by Tom Merritt
Dabashi stood with one hand on the Sculpture, staring out into nothing. He hadn’t noticed Guteerez come in. Guteerez coughed politely.
“Oh. What?” Dabashi said, startled out of his reverie. “I’m sorry Guteerez. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Quite all right, Dabashi. Any word?”
“No, none. He’s not in any of the expected places. Not unlike him to disappear, of course, the vagrant. But very unlike him to disappear so completely and for so long.”
At first, they had treated Michael’s disappearance as an expected bit of moodiness. He had a record of such behavior. This would not help further his career, but nobody seriously worried about it. Instead, they prepared a harsh scolding. When it extended into days, though, some of the Superiors really did worry.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up. There’s no reason to expect the Heretics would be interested in him or that he’d run off to join them. At least no serious reason I can think of,” Guteerez looked at Dabashi with an odd expression.
“Oh stop that. Of course not. As much as I dislike the boy sometimes, I wouldn’t peg him for a conspirator or an agent or any such thing. It has to be the work on the Sculpture.” Dabashi looked away as soon as he said it.
“Why the Sculpture? Historical work seems rather predictable and safe,” Guteerez probed.
“I’d rather not talk about it if it’s all the same to you,” Dabashi sniped.
Guteerez was about to try to draw Dabashi out on this point when the Sculpture antenna extended. Dabashi’s face turned pale.
“What did you do?” Guteerez gasped, even though Dabashi was nowhere near the control box.
“Nothing,” he whispered.
The Sculpture made more movements and noises.
“What is it doing?” Guteerez asked, dumbfounded.
“If I’m right,” Dabashi said carefully, moving to the control box, “it’s receiving a message.”
“From where?!” Guteerez sounded uncharacteristically angry. “Is this Michael’s doing?”
Dabashi stopped looking at the control box and stared. “Not likely at all.” He paused, pondering Guteerez as if for the first time, and then went back to the box.
Guteerez gathered his robe around him and hurried around to peer over Dabashi’s shoulder.
“How can you know?” he asked Dabashi.
“I just do,” Dabashi snapped.
“Not good enough this time, Dabashi,” Guteerez said with the undertone of a threat. “The other Superiors know you’re hiding information. We all hide a little, but you can’t hide something this big.”
“I do what I must and what I’m sworn,” Dabashi said, paraphrasing an Authority oath. “Do NOT challenge me, Guteerez.”
Dabashi did not look up from the control box. Guteerez continued trying to see what Dabashi was doing.
“Fine. We’ll talk about it later. What is happening to the Sculpture?” The antenna finished moving and a large number of symbols filled the control box. “Is that the message?”
“I believe so,” Dabashi spoke slowly and carefully. He made a few selections and the characters disappeared.
“What did you do?!” Guteerez almost screamed. “Bring it back.”
“It’s saved,” Dabashi said, refusing to say more.
“Dabashi, you can’t behave like this and expect no repercussions. When I tell the Superiors of what you have done, the highest levels of the Authority—”
“You will do no such thing.”
Guteerez laughed. “Won’t I? And what leverage do you presume to have to stop me?” He let his expression soften. “Dabashi. My friend. This is not what Superiors do. We should work together. I’m sure if there’s a good reason to go carefully, I can be made to see it and even agree. No?”
“No,” Dabashi stated firmly.
“Why?” Guteerez snapped.
“I cannot say.”
Guteerez sighed. “Well then what can you say? Let’s start there.” Guteerez seemed to have gained control of his emotions.
Dabashi clearly didn’t like this line of questioning. “I’d rather say nothing than say too much.”
“It’s me, Dabashi. You can trust me. Don’t tell me too much, but tell me something. Anything I can use to keep the other Superiors off your back.” He was using the calm manipulation that always worked for him. “This won’t stay secret. And when it becomes known, we’ll need an explanation. You know that.”
