Vigiant

by Gardner, James Alan

  A second passed. Then I found myself pushing the eject button, watching the bubble chips harden back to diamonds and the packet closing around them. There'd been no sensation of the world-soul "speaking" to me, telling me the file didn't mention Maya; I just knew the file contained nothing relevant, as surely as I knew the colors of my spouses' eyes.

  Knowing without the experience of learning. Spooky.

  Three more packets. Loading them, rejecting them, with no intelligible moment of transition between wondering whether a file referred to Maya and the certainty that it didn't. Out of morbid curiosity, I tried to doubt that I'd scanned the files at all. The doubt wouldn't come; my brain was dead certain it knew the files were clean, even though I had no idea what the chips actually contained.

  Creepy. Goosepimply. Enough that when I reached the fifth packet I took a moment to read the outside label, just so I'd know what my brain was looking at.

  The tag said archaeology liaison bureau. Chappalar once mentioned he scrutinized archaeological activities for the whole planet—easy work, because the "bureau" was actually a single man working out of a fiddly-dick office just down the street from us. Whenever the Heritage Board on New Earth authorized an exploration of Demoth's ruins, our archaeology liaison was supposed to handle local arrangements (transportation, accommodation, and so on).

  Not that the Heritage Board had authorized a single dig during my lifetime. As I've said, the board wrote off our planet long ago. So the bureau man collected his pay and spent his time teaching oboe lessons to local teens; he played with a woodwind quintet and was supposedly quite good. (If it's not a contradiction to use "oboe" and "good" in the same sentence.)

  Every year, Chappalar submitted a suggestion to the Speaker-General's office, recommending the liaison job be dissolved or folded in with some other department. Every year, the SGO replied that the Technocracy had rejected the idea. The Heritage Board bureaucrats demanded we have someone standing ready in case they ever favored Demoth with their assy-brassy attention... and the SGO decided each year not to fight the Technocracy over a single man's salary.

  I loaded the archaeology file and watched it congeal into the reader. When it was spooled up for access, I psyched myself to deliver another request to the world-soul... and found the answer was already in my mind.

  The file contained a letter signed "Maya Cuttack, Ph.D." What did the letter say? I knew that too, as if I'd memorized the message decades ago as junior-school rotework.

  Dear Proctor Chappalar,

  I trust it is not improper to ask for help from the Vigil—as an offworlder, I do not know what is considered appropriate on Demoth—but I am having trouble with one of your local officials, and I understand you act as a kind of ombudsman who can cut through red tape.

  I am an archaeologist from Mirabile and am trying to launch an excavation in the interior of Great St. Caspian. The area contains abandoned mines dating back more than two thousand years before the Oolom colonization, and I should very much like to determine which race or races were active on Demoth at that time.

  Unfortunately, my intended excavation site is owned by a company named Rustico Nickel... and while company officials are not opposed to my work, they say they cannot grant permission for me to dig unless I get an official archaeology permit.

  (No surprise. Any digging on mine-owned land had to satisfy a slew of safety regulations—like requiring the company to install industrial-grade emergency equipment and establish a comprehensive risk-management program. If Rustico let Maya stick a single shovel in the soil, they'd have to pay for all those things to keep the Mines Commission happy. Very expensive. Rustico could only dodge the safety costs if Maya's dig was an officially recognized archaeology project; and that meant a license from the Heritage Board.)

  Unfortunately, my request for an excavation permit has fallen on deaf ears in Demoth's Archaeology Liaison Bureau. The man there says he cannot issue licenses himself—that is a matter for the Technocracy's Heritage Board. But the Heritage Board will not issue a license until it receives something called a Statement of Non-Opposition from the Demoth government... which the Archaeology Liaison Officer says he cannot give without some ridiculous background check that I am expected to pay for out of my own pocket.

  Help! Is there anything you can do to make an underfunded scientist's life easier?

  Yours in hope

  Maya Cuttack, Ph.D.

  c/o The Henry Smallwood Guest Home

  Sallysweet River

  "Ouch," I said. "Have you ever had that feeling of someone walking on your grave?" The Henry Smallwood Guest Home was a manor lodge built on the old muddy site of the Circus—a place to house the worshipfully respectful Oolom tourists who flocked to pay tribute to Dads's memory. If you looked at it one way, I shouldn't be surprised an offplanet archaeologist had set up residence at the guest home; it was the closest thing to a hotel in the whole underpopulated interior of Great St. Caspian.

