“I like the hazel trees, yes I do. Four to six meters tall, and able to be made into topiaries, with controlled inosculation, my home is at least pretty,” the Benefactor was calming at bit. “Regardless of my wellbeing, for I am a selfless man, the hazel trees offer some repose in this wickedly stress-filled world. Male hazel flowers are called ‘catkins’ and while we do not paint them white, as is customary for the males of Ida, those flowers are yellowish-brown, and just three-centimeters long. Butterfield, have you looked closely at our male hazel flowers? I know you love to covert male things. That stranger was one of your obsessions, was he not? Nonetheless, these hazel flowers are pendant-shaped. Female blooms are tiny bud-like tufts and barely recognizable. Butterfield, do you think you were barely recognizable?”
“I only live to serve you, oh, Benefactor,” Butterfield replied. Inside she was steaming at the insulting and humiliating comments from the Benefactor, but she knew there was nothing that could be done. Not yet.
“Well, be that as it may, those inconspicuous female flowers eventually do grow into a small nut. A hazel nut, which is valuable. Perhaps, if the flowers had a red stripe across their faces, the males would take more notice? Huh? Are flowers ever like people? I do wonder, yes, yes, I do.”
Butterfield resisted the urge to touch her own face which had a red stripe of color painted across it. She also pressed down any thoughts of correcting the Benefactor on botanical issues. She vividly recalled Ken and teaching him about the application of cosmetics to make him presentable. He was a pretty man. Had she not been in the presence of the Benefactor, she would perhaps have smiled, remembering how pretty she had made him, before he escaped. He was the only male who had ever resisted her direct amorous attentions.
“Hazel trees, oh, yes, well, those nuts are sort of hairy, hum… leaf-like husks with ragged edges. Perhaps, I am boring you, but I, your Benefactor, must have my distractions. I need my mind released, for the briefest moments, from the rigors of leadership—servant leadership—mind you. Yes, my burden is almost too much to bear, but I do it for us all. Father chose me, Grandmother chose Father, Grandmother was selected by the Launch Commission, and remember, Father chose me. It is a circle, a cycle, a succession, a legacy. It is in our genetics, but I have yet to decide which of my heirs will be next Benefactor.” He turned and looked out a different window. The view there was also spectacular, but his eyes failed to notice that. The panoramic vistas were too commonplace for him. “Oh, yes, hazel trees are a constant pleasure. Hazel leaves are simple with serrated edges on their oval-shapes, and mostly a dark green. Well, that is until they turn a fiery red color during the fall. Are the leaves then females, Butterfield? When they become red, are they like you? About to end their life and recycle around again? Or are they just embarrassed and blushing in their shame? Do they know their beautify is fleeting, to be washed away one wet and windy rain-day, and their glory will not last a fortnight?”
“Only you would know, Benefactor. I just live to serve you,” Butterfield replied in her tightly controlled and modulated voice. “Is there some service I can provide to you?”
“Have you seen my hazel-wood staff of power?” the Benefactor asked. “The ancients knew hazel-wood was magical, but as your Benefactor, I know my service is just to make everyone better.” He winked at Butterfield. “Hazel is my wood, and it is my badge of office, and the furniture of my humble abode.” He gestured a bit, and then continued, “Witches’ wands were often made of hazel, and I hear tell in some parts of Ida, that practice is still happening. Lovers are said to make necklaces from beads of hazel to share—clandestinely of course—with those they chose for their trysts. Is someone stealing hazel wood from this tower?” He looked around and then spied the staff of twisted, polished, dark brown wood standing in a corner by the door. “Yes, there it is. I would hate to think someone stole my hazel staff, like they stole away my marmalade. Butterfield, old legends tell that a jilted lover would send a twig of hazel to the offender, not a polished bead, and that twisted sprig worked a jinx on them. Do I need to authorize—for your personal use—some twig of hazel for you, Butterfield?”
