Outies

by Pournelle, J. R.

  No problem, said Asach, and sent the ecstatic Lads off for a day of mechanical engineering. Meanwhile, Asach returned to the roof. The early morning sun had broken over the horizon, and its shadow was slowly climbing an opposite wall. Asach moved out of what was soon to be the shadow of the parabolic collectors that fed the house Stirling and kitchen cooker, spread the cloak out flat on the deck, then unzipped the hood.

  From within the collar, Asach pulled a thin wire, ending in a connector. Asach then inverted the hood, and jerked a toggle near what had been the throat tie. The hood, now with a shiny side out, snapped into a rigid, octagonal shape, with stays connecting each point to the center. From the cloak facing, Asach extracted what looked like a disjointed snake. Another tug on its end, and this became a rigid staff, about a meter long, which socketed neatly into the center back of the hood-parabola. From a pocket, Asach extracted a pencil-sized tripod, which worked to stand and stabilize the staff.

  Then, from the cloak hem, Asach extracted four objects, each the size of two thick thumbs. These fit together to form a four-pointed star, with another short staff that socketed into the dish center. Asach sat cross-legged, plugged the wire into the base of the dish antenna, wiggled the tripod around so that the whole thing faced roughly the opposite horizon, and then pulled back a flap on the cloak, revealing a flat keypad below a flexible view screen. Fishing around in a pocket, Asach found two nano-clips. One snapped into place on the back of the hood-dish; the second just above the keypad.

  Asach waited for the sun to clear the roof and power the solar cloak. It climbed slowly. Asach daydreamed, and wondered about all those things, on all those worlds, that were known and unknown.

  For example: Asach knew what a duck-billed platypus was. Asach knew about its leathery beak, aquatic habits, mammalian kinship, and bizarre reproductive habits, including now-forgotten details of courtship and its near-uniqueness among mammals of laying leathery eggs. The egg-laying somehow loomed larger than their absolute uniqueness among mammals of possessing venomous—spines? The method of poison delivery had dimmed, but Asach was nonetheless sure of the fact, despite never actually having seen one of the creatures, now a millennium away on another, unvisited world.

  Sure. With an absolute, stalwart, evangelical faith, of the existence and hard, objective reality of the duck-billed platypus. It was reassuring to know that, on a distant planet, in a touchable closeness of memory, there lived sleek, furry little mammals that might be cute, save for their toxic, egg-laying, leathery qualities.

  That Asach knew this was at the same time immensely disturbing, because Asach did not know why. The how was easy: it was depicted in school texts; there were explanatory panels at zoos (not that Asach ever saw an actual platypus there, either); there had been video excursions to a sort of duck-billed platypus theme park, which Asach found most bizarre. But why? Of all the things of this galaxy that are known or knowable, why, in the end, was it so sure, and so certain, and so ensured that Asach knew of the duck-billed platypus? Was there some hidden institutional wisdom in teaching the truth and palpability of a bizarre little creature, based upon the evidence of things unseen?

  Asach was not at all sure that the Empire was—that Asach was—at all doing the right thing, on the right path, in the right way, here. Asach was not at all sure that the Empire was not merely planting seeds of disappointment. Asach was not at all sure that they had not made a cascading series of enormous mistakes, ending up in a backwater of obscurity, with nothing much to show for the dislocation and travail but the evangelical depths of a montoreme faith. See the platypus, and believe: anything can happen. Anything often does. Insh’ Allah.

  The sun broke. It crept lazily across the roof. Equally lazily, Asach waited for it to reach the cloak, rather than moving the cloak to greet it. At last, its warming rays crept out of the morning chill, each nano-cell embedded on the fabric sparkling for a nanosecond, then soaking the light into its black depths as the line of rosy light marched on.

  Only when the entire cloak was basked in rapidly rising heat; only when the photovoltaics were pumping at full power, did Asach stir and rub on the keypad. A chart appeared. Asach tapped an icon, then took a bearing and tapped on a point at the hemline that was directly aligned to the sun. Another tap on the chart. Another tap on the cloak, this time in line with the setting chip of a moon. The moon was only a pathetic chip of an asteroid, but it glittered on the dawn horizon. Another tap. A pause. Then the fabric of the dish began writhing, as if it wished to twist off the tripod, reinvert, and rejoin the cloak. At last, it settled on an orientation, and a shape.

