Citadel 32: A Tale of the Aggregate

by Tom Merritt

  “Stop it,” he said.

  “What?” she looked genuinely surprised. “Can’t a former team supervisor smile at the most famous man in Armstrong? Or are you past enjoying that sort of thing now that you’re Mr. Famous Famousman from Famous Dome on the Moon of Famous.”

  That frightened Corge. Was she flirting?

  He started to say something and she interrupted.

  “I’m only teasing you, Corge. But you are famous, so you better be able to deal with it when someone who means it starts messing with you. If you know what I mean.”

  She got up with her coffee and walked out of the café. Was she strutting? Corge wasn’t sure what she meant or whether he was imagining things she might have meant. His mind was still too sunk in the paper to spend much time trying to figure it out.

  It was titled “Lunar Receival” but it was all about security. Public keys most likely referred to an encryption system. He’d spent some time with the Data Systems team getting briefed. Visions of Bob and Alice attacking each other with keys still filled his head with confusion, but he thought he understood the basics enough to know what the paper meant. What nagged at him were the keys being stored in series.

  SLC was most likely Salt Lake City, a small museum city that had been located in mid-east Ellay, or somewhere near there. One of the data analysts suggested they were mimicking one of the standard data backup protocols, with a local virtual backup being SLC and a physical backup being Armstrong.

  If that was the case, though, why give the public key for New York to the Moon? The public key allows you to decrypt a message from the holder of the private key. So if Armstrong had the New York key, it was meant to receive messages from New York and could only send messages to SLC. But if NYC was the primary, that seemed backward.

  It wasn’t.

  “It’s not the primary. SLC is,” said Corge, standing up. I think I know what happened.”

  Several people looked at him. Some smiling. A pretty young Generalist about Corge’s age asked what everyone else was thinking. “What happened, Corge?”

  “They backed it up in New York. We need to try to target a message to New York.”

  This quieted the crowd. Talk of messaging Earth in any way was considered borderline psychotic except in very serious conversations. Shouting an outburst in the middle of the café in Armstrong, even if you were Corge, was in poor taste.

  Corge didn’t care. He flew out of the café, clutching the paper tightly.

  CAPITULUM 2

  When the messenger arrived inviting Michael to luncheon with Guteerez, he tried to act suitably surprised. He felt pressure enough keeping up the act until Guteerez revealed the reason for the meal. Then he realized he also had to get Guteerez to help him trick Dabashi into unlocking the control box. Which meant more half-lying.

  “Thank you,” was all he could mutter to the messenger, who didn’t seem to notice Michael’s inner turmoil and left.

  The luncheon was in the Superior’s garden in a building diagonal from the Citadel ruins. Michael was expected, so he had the disconcerting experience of being able to walk right into the garden without anyone asking him what he needed.

  He wondered how they knew. He hadn’t been asked to the garden more than twice, but they always knew. The community was small enough that they might know him by sight, though he certainly didn’t know all of them.

  As respectful as the staff was of his right to be there, they still completely ignored him. It would not do to be caught unable to assist a Superior because they were wasting time speaking with a Monk.

  Michael found Superior Guteerez at a table near a corner overlooking the street below. Guteerez waved and motioned for Michael to take a seat.

  “Thank you for joining me here, Michael. I know it may seem ominous, but I do so love the garden and I felt maybe you would enjoy sitting with me today. Of course, someday I’m sure you will be able to avail yourself of it whenever you want.”

  This sort of condescending pleasantry was typical of the Superiors—apologizing for their position while rubbing it in your face at the same time.

  “But I promise this meeting will all be to the good. In fact, you should be pleased, I expect.”

  “Thank you, Superior.”

  As Michael expected, there was a long, polite meal of small talk with Guteerez trying to tease out Michael’s opinion on several of the other Superiors. Michael did not realize Guteerez was such a gossipmonger.