Dabashi paused but finally came to a decision. “Here is what I believe I can tell you.” He spoke slowly and methodically, measuring every word to see if it said too much in the telling. “A message has just been received. I suspect I know where it is from, but I cannot say for sure and therefore cannot tell you my suspicion. If it is as I believe, it may be of historic significance and release me from my secrets. However, I cannot read what the message says at this time.”
Guteerez nodded. “That is an acceptable answer, Dabashi. See? Things don’t have to be so hard. So. Why can’t you read the message?”
“It is coded.”
Guteerez looked very odd at this revelation. “Do you—do you think Michael could decode it?”
“Most likely.”
“Then we must find him.”
“Immediately,” Dabashi said, indicating the talk was at an end and sweeping past Guteerez to leave.
Guteerez stayed behind, staring. He tried without success to get the control box to reveal the message, but Dabashi had locked it away somehow. Guteerez pounded his fist on the box and stomped out.
CAPITULUM 9
Superior Murreket was expecting Dabashi. Murreket kept his chambers in an ancient restaurant several meters away from the Complex and the Citadel. He was not the eldest member of the Authority, but he was its eldest Superior. He had often declined promotion from Superior into the ruling councils. Few knew his reasons. Only Dabashi knew his true reason. And only Murreket knew Dabashi’s secret.
“It may have begun,” Dabashi said, without prologue or greeting, and sat down.
Murreket only grunted. “Our families have heard that before.”
“The antenna deployed.”
At this, Murreket raised an eyebrow as he gazed down on Dabashi. “Is that so? Well, you may be right.”
“And a message was received. But I cannot read it. Monk Michael seems to have cracked the encryption, but he did not tell anyone how. Only he can read the message with any kind of speed, and speed is of the essence here, if my hopes are true.”
Murreket nodded. “It is what my family protects,” he said. “The means to speed.”
“Do you know where Michael is?” Dabashi asked hopefully, half rising though still scowling.
Murreket got up and began to pace. “I may. As you know, we watch as you listen. I have not taken action. But our eyes saw a man in the guise of a Monk taken through the wilderness. It may be Michael.”
“Is it Jackson? It sounds like Jackson and his precious wonders. Is it him?” Dabashi asked, sneering.
“It was. But the Monk was taken from him. Jackson is dead.”
“Don’t hold back, man, where is he?!” Dabashi stood, demanding.
“Do not presume to know all my secrets, Dabashi.” He motioned for Dabashi to retake his seat. “I will tell you what I see the way you tell me what you hear—” he paused, “when you can.”
Dabashi nodded. “Fine, fine. What can you tell me of what you’ve seen, then?”
Murreket laughed. “Michael, if it is truly Michael, was taken by men that fit the description of Chao’s legion.” Dabashi’s mouth dropped open. Murreket held up a hand. “But the prisoner is not dead. As far as we have seen, he is alive and being fed. Someone is paying Chao with Authority gold. If that is not Michael, a rescue could undo all involved. If it is really Michael, a rescue would risk Chao’s ire. The Authority would deny everything.”
“How sure are you that it is Michael, then?” Dabashi asked.
Murreket thought long and hard a
bout this. “Seventy-three percent.”
Dabashi laughed. “You are very precise. That percentage is good enough for me to risk it. Especially in this case. How about you?”
“Yes,” Murreket nodded. “I believe so. But discretion is still advised. So I would say we do not ask for outside help. We go with trusted sources.”
“You know I have none,” Dabashi stated flatly.
“You are wrong,” Murreket chided. “You know me. And fortunately for you, I know several.”
Dabashi smiled. “Of course.”
“Come, we’ll start at once. As you say, time is essential in this case.”
CHAPTER 16
Armstrong rarely held trials. The station didn’t have formal courts before Disconnection. Since then, society was so closely monitored with such willing acceptance from its citizens that disputes were rare.
But they did happen. So a small court met once a week for common disputes. Larger violations happened so rarely that only the full Assembly had the authority to hear them. In some of those rare cases, it had appointed a committee to hear the case and refer its judgment to the full Assembly for ratification.
