The League of Peoples

by James Alan Gardner

  Jupkur shrugged. “The only problem was, Tic had caught the paralysis like everybody else, and couldn’t hold a knife to slash his wrists. The disease clung on too—kept him immobile twice as long as anyone else. Psychosomatic, of course: guilt kept him numb months after the microbes were gone. So the emotional therapists went to work, and by the time he could move again, he was past the suicidal stage. Just not past the self-recrimination. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention the plague in casual discussion.”

  “Jupkur,” I groaned, “I’m Henry Smallwood’s daughter. Ooloms still stop me on the street to shake my hand. The subject is going to come up.”

  “Don’t you bring it up,” Jupkur said. “Tic might take it the wrong way. As if you’re boasting that your father had to clean up Tic’s mess.”

  “I never boast about my father,” I told him. Which shouldn’t have been true, but was.

  When I got to my office, Tic was there: standing by the window, solemnly pushing his hand into the clear membrane then pulling it back, listening to the sucking sound.

  Ssss-pop. Ssss-pop. Sssssssssssss-pop.

  His face had a look of fierce concentration, as if this was a momentous assignment demanding his full attention. No smile or frown: nothing but focus. He reminded me of Barrett’s favorite basset hound, an old frump of a dog who would stare worriedly at a rubber ball for hours, wondering if maybe—just maybe—the ball could be used as a toy.

  “Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”

  “No,” he replied, “I’m doing excellently on my own.”

  Sssss-pop. Sssssssssss-pop. Ss-pop.

  “What are you doing?” I finally asked.

  “Playing with the nanites. Simple souls—they just love being teased. Can’t get enough of it.”

  My heart skipped a beat. No, no, no, I thought quick-hop, nanites don’t have souls. Every last one of the little buggers was dumb as earwax. Put a billion together and the most you got was an idiot savant window that could impersonate jelly. Nanites definitely did not have personalities or…or…

  Some killjoy part of my brain wouldn’t repress what happened the night before—how the nanites on the chair whimpered and turned tail when I gave them a dirty look.

  “You think the nanites enjoy what you’re doing?” I asked.

  “They like the attention,” Tic said. He threw me a glance over his shoulder. “Whenever I take a new post, I make sure to befriend the local nanites. They’re always so desperately lonely. Taken for granted. No one ever gives a thought for their feelings.” Ssssss-pop. “You, for example. This is your office, and they tell me you haven’t even introduced yourself.”

  “I’m just new,” I found myself saying. “I only got the office a few days ago, and I’ve been busy ever since.”

  “You aren’t busy now.”

  Tic gave a tiny jerk of his head toward the window—the sort of hinting gesture that people pretend is so subtle no one else will notice. Reluctant as a rabbit, I crossed the room. Tic bobbed his head at the rightmost window. “Those fellows have been asking especially about you.”

  I thought, Maybe this is a Vigil initiation prank. A stunt to make the new kid embarrass herself. Jupkur sets me up to think Tic is a total loon, and Tic gets me to do something witless just to humor him. Soon, all the other proctors will jump out laughing.

  Or else Tic is a total loon.

  Or else…no, I didn’t want to think about that.

  Placing my hand against the glassy un-glass window, I said, “Hi, guys. I’m Faye. You’ll be seeing a lot of me now, sitting over in that desk.”

  The membrane yielded a titch under my palm, the solid surface going oozy. I expected that. I did not expect the gentle backsurge that came straightaway after…a cool jelly hand twining its fingers with mine. At the same instant, my brain bloomed up with a clear mental image of a million microscopic puppies licking my skin—an image superimposed over my real senses like a VR template.

  “Jesus Christ!” I cried, yanking my hand back. It gave a thunderous pop as it came free.

  “Good noise,” Tic said. “Excellent volume. Can I hear it again?”

  “No!” I snapped. “I thought…I thought I saw…I thought I felt

  “Puppies?” Tic asked. “They wanted it to be a pleasant experience for you. You don’t like dogs?”

