Kemra frowned.
“A great deal of time-saving technology is designed to save time for the user, but not for all of society. Some technology is necessary—medical devices, emergency transport, food processing—but a lot is just metal gadgetry for those with resources and power. We’ve made an effort to downplay that.”
“Even you?”
I lifted my goblet. “I’ve been spending five to ten stans a week pushing screens and handling routine maintenance here at the locial. If my balance gets too low, I’ll do satellite maintenance. That’s all work that has nothing to do with being Coordinator.”
“You can’t tell me that compensates for all your personal technology.”
“Probably not,” I admitted, “but the system seems to work.”
“You sound suspiciously like an ethizard.”
I winced. An ethizard was the last thing I was or wanted to be. People who live their lives strictly by ethics are even worse than people who accept becoming Coordinator. “I’m scarcely that pure.”
“No.” And she laughed, actually laughed. “You couldn’t be Coordinator.”
I rose. “Speaking of which …”
“You need to do some Coordinator-type work.” She also rose and smothered a cough. Her voice was even more hoarse.
“Your voice could use a rest,” I suggested. “When would you like to depart tomorrow?”
“Ten hundred local?”
“That’s fine. I’ll meet you at the locial tower.” I walked her to the door and opened it.
Keiko was studying an almost blank screen, then looked up as Kemra walked past the console.
The navigator then turned back to face me. “Good day, Coordinator. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I agreed.
After Kemra vanished down the wide old-fashioned beam steps, Keiko raise her right eyebrow, and both dark eyes fixed me. “Did I hear something about a ruins tour?”
“You did. I’m trying to buy time. They’re even supplying transport on one of their landers.”
“Don’t you worry about that?”
“Personally, yes, but kidnapping or killing a Coordinator would certainly qualify as an attack under the Construct.”
“For your sake, I hope they aren’t that dense.”
“You and me both.” But I had to wonder. It might be a lot better if the cybs did kidnap or kill me—better, at least, for Old Earth.
I walked back into the empty office with the door open behind me. The clouds had dropped over the mountains again, leaving the day as gray as it had begun, and I needed to get a progress report from Elanstan. And talk to Locatio or someone about the arrangements for the Ellay locial. And check with Crucelle and Arielle about the marcyb vulnerabilities and the marcyb officer profiles … and …
A swirl of snow flicked across the south window and was gone. I looked at the tray on the table and took a deep breath.
XIII
Finally, after another quick meal snatched from the cafeteria and vorpaled down at my desk, I managed two linkages with Elanstan and Rhetoral, with one to Ingehardt sandwiched between. But Delta and Kappa stations were still not on line, and wouldn’t be. Elanstan was holding something back, but I couldn’t tell what.
After the second link with Ell Control, I walked back to the window and stared into the late afternoon, down at the browned grass of the park, then toward the white spire of the locial tower.
I took a deep breath and mentally reached for the link again.
“Crucelle?”
“Yes, Ecktor?” I could almost sense the warmth in his green eyes, even over the net.
“This is your very friendly and very worried Coordinator. What can you tell me about the electro-neural-resonance of the cybs and marcybs? Are they the same? Is a repetition of the pre-Flight blazing possible?”
“I can answer one question so far. We’re having to operate at a distance, remember. We don’t exactly have a cooperative subject in a laboratory.”
“I know that, but you’ve been around them. So has Arielle. You had the whole welcoming reception for data collection.”
“Ecktor …” There was the impression of a sigh. “We have a great deal of data. We also have a great deal of garbage. Making sense out of it is something else. We also are having trouble with the equipment in the residential block—enough that I can say that there’s a significant ENF differential between the marcyb troopers and the officers.”
“So the marcybs are constructs?”
“They’re totally biological, but there have been some significant changes. We’re working on it. That’s all I can say.”
“Ecktor,” added Arielle, “it isn’t easy. We’re skirting the Construct to do this, because this kind of observation implies mistrust, and that doesn’t make it any easier.” The stormy darkangel projected currents of frustration and determination.
“I understand. Let me know.”
For a time longer, I stood at the window, enjoying the almost imperceptible flow of cold air off the glass as I watched draffs and demis walk the paths of the park below. One or two looked back at the admin building, but most just walked.
Thrap.
At the tap on the door, I turned. Keiko stood there, trim, muscular, black on black.
“I’m leaving now, Coordinator, unless there’s anything else you need.”
“I’m sure there is, but I don’t know what.”
That got a brief and white-flashed smile.
“I’ll leave it on the system. I’ll probably go straight to the tower tomorrow for the ruins tour. If anything should happen, let K’gaio know, and dump the entire Coordinator bank on her. She’s stand-by Coordinator.”
“I hope nothing happens.”
“So do I.”
She inclined her head and was gone.
Next came what I’d put off—a system-by-system check of the maintenance status of the locial hardening and defense emplacements and systems, beginning with Deseret.
When I reemerged from the maintenance net an hour later, I’d noted and flagged more discrepancies than existed in routine reports, and the extra comptime for the supervisors involved wasn’t going to set well. Then again, unnecessary casualties wouldn’t set well, either.
