She takes the proffered dossier from Nils and glances at it, showing no immediate reaction. “I've heard of these folks. I'm a bit surprised they reached out to the Foundation.” She purses her lips a bit and looks at Nils. “I was like that once, worse actually. Perhaps I can reach them.”
Nils smiles, making a mental note that this is one of the few times she's talked about her past. “I thought you might, but if you have any uncertainty, let me know now. I will not judge. I want this to be a positive experience for everyone, you included.”
She turns away, thinking. “If you'd said something like that to me a year ago, I'd have thought you were full of it. But I know you're sincere. Yeah, I think I'm ready for this. I need to start facing people like this. People like I was…,” she says softly, her voice trailing off.
“Great! Let me know if you run into any problems. Their contact info is in the file, and please work with our travel agency to make your hotel and flight arrangements. And if you want to take a couple personal days to do a little sight-seeing, that'll be fine, too. You've been working hard and could use a little time off, in my opinion, but no pressure,” Nils says with a smile. She has been working hard for the last year, so he hopes she takes him up on the offer.
This should be a good trip for her, and for him. Especially because Clive is sure this group is, in fact, funded by Sklávoi Ashtoreth to infiltrate the Andersson Foundation and sully its reputation. To destroy its credibility from the inside. And Nils is, for the first time, arranging a confrontation between Cheryn and the SA. He will, of course, be there surreptitiously to keep an eye on her. If all goes well, she will be none the wiser.
Chapter Ten
Psychostasia
Cheryn walks into an older building off 14th Avenue. This isn't the best of neighborhoods, but then why would it be? Grass roots organizations like this one tend to rise out of the places they're trying to help, don't they? She takes the stairs up to the third floor, her knee still bothering her a bit, but she is determined to not let it slow her down. She finds room 331, which has a hand-made sign outside that reads, “South Park Rising,” the name of the organization she is here to visit. She knocks firmly on the door, and she hears someone cross over to answer it. The door cracks open, revealing a young black man, dressed in casual clothing. “Yo, whatcha want?” he says, while eyeing her up and down.
“Hi, I'm Cheryn from the Andersson Foundation. I'm supposed to meet with Tawana Scott and Alfonz Hayes.”
“Hey, good to see ya Cheryn. I'm Al, come on in.” He opens the door, and she enters the small room they use as their office. “Hey T, got a visitor.”
Tawana comes in from the back office; she appears to be a little older. A strong woman with passion in her eyes and in her voice. “Hi! You must be Cheryn,” she says, offering her hand. They shake. “We're glad you're here.”
Cheryn looks around at the small office. “Tell me a little about your organization and what you want to accomplish. How would foundation funding fit in?”
Al crosses the room and sits on an old beat-up leather couch they use as part of a makeshift conference space, also consisting of several pieces of secondhand, overstuffed chairs around a large coffee table. Tawana takes one of the chairs and gestures for Cheryn to take another before answering her question. “We focus most of our work on community action. Getting volunteers to hold rallies to focus attention on the needs of the community. We could do more if we could offer more of our organizers compensation for the time they put in. It would allow them to focus more time to the cause and help us get larger participation at our rallies.”
Cheryn nods her head. She can relate to how they are trying to do things, but the foundation won't support those kinds of activities. She isn't surprised, but she needs to see if they have considered alternatives to just protesting. “What sort of things do you want once you get the attention you're looking for? What do you think will help the community the most? Do you have an action plan?”
Tawana and Al look at each other a moment. It is fairly clear they hadn't thought that far forward yet. Tawana answers again. “I guess we're looking to get better schools, better jobs, cleaner and safer housing, safer streets. I mean, we haven't written that down, but that's what we want.”
Cheryn smiles. It's pretty much as she suspected. Those are all laudable goals, and the types of things politicians love to promise. But they almost never deliver—because they can't. Those things can only be developed from within the community; they aren't gifts to be bestowed. That is the one thing she has learned from her training at the foundation, one lesson they've backed up with example after example of both programs that have failed, and those that have succeeded. It is incredibly difficult to help people see these truths, and she knows she will have to tread carefully if she is going to gain Tawana’s and Al's trust. “Those are excellent goals. The Andersson Foundation was specifically established to help communities develop these capabilities. It doesn't sound like you've put much thought yet into how you'd bring about that change, assuming you get the attention and resources you're searching for. I don't mean that as a criticism. As you know, the politicians in this city have been promising things will improve for generations; yet they do not. While it's easy to question their sincerity, and sometimes probably with good reason, the reality is change like what you're hoping to achieve isn't easy. The Andersson Foundation tries to bridge the gap between empty promises and meaningful action.” Her gaze moves from Tawana's face to Al's and then back again. They are starting to wonder where she is going with this.
“I'm sorry, let me back up a bit. Before meaningful change can start, you need leaders, and you need a good plan. Then you need resources, both money and good people. I think you two more than qualify as strong leaders, so perhaps the first place the foundation can help you is developing an action plan. That could then act as a framework for future investments, and the community can supply the good people. How does that sound?”