  Still. This Maya Cuttack, possibly a robot, possibly a murderer... staying nearly on top of my old bedroom in Sallysweet River. It made the hairs curl on the back of my neck.

  "You've found something?" Master Tic asked.

  "An archaeologist named Maya Cuttack—an offworlder, which is why she didn't show up when you scanned the census database. She wrote to Chappalar..." The date of the letter appeared in my mind. "She wrote to him four weeks ago." More details from the file kept popping into my head. "He investigated the situation, then met with her to explain what was going on... which obviously started their acquaintance."

  "Where is this Maya now?"

  "Sallysweet River."

  Tic went very quiet. Every Oolom on Demoth knew the name of the town. Most of them thought of it as a place of salvation, but for Tic... anything associated with the plague probably hit him like a hammerfist to the head.

  "Sallysweet River," he said. His voice was level, but he enunciated every syllable precisely. "What could possibly interest an archaeologist around that place?"

  "The usual ruins," I replied. "Householes. Some ancient mines." I couldn't help picturing the tunnel we'd used as a mass grave. The one where we regularly touched off explosions from the fumes of decay. Oh yes, there was a place archaeologists could find some eye-catching artifacts.

  Tic was silent a moment, brooding. Then he drew a sharp breath, and said, "Fine. The world-soul confirms that Maya Cuttack applied to excavate several sites around Sallysweet River. The archaeology bureau conducted the usual elementary validation check on her credentials—doctorate from Pune University on Mirabile, participation in digs on Caproche, Muta, the Divian Free Republic..."

  His voice trailed off. As if it meant something that Maya had connections with the republic. After his time scrutinizing the trade talks, maybe Tic had developed some unkind opinions about the Freeps. Or maybe, like most Ooloms, he just loathed Freeps on general principles.

  I said, "If Maya's got a history going back some time, she probably isn't an android."

  "Unless the real Maya was replaced," Tic replied. "Perhaps on that Free Republic dig..."

  I rolled my eyes. "Don't start. Our first duty is to contact her. Has she... no. Damn." I was going to ask if she'd registered her comm number with the Demoth world-soul; that way we could just beep her. But I suddenly knew with absolute certainty that Maya had never signed into the public directory. (The world-soul planting things in my head again.) And her comm number didn't show up in Chappalar's file. Either Maya hadn't gotten a standard wrist-implant—one of those people who refused to adulterate her body on religious/medical/aesthetic grounds—or else she'd deliberately avoided revealing her number.

  Tic must have accessed the world-soul for the same information. "The best we can do," he said, "is leave a message where she's staying. Nothing explicit. Just have her call us as soon as possible." He waved in my direction, not looking at me. "You do it. This is your scrutiny, not mine."

  His voice full of gruff. No question that this stuck
in his craw, how Sallysweet River had suddenly come into the equation. My craw was turning fair sticky too, considering I had to make a call and hear someone chirp, "Henry Smallwood Guest Home," on the other end of the line. But I went to the phone screen beside Chappalar's desk and reached toward the control pad.

  Before my finger touched a single button, the screen flashed on and displayed the words CALLING... HENRY SMALLWOOD GUEST HOME, SALLYSWEET RIVER.

  "Lord weeping Jesus," I groaned. "Even the phone can read my mind."

  "Say thank you," Tic whispered.

  "Thanks generously, phone," I said through gritted teeth. Since that didn't sound so gracious, I gave the display box a pat, the gingerish way you do when you're introduced to someone's new pet and it turns out to be an alien organism with spikes.

  The screen bloomed to show a fresh-faced Homo sap man and Oolom woman smiling side by side—a dandified establishment like the HSGH wanted callers to see instantly that it welcomed both species. Not that either species was actually present on-screen; the man and woman were likely computer mock-ups, psychometrically designed to appeal to the most desirable demographics. "Henry Smallwood Guest Home," the man said with a voice so honestly charming, I couldn't help but mistrust it. "How may we help you?"

