by John Barnes
“Pikia, my good news is your bad news. Your great-great-grandfather left things in really good shape. There isn’t much for us to do right now, so you will be doing what everyone else does—filling out forms, rechecking administrative decisions made by the AIs, doing human-contact follow-throughs—all terribly dull.”
Her big-eyed vigorous nodding indicated that Jak was now old enough to constitute Authority to a teenager. Therefore she had not listened to a word he’d said. (Nakasen, how he envied her that!) “Any questions?” he asked.
“Well, I did look at the list of optional projects for this office, and the one about the descendants of all the pretenders to the Old Martian Imperial throne—”
Jak shook his head. “Sorry. Whenever anything new comes up about open projects, we authorize some AI searches to make sure there’s still nothing to do—but that’s all we do. I looked into all of them when I got here and your great-great-grandfather had to tell me the same thing.”
Pikia made a wry face. “Well, I tried. Great-great-grandpa Reeb’s job really is as dull as it looks, isn’t it?”
“Probably even duller, now.” Jak explained about all the preparations they had made for Waxajovna’s trip. “Furthermore, rank hath a privilege, so if anything interesting turns up, I’ll grab it. In the unlikely event of a brief flurry of excitement, it probably won’t fall on your desk.”
Jak’s purse chimed. He looked down at the palm display. URGENT MESSAGE YOUR EYES ONLY. “Hunh.”
“What?”
“Eyes-only message. Usually these turn out to be some overzealous clerk pushing security as high as it will go to make his job look more important, or something that would embarrass some administrator if her underlings read it. But rules are rules, so shoo, scat, get out of here—grab a terminal outside and ask the clerks to show you how to handle tax exemption evaluations. We’re always backlogged on those and nobody gets to avoid them for long. If it gets too exciting, lie down and breathe deeply, per the employee stress management manual.”
She smiled; at least she was a good sport. “If it’s about saving the universe from evil or anything other than office work, consider me volunteered.”
“Weehu, Pikia, I wouldn’t leave a fellow human being to do tax exemptions if I had somewhere else to put her. Now, scoot.”
She scooted.
Jak floated up from his chair and spoke to his purse. “All right, lock the door, opaque the windows, vibration-suppress external surfaces, turn on security verification, adjust the central rear wall to a white surface, and use that as the screen. Let me know when you have all that done and the message cued up.”
“Check on procedure, please?”
“Yes?”
“Since you have done the same things for the last five eyes-only messages, I would like to name all the sequence of all those procedures ‘prepare to receive eyes-only message,’ okay?”
“Approved. Suggest it anytime I receive an eyes only message.” Jak touched the reward spot and listened for the cheeble; then he said, “Now, message up on screen, please.”
It was Hel Faczel, the head of PASC, Jak’s boss-of-bosses. He was a large man, some kind of kobold-simi hybrid, with big pointed ears, heavy brows, and a completely hair-covered snouted face. “Hello, Acting Procurator Jinnaka. We have an extraordinarily urgent situation which calls for your full and immediate attention.” His expression became very serious. “The following message was received via the General Secure Common Routing Office at the Hive, a bit over nine hours ago. The person you will see in the message copy that follows has been authenticated as Teacher Xlini Copermisr, who has been doing Nakasen-related archaeology in Chrysepolis.”
The great ruin of Chrysepolis, half-submerged in Bleak Lake, was where anyone went to do Nakasen-related archaeology. Paj Nakasen, founder of the Wager, had lived most of his life there. His bones were somewhere in the ruins, for the city had been destroyed in the opening minutes of the Seventh Rubahy War. When that last desperate struggle with the Rubahy was over, nothing was left of the Second Martian Empire. The League of Polities had no money. Nothing and no one would rebuild the wrecked city that had once been home to six million people.
But though Nakasen was dead, the Wager must go on— time enough to find relics later. It had been centuries before archaeology even started on the ruins. By then, forgeries, propaganda, archive viruses, and disinformation from thousands of nations, corporations, and zybots had hopelessly tangled the trail.
