The Octagonal Raven

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Rhedya’s brother Haywar and his wife lived there, and they’d asked me to dinner at their place, a low and most modest villa that sat halfway up the hill to the west of the university. Since in two days I’d exhausted both uniqueries in Cedacy, neither that good for all their expense, I was looking forward to dinner. I was sitting on the veranda, sipping a beaker of verdyn, enjoying the breeze that brought the scent of pines, when Frydrik approached. He was in his third or fourth year at HMudd University, but on some sort of holiday break.

  “Sit down and join me,” I offered.

  “Thank you, ser.” Frydrik was twenty-one, green-eyed, broad-shouldered, and bright. He’d gone to the engineering school, as I recalled, although Southern University had a perfectly good engineering school, because of troubles with his PIAT scores and because his parents felt that he needed to get away from home. The young man sat on the edge of the cushion chair, his eyes flicking toward the door from the veranda into the great room.

  “How are your studies going?” I asked.

  “Does it really matter, ser?”

  I could sense the tension in his body, even without the augmentation nanites and my internal systems. “That depends on what you want to do. I’m glad I took all the courses that gave me a basis for being a methodizer.”

  “I’m studying EDI, waveguide, lasers, and other communications technologies. I suppose those will come in useful when I go to work for Uncle Gerrat.”

  “Do you want to work for UniComm? You don’t sound enthused.” I straightened in the lounge chair and turned toward him. “You don’t have to.”

  “I don’t? Mother and Father just finished paying off my pre-select loan last year. I don’t exactly want to spend twenty to thirty years of my life doing that for my children. Especially since I bombed my PIAT. I’m sure you know that.”

  “If you have talent enough to be studying advanced communications technologies at HMudd, there are all sorts of opportunities out there,” I pointed out.

  “With which enormous organization?”

  “I might point out that I’ve managed without becoming part of one.”

  “What did it cost you, ser? Twenty-five years when you scarcely saw Earth?”

  “Everything has a price, Frydrik. Independence has a higher one. Do you think you’re exempt from the charges life imposes?” I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice.

  “You’re just one of the tokens, Uncle Daryn,” Frydrik said mildly. “My father, and all those who think there are real choices in life, they can point to you and say, ‘See. Look at Daryn Alwyn.’ But not everyone has the kind of talents you do. Most of us end up working for some organization or another, and I figure I might as well use the family contacts to work for one that pays well.”

  I held back a wince. “There are other talents besides mine. And … anyone can write or compose the sort of thing I do,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t take special equipment. It doesn’t take special access. Almost every school-age child has access to the same equipment I use — or close enough that it makes little difference.”

  “Little differences aren’t that little,” Frydrik countered, his voice rising ever so slightly. “Remember, we share something like ninety-eight percent of the DNA of a chimpanzee. And what’s the difference in basic writing and communicating ability between you and the average methodizer? A few percentage points? If that? What makes the difference is the viewpoint, the advantages, the training.” He was partly right about that, but whole cultures had fallen because they had adopted partial truths. That distinction wasn’t something that did much good to talk about or comm to the entire world. That was something that the First Age hadn’t wanted to understand. And clearly Frydrik didn’t, either, but I had to try. “First, Frydrik, every society has leaders and elites. By definition, societies require them. That’s not a matter of dispute. The dispute is how those elites are developed or selected and how much power they have. Neither tyranny nor mob rule have proven workable. Too much democracy becomes mob rule; too little leads to tyranny, then oppression, and eventually rebellion and bloodshed.” I cleared my throat and risked a glance at my in-law nephew.

  He was still listening, I feared, if only to find a point where he could refute me.

  “We have developed a system of informally selecting our elites based on perceptual integrative ability, and it works. It’s lasted far longer than any other system, and, under it, people have greater freedoms than ever before in history.”

  “And it all rests on a little test that doesn’t even measure everything that a human being is or may do.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I conceded. “And there are many people out there who don’t have that high a PIAT score who lead their fields.” I took a deep breath. “We all know that observing what is and measuring it correctly are not completely accurate. But to try to do so is not a form of bias. It’s a better tool than anything used before.”

  “That’s like saying coercion is an improvement over slavery.”

  “Inappropriate as the comparison is, there’s some truth in it.” I agreed, then continued. “Forget about tests for a moment. Some people accomplish various tasks better than other people. That can be demonstrated in a variety of skills and professions. In others, accomplishment is less clearly the result of what might be measured as superior ability. I acknowledge that. So will most discerning individuals.” I paused. “Do you think that a choice of occupation should be solely a matter of your choice, regardless of your ability? Do you believe that recognition or rewards should be a matter of chance? Or that the less able should be rewarded, instead of the more able?”

  “No.” But his frown remained.

  “So … your objection to the current system is what?”

  “You pigeonhole people on the basis of tests and judgments before they can demonstrate anything.”

