They did, and so did Isaac. Isaac hated that bird.
Other non-avian features of the City Solicitor’s office included a lightly cushioned wingback chair behind the desk (current population: one City Solicitor), an antique golden telescope on a tripod, and, seated comfortably on an array of upholstered chairs and couches facing toward the City Solicitor’s desk, five well-dressed and officious-looking specimens of Detroit’s business community.
The meeting, Isaac observed, was underway.
The five specimens were members of Detroit’s Chamber of Commerce (widely known as the CoC) — a non-governmental body made up of the leaders of the city’s numerous trade associations, guilds, unions, federations, clubs, and collectives. They had arrived roughly twenty minutes earlier for a hastily scheduled meeting with the Solicitor. Four of them were fidgeting in their seats and making a variety of less-than-subtle noises and gestures designed to convey annoyance at having been made to wait. The fifth representative — a heavily moustached mountain of a man who you could tell wasn’t a walrus because he was wearing a three-piece suit — was sound asleep, snoring happily where he sat. This, Isaac knew, was Woolbright Punt, an ancient bureaucrat who held the twin distinctions of being head of the Transport Guild and the longest serving member of Detroit’s CoC, having snored and wheezed his way through civic meetings for at least eight thousand years.
The City Solicitor smiled benevolently at Isaac and waited for him to take his place.
Isaac decanted himself onto the wooden stool tucked behind his roll-top desk, withdrew a datalink from his briefcase, and prepared to take the minutes of the meeting. The full proceedings would, as always, be documented by holo-recorders concealed throughout the lair, but the City Solicitor insisted that Isaac keep a personal record of such meetings, including any thoughts or observations Isaac cared to include about the behaviour of those present.
Among the CoC members in attendance, Isaac was most interested in their leader, Lori 8. She had the distinction of being the first synthetic life form chosen to head one of Detroit’s official guilds — specifically, the Guild of Poets, Authors, Lyricists, and Minstrels. People had initially balked at the notion that a gynoid could be a poet, but Lori 8 had proved them wrong, rising through the ranks of the poets’ guild in short order. She had been elevated to the Chamber of Commerce only sixteen months ago, and had already brought eleven petitions to the City Council, requested twenty-three meetings with the mayor, called for fourteen public inquiries, and written a two-foot stack of letters to various government officials. She was a busybody’s busybody, a maestro of officious bureaucracy, and a Class-A pain in the City Council’s neck.
Lori 8 was currently sitting across from the City Solicitor and explaining why the CoC had requested the present meeting. The City Solicitor, for his part, was pinching the bridge of his nose and looking down with an expression one might call “the ice-cream headache.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “The CoC is seeking government aid in the face of — what did your memo call it?” He shuffled some papers on his desk and found the offending memorandum. “‘Probable future volatility based on forthcoming rumours’? And what, dare I ask, are the rumours?”
“That the city is in peril,” said Lori 8. “That unseen forces work against us, that there are, shall we say, elements in the city that would seek to undermine what we have built.”
“The city is always in one form of peril or another, Mistress 8,” said the Solicitor. “We are beset by unseen forces on a weekly basis. Did you and your colleagues have any specific peril in mind, or are you here to discuss the general notion of peril on a purely conceptual level?”
“We have heard, sirrah,” said Lori 8, with the air of the sort of person who says “sirrah,” “that there is a woman at large in the city, a woman whose coming is foretold in secret prophecies that the City Council declines to share with the public. We have been told that she brings change, that she is a harbinger of doom, a sign of apocalyptic tremors in the fabric of our world, that she . . .”
During the next twelve and a half seconds, while Lori 8 droned on, Isaac calculated a 91 per cent probability that the City Solicitor’s response would involve a disingenuous claim that he welcomed inquiries from the City’s Chamber of Commerce, that he would do all that he could do to keep the CoC apprised of civic matters, and that there was no need for concern on the part of the city’s business community. It would probably start with the words “Of course, Madame Chair.”