Xlini Copermisr looked to be between forty and a hundred years old. She had very dark skin and thick curly pale hair, like Gweshira and many people from the old Hive families. She had broad shoulders like a panth, but a delicate, fine-boned face like a gracile’s, so perhaps she was unmodified but athletic and pretty. Her dark eyes seemed to reach through the screen to scratch along the back of Jak’s skull.
“I am Teacher Xlini Copermisr, currently on detached service from Old Imperial University. I’m a Hive citizen working for the Nakasen Archaeology Project, whose purpose is to shed light on the early development of the Wager and to recover relics of the life of Paj Nakasen. We had already had a remarkable breakthrough earlier this year, identifying a complex of buildings as the Stanford Grand Chrysepolis Hotel, where Paj Nakasen was staying on the night of the initial Rubahy attack. Three days ago, the recovered black box of their business records revealed that Paj Nakasen had indeed been a guest there on the night of the attack, and gave us a floor plan and his room number.”
Jak shuddered; though a secret unbeliever, he felt the same awe an ancient Skeptic might have had at the true site of Omphalos, or a medieval atheist might at the discovery of the True Cross or Marx’s grave.
Xlini Copermisr went on, her eyes looking steadily into the camera, her voice level, and yet the excitement seemed to leap out of the screen to grab him by the neck and shake him. “Though we did not locate Nakasen’s body, we did find the crushed remains of the room in which he had stayed. We knew from some of his notes and letters that Nakasen kept a lifelog from very early on—”
Jak all but gasped. A lifelog was a record, maintained by an AI complex running in background on one’s purse, downloaded into a more permanent location at every opportunity. The AI complex watched from your purse through all the years and events of your life, snapping copies of everything that might be of interest to a biographer—rough drafts, messages to friends, shopping orders, schoolwork, anything— keeping a running organization and catalog as it went. Nakasen was humanity’s greatest single religious teacher. Finding Mohammed’s home movies, Jesus’s agent’s appointment calendar (with the rough draft of the Sermon on the Mount folded between the pages), and Buddha’s complete sent-email file would not have been as important.
Copermisr was still talking—“under the bed, protected by several structures from falling objects, and the room was not burned. It seems to be absolutely undamaged.
“Physically it is a small dark blue memory block, a square about eighteen centimeters on a side by four centimeters thick, with Nakasen’s signature embossed in white on its upper surface, designed for playback in a Harris Fastbox, a format so common that we keep a Harris Fastbox simulator in the field laboratory. We have established that it is not encrypted; it appears to contain multiple early drafts of The Principles of the Wager, Teachings Concerning the Principles, and Suggestions Regarding the Teachings, extensive notes, a large volume of message traffic in and out, and a daily diary covering the last eighty-nine years of Nakasen’s life.
“Aside from a hundred random samples of pages, images, and words, by which I determined that there seems to be no encryption, I haven’t looked at anything other than the index. A real examination of Nakasen’s lifelog would be a job for a big, carefully chosen, international team of specialists, once the lifelog has been safely secured for the Hive and is firmly in our physical possession.
“That brings me to our problem. At the moment, Nakasen’s lifelog is not secured and not in our physical possession
. Chrysepolis, as you probably know, is in the Harmless Zone, and the discovery fell within the territory of Red Amber Magenta Green.” She made a face. “Of course we could just seize it …”
Jak could hear her clear implication; no Harmless Zone nation would be able to withstand a determined grab by the Hive. Officially nations in the Harmless Zone were limited to 2500 square kilometers of territory, fifty thousand permanent residents, three thousand trained soldiers, and only weapons light enough for three unmodified humans to lift, which released no more than a thousand joules per pull of a trigger.
Xlini Copermisr had been talking on, and Jak had not heard a word of it. He told his purse “go back to where she first mentioned Red Amber Magenta Green.”
“… discovery fell within the territory of Red Amber Magenta Green. Of course we could just seize it … but King Witerio has generally been friendly to the Hive. I think we can buy it from him if we’re polite and careful.