Only once, in the case of poor Schmitz Tripathi, had a verdict been put to a vote of all station citizens. The Passives demanded this extraordinary measure in Corge’s case, but the motion was defeated. Of course, if enough citizens signed a petition, it could be put to a vote anyway. The Passives were actively pursuing this but found the necessary number of signatures hard to reach.
In the meantime, Serafina efficiently pushed ahead with a trial in the Assembly. Unlike the historical courts of Earth, Lunar justice was swift. There was no weeks-long presentation of the evidence in front of a jury with chances for lawyers to twist words and sway opinions.
In a world used to weighing the urgency of even the most banal decision against its decades-long effect on survival, there was no time to waste words.
Charges were laid by accusers, who were, in this case, several of the Passives. Accusers and defense put forth facts that could either be disputed or not. The presiding judge would question the accused—in this case, Corge. In the case of an Assembly trial, it was usual for the Assembly leader to pose the questions as submitted by the body, therefore Serafina would interrogate him.
Witnesses would only be called if disputed facts were considered vital by the judge or the majority of Assembly members. The accused, or a representative, would have the right to speak, and a member of the harmed party would speak last. A verdict would be reached after a short recess using “The Chart.”
Before Disconnection, in the leisurely golden age of the ‘Delians, Nathaniel Kamel, a judicial scholar from the Dhaka Citadel, created an algorithm that could try any case objectively and come to a decision. It took the form of a flow chart of questions with answers provided by the accused, the accuser, or drawn from the evidence. It had never been used in ‘Delian times partly because crime was so low and partly because of objections that it allowed no room for nuance. It worked too well at avoiding prejudicial answers, or at least accounting for them, and left no room for compassion. Kamel considered these objections a validation of his work.
Armstrong had needed swift justice after Disconnection and became the first society to implement Kamel’s algorithm with much success. The speed of justice in Armstrong’s small court was entirely attributed to it. Everyone in Armstrong had run up against The Chart at some time, even if for something as small as a behavior fine or a student evasion charge.
When the Assembly met, the system had to be adapted because the flow chart was meant for a single judge. Kamel had calibrated it to adapt to even the judge’s biases. Even so, the Assembly voted on every response in aggregate, which meant that Kamel’s system adapted to the biases of the Assembly as a whole. This slowed the process a bit and wasn’t strictly necessary, but it prevented the urge for appeals by opposing factions.
Corge took comfort in knowing it was one thing the Passives couldn’t manipulate.
On the way to the trial, Corge saw something he’d never seen on the station before. Civil unrest. While homemade signs would have been considered a waste of resources, the Passives had commandeered light readouts that they had reprogrammed from saying things like “Temporarily Closed” to things like “Stop the Madness.”
A group of Corge’s supporters, whom he barely knew, confronted several of the sign holders yelling slogans like “No Passive coup!” He didn’t have any idea what that meant. Ibrahima had visited him overnight to prepare his defense and made some offhand comments about conspiracy charges against Assembly members. It looked like the idea had caught the public’s imagination.
“I thought you said the idea of conspiracy charges was a crock?” Corge said to Ibrahima as they walked to the Assembly Room. Several of the crowd noticed him and began to boo and cheer depending on their persuasion.
“I never said it was a crock. I said it wouldn’t happen,” Ibrahima answered. Corge couldn’t tell if her look was irritation or worry. “Apparently, word got out.” She looked back at the crowd and then grabbed Corge’s arm and pulled him in close. “We’ll use this,” she whispered.
Corge wondered how many conspiracies there might be.
The presentation of evidence was not controversial in the least. Ibrahima followed the plan. She asserted that Corge, on his own volition, had secretly decided to access the machine. He had sent a message and subsequently provided details of the method he used and the message he sent, as a show of good faith.
