by Ben Jeapes
She smiled. 'He said there's a foodfac.'
'Yeah, but . . .'
'Think it could produce a sort of mini-feast? Booze, too?'
Jontan's eyes widened. 'Um, yeah.'
'So we have our own party a day early.'
His heart pounded. 'Great! That'd be great. Oh. No music.'
'We symb the music. Take me to the ball, Mr Baiget? When we're done loading.'
He grinned. 'I'd be honoured, Ms Killin.'
Jontan and Sarai woke up the next morning to the same symbed time signal. Jontan stirred and rolled over in his cot and looked at Sarai, in her own cot across the room by the other wall. Bleary eyes, tousled hair: she had never looked more beautiful. He could feast his eyes on her forever.
So, part of him chided, you were alone in a room all night with the girl of your dreams and what did you do? What happened? You slept. Oh, won't the lads back home be proud of you . . .
We didn't just sleep, he answered himself, just a touch defensive. They had . . . well, danced. It had been quite a satisfactory two-person Union Day party, complete with low lights, slow music and cheek-to-cheek dancing towards the end . . . after which Sarai had pointedly kissed him on the cheek and retired to her own cot.
And they had talked. They had a lot to talk about. The advantage of being madly in love with her was that they had so much of their shared childhood to talk about. The disadvantage . . . was that they had so much of their shared childhood to talk about.
'Hi,' he said.
She smiled sleepily. 'Hi,' she said.
'Time to get up.'
'Yep.'
While Sarai was washing, Jontan wandered idly into the main chamber and ordered up a breakfast sandwich from the foodfac. He munched slowly as he walked into the large dome that dominated the place, and looked around him. Apart from the lights that were set in a circle around its highest point, flush with the metal, it was featureless. Standing inside it, he could see it was actually a complete sphere – the floor was a metal mesh that cut the globe in half. It seemed there was a faint vibration, a hum, at the back of his mind, only noticeable when he thought about it. The crates were stacked inside, put there by himself and Sarai the previous day.
'Any guesses?' Sarai stood in the wide doorway.
'None,' he said. 'Is it some kind of vault?'
'I remembered something,' she said. 'Look.'
Jontan symbed with her and an image came to mind of hundreds of shiny metal balls in racked layers, one above the other, stretching into the distance. Then he noticed people moving among them and realized the balls were spheres like this. The place where this was happening must have been huge.
'What's that?' he said.
'The transference hall at the College. I saw a picture of it once.'
'Then this . . .' Jontan did a double take and looked around, as though expecting the sphere to have changed somehow. If this was like the spheres in the picture then it could only be one thing. 'But if all the transference chambers are in that room . . .'
'Yeah, I know.' Sarai shrugged. 'Maybe it's a mock-up or something. We could ask the Register.'
'What's the Register?'
Sarai looked askance at him. 'It's the intelligence in charge of the College, Jontan. It handles all the transferences and everything and nothing works without it.'
'Oh.' Jontan wasn't really listening. It had dawned on him that Sarai was standing closer to him than at any time since last night and his mind was racing with possible ways of rekindling that romantic mood.
'Impressive, Ms Killin. Tell me more about the Register.' They both jumped. Phenuel Scott stood in the entrance to the sphere, arms folded.
'Oh, um . . .' Jontan was pleased to see that Sarai's assurance fled just as fast as his own in Scott's presence. 'It's, um, like I said to Journeyman Baiget, sir. The Register handles all the details of time travel, and . . .'
'Who created it?'
'Oh, Jean Morbern, sir . . .'
'And no one can travel through time without it?'
'No, sir.' Sarai was beginning to look confident again. 'The banks were very clear on that, sir. No one can travel without the Register knowing. It makes sure no timestreams cross and no one meets themselves and—'
'So how did Morbern manage it, before he created the Register?' Scott said. Sarai went quiet, with the stricken look of an advocate who has suddenly found a gaping hole in her own case.
'I, um, don't know, sir,' she whispered.
'Nor does anyone, Ms Killin. Morbern was a genius who worked by luck and intuition and serendipity; the Home Time was an accident and Morbern destroyed all his records. Come out here, you two.'
Two more men were waiting out in the cavern. One was Asian and old – almost old enough for emigration, Jontan thought – and was dressed in casual slacks. The younger man was dressed in the yellow and red that Jontan knew was the uniform of College staff. The College man spoke first.
'Everything's ready. The charges are set so you'll be untraceable.' He handed Scott a green crystal. 'Here's the lingo. These two . . .' He looked at the journeymen.
'These two won't need it,' Scott said. 'I'll do the talking.'
'They'll need this, though,' the man said. He took a medfac from his pocket and entered commands into it. After a moment it beeped to show it had synthesized the correct drug. 'Your shots. Hold still a moment.' He walked around them all and pressed the medfac to each neck. Jontan heard it hiss and felt a slight tingle which meant he had just been injected with something, but he had no idea what. He felt slightly annoyed that someone would pump something into him and take his consent for granted, but – as he reminded himself yet again – he was a journeyman, Mr Scott was a patrician.
The younger stranger was speaking again. 'On arrival, just ask for Ms Holliss. She's in charge there and she's expecting you.'
'Excellent. Now?'
'No time like the present.'
They filed back into the dome – Jontan, Sarai, Scott and the old man, while the younger man crossed to a control panel outside. He was the last thing Jontan saw, and hearing him wish them luck was the last thing Jontan heard, before the doors swung shut. He swallowed as his ears popped with the changed pressure.
'Don't be alarmed, my dear.' The old man spoke for the first time, addressing Sarai who was looking just as unsettled as Jontan felt. He was smiling like a benevolent uncle. 'Transference involves manipulation of probability within the chamber, and for that reason no quanta of any kind can get in from the outside. We're completely isolated from the control room. Everything is powered internally.'
