by John Scalzi
Hooray for Rraey Christmas, I thought, to Ocampo.
He smiled at this. “So, what’s on your mind?” he asked. And then I got to see another flush rise through his face as he realized just how inappropriate that particular phrase might be to me. This time, at least, he didn’t try to run from it.
“Jesus, Rafe,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
It’s all right, I assured him.
“I’m not sure why you even wanted to speak to me,” Ocampo said. “If I were in your shoes—fuck.”
Okay, if I could laugh, I would definitely be laughing right now.
“I’m glad one of us would be,” Ocampo said. “My point is I don’t know why you want to speak to me. I assumed that given what has happened to you, you would never want to speak with me again. That you would be furious.”
I was furious, I admitted, which was 100 percent true. I can’t say I’m happy even now with the situation I’m in. You know what they did to me. To my body.
“Yes.”
That’s nothing to be happy about. But I remember what you said to me the last time I saw you. Do you remember?
“Not really,” Ocampo said. “I, uh.” He paused. “There was a lot going on that day,” he said.
You said that you had to ask where your loyalties were, to the Colonial Union or to humanity. You said there was a difference between the two.
“All right. Yes. I remember that now.”
I want to know what you meant by that, I thought to him. Because while neither you nor I can change what’s happened to me, maybe there’s something you can tell me that makes sense of it all. So I don’t think I’ve lost my body and my freedom for nothing.
Ocampo was quiet at this for a moment, and I was content to let him take his time.
“You understand there is a lot that I can’t tell you,” he said, finally. “That much of what I’m doing now is classified. That my colleagues could be listening in to this conversation so that it wouldn’t be safe to share anything confidential with you, and that even if they weren’t listening in that I wouldn’t share it anyway, because that’s the nature of things.”
I understand that, I thought. Secretary Ocampo, I know what my role is. “Mine is not to ask why, mine is to do or die.”
Ocampo blinked, and then smiled. “You’re quoting Tennyson to me,” he said.
Misquoting him, more likely, but yes. What I’m saying is that I’m not asking about the tactics and strategy, sir. I’m asking about the philosophy. Surely that’s something you can talk about.
“I can,” Ocampo said, and then, jokingly, “but how much time do you have?”
I have all the time you want to give me, I thought, and let that just sit there, between us.
And then Ocampo started talking. Talking about humanity, and about the Colonial Union. He gave me a brief history of the Colonial Union, and about how its first encounters with intelligent alien species—all of which went badly for the Colonial Union, and almost destroyed the young political system—permanently marked it as aggressive and warlike and paranoid.
He talked about the decision to sequester away the planet Earth, to intentionally slow its political and technological progress in order to make it essentially a farm for colonists and soldiers, and how that gave the Colonial Union the raw human resources it needed to become a power among intelligent species far more quickly than any of the other species expected, or could deal with.
He explained how the Conclave, the union of hundreds of intelligent species, was formed in part because of the Colonial Union—how its leader, General Tarsem Gau, realized that more than any other species or government, the Colonial Union had a template that would eventually lead to domination of the local space—and of genocide, intentional or otherwise, of other intelligent species. That creating the Conclave was the only solution: that the Colonial Union would either be absorbed into the Conclave as one voice among many, or counteracted because the Conclave would be too large for the Colonial Union to take on.
He explained how this was a great idea in theory—but in reality the Colonial Union had nearly destroyed the Conclave once, and only General Gau’s personal decision to spare the Colonial Union kept all the species of the Conclave from falling on it like a train bearing down on a rodent on its track. He explained that once Gau was gone, the Colonial Union was a target—and all of humanity with it.
And he explained—only generally, only in vague terms—how he, a few trusted allies, and a few alien races who were presumed to be enemies of humanity but were in fact merely enemies of the Colonial Union thought there was a way to save humans as a species even if the Colonial Union should fall. And by “should” it was understood what was meant was “would,” and that, in fact, the Colonial Union wouldn’t so much fall, as be pushed, and in a particular direction.
All of this Ocampo expounded, with himself in the role as a reluctant catalyst or fulcrum for history, someone who wished it were not necessary to give the Colonial Union that push, but one who, recognizing it was necessary, nevertheless stood up—regretfully, yes; heroically, perhaps?—to administer the push, in the service of the species.
In short: what an asshole.
Which is not what I said.
Which is not what I even came close to allowing myself to think at the time.
What I said and what I was thinking during all this was variations of one simple phrase, that phrase being do go on.
I wanted him to talk, and talk, and then talk some more.
Not because he was the first human I had spoken to since that day on the Chandler. I didn’t like him that much, although of course I didn’t want him to know that.
I wanted him to think I was interested and curious in what he had to say, and thought as well of him as I could under the circumstances.
I wanted him to think I thought his thoughts were golden. Pure nuggets of humble wisdom. Do go on.