  Asach unsnapped a ‘tooth from beside the keypad, and stuffed it into one ear. One more tap. An inaudible sound burped into the ether. It hurtled across the roof, away from the hill, away from Bonneville. It raced across scorched fields; past wastelands. It raced the sun across the plains, trying to beat the light to the horizon. It met the horizon; left the horizon; raced to the edge of atmosphere. Where Air met No Air, it bounced, just a little, and dragged down even further it plunged out of the sun’s reach altogether, into New Utah’s black shadow, sheeting through the ice of space. It was a tiny message. It was only one word. It was:

  “[Ping!]”

  The little composite sphere, left to drift alone for thirteen years, snapped awake from its reverie. Thirteen years, and an eon of technology later, it still knew what was wanted. It still knew what to do. It answered.

  An agonizing second later, Asach laughed out loud at its cheery reply. It was: “[Ping!]”

  Saint George, New Utah

  Michael Van Zandt was not having a good day. Because he was having a bad day, he was having a bad tantrum for the benefit of the clerk at Orcutt Land & Mining. The office was hot and stuffy. City electricity was out again. It was incomprehensible to him why. People in Bonneville managed to keep their buildings cool. People in Pahrump managed to keep their buildings cool. He managed to keep his own house cool. So why was air conditioning out of the reach of Orcutt Land & Mining?

  Zia sighed, and tried again. “Myneer Van Zandt, I cannot give you a receipt for deliveries that you have not made! If you—”

  “Why is this so hard to grasp? Deliveries have been made. We stockpiled twenty-two kilos at your depot in Bonneville! The chit is—”

  “Is not OLaM scrip! It is—”

  “Not scrip, because it is not scrip! It’s a full-fledged promissory voucher, and—”

  “It can be a full-fledged whatever you like, but it is not going to fly! I cannot validate a voucher issued by a contract buyer I’ve never heard of! If you needed—”

  “If I needed what?! He was standing in the middle of your mucking warehouse. How am I supposed to—”

  Zia slapped her hand on the counter, then stabbed for emphasis on one of a dozen ID facsimiles pressed beneath the laminate. “Any 10-year old on this planet knows: No badge, no deal! I don’t care if your promissory voucher came from the Prophet himself. If you can’t give me a valid badge number, I can’t give you a tithe receipt.”

  Michael had sunk beyond anger, beyond frustration. Now he was plumbing despair. His face was ashen. His voice caught on every word.

  “TCM tithe collectors are booked into my House for the night. Tonight. My House. If I can’t show them a tithe receipt—” and then his shoulders collapsed. He stood vacantly for a moment, and then paced to a seedy chair next to the grimy window overlooking the sidewalk. He sank into the hard, cracked seat. He stared out at a row of rusting signpost stumps, and muttered, to no one; to anyone: “I’m ruined.”

  Zia had crossed a line herself. Detached, disembodied, sick to death of the scam she knew full well had happened. An illicit cargo. A midnight rendezvous. A dark warehouse. An efficient, knowledgeable buyer. The conversation: “Of course, we can’t issue commodity scrip Mr. Van Zandt. Not for this cargo. What we can do is give you a for services promissory voucher. Just exchange it for tithe receipts at the Saint George office. Safer for you, anyway. Full v
alue, right? Even if the price fluctuates? Better all ‘round, eh?” And then twenty-two kilos of prime opal meerschaum just—ceased to exist. And Michael Van Zandt left holding the Stick. No scrip to exchange for company stores; no tithe credit to settle the TCM books.

  Yes, any ten-year-old from New Utah would have known that score. But Michael Van Zandt wasn’t a ten-year-old, and he wasn’t from New Utah. She looked at him, slumped in the rickety chair, languid and patrician in his Bonneville whites, trying so hard to look the part, but New Utahan he definitely wasn’t. She looked beyond him, to the window, grimy and yellowed because water could not be spared to wash it. Through the window to the filthy, littered sidewalk, until her eyes, too, came to rest on the rusting stumps of signposts. And came to a decision of her own.

