A delegation was waiting in a pavilion open to the outside. Two dozen severe men and women in business robes were seated along the outside of a huge horseshoe-shaped table, each with their own nameplate and panoply of datapads. Nalani’s codex identified them all, from the highest executive to the most junior of a whole team of barristers.
A small rectangular table, set in the open end of the horseshoe and considerably lower, was set with three empty chairs.
(“Tell Al-Ghazali and Bhagwati, This setup is only to intimidate us. Stay calm, watch, and learn.”)
Nalani stood at the center seat, Bhagwati on her left and Al-Ghazali on her right. She signaled the Apprentices to sit, while she herself walked around the table and bowed three times, right, left, and middle.
At the center of the horseshoe sat a gaunt, grizzled man with short, nappy, salt-and-pepper hair, along with matching brows, mustache, and short beard. His nose was broad, and his full lips were drawn down. Nalani’s codex identified him as Topaka Phan Lo, Senior Executive of the Immersive Entertainment Division. Nalani met his eyes and stood, arms at her sides, silent.
The silence continued for long moments, while the others at the horseshoe table squirmed and shot worried glances at Phan Lo. Finally, the executive cleared his throat. “Supreme Justice, I...er...welcome to Uenuku.” Nalani gave half a nod, and after another painful interlude he continued, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
In measured tones, Nalani said, “It's possible my communication was unclear. I asked for a conference with you in order to obtain your input on a...delicate legal matter.” She looked around the horseshoe table. “I had hoped to spare you any...adverse consequences. Would you rather meet privately, or shall I continue here?” Unnerving smile number two, the one that said, “I know exactly what you did, you naughty boy,” completed the presentation.
Nalani pretended not to notice as Phan Lo whispered to the two on either side. His frown deepened, and he stood. “I don’t suppose we need this crowd.”
“Perhaps,” Nalani said, “we could reconvene in more comfortable room. There are a few other people I wanted to speak with, I believe you received the names?”
Phan Lo’s frown turned into a scowl. “I note that my own name is not on your list. I have other important work to do...with your permission, Supreme Justice.” It wasn’t exactly a question.
Nalani bobbed her head half a centimeter. “It was kind of you to take time from your busy schedule to greet me in person.”
“My aides will arrange your conference.” He looked around the horseshoe. “All of you who aren’t needed here…get back to work.”
The executives filed out, and an aide appeared at Nalani’s elbow. “It’ll take a few minutes to set up a room. Would you mind waiting here?”
She smiled. “Of course. Thank you. Come get us when you’re ready.” The aide dashed away.
Al-Ghazali made a silent gesture of applause. “Thurgood, you were magnificent.” Her brows contracted. “What a windbag. ‘I have other important work.’ Why did you let him talk to you that way?”
Nalani shook her head. “Status is a funny thing. If you’re indifferent to it, it’s nothing but a rather silly game. For those who aren’t, it’s the most important thing in the universe.” She paused for a moment. “As Judiciars, our status comes automatically. Those who take the game seriously always test that. Only when you prove your mettle, by the rules of their game, will they cooperate. But remember this: once you slap someone down, you should always give them a way to save face, to make a dignified retreat. If you’re going to play with people’s feelings, it’s the human thing to do.” She looked up. “Ah, here’s the aide.”
As Nalani had expected, none of the executives or barristers were any help with the case. Their testimony was part of the record, and they were all too disciplined to diverge from it, giving rehearsed answers in corporate singsong.
It wasn’t until the short conference was over that she was able to get to her real objective. When she asked to meet with some of the creatives and cast involved in the program, the executives brightened.
“It would be our pleasure, Supreme Justice. Would you allow a few discreet holoimages, just for publicity purposes?”
Nalani stared. “In a Judiciary inquiry? Frankly, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Well, Supreme Justice, with the show involving the Judiciary, a lot of the cast and creatives are big fans. It’ll be an honor for them to get a visit from such a distinguished Judiciar.”
“As long as your publicity doesn’t compromise my investigation, I suppose I’ll allow it.”