“Officially, King Witerio of Red Amber Magenta Green is His Splendor King Witerio Smith Guntrasen, first and sole recognized scion of the Gunemabuv Branch of the Kaesenedi Dynasty, the Probably-Rightful Leaders (that’s a title) of the Splendor of the Splendiferous Chrysetic People. Like every nation down here, though they use their color designation to communicate, they strongly prefer to be called by what they call themselves—the Splendor. Every member of the royal house may properly be addressed as ‘Your Splendor.’ Except at formal occasions, the King prefers ‘King Witerio.’ The Prince stands on his dignity and prefers to be ‘Your Splendor,’ all the time, though he will answer to ‘Prince Cyx.’ (A few of his older guards still call him ‘Sonny,’ but I strongly advise not doing that.)
“Now, I am reasonably sure, because the King is a reasonable heet, that he will probably be reasonable if we pay him some gigantic ransom, labeled as rent or a licensing fee.
“Also, Prince Cyx intends to be a thoroughly modern monarch. He attended the PSA and he wants bureaucracy and diplomacy and a constitution and all the other modern toys. If he thinks giving us the lifelog is the ‘modern’ thing to do, he will.
“It is my opinion that the local Roving Consul, Dujuv Gonzawara, could handle the whole thing on his own, and toktru it would go better if he did. He knows the territory and he’s good.”
“Of course he’s good,” Jak muttered. Jak didn’t know anyone kinder, more generous, fiercer in a fight, or more loyal to a tove.
“Remember that although this is the Harmless Zone, they’re not savages, and they’re not fools, and they know it. You can expect to pay plenty for the lifelog, in both cash and ceremonial honor—but it’s a bargain at any price, at least in the opinion of this scientist. I therefore request a diplomatic team to negotiate for the lifelog of Paj Nakasen, immediately. Voiceprint signature: I am Teacher Xlini Copermisr, permanent assignment Old Empire University, temporary assignment Nakasen Archaeology Project.” The screen blurred into a swirl of colors.
Hel Faczel reappeared. “We have confirmed everything she said. This is clearly a job for PASC and the Roving Consuls, but there’s a major turf war on behind the scenes and Hive Intel will jump in with both feet and try to grab the whole show and all the credit. You will indeed be working closely with Dujuv Gonzawara—the two of you are toves and that’s a lucky break for us. Reeb Waxajovna speaks well of you, also. We expect great things of you, and when you do them, they will be noticed and remembered.
“One point on which I must be blunt: we are getting into a turf war. Hive Intel is going to move in fast and hard. Therefore, since we can’t hit as hard, we have to move faster. You’re the only administrator with command rank who can get there within one day—so get going.
“The secret services invariably decide that if a thing is important, it is theirs. But if Hive Intel controls access to that lifelog, they will have taken control of humanity’s religious and philosophical future. The spiritual life of the human race must not be dictated by the spymasters of one nation. The Hive may be the center of the Wager, but if the Wager is ever perceived as belonging to the Hive, the Wager is dead. There would be worse things than the loss or accidental destruction of that lifelog—its capture by Hive Intel would be one.
“Now, give orders to your staff to keep Deimos running, and go get that lifelog. Succeed, and you’ll be remembered for a very long time. Fail, and you’ll be remembered even longer. Good luck.”
Jak clicked off, and drew a deep breath. His purse said, “Vital message, highest priority, eyes only, for you.”
“Put it up,” Jak said.
It was Reeb Waxajovna, messaging from Eros’s Torch. “Well, I do suppose you’re seeing the wisdom of a clear desk at the moment, Jak, so I wanted you to remember what a clever heet I was for having gotten the decks cleared for your success.” Waxajovna seemed to parody his own smug smile.
It was so unexpected that Jak laughed out loud.