I took a deep breath and slumped back in the green swivel. It squeaked loudly enough that I winced, then took another deep breath.
The sky remained gray, with swirls of intermittent snow. My soul remained gray, with swirls of intermittent ice. Before long Parwon would darken, its lights almost the only sparkles in the night for klicks and klicks—the individual illuminations of isolated demi households lost in the vastness of Deseret.
I was hungry, and I didn’t want to cook. I also didn’t want to eat cold cheese and bread, my usual escape from preparing something.
So I closed up the office and walked down the steps to the main level. The wind swirled around me as I stepped from the admin building into the incipient twilight and headed west toward Dhozer’s. A scattering of wet brown leaves lay across the tan grass of the park, and the air smelled of damp leaves, evergreens, and soil.
Two couples walked ahead of me, conversing, while two young girls walked in front of them, sometimes skipping, sometimes lagging until the adults almost walked into them. Then the children would skip ahead, only to repeat the process. The six of them turned right, crossed Jung (the street that bordered the front of the admin building), and strolled down the walk beside Hammurabi Lane.
Dhozer’s wasn’t much more than a converted cinqplex seven hundred meters from the admin building. According to Dhozer, most of his food was “authentic Graecian.” While it was tasty, I had my doubts about its authenticity.
A gust of colder wind whipped through my hair as I reached Dhozer’s, foreshadowing the clear if colder weather headed our way. I stepped under the overhanging eaves. The pair of bronze urns and the shielded tapers flanking the dark carved front door were the only indications of a commercial establishment.
/> I was earlier than most diners, and Dhozer greeted me himself.
“Ecktor, or is it Coordinator Ecktor now?” His shortcut black hair curled in ringlets, and set off his pale olive skin.
The restaurant smelled of wood smoke, cooking oils, and spices, and the warm air inside was humid, a relief after the cold damp outside. Metabolic control doesn’t always make you feel better.
“Ecktor is fine. It’s better for longevity.”
“Who wants to live forever?”
For someone who hadn’t been too sure about living at all, I realized with his comment that living forever sounded better than the alternatives faced by most Coordinators. “That’s not a problem. Coordinators don’t,” I answered with a laugh.
“Then you should try the braised stuffed lamb. I don’t make it that often, and you should taste it.”
“I’ll think about it.” I got the corner table, warmed by the wood-burning fireplace. Despite Dhozer’s suggestion, the lamb was out. The last time I’d had lamb—and it was costly, since sheep have to be raised close to the locials and put in barns at night—I’d felt stuffed for days.
His daughter, nearly Yslena’s age, brought the crusty wheat bread and the olive oil and filled my glass with the pine-flavored wine that I couldn’t believe had lasted for millennia. Why would anyone contaminate wine that way? For all my complaining, though, I had to admit it went with the food Dhozer served.
Idres looked at me.
“I’ll have the dolmades and the soup.”
She nodded and slipped away, and I dipped the bread in the balsamic vinegar and olive oil mix. While the ancient Greeks may have marinated and stuffed grape leaves, I doubted that they used fire peppers, brown rice, and ground bison to fill the leaves. Then again, who would question Dhozer? Most of what had been Greece that wasn’t underwater was still being recovered. Not many of the ancient Greeks or Mohammedans had survived the Chaos Years, when no one cared how many different ways they killed each other or what they did to water and food supplies.
Dhozer used more spices than I had in all my cabinets, but I didn’t use more than we’d been able to grow, except for salt and black pepper, and that amounted to a double handful at most. Eating at Dhozer’s was a luxury, because diners paid for it essentially by trading compensatory service time. Some draffs, especially, piled up comptime just for such luxuries.
The problem with having currency is that any society that controls it eventually debases it and taxes it. Any society that doesn’t control it will still have it evolve, and then the currency becomes pegged to outside influences—like the scarcity of precious metals, colored seashells, or large circular rocks with holes in the middle.
Our compromise was simple. We tied transactions to real goods and services. I had a comptime balance on the screens. If I provided an hour of administrative screen service, I got five credits. If I provided an hour of something like comm satellite maintenance, I got forty. The credits came from the system, not from the recipient. Likewise, for each hour I used the flitter, I lost twenty-five credits to the system, and that didn’t count fuel or parts, or the time and skill for repairs I couldn’t do myself.
Of course, the system depends on honesty, but in the end, any system does, and we just threw out those who proved they were dishonest. Surprising what that does for honesty.
“You did not want the lamb?” asked Dhozer, appearing silently by my shoulder.
“Too rich,” I said, after finishing a bite of the warm and crusty bread.
“The dolmades are good.” His tone implied that they weren’t nearly so good as the lamb.
I waited.
“What will the cybs do?”
“I don’t know.” That was true, but not good enough for the restauranteur.
“What do you think they will do?”
I took a sip of the retsina, a small sip, before answering. “They want revenge for The Flight. They have not indicated how they plan that.”
“Always the Construct, is it not?” he asked with a sigh.
“Always.”
“A pity.”