  "I'm with the Vigil," I said, "and I'd like to leave an urgent message for Maya Cuttack. I understand she's staying with you?"

  "We'd be happy to take your message," the Oolom woman replied, "but if it's urgent, we can't guarantee when Dr. Cuttack will receive it."

  "Why?"

  "Our guests come and go," the man said. "We never know when they might pick up their messages."

  "Are you saying Dr. Cuttack isn't in residence right now?"

  "We can't give out such information on our guests," the woman answered, her face brimming with regret that she couldn't satisfy my every whim.

  Behind the display box, out of sight from the screen, Tic mouthed, Just leave a note. I did, asking Maya "to call Faye Smallwood as soon as possible for an urgent message." Something gave me the waries about leaving my personal number; so I rhymed off the code for the Vigil instead. Our phone system was smart enough to forward the call to me if I wasn't in the office.

  When I'd cut the connection, Tic said, "Let's hope she doesn't get the message for at least an hour."

  "Why?"

  "Because the world-soul tells me that's the flying time to Sallysweet River. Gird yourself, Smallwood, we're going in."

  No. We didn't hop a waiting skimmer and spunk off to face the enemy. Tic and I weren't witless... nor were we police club-thumpers, equipped with badges, body armor, and all mod cons for buttonholing possible murder suspects. I gave a silent inward cheer when Tic asked, "Who do you know with the local gendarmes, Smallwood? Someone with a dash of authority to rally the troops on our behalf. Someone who'll listen to you talk about Maya without dismissing you as a total loon."

  "There's a Captain Cheticamp," I answered. "We got along cozily enough last night."

  Tic motioned toward the phone again. "Call this cozy fellow and bend him to your will."

  Basil Cheticamp, bless him, was actually on duty; he even knew background details on Chappalar's murder, though he wasn't part of the inquiry team. Just as well he hadn't been directly involved—when he heard how the investigators had overlooked Maya as a lead, Cheticamp swore they'd all be drummed down to dogcatchers. He promised to dispatch a squad to Sallysweet River on the double: two detectives to ask Dr. Cuttack polite questions, and a pack of armored ScrambleTac officers just in case homicidal androids came marching across the tundra. He was already paging his troops, when I asked, "Where will we meet your people?"

  The captain stopped mid-sentence and gave me the steely-eyed glare. "Meet?"

  "The Vigil intends to scrutinize your handling of this case. A master proctor and I will accompany your squad to Sallysweet River."

  "Ms. Smallwood..."

  "Proctor Smallwood," I corrected. His glare got two ore-grades steelier. "Proctor Smallwood, it is precious inappropriate for civilians—"

  "We aren't civilians," I interrupted. "We're members of the Vigil. We have a legal right to scrutinize police activity however we see fit."

  "You'll get a complete report on everything that happens."

  "Not good enough. Master Tic and I want to be present on the scene."

  Cheticamp's face went lemonish. "Tic? Tic's in Bonaventure? Smallwood, every police officer on the planet knows Tic is..."

  "A total loon?" I suggested.

  "Worse: a Jonah. There isn't a single rattlesnake on Demoth, but if Tic went walking in the woods, he'd find one. Not that it would bite him—it'd go for the next poor bugger to come down the trail. If Tic is in Bonaventure..."

  Cheticamp shook his head. Not a happy man.

  Part of me wanted to let him off the hook; after all, why should Tic and I plop ourselves into the line of fire? We could stay home, read the police reports, evaluate what we read...

  But that was a piss-poor way to run a scrutiny. Dissect the paperwork, but never trust it—advice as old as the Vigil itself. Get out of the office. Go through the closed doors.

  "Captain," I said in my most humble Mom-Faye voice, "we don't want to do your job... we only want to do ours. You know we aren't trying to push you around, or rake your people over the coals; we're just observing your procedures, the way the Vigil always does. Sure and all, this is an extra complication for you, but your department and the Vigil have always worked it out in the past. Right?"

  I hoped that was true. Police generally had a sulky tolerance for the Vigil—not that they liked us breathing over their shoulders, but they'd lived with our presence long enough that we came with the landscape: like paperwork and foot patrol. On the other hand, if Cheticamp had ever got his knuckles rapped because of a Vigil report...