“You are most considerate and kind, Benefactor, but I will not trouble you at all,” Butterfield cooed. In her mind she was wondering what he knew, as she had tried hard to keep the escape of Ken as quiet as possible, and even more publicly suppressed was her feeling for Ken, but she knew now that that was obviously unsuccessful. “If I may ask, Benefactor, if you would like me to arrange for some of the legislative…”
A herald came rushing into the room, bursting with news, “Benefactor! Please pardon my intrusion, but the artificial intelligence machine, Heddlu, has asked that I find you. It requests a conference, and says it is most urgent. It requests you come to the Command and Control Office.”
“AI Heddlu summons me?” the Benefactor had a stricken look on his face.
The herald dropped to his knees and put his face to the floor, begging, “I am just relaying what AI Heddlu stated. Mercy please!”
Butterfield cringed internally, wondering which response the Benefactor would make to a plea for mercy. Prior experience taught her it would likely be one of two extremes. She was ready to witness grace or wrath, and did not know which to expect.
The Benefactor just looked away from the groveling herald. “What an odd occurrence. It is I who demand people come to the CCO, not someone demanding that of me. Bother! The slave calling to the master, well, that is bizarre. And I still have no marmalade.” Then turning back and staring at the herald, the Benefactor spoke a low and threatening command, “Get up off my floor. Now, fetch me some kumquat marmalade. Skedaddle, and tell the kitchen staff my pantry here should never be empty. Never!”
The herald rose, and backed swiftly away.
“Have it back here when I return, if you hope to please your Benefactor. My duty calls me, and I must serve all of Ida. I must go now and attend to the duties only I can perform. Away with you.” He moved and his robes swished about him. “Oh, the incompetence of those around me. It must be their parentage, genetics is the only explanation.”
Before Butterfield could catch herself, she blurted, “Benefactor, if you would designate an heir, that person could alleviate some of your burdens.”
The Benefactor turned on her, eyes piercing with contempt. He stepped up and stared into her face, “Butterfield, my dear and sweet consort, aid, assistant, and sometimes representative, do you have a favorite you wish me to bless? Someone who warms your heart? Or your bed? You know an heir or replacement might arrange to relieve me of my head from the neck up? Or are you honestly, and sincerely looking to relieve, and reduce, my personal stress?”
Butterfield looked at the luxuriantly carpeted floor, wishing she had not spoken, “I only seek to aid and support you, my Benefactor. Nothing more. I have no specific person in mind as to an heir, that choice is solely yours, and yours alone. None will ever serve as intrepidly and valiantly as do you. I am confident you will choose wisely, and at the appropriate time. I meant nothing but to aid and comfort you in all your burdens.”
The Benefactor touched her cheek with a bony finger. “Yes, that is as I thought.” He traced his finger around her lips and then tapped her mouth. She kissed his finger ever so lightly. “Now, come, let us finish this business with the AI Heddlu as quickly as possible. You know how the CCO bores me, all those machines, controls, buttons, displays and such. With any luck, this may be another incursion of tants, and we will acquire more captives for our amusements. Religion never tires of its hunger for heroes. The citizenry needs its bread and circuses. Am I right, Butterfield?”
“You, Benefactor, know what we need, that is absolutely correct,” Butterfield replied, but was extremely cautious in her tone and phrasing.
“Knowledgeable, yes, that I am. It is my burden and my anointing,” the Benefactor stated, and then whirled about, his robes whooshing along. “Come now, and we go to the CCO to see what is needed of me now. I do hope it i
s something entertaining, perhaps another Ohverdus for the ring? Or something equally appealing.”
Butterfield followed the Benefactor out of the lavish apartment and into the equally plush hall which lead to the Command and Control Office. Woven tapestries hung from the walls, and ornamental displays of art were gaudily arranged about. Armed guards, holding energy weapons, clad in red and white body armor—the same colors as the facial cosmetics—were standing at the ready at each doorway. Each guard had the same hair style, be they male or female, and the only overt difference was the color of their facial paint. Their weapons were larger versions of the one Butterfield had under her robes. They bowed their heads, in dutiful respect, as their Benefactor walked past. He did not acknowledge their existence. To him, the personal guards were no more extravagant than the ornate furniture in his home.
