which surrounded the black hole-star binary at the center of the Orian solar system. The towers were the largest man-made structures on Oria, taller than all but the highest mountains, a constant reminder to all citizens that they had conquered the secrets and had unlocked the power of the black hole. The Rankin Cube was still, by more than an order of magnitude, the largest man-made structure in the universe.
Each tower was a community unto itself. The central core was for transmitting energy, but the outer frame was more than just a stand. There were shops, manufacturing facilities, warehouse space, schools, and living quarters. One hundred thousand people or more could be in a tower during usual business hours. For 118 years, the government held the bi-annual Pixxlerr competition, granting an artist the privilege to paint a twenty by fifty meter mural on a tower depicting a scene from Orian history. Every winner, no matter how popular or how much their works fetched on the open market, received no compensation and considered it the highlight of their artistic career. They would be forever part of Orian history.
With the limitless power of the black hole, the Orians were able to control their weather. There were still the four seasons, but the temperature was never warmer than +33° or colder than -8° Dye-Anz (commonly called “DA” and just happened to be conveniently equivalent to our Celsius).
Weather cataclysms, such as hurricanes, typhoons, tornadoes, floods, severe storms, hail, even lightning strikes, were unknown on Oria for almost five hundred years, from the time just after Odibee Rankin built the Cube. Many Orians traveled to the more backward outer planets in their solar system just to experience a thunderstorm. Some thought that a slow-motion image, capturing the lightning bolt from its first twinkle through its race across the night sky in a thousand different and ever-changing directions, to be the thrill of a lifetime. How could anything be so fleeting, so small at barely one centimeter in width, near instantaneous, gone long before its presence announced by the clap of thunder, and yet be so powerful? It was easy to see why the Whe-Woulons, one of the prehistoric tribes of Oria, considered Eashten, the god of the sky, to be the most powerful in their pantheon of deities.
Although it was the middle of what was still called winter, the temperature was a cool but pleasant +2° DA. The Orian sun Mhairi shone brightly. There were a few scattered, yellow-green clouds and a soft breeze, evident only by the signs above the doors of the local businesses creaking as they swung back and forth, the waving of the purple beengum moss hanging from the rocca trees, and a few wisps of dust from the fields. A light coat, hat and gloves, or even a hooded sweater, were enough to keep the school children warm on the playground during recess.
During the night, Chairman Metetet Rommeler had contacted all of the members of the Committee of Ten to notify them of the emergency meeting. The formal business of the Republic of Oria was conducted by the Committee of One Hundred in the columned, ornate beaux-arts style Hall of Rankin, located in the center of DiGamma on the banks of the mighty, fast-flowing Donow, its clear, and still cool water coming from snow-melt of the CarPattKum Mountains barely visible off in the distance to the west.
But for this meeting, easily the most important since the outbreak of the war, celerity, and above all, secrecy, was what really mattered. Any suggestion that the Committee was meeting at this particular moment would immediately alert the rebels, who seemed to have spies everywhere, that the government had learned of their plan. The rebel’s plan, if successful, would change the course of the war. Billions would die. Centuries of progress and hard work would be wiped away, vaporized in an instant in a mushroom cloud.
This meeting, without any aides, secretaries or note-takers, was held in the War Command Room of the Suppay Building, the headquarters of the Orian military, more than forty kilometers from the center of DiGamma. It was the most secure building on the planet. There were no other structures and no plants taller than the daily-manicured blades of grass within five hundred meters of the building. No aircraft without special clearance was allowed within twenty kilometers. Committee members entered either by one of the eight heavily-guarded subterranean routes or by military aircraft that landed directly on the building’s upper floors, all far from public view.
Chairman Rommeler was normally seen in public almost every day. He gave a formal news conference on the first Hetfon Day of every month and usually answered at least a few questions after every speech or public appearance. So he could devote all of his time to the unfolding crisis, the press had to be given some legitimate reason that he would not be seen for the next week or longer.
It was decided to tell the press that the Chairman was going to the family’s personal retreat at Murrdorr. Rommeler was there three or four times a year, often using it to host interplanetary heads of state and other dignities. It would arouse no suspicion. Murrdorr was also secure. On Oria, the media respected the personal lives of prominent personalities, political or otherwise. Security was always on the lookout for spies and traitors, but at least they didn’t have to worry about paparazzi-like journalists.
As Rommeler walked through the vine-covered gates of 115 Bingham, the address of the Chairman’s official residence, within just a block of the Hall of Rankin, he stopped for a minute on the sidewalk to chat with reporters. Rommeler was dressed casually but neatly, and as always, his every movement and gesture showed poise, confidence and self control.
“Hello, everyone,” said the Chairman with a smile that was inwardly forced but outwardly relaxed and appeared adequately genuine.
“Hello, Sir,” was the reply in unison, almost as Beaver, Whitey, Larry, Gilbert and Violet would say “Hello, Miss Landers,” on Leave it to Beaver.
“What’s on your schedule, Mr. Chairman?” asked Ilon Lekki-Thoma, the senior political reporter of the Septadian Times, who by custom was given the first question.
“We’re headed to Murrdorr. Mrs. Rommeler is already there, and a few of the grandchildren will be in and out.” (In such situations, the Chairman never used his wife’s first name, Ora. He was the one in political office, not her, so he made every effort to distance his family from the press.)
Rommeler then turned more serious. “I will of course, stay in close touch with General Raton. My main goal over this time is to do some reading and study on how other societies re-integrated after a civil war in the way fairest to all. We want to have a plan that’s ready to go when this conflict ends. I don’t think we have the luxury to let time wear away the bitterness. A few people will need to be punished, and punished very severely,” he said in no uncertain terms. “But overall, I’m convinced that compassion and forgiveness will be the key to rebuilding a successful future for Oria.”
He paused, and was again more casual. “I’ll do a little gardening, and we’re going to make some fraiseberry jelly.” With a smile he added, “And I’ve heard that the fish in our lake have been getting lazy. They need some exercise.”
Rommeler needed to move along, so he brought things to a quick end. Indicating there would be no more questions, he said with a wave of the hand and that reassuring Rommeler smile, “See you in a week or so.”
The meeting was scheduled for 1300 hours. Punctuality was a virtue on Oria. “Nobody cares if you’re ten minutes early, everybody cares if you’re ten minutes late,” was the old saying. Being late was a sure sign of intellectual disorganization, a sloppy mind, and was thought at a minimum to be inconsiderate, showing no regard for the feelings of others, as a way to control them—or at worst—a not-so-subtle way to insult someone. Anyone late for a meeting of this importance would be greeted with stone silence and a stare that could tear the hide off a gevaudan, the most ferocious animal in the galaxy.
Chairman Rommeler stood just inside the door and greeted the Committee members as they entered the room. Aside from wearing a sweater and slacks instead of his usual neatly tailored flatton suit, Rommeler appeared as relaxed and confident as always. No one could tell he had slept less than thirty minutes in the last twenty-seven hours.
First to arrive, at 1240, was Feher Blanck, Academia’s representative on the Committee of Ten.
“Hello, Feher,” said Rommeler as he shook his hand.
“I saw your short press conference yesterday,” said Blanck.