Because recent scars reopen easily. All Hives are Frankenstein chimeras, stitched from mergered peoples: the Humanists were born from the Olympians and One Big Party, the Cousins absorbed Rainbow Bridge and Schools Without Borders, Europe swallowed Volemonde and IBN; so many names from the heady decades after the Great Renunciation, when dozens of newborn Hivelets vied for slices of mankind. The fittest survived, but with the conquered within them, as conquered bacteria became the mitochondria which feed the cells that crawl through volvox, trilobite, and coelacanth toward Mars. One suture is still fresh. To me it is history, but to Papadelias, Jin Im-Jin, Joyce and Felix Faust, sixty-four years ago is very living memory. Greenpeace, lean of members but fat with forests, farms, and mountains. In Greenpeace had gathered those who loved the land, the farmers, shepherds, seaherds, naturalists, Earth Mother’s self-appointed guards. Here too, as the geographic nations died, accumulated their parks, wilderness, sanctuaries, refuges, and reserves, adopted by guardians determined to ensure that the Church War’s carnage left the untouched untouched. India quickly became the Hive’s heart, that exquisite subcontinent whose many peoples have always been so prudently reluctant to subject the smallest parcel of their paradise to outsiders’ exploitation. Soon, in addition to owning most of India, Greenpeace guarded a quarter of the Earth, pristine, primordial lands, in business terms untappable. Untappable but real. How the Mitsubishi hungered for it, the land-crazed Mitsubishi who lust after the sweet curves of hills or the dusky laps of mountains just as much they do after rent-rich high-rises and commodity-plump factories. Those Hives that think only manpower is real power laughed when the Mitsubishi bought out Greenpeace, as when Prometheus duped Father Zeus with his trickster’s offering of rich fat hiding empty bones. Some gods want bones. While for a European or a Humanist one life is one vote, every unit of property a Mitsubishi Member owns is one extra share in the corporation, an extra vote. A more valuable property might be two votes, twenty, a thousand. Even if each wilderness acre was worth a hundredth of a house, there were millions of acres. I know the Directorate, and the courting dance they play with the voting blocs that feed their power. All Directors come from land-rich families, but family property is only the tiny axle which anchors the great wheel of a billion supporting votes, bound to their chosen Director by promotion ladders, nepotism, debt, trust, and tribe mentality. Greenpeace’s property brought two billion new votes into the Mitsubishi Hive, one billion to raise a Greenpeace Director, the other billion to be wooed by the dominant voting blocs which vie eternally for the other eight seats. If Shanghai now had two Directors, it wasn’t just because of property in Shanghai. It is no coincidence that crowd-courting Andō has always made his love of nature sanctuaries so very public. For sixty-four years, then, there has been no Greenpeace, but in history’s terms the sutures are still raw, and when ex-Greenpeace Members smell blood on Mitsubishi hands, their minds are quick to chop ‘they’ off of ‘we.’