“Well frankly Cheryn, we are hoping for a more tangible investment, if you know what I mean,” Tawana says curtly.
“I understand completely. Look, I came from the streets, rough neighborhoods. I know what it feels like to fight for change and only see things get worse. It wasn't until I got to the foundation that I found out why so many well-meaning attempts at change fail. And I found examples of how it can succeed. The foundation wants to help, but our resources are not limitless. We need to make sure we invest where the probability of success is there. What we're offering is this first step, which involves little more than an investment of time on both of our parts but can then lead to much more meaningful partnerships.”
Tawana looks at Al, who raises his eyebrows at her and shakes his head a little. She sighs. “I suppose it was too much to expect you'd just give us a blank check. Let us think about it.”
Cheryn nods her head. “Sure. Look, I brought some information on what we can offer as far as training and action plan development. There are also some success stories in here. Please take a look at them, and if you want, reach out to me again. We do want to help.”
Tawana smiles at her and takes the package of documents from her. “Thanks for coming out. We will look these over and let you know if we have any questions.” She puts the package on the coffee table and gets up. Al and Cheryn rise with her.
“How large is your network of volunteers, people who regularly show up and pitch in?”
Tawana walks over to her office, “Easily a couple hundred people, most of whom can be relied on to bring a couple with them when we want to hold a rally. Come see for yourself…”
Cheryn follows her into her office and sees that one wall has been covered almost floor-to-ceiling with photos of various rallies. They appeared to be well attended, with hundreds, sometimes a thousand or so, crowding into parks, intersections, business parking lots. She sits there and looks at all the images and starts to see several of same people always standing around Tawana and Al, and what are probably the ot
her key organizers. A fairly sizable group of regulars. “You seem to have a lot of dedicated people, which is good. I hope you take us up on our offer.” As she turns around, she notices a small emblem embossed on a wooden plaque—an eight-pointed star. A symbol she'd hoped to never see again. She catches her breath for an instance before forcing herself to act with calm. She fears Tawana noticed her reaction and suddenly feels the need to leave. “Thank you for your time. I wish you the best of luck. And like I said, please let me know if you have any questions.”
Tawana and Al walk her to the door. They both shake her hand as she departs. “Thank you for coming out Cheryn. We'll take a look at this and be in touch.” Tawana says, eyeing her curiously—perhaps seeing something she'd failed to notice before.
Cheryn waves, then turns and heads back down the stairs.
She wonders what Sklávoi Ashtoreth is doing in Seattle. It seems like too small a thing for them to be investing in. But she is certain there is at least one operative here, embedded in South Park Rising. She exits the building, gets in her rental car and heads back to her hotel near the airport. Maybe she should abandon her plans to spend the next week seeing the city and just head back to the foundation's headquarters in Denver. Should she tell Nils? What can she tell him? That there is some ancient cult trying to “stick it to the man?” He'll think she's lost her mind. No one knows about SA, and no one has dug into her past. It is best left that way. But she doesn't think it wise for the foundation to have any dealings with an organization that, last she knew, wanted nothing more than to see it disgraced and destroyed. She'll have to find a way to ensure that doesn't happen. Perhaps she can write a bad trip report that will essentially spike any potential for a relationship? Something to consider.
She thinks for a moment how ironic it is that she should feel this way. She'd spent her entire life in Sklávoi Ashtoreth and only a year at the Andersson Foundation, but she feels they are genuine—truly making a difference. She's never been happier, and actually feels good about what she is doing, about herself. And that, she thinks, is what really matters. She cannot go back to what she had been before. That person died in the explosion and was consumed by those…things, in the darkness. She sighs. She wants to talk with someone about it, but there is no one she can trust. Not with her past. That is a burden she'll have to carry inside forever, alone.
∞∞∞
Zaleria looks at Traemuña. She has been more engaged in this project than anything else in the last 10,000 years. She even brought her unitary to Zaleria's home, to be with her physically as well as mentally. She must have a personal stake in this, and as much as Zaleria would like to believe it is motherly concern for her, she doesn't think that is the reason. It is something else, yet another mystery Zaleria must solve.
She is determined to do so. Zaleria has been changed by all that has happened. Gone is her former gentle, humorous demeanor, and in its place is a simmering resolve to get back to Earth, find out what happened, right whatever she can, and confront whomever or whatever has now twice attacked her. She is angry, not because of the assault on her unitary, but because of the damage being done to the humans. The other galanen—her mother, Beltare, her friends—were concerned about her isolation. Now they are alarmed about her anger. The galanen are not a violent people, but they know much—much that can be pressed into violent service if a galan desired to do so. She has been researching such things, in case they are needed when she gets back to Earth. She has also been honing her martial skills, to ensure her body is as well prepared as her mind for dealing with potential hostilities. She's never killed any sentient being, but she now feels that if she needs to, she will, without hesitation. But only to advance a just purpose.
She is outside in her garden, where she exercises every day for a couple local hours. Traemuña watches her do a series of back-flips before landing on her feet, pulling an energy pistol, and shooting a series of targets in rapid succession. Her symbiots augment her natural abilities to the point no human could match, but that doesn't mean several couldn't pose a threat to her or stop her from achieving an objective. Her goal in practicing is to ensure her body is as capable as it can be.