“Yes.” I thought so, too, but not so much of a pity as having no Construct.
He nodded and refilled the wine glass, although the level of wine had barely dropped, and then slipped away.
My eyes flickered to the replicated bronze shield and crossed spear, and then to the black and white crater that had never been used for wine.
Dhozer had reclaimed some of his heritage, and I wondered how much the rest of us had lost. Were we better off without the legends and myths, and the bloodshed out of which both had grown? But the myths hadn’t died away, except among the older demi families.
When I was young, we’d lived right outside the Bouthba locial on the ocean, where it rained all the time. At the times when the northeast rains poured down, my mother told stories, just like all draff mothers did, I thought. My father had often smiled, not an unsympathetic smile, while she told of strange little people and pots of gold at the end of rainbows. But there had been a darker side to some of those stories, too.
Once my mother told me an old, old story about Lyr, an ancient Sidhe god. She said that she told me because, before there were demis and cybs and draffs, there were legends and myths, and that some of those myths were real. She never said which were, and when I asked her, she’d only answered that they all held truth, and that I’d have to find out which held which truths, because once I was a demi, I’d have to understand. She knew from the beginning where I was headed.
I didn’t remember much of the story about Lyr, except three things. First was that he was the god of the sea with horses like sea-serpents that pulled boat chariots through the storms. Second, was that he wasn’t a big tall god, and he looked like a little old man. Last was that he went out of his way to put down heroes. I wondered if that part got added because my mother didn’t care much for heroes.
“Storms on the sea—they don’t care whether you’re a hero or a coward or a draff or a demi. When the clouds clear and the sea is flat, none leaves footprints. Nor does Lyr. The gods of the land, they tear up the ground and leave mountains and hills and canyons, but for all the violence on the sea, it’s unchanging. The only thing the sea changes is the land.”
Now, Yslena was working for Lyr, so to speak, and my parents had been dead for a decade, and Morgen was gone, too. Time was like Lyr, too, I thought as I took a sip from the refilled wineglass. Not many left footprints on time or on the water.
Idres brought the salad, with the strong-tasting goat cheese and the tangy dark brown olives. I wondered what cow cheese might have tasted like, but there were so few cattle left that I’d never had any.
“Do you think they will try to destroy all the locials?” Dhozer appeared and added a touch more wine to my glass.
“They could; they could try anything.”
“A pity they have learned so little.” He replaced the olive oil and vinegar with a fresh dish, and added another quarter-loaf of bread to my basket.
I nodded as I took another bite of salad.
“You should try the leklavi.”
“I should eat the dolmades before I consider something that rich,” I countered.
He smiled as he headed for the door and a new customer, a thin, dark-haired woman.
In the end, I didn’t have the leklavi, and I left early, still feeling stuffed. I didn’t need to complicate things by waiting until I was totally exhausted before taking the flitter home in the dark, instrument beacon or not at the house.
XIV
THE CONSTRUCT
Mutual individual respect and self-respect must be maintained, since the greater the mutual respect between individuals and the respect for the role of each individual within society, the more stable the society.
Because society is based on trust, trust cannot be withheld on unfounded suspicion.
Threats are a form of mistrust; so are unprovoked violence, use of physical force, and manipulation of another. Fai
lure to be trustworthy requires removal from society.
Attempts to redefine principles into written rules of conduct reflect mistrust and are doomed to failure.
Direct statements of individual desires are not forms of mistrust, but no individual or group of individuals is bound or required to fulfill another’s desire.
Society may agree upon mutually restrictive and/or coercive measures, but only so long as such measures have commensurate impacts upon those who develop and impose such measures.
XV
The previous day’s clouds had lifted, and as I landed and air-taxied the flitter to the base of the Deseret locial, a glance to the east showed that the warmer breeze out of the southwest was strong enough at the higher altitudes to lift plumes of snow off the eastern peaks.
After shutting down the turbines and flight systems, I’d barely lifted the thin case containing the copy of The Paradigms of Power and a general recent history of Old Earth off the second seat of the flitter when Kemra waved from beneath the nose of the cyb lander, a boosted hydrocarb monster that had to gulp kilolitres of fuel on every hop.
After sealing my comparatively minuscule flitter, I linked with Crucelle and Keiko and walked toward the cyb craft. I wore a winter jacket, not the black cloak. The ruins would be cold.
“Any reports to you from Elanstan?”
“Kappa’s up; Delta’s a mess.” Keiko’s words were quick and crisp, as efficient as she always was. I’d have bet she was wearing black again.
“The cybs are using solar arrays to charge what seem to be firin cells,” Crucelle reported, each word precise. “They are pulse-mapping most of the locials, and they did a survey flight over the earth side of the moon. They spent a lot of time in the equatorial belt.”
“They target anything there?” I asked, trying to recall if we had any sealed installations or depots there, although I thought most were in higher lunar latitudes.
“They covered the whole surface,” he answered ironically.
“That Commander Gorum was here already, asking for hydrocarb fuel to their specs, suggesting that it would be a nice gesture since they were transporting you to Cherkrik,” added Keiko.
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