Savant

by Nik Abnett

  “Of course,” said Branting. “Ten minutes, everyone.”

  As the advisors scraped back chairs, and collected notes, briefcases, and empty food and drink cartons, Branting took the dicky seat next to Qa, and waited for the wafers to upload.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “WHAT WILL TOBE do today?” asked Tobe. They had been talking for about an hour, and Metoo was still trying to stick to the list of questions she had been given. It was useless. She was willing to try to extract the information from Tobe that they needed from him, but she wasn’t sure what it was, or why they wanted it. She also found it impossible to ask a set of bald questions, which Tobe had no way to relate to. Much better, surely, to have a conversation with him that they could both learn something from.

  “Can Tobe work today?” asked Tobe. He looked as if he was going to rise from his stool at the kitchen counter, so Metoo put her hand over his, stopping him in his tracks. He shuffled slightly in his seat, but didn’t attempt to get up again.

  “Not today,” said Metoo. “You can’t go to the office today. Do you want to work at home?”

  “Tobe doesn’t work at home.”

  “No,” said Metoo, wearily. She had pointed out, once or twice that he had worked at home the previous day, but this was obviously an aberration that Tobe had forgotten, or had decided, consciously, or otherwise, was a red herring. Of course, he didn’t understand the concept of a red herring; he would call working at home once in twenty years, ‘statistically insignificant’.

  “Talk to me about statistical significance,” said Metoo.

  “Maths?”

  “Maths.”

  “But, Metoo knows maths.”

  Metoo looked at Tobe, astonished. He had attributed knowledge to her. He knew what she knew. How? Anything out-with Tobe and his unique perception of his immediate experiences did not register in his mind. He either made assumptions or simply disregarded possibilities. He didn’t even remember people’s names.

  “What?” asked Tobe.

  THE BALL OF lit threads on the view-screen in front of Wooh’s eyes began to dance and bounce all over the place, with bright lights flashing up in all areas of the cerebellum.

  “What on Earth is she doing?” she asked.

  “What’s who doing?” asked Saintout.

  “First, she wasn’t asking him the questions in sequence, and now his mind’s freaking out all over the place. I need to know what Metoo’s doing.”

  “Whatever it is. I guarantee that it is in no way intended to do any harm to Tobe. I’d bet my life on the opposite: that she is doing everything in her power to improve his lot.”

  Wooh flipped the screen up from in front of her face, and pulled out the ear-bead. She looked at Saintout, pale and wide-eyed, with a feint sheen of sweat high on her brow.

  “What do you need?” asked Saintout.

  THE SCREEN AT Workstation 2 showed sudden, significant changes. The Yellow threads were weaving and pulsing, and glowing in various cortexes. Synaptic resonance showed an increase of almost twenty percent, and Operator Dudley felt cold sweat drip into the small of his back. There was no room for hesitation, and yet, he did hesitate.

  A claxon sounded on the Service Floor. Every screen blinked out for three seconds, and then they began to come back on-line, one at a time, in a predetermined sequence.

  Tobe’s screen came back on-line after twenty-seven seconds: twenty-seven seconds in which half a litre of sweat poured out of Ranked Operator Dudley’ and Named Operator Kasapi’s pores. Twenty-seven seconds in which Ranked Operator Dudley found time to be grateful for his extravagant cotton garments; twenty-seven seconds in which they both rose from their seats, both completed Morse signatures, using the switch on the facing edge of the counter, and both raised their hands and called for Techs; twenty-seven seconds in which Named Operator Kasapi found time to wonder whether the sphincter to his bladder would hold fast; twenty-seven seconds in which he regretted eating too fast, sitting at his Workstation, bolting his food without looking at it, rather than switching out, in case anything interesting should happen; twenty-seven seconds in which Ranked Operator Dudley wondered whether his glee at being chosen for the job out-weighed his competence. The longest twenty-seven seconds in the history of this, or any Service Floor in over a century.

  After twenty-seven seconds, when Tobe’s screen came back on-line, the ball of throbbing threads was a hot, golden colour.

  WOOH PRESSED HER button and counted.

  “I don’t need anything,” said Wooh, “3... 4... 5...”

  “This is bad, isn’t it?” asked Saintout.

  “Take a look,” said Wooh, handing Saintout her headset. “10... 11...”

  By the time Saintout had disentangled the ear-bead, adjusted the strap, and placed the headset in position, feeding the bead into his ear, and finally dropping the screen down in front of his right eye, it was all over.

  He blinked, flipped the screen up, and said, “You can stop counting, now, Wooh. We are at Code Orange.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A CLAXON SOUNDED, and the dozen-or-so men and women, sitting around Branting’s conference table, looked at each other. The man fourth from Branting on the left of the table turned a sickly colour, and clasped his hand over his mouth. The people on either side of him shuffled in their chairs, and he staggered to his feet. Branting was still standing, and he strode to the door and opened it for his erstwhile colleague.

  “We are at Code Orange,” said Branting. “Master Tobe’s status has ramped up, and we need to break this problem down, and solve it.” He was speaking through almost gritted teeth, his determination steelier after eighty hours than it had been after eight. “If any one else is feeling the pressure, perhaps you’d like to leave, now, so that we can bring in fresh minds. If you’re not up to it, for goodness sake, go.”

  Branting cast a stern glance around the table, taking in each advisor as his head swung slowly from right to left. Before he was done, three more people had risen from their seats, and Branting gestured for a further three to recuse themselves.

  One of the men relaxed, visibly, dropping his shoulders and rolling his head clockwise on his neck to relieve some of the tension that had built up, there.

  “I’ll need you back, Johnson,” said Branting. “Take a Rest and Repast, and then back here, if you please.”

  “Yes, Control Operator,” said Johnson, calmly, “of course.”

  Branting turned to Qa, who had stopped feeding the screen with wafers, and was awaiting instructions.

  “You are excused, Qa,” said Branting.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Qa, “but I’d like to ask why you’re dismissing me.”

  “You need to sleep,” said Branting. “Follow Johnson, and come back to me, refreshed.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Qa, formally, “but it could all be over by then. Can I ask, sir? Have I been under-performing, in your opinion? Have I fallen short of your needs or expectations?”

  “No, Qa, you have done all that was required of you, and more.”

  “In that case, sir, I’d like to ask permission to remain at my post... with respect.”

  Branting sat for a moment, upright in his chair. Everyone around the table sat silent, watching Branting, and waiting for him to respond to Qa’s request.

  Service did not allow for sentiment or emotional responses to problems, in its programs of advancement. That did not mean that Operators at all levels were devoid of feelings. They might be less emotional than other castes, particularly Civilians, and they might be selected for, among other things, their pragmatism, but the past hour had proven, beyond anyone’s doubt, that even Operators and Advisors at the highest Service grades could be rendered non-operational by their less rational, more emotional responses to certain stresses; Dinozzo had almost vomited, for goodness sake.

  Qa was a superior aide, and Branting knew his worth. This would be a test of their combined mettle, and Branting realised, i
nstinctively, that the two of them, working together, were more effective than the sum of their intellectual parts.

  Branting looked down at the perfect, gleaming surface of the conference table in front of him, detecting a dark, but almost totally undistorted reflection of his face in the depths of its surface.

  He smiled as he remembered his first Workstation on a Service Floor: the grubby beige/grey surface with its scratches and pits, and worn areas where sweaty hands had rested for decades; the tacky, grubby rubberpro ball that felt warm and matt under his hand; and the stubby switch on the facing edge of the counter, which he had used to input his Morse signature... How many times? Hundreds? Thousands?

  This room might be a little more comfortable, a little more modern, a little less utilitarian than the average Service Floor, but it was merely an extension of the place where he had first been put to work.

  He looked up at the large screen at the end of the room, filled with the image of the last wafer that Qa had uploaded. Then, he turned to look over his shoulder, again, into the alcove where Qa sat, looking over his shoulder back at his boss. He was sitting at, what was, effectively, a Workstation: in almost all regards, the sister of the one that Branting had started work on three decades earlier.

  The job was the same.

  “Permission granted,” said Branting. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Qa, turning back to face his screen, and continue with his work.

  “Sir?” asked Qa.

  “Continue to feed the wafers,” said Branting. “Unless or until we come up with something better, I see no reason to change tack, now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “TELL ME ABOUT me,” said Metoo.

  “What about Metoo?” asked Tobe.

  “Anything you like.”

  They were still sitting at the kitchen counter, and Metoo was cradling an empty cup in her hands, the sticky remnant of her coffee coating the top inch of the cup with hardening milkpro froth.

  “Metoo knows maths,” said Tobe. “Not all of it, but enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Enough for Tobe.”

  “Okay. Does it matter that I know some maths?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “For Tobe. It matters for Tobe.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “What else about Metoo?” Metoo nodded. “Metoo is Tobe’s friend, and Tobe is Metoo’s friend.”

  “What is a friend?”

  Tobe looked puzzled for a moment.

  “You don’t have to answer,” said Metoo. “It’s not a test.”

  “Isn’t it? It feels like a test. Can Tobe go to work now?”

  “Not yet. Talk to me, some more.”

  “Tobe loves Metoo,” said Tobe, looking down at the counter, and then looking up and beaming at Metoo. His eyes were still, but his mouth was wide, and he was showing his teeth. Metoo blushed slightly and looked down.

  “What?” asked Tobe. “Why is Metoo sad?”

  Metoo looked at Tobe, startled. He rarely thought about his own feelings, let alone other people’s. He was an empirical soul, interested in numbers and formulae, mathematical puzzles and unanswered questions. He had never told her that he was sad, angry, elated or shy. She knew when he was curious, and she was aware that he could become obsessed. His feelings, such as they were, never seemed to relate to other people, but always to his work. He wondered about a puzzle, he was curious about a new formula, he was confident that he could deduce an answer, or he was satisfied that he had done so; anger, sadness and love were not on his radar, because they relied on others to stimulate them, and other people meant little or nothing to him.

  Metoo hesitated for a moment.

  “Are you ever sad, Tobe?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “How do you know that I am sad?”

  “Because Metoo looks sad.”

  Tobe wasn’t supposed to be able to read people’s feelings, or recognise those feelings from facial expressions. He wasn’t very good at making eye-contact, even with Metoo, with whom he had spent a great deal of time in the past eight years. She had decided, soon after becoming his Assistant, that to get his attention and to fix his gaze, she needed to hold his face between her hands. She knew that working with a Master could be demanding, and had decided that she would need an arsenal of coping strategies if she was going to enable Tobe to perform his duties.

  The first time that Metoo had taken Tobe’s face in her hands in that manner, he had swatted her hands away, and cradled the back of his head, dropping his face onto his chest, closing his eyes and humming to himself. He had stayed like that for more than forty minutes. The second time she had tried to do it, she had warned him what was coming, and he had covered his ears, closed his eyes, and recited formulae to himself. She had not been able to touch him for six months, but she had persisted.

  In the last year, and particularly in the last few weeks, it had become common practice for Metoo to hold Tobe’s face in order to hold his attention. He accepted it, and it seemed to help him to focus on the things that Metoo needed him to focus on, so that he was able to function and accomplish what he wanted to accomplish. It was a complex balancing act: she needed to impose rules and routines on Tobe, so that Tobe could accomplish the tasks he set for himself. By working at capacity, Tobe could be a useful Master, and, who knew, even an effective Active.

  In the first year after becoming Tobe’s Assistant, Metoo had come to want Tobe to be drug-free, settled, and, more than anything else, she wanted him to be content. The drugs were dispensed with in short order, but the rest had been harder, and Metoo was only just beginning to feel that she was making headway.

  The last few months had been very nearly idyllic for Metoo. Tobe had been incredibly stable and predictable, and almost every day had become an ordinary day, Metoo’s perfect day.

  Then, it had all gone wrong. Metoo was still convinced that it wasn’t Tobe. If anyone knew Tobe, she felt that she did, but that wasn’t enough. She didn’t know what had caused Tobe to become wrapped up in probability, but she failed to see how it could possibly matter. He was content. His actions were well within his normal range. He had not retreated into himself, or put up barriers between them. He was calm and content. He was eating and sleeping, and following his usual routines.

  The difference, as Metoo saw it, was that Tobe was responding to her at a deeper and more subtle level than she was used to. She wondered how that could possibly be considered to be a bad thing.

  “What does ‘sad’ look like, Tobe?” Metoo asked, putting her cup down on the counter, and looking at him, holding his gaze.

  “Tobe doesn’t know. Tobe only knows that Metoo is sad. Why is Metoo sad? When will Metoo be happy again?”

  Metoo placed both of her hands over one of his, still holding his gaze. He looked back at her, as if searching for answers to questions that he didn’t understand.

  “Very soon,” she said. “I’ll be happy again, very soon.”

  “SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT,” Wooh said to Saintout.

  “You bet your life, something’s not right. When was the last time we were at Code Orange? When was the last time that any College, anywhere, was at Code Orange?”

  “That’s not it. That’s not what I meant.”

  “You saw the ramp-up. You hit your button.”

  “Yes, I did,” said Wooh. “All the criteria were in place, so I had to hit the button. When it gets to this point, there’s no choice. The protocols are there for a reason...”

  “What is it, Wooh? What is the problem?”

  “I have absolutely no clue. This just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Okay, rationalise it for me. Take off the headset, and just talk to me for five minutes. Tell me what feels wrong.”

  “We’re at Code Orange, and you want me to disconnect from Master Tobe’s screen?” asked Wooh, glaring at Saintout past the screen that covered most of her fo
rward vision.

  “We’re at Code Orange,” said Saintout, spreading his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Everyone’s looking at Master Tobe’s screen.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  THE NINE SCREENS on the Service Floor all showed Master Tobe’s data.

  There were twenty-seven Named and Ranked Operators in the room, and two dozen Techs. It was standing room only. Everyone, who was anyone, in Service at College was on the Service Floor, and four Agent Operators had been drafted in, including Agent Operator Henderson.

  Within minutes of the ramp-up to Code Orange, within minutes of all the screens switching out to Tobe’s data, there were seventy people on the floor.

  No one said a word.

  Each station now had three Operators, one in the chair, one in the dicky, and one standing, watching over the shoulders of the other two. The four Agent Operators were moving around the room, from one screen to the next, but all the screens were showing the same data, and there were no comparisons to be made.

  Someone had to make a decision.

  “Bob?” asked Chen.

  “Chen,” said Bob.

  “What are we looking at?”

  “We’re at Code Orange. We’re looking at an Active’s data. If it’s going on in his head, we’re seeing it.”

  “I realise that, but what’s going on in this Active’s head?”

  “If we knew that, and we could bottle it, we’d all be out of a job.”

  “That’s as maybe,” said Agent Operator Henderson, who had come to stand behind the Operators at Workstation 7, “but you do realise that we are in a critical situation for global safety, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Bob, “but I also know that, it doesn’t matter how much monitoring we do of these people, we have no control over what happens.”