  Guteerez brought up the Citadel, which they could see from their seats. Michael knew where the conversation was going. He spoke up so he wouldn’t just sit there trying not to look suspicious and asked what Guteerez thought of the legendary 32nd Citadel.

  “The supposed Citadel on the Moon?” Said Guteerez between bites. He grunted. “It’s an intriguing possibility. I’m suspicious only of my own desire to want it to be true. How marvelous would it be to know that the civilization of the Citadelians survived untouched, secured by the vacuous space above us, which the Heretics could never cross. “It is a fine, fine thought, my boy, yes it is. But sadly all too unlikely.”

  “Why is that?” Michael asked, noting Guteerez hadn’t denied the 32nd Citadel’s existence, as many Superiors did. The church itself did not rule on the matter, deeming it open for speculation. Anything deemed open for speculation was essentially irrelevant and not worth serious time. That made it a perfect topic for idle conversation over a luncheon in the Superior’s garden.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Michael. I don’t disbelieve there was a settlement on the Moon. It was called Armstrong by all accounts. And I know it was often referred to as a Citadel, but even the ‘Delians’ own texts indicate it was a ceremonial title.

  “No, my young man, it was a settlement. Not even as grand as a museum city like Hartford or Boston. It’s the physics of it that douse my fires of belief in the end.

  “Let’s say that Armstrong was a thriving settlement full of scientists and leaders, much like our own. It would need to be constrained. By all accounts, there is no atmosphere on the Moon. They would have to build an airtight structure in which to live and move all the materials to build it up to the Moon. That right there argues against their survival.

  “If one simple leak springs, they would all suffocate as the air escaped. And they have no source of new materials to fix it. Before the Fall, they could have called for a ship from Earth, but not anymore, you see. But let’s say they don’t spring a leak. What would they eat? There are no more foods coming from us, and according to the ancients, the Moon’s soil is not fertile. Even if they could grow foods inside their structure, we already said it must be space constrained. They wouldn’t have enough room to grow enough food to feed themselves.

  “But even setting that aside,” Guteerez warmed to the topic now, waving his hands and then wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Hmm. Maybe they discover some amazing new way to grow food in a vacuum among the Moon rocks. Yes? Fine. But think of all the other resources they don’t have. What about medicine? A flu could wipe them all out in a snap,” he clicked his fingers. “There can be no real law enforcement. There was no need of it when the population turned over regularly. But keep them confined and it’s not unlikely they go ‘lunatic.’ The word does derive from their adopted home, and they have no police force to stop the killing!

  “No, I’m afraid there are just too many perils for a settlement like that to have survived. Perhaps one day we will rediscover the secrets of the ancients and cross that black expanse. Then we may find the ruins of the 32nd Citadel, so-called, and in their records regain a bit of our own history. But not soon, I’m afraid. No, not soon.”

  This depressed Michael more than he had expected.

  “But you look so down now? Here I am putting us off our digestion with macabre tales of disaster. I apologize. Let me cheer you up with the reason I’ve met with you today.”

  “Of course, Superior, but first a question, if I may?”

  Guteerez seemed surprised at
this but nodded for Michael to go ahead.

  “I only look disappointed because you are most likely right. And I, like you, long for that dream to be true. To have some piece of our past that isn’t ruined or spoiled by the Heretics. I’ve often wondered if it were possible to send a message to the Moon.”

  Guteerez started to look impatient.

  “But my question. Even if you are right that they have not survived, which you most likely are, could there still be machines running that could answer us? Perhaps powered by the sun as some of the rarest ‘Delian relics are? Could they have left something here that has gone unrecognized and thus survived through the Fall safely, giving us the key?”

  Guteerez’s smile went from impatient to generous.