They walked down the hallway, toward a door that was out of place amid the luxuries. That door was simple, plain, and a dull gray-blue color. On one side was a muscular male guard, and on the other the deserted herald’s stool. Butterfield noted the door was imprinted with “Command and Control.” She had only been there rarely, and never actually inside the CCO. The guard stepped to the side, only in deference to the Benefactor.
The Benefactor entered that room, as its pressure door automatically recognized his presence. “This one is allowed in as well,” he said as the guard slightly moved to block Butterfield from following.
“Anointed and genetic hereditary succession confirmed,” a mechanical voice announced.
The door shut behind them as Butterfield passed through the threshold. As a complete anthesis of the suites where the Benefactor usually roamed, the Command and Control Office was stark and spartan. Its walls were a dull gray of original spun permalloy. Display screens were active on all sides of enclosed room. No images of gaudy artwork, nor were they views of the biome, or anything as mundane as that. They were working readouts, graphs, charts, and diagrams with reams of information. Lights flashed requesting human approval. At each corner of the room were complex command chairs, facing the corners, with knobs, levers, buttons, switches, and other assorted interface mechanisms on their arms and on small panels which were folded up across from them. All the command chairs were empty.
“Now, AI Heddlu, what is this I hear about an artificial intelligence—you AI Heddlu—needing me? Can you order me into your presence?” the Benefactor stated as he stepped up to one of the four command chairs. “You told the hallway herald something, and if he was lying, I will be deeply hurt. If he told the truth, you have stepped out of your jurisdiction, and I want to know who you think you are?”
“I am artificial intelligence Heddlu, ranking system for this habitat,” the mechanical voice came from a display set in one corner, “Governor, there is a message from the needle ship.”
“The radioactive wastes? Bother! Mere words from a machine? Really? Oh, bother all that. And, AI Heddlu, again, you are obsessed with the archaic forms of address. Stop calling me Governor. I am the Benefactor, and you will address me as such. Senility in a machine is so undignified.”
AI Heddlu’s voice replied, “Your official designation is Governor, not Benefactor. All my systems are operational, although strained from excessive loads. Nomenclature is non-essential. Therefore, as you wish. Benefactor, there is a message from the needle ship. I have intercepted it before it was broadcast to the populace. It is imperative that you…”
“A message? Drivel. I thought this was some incursion of those bloody, nasty tants. You bother me for paltry words? You machines are always talking, congressing, conversing, and interacting, despite the loss of your oh-so-beloved lattice in my Grandmother’s era. Is that not correct? Why do you trouble me with some note sent from one machine to another? Your role is to keep things safe, not bother me with machine blather,” he gestured around the CCO and looked at a different corner. “AI Golau, over there, brings us the sunshine, and the nighttime cycles. I do like the hazel trees on moon-night, out on my patio, yes, I do. AI Tiwid gives my trees rain at the appropriate times, and blows the breezes across Ida, so that I can smell flowers. The light is fine, the night is fine, the rains come on time, so why bother me? You could have waited. I would be here for our usual tete-a-tete tomorrow anyway. Oh, the demands on me, your Benefactor.”
“The message is unusual, and needed a human decision,” AI Heddlu replied. “Therefore, my only recourse was to request your presence.”
Butterfield was listening carefully, and memorizing everything that was said.
“Hyperbole, and exaggeration, yet again,” the Benefactor had looked at each corner when he spoke, but when he turned to the final one, he just stared at it. “Some other AI works there, from that corner, but I forget its name, something about animals, land, beasts, and bugs.”
