a better term, the local abolitionist, As she was independently wealthy in her own right, this gained her access to all the right social circles where she could be ruthless with her wit, uncompromising with her beliefs and generally annoy as many of the self-proclaimed great and good as she possible could.
“Yes,” he finally replied and Madame Beauharnais arched an eyebrow in surprise again.
“Why, Monsieur. I never suspected you, of all people would harbor such progressive beliefs.”
“My own eyes are hard to ignore,” Challaye replied. “Some may not consider them such, but there is a saying in the Star Union. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it must be a duck.”
“So you think clones are humans, the same as the rest of us?”
“How could I not? They are sentient beings after all and what those two did…”
“They hunted them,” Madame Beauharnais said. “Like deer through the woods of their estate and managed to murder six of them in cold blood.”
“Yes.”
“And the colonial system which benefits us all, myself included-” this time it was she who was unable to hide the grimace on her face, “-exploits them for their labor and treat them as little more than animals.”
“Yes,” Challaye replied. He was about to say something more when Fernan arrived back at their table and, seeing who had joined them settled his face into the absolute picture of politeness.
“Cousin,” Madame Beauharnais greeted him.
“Cousin?” Challaye asked. “I did not know the two of you-”
“It’s not something Fernan likes to talk about, I expect,” Madame Beauharnais smiled. “He and I have… differing opinions.”
“On any number of things,” Fernan replied. “Has she been preaching about her pet cause to you?”
Her eyes flashed and she was about to reply when a cheer from the front of the cafe made them all turn. Fernan rose to join in the general applause and Challaye rose with him, reluctantly applauding as the two now acquitted gentlemen made their way into the cafe. Madame Beauharnais rose from her seat as well, but not to applaud. Instead, she hitched up her skirts and much to Challaye’s horror and Fernan’s dismay, stepped up onto the chair and asked in a loud, carrying tone which cut across the noise of the crowd: “Why do you applaud these buffoons?”
Silence fell.
“You sit here, drinking, making merry, acting like what happened today was something to celebrate!” Accusation rang in her tone and someone jeered. “Who let her in here?”
“Clone-lover!”
“Bleeding heart!”
“Go back to the homeworld with that-”
“Has the honor of Cosmara grown so cheap? Have we sunk so low that we must now celebrate murder? Have you no shame? Have you no humanity?” The crowd began to stir. “It is no longer possible to dismiss the evidence of our eyes! Clones are sentient beings! Clones are humans! They are-” Madame Beauharnais faltered as she became aware that the crowd was no longer listening to her. People were nudging one another and starting to point, not at her, but at something happening outside. She held out an imperious hand to Challaye, who, like a gentleman helped her down. “What is it?”
“I do not know,” Challaye said. “I see–” he fell silent, as they all did, for they saw the old man making his way into the town square.
Everyone knew who he was of course. His presence in the settlement that bore his name had caused many people no small amount of discomfort because the old man refused to hide his disgust at anything. He was disgusted that clones had been murdered for sport. He was disgusted by the behavior of the colonists. He was disgusted at the willful blindness of the government that had sent him to ‘observe and report’ and had torn strips out of the Mayor and the local dignitaries for even approaching him with a suggestion of throwing a banquet in his honor.
But now, Challaye thought, he just looked impossibly old. Baron Alessandro Pietro de Talangai, Hero of Cosmara, the man who had first navigated the gravity wells of Argolis II and crossed the Tramax Nebula, paving the way for the colonization of the entire Argolis Cluster made his way out into the main square. He was leaning his weight on his umbrella.
All over the square, clone workers began to emerge from the shops, removing their hats and standing at respectful attention as the old man passed. Challaye felt a sudden chill run through him: for all the debate over clone rights that the colonists and homeworld concerned themselves with, they sometimes forgot how easily the clones faded into the background.
“Are there really that many?” Fernan whispered, chewing at his bottom lip. He looked disturbed. Madame Beauharnais smiled. “There have always been more than you wanted to see, cousin,” she whispered in reply.
They knew. The thought hit Challaye like a thunderbolt. They knew why Talangai had come. They knew what he would say would most likely be greeted with polite courtesy and then ignored. But they stopped and stood in tribute to the old man because they knew whose side he was on.
Talangai seemed aware of none of it. He kept walking, tottering like an old man, pale and grey, silent and proud. As he drew closer to the cafe, Challaye saw his face.
“Sad to see him like that,” Fernan whispered. “So reduced.”
No one replied, but Challaye saw the clenched jaw and the narrowed eyes, blazing with fury. This was not the face of a dreamer. This was not an old man, saying goodbye to the town that bore his name. This was not a man lost in his past, but a man who seemed intent on finding his future, Challaye suddenly realized.
~~
The old man kept walking through the town, past the town square, and the young idiots packed into the cafe, making merry. His lip curled in disgust as he realized just why they were celebrating but he didn’t stop. He would have happily laid into them with his umbrella, but he had better things to do with his afternoon. Instead, as he walked, he tried to think back to those first years of settlement, what seemed like a lifetime ago now, when the town that bore his name had been little more than a collection of pre-fabricated housing units.
Now, Talangai Town was the largest settlement on the banks of the Brazza River. Impossibly wide and springing from its headwaters, hidden somewhere deep in the mountains of the far western region, the river grew in size and depth until it reached the flatlands where it cut a twisting pathway through the main belt of settlement between Talangai Town and the spaceport on the coast.
In an age of aircars and heavier transports, the insistence of the first wave of colonists on having a centrally located settlement still struck the old man as strange. But as with most everything in the colony, it probably came down to cost. It was easier to send minerals from the mines in the mountains or food grown in the lush agricultural belt around Talangai Town down to the coast by river than it was to transport them by aircar.
