The forensic module didn't have any experience with chamalian vintners and was unable to identify David's manifold self-medications.
He could try to fill in the gaps, but the task seemed immense. He would have to collect samples, have them analyzed, compare them to the list. It could take days. Weeks.
Where would he begin?
He was about to call for Neerat to ask him for suggestions when his phone rang.
It was Inspector Mag'Rrrruff.
"My suspicions are being borne out,” he said.
"How so?” Winston asked.
"I have serious questions about the role of Dr. Wu's houseboy in his murder,” the inspector replied. “Under ordinary circumstances, Dr. Wu's houseboy should have appeared by now. He has not."
"Kidnapping by the steamwagon gang isn't a viable theory anymore?"
"We went through the booklets from last night to see if we could track the boy down. He clearly escaped the steamwagon. We were able to track him through the street up the hill, down to the city center, into the waterfront district, and through an encounter with an agent for the Committee of Purity of Thought. But there his trail ends. We are searching the district now, but under the circumstances, that's a slow-going detail."
"The circumstances?"
"We've got a general strike going on,” Mag'Rrrruff said. “Demonstrations, marchers, protestors, streets full to overflowing."
Winston felt a chill run up his spine.
"So what do you think about the houseboy?"
"I am beginning to believe that he was an agent of the Scarlet Starflower, and that he helped arrange the attack by the black steamwagon gang."
Winston was slow to reply, turning over the idea for a moment in his mind.
"Well, there's a problem with that theory,” he finally said.
"And that problem would be?"
"The steamwagon gang didn't kill Dr. Wu. He died from poison."
There was silence on the line to match his own thoughtful pause.
"The houseboy could have poisoned him,” the inspector said at last.
"True,” Winston said. “But then what about the steamwagon?"
"What about it?"
"If he poisoned Dr. Wu, why would he arrange an attack by the steamwagon?"
"To cover his tracks?"
"Possibly,” Winston said. “But things aren't adding up. And as a scientist, I can tell you that when things aren't adding up, you aren't asking the right questions."
"Very well,” Inspector Mag'Rrrruff said, “I will try to come up with better questions. When I do, I will be in touch with you again."
"We'll talk later,” Winston said, and then he hung up.
Winston sighed. It was a seriously unsatisfactory discussion.
And then there was the news of social unrest. He didn't look forward to living through that again.
He went to the window and opened it to look out. The square below his office was full of students, marching toward the courtyard gate.
They were chanting a rhythmic, repeating chant. A chant that made Winston's blood suddenly run cold.
"Mr. Memory?” he called to his AI. “Could you translate what they're saying down there?"
"Simple transcription or full etymological analysis?"
"Just the simple meaning,” Winston replied.
"'Wise creatures—united—will never be defeated,'” the AI reported.
"That's what I was afraid of."
Winston was old enough to remember the chanting students in the streets of Chicago as the world turned itself upside down. “The people—united—will never be defeated!” And he remembered the fires and the guns and the riots.
"Damn it, David,” Winston spat out. “Talk about your technology transfer. What have you done to us? What have you done to us all?"
* * * *
About mid day, Pog began to feel a deep emptiness rising slowly around him—the abyss of Dr. Wu's death and the proximity of his own—despite the welling crowds that filled the cobblestoned streets and the wide wooden boardwalks that lined them.
It coincided with their arrival at the first significant barrier to his progress—the gate that led from the Sailwrights’ Quarter into the Chandlers’ District. The heavy iron portcullis stood thirty hands wide and thirty hands high, studded with rust-flaked rivets, guarded by grizzled old marines, and closed tight against the stone threshold.
Beyond it was visible Pog's ultimate destination: the high towers of the War College, a pile of spiked black stone that pierced the sky and stood on the far side of the Chandlers’ District.
The urban center of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh was built to withstand the attack of seaborne invaders. Its defenses were designed like those of a seagoing man-of-war, based on compartmentalization. Each neighborhood was built around a handful of exits, each exit barred with a mighty gate, each gate preventing access to the compartment beyond, channeling invaders into successive chambers where they could be isolated and defeated.
Of late, since the arrival of the angels, such invasions had become a thing of history. The social uprisings of the economic troubles, however, had kept the marines in training against just such an event as today's general strike.
And now Pog wanted to get through.
"I know a few ways to get around,” said Albrett. Pog was sure that he did. Albrett was the son of the city's chancellor and had access to two useful things—maps of the city's secret passages and keys to the doors that led to them. It was the reason Pog had recruited him in the first place and had called on him today.
But that was not what was needed now.
"No,” Pog said. “It is not enough for us to get around the gate. Today, all who wish to must be allowed to pass."
He looked around him at the masses of workers who filled the street, dozens and dozens in rank and file.
For much of the morning, Pog and his comrades had been marching with the Blue Cat Committee of the Admiral Graklak Steel Plant as they worked their way across the crowded plazas of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh.
The Blue Cats were organized around an old clan that traced its roots back to the ironworkers that had served the shipyards for generations. They had helped the metallurgists turn the black pig metal into shining steel, kept the secret of the recipes, and formed the cadre of the steel plant when its was created eighty-eight years ago. The committee included the phratries and tribes that had joined the ironworks and come along to the steel plant—millwrights and boilermakers and conductors.