“I do believe you have made about as much progress as you can. Your speed and accuracy hardly increase anymore, suggesting you are about as good as you're going to get without additional physical enhancement. How far do you intend to take this?” Traemuña shares.
Zaleria looks at her, wiping the sweat off her brow. Her mother doesn't disapprove. Indeed, she appears to be genuinely curious. Experienced, perhaps? “I don't see any reason to enhance muscle mass, if that is what you're asking. I still need to fit in, and a hulking 150-kilogram behemoth of a female is likely to turn a lot of heads. Besides, I think accuracy and agility is all I'll need. I want to be prepared, just in case.” Her eyes flash a bit as she glares at her mother.
Traemuña sighs. “Believe it or not, I actually see the sense in what you are doing. If nothing else, it helps you work out some of the stress you're putting yourself under. But make no mistake, it wasn't your lack of physical preparation that caused your problems.” “We,” she stresses to ensure it implies the entire collective, “have been outmaneuvered. Whoever is doing this on Earth is always several steps ahead of us. We must focus on that above all else. We are being out-thought.”
“I agree,” Zaleria says in Earth English, wiping her forehead with a towel. “I find this vigorous exercise helps clear my head and sharpens my focus.” Zaleria pauses for a moment to get some nectar from a nearby pitcher plant and to decide if now is the right time to start sharing some of her up-to-now private thoughts. Keeping with spoken language to ensure she doesn't share too much, she continues, “For instance, I've been looking at this problem from a new perspective. Instead of thinking about all the races that might have a motive or capability to interfere on Earth, I've been thinking about how I would go about undermining a race as it approached its singularity, to see if that could give me some useful insights, or even leads.”
Traemuña looks at her daughter with keen, shining eyes. “Indeed. A practical idea,” she says approvingly, matching her switch to spoken language. “What have you found?”
“There are a few keys to being successful. The first is almost so self-obvious as to be moot, but I think it is worth keeping in the fore—it is imperative to not get caught. If the effort is discovered, it can be eliminated, countered, or dismissed. The corollary most applicable to our investigation is that any evidence that appears to point toward any specific actor must be considered a deliberate false lead. Specifically, the kel'taite.”
Traemuña smiles and nods. “Astute reasoning.”
Zaleria watches her closely, but her face is taking on that mask-like appearance it gets when she is trying to be completely opaque. “The second key would be to ensure unity of effort. You'd need a master plan that is both simple and self-sustaining. Ideally, one that could be largely implemented by the local race with only minimal guidance. The most important implication to our investigation is that, in keeping with the first principle—security—the minimum number necessary to pull off something like this is singular. One sentient could do it, given enough time and resourcefulness. At most, it would need no more than a small number, and based on my personal history, whoever it is has been at it for over 10,000 years. We must be open to the possibility that we're not facing the resources of an entire failed race, but maybe at most a handful of aliens. What technology have we seen used to date? Thermal oscillators twice; any race could make them. A kel'taite. Anyone could get one. The ability to counter my comms and a wave rider's external gravity field. Okay, those two remain inexplicable, but I find it interesting it was done only once. Could it have been an inside job, so to speak? Which brings me up to my final point.”
Zaleria bites her lip—she should work on controlling her facial expressions, she thinks to herself; she gives too much away when she doesn't intend to. “I would want to make sure I fit in if I
were doing this. The corollary is obvious. Who could best fit in with humanity for 10,000 years without leaving indicators or suggestions of external interference? We have to be open to our person or small group of failed sentients being galanen.” She believes she sees a slight downward twitch at the left corner of her mother's mouth. The tell. She is hitting close to whatever she is withholding.
Traemuña looks at her daughter, examining her body language, seeing how Zaleria notices the small expressions Traemuña can't quite seem to control. Frustrating, but at the same time, she can't be prouder of her daughter. Her inductive reasoning is sound, very sound. “So if you follow this to its logical conclusion, it suggests avenues of research, does it not?”
Zaleria smiles. “Indeed, it did. Acting on a hunch, I looked at records, trying to identify oddities, galan who may have gone missing, any who may have traveled near Mor'gathe, the kel'taite home world. I came up empty, except for one odd occurrence. When the cohort arrived in the Sol system after my first mission, they registered a gravity wave similar to a waverider exiting the system. By the time they realized the potential significance, it was too late to give chase. It was too large to have been a wave rider, but it appeared otherwise consistent with a galanen drive. Almost like those used by failed races that cannot access dimensional travel.”
Traemuña thinks on this for a moment. She'd not found this data point before, itself a small mystery. “How did you find this, if you don't mind my asking? I've looked at those records myself.”
“Beltare made the information available. The records had been sealed. I was unaware this could be done, until she revealed it.”
Traemuña doesn't hide her surprise. “Indeed, it is only done under special circumstances. This is very interesting. Have you thought about the significance of her revealing this to you?”
Through the Singularity Page 18