The studio was kilometers away in another part of the Uenuku complex. A flunky led them into a large, open space. One section was built up into a remarkable facsimile of a Judiciary standard courtroom so accurate that Nalani half-expected everyone to rise when she entered. To her surprise, they did; a dozen and a half people, all in assorted business robes. As a flunky made introductions, cameras zipped around through the air.
Nalani did her best to smile and greet each person with practiced sincerity. Just when she thought the ordeal was over, an announcement rang out, “Oyez, Oyez, Oyez, all rise for Supreme Justice Odofredus V—”
(“What? I don’t remember an Odofredus V.”)
A woman stood at the bench, garbed in the white ceremonial robe that Nalani hated to wear. The woman was tall and thin, with a long neck and full lips, her skin mocha and her dark hair cropped so close she almost looked bald.
Nalani’s breath caught; it was like looking in a mirror. No, she thought, more like meeting a twin sister she never knew she had. This other woman’s ears were a bit more prominent, her hair lighter, her cheeks a little more sunken.
Even as rage stirred within her, the announcer finished, “—Played by multiple award winner Preeda Sakda.”
An actor. Odofredus V, then, was the Judiciar in the show...a Judiciar clearly patterned on Nalani herself. (“I suppose I should feel flattered.”)
With all eyes and multiple cameras on her, Nalani fixed professional smile number two on her lips and bowed her head to the actor. “I’m pleased to meet you, Your Honor.”
In spite of herself, Nalani found that she liked Preeda Sakda. Flattery aside, the woman was intelligent, well-spoken, and polite. Her comments immediately after she appeared helped: she’d bowed deeply and said, “Supreme Justice Thurgood, we didn’t mean any offense. We all admire you so much, we thought it would be a bit of fun to surprise you.” She had blushed. “Obviously not fun. I’m so sorry.”
Nalani had answered, “No offense taken. I’m not that familiar with the show, so I didn’t know what to expect. I’m sorry if I ruined your fun.”
As it turned out, Preeda Sakda was the one who’d set the whole thing in motion. “I never meant to cause anyone trouble, least of all Professor Sanrosa. I’ve always been interested in the Fir- in the archaic period. I saw a documentary about Professor Sanrosa’s findings on Kauhale’s moon. They told about the cruise she was on with other historians, and how one of them died. I thought it was a funny coincidence, since we’d just finished up a show about an archaic historian on a cruise. So I mentioned it to Hotene.”
“Hotene?”
An older woman raised her hand. “Hotene Lyavit. I’m the Producer.”
Nalani said, “When Sen Sakda told you about the documentary, how did you respond?”
The woman looked down. “I didn’t do anything improper. It’s standard procedure whenever we see anything that corresponds with events in our shows.”
“I didn’t intend to accuse you of anything improper, Sen. Could you explain the procedure to me?”
“I reported the story to Legal. That’s all. I didn’t know they would—I didn’t know that Professor would get in trouble. It’s not my fault.”
“Of course it isn’t your fault.” Nalani took the woman’s hand. “And nothing bad will come of it, I assure you.”
Eventually Nalani
heard all she needed, and signaled to the Apprentices that it was time to go. The cast and crew wanted her to stay and watch the scene they were rehearsing, but she begged off.
In the shuttle back to Polo Halau, the Apprentices kept quiet, looking away from Nalani. At last she cleared her throat and said, “I suppose it didn’t occur to either of you to warn me.”
Al-Ghazali blinked. “Warn you, Thurgood?”
Nalani kept her tone level. “About the content of the show. That the main character is patterned on me.”
Bhagwati quaked, holding in laughter, while Al-Ghazali’s face showed no expression. “Oh? I hadn’t noticed. Although now that you mention it, there was some resemblance.”
She tossed her head at Al-Ghazali, turned on Bhagwati. “And you! I suppose you find it amusing?”
Bhagwati lost his composure, laughing out loud. He gasped, “Y-your face...was perfect. Oyez, oyez...” He became incoherent.
Nalani folded her arms in mock annoyance. “That’s right, laugh at the old woman.”
Al-Ghazali raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d be flattered.”
