Horace’s hand shot up before she finished speaking. Just about everyone else had their hand up too.
Laurel pointed to Horace.
“The offer is too little too late! Nonintervention my ass! Why the hell didn’t they help us fight off the Progg?”
“I can answer that,” Grav said. “Because intervening would have meanttaking onthe Progg, which would have resulted in a galactic war with trillions of deaths on their allied planets. They were protecting their members.”
Horace huffed.
“Jacob,” Laurel called.
“How can we trustthesealiens? We were invaded once. Maybe this is a ruse,” Jacob said.
“Yeah!” several people shouted.
Chloe could understand the wariness, but why would the federation bother with a ruse? All they had to do was invade. Earth’s best defenses had been ineffective against the Progg, and they hadnodefenses now. They were sitting ducks.
“That’s not what the federation does,” Grav said. “I’ve never met Urlyn Buqu, but I know of him, as does—did—the General Ministry. The federation’s existence impeded Progg expansion. The GM would have laid claim to their planets but didn’t dare because they weren’t certain they could win. The federationoften operates out of self-interest, but they do protect their own.
“I would recommend you accept their offer,” he concluded.
“Our situation is…challenging, but we’re just getting started. Maybe we should try rebuilding on our own first. I don’t accept that our loss is irreversible,” a liberal arts college professor spoke out.
“I do.” Damon stood up. “I’m the only medical doctor here. What happens when I die? Who will you have then? I can pass on some medical knowledge, but not all or even most of it. Drugs have an expiration date. When they get old, they stop working. We have no way to make more. There are two hospital systems in Springfield filled with unusable medical equipment because there is no electricity.
“Nobody here has the ability to get the electrical grid up and running. If that person even exists on Earth, how would we find them? We should let the federation help us.” He sat.
Guy sprang up. “I agree with the doc. How will we fabricate tools and equipment? What happens when bicycle parts or the bikes themselves rust out and break? When axles on the horse carriages snap? Sure, we have replacements now, but what about twenty,fifty years from now? How are we going to mine the ore to make metal to manufacture the parts? Can anybody here do any part of that? We know how to use the things we have—we don’t know how to create them.”
He swept out his arms. “Everything you see and use has a limited lifespan. The generators aren’t going to run for much longer with the degrading gasoline. Can you live without flip-a-switch heat, no AC, no electric lights, no washing machines?
“We won’t starve. We can farm. There is ample game. Future generations might live in log cabins or mud huts, but they’ll have shelter. We’ll always have fire—which we’re going to need. Eventually, we’ll deplete the water in the city tanks, and we’ll have to haul it from the river and lakes. Keep that fire going because every drop you drink will have to be boiled first.
“Mateo and Liam and I have been hunting and providing meat for everyone. It’s easy now—we have guns. But like gasoline, gunpowder degrades and becomes unusable. I don’t know how long the bullets will be good. Ten years? Twenty? Does anyone here make gunpowder? Primer? Shell casings can bereused, but not indefinitely. Oops! There’s that’s pesky metal manufacturing issue again.
“I’m with the doc on this one. Let’s accept the help.” Guy took his seat.
“We’re fifty people out of two million. What right do we have to decide for everyone else?” asked a soft-spoken former kindergarten teacher. “That’s not very democratic.”
“If not us, then who?” Chloe stood and turned to face everyone. “Yeah, it would be more democratic to have a planet-wide vote, but it’simpossible. People are scattered across seven continents, and we have no way to contact them. We can’t reach the people in New York, let alone Europe, Asia, or Australia. If we don’t decide,nobodygets to decide.”
“Well, I don’t feel comfortable making the decision,” the teacher said. “I can abstain from the vote, can’t I?”
She doesn’t want to take responsibility. Or she’s afraid to. What. The. Fuck! Yes, there’s risk, but this is a chance to fix things!Chloe couldn’t believe anybody would not want to accept the offer.She struggled for a suitable, civil reply when Laurel spoke up.
“That’s your right. Nobody’s going to force you to vote,” Laurel said. “But keep in mind, no decisionisadecision. If you abstain, you are tacitly agreeing with the majority vote, which may be contrary to what you want. We on the council could have decided this ourselves—but it’s so critical, we believed we needed to involve as many people as we could.”
So, there!Chloe took her seat since Laurel had it under control.
“The Progg shouldn’t vote. This doesn’t concern them,” said a recent newcomer, a former social media influencer. “Drag…Brag—whatever his name is—he shouldn’t even be on the council.”
Chloe leaped to her feet and his defense. “His name isGrav. And do you really want to go down that road—”
“Yes, I do.”
“Chloe, Kaysey, please. Sit down. Let me handle this,” Laurel said.
Glowering, she flopped into her seat. The open-mindedness of the community she’d been celebrating had been an illusion. Clearly, animosity and resentment simmered beneath the surface calm. She’d forgotten that most people were nonconfrontational. To assume someone agreed with you because he or she didn’t openly disagree had proven to be a fallacy, resulting in some surprising election outcomes. Nowshe worried about the vote. What if the majority declined the federation’s assistance?