I wanted him to think this because while he was talking to me, he was connected to the Chandler. His PDA, more specifically, was connected to the Chandler.
And while he was talking to me, I was going through and copying into the Chandler’s storage every single file he had on his PDA.
Because here was my problem: No matter what sort of free run I had with the Chandler’s system, I was trapped there.
I couldn’t get into the system that Control used to connect to the Chandler. Someone would notice that the Chandler was trying to address the system. They could log every request. And they would eventually figure out who was doing that. And then I would be screwed.
Besides that, whatever system there was, would be entirely alien. I had suspected and Ocampo unwittingly confirmed that wherever we were, it was someplace controlled and run by the Rraey. I knew nothing about Rraey computing systems, or their design, or their programming languages. There was likely to be a computing shell of some sort in which human-designed operating systems could run, and some software that could port documents created on either side to the other.
But full access to the system? That wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t have the time or resources to get up to speed if it did, and I would be found out and probably tortured and then maybe killed if I tried.
Ocampo’s PDA, on the other hand. I knew all about that software and hardware.
Official Colonial Union PDAs were manufactured by lots of different companies but all had to run the same software. They all had to be able to talk to every other PDA, and any computers the Colonial Union used for official business. When you have that level of standardization across a government spanning trillions of miles, every other computer, operating system, or piece of technology is either standardized to it, or is able to communicate with it.
Oh, I knew Ocampo’s PDA, all right. Once he opened that connection to the Chandler, I knew how to access it, how to look around it, and how to extract files.
And I knew how to do it without him knowing.
Not that I expected him to know; he didn’t exactly have the “p
rogrammer” look to him, if you know what I mean. He’d be the programmer’s boss. The one they hated. The one who made them work on holidays.
I also knew that Ocampo would have all sorts of interesting files on his PDA. Because simply put, where else would he have them? That’s the computing and storage unit that he left the Chandler with. He would be even less familiar with Rraey technology than I would be. Makes sense that he would keep it, and that he would keep his own information on it. I remembered the exchange Ocampo had with Tvann about Vera Briggs. That poor woman was kept in the dark about a lot of things. Ocampo was used to keeping his own counsel about his business.
The longer I kept Ocampo talking, the more I could find out about his business.
Not that I was trying to sort through any of it while he was talking to me. I had to stay attentive and keep him talking. If I gave any indication he was boring me figuratively out of my skull then he’d drop the connection.
So I kept him talking and had a program make a copy of his PDA. All of it, right down to the communication program he was using to talk to me. I could sort out all of the data later, including the encrypted files.
All of which, it turned out, were keyed to the PDA, so opening them in a virtual copy of the PDA would open the files just fine.
Sloppy.
Three cheers for sloppiness.
The entire copying process took just a little under two hours. I kept Ocampo talking the whole time. It required very little prompting.
Ever heard of “monologuing”? The thing where the captured hero escapes death by getting the villain to talk just long enough to break free?
Well, this wasn’t that, because I was still a brain in a box and likely to die the first time I was sent on a mission. But it was something close. And Ocampo had no problem talking and then talking some more.
I don’t think it was sheer megalomania, or, if I wanted to be nice about it, him taking pity on the guy he’d caused to be turned into a naked brain. I don’t know how many other humans there were where we were; I only knew of Ocampo, Vera Briggs, and whoever the woman was who helped supervise re-implanting weapons systems on the Chandler. Of the other two, the weapons systems supervisor looked sort of busy whenever I saw her. As for Vera Briggs, I imagine at this point she might not be feeling especially friendly toward Ocampo.
In other words, I think Ocampo just plain might have been lonely for human contact.
Which I could understand. I had been lonely too.
The difference being, of course, that one of us had made the choice to be lonely. The other one of us rather unexpectedly had the choice thrust upon us.
As it turns out, Ocampo’s desire to monologue lasted about fifteen minutes longer than the time I needed it to. I knew he was done when he said “But I must be boring you” to me, which is narcissist-speak for “Now I’m bored.”
You’re not boring me, I thought at him. But I understand how much of your time I’ve already taken up today. I can’t really ask for more of it. Thank you, Secretary Ocampo.
“Of course,” he said, and then his face got a look. I thought it resembled what the face of someone who felt guilty about something, but didn’t actually want to be troubled by doing anything to deal with that guilt, might look like.
I waited and eventually I think Ocampo’s vestigial sense of moral obligation kicked in.
“Look, Daquin, I know I’ve put you in a bad spot,” he said. “I know they’ve promised to return your body to you, and I know they will. They’ve done this before. But between now and then, if there’s something I can do for you, well…” He trailed off here, letting me imply that he’d be willing to do something for me, without actually saying it, which I think he thought would give him an out.
This guy was a treasure, this Assistant Secretary of State Tyson Ocampo.
Thank you, sir, I thought. I can’t think of anything I need from you right now. On the monitor, I could see Ocampo visibly relax; I had just let him off the hook. Which gave me the space to say what I really wanted to. But there is one thing you can do for me in the future.
“Name it,” Ocampo said.
Someday soon they will give me a mission. My first real mission, not the simulated ones they’ve been having me running. It would mean a lot to me if, on that day, you and Vera Briggs came to see me off.
“You mean, there on the Chandler.”
Yes, sir. I realize that to some extent, in my condition—and that was an intentional knife thrust to the guilt centers of Ocampo’s brain, right there—it wouldn’t matter whether you said good-bye inside of the Chandler or outside of it. But it would mean a lot to me. You and Ms. Briggs are the only people I know now. I’d like someone to see me off. Just a couple of minutes here before I go. If you would.
Ocampo thought about it for a minute, which was either him figuring out the logistics or trying to see if he could get out of it. “All right,” he then said. “We’ll do it.”
You promise? I asked. Because this was the guy who just trailed off on “If there’s something I could do for you.”
“I promise,” Ocampo said, and I believed him.
Thank you, Secretary Ocampo, I said. You’re a good man.
Ocampo either smiled or winced at that.
Either way, then he waved and cut the signal.
* * *
Things I learned from Ocampo’s PDA:
One, there was no doubt Ocampo had known he was going away. He stocked himself quite a library of entertainments—several thousand videos ranging from classic movies from Earth to the latest serials from Phoenix, an equal number of books and musical tracks, and a fair sampling of video games, although these were mostly a decade or more old; I guess when you’re running the universe, you don’t have time to keep up with everything.
Oh, and mountains of porn.
Look, no judgment. Like I said, it’s clear he knew he was going to be away for a long time, and probably without significant human companionship. I’m not going to say I wouldn’t do the same thing in his shoes. I’m just saying there was more of it than any other sort of entertainment.
And yes, I looked at some. I may be a brain in a box, but that saying that the biggest sex organ is the mind? In my case, both literally and figuratively true.
Also I was curious to see if lack of gonads meant lack of response.
The answer: definitely not. Which was more of a relief than you might think.
Anyway, I might have just gone on about porn too long.
The point was: Ocampo planned for the long term.
Also in the PDA: a truly impressive amount of confidential information from the Colonial Union.
To begin, all the information I think there might have been on the Colonial Union’s military capabilities—not just the general Colonial Defense Forces but also its Special Forces and its capabilities. Information on ships, their capabilities, and their state of readiness.
Information about the manpower of the Colonial Defense Forces, its fatality rate over the years, and information about how the lack of relationship with Earth was having an impact on CDF readiness—after all, if you can’t get new soldiers, every soldier you lose becomes one less soldier you can muster.
Detailed files on the civilian arm of the Colonial Union government with particular emphasis on the Department of State, which made sense considering who Ocampo was, but every aspect of the CU bureaucracy was gone over in what looked like exhausting detail (I did a lot of skimming).
Information on the Colonial Union merchant fleet—the thousands of trade and cargo ships that crossed between the planets—including which ones were purpose-built and which ones were repurposed from CDF ships, and their most recent trade routes.
Briefs on the current relationship between the Colonial Union and every known non-human intelligent species, as well as the Conclave as a political entity, and the Earth.
Briefs on every single Colonial Union planet, population, defensive capabilities, and a list of targets that
would offer maximum damage, either to population, to infrastructure, or to industrial capacity.
Blueprints and assessments of Phoenix Station, the seat of the Colonial Union government and humanity’s single largest spaceport.
In other words: just about every single bit of information you would want to have in order to plan an attack on the Colonial Union and make it stick. Or at least what I thought you would need. I’m not an expert. But that’s what it looked like to me.
Now, not all this information was classified. Some of this information you could get just from looking at an encyclopedia or public records. Ocampo or anyone else using this information wasn’t exactly going to have the ability to just access a local data network. Ocampo brought with him everything he’d need—or thought he’d need.
But then there was the rest of it.
The new information.
The data Ocampo was given since he got here—here, incidentally, being a military base hollowed out of an asteroid, made and run by the Rraey until some recent tangles with the Colonial Union and some others made them scale way, way back—and information he’d created since he’d been here.
With this group.
With the Equilibrium.
Which is what they were calling themselves, anyway.
I thought it was a stupid name. But they weren’t giving me a vote. And if they did I would probably name it “The League of Assholes,” so I don’t think they would mind not having my input.
This new information included audio and video recordings of meetings and the automatic transcriptions of the same. Those were useful because they tagged who was saying what. This was useful because some of the people in the meetings were from species I’d never encountered before—a fact that was not especially impressive since most of my travel was within the Colonial Union, but still something to deal with.
Most of the transcriptions were of meetings about unexciting things—discussions about the maintenance of the base, for one, which apparently had a mold problem that was aggravating the respiratory systems of several of the species there, to which I thought, well, Good.
But then I found some interesting transcripts after all.
