Souls in the Great Machine

by Sean McMullen

  REGULATOR 45 nudged REGULATOR 317 as five Black Runners sauntered along the aisles of Dexter processor on a security inspection. "I know THETA and EPSILON, but who are the others?" she whispered. "PI and OMEGA are visitor tags," he whispered back. "And BLACK ALPHA?"

  "The word on her is don't even ask. Very, very senior." With her inspection over Zarvora dismissed the four Black Runners and made for the components' cells. Behind her mask, makeup, indigo lipstick, and with her hair tightly braided and beaded she hoped that she looked anonymous, but she felt as if she were stark naked. Opening a folder, she read the personnel evaluations one more time.

  FUNCTION 5: too old; FUNCTION 26: seldom washes; FUNCTIONS 214, 646,

  614, 620: notorious bores; FUNCTION 587: has pimples; FUNCTIONS 79,

  450, 333, 390, 471, 569, 598, 606: have the pox; FUNCTION 247: works well when cornered like a rat in a trap; FUNCTION 9: dangerous security risk; FUNCTION 490: should not be allowed to breed; FUNCTION 34: lock up your silver; FUNCTION 92: apart from arithmetic, out of his depth in a puddle of spilt beer.

  Zarvora had been hoping for better from the twenty best male FUNCTIONS in the Calculor. All struck her as unpleasant or unsuitable, not the sorts of men that she would willingly share a romantic coffee with while they discussed numerical methodology and optimization theory. FUNCTION 9 was actually dangerous Why had he not been shot? she wondered. She selected his brief. His latest exploit had been to reconfigure the register wires to play "Happy Birthday" ten days earlier. Why was October 17th so familiar... ?

  "My birthday!" Zarvora gasped.

  So, FUNCTION 9 was dangerously clever, but perhaps not dangerous as such. She decided to assess him first. She adjusted her robes, checked what could be seen of her face in a small mirror, swallowed, squeezed her eyes shut, and took a deep breath.

  "I command eleven thousand staff and provide services to fourteen million souls," she whispered. "Why is this such a problem?" FUNCTION 9 and his cellmates looked up as a guard unlocked their door; then BLACK ALPHA appeared. She silently pointed to FUNCTION 9 and beckoned He followed her to the isolation cells. REGULATORS often took components there for discreet dalliance, but ALPHA was carrying a personnel file, not a jar of wine and chocolates.

  "Your pranks have been brought to my attention," ALPHA began in an unusually high voice. "They caused disruption."

  "I apologize," ventured FUNCTION 9, bracing himself for the worst.

  "The Highliber was furious--" Zarvora caught herself. "But was flattered at the birthday greeting."

  FUNCTION 9 sighed with relief. "How did you do it?" "Too easily."

  Zarvora swallowed and fought for patience.

  "Why did you do something so, so blatantly.." blatant?"

  "To get the Highliber's attention. To show her holes in her security procedures big enough to drive a wind train through."

  By now Zarvora had almost forgotten why she was there.

  "But--but you are a prisoner!" "That's no reason not to protect the Calculor. It's a wonderful machine." Suddenly it dawned on Zarvora like the light of a magnesium flare: this man was at least as exceptional as Nikalan, but in a very different way. Definitely a good prospect--but now what?

  "Your loyalty and diligence are impressive, FUNCTION 9. I--we want you to be working with us more directly."

  "Uh, thank you."

  "I have been studying your file. You are one of REGULATOR 42's five lovers."

  "What--five?" he exclaimed, then sat back frowning and shaking his head.

  His reaction gratified Zarvora. She had at least known something that he had not. "On my word your security rating could be regraded to that of a MANAGER and you could be given a pool password. You could be punished, but I, ah, take a personal interest in you and, ah, should you be--that is--attracted to me--that is, my proposal I could, ah, give you those powers and more. That is, of what you want."

  FUNCTION 9 could neither follow the thread of her argument, nor deduce her real intentions. He thought he was being interrogated about breaking pass words.

  "The pool password is 999POOL, the System Controller's is XX99XX, but the Highliber's is proving harder. Do you want to know how I found out?"

  Something inside Zarvora shattered. He knew the passwords. He knew the Calculor better than she did. I have nothing to offer him, she thought. How mortifying.