  “That was…” I gasped. “You mean the nanites…”

  “Projected the image to say hello. They meant well, Smallwood. Now they’re worried they’ve upset you.”

  “How could they project an image?”

  Tic reached out a bony finger and tapped my forehead. “You’re wired in now. Linked to the digital oneness. Like the nanites.”

  “But they’re not intelligent!”

  “Not very,” Tic agreed. “But they’re connected. They asked the world-soul to greet you on their behalf; the world-soul was the one who came up with puppies.”

  I felt my gorge rise…whatever a gorge is. “The world-soul projected something into my brain? Without my permission?”

  “In any sensible society, saying hello to people gives them permission to say hello back.”

  “They aren’t people, they’re nanites!”

  “Yes…and soon they’ll be cranky little nanites if you don’t say how much you appreciate their greeting. Small brains. Short tempers. Easily hurt feelings.” Tic gestured toward the window. “Go on. You don’t want to get on their bad side. Otherwise, the next time you run through a pane of glass, they’ll deliberately muss your hair.”

  I stared at him. Tic had such a bland deadpan expression—a perfect poker face. (If frumpy old basset hounds could play poker.) For all I could tell, there wasn’t an ounce of jokery in him.

  Sigh.

  Here’s the thing: I didn’t want to find out windows had easily hurt feelings. I preferred that my worldview didn’t include opinionated nanotech. But…link-seed, Vigil, blah-blah-blah. You know the song, sing along with the chorus—Faye can’t hide from the truth.

  I reached toward the window again. Only one hand. The featheriest touch I could manage. A cool jelly palm made contact with mine, just as hesitant as me. Into my skull came the feeling of shyness—not my own, someone else’s, a million someone elses worried they’d made some social gaffe. It’s all right, I thought, projecting my words at the un-glass, I’m just jumpy is all I forced my palm to linger an extra second, then pulled back, feeling the jelly hand slip away.

  Ssssssss. A pop as soft as a soap bubble.

  “An adequate start,” Tic said. “Just don’t ignore them from now on.”

  “I never knew they…who programmed them for emotions?”

  Tic leaned toward me and whispered, “Nanites only have two programmed emotions: boredom and involvement. A single bit-switch that tells them they enjoy doing their job. ‘Oh joy, we get to work for big people!’ “ He smiled fondly. “But when the nanites communicate with you through the world-soul, the world-soul likes to add more emotional color. Truth is, getting to know your local nanites is mostly just a way to show the world-soul you’re machine-friendly. Like playing with a woman’s children to win the mother’s heart. You definitely want to stay on the world-soul’s good side—you’re a data-based organism now.” He lowered his voice even more. “The world-soul likes to be called Xé”

  I fair gulped at that one. Xé (pronounced Chay) was a female deity from the Ooloms’ ancient past, dating back millennia to the Divian homeworld…comparable in time and sentiment to the Greek goddess Gaia. The Earth Mother. As I’ve said I didn’t understand much about Oolom religions, but I was sure they all considered Xé mythical. A pretty legend, a gem of a metaphor, but definitely fictitious.

  “Are you saying Xé is real?” I whispered.

  Tic stared at me scornfully. “It’s the world-soul, Smallwood. An artificial intelligence distributed over a million different machines. It likes the name Xé, but even Xé knows it’s not Xé. Are all new proctors as gullible as you?”

  “I’m not
gullible,” I grumped, “I’m just surprised the world-soul is…conscious. No one ever told me—”

  “Xé’s picky in choosing friends,” Tic said. “Who’s let in on the secret. Who gets shut out. If you remember this conversation tomorrow, feel honored.”

  “You mean the world-soul could wipe—”

  “Shh.” Tic put a scaly finger to my lips. “Wisdom doesn’t upset itself over something that might not happen.”

  Wisdom can go poke a porcupine, I thought. A self-aware AI with delusions of godhood had its fingers inside my cranium; and now I found that if Xé didn’t like me, it could wipe away all recollection of the past five minutes. I guess the conversation would never shift from short-term to long-term memory—thanks to an AI mucking with my mind.

