LJ Idol week 9: Licentian

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Earth, New United States, October 2, year 2deltaQ

Cynthia Zhang had been to the White House twice since her company had acquired the gray planet, Licentian. She'd originally named it after her company, but the name hadn't stuck long, especially after the pictures of the planetary sky had come back from the first official exploration. Everyone called her new planet the Gray Planet because its sky was the color of summer thunderstorms, though it hadn't rained on the planet since its discovery in the late deltaP's. A discovery that wouldn't have happened without the generous donation from Cynthia Zhang's company. The planet was a barren wasteland upon its discovery, filled with wide, open plains that curved in the horizon. Everything about the planet was dead and gray, and the name stuck.

Her first time in what passed for the White House during the original's reconstruction had involved a long meeting detailing what her company did, and why the newly inaugurated President of 50delaP should stay out of their way. With a newly elected President in office now, Zhang's visit was a combination of introduction and a means to settle the new President into the way things were supposed to run. Ever since one of Cynthia's close workers had carefully leaked what was going on in the Gray Planet to the old President, and with the current transfer of information between Presidents, Cynthia had become a beloved guest of the White House. This invitation gave her a chance to speak to the new President, to ensure that the proper protocols where in place. Tedious though these visits were, Zhang knew they were necessary to avoid any chance of a misunderstanding.

Little had changed since the last time she'd walked the polished corridors to the Oval office, even under construction. There were always doors, people walking around with tablets in their hands, and recorders in their ears. Everyone was too busy to welcome Zhang, but she was not naïve enough to think they didn’t notice her. No one could spit in the White House without everyone knowing when, where, and the exact trajectory. It was comforting to know that though the world changed, the small things remained the same.

Zhang was even wearing the same gray suit she'd been wearing the last time she spoke to the old President, ironed and pressed, presentable as was her custom. Zhang's heels still sunk into the patriotic blue carpet on the floor. Inside the Oval office, the desk took up most of the space in front of the windows. The plaques on the walls and the wide windows behind the cherry wood desk gleamed in the sunlight that seeped through the open blinds. There were neat stacks of papers on the desk behind the plaque that read Peter Lujan. The only noticeable change, besides the name on the plaque, was the man sitting in the black leather chair behind the desk.

Peter Lujan was a 56-year-old New Republican, enough of an idealist to want what was best for the people of his country, but not enough to do so fairly. Then again, few people in power were ever noble enough to give up that power for the good of the country. He was a tall, impressive man, and Zhang would have known without having read his file. He towered above her in his blue suit as he stood, offering his hand to her. She shook it, her grip tight enough that she could feel Lujan flexing his hand around hers.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Zhang," President Peter Lujan nodded, motioning to the seats in front of his desk. "Please, sit."

"Thank you," Zhang answered, taking the seat.

She watched as Peter Lujan smoothed down his dark blue suit before sitting down. The gold wedding band on the second finger of his left hand was the only piece of jewelry on him. Everything else about the man was clean, from his white hair, parted to the right, to the friendly smile on his face. He sat up straight, with his back pressed into his chair, his hands folded on top of the files on his desk. Lujan gave the illusion of holding power in his office, his eyes never wavering as he looked over Zhang.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," Zhang said, letting her eyes sweep around the office.

She was aware of the security camera in the middle of the ceiling, but as far as Zhang knew, there were no recording devices. She leaned forward in the large chair so that Lujan had no choice but to look into her eyes.

"I am aware of the situation in the Gray planet," Lujan answered, shifting in his seat and looking away.

Cynthia Zhang aimed a pleasant smile in the President's direction. "Of course," she said. "But it is my belief that repetition does no harm. And as I do happen to own the planet, I am the most capable of answering any questions you may have, Mr. President."