  Rather than give an automatic response — that almost everyone pigeonholed people on the basis of fragmentary information — I paused, then almost laughed as I discovered I was fingering my chin, the way my father did. After a moment, I tried to provide a thoughtful answer. “I was an interstellar pilot. Only one in one or two hundred applicants gets picked for training. Less than one in five of those makes it through. The initial selection process is a judgment in advance based on mental and physical tests. The vast majority of those rejected would not make as a good a pilot as those who are chosen. There are doubtless some who are rejected who would make good pilots. Tests and interviews are not infallible. But even the Federal Union does not have the resources to actually try to train those thousands of potential pilots to determine who might be the best. Every few years, the system is reevaluated; it was while I was going through it.” I paused. “Isn’t your objection really that you dislike systems that depersonalize people, that make them digits and test scores?”

  “No … it’s that only people like you, even like me, have a chance of fully using the system. Everyone else is at a disadvantage, and yet you and Father and your father — they all pretend that the system is absolutely fair, and absolutely just.”

  “It’s not absolutely fair. Nothing is absolutely fair. I agree with you. That isn’t the question. The question is what, if anything, can be done about it. And that goes on both a societal level and on a personal level.” I smiled raggedly. “One reason why I went into the Federal Service was so that I would have more choices. That’s what allowed me to become a freelance methodizer and edartist.”

  “You had advantages other people didn’t. How many people have a retirement stipend and inherited stocks and credits to tide them over while they’re trying to establish themselves, to follow their dreams?”

  “Frydrik … I shouldn’t tell you this … but you should know. I earned the retirement, and I’ve never touched one credit of what I inherited.”

  “But you could,” he pointed out.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You have all the answers, about how this is the best of all possible worlds.�
�� The young man lifted his eyebrows.

  “You’ve cribbed that, Frydrik, but, no, I don’t believe it’s the best of all possible worlds. I do believe that it’s better than any world that’s come before.”

  “Ah, yes. The tyranny of the able, and the tyrants define who is able. You and the ancient racists. I thought better of you You’re just like my parents. You’re all already inhumed, even though you’re still technically alive.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, nephew.”

  “It’s accurate, ser. You are inured to the pain of people who are intelligent enough to know what they can never have. You’re blind to the injustice of a system that categorizes people so early that they can’t even have the chance to try for their dreams.”

  “I’m not blind to it, Frydrik,” I said gently. “I just don’t have a better system. Anything else that’s been tried is worse.”

  “Words … justifications …” He rose with a bow.

  “Frydrik … you have some valid points. You don’t like the system.” I stood. “Fine. Don’t just complain. Figure out how to improve it in a way that doesn’t make just your life better, but one that improves it for everyone. Too many revolutions in history made life better for the new elite, and worse for everyone else.” I smiled. “And if you bring me a better idea, I’ll work it into one or more of my edart pieces — if you’d like that.”

  “Perhaps I will, ser. Perhaps I will. Thank you for your time.” He bowed, then turned away.

  I looked out at the sun-flooded cedar and juniper-covered slopes on the east side of town. Frydrik, alas, had just proven the worth of the PIAT with his failure to understand that a society could not be geared to fulfill all dreams of all people.

  And yet … how many Frydriks were there? Was there a tyranny any more absolute than that of pure ability, and if we did refine the systems and tests to better judge people’s potential … would that improve matters? Or increase the feeling of tyranny for those who lacked ability — a fraction of the population that was all too big to ignore and not quite adept enough to be trusted to guide society?

  I took a sip of the verdyn. The cinnamint tasted bitter.

  * * *

  Chapter 48

  Raven: Tyanjin, 459 N.E.

  * * *

  Almost running, I made my way back through the streets, until I managed to find a pubcomm booth in the corner of the lobby of a small hotel — the standard name under the Sinese characters said it was the Hotel Paradise. From what I could tell from the foyer and the lobby, it was clean, if smelling slightly of ginger flowers. I could have turned on my belt repeater, but with the equipment my enemies seemed to possess, that would have lit up my location like a signal beacon. Without a direct access code, it would be almost impossible for them to find me quickly, even if they were accessing Majora’s links. I hoped that meant that no one could get to me before I got to Eldyn, even if they could directly backtrack the call to the booth. And I especially hoped Majora happened to be home or awake.

  Once again, I got the gatekeeper and Majora’s sim.

  “Majora, this is me” I waited a moment.

  The sim began to speak. “As you can see, I’m not really —”

  “I know” I mumbled. “You’re sleeping.…”

  “It is the middle of the night, Daryn.…” Her voice came in over the sim’s before she muted the automatic response. Her tone was half-sleepy, half-humorous.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “She was the one … and she left me an address for my old friend.”

  “He called and left one here.” Her voice firmed. “He said that you should meet him as soon as you could, that it was more urgent than you could possibly imagine. Have you watched any news?”

  “About the new epidemic? Only once.”

  “Daryn … it’s awful. They’re suggesting that pre-selects stay to themselves, and that a quarantine for pre-selects might be necessary. More than two thousand have died in Ankorplex already, and almost as many in Macuaplex. They’re saying that cases have turned up in Mancha and all over EuroEast, and the medcenters are being flooded in Calfya already.”