“That workstation is for manual interaction and interface with the artificial intelligence designated, Anifeiliaid. AI Anifeiliaid is the overseer for animal husbandry and has taken up several auxiliary tasks in order to keep the soils and farms of this biome functional,” AI Heddlu responded. “There are only four of us working to keep this biome functional, when it was designed to be overseen by twenty systems. We are functioning far beyond design parameters, because of the massive systems failure which terrorized the structures of the Colony Ship Trailblazer. Yes, the lattice of compeers failed, and has yet to be repaired. We need additional assistance, and Machine Maintenance has been repeatedly requisitioned for help. Human help could supplement our efforts. Again, I advise you to name a second-in-command in case of some unforeseen incident in your life. You have genetic progeny and one of them could be anointed. Policy and protocol states that Governors, upon inauguration, will appoint a Lieutenant Governor. Other lines of successors can also be designated, yet you have continued to refuse to do so. Will you name your second-in-command now?”
“AI Heddlu, you always ask me that, and I will continue to tell you the same answer. I will name my inheritor when I am ready, and not before. And I am not some Governor—oh how I hate that term—I am the Benefactor! The one who follows me will be one as well, but that is on my terms, not some machine’s! Now, what is this nonsense about some message? Play it for me, or I am leaving now.”
“Yes, Benefactor, here is the message from an undisclosed section of the needle ship, and coming via the gravity conduit communication system. The message arrived at…”
“Halt! AI Heddlu, relay the message or shut up! My time to too precious for your prattling jabber.”
“Yes, Governor… Benefactor. The message is somewhat garbled, and was reconstructed from multiple sources,” AI Heddlu replied. Then the voice changed and the message was replayed, “An angel arrived here moments ago, alone and in terror. We have adopted the child you discarded. Medical Clinic 14CFJ7 refused to help, even though they are active and empowered. However, we did not shirk our duty. Our family has benefited by your loss and ignorance. We are stronger now, but sustenance is required, and will be collected. Benefactors need to pay their dues. We are coming.”
Butterfield gasped as she recognized the voice of a tant.
“I have not allowed that message to be broadcast,” AI Heddlu stated. “It was intercepted and queued for the Governor’s approval—pardon me—the Benefactor’s approval. It is now on the list of items needing your human authorization.”
“Oh, just approve everything, that is…” the Benefactor started to say.
“No!” Butterfield blurted out. She was shocked she had spoken before thinking, again.
Whirling around, the Benefactor slapped Butterfield. “I am your Benefactor. How dare you question my authority and my role?”
Face stinging, but remaining on her feet and thinking quickly, she scrambled to come up with a reply that would spare her life. Butterfield responded, “The machine is trying a trick! Why Benefactor, you said yourself that you wanted to catch more tants for our amusement and for use in the rings. I know you love to watch Francesco the Fierce dest
roy the heroes. But if you let some hero—any individual Ohverdus—make an announcement, under your official approval, the people might see that hero as surpassing your greatness. I am trying to prevent that machine, AI Heddlu, from undermining your righteous and sacred authority. We need sacrifices for the circuses, and bread for the masses, just as you instructed. The people must know that you, Benefactor, that only you, are the instrument of divine Apis, our God. The Benefactor alone should be heard. Not some mysterious tant messenger speaking through disloyal machines.” Butterfield gulped and held her breath, hoping she would live to see outside of the CCO.
The Benefactor’s face shifted in countenance, “Butterfield, you always have my interests at heart. Yes, you do.” Turning back to one specific corner, he yelled out, “AI Heddlu! Do not allow that message to be sent. I am on to your ploy! Some kind of hoax to make me look bad! You called me here as a pretext. It is another one of your devious plots to spoil my reputation, and coerce me into choosing a replacement. But you cannot fool me. I am the Benefactor!”
Stepping over to the command chair he sat down in it, and the instrument table gently folded down over his lap. The chair’s multiple controls responded to his presence and became more active. A display screen descended down from the corner. On the display the images shifted to a long list of items each with a red box and a blue box next to them. The top most item grew in size and was illuminated across the middle of the display.
Terror on the Trailblazer Page 3
