by L.H. Thomson
***
Archivist Dregba was a meticulous individual, a squat, portly swamp-green Veeleemaryn from one of the Avicus rim worlds, prone to note-taking constantly.
He had hi-speed eye implants; they didn’t look any different from normal Veeleemaryn eyes, except that he could parse text at many times normal speed, essential to his trade. He wore a set of half-glasses anyway, as a sort of intellectual affectation.
Unlike the plebian members of the public, who bought Wear-Tech if they needed portable processing, the Archivist could afford custom tech, in this case a black silk suit cut in the traditional, round-collared Chinese style. Instead of a lead plug from the sleeve, it made its connections wirelessly – even at a million zetagigs per second – thanks to signal boosters built into the lining. In short, the coat was one big walking sat connection.
The half-glasses did have one practical application, as a decorative exterior to the Archivist’s blackout visor. But he wasn’t using it; today, he felt like pacing, and it was never smart to pace while fully immersed. He occasionally used his right hand to tap on a near-invisible keypad that floated just above his left wrist.
“Ms. Dow, set up a tracking team for New Singapore,” he said to his secretary, who hovered in the corner of the room, watching him work. “Oh... and Ms. Dow, please make sure they realize they have to carry their own insurance. Reclamation is a dirty, dirty business after all.”
She nodded. “Yes, Archivist. Do you want your afternoon tea now, sir?”
Dregba ignored her for a full minute, quickly tapping on the virtual keypad, then looking up as if no time had passed at all. “That would be fine Hanna, thank you.” Then he was back to work.
Hanna went to the nearby synth station and prepared his tea, waiting as it figured out how to flavor the artificial beverage then watching it drop a fresh cup, then pipe out hot liquid. Dregba liked an Orange Pekoe blend with milk promptly at 2 p.m. daily. She watched him from ten meters away, across the enormous rented suite at the Kobe Travel Station, as he paced back and forth, typing faster with one hand than most could with two.
She wondered why he enjoyed it so; being an Archivist wasn’t exactly fun and games, poking around MultiNet locations – or, at Dregba’s level of seniority, having your staff poke around – to shake up new tech findings.
An Archivist worth his salt could sign three to five new tech developments daily and register them in at least Sol and K’Laar Systems, to boot. But then there was the matter of staying alive until the copyrights cleared, a week or so later – depending on what the Big Six were up to at the time – and ensuring the registrant survived until then, as well.
New tech rights weren’t much good if the developer was dead, after all, and the Big Six frowned on Archivists losing too many clients.
The Archivist of G’Farg had been at it for nearly 100 years, right out of college. He was legendary among his peers and extremely wealthy, thanks to retaining a small royalty on every registered piece of tech that actually made it to market.
He hadn’t made it to such an exalted level without being exceedingly careful, and on a visit like this, he brought along a security detail in the dozens.
Right now, he was liaising with the head of his New Singapore security team, which was camped out in a rented old factory, protecting an expert in cybernetic medical implants who may or may not have developed a new nanotechnology that could rebuild failing organs at twice the current speed.
Of course, most people on Earth had no idea the Archivist even existed, or much of anything about off-Earth culture.
They spent most days logged onto the MultiNet, oblivious to the occasional street-level gun battle between an Archivist’s team and the various groups who would poach his registration: gangsters, freelancers, competing Big Six Corps affiliates.
It wasn’t as if people were no longer violent. They witnessed or took part in any number of similar events themselves ... but online, where none of the fallout and consequences of a pitched street fight were real.
And they lived, for the most part, hundreds of meters below. Even Earth had a social hierarchy; the 1% who weren’t logged on and living below in the smog, pollution and acid rain instead lived hundreds of meters above, barely touched by the lesser folk, the cogs in the machine of modern productivity.
Kobe Travel Station was a good example; Hanna looked out the wrap-around glass walls at the other towers and stations, many located just above the low-lying pollution.
The effect was even more pronounced at night when the lights made it look like a separate city of skyscrapers, floating on top of a fluffy cloud base, a literal skyline, pure, grandiose.
Its inhabitants were Earth’s power elite, which wasn’t much of a claim to fame. Anyone worth middle management or better usually made it out early and got off planet well before 40. These were the corrupt old guard, too stupid to move up, too arrogant to mingle with the riff-raff below.
They got the same four decades as everyone else; they probably enjoyed it a little more, that’s all.
She pulled up a holo screen and quickly checked some numbers. “Archivist, we can get a substantial discount if we pre-book space for the Singapore team for the entire two weeks.”
Dregba kept tapping away.
Finally, about two minutes later, he answered her. “No, hang the savings. If we have to pull out early – and the developer is shaky on this one – we end out losing a whole week. Better to pay the full day rate and take our chances.”
Hanna knew not to argue. Dregba’s ability to calculate likely percentages of behavior meant he was rarely wrong.
If the odds favored a nervous breakdown by the dev, or even overwhelming opposition firepower, there was no point moving ahead. The Archivist had survived for over a century for precisely that reason: he didn’t try to beat the odds.
He knew when to cut his losses.
“Hanna, I’m ordering up a second security detail, this one freelance. Some backup.”
She frowned. “Who’s the target.”
“I am,” he said nonchalantly. “Don’t know when, but we’re going to see some serious challenges at some point in the next week to ten days, all right? Small matter of that item I’ve been sitting on.”
A day earlier, he’d ordered her to forget seeing the auto-reminder from the holo system back on G’Farg, indicating a process server was looking for them.
Now, he was preparing for heavy firepower.,
She nodded. “Of course, sir. I’ll get on it right away.”
His request meant there a clear-and-present danger that he had yet to reveal to staff. That was unprecedented.
“Sir... may I ask why you felt no need to share this information earlier? I am responsible for following your protocols, after all.”
It was a fair question, but the Archivist wasn’t a fair man, nor did he consider his decisions open for review.
“No Hanna, you may not.”
She looked down at her mousy grey flannel business skirt and plain white blouse, as if somewhat ashamed.
The Archivist noticed it immediately. “Ms. Dow, I require your complete focus on my stated needs, not chasing side issues. Can you handle that?”
She nodded sheepishly. “Of course, Archivist, of course.”
“Good. Get me patch through to the NTC. I have business with Vega Personnel.”
Again, Hanna’s instincts said something was wrong; all additional personnel requests – particularly for indentured labor – usually went through her.
But she’d already been shouted down once and lost face. She didn’t feel like a repeat.