Nalani abandoned her indignant pose. “I should be. It’s just….” She took a breath. “The Judiciary works because we stand apart from the mundane world. Impartial, rational, unbiased. Ordinary people have confidence in us, because of that thing, that system we represent.” Al-Ghazali’s eyes were fixed on her, and even Bhagwati stopped laughing.
“One of the biggest dangers for us is familiarity. When they begin to know us as individuals, as people, we lose that aura. We lose their confidence.” She shook her head. “That’s why we seldom stay on one Plane longer than a few years.” She thought of Milos, and Caridad Sanrosa, and of all the people she’d known and helped before them. “It’s why we can seldom have friendships outside the Judiciary.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “And why the strongest friendships we make are within our ranks.”
Bhagwati touched her arm. “That’s why you’re searching so hard for your missing friend. I hope you find her.”
“I will.”
It was a long flight from Apex Center out to Zavod Sualti in the planetoid belt: fifteen hours even with a quick hyperspace nip-and-tuck in the middle—tricky this close to the Fissure. Sun-hwa Daeng slept most of the way, awakening only when the pilot nudged her and said, “We’re on final approach. I thought you might want to watch.”
From the outside, the settlement Zavod Sualti wasn’t much. One planetoid resembled another, and they all looked like lumpy potatoes hanging in space. True, this one sported some odd growths, clusters of tubes and rectilinear shapes poking out here and there. As the shuttle drew closer, these shapes resolved into clumps of huge industrial machinery, frameworks of supporting and connecting beams, safety lights that blinked in a dozen different patterns, pressure holds and warehouse volumes, all in the dull grey of bare metal.
The shuttle circled around to the sunward side of the settlement, drifting among jagged spires toward a docking cradle. At the last instant, Sun-hwa saw the vessel’s own shadow racing across the landscape, diving out of infinity to meet the shuttle itself. With a just-perceptible jerk, she was home.
As the pilot secured the shuttle's systems, Sun-hwa said, “Jamahl, I hope stay for a while.”
The pilot yawned. “If you could spare a meal and some bunk space, I wouldn't mind a day’s layover.”
“You know you’re always welcome here.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I’m just sorry we don't get to see you more often.”
Zavod Sualti was a warren of passages and compartments, most of it in microgravity; by the time Sun-hwa and Jamahl reached the living quarters and were able to stand, the four adults of the family were waiting.
“Jamahl, why don’t you help yourself to the kitchen? We’ll have a quick palaver amongst ourselves, then I’ll join you." She waited for the pilot to leave, then beckoned the others to the parlor, nerve center of the settlement.
“How was it?” Rokuro Edano, craggy-faced senior husband and finance officer, held out Sun-hwa’s accustomed chair.
Sun-hwa sat down with a heavy sigh. “Not as bad as it could have been.” She shrugged. "I know that’s not saying much.”
It was Kiet Sirisopa—black-haired, always-earnest Kiet, middle husband and a genius hyperflux engineer—who voiced everyone’s highest concern. “Are we under new management?”
“Not yet,” Sun-hwa said. In the last five years, Zavod Sualti’s parent company, Apex Technologies, had twice suffered hostile takeovers, a pawn in developing corporation wars. "But Apex can’t guarantee anything. That’s why Sen Okubo called this meeting: to warn us all that signs don’t look good. He said this time Apex might be broken up. That we should all prepare ourselves to be orphaned.”
“Does that mean they’ll split us up?" Haragai Gulyar’s eyes were wild. Junior husband and fabrication engineer, Haragai only joined the family six years ago. He’d never known anything but corporate turmoil.
Thanh ab Lieu, junior wife and the best mathematician in the whole Fourth Plane, looked up over her knitting. As usual, her pale face was serene. “Nobody’s going to split us up, Haragai. Sun-hwa won't let that happen.” She turned her eyes toward Sun-hwa. “So what’s our plan?”
“I’d like to hear from Antoku first.”
A structure of colored geometric lines and planes appeared in the center of the table, about the size of an apple, the parts gradually shifting and changing hue—a sign that the settlement’s ever-present AI was paying attention. “What can I do for you, Sun-hwa?”
“Please review previous comments.” Antoku always heard everything that went on in Zavod Sualti, but would only pay conscious attention when invited. “What are you hearing from the other AIs?”