  The captain sighed. "All right, Proctor Smallwood. You and Tic can go in-country with the squad. I'll go too, as your personal escort. Pick you up in five minutes."

  The screen went blank before I could say thank you.

  STRAWBERRY SMOKE

  I had goaded/charmed/blustered my family into leaving Sallysweet River when I was twenty-one. By then, I was bored with the boonies and stabilized enough after my years of wildness to get cringey over the way people looked at me on the street. Anyway, a bare-rock mining town had bugger-all opportunities compared to the big city of Bonaventure... where Winston got his scholarship to law school, Angie found she was a VR savant, Egerton bought his first cargo-hauler, and so on. The family thanked me eventually, each by each, for nagging and ragging till we moved.

  Despite that, my spouses hadn't totally cut their ties with the old hometown. They'd all returned time and again over the years, visiting parents and siblings, showing off their children and other successes.

  Me, I'd never gone back. Dads was dead. Mother had left town the day I got married—either washing her hands of me, or just taking the opportunity to attend to her own sanity now that my spouses were in charge of mine. Whatever the reason, Ma had scarpered south to the jungles of Argentia and was now breeding Demothian orchids for their natural antivirals, living in a grass shack with a gentleman Oolom pharmer. So I had no family to visit in Sallysweet River. And nary a success to show off... not unless you counted mere survival. On top of which, how could you feel nostalgic for a slag heap of a town, filled with bad memories and folks who thought I was dirt?

  Even so... even so. I found myself going dewy-eyed as the police skimmer soared over forest and tundra toward my birthplace. The darkness got to me; no lights below but the glint of stars reflecting off snow. I remembered nights as a girl, walking through that darkness—with Dads, with a boy, with friends, or by myself, each type of walk different and each one rare magical.

  Funny how you forget about magic. Even when you say (as we all do) that you've never lost the spirit of childhood, you find that for years you haven't felt the slightest magical shiver. And you don't really acknowledge that
till magic touches you again.

  Darkness. Quiet.

  Yes, the police skimmer had some dim interior lights. And there was the background mutter of a ScrambleTac sergeant outlining plans for contingencies. But that had nothing to do with me. I sat by the window and let my mind be swallowed by the night.

  Unyielding tundra night: the same night that had hugged me as a child. The same night that had wrapped this land in silence for untold humanless millennia.

  Deep roots. Continuity. Home.

  Sallysweet River had grown. Our old family compound once stood on the edge of town; now it anchored a dandified second village, dotted with tourist shops and tourist chalets and tourist amusement plazas. All but the Henry Smallwood Guest Home were huddled down empty now, hibernating in the darkness. This was the lull season, too late for skiing, too early for hiking, too muddy for damned near anything. The skimmer settled down in the guest-home parking lot. Cheticamp, Tic and I waited while the ScrambleTac team fanned out to deploy themselves around the perimeter. The club-thumpers looked right chipper as they slunk into the darkness. I don't know if that meant they were confident there'd be no trouble or happy at the possibility they might get into a firefight.

  On the trip in, one of the detectives made a bet with all takers that Maya had nothing to do with the killings. At most, she might have babbled too freely in a public place, gossiping that her snuggle-time pal Chappalar was scheduled to lead a secret inspection of Pump Station 3. One of the real bad guys probably overheard her and seized the chance to scrag a proctor on the job.

  The detective who proposed this theory was a man named Willis Bleak—a roly-poly Homo sap with a boyish unwrinkled face that surely doomed him to play Good Cop for his entire professional career. His partner, P.O. Fellburnie, was a female Divian of the TyeTye breed: a head taller than me, thick as a barrel, and spilling out of her clothes with muscle. TyeTyes were originally designed for life on a planet whose gravity topped 2.3 Earth G's; Jupkur once joked they weren't engineered genetically but geologically, like walking chunks of real estate that could bench-press nine hundred kilos. Among friends, Fellburnie came across as quite the amiable woman, a classic "genial giant"... but on the job, I could imagine her slipping into Bad Cop any old time she felt like it.