Peter Lujan said nothing for a moment as Zhang watched him. She could almost see his mind working to find a way to phrase his questions. There were always questions, from those who thought they knew, though the Presidents tended to ask the questions that had the least relevance. Zhang had answered how more often than she had answered why. It highlighted the reasons why Cynthia's campaign to claim the planet under Licent Corp had been so simple. People were easy to convince because they just didn’t want to know. Life was so much easier when no one asked questions because it meant that no one would get answers one wouldn’t like.

The success of the top one percent revolved around people not asking questions. So long as the larger population never asked why people like Cynthia Zhang owned so much money, and as long as no one asked why it was so hard for new corporations to break into the market, then there would always be the top one percent. Zhang used to worry when she was younger, watching those smarter than her studying alongside her in the college campus. She'd picture running her mother's company and think that someone more capable would show up to run it before she even had the chance. But over the years, Cynthia had learned why the richest men and women of America remained at the top, and why they would always remain there.

Her company was the leader in electronics production, one of the largest worldwide, and one of the last American based companies. She and the other company heads donated most of the money that went into presidential campaigns. Essentially, they put the men and women behind the desk in the oval office. But more than that, the rich paid enough taxes to fund health and education programs. The fact that education was free and available to all in the country, no matter what the person's socioeconomic status was due largely to the money that people like Cynthia Zhang funneled into the government. Not to mention the policy changes that had happened since even before Cynthia was born.

Back when Cynthia's great-great-grandmother had been a young woman, the country still believed that marriage between people of the same gender was wrong. She'd heard stories about men and women being discriminated because of their skin color, even though they were American. It seemed ridiculous to consider such things as Cynthia grew older. She was born into a world where men, women and all people had the same rights, and education was available to all. The idea of paying to go to school, when educated people were what held a country up, was insane.

It was why Licent Corp had been the leader in lobbying for bill 2940, which made discrimination of any kind a criminal offense. The general response had been positive, though there were the few, as there always were, who were not pleased. Some called it overkill, but with most of the American population being of mixed races, no one complained for long. It had taken centuries, but America was finally living up to its declaration of being the "land of the free and the home of the brave." People were content, and if they were content, they didn't ask questions.

Crime was the lowest it had been since the foundation of the country, though most attributed this to the strict laws and punishments, which Cynthia Zhang had lobbied for as well. Certain things that went on in the government tended to happen because political leaders owed something to some corporation. Even so, corporations tended to pull strings in ways that would benefit the people, though most of the time that was just a secondary effect. Cynthia Zhang had no qualms about admitting that the things she did were because it meant that she would be able to keep her company running, and keep the numbers on her bank account at their current level.

Her venture into the Gray planet, and the prison she set up there, were to keep providing the world population with computers and other technological devices. America would benefit because Licent Corp was the best at what they did, and would only get better now that their people could afford to eat, go to school, have decent healthcare, and have decent living arrangements. If surprised no one that people were more eager to learn when they could do so without worrying about going into debt. It seemed overly easy now that it was the norm, but Cynthia knew her history. She knew how oblivious the government could be to the needs of the masses. Really, having corporations interfere seemed like the best thing that could have happened to the country.

"Why so quiet, Ms. Zhang?" President Lujan asked, pulling Cynthia out of her thoughts.

"I was waiting for you questions," she said, settling more comfortably into her chair.

Peter Lujan nodded slowly. "I suppose you should start from the beginning."

Cynthia Zhang let her eyes wander around the office once more, at the white blinds on the windows. There was a closed door to her right that she hadn't noticed.

"I am going to assume this is not being recorded," she said.

"I am a politician, not a fool," Lujan answered.

"And yet," Zhang said. "In the history of our country, Mr. President, those two things have had a nasty habit of overlapping."



Licentian, The Gray Planet, October 2, year 2deltaQ

David Mallory hadn't expected bright, flashing lights when he stepped through the glass doors and into the release center. He'd expected a wide, open space, cluttered with lines of bored looking people—passengers, his mind supplied. The word didn't make sense in David's mind, but then, neither did the confusion at not seeing men and women dressed in blue uniforms standing in front of conveyor belts, asking for identification and flight numbers.