'Transference?' said Sarai, too surprised even to add the 'sir' which the man surely merited. So it wasn't a mock-up, it was real, but where was the Register, and why was this chamber all on its own down here, and . . .
'I told you Morbern destroyed his records, Ms Killin,' Scott said as the background hum in the chamber changed in tone, beginning to ring like a bell. 'No one said he destroyed his original equipment.'
And then complete disorientation took Jontan's mind and the walls of the chamber faded away.
Six
Last case,' said Hossein Asaldra, in a bored monotone. 'Alicia Gonzales/Zeng.'
Marje Orendal stretched her arms out and arched her back with a sense of accomplishment. One more of these and the backlog that she had been hacking through ever since taking over Li Daiho's job would be cleared. 'Let's see it,' she said.
Alicia Gonzales/Zeng had worked for the civil administration of Cuzco ecopolis. She was 27 years old and four months previously she had locked herself in her suite, refusing to come out or let anyone – including her bond partner – in. Security had cut their way in and found her catatonic, curled up in a foetal ball in the corner of her bathroom.
The case was depressingly familiar, and the equally familiar and depressing routine had swung into action. Gonzales/Zeng was remanded for psychological evaluation. Reports indicated a complete mental freeze-up and inability to face living a norma
l life in an ecopolis any longer. Enhanced social preparation hadn't worked and, not having committed any crime, she wasn't eligible for personality reinforcement. She was too young for the retirement worlds, even as an exemption case. Inevitably her case had been referred to the correspondents programme.
'We get the dregs again,' Marje said.
'Academic.' Asaldra waved the problem away, clearly impatient to get this over with. They both knew Alicia Gonzales/Zeng would be a new woman after passing through their hands. The difference was, in her previous job, Marje's responsibility had ended at this point, with the psychological profile prepared and all appropriate recommendations made. For the first time, now, she would be the one to speed the woman into her new existence.
Marje studied the specs. The woman was physically robust – correspondents were remodelled to a great extent, but it helped if they had a good frame to hang the extra work on in the first place. That wasn't really her concern. Her problem was: if this woman's social preparation had broken down once, could her mind retain the far more intense conditioning required of a correspondent? The fact that social preparation hadn't taken wasn't necessarily a bad sign – a correspondent's personality, such as it was, was practically rebuilt from the bottom up anyway, while social preparation was just a gloss laid down on top of an existing human mind. But experience had shown that the deepest layers of the human mind persisted, despite all attempts to eradicate them, and could sometimes push themselves up even through a correspondent's conditioning.
Marje felt sorry for the subject and she felt sorry for the other half of the Gonzales/Zeng partnership, the woman's husband; very likely neither would ever see the other again, and even if Alicia did make it to Recall Day at the end of the Home Time, it would be the new correspondent's personality that would be in charge. The woman had had her go at life in the Home Time and she had been found wanting, yet here was her chance to make a real contribution. The data she supplied would be snapped up by the people of the Home Time: the entertainment networks would base shows on it, fashions and trends would derive from it, society would be enriched by the understanding gained from this peek into its past. Terrible things had happened in humanity's history when people lost sight of their past – where they came from, what mistakes had been made on the way. The College, and the correspondents especially, helped prevent that happening ever again.
Marje spoke. 'Subject Alicia Gonzales/Zeng accepted for the correspondents programme. Authorization Orendal.'
'Witness Asaldra,' Asaldra said. The business was done. 'If that's all . . .'
'Apparently.' Marje herself still had to catch up with a lot of her predecessor's affairs, but the end was in sight. And she could tell from the way Asaldra was, well, hovering, in the polite way that all assistants had, that he had more in store for her. 'Well?'
'Just that the Patricians' Guild would like to send someone to introduce you to your responsibilities as a member of the patrician class. No time has been set but you have a free slot at 14:00 tomorrow.'
'Patricians' Guild?' Marje exclaimed.
Asaldra raised an eyebrow. 'Naturally. A commissioner must be a patrician.'
'I . . . I had no idea. And I'm only Acting.' Marje's thoughts were whirling. She had known she could bring something to this job, but patrician! The perks – and responsibilities – of a patrician were enormous. A vastly increased salary, which she would be expected to use to sponsor and support deserving individuals. Close social contact with the great and the good of the Home Time, an apartment like Daiho's, increased allowances of just about everything – and the expectation that she would allow the power and privilege that accrued to her to trickle down to the sponsorees she took under her wing. Being a patrician could be a full-time job in itself.
'Even so,' Asaldra said. 'What answer should I give?'
Thus bringing Marje back to the matter in hand – the Patricians' Guild. 'Delay them,' she said. 'Same excuse – I'm waiting to see if it's permanent or not. They'll understand.'
'Of course.'
The conversation had reminded Marje of a question that had occurred to her earlier.
'Hossein, I have to ask . . . um, I'm sorry, there's no easy way: is there a reason why you weren't considered for this position? You'd have been a far more logical choice than me. You were Li's assistant, for one thing.'
Asaldra smiled. 'Not a problem, Acting Commissioner. My wife works for the World Executive – she's on the Oversight Committee. There would have been a clash of interests.'
'Oh.' Marje sighed in relief. So, no hidden Asaldra skeletons – just the fact that his wife helped run the College. 'I wasn't aware. But it seems unfair. Why should I jump to the head of the patricians queue?'
'Ekat – my wife – is a patrician,' Asaldra said, 'and I'm happy to serve the College. I'll get my due reward.' He stood decisively. 'I'll be off, if I may.'
Marje waved a hand. 'Of course. Will I see you at the ball tonight?'
'We'll be there,' Asaldