by Ben Jeapes
He had done all right, and two reprimands weren't going to change that.
But as he undressed for bed, another thought struck him. The fact was, he still didn't have that computer. Maybe he would just have to write it off: fate seemed to be against his getting it back. But he also still didn't have an answer to a question he had put to Su in fourteenth-century Brazil. What did the Commissioner for Correspondents, who never did any fieldwork of his own, want with a field computer?
Five
For Jontan Baiget, a biotech journeyman on the Holmberg-Chabani-Scott plantation, the journey to the Dark Ages started like a perfectly normal day, five thousand feet below the surface of the Pacific, north-east of the Marquesas. It was the day before Union Day.
Jontan left the dormitory that morning and headed with his friends to the foreman's office to be given the day's tasks. His group and the women's contingent got there at about the same time, to the strains of the usual repartee.
From the men:
'Wha-hey!'
'All right, girls?'
'Over here, love, over here!'
From the women:
'Do your mummies know you're out, boys?'
'Too small for me.'
'Any three of you, OK? Any three of you.'
Back home in Appalachia ecopolis the journeymen could mix with whom they liked. On the plantation they were kept apart, except for their professional duties and carefully chaperoned offduty get-togethers. Journeymen were expected to keep their minds on their work. Jontan glanced up. Was she . . .
Yes, she was. Sarai Killin was there and looking as fed up with the catcalls as he felt. She met his eye for a moment, half smiled and looked away again.
They had known each other since childhood days in their module crèche in Appalachia. As they got older he had become aware of two disturbing factors: she was becoming more and more attractive, with her dark eyes and short brown hair and slender figure that always lurked at the back of his mind and just wouldn't go away, and he was becoming less and less so with what he considered his quite unreasonably big ears, general gangliness, hair that just wouldn't do anything . . .
But tomorrow was Union Day, and all the journeymen would be going to the same party, so there was hope.
'Baiget.' The foreman called his name and he stepped forward. 'Sector twelve, abnormalities at cellular level in nutrient solution.'
Two other journeymen and a supervisor were assigned to the same job and a grounder took them there, skimming along the path that ran through the golden corn. It was a sight that cheered him up and took his mind off the non-chances of ever getting closer to Sarai. The ground beneath was reclaimed sea bed, the 'sky' was pitch black – not much sun got through five thousand feet of water – and the plantation existed in a force bubble, full of artificial air and light, but Jontan felt completely at home there. And happy, and proud. The world around him held twenty billion people and the Holmberg-Chabani-Scott plantation helped feed them, and he, in his own small way, was helping with the process.
Their destination was a pumping station that looked over a thousand acres of reclaimed sea bed. The grounder approached in a curve to avoid the gaze of a nearby UV pylon that faced safely away from them and poured its beneficent ultraviolet rays into the force-grown corn.
Inside the station the journeymen got to work. The station supplied the solution that was meant to be nourishing the seed germs, and 'abnormalities at cellular level' essentially meant mini-cancers above the usual rate of cell division. The solution was notoriously unstable and could go bad at the slightest unwanted variable – the proportion of chemicals in it, the ambient heat, a slightly prolonged filtration session. The solution suffered, the corn suffered and the crop suffered.
The job was split between the three journeymen. One looked at the solution that entered the station, Jontan studied the mixing process and the third checked the output. The supervisor hovered in the background, somehow seeming to be looking over the shoulders of all three of them at once.
An hour later they had made progress, or at least they had eliminated possibilities. There was nothing contaminating the solution in the station and the supervisor was getting redder and redder in the face.
'Nothing wrong at this end. Nothing at all. But the solution is cancerous when it gets to the far end. Well, laddies, looks like we're going to have to check the pipework . . .'
Oh, goody, more work, Jontan thought. He pushed himself back in his seat and stretched, gazing out of the window at the corn that was the ultimate beneficiary of their hard work. He frowned, then smiled slowly and stood up.
'Going somewhere, Baiget?' The supervisor stopped him with his hand on the door.
'Sir . . .'
'It's at the back, Baiget. You don't go outside. That'd really foul up the solution.'
The other two journeymen sniggered.
'Sir, that pylon's directly between us and the field,' Jontan said.
'So?'
'I'll bet the pipeline from this station runs straight from us to the field, too.'
The supervisor frowned. 'It can't be . . .' He turned to a display and called up a schematic of sector twelve. Sure enough, a red line ran from the square that was the station to the shaded yellow that was the edge of the field, and the UV pylon stood right over it.
'Which moron moved that there?' the supervisor bellowed. The pylons weren't fixed and they got moved around according to the whims of the agronomists. Radiation spillage was quite enough to upset the cell chemistry of the solution passing through the pipes.
The supervisor symbed Control. 'Request shutdown of pylon 12-UV-970. Don't worry, won't take long.' A pause, then: 'Right, you two, get over there and shift it. Stay here, Baiget.'
When the two other journeymen were gone, the supervisor shook his head. 'How long had you known about that, Baiget?'
'Um, I saw it just now, sir . . .'