But the bounty harvested by the clone labor used by the colonists was paying off handsomely. Pre-fab housing units were gone, replaced by elegant brick structures and roadways that looked like cobblestones. Mature trees lined the streets and provided plenty of shade. There were shops, a school, and even a library. They had done well, the old man thought and wondered what the future would hold for this town after he was gone. How much higher could they build? How big could the population truly get? The passage through the gravity wells of Argolis II was far easier now than it had been when he had attempted it. Modern navigational equipment made the Tramax Nebula a breeze.
“A future I will never see,” he whispered to himself. On his third day in the town, when it had become clear to him what direction the trial was going, he had sent a comm message to coordinates deep in the bush. His message had been acknowledged, but he had received no other reply, which meant that the one idea he had probably wasn’t going to work.
The street began to slope down towards the waterfront and the docks and the old man suddenly realized how tired he was as they came into view. “Fool,” he castigated himself. “You could have called for a carriage or even a litter.” He was about due for another knee replacement, he was sure– his knees were aching, his feet hurt, and his back was bothering him. The infirmities of age, even with regenerative technology, were advancing upon him one by one, chasing him out of the town. His pace had slowed considerably by the time he reached the docks and he thought for a moment about stopping on a nearby bench to rest, but then, he saw the ship.
It wasn’t the prettiest of ships. It was grubby and dirty and looked like it had seen better days, but there was no mistaking the faded letters on its prow, “The Phoenix,” the old man whispered. “So, he got my message.” A smile spread across the old man’s face and suddenly it was as if his exhaustion abated and he was young again. He straightened, still keeping one hand on his umbrella, and briskly walked down the last block or so of the main boulevard and out onto the docks. He didn’t break his stride but walked out onto the docks and up to the ship. A gangplank with rails on either side led up to the ship and he stopped to examine it carefully. After a moment’s thought, he reached out and grabbed ahold of one rail, still gripping his umbrella tightly, and made his way gingerly forward onto the gangplank. Tightening his grip on the rail, he bounced on his heels experimentally and, finding that it seemed stable enough, made his way up it and onto the deck of the ship.
There was no one topside, but he knew where to go. He made his way to the rear where the pilot’s house was and as he approached the door, it slid open and he stepped inside.
A one-eyed man with a salt-and-pepper beard and skin that looked like leather turned at his entry and a broad grin split his face. “Talangai! I can’t believe you’re still alive.”
“Monza, you old pirate, I can’t believe this tub of yours still floats,” the old man replied with a grin of his own.
With a roar of laughter, Monza stepped over to him and clasped him in a ferocious bear hug. “Ah, it’s good to see you again, you bastard. It’s been too long!”
“Far too long, you big ugly bear,” the old man growled. “You’re going to break me in half!” Monza released him and stepped back, both men still grinning at one another. “It is good to see you again though. I wasn’t sure my message got through.”
“Oh, it did,” Monza replied, suddenly serious. “I had to read it through twice to make sure you hadn’t taken leave of your senses.”
“I haven’t,” the old man said. “How soon can we go?”
Monza reached forward and pressed a button on the control panel. “Right now,” he replied. “Gangplank just needs to retract and then we can get underway. We’ve got the guest cabin all set up for you.”
The old man smiled. “We?”
Monza nodded. “Adrianna insisted on coming. I told her it was too dangerous, but you know her…”
“She hasn’t changed a bit either, has she?” The old man asked.
“No and I thank the Gods for that,” Monza replied with a gentle smile. “She is truly the best thing that has ever happened to me, despite her…”
“Status?”
“Yes,” Monza said. His control panel flashed green and he stepped closer to it and moved the navigation stick slowly forward. The Phoenix slowly pulled away from the dock and the old man turned to watch Talangai Town begin to fall behind him for the last time. He stepped over to the window to watch, not expecting cheers or waves. There had been no delegation of town elders to witness his departure, he had annoyed too many of them during his stay for that. But instead-
The clones of the docks were standing at attention, watching him leave. No waves, no cheers, just an acknowledgment of who he was and what he had attempted to do for them. His breath caught and a lump in his throat threatened to break open and his eyes filled with tears. He raised a hand in farewell, acknowledging them and he kept it raised until the Phoenix was well out into the main channel of the river and the docks and town had faded into the haze of the afternoon. He lowered his hand and turned back to Monza who was still at his control panel.
“Where to? Back to the spaceport?”
“It would be easier if I did go back there,” the old man replied. “I could go back to the homeworld, reason with them. Yell and scream and talk to anyone and everyone about the injustice of it all. How our precious Republic and its vaunted ideals are little better than the Altairans.”
Monza raised an eyebrow. “So your message was… serious?”
“Yes,” the old man replied.
“We’re not going back to the spaceport.”
“No. Up the Pokola.”
“You mean to do it then? To meet with him?”
The old man nodded slowly. “You remember that night on Merfanti Base?”
“The night before you left to try to navigate the gravity wells,” Monza replied. “Aye, I do. Never been so drunk in my life. You were gambling like you were under a death sentence and nearly lost the title to your ship until you goaded that Altairan into placing everything on blue for one last throw of the dice.”
“I thought I was going to die. No one had returned from those damn gravity wells before,” Baron Alessandro Pietro de Talangai replied. “But now, years later, I realize that there are worse things than dying. Seeing your legacy destroyed. Watching your Republic betray its ideals for money,” he spat, fury rising in him again. “So, old friend, I have no other choice.”
“You mean to do it again,” Monza replied. “It’s not dice and money this time, you know. The stakes you’re talking about…”
“I know,” Talangai replied. “But one last throw is all I have left.”