  “Just so, my boy, just so. It’s unlikely, but we can’t be sure until we’ve looked for it, eh? Which brings me to the reason for this delightful luncheon beyond its inherent pleasures, which have not been few. Now, I know you spend quite a bit of time in the Reliquary with the Scuplture. No, no, it’s quite all right,” Guteerez held up a hand to stop a protest, which Michael hadn’t been mounting. So he belatedly started to mount one. “I would prefer you didn’t sneak behind my desk, but that’s past, and no rules were broken in any case.”

  Michael tried to think what look he should be giving right then, which left him with a sort of befuddled expression that unintentionally suited the moment quite nicely.

  “Dabashi asked me to formalize your investigation of the Sculpture—commission you, actually. You are to spend at least an hour a day—more if it doesn’t conflict with other responsibilities—communing in the Reliquary and examining the Sculpture. This will be part of your rituals now. So you’ll need to check in with me, and you’ll need to answer inquisition when necessary on the matter.”

  Michael found it wasn’t that hard to make himself smile with anticipation. “Thank you, Superior. Of course. This is most gratifying.”

  “Think nothing of it, boy. Just let it be a lesson that you don’t need to sneak around to get what you want. It only raises suspicions. Go through channels,” here the Superior wagged his finger. “You’ll find it’s not as intimidating or unforgiving as you might think.” Guteerez chuckled as if he had made a particularly funny joke.

  Michael didn’t see the humor, knowing plenty of colleagues who went through channels and got censured or worse. But he laughed along with Guteerez anyway.

  When the laughter died down, Michael took the plunge.

  “I wonder if I might be so bold as to presume upon your generosity with aid and assistance?” He didn’t say it exactly like a Formal Request for Aid, but figured mixing in some of the phrasing might make him seem respectful and hide his nervousness.

  “My, my. Almost a Formal Request for Aid, that was. What could be so important?” Guteerez’s smile turned just a touch fatherly and another touch mocking.

  “Superior Dabashi is not fond of me, but I believe he could be very helpful in my examination of the Sculpture.” An unexpected look of jealousy crossed Guteerez’s face. Michael wondered if the Superior was aware of it. “Obviously, I will need your constant guidance and aid as well, but that is, if you’ll pardon my clumsy phrasing, well that’s why you hold the Office of the Citadel. I have no doubt I will rely on you much.”

  The jealous look softened but didn’t totally leave. Michael forged on.

  “Superior Dabashi does not share your interest or enthusiasm. Even so, he is good with mechanics.”

  “Is something in the Sculpture of a mechanical nature?” Guteerez raised an eyebrow.

  Michael had to make a decision. Did he hold back the facts and lose a chance to get Dabashi involved? Or did he reveal the moving filament and risk bringing undue attention? He made his decision.

  “I have discovered a control box that causes a filament to come up out of the Sculpture and then come down again. I’m not sure what its—”

  “It’s an antenna,” Guteerez chuckled, though not quite so pleasantly. “The Sculpture could have had many reasons for sending or receiving information. It may have incorporated adaptations of some sort for special occasions, or it may have merely kept track of who saw it. Many of these old relics had similar functions, seemingly wasteful to our sensibilities, but the Citadelians were wealthy and powerful beyond imagining.”

  “You think Superior Dabashi would not be interested?”

  “Oh, he’ll be quite interested,” Guteerez smirked.

  “Perhaps too interested?” ventured Michael.

  Guteerez looked like he’d swallowed something unexpected. “Well, not to speak ill of a fellow Superior, of course. But I suspect when you have been avoiding me, you just might also have been avoiding the Superior’s interest, maybe?”

  The look Guteerez gave Michael had an odd mix of understanding and fear with a slight touch of anger. Michael had never seen such a look before from anyone, definitely not from a Superior. It almost made him feel Guteerez was on his side. Almost.

  “I welcome the Superior’s interest always, of course,” replied Michael carefully. “But—” he wasn’t sure how to put it.

  “But sometimes you need the space to make mistakes as a young man,” Guteerez finished, smiling. “And one of our Superior’s best traits is his famous lack of tolerance for faults.” He said this last almost to himself.