  "Uh, yes. Please prepare a report, mark it for BLACK ALPHA." She stood up, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. "I should go. Thank you. You saved me from public humiliation. I am grateful. More than grateful, you must under stand.." or perhaps not."

  Only now did FUNCTION 9 realize what was being played out between them. She was a master of security, but he had made her look like a rank amateur. Now she was being gracious enough to acknowledge it rather than having him shot and trying to cover up the evidence. She was also, possibly, trying to seduce him out of gratitude. Well, I've had a short but interesting life, he thought as he stood up and reached out to take BLACK ALPHA's hand.

  "BLACK ALPHA, thank you for shielding me from the Highliber," he declared looking into the eyes behind the mask. "Your tolerance is almost as attractive as your figure."

  He had intended to kiss her hand and hope for the best, but she surged forward and wrapped her arms around him before he could move, clinging to him more out of relief than lust.

  "You are a dear, dear man," she said after a long time. "I have been watching you. You are infuriating but.." cute." Four hours later Zarvora was in her office, lying on the couch with her hair brushed out and a wet cloth over her eyes. Her lackey knocked. "It's Vorion, Highliber." "Enter."

  "Highliber, are you not well?" he asked as he caught sight of her.

  "I have just had the most harrowing afternoon since my interview with the mayors for the Highliber appointment," she mumbled.

  "Surely not the cataloguers again?" replied the lackey.

  "No. There is a man I hold in high esteem. I thought he might despise me, but he treated me with great kindness."

  "May the Deity bless him, Highliber."

  "So I seduced him." "You what?" exclaimed Vorion, who had never thought of her as anything other than as neuter and dangerous as a lightning bolt.

  "I seduced him, Fras Vorion. What do you say to that?" "Congratulations ?"

  "Fetch me a blanket, then wake me in fourteen hours. Why did you knock, anyway?"

  "It's October twenty-seventh. Mayor Jefton is here about the Tandara situation' s briefing."

  "Tell the Mayor to roll his briefing up very tightly and--"

  "Highliber!"

  "Then tell him to prepare for war. Now go away and stop bothering me." The Mayoral Advisers Council was led by Gamesmaster Fergen. In this role he was ever watchful of the Mayor's moods, and in this meeting the Mayor's mood worried him. For most of his short reign Mayor Jefton had been talking vaguely about wars to establish credibility of one sort or another for the Mayorate of Rochester, so it was no surprise to find that topic on the agenda again. Rather than being jaded and in need of excitement, however, the young Mayor was now nervous, hesitant, even frightened.

  "What are our chances in a war with Tandara?" Jefton asked.

  A lackey standing beside a large wall tapestry map of the southeast pointed to the powerful Tandaran capital with a white cue. "Tandara borders on Rochester," Fergen replied. "Whatever you do is of interest to its mayor. If you were to, say, side with Deniliquin against the Emir of Cowra in the Finley border dispute, then Tandara's Mayor Calgain might allow you to rail certain war goods through his territory in return for an impost against Cowran sanctions on the Balranald par aline

  The lackey dutifully indicated each of the principalities, cities, and para lines in turn. Mayor Jefton did not answer immediately, and his hands twitched as he sat gazing up at the map.

  "I meant Rochester against Tandara," he finally admitted.

  Fergen spluttered, loudly and involuntarily. The other advisers sat up as if they were puppets jerked on stri
ngs.

  "Suicide--with respect, Mayor. Tandara has twenty times our land area and thirty times our population." Jefton continued to gaze at the map. "Tandara controls all our major trade, par aline and beam flash routes. Rochester is charged for the privilege of running the Alliance for the benefit of Tandara and the other thirty may orates of the southeast. That is hardly fair or just."

  Archbishop James interjected for the first time. "Christian may orate fighting Christian may orate is repugnant to the eyes of God without there being good reason," he warned.

  "Tandara has the biggest army," said Overhand Guire, yet his tone was not entirely dismissive. "Mayor Calgain is very unpopular. There are factions within the Tandaran council that are sympathetic to us. If his army were to be defeated, well, he would be in serious trouble. His army is his power base." The Gamesmaster quickly stood up, snatching the cue from the lackey. "Mayor, look there at the map. Deniliquin and Wangaratta are very powerful, but have a long border in common with the Southmoors. It is in continuous dispute, and takes up most of their regular forces. Offer them help and they will greet you with open arms. Ask for help and you'd get silence. Nathalia and Kyabram are very small and run by cowards. Propose an alliance and they'd denounce you to Tandara just as soon as it takes a lackey to run to the local beam flash tower. Shepparton has no kind feelings for Tandara and they want the annexed Kyneton province back, but the mayor there is no fool: he wants to side with a clear winner. If it comes to that, Deniliquin would like to see Tandara put in its place before Mayor Calgain raises par aline customs duties again and seizes more border castellanies. The only problem is that they'd rather not help with the fighting."