  “Myneer Van Zandt.”

  He looked back at her, sharply.

  “Perhaps we might come up with some more—creative—clerical arrangement.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Perhaps I could issue a receipt for this year’s tithe, against your promise of future deliveries to that value.”

  Michael shot to his feet. “Now look here! I’ve already delivered twenty-two kilos at current prices. You know full well —”

  “That prices are about to drop? Yes. That’s the gamble, isn’t it? The price rises, and then it drops. And we both know why. The difference is, I know someone who knows exactly when.”

  “Why should I care? I already——”

  “You already fell for a sucker’s deal, Myneer. Consider it a sunk cost. Think about it. I know someone who can tell you exactly—exactly—when the next shipment will flood the market. And exactly—exactly—when it will dry up again. Surely you know someone who knows what to make of that? How to recoup your losses?”

  “And how do I know that you will keep that promise?”

  “A time-honored tradition, Myneer Van Zandt. Hostages.”

  Michael looked confused. Zia smiled.

  “If you agree to what I’m about to do, you will move me, and my family, into your House in Bonneville.”

  “I do not need any more household help in Bonneville.”

  “Oh, you’ll find us useful, Myneer Van Zandt. But it goes with the deal. Because if I do this, I’ll have no choice.”

  Michael shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. The TCM collectors are already there by now. At my House. They’re probably already at my House.”

  “Well, there’s where you’re in luck. As it happens, I’m making a depot run. Today. To the Bonneville warehouse. FairServ hop leaves in an hour. Two seats left.”

  “FairServ? But that would cost—”

  “Next to nothing.” Zia grinned. “Remember? Not-for-profit. TCM-registered, TC-sanctioned charity. With any luck, we’ll be home for dinner. Tithe certificates in hand.”

  And they were.

  Blaine Institute, New Caledonia

  At first, it seemed inevitable that Ali Baba would return to the so-called East India Group. But Ali Baba was past nursing; there was no nutritional need, and Lord Cornwallis herself, Ali Baba’s sire-turned-dam, seemed strangely indifferent. The Motie Engineer nursemaid who had born the pup had no voice in the matter. The pup’s closest remaining relationship was that to Omar: Omar the “Bury Educator;” Omar, the Motie shadow to Bury himself. It was eerie, even now, to round a corner and hear the dead man’s voice, complete in every pitch, timbre, and sub-tone. It still made even Glenda Ruth start.

  From the human perspective, it seemed a strange relationship: on First Contact in 3017, Motie Mediators were assigned as fyunch to humans, and to humans, that pairing still seemed the “natural” one. But of course, as they’d learned during that horrific dash through the Mote system last year, many Mediators were assigned to learn from other Mediators, and many more were assigned to no-one at all. Motie Masters had learned that lesson early on: choose fyunch targets wisely. From the Motie perspective, the gulf between Motie pragmatism and human innovation—well, some human innovation—was just too wide. Mediators could be made “insane” by the effort to learn, internalize, and emulate every thought and action of their subjects. They played their parts too well. They started acting in terms of what should be, instead of acting in terms of what is. But not “Bury Moties”—those educational descendants of that first Bury fyunch. They were pragmatic in the extreme. They were also extremely valuable.

  When Bury named him in his will, Ali Baba’s real troubles began. S/he was coveted, reviled, or both by nearly everyone.

  First came the status issue. Was a Motie a person under the law? Whose law? Could a Motie be adopted? That point was moot. Bury’s family wouldn’t have him. Cynthia couldn’t take her. Even the pronouns were a problem.

  At stake was not semantics, but inheritance: Under Imperial, or Levantine, law, could a minor Motie hold property? As a person, or as some other legal entity? As nearly everyone pointed out, Ali Baba now held the swing vote in any possible Imperial Autonetics shareholder alliance (human, Motie, or otherwise). In the end, an injunction held: all or none. The Empire could not maintain a second blockade of the Mote System without the cooperation of the Motie Trader groups endowed by Bury’s will. For their part, they would not cooperate unless the terms of that will were deemed valid. A legal battle, framed against the Empire itself could bankrupt even Imperial Autonetics. The will held. Bury’s fyunch descendants had learned their lessons well.