“Not much that’s coherent or pertinent, I’m afraid. Much anxiety on every front. I have been following the most reliable prediction markets. I can summarize those if you’d like.”
“Please do.”
Colors spun. “The probability of war between Hemgi Kaisha and Gongsi P3WO is now at 82%. Given existing alliances, it is over 99% likely that Apex Technologies will be traded as part of an attempt to forestall war. In that event, two scenarios are equally likely.”
Rokuro rolled his eyes. “Neither one of them good for us, I imagine.”
“You are not wrong, Rokuro. In the first scenario, Apex is traded to Gongsi P3WO outright, in which case Apex’s holdings will be dismantled and merged with corresponding Gongsi units. I conjecture that this would place us under the authority of Gongsi’s Daohang Group, absorbed into one of their thousand-worker manufactories.”
Haragai gasped. “That would be horrible.”
“We would certainly lose the considerable autonomy we now enjoy.”
Sun-hwa held up a hand. “Stay calm. Antoku, what’s the other scenario?”
“Apex is traded to BD-IOC Kaporeihana to cement an alliance. In this case it’s likely that Zavod Sualti would become part of the BD-IOC military, which has no presence in the hyperflux arena.”
Thanh put down her knitting. “Making weaponized navigation buoys.” She crossed her arms. “I won’t be part of it. I just won’t.”
Sun-hwa took a slow breath, released it. “How long do we have, Antoku?”
“Neither scenario will emerge earlier than a year from now.”
“There we have it.” She exchanged glances with Kiet Sirisopa. “Antoku, key this whole meeting as Zavod Sualti trade secret, not to be disclosed or discussed outside this group.”
“Acknowledged.”
Sun-hwa closed her eyes. “Kiet, tell us your plan.”
“It’s not really my plan. I mean, I came up with the idea, but I was just…”
“Get to it.”
Kiet leaned forward. “All right. I think—Sun-hwa and I think—that we need to leave the Fourth Plane.”
Thanh frowned. “We’d have to sell everything to get tickets for—”
Kiet shook his head. “No. I mean
leave the Plane…and take Zavod Sualti with us.” At blank faces, he continued, “We make and launch hyperflux buoys. It wouldn’t take much to reconfigure and launch the whole planetoid into hyperflux and Drop to the Third Plane.”
Mouths hung open, then Thanh smiled. “You’re talking about turning us into a transplanar raft. Becoming refugees.”
Rokuro said, “Would that even be possible?”
Thanh nodded. “We’re no more massive than some of the big transplanar ships. We couldn’t have their level of maneuverability, but we can survive that.”
“Antoku?”
“What Kiet proposes would be physically possible. It would, however, involve highly improper use of company property. In fact, the entire notion could very well be considered theft of corporation assets.”
“Let us worry about that,” Sun-hwa said. “We are Zavod Sualti Corporation, and I would personally settle accounts with Apex.”
Rokuro shook his head. “The five of us, plus three kids? We’re hardly a transplanar crew.”
Kiet shrugged. “We’re a good bit of the way there. And we don’t have to limit it to just us. I’m sure some of our adult offspring would be willing to come. Not to mention other Apex divisions that might be facing scenarios as bad as ours.”
The older man set his jaw. “We don’t even have a pilot.”
Sun-hwa grinned. “Yes we do. He’s in our kitchen right now.”
“Jamahl?”
“Yes, Jamahl. He’s got no love for Apex, I can tell you, and he’s aware that his job is in jeopardy. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time with Jamahl; I know he would think seriously about it.”
Haragai’s eyes were wide. “But what would we do on the Third Plane?”
Thanh said, “We have knowledge, experience, and talent…I’m sure we can find something.”
Kiet cocked his head. “Why stop at Third? Why not go all the way to First?”
Rokuro snorted. “The First Plane doesn’t take refugees.”
“Not from the Ships, no. But haven’t you heard the stories?” Kiet’s voice lowered. “If refugees make their own way there, on rafts, First welcomes them. Takes them in and sets them up as citizens, they do.”
The Rule of Five_Year One Page 9