  And the entire Vigil was linked to that?

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’d found a grand old way to mess myself up this time.

  Unless Tic was lying. Out-and-out delusional. I couldn’t deny there was something queer about the windows, the nanites and all…but this talk of Xé could just be an old loon’s demented concoction. Imagining he was the world-soul’s bosom buddy, when it was just an egoless congregation of computers, clean devoid of will.

  Which was more disturbing? That my new supervisor might be psychotic? Or that he might be right?

  Tic whispered, “Bye-bye,” to the window, and patted the membrane a last time before turning to me. “Well, Smallwood. Down to business. I assume you’ve heard I’m your supervisor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve also heard I’m a Zenned-out dotard with brains of sponge pudding?”

  “Gossip has reached my ears,” I said.

  “All of it true,” Tic replied, “except the parts that aren’t. Or the parts that are both true and untrue.” He gave me a look “I just said that last so I’d sound more Zen. Not that I know much about human religions, but mystics the world over love paradox. Which is to say they hate reductivist binary logic. Am I rambling?”

  “You’re showing off,” I told him. “Indulging yourself to make me think you’re really crazy.”

  He smiled. “Very shrewd, Smallwood. You’re smart as well as wide. But God Almighty, you are wide. Do you have to go through doors sideways?”

  “No,” I said. “And I’m married.”

  “With shoulders like that, no wonder. But don’t mind me—us old codgers always use sexual harassment to put women at their ease. People think it’s so adorable, we can get away with murder. And speaking of murder, what did you say that got Chappalar killed?”

  The question caught me flat-footed. Ever adept with brilliant repartee, I said, “Huh?”

  “Chappalar,” Tic repeated. “We were both at a party for him the other day. Quiet fellow—never spoke a word through the whole ceremony. And speaking of speaking, whom did you tell? That you intended to visit Pump Station 3.” Tic leaned his hangdog face toward mine. “Who knew you’d be there?

  “Why are you asking?” I said. “Do you think you’re investigating Chappalar’s murder?”

  Tic put on his scornful look again. “That’s police business, Smallwood. Well outside the Vigil’s authority.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Prematurely.

  “My assignment,” Tic went on, “is to assume Proctor Chappalar’s duties. Which makes me your supervisor. I’ve reviewed your schedule, and you have no current commitments, correct? City council withdrew the water-treatment bill you were scrutinizing?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you need a new project to keep you busy,” Tic said. “Proctor Smallwood, I assign you to scrutinize activities of the Bonaventure Civilian Protection Office. That’s undeniably within the mandate of this Vigil branch.”

  No question, that. We were authorized to watchdog the local cops; in fact, we were legally required to give them a look-see from time to time.

  “So,” Tic said, “keep an eye open for all the usual things. Corruption. Slack work habits. Pilfering office supplies. What?” He cocked his ear toward the window. “Oh.” He turned back to me. “Especially be on the lookout for people who don’t wash their hands before entering the nanotech lab. Foul old bastards.”

  “Do the Bonaventure police have a nanotech lab?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask me—you’re the one who’s scrutinizing them. Far be it from me to tell you what to do.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Now here’s what I want you to do. You’re clearly at a total loss for direction, so why not monitor a representative criminal case currently being investigated?”

  “Did you have something particular in mind?”

  “We’ll pick a case at random. Oh. Here’s one.” He reached onto my desk where there was a single file packet stamped with the Bonaventure police crest. I hadn’t put the file there. Tic read the label on the packet and said, “This will do splendidly. The Chappalar murder investigation. Proctor Smallwood, you will scrutinize the police handling of this case to the best of your abilities. I, of course, will accompany you to provide the seasoned voice of experience.”

  He waited for me to answer. I gave a slight nod.

  Precious good thing we weren’t overstepping our authority by intruding into police business.

  Tic tossed the file onto my desk. “You’ll want to review the police report as soon as possible,” he said. “When you do, you’ll see that those boobies bungled the interrogation of their prime witness. A human woman—one Faye Smallwood. You may have heard of her. The detectives downloaded what she saw at the murder scene and assumed it was all she knew. Can’t imagine why they mollycoddled her. Of course she had political connections, so perhaps she pulled some strings down at city hall.”

  I glared at him. Tic grinned. “Or else,” he said, “she started babbling about peacock thingies, and they thought she was a total loon.”

  “Did they call me that in the police report?” I asked, reaching for the file.

  “Of course not,” Tic replied, moving the file farther away from me. “Not in so many words. At any rate, the police believe in peacock thingies now. To a modest degree. Considering how the navy went berserk and kidnapped you, the constabulary has decided you weren’t completely crazy, vis-à-vis mysterious tubes of light. Which is too bad—it’s high time I worked with someone more tico than me.”

  I gave him a long hard look. “I’m strongly beginning to suspect you aren’t tico at all.”

  Tic looked offended. “Ms. Smallwood,” he said, “I’m tico as a terrijent…which is a little brown beetle not noted for odd behavior, but it was the first alliteration that came to mind. More to the point, I am by far the oldest proctor in the entire Vigil. If I’m not approaching a state of Zen by now, there must be something wrong with me. Do you understand? In the normal life cycle of proctors, I’m at a point where I should be One with the universe. Or at most 1.0001. I should be asymptotic to apotheosis. Holding regular conversations with the major deities. Feeling the infinitesimal flux of the cosmological constant. Speaking the mystic language of the wind. If I’m not ecstatically demented with otherworldly bliss, Smallwood, a good many people will lose their faith that there is such a thing as Zenning out. Including myself; and I hate disappointing poor crazy old men.”

  Despite the intensity of his words, he’d spoken with precious little emotion. Precious little emotion you could identify anyway. Was he joking at his own expense? Confiding a deep dark secret? Speaking straight from the heart? “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

  “Why not?” he replied. “When it crosses my mind to do something, I don’t ask why, I ask why not. And usually there’s no reason not to, so I just go ahead.” He paused, then added, “It’s given me the strangest collection of hats.”

  I stared at him a moment, then said, “You’re tico enough for me. Don’t lose faith in that Zenning-out business.”

  He smiled. “What a sweet girl. Now let’s talk about Chappalar’s death.”

  Outside the window, the shadow of our tree stretched off on a
diagonal, reaching far across the rooftops as the sun set behind us. The street straight below had already gone dark enough for safety lights to be turning themselves on: children skipping past in jackets that shone bright orange so they couldn’t be missed; adults with coats phosphorescing in more prudish colors, or the occasional curmudgeon with no lights at all—clods who preferred to get run down in traffic rather than stand out in the darkness. (“What if someone’s following me?” I once heard a man say. “Why wear clothes that make me an easy target?” As if snipers were a daily danger and careless drivers no trouble at all.)

  Tic picked up the police file packet from my desk and idly turned it over in his fingers. “Chappalar’s death,” he said again. “The police neglected a vital line of questioning, and as discriminating proctors we should consider whether to draw this to their attention.” He glanced up at me; the lowering dark made his face even pouchier. “Who knew where you and Chappalar would be?”

  I’d barely registered his question the first time he asked it. Now it settled down more solid in my mind…and I realized Tic had hit on a serious point. The androids struck the pump station before Chappalar and I arrived; they’d taken out all the staff by the time we showed up.

  So how did they know where we’d be?

  We hadn’t given the station any advance notice of our visit. Even Chappalar and I didn’t know very far ahead— we’d only decided the previous evening, just before leaving our office for the night.

  So who did know where we were going?

  None of the other proctors, that was sure. Chappalar and I headed out together, without talking to anybody else. And we hadn’t logged our intentions with the office computer—Chappalar had a case of the stubborns about that, always wanting to leave things open so he could change his mind on the spur of the moment.

  So who knew? Only the people Chappalar and I might have talked to after work.