  So, with this decision, the Little Prince(ss) was crowned, and the struggle for its allegiance began. To whom would Ali Baba be assigned? Who would be neutral, but qualified? Where would Ali Baba even be safe? In the end, as Bury’s executor, Renner was appointed Ali Baba’s guardian. Omar was retained as Ali Baba’s “Bury Educator.” When Renner traveled, Ali Baba stayed with Glenda Ruth in the Blaine Institute compound in New Caledonia.

  But Ali Baba was re-assigned as fyunch to no-one, because Ali Baba was adamant on this point. Everyone by now knew the watch phrase that presaged a tantrum: “I belong to myself!” Where did this temper come from? From Bury? Bury was gone. From Omar? Mediators were not given to angry outbursts, and Omar least of all. From Glenda Ruth herself? Her mother had said it, laughing: “that sounds just like you, as a little girl. You would put up with anything, but you never could stand injustice.”

  But it seemed unlikely. Ali Baba’s relationship to her was simply—cold. Not that other humans could tell. Moties faces twisted up into uniform, inscrutable smiles. They did not move. Insofar as Ali Baba used body language, it was all Bury’s gestures, the three arms notwithstanding. Cool, calculating, graceful, even. Giving nothing away. But Glenda Ruth could—feel— it. In the timbre of Ali Baba’s voice. It sounded like Bury’s. It could be impassioned when angry. But when addressing her, it was missing all sub tones of emotion.

  “It’s not right,” said Ali Baba. “If I am to exercise prudent judgment regarding my voting shares, I must be allowed to travel. How else will I get to know—”

  “It’s just not safe,” she pleaded. “You know that. We can protect you here at the Institute. But out there, beyond the Trans-Coal Sack—”

  “I will be as safe on Sinbad as anywhere.” She hated it when he did that. Switched to Bury’s Voice. It sounded—chilling—coming from one so small. Chilling, and frighteningly intelligent, which s/he was.

  “I will put it to Renner.”

  “But I—”

  “Lady Blaine, I appreciate your concern. I will put it to Renner. It is Renner’s responsibility, as my Guardian.”

  And with that, the conversation was simply—over. She used every guile she knew, human and Motie, but when Ali Baba was in this mode, nothing penetrated. Nothing at all. In desperation, she’d even asked Omar. “What’s to be done? What do you do, when an apprentice Motie loses a fyunch?”

  “Loses a fyunch ?,” answered Omar, with that inscrutable smile and body language indicating: your question is nonsensical. “Assigned a new one. Retained as a trainer. Apprenticed to other duti
es. Spaced. As the Master desires.”

  “But Ali Baba refuses to be re-assigned!”

  “Reassigned? As fyunch ?” Omar’s arms indicated bemusement. “Ali Baba was never assigned.”

  “To Bury. You gave Ali Baba to Bury.”

  “I gave? No. Lord Cornwallis gave.”

  “Yes, of course. But I mean, Ali Baba was assigned to Bury as fyunch .”

  Omar suppressed mirth at this, but Glenda Ruth caught it.

  “Lady, I will say this: there’s a difference between assigned and gave, even in your language.”

  At which point. Glenda Ruth had had enough, and barked, “Explain!” with full Master’s bearing and posture.

  Omar merely smiled with arms posed in respectful deference, not obeisance. “Ah, Lady Blaine. We all know our Master’s Voice, and you do not speak with mine.”

  Subtly, Omar’s hands conveyed: think, don’t demand. You are no longer a child.

  She was stumped. She was raised by a Mediator, but not this one. This one was as alien as any outworlder. “Please, you were fyunch to Bury, right?”

  “Yes, milady, I had that honor.”

  “And you are saying that Ali Baba was not?”

  “Yes, Milady.”

  “Then please, as Bury, tell me: what does Ali Baba need? What is his problem?”

  “Ah,” with mirth, “for a Bury fyunch , this is no problem. Ali Baba seeks his Master’s Voice.”

  And Omar left her with that double—no triple—maybe quadruple—entendre.