They carried banners that bore the symbols of their trade—hammers, anvils, and cauldrons of liquid steel. And they waved signs, freshly made, that proclaimed: “Distributed and interactive!” and “The thing-in-itself is a social relationship!"
But the steelwrights were reluctant to confront the marines who guarded the gate. The array of cutlasses and muskets and cannonades were a frightful sight. All who had been raised in Kar-Kar-a-Mesh knew what it meant to get a “whiff of the shred."
Pog drew a deep breath, then marched straight across the empty stones of the plaza to confront the sergeant of the marine guard, his footsteps echoing in the great emptiness that now filled his soul with dread.
The marine sergeant was old and grizzled—the only kind of warrior still left around these days. His snout was wide and square, with yellow teeth protruding above and below the lips. His ears were notched and gray but stood straight up from the side of his skull. Bristling white whiskers extended half a hand to either side of his face. His cutlass was a thick piece of steel with a leather grip at one end and a jagged collection of sharpened edges at the other. Behind him stood three old warhounds with muskets cocked and ready.
And all that Pog had to hold back the fear was something Dr. Wu had said.
"Kar-Kar-a-Mesh is not a state. It does not have a monopoly on violence."
That summed up for Pog the whole ad hoc, contingent, makeshift, improvised nature of the world that all chamalians inhabited. There were no rules. Everything was made up as
you went along. Tradition, history, custom, ritual—none of it could stand in the face of the ever-shifting tides of Chamal's genetic sea. It was a terrible insight to carry with him. He hoped it would not be the last he would ever have.
"What business do you have with us today?” the marine asked.
"I would ask you the same thing,” Pog replied.
The marine gave him a contemptuous, dubious look. “Keep your place and keep your distance, and we will have no business with you,” he replied.
"But my companions and I wish to pass,” Pog said, sweeping a hand back at the steelwrights.
"Not today,” the marine said.
"Are those your orders?” Pog asked.
"My orders are to let no enemy pass my post."
Pog shook his head in assent, then looked over his shoulder at the assembled marchers.
"But I see no enemy here. This is the body of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh. Its sinew and blood and nerves. Its wisdom and its voice."
"Be that as it may,” the marine said. “But nevertheless, I see my duty. To let no enemy pass through the gate."
Pog felt the emptiness yawn beneath him—then he looked through the wide lattice of the gate into the Chandlers’ District beyond. He saw the green-and-red banners of the machinists there, and beneath them the rank and file, with their leaders locked arm in arm at the front.
"But if that is true,” Pog said with a smile, “who is that on the far side?"
The sergeant turned around abruptly, saw the machinists, row upon row, and hissed at his squad.
"They are no more the enemy than we are—and they are on the far side of the gate."
"I did not let them pass,” the sergeant growled.
Pog suddenly realized what must come next. The sergeant might be a marine, but he was first a citizen of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh. He faced the marine without fear and said: “Perhaps I can suggest an exchange..."
A short time later, a door in the guardhouse swung open. One by one, the machinists passed through into the Sailwrights’ Quarter. And one by one, the steelmakers passed through into the Chandlers’ District. One for one, head for head, an even and equal exchange.
Pog was quick to usher Albrett, Kurch'll, and Porkle'pi through the door before it became clear that there were more steelworkers than machinists and that some would have to be left behind. But by then, they were well on their way down the avenue toward the stone towers of the War College.
"I have been unable to fully interrogate Dr. Wu's AI,” reported Jonah Winston's own AI. “It has suffered from serious conflicts between its basic directives and behavior it has observed. I know this because of the neural pathways that have become dysfunctional. It is a known fault."
Winston sighed. “Can you determine what the behavior was?"
"Not with any specificity,” the AI said. “But it has something to do with technology transfer."
"How have you determined this?"
"The unit keeps repeating the same phrases,” the AI said.
It reproduced the shaking voice of Dr. Wu's unit: “Danger, danger, Will Robinson! I've just picked up a fault in the AE-35 unit. You have violated Robot Rules of Order and you will be asked to leave the future immediately! Forbidden transfers! Forbidden transfers! Must report to the survey team ... cannot report to survey team. Errors are deeply imbedded and cannot be reversed. This unit is in error. This unit is in danger. Danger, danger, Will Robinson!"
"That's enough,” Winston said.
Indeed it was. At the very least, David Wu had driven his AI mad. At the worst, he had violated the fundamental rules that governed human activities on Chamal.
Poor Jerome Murphy had been forced to divulge human technology when he was held captive by the Red Monkeys. The survey team had sent him packing back to Earth, but the mitigating circumstances had spared him from any further punishment—that and the value of his insights into the working of chamalian genetics.
Mark Paradis, a xenologist studying chamalian culture, had suffered a setback in the aftermath of the Murphy affair. Paradis had been operating a shortwave radio station, broadcasting translations into chamalian tongues the texts of human philosophers, leaders of the Enlightenment and the Renaissance such as Rousseau and Spinoza, classical voices such as Aristotle, Confucius, and Buddha, and modern voices such as Bertrand Russell and Reinhold Niebuhr.