“Of course, Madame Chair,” said the Solicitor. “We welcome your inquiries, as always, and will do all that we can to keep you apprised of civic matters. Rest assured that matters are well in hand, and there is no need for further concern.”
“But what of this woman?” asked Lori 8.
“I fail to see how a single woman could bring — what did you call them — apocalyptic tremors to the fabric of our world,” said the City Solicitor.
“She is reputed to have . . . powers,” said Thaddeus Price, head of the Pornographers’ Guild, “and she is supposed to be some sort of force for change. And not change for the better. One of our sources said that Council has known for at least three thousand years that she’d come, and that she’d try to overthrow Abe.”
“They say she’ll bring our doom,” said Lori 8, darkly. “That she will bring an end and a beginning. That the city itself will bow to her every whim. Do you deny that this woman exists?”
“You’ve given me nothing to deny,” said the City Solicitor, smoothly. “You’ve said a woman threatens Detroit. I’m sure there are dozens of women plotting against the government as we speak. Men as well. Perhaps even artificial life-forms,” he added, inclining his head toward Lori 8. “Perhaps I could root them out and stamp out all potentially dangerous dissent were I not continually occupied with trivial meetings. As for some general civil panic, some irrational outbreak of fear that might cause people to flee the city, I’m sure that we can trust our fellow citizens to eschew such flights of fancy. If people do leave the city out of fear of insurrection, I wish them well. So much the better. An empty city is easier to govern.”
As Isaac entered the City Solicitor’s latest statement into the minutes, his datalink vibrated subtly and displayed the following message:
Incoming Transmission
Source — Mobile 1
Message — Awaiting instruction.
This text was followed by a bit of indecipherable gobbledygook that must have signified something to Isaac, as he immediately pressed a sequence of buttons, reviewed a string of data, and silently transmitted this response: Target acquired. Co-ordinates confirmed. Proceed with acquisition.
He turned his attention back to the meeting. Lori 8 had taken the floor and was continuing to harangue the City Solicitor on the subject of the prophesied woman.
“But what can you tell us of this woman?” she was asking. “We are told she will come and usher a —”
“Three cannons and a brassiere!” bellowed Punt, still sound asleep and evidently having a dream that was more fraught with interest than your average gathering of the CoC.
“Mistress 8, Chamber members, rest assured that I know nothing of this woman apart from what you’ve already stated,” lied the City Solicitor. “Unsubstantiated rumours, wild speculation, nothing more. At present we haven’t any reliable information that would justify an official investigation.” The City Solicitor steepled his fingers in front of his nose. “And now that we speak of investigations,” he continued in a low, oily voice, “I’m surprised that you haven’t started investigations of your own. Why, if you’re as vexed by these rumours as you contend, surely you must have —”
“We have undertaken inquiries,” said Lori 8, whose eyes darted almost imperceptibly toward Mary Finn, Mistress of the Revered Order of Bullies, Ruffians, Thugs, Heavies, and Street Toughs. The gynoid quickly checked herself and locked her gaze on the
City Solicitor. “They have failed to bear fruit thus far,” she said.
At Lori 8’s mention of the Chamber’s investigation, Mary Finn’s face had registered such a deep shade of red that stoplights could have asked for pointers. Isaac noted this in the minutes. Finn was famously bad-tempered and currently had, Isaac knew, an excellent reason to be angry. Lori 8’s so-called “inquiries” had necessitated the deployment of several members of Mary’s Order — members who had, quite mysteriously, failed to return from their assignment. The entire Eighth Street Chapter had disappeared without a trace. Mary hadn’t taken it lightly.
“A pity,” said the City Solicitor.
“Our investigations be damned,” wheezed Grant Fleshpound, decrepit leader of the Moneylenders’ Guild. He drew his knobbly frame up to its full height and waved a bony finger at the City Solicitor. “We demand answers, Mr. Solicitor,” he rasped, “immediate answers, and we insist that you —”
The City Solicitor’s expression seemed to flicker for a moment. It was so fleeting that, had those present been cross-examined on the matter, none would have held up to questioning on the issue of whether or not they’d seen it at all. But the brief, almost imperceptible change in the Solicitor’s expression managed to slip directly through the observers’ retinas, bypass their brains’ higher processing centres, and take up permanent residence in the subconscious. It carried a message: Tread Carefully.
