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The large glowing wall said it plainly enough; less than six hours until the election.
Zeela picked up her pace.
The Equator Ring was busy, as always, and as she went along a half dozen people stopped to speak with her. Minor things from thanking her for something she’d done to a question over etiquette for Qlerning dinner parties (though why they asked her, she had no idea), to one man offering an idea for a radical new form of voting that she tucked away to consider, but had little optimism for.
Much of the election was still done by hand, with oversight by the ship’s AI that made nearly every part publicly viewable and accountable.
But only if the election was actually ready to be held! She still had about two hundred details to sort out, and barely enough time for her normal tasks, let alone this. Unlike most officers, her work only intensified the longer they stayed in port.
An election on the Craton was much like any in the Sapient Union; a national holiday. There was not simply the actual voting and counting and potential transfer of power to bear in mind, but the speeches, the entertainment, the food and drink . . .
Two digital banners had been unfurled outside the polling stations she passed, showing the two candidates. They were both animated, showing them in their duties and normal walks of life – the closest thing to an advertisement any candidate got. Any number of people could have run, and it wasn’t odd for there to be more – when Brooks had been voted Mayor he’d run against four others.
The fact that so few were running raised a view of how many thought of Brooks; a larger-than-life figure worthy of emulation in his conduct.
And ironically, Brooks had not even wanted to be Mayor when he’d first come aboard. He was something of an outsider, what being from Poor Earth, as some called it – poor as in something to be pitied. His time in the far reaches of human space, combined with his heroic actions on multiple occasions had made him almost legendary, and yet many had doubts. The Craton was not intended to be a combat starship, but a city and ship both. Brooks was aloof even by Antarctican standards, and it made him seem unapproachable, and details from his record – like how long it had taken him to become a Captain – started to rear their head. Was he fully stable? Sure, he was good in a dilemma, but how was he in times of peace?
It hadn’t been good. However good his captaincy, the distance people saw between them and him were going to make things awkward. And when their current Mayor – and only one the Craton had had in her 27-year life – retired, she was fearful that someone who took a confrontational view might get in power.
And when the day of Blaz Lambert’s retirement came, he’d been the one to come to her.
“Convince Brooks to run for Mayor after me,” he said. “He’ll win, if you help him with his image. You can show people that he’s not intimidating, but thoughtful. Not stark, but kind, even if he does not smile much.”
“My job isn’t to manipulate public opinion,” she’d told him.
“That’s not true – aiding candidates in simple aspects of a campaign is legal and fully normal. And that is all Brooks needs. He can fulfill the role because he does live on the ship. He does have the same concerns and life as they. A Captain on a ship is not insulated from the lives of those under him unless he tries. Which could happen with Brooks – and that would be a problem. This will help him and the ship both.”
Lambert, a man who all loved and respected, had looked at her with more concern than she’d seen on his face in all the years she’d known him. “If Brooks doesn’t run, Aoks Darhan will win. And frankly, I do not think he is fit. I am not asking you to do anything unethical. No lies. But simply tell others of the man that we see, and convince Brooks to run. He’s exactly what this ship needs.”
And ultimately, she had.
Lambert and Brooks had been close friends, but after retiring the former Mayor had moved off the ship, to a pleasant colony world. “My days traversing the stars are over,” he had said. He’d been 142 at that time.
He was still alive, she knew. Enjoying his retirement greatly, and thinking of the man in the garden he’d certainly built brought a smile to her lips.
When she’d told Brooks, he’d dismissed it immediately. “I am not a civil servant,” he said. “And it’s unusual for the Captain to also be Mayor.”
“Unusual, but not unheard of,” she’d said doggedly. “Just hear me out, Captain. This will solve a lot of problems.”
“Like?”
“Like the fact that the civilian populace are unsure what to make of you. You’re an excellent commander, but you’re an outsider.”
“Being Captain is already enough duty for me,” he’d told her, a hint of a tired smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Mayor is largely an honorary position,” she said. “It won’t add much work. I handled nearly all administrative tasks even for Lambert. Mayor just sets an agenda – I execute it.”
“I’ll think on it,” he’d said, clearly thinking he’d say no.
She went on to convince him otherwise.
It had worked well. Brooks cared about the civilians, of course. He had convinced her, and soon convinced the populace that he did think of their needs. Taken up habits that instilled confidence in them, like his daily walks. Just being seen as accessible helped an incredible amount. He was no longer an outsider making command decisions, but one of them.
And now Aoks Darhan was running again. A leading member of the Civil Council, one of its longest-serving, he had the credentials. At one time he had been the head engineer in the Civil Gardening section, and later had applied for a restaurant license, starting one of the ship’s most popular dining establishments.
It was still in operation, though Darhan had moved on. He was semi-retired, working on an inter-ship gardening project, wherein they exchanged seeds and cuttings to create improved cultivars in a method thousands of years old.
She’d met with him a few times already; despite what some others thought, he’d be an okay mayor, she thought.
But he wouldn’t be what Brooks was, and that concerned her.
Not that Brooks was the best administrator on the civil side. He took a very hands-off approach even for the mostly-honorary position, and let the various councils function, while keeping his finger on the pulse of the ship so that he could render judgments when no one below him was able to.
And that was exactly how it should work, she thought. Some Mayors on city-ships took too strong a stance on their roles, essentially vying with the Captain for power. Sometimes even leading strikes against a captain who they felt was ignoring civil needs.
Which was sometimes appropriate, she knew. But it could also be disastrous for a ship. The most famous example in history she knew of had been on the generation ship, the Gandry, where the ship’s civilian population had revolted against what they viewed as unfair conditions. There was often some truth in such matters, but far more important than comfort had been the breakdown of food production systems on the ship. Ultimately, over twenty percent of the people on the Gandry had starved to death . . .
And on the flip side, some Captains were far too controlling, at least historically. In the past some had even called them ‘master’ in addition to commander, which perhaps made sense in the barbaric days of wooden sailing ships on Earth, but was wholly inappropriate in an age where everyone was fully educated in civics and nuance.
Brooks was a great Captain, and fulfilled every need of a Mayor by simply being tall, strong, and instilling confidence in everyone. Having him as Captain and Mayor was a perfect merging of the two roles.
So until she lost the confidence of the crew or civilian populace – which polls showed she certainly hadn’t – she would guide it all as best she could.
“Damn it, Captain, beat that stupid charge,” she said, hurrying into her office.
Other Terrestrial 
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