'And you were going to move it all by yourself? Did it occur to you you'd get fried? And if it did, did it occur to you that you don't have the authority to shut it down to prevent frying?'
'Um . . .'
'You're talented, Baiget,' the supervisor said grudgingly. 'You can think laterally – you don't just go through the motions that the book says you should. Just learn to play in the team, OK? It'll do you a world of good.'
A symbed call broke into both their thoughts. 'Journeyman Baiget report to the foreman's office immediately.'
Jontan looked at the supervisor in surprise. The supervisor looked back. 'Still here, Baiget?'
There was another man in with the foreman – tall, dark-haired, bearded and immaculately dressed. Jontan immediately began to feel self-conscious on behalf of his working clothes.
'This is Baiget, sir,' said the foreman.
'I see.' For some reason Jontan expected the bearded man to walk around him and study him, but all he did was say, 'You did well in your exams, Baiget. Congratulations.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Where's the other?' The man was talking to the foreman now.
'Should be here soon, Mr Scott.'
Mr Scott! And this was the Holmberg-Chabani-Scott plantation. Jontan doubted he was the Mr Scott, head of the family, but he was a Mr Scott and that was enough. He would be a patrician, no doubt about it. And he was here.
The door opened and there were footsteps behind him. 'Come in, Killin,' said the foreman.
Jontan's heart leaped and he hardly dared look round in case it was another Killin. But no, it was Sarai Killin, standing next to him and ignoring him completely; as he should be ignoring her, in the presence of a Scott and the foreman. With an effort he turned his attention to the front.
'Now you're both—' said the foreman.
'Now you're both here,' said Scott, not even looking at the foreman but immediately silencing him, 'we'll start. I have a job that requires two biotech journeymen capable of working in unusual conditions. The best equipment will be made available but there will be no possibility
of replacements or resupplies. I need people who can work with what they have and make sure that what they have works. Your aptitude tests suggest you are the two. I cannot say how long the job will last, so I have to ask, are you capable of getting on with one another? Be honest.'
Jontan and Sarai looked at each other. For a moment it occurred to Jontan that Scott shouldn't have to ask journeymen – journeymen were told, not asked – but the doubt was swept away with the thought of working with Sarai, indefinitely. And with the worry that she might say no.
'I can work with Sa— Journeyman Killin, sir,' he said. He was pleased to see one corner of her mouth twitch in a slight smile.
'I can work with Journeyman Baiget, sir,' she said.
Scott nodded. 'Good. As of now you're detached from your duties. You won't need to pack anything, just meet me at the surface port in half an hour. That's all.'
'Um, yes, sir.' Jontan and Sarai turned to go, uncertain. It hadn't been a formal dismissal such as they were used to, so . . .
'Get going,' said the foreman for their benefit.
'Yes, sir!' they said together, and went.
Phenuel Scott was pleased that the two journeymen were suitably silent as the taxi flew swiftly southwards. It was as it should be. He had no real desire to travel with journeymen at all but he was determined to keep them in his sight at all times until they were safely ensconced at the College. He had nightmare visions of the two of them arriving at the College unaccompanied, and innocently getting lost and somehow coming to the attention of some official who would wonder why Scott had hired two biotech journeymen . . .
It didn't bear thinking about and he shook the vision away.
'We are heading,' he said, 'for the College. That is, the College of Advanced Manipulation of Probability and Chronotic Transference.'
He wasn't surprised to see a hint of awe in the looks. Aside from the plantation they'd probably never left Appalachia before.
'As well as helping with the family business, I'm the assistant to the Appalachian consul there, and you are officially on the staff as well,' he said. 'Remember that – you shouldn't have to meet any College personnel, but if you ever do, your work is Appalachian business only. You will discuss it only with consulate personnel. You will just be doing biotech work, nothing else, and you are under my sponsorship.'
That last line, he thought, should buy their loyalty if nothing else did.
'Attention,' the voice of the taxi symbed into their minds. 'College Defence Systems request information concerning the two unknown individuals on board this taxi.'
'Individuals are Journeymen Killin and Baiget, staff for the Appalachian consulate.' Scott couldn't avoid giving their titles but he had no compunction about doing so to a machine – it was unlikely any human with a sense of curiosity would hear about this. 'Visitors on authority of Phenuel Scott until due residence authorization is given.'
'Visitors are requested to identify themselves verbally.'
Scott nodded that they should do so, and they symbed their names and citizen numbers accordingly.
'Please wait,' said the taxi, and it slowed down and stopped and hovered.
'This will take a couple of minutes,' Scott said. 'There's Antarctica. Make the most of the view because you won't be seeing much of it.'
With his permission given, they pressed their faces to the membrane. The continent of Antarctica was spread out before them. It was summer in the southern hemisphere and the pure white of the land below them would have been painful to look at if the membrane hadn't been tinted.
The taxi was hovering in mid-air a mile above the snow, three miles away from the geometric shapes of the College. Scott stood with his arms folded and feasted his eyes on the unattainable prize three miles distant. It was insane. Down there was the Earth's most valuable resource. Used properly, it would set the people of Earth free from the grip of the space nations. Instead of saving up a lifetime to be allowed to emigrate in old age, as a grudging concession from the established powers of the former colony worlds, young men and women could head out into space instead. They could set up an empire of Earth in space that was new, not a superannuated copy of Earth that was old.
But the College had the monopoly on transference, and the College had Morbern's Code, and the College would never allow what Scott and his friends had in mind. Well, that would change.
The taxi announced that clearance had been given, subject to the visitors checking in with Security upon arrival, and began to move again.
'Stay by me when we arrive,' Scott said. 'I'll escort you to Security, then to the place where you'll be given your first assignment.'
The College was a severe disappointment to Jontan, who had been hoping to see the transference hall, or at least a Field Op. It wasn't grown like an ecopolis, so there was a strange oldy-worldy feel to walking down corridors that were straight and smooth and not very interesting, but otherwise there was nothing new. After Security they reached the offices of the Appalachian consulate, which could have been anywhere on Earth. Then, instead of showing them to their quarters, Scott whisked them away and stopped halfway down a corridor, next to a maintenance access hatch. He spoke a code word and it opened.
'Follow me,' he said, and ducked inside. Sarai went next and Jontan followed, shutting the hatch behind him at Scott's command.
They entered the maintenance tunnel, which for a while ran parallel with the main corridor they had just exited, then veered to the left. It was narrow and the roof was low, and they had to walk in a crouched single file. The lights were spaced at wide intervals along the ceiling. Jontan, bringing up the rear, admired the way light would flare around Sarai's silhouette in front of him, gradually revealing all of her, then vanish again as they moved on and his own body blocked the light out.
They turned abruptly left, then right again into an identical tunnel. They seemed to have ducked through a hole cut in the wall between the first tunnel and the second – not a door, not a hatch, not even a planned junction, to judge by the rough look of the edges, but a definite hole.
Then they came to a ladder and had to climb down it into the darkness. The lights at the bottom were much dimmer and, wherever they were now, Jontan was sure it was old. Possibly the foundations of the College. The walls weren't artificial any more – they were stone, the carved bedrock of Antarctica.
Then light began to grow around them and suddenly they were in a high, smooth-walled cavern. It was well lit and well ventilated, and a shining metal dome took up most of the centre of it. Two clam-doors were set into its side, gaping invitingly open. The dome was empty, though a jumble of crates was piled up next to it. Banks of antiquated-looking machinery with lights and displays glowing merrily lined the walls, broken here and there by the black rectangles of doors that led only into darkness. Jontan got the impression they were at the inhabited heart of quite a large, unlit and otherwise empty complex.
'You'll be here until tomorrow morning,' Scott said, encompassing the whole room with a gesture. 'There's a couple of cots set up in the next room, foodfac over there, washing facilities through there. Your first job is to check these crates against this inventory, and when that's done, get them loaded into there.' He pointed at the shining dome. 'Keep me informed of your progress. Here's my symb code.' He turned to go, then half turned back.
'By the way,' he said, 'if you had any Union Day plans, cancel them.' Then he was gone.
Cancel them! Indignation welled up in Jontan but was swept away in a moment by another thought.
His hopes had been high for getting near to Sarai at the Union Day party, but this was even better – no one else but each other in this strange labyrinth beneath the College. Things could be worse.
So, he checked the inventory he was holding. 'Biotech kit,' he said.
'That makes sense,' Sarai said, 'if they want biotech journeymen.'
'Yeah.'
They looked at the crates some more. 'Do you think,' Jontan said, 'that we'll find out what
all this is about after this?'
'It'll be fun to guess, won't it?' said Sarai. Neither of them yet knew why Scott had had them whisked away from the plantation, but it was enough of an adventure for them not to worry. And the sponsorship of a patrician didn't come your way every day.
'S'pose we'd better get started, then. Crate one, item one . . .'
It took the rest of the day.
When the last crate was resealed, they looked at each other.
'It's what we'd expect,' said Sarai. 'I mean, it's our job.'
'Yeah, but why bring 'em here?' Jontan shrugged and opened a symb link. 'Mr Scott, please.'
Scott's eidolon appeared in front of them. 'Yes?' he said abruptly.
'Journeymen Baiget and Killin, sir . . .' Jontan said.
'I can see that. Report?'
'Um, everything present and correct, sir.'
'Good, good. Got it loaded yet?'
'Loaded, sir?'
Scott's impatience was almost tangible. 'Have you put the equipment in the cham— the, uh, dome yet?'
'Um, no sir . . .'
'Then do it! I'll see you tomorrow. Out.' The eidolon vanished again.
'So then what does he expect us to do?' said Sarai.
You have to ask? Jontan thought. 'Ah . . . um,' he said. Sarai looked at him thoughtfully. Was she maybe thinking . . . ? he wondered.
As it turned out, no, she wasn't. 'He said we wouldn't be doing anything for Union Day,' she said.
'Uh-huh?'