Even Thaddeus Price (Chief Pornographer), who rarely noticed anything south of whoopee-cushion on the universal subtlety scale, perceived this subliminal warning. It made him swallow his gum.
It ruffled Cyril’s feathers.
The effect on Mr. Fleshpound was equally pronounced.
“I forget myself, of course, Mr. Solicitor,” said Fleshpound, seeming to shrink about a foot while retreating into his chair as far as the upholstery would allow. “We, ah, that is to say, the CoC is simply desirous of whatever, ahem, illumination you could cast upon these prophecies.”
“There are prophecies for everything,” said the Solicitor, waving an airy, dismissive hand. “And every one of them can be read in a dozen ways. I suggest you put the prophecies out of your mind. Put your trust in your government. Rest assured that if there were a crisis threatening the city, we would have it well in hand. We’ve dealt with all manner of crises before, as you well know. And in each case,” the Solicitor continued, “the City Council resolved the situation. Council discussed the issues calmly and created a plan of action. To be sure, a certain number of distressed citizens fled to the wild, but the general populace remained calm. There was no mass exodus, no descent into anarchy, no usurping of the city’s interests, commercial or otherwise. Your fears are ill founded.”
Interesting, thought Isaac. This is the third time that the City Solicitor has made reference to the notion of an exodus from the City, an idea that the CoC hadn’t raised at all. This warrants further consideration, Isaac reflected. Hmm. Let P represent the probability that the City Solicitor is attempting to manipulate matters to his advantage. Let Tau represent likelihood that there is an actual danger of an exodus from the City. Let Zeta equal the subset of probabilities that . . . Isaac’s calculations rattled on in the background of his mind as Thaddeus Price took the floor. “Er . . . ah . . . excuse me, Mr. Solicitor,” he stammered. “It’s just that the mayor always takes care of this sort of thing. He solves the problems. But now, just when everyone’s getting twitchy, Abe’s buggered off.”
“And what does that tell you?” asked the City Solicitor. “When the city is in peril, the mayor responds. If there were anything threatening our world, if there truly were a danger of mass exodus, insurrection, or upheaval, Abe would return to guide us through it. As it is, there is nothing to worry about, and the mayor has left the city in the hands of his advisers.”
“Nevertheless,” croaked Fleshpound, whose rasping lungs and popping joints managed a passable samba beat in the background. “Rumours of this kind have a way of causing unrest, and unrest is bad for business.” He wheezed uncomfortably for a moment before leaning forward in his chair. “We simply request that you take action to preserve the city’s interests — including, of course, interests of a commercial nature —”
“And no doubt you have an action in mind?” said the Solicitor.
“Indeed I do,” said Mr. Fleshpound, rising from his chair like a coat hanger unbending itself. “It has come to me this instant. I propose nothing dramatic,” he wheezed, “merely something to prevent what seems to me to be the principal peril facing us. The problem,” he rasped on, “is that people are apt to flee the city —”
Interesting, thought Isaac. The City Solicitor’s suggestion has taken root.
“They may attempt,” Fleshpound wheezed on, “to escape the central regions until the perceived crisis has passed. They’ll head to outlying sectors, flee to the wilds, relocate in areas outside the reach of our member organizations. Our consumer base —”
“. . . will be based somewhere else,” said the Solicitor. “And what would you have me do? Impose a ban on travel? Lock down the city, perhaps?”
“I was thinking,” rasped Fleshpound, “about the IPTs.”