  “Just so. Superior, this is my request. How can I get the benefit of his expertise while still being able to, uh, make my mistakes?”

  “Of course,” Guteerez looked almost gleeful. “You leave it to me. Just tell me when you’re prepared to consult with Dabashi, uh, Superior Dabashi. I’ll bring him to you and find reasons to interrupt should his consultation go long. How does that sound?”

  Michael could not have hoped for a better outcome. And he seemed to have accidentally formed a common bond with Guteerez, who almost forgot to say Dabashi’s title when speaking to a Monk.

  “That sounds very generous, Superior,” Michael said.

  “Good. Now. Let’s have a celebratory post-meal ale, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “But I was assigned to find things exactly like this!” Corge tried not to shout. “Why would it need to wait?”

  “Ibrahima has a very busy schedule, Corge. She can’t just drop everything to meet with everyone who wants to.” Ibrahima’s assistant, Generalist Yao-wei said. If Corge hadn’t been so agitated, he would have noticed the remarkable calm the assistant maintained and probably would have guessed that Yao-wei dealt with this a lot.

  “So what am I supposed to do? Just hold off on what may be the most important discovery ever until an appointment opens up in a few weeks?” Corge realized he sounded obnoxious, even to himself. “I’m sorry. That was ridiculously pompous,” he hastened to add. “And I know you don’t know me, but I don’t talk like that and I hate people who do, and I don’t talk like that so much that I don’t even say it about the people who do talk like that, so I can only assure you that it would take something incredibly important to make me talk like that.”

  Yao-wei just smiled. Corge assumed he was about to get thrown out.

  “It’s OK, Corge. It’s a small station. I know you’re not a Tripathi or anything. Hold on a second,” he turned to go into Ibrahima’s lab and then turned back. “Don’t go anywhere but—don’t do anything either. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Yao-wei disappeared into the lab. Nobody in the small settlement of Armstrong had a private office; even Executives timeshared. But Ibrahima was one of the few who had a private space. The Earth Communications lab she occupied was often staffed by multiple people, but because of its sensitive nature and the risk misunderstandings could cause, Ibrahima had the right to use it exclusively. And she often did.

  Yao-wei came back out and said, “Ibrahima will see you now,” and held the door open.

  Corge stood, stunned, still clutching the paper he carried all the way from the café.

  “Go!” Yao-wei motioned.
Corge finally began to move toward the door. Yao-wei stopped him right before he went in. “You owe me. Make it a good discovery, or I’m in the doghouse.”

  Corge looked puzzled.

  “Old expression. Now don’t keep her waiting.”

  Corge walked in.

  The laboratory seemed like it should be bigger from the outside. In fact, it wasn’t that much bigger than the chamber Yao-wei occupied. Corge was used to small rooms on the station, so he rarely noticed size. For some reason, in this case he had assumed there would be an exception, maybe because Ibrahima was an exception in so many other ways.

  The lab was long and narrow. A bar ran along the left side as you walked in and contained various monitors and input devices, some extraordinarily rare. Most of the equipment looked like it came from the time of the Disconnection. Corge even noticed an example of a manual pointing device. It had been nicknamed after an animal, but he couldn’t remember which one. A rat?

  On the right side were a series of workbenches with more up-to-date Armstrong refurbishments. Not much new was manufactured on Armstrong, of course, but older materials were constantly getting reused and recycled in new configurations. The workbenches showed projects in various states of progress, including a translation database reconstruction and a particle detector as well as some historical research.

  At the end of the room, shoved into a corner underneath an overhang of pipes and vents, was Ibrahima’s desk. She sat in her chair, turned away from her work toward the entrance, and watched him walk the whole way in until he was right in front of her.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “We have to send a message to New York.”

  “Is that all?”

  It was not the reaction Corge was expecting. “Well there’s more on why. You see, the Archive we found is empty because the physical—”