A very weak attempt was made to accuse Chi-lin as well, but the algorithm kicked out her line of questioning when it determined there was no evidence of complicity. It was deemed a waste of time and it was dropped. Corge could see the look of relief on her face.
The early questions had simple answers. They involved clarification of facts. Most facts were stipulated, so this part went fast. Corge answered the questions on his motivation by referring to the aims and goals of Armstrong, all of which referenced reconnecting with Earth.
Serafina asked each question with an even, emotionless tone. Her tone didn’t change as she asked the last and hardest questions, the ones Corge had feared.
“Can you say with certainty that sending the message will not result in social damage to Armstrong?” she asked.
It was a trick question. If he answered yes, the algorithm would point to conflicting evidence from the Passives delay vote. If he answered no, it would point to a charge of “knowing risk” and taking that risk without authorization.
“Indeterminate,” he said, as practiced. Serafina looked up. This was a valid response for the flow chart but one rarely used, mostly out of ignorance. Also, if a witness was discovered to be using it to avoid a known, they could be charged with contempt.
Corge thought he saw a smile creep onto Serafina’s face for a split second as he answered. He definitely saw several scowls from members of the Passives. You could only get away with “indeterminate” if the answer to the question was in legitimate debate. The Passives whole justification for delay was that doubt, so the algorithm would see the Passives’ stance as support for Corge’s answer.
“Did you receive authorization to enter the message?” Serafina asked. This one was unavoidable. If he said Ibrahima had authorized him, he would be admitting Ibrahima had directly violated the Assembly’s orders and she would go on trial.
“No,” Corge said. The Passives looked satisfied.
“Our final question, Corge,” Serafina said dispassionately. “Have you incited unrest, either purposefully or not, by the sending of your message?”
They had not practiced this one. Unrest had not been entered into evidence. Corge felt like this was an evidentiary question, not an opinion or personal-knowledge question. He wanted Ibrahima to object, but there were no objections in Armstrong courts. The algorithm allowed the question, and it must be answered. This was not the movies.
He certainly hadn’t purposefully incited riots. He t
hought hard. Why would the algorithm allow this question? The Passives wanted him to admit that sending the message had caused the protests outside and destabilized the base. But why? Because they couldn’t enter it as evidence for some reason? But if the algorithm let it through, it saw his subjective answer as relevant.
Ibrahima was staring holes in him and Serafina looked as if she was about to hurry him on. He was required to answer each question promptly.
“No,” he said to audible gasps. It wasn’t a lie either. He knew the protests were not because of him. He knew the contents of his message—and he was a Generalist in Observation. The algorithm let him serve as his own expert witness. The protests were caused by the Passives. Granted, that was directly in response to the message, but if the Psychology team was asked to evaluate, they would find it was incited by the Passives’ resistance to the project, not by Corge’s actions.
“Thank you, Corge. Will you speak for yourself or will your representative?”
Corge nodded toward Ibrahima, who stood. She gave a brief, impassioned speech about the need for the message, criticizing the meddling meant to prevent it, and she explained how Corge could not be faulted for seeing the importance of it. She got to the conclusion they had rehearsed.
“The reasons for delay were flimsy and Corge knew that. At worst, he should be chided for undue haste. But the project was underway and he did exactly what the project would have done eventually anyway. Review the evidence of possible harm, and you’ll see I’m right.” She was supposed to stop there but didn’t. “You heard Corge. Those protests outside were not caused by the message. Resistance to the project caused them. That resistance has destabilized us, not this man. Corge may have saved the station by forcing the issue before it got out of control. Thank you.”
Ibrahima sat down, turned to Corge and made the gesture of thumb and pinky touching above and below the heart that meant “good luck.”
Serafina adjourned the Assembly for deliberations. Some very polite security men led Corge to a waiting room where they made sure he was comfortable—and made sure he didn’t go anywhere. Prisoners couldn’t really go anywhere on Armstrong anyway, so it wasn’t a very oppressive procedure. Corge ordered some coffee.