“And I also did want to tell you that I have the most complete confidence in you that I have ever had in any junior officer in PASC, ever, and if all this had to happen with me not there, thank Nakasen and all the Principles that you were. And I do believe my word carried some weight with Hel Faczel. Now those are reminders”—he paused and his smile deepened—“of how you got into this potentially tremendously advantageous situation, and they remind me of why I feel a little badly about imposing an additional difficulty on you. But this favor would do me and my family so much good that it would be wrong not to ask it. Since my great-great-granddaughter needs to distinguish herself, please take Pikia along on this mission, as your aide or whatever you want to designate her. (Don’t let her do anything and keep her completely out of trouble!)” His eyes twinkled, and he smiled pleasantly. The screen clicked off.
“You know,” Jak said to the blank space in front of him, “I liked you better when I thought you were a pigheaded old bureaucratic fossil.”
He realized he didn’t have much time. He needed to grab that lifelog for Hive Intel and simultaneously make it look like he had tried his heart out to get it for PASC, and he needed to be down on the surface with Dujuv, working the angles, right away.
There was bound to be a military try, too, to grab that lifelog. Within a few hours every officer in the Spatial would be told to delay Jak as much as possible. If he was going to commandeer transport to the surface, he should get it commandeered now and make sure it stayed commandeered.
He lifted his left hand and spoke to his purse. “Identify every officer and techny who has any power to prevent John Carter from making a flight down to Red Amber Magenta Green’s landing field. Assuming they have one. Nearest landing field if they don’t—”
“They have one—all weather, long enough runway. Check for all inspection certificates to make sure they can’t block it with missing paperwork?”
“Do it.” Jak pushed the reward spot hard, and the cheeble was joyous. “All right, line those heets up by rank, and start blinking them onto the screen, lowest first. As soon as I’m done talking to one, move me to the next. Try to structure it so that anyone who calls his boss about it will find his boss is busy talking to me.”
A very junior mechanic’s face appeared on the screen, hand on his chest in the salute position. “Sir!”
“I need immediate confirmation that to the best of your knowledge warshuttle John Carter is ready to be commandeered for an emergency mission to the surface.” The Carter was the flagship of the Deimos fleet, suitable for calling on a king.
The techny nodded vehemently. “Sir, it is completely ready to go; get your party aboard and you can launch in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, techny. Very unofficially, it’s highly likely you’ll need to make good on that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Jak gave the civilian administrator’s salute, and his purse blinked off the techny and blinked up a junior officer on the screen. Jak had essentially the same one-minute conversation over and over as he worked his way up the organizational chart in a blinding f
ury of bureaucratic ticket-punching.
With his purse helping, Jak commed thirty-one technies and officers in less than twenty-five minutes, all on ultra high priority. Because the priority was so high, no one hesitated an instant before answering.
Being a true wasp, and thus among the most modest humans in the solar system, Jak was both pleased and appalled by what he encountered—he thought the first lieutenant who had to step out of her shower was really cute, but it would have been all right with Jak if the senior techny, a simi covered with full body hair, had waited a moment to get off the toilet.
The only conversation that was different was the last one, when he finally spoke to the base commander.
“Acting Procurator Jinnaka, what can I do for you?”
“I am commandeering warshuttle John Carter for a descent to the Red Amber Magenta Green landing field, party of two—myself and an assistant—for arrival at fourteen hundred ground solar time. Please have it ready for boarding two hours and forty minutes from now.”
“Sir, we can’t guarantee its availability, and I don’t know if we have any other warshuttle—”
“I’ve already verified with all of the involved personnel that it is ready for immediate departure.” Jak spoke to his purse. “Transmit the relevant records to the base commander’s purse, please.”
The base commander glanced down at his own purse, his lips pressed tight together. “Very well,” he said, “it will be ready. In the future, you need not disturb so many of our personnel here—we are busy and we do have things to do— you can call me—”
“I am aware that I can,” Jak said, pleasantly, “and also that I can call anyone I like. Or even people I don’t like, if I may be permitted a small joke. The mission is urgent, sir, and I want to commend all of your personnel for their immediate willingness to help and for the pride and confidence with which they were able to tell me that what I needed would be available. Splendidly well done, sir.”