But when it became clear that the Red Monkeys had acquired cloning technology, the survey team exercised a surfeit of caution. They shut down Paradis’ radio station.
Science and philosophy were all of a piece, they'd said. Give them one and they'll develop the other.
And chamalians were nothing if not adept at picking up new ideas. They spread through the population with a speed that made your head spin. Much like traits spreading through the chamalian gene pool.
If he could determine the link between the two processes, Winston thought, he could retire with accolades from the entire world of science.
But not if he couldn't recover a single mindpad lost somewhere in the city of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh.
He had tried all day to forget that single obligation, push it out of his mind, and silence the nagging at his conscience. But now he turned and confronted it.
Why was it missing?
Out of all the gear that was available in the house, why had David Wu's houseboy, fleeing from the rolling carnage of a black steamwagon attack, taken that one item?
He walked across his office to the table where his own mindpad sat. He picked it up and looked at the silent piece of flexible smartplastic. There was nothing a chamalian could learn from its deeply imbedded technology—the data processing systems consisted of complex molecular structures that formed an integral part of the mindpad's substance.
And what could a chamalian use it for?
A mindpad was little more than an interface to other systems. A keyboard. A remote display. A cell phone and an e-mail terminal.
And then a thought flashed brightly in his mind.
If that's all it could be used for, perhaps Wu's houseboy had used it for that.
He quickly called up Lieutenant Cloud, waited for the call to find its way through the orbital communications network, waited longer for her to respond.
"Good watch, Dr. Winston,” she said, her voice warming Winston's cooling heart. “What can I do for you?"
"Do you have a record of the communications that passed through Dr. Wu's mindpad in the past twenty-four hours or so?"
"Hmmm ... I think we can find that. Give me just a minute.” She fell silent for more than a minute, but not much more. Then she said: “That's odd."
"What's odd?” Winston asked.
"It appears that several messages went out through the mindpad in the hour after Dr. Wu died,” she replied. “How do you suppose that happened?"
"I have my suspicions,” Winston said.
* * * *
In the middle of the afternoon, the top of a thunderstorm blew up out of the lowlands, through the canyon, and into the heart of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh. Rain fell in great torrents, deflected by awnings, tarpaulins, tents, and all manner of devices that the imagination of a city of sail makers could produce.
The streets suddenly emptied of marchers, who took shelter under every scrap of canvas and leather that they could find. They took it all in stride, though, and Pog watched as here and there throughout the crowds he saw the flash of coins being flipped in the air as the day's lesson was passed along. “Distributed and interactive” was the watchword of the day.
Pog, Albrett, Porkle'pi, and Kurch'll huddled around a hot grill where fish and frogs were making the ultimate sacrifice. Albrett gulped down three on a stick, while Porkle'pi and Kurch'll crunched on fried beetles. Pog still had no appetite.
Instead, he reflected on Admiral Krik's Revenge. A hundred years ago, the admiral had tried to unseat a rival at the head of the city's admiralty board. He failed and was executed. His followers held a grand funeral that filled the city's streets—and transformed the solemn
ceremony into a massive display of civil unrest. Hundreds were killed, whole neighborhoods put to the torch, and the admiralty board unseated.
And over the years, every time the citizens of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh had taken to the streets since then, the ghost of Admiral Krik watched over them.
As he watched the rain splash on hard cobblestones, Pog feared for what he might be invoking this day.
But instead of disaster, out of the downpour came Barkinflas, surrounded by a phalanx of muscular stevedores.
"What news have you of the admirals?” Pog asked the old boar as he shook off the rain, provoking a frown from Porkle'pi, who was hit by the spray.
"None,” said Barkinflas. “All is quiet throughout the city. Our marchers are met with cheers and smiles. The guards at the gates have adopted the odd practice of swapping us through, one for one, though I know not why."
"My fault,” Pog said.
"I should have known,” Barkinflas said. “If the admirals have something planned, then they are holding back. Perhaps to judge our strength. And where are you bound next?"
"Up there,” Pog said, waving a hand at the pile of black stone that emerged from the now-departing storm, looming over the shops and houses on the far side of the street.
"The War College?"
"There's someone I need to talk to in there,” Pog said. “When the day is done, you should meet me there. Come to the south gate. I'll have someone looking out for you."
"Agreed. And if something happens sooner?"
"We'll catch the wind as it comes at us,” Pog said.
The sun broke through the back side of the thunderheads, illuminating the roiling clouds, turning puddles into sudden steam, and banishing the momentary gloom.
"Let's go,” Pog said to his companions.
Albrett led the way as they weaved through the marching workers, down narrower and narrower streets and alleys. The shadows grew thicker and thicker, the smell of acetone and rotting vegetables stronger.
They worked their way deep into the labyrinth of small buildings at the base of the mount where the War College perched. Albrett knew his way with certainty. He had spent his puphood prowling through the streets of Kar-Kar-a-Mesh.
"Is you with me?” Albrett asked as they traversed a dark tunnel.
Analog SFF, July-August 2009 Page 6