The acronym, Isaac noted in the minutes, referred to the Instantaneous Personal Transportation networks, a system of teleport stations providing efficient transportation throughout the City and beyond. It worked by breaking down each traveller’s molecular structure and converting it into energy patterns that could be broadcast to a distant station of the traveller’s choosing, where the traveller’s physical pattern would be instantly reassembled. The Network’s motto was “IPT — Putting People Together since 18,072.” At Fleshpound’s mentioning of the network a minor kerfuffle arose among the assembled members of the CoC.
Fleshpound raised a placating hand to forestall opposition. “Colleagues, colleagues, I’m aware of your objections — the city needs the IPT. Obviously true, obviously true. This is why,” he continued, “I do not propose a long-term shut-down of the service. Nothing so drastic. I would propose nothing more than, say, a moratorium on IPT traffic over the next four weeks.”
There was a silence as the CoC digested this proposal, a silence interrupted only by the pounding of the storm, the tappity-tap of Isaac typing on his datalink, and a persistent high-pitched whistle from Punt’s left nostril.
“That’s perfect,” said Mary Finn. “Without the IPT, people are apt to stay put.”
“We’ll need a plausible reason, of course, for shutting down the service,” said Lori 8. “An unexplained shut-down would raise suspicion. A government-ordered shut-down of the system would be worse — it could fuel the very rumours we wish to quell, bringing ruin and desolation upon us all.”
“So what’ll we say?” said Thaddeus Price.
“Might I suggest that someone prod the Colonel?” said the City Solicitor.
Price mistook this for a euphemism and chuckled.
“Your colleague, Colonel Punt,” said the Solicitor. “I do believe that Punt’s guild is responsible for the day-to-day operation of the IPT Network, is it not? No doubt he’ll have something of value to add to your current deliberations.”
Unbridled enthusiasm failed to sweep the masses. The prospect of waking Colonel Punt had never been popular. It’s not that he was objectionable per se, it’s just that he had one of those force-of-nature personalities you sometimes hear about — something near the hurricane end of the windbag spectrum.
But the Solicitor was right. As leader of Detroit’s Guild of Transport Workers, and whatnot, Punt had jurisdiction over the IPT Network.
Mary Finn gave the colonel a sharp poke in the ribs.
“Oy!” Punt bellowed, apparently aroused mid-dream. “I said I wanted ‘circumspection,’ you idiot, circum — wait, what?!”
“Please pay attention, Colonel,” said Finn, sharply. “We need you to help arrange the shut-down o
f the IPT.”
“Shut down the IPT?” boomed Punt, “Silly buggers! Shut down the service and people will have a hard time moving about, what? Faugh! I mean, that’s what the thing is for, you know, moving people about and whatnot.”
“Never mind why, Woolbright,” sighed Finn. “We’re looking for a way to shut it down without causing a stir. We want to keep people in the city, keep their minds off those rumours that we were —”
“So,” said Punt, shifting in his chair and taking a longish swig from his flask. “You think — huuarggh — that civvies’ll raise a ruckus about this woman, flee the city, and so on. Even so, shutting down the IPT —”
“Getting down to the point, Colonel,” said Lori 8 smoothly, “assuming you did think it advisable to disrupt the IPT service, you’d have some way of doing so?”
“Of course I would! Shutting down the IPT’s the simplest thing in the world. Making a teleport platform work: that’s hard. Making a teleporter not work, well that’s as easy as —”
Punt paused for dramatic effect and contrived to snap his fingers. Then tried again. It was less of a snap than it was the floop you might achieve by rubbing sausages together. Punt eventually gave up and chewed contemplatively on the end of his moustache.
By this point in the narrative, astute readers will have noted a certain absent-mindedness in Punt — absent-mindedness that might seem strange in a being with over 11,000 years of life experience under his belt. The truth of the matter is that blustery, blithering, seemingly absent-minded Punt is actually far more present-minded than your typical decamillennial. The vast majority of Detroitians who’ve lived for at least ten thousand years spend the lion’s share of their time in a deep sleep, or staring blankly into the distance, scarcely aware of small-scale changes in their environment. Most are housed in civic dormitories: publicly maintained buildings in which the bulk of decamillennials loll away the centuries in self-induced comas.
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