"Mallory," a robotic voice called from overhead.

It took a beat for David to realize that his name was Mallory. He'd been Number 51 for so long, he'd started thinking about himself that way. When he wasn't 51, he was David to the few friends he'd made at the prison. Sometimes when he slept, he was Dave, though it had been happening less and less. When he woke up, he could never remember who it was that was calling his name. It made him anxious, and he'd reach for the photograph on the wall next to his cot. He knew Matthew, made sure he talked about him, because even though it seemed like David was forgetting himself, he'd never forget Matthew.

"Mallory, David," the robotic voice said again, as though it expected an answer.

"Yes," David answered, shaking his head so he could focus on the room he was in.

He was in a 6-foot by 7-foot room, surrounded by white walls on two sides, the metal doors he had gone through behind him. In front of him was a dimly lit hallway that veered right in the distance.

"Proceed," the same robotic voice said.

David looked behind him, but the metal doors covered well above David's head. He wasn't used to robotic voices after being at the prison for as long as he'd been, and hearing something so obviously non-human was making him nervous. But Thomas had said that David was going home and that was enough to make David push back any reservations. He squared his shoulders and started forward.

"Your pack, Mallory," the robotic voice said.

David paused, glanced back at the pack he'd brought with him. It was by the door, a brown pack made from wool like his jumpsuit was. He carried a picture of Matthew inside, and as he picked up his pack, he was overcome with a desire to look at the picture again. He was afraid he wouldn't recognize Matthew when David saw him. He was afraid of asking the robotic voice whether anyone knew he was free, wanted to know if he could read all the letters Matthew must have sent him. Prison policy said that they couldn't receive mail until their release date, but David knew Matthew wouldn't have listened. David almost asked, but the lights blinked on and off above him as though impatient, and he stepped forward into the hallway.

David Mallory walked down the white hallway, the floor beneath him black tile, the ceiling above him lined with fluorescent bulbs. He counted his steps in his head, made it to 138 before the hallway turned to the left. He walked on, made a right, then a left, stopped counting his steps after a while. He didn’t know how long he walked, but he knew he'd never find his way back. It made sense, David thought as he came up to another metal door. If any of the prisoners managed to sneak past the guards at the prison, they'd never find the release center before someone caught up to them.

"Name," the same robotic voice from before said.

David opened his mouth to make a comment about having missed it and decided against it. The moment didn’t seem like one for making jokes. Matthew was on Earth, and David was going home. There was nothing that could make him stay, nothing that would keep him from what he wanted.

"David Mallory," he said.

"David Mallory," the voice said. "Born July 2nd. Year 17deltaP. Mother and Father deceased. Married to Matthew Degare. Charged with divulging government secrets in the year 2180. Sentence was death or 11 years on Licentian. Served 4 years. Released on good conduct October 2.Year 2deltaQ. Correct?"

David said nothing for a moment. He couldn't remember the secrets he had supposedly divulged, but it never occurred to him to question it. All the prisoners, himself included, assumed that they were all in prison because they had done something wrong. They'd all been so lucky, so incredibly lucky, to have been given the chance to live, to be able to go back home. David didn’t care anymore what he'd done or why he was here. He was just so relieved to be going home.

"Correct?" the voice asked again, drawing David out of his thoughts.

"Correct," David said.

"Step through the doors."

David nodded to distract himself from the way his hands were shaking. His heart beat a rapid rhythm in his chest and everything seemed to narrow down to the dark brown skin of his hand against the metal door. Taking a deep breath, David pushed open the door and stepped through.

He didn't even feel it when someone slid the needle into the side of his neck.



Earth, New United States, October 2, year 2deltaQ

"What happens on the Gray Planet?" President Lujan asked.

Cynthia Zhang smoothed out her suit jacket, as she stood. "Progress, Mr. President," she said. "Progress."