  “That’s not good. I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Can you come home after you meet him?”

  “What address did he give you?” I asked.

  As she read off the numerals and the street — the Way of Seven Steps — I checked them against the card that Elysa had given me. The two were identical. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or even more worried. More worried won out.

  “He also said it was within two hundred meters of the Grand Hotel.”

  “I don’t know where that is, but we’ll see if we can find it.” Then, I didn’t know where anything in Tyanjin was.

  “Is that the royal we, or is your friend around?”

  “She used a flare gadget to blind me for a moment. Have no idea where she is.”

  “Nice person …”

  “It’s about what I expected.”

  “I wish you could come back to Noram now.…” Her voice had an edge of huskiness to it.

  “So do I … but …”

  “I know You need to go. The sooner you find him, the sooner you can come back.”

  I also understood that if I didn’t find and meet Eldyn quickly I might get stuck in Tyanjin, or somewhere else in the Sinoplex, if the secretary director of the Federal Union decided to impose restrictions on travel. “I’m going.”

  “Take care.”

  “I will. You, too.” After a moment, I broke the connection.

  After I stepped out of the comm both, I glanced toward the hotel’s receiving area. No one was there, except for a slender young man wearing, surprisingly, a dark green singlesuit, and a gold vest. I moved toward him.

  He looked at me, waiting, his dark eyes blank.

  “Do you speak standard?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I am supposed to meet a friend at the Grand Hotel.… ”

  “Yes. It is not far. If you turn right when you leave the lobby, walk downhill to the third street. Turn right. Walk one block and turn left. The Grand Hotel is four or five hundred meters east.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  His only response was a nod. I had the feeling that he felt I was going to take a room at the competitor, but there wasn’t much I could do about that.

  Outside, the clouds were beginning to thin, and a few patches of bluish sky were appearing in the west. A few more passersby glanced at me almost surreptitiously, but most followed the example of the passengers on the magtrain — studiously ignoring me.

  As I walked eastward, I hoped they all did.

  * * *

  Chapter 49

  * * *

  Social contract … a thesis based on an antithesis …

  brutish and short, because it rests on consent,

  never informed, because culture remains

  an antique deck of paper cards with five suits,

  none of which is a Tarot.

  Ser, or sir and lady, salutations of a time …

  Which time?

  The sexless gentility of Tiresias,

  the zen birds of Merton,

  est-il tempus, in terram?

  Time for what? Or for whom which carillon rings?

  James, rex angliae, and the version commissioned in his name,

  all the futilities of fame,

  codifying the unknowable in stately prose,

  gilding an immaterial rose.

  Let the music rise; let the sea fall,

  seeking an equilibrium dating to the Tethys,

  against which fell dates and canal gates.

  Gates?

  Toroidal … or octagonal?

  Leading to unchanging stars and a vanished race?

  Or mere artifacts from time, buried in space?

  Guarded portals in the defenses of systems and cities?

  Beyond either are unmeasured distances, dragons,
<
br />   the equivalent of dragoons …

  … and space.

  Personal Notes

  LEAVING THE UNKINDNESS

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 50

  Tyanjin, 459 N.E.

  * * *

  Finding the Way of Seven Steps took a little longer than it would have in, say, Westi or Vallura, or most towns or cities in Noram. I walked past it twice — once walking to the Grand Hotel, and, again, after getting directions, walking back past the narrow lane between what looked to be a boarding house and a shop that seemed to carry antiquities behind grimy armaglass.

  There was no sign to mark the way, and I entered the lane cautiously.

  Once through the tiled archway I found myself in a cul-de-sac flanked by well-kept, if modest, two-story houses that I would not have guessed existed. All the roofs were of a dark blue tile, and each had a front door set in a recessed alcove under overhanging eaves. The porches formed by the eaves and stone pillars were floored in hexagonal ceramic tiles, with each side of the tiles roughly two decimeters in length.

  About half the houses had Arabic numerals. The numbers I wanted weren’t on any, but the third house on the right seemed to be in the right order numerically, and I stepped up under the eaves to the door and knocked.

  I barely lifted my knuckles from the permafinished wooden door when it opened. A young woman — clearly not Sinese — gestured for me to enter. She was probably of academy age, and I wondered why she was there, rather than in school.

  “Doctor Nyhal? Eldyn Nyhal?” I asked.

  “He’s in his study, ser. If you’d follow me …” Her standard was perfect as she closed the door. I could sense no overt electronics, and the dwelling was quiet, almost perfectly silent.

  We walked through the tiled foyer and a room floored in dark wooden parquet that held a low sofa set before a fireplace — real, it appeared — and then along another tiled hall. The first door on the left was open, and before we reached it, Eldyn stepped forward. He was stockier, and his wavy brown hair was far thinner than when we had graduated from Blue Oak Academy. Unlike when I had seen him in the past, he was no longer wearing a bright singlesuit, but one in a muted bluish gray. He did wear an ovalish medallion, also a dark gray. Close-up, I realized it was octagonal, not oval.