  "Then the Overhand's analysis is sound? Tandara does have weaknesses?" "No, no, Mayor you're missing the point. Look, in a general sense, yes, the Overhand is right. If the Emir of Cowra allied himself with Mayor Gregory of Deniliquin and crushed Tandara there would be few capitals that did not have dancing in the streets. With respect, however, you are neither the Emir nor Mayor Gregory."

  "Indirectly, I control about the same area as the Emir." "Granted, but at least some of his states are united behind him, Mayor. Rochester is no more than an administrative convenience. It' sa neutral area where the business of the Southeast Alliance can be run from without disruption from the Call. We have the biggest library system in the world, and our librarians provide a lot of useful services, but that's all. The may orates of the southeast pay Rochester to provide services. Try to go beyond that and they would replace you as easily as sneezing."

  "Our librarians provided those galley trains to rush troops to the Talangatta fighting," said Overhand Guire. Fergen put the cue down and folded his arms, openly sneering at the Over hand. "How many mayors would put troops on those galley trains for a war against Tandara?"

  Mayor Jefton flung down the transcript of his Advisers Council meeting in front of Zarvora and stood back with his hands on his hips. She in turn gazed at him steadily until he looked away, turning his attention to the window. It did not take her long to scan the transcript.

  "There is nothing new in here," she observed. "We have already discussed all this."

  SOULS IN THE GREAT MACHINE

  "The facts are the same, but the opinion is different. A war would destroy Rochester."

  "A defeat would destroy Rochester, Mayor. A war--"

  "A war with Tandara and a defeat are one and the same." "Tandara gives us an opportunity to assert our strength. We cannot bother with a lot of petty squabbles between little states. Defeat Tandara in the name of prosperity and stability, and the whole of the Alliance would rally behind you."

  "No! Highliber, you have served the may orate well, but this is too much. Rochester would be crushed. Mayor Calgain would make this land a Tandaran province and rule the Alliance."

  "I could defeat Calgain with my Tiger Dragons alone."

  "No! Not another word. Say anything more and I shall consider it a challenge." Zarvora straightened in her seat, then slowly put both hands on the desk. The reciprocating clock behind her clacked seven times. Jefton stood trembling, his eyes staring wildly at the rows of mechanical animals that spoke for the Calculor. He was clearly terrified, yet he held firm. Zarvora nodded slowly to herself, surprised at his bravery.

  "Mayor Jefton, you have no choice." Jefton turned to face her, then held his gaze against hers. To him it had become a choice between fighting the Highliber and losing his may orate

  "I accept your challenge," he said, his words forced, almost a wheeze.

  "Will you be representing yourself or naming a champion?" Zarvora asked in a neutral tone.

  Humiliation stung Jefton like the slash of a whip.

  "The mayoral champion will do what he is paid to do," he said, feeling as if disembodied hands were squeezing his throat. Like Libris, the mayoral palace had its own dueling chambers. Bluestone paving extended a hundred yards to either side of a thin white inlay of marble. To either side of the central line was an armored gallery equipped with plate-glass mirrors for the judges. Lackeys polished the mirrors while the judges positioned them selves and checked the field of view.

  Stevel Coz limbered up beside the guurack as the moderator looked on. As the Mayor's champion, and the challenged party, he had the right of choice of weapons and he intended to weight that choice to the fullest advantage. The rows of dueling pistols gleamed in the light filtering between the grooved marble arches that framed the strip of level bluestone. Across the chambers, beside the other judges' gallery, Zarvora and Vardel Griss stood waiting.

  Zarvora had chosen the head of the Tiger dragons to be her second as much for her loyalty as her rank. Griss was not an exceptionally tall woman, but was lean, severe, and sharply groomed. Her hair had been bowl-cut that morning, she was wearing her nine medals, and she smelled faintly of scrubbing soap. Years ago a musket ball had passed between her lips, smashed two teeth, and passed out through her right cheek. Zarvora noted that she had buffed up the ragged scar to make it stand out all the more. Without speaking, she spoke for the Highliber: This is my second, so be all the more fearful.

  Somewhere out of sight a razzlehom fanfare blared, and heavy doors boomed open. "His Eminent Supremacy, the Mayor!" called a herald, and the mayoral party entered to the strains of a band playing the Rochestrian anthem.

  "Technical breach of protocol, it should be his personal anthem," whispered Griss. "You're challenging the Mayor, not the state. I'll note it down."

  The judges assembled at the center line with the moderator. Archbishop James and Overhand Guire stood on one side, Gamesmaster Fergen and the City Marshal on the other. The moderator was the Chief Magistrate himself.

  Zarvora and Coz stayed on their respective sides of the chamber as their seconds walked forward to the Chief Magistrate. "I am obliged to beseech you in the name of God, the people of Rochester, and my own office of Chief Magistrate to consider further arbitration. I place my services at your disposal, here and now."

  Jefton, standing beside his champion's second, barked "Never!" then coughed immediately. Griss replied, "Thank you, but no." "As the challenged party's champion, Stevel Coz may choose the weapons," the moderator ritually informed Coz's second. A pair of matchlocks was selected from the gun rack and presented to the moderator on a tray. "Choose one pistol for the challenger," Griss was instructed. She inspected both weapons and chose one. "Return to your stations."

  "Dussendal short-barrel matchlock," Griss whispered urgently as she reached Zarvora. "Heavy, big grip, rifled bore but no sights. You aim it by the weight and feel of the weapon."

  If you were experienced with it, Griss neglected to say. Zarvora had small hands, and was known to favour medium-weight guns. Griss loaded the gun and lit the fuse, then handed it to Zarvora. The moderator called them to the center line as two handlers wheeled in a target pinned to a hay bale frame.

  "Stevel Coz, fire at the target and may mercy guide your hand." Coz raised the Dussendal above his shoulder, then swept it do
wn and fired in a single movement. Booming echoes reverberated as the smoke cleared to reveal a dark hole precisely midway at the top of the outer ring. "Bad form," whispered Griss to herself. Coz was making a show of giving the Highliber every possible chance to fight.

  "Zarvora Cybeline, unless you can better that shot you must forfeit the duel and consider yourself the loser. Proceed." Zarvora knelt, steadied the gun with both hands, closed each eye in turn, and squeezed the trigger. Her shot showed dark on the middle circle. The moderator conferred with the judges for a moment.

  "I declare this duel legal by the laws of this may orate and the powers in vested in me," he announced. "Judges, proceed to your posts. Chamber marshals, clear the dueling range. Seconds, load the weapons again and stand clear."

  Griss handed the reloaded gun to Zarvora, whispering, "Call short, turn fast, but shoot with both hands on the gun." Zarvora hefted the Dussendal clumsily and the Coz had to pause in his breathing exercises to suppress a smile. She did not like the weight, and there was no sight. Unless she chose to save face by calling a distance beyond the range of the matchlocks she would be killed. A call of ninety paces would save face. Twenty paces meant she wanted a fight, but would be at a disadvantage because of his experience. Below twenty would be dangerous to them both, with the speed of the turn deciding the duel. Zarvora was fast, but the gun was heavy and would over swing in inexperienced hands.

  Zarvora stood back to back with the Mayor's champion, the thin line of marble between their heels. The moderator wound his metronome. "Attend me. At each strike of the metronome you will take one pace. The number of paces is to be decided by the challenging party, Highliber Cybeline, and at her word the count will begin. You will call a number at my words "Call the distance." Is that clear to both parties?"

  "Yes," they replied in turn, their voices sounding a cadence that echoed like the "amen" of a hymn in the chambers.

  "Ready .... Highliber Cybeline, call the distance!"

  "One!" snapped Zarvora. Coz hesitated with surprise as the moderator's metronome clacked out for the first time. Zarvora stepped a fraction earlier than Coz but precisely on the count. As her foot touched the ground she swiveled her body and slapped the barrel of the Dussendal into her free hand to steady it, firing as Coz was completing his famous sweep-turn. Zarvora's shot caught him high in the rib cage as he pulled the trigger. The ball from his gun tore a short furrow through her collar, but he was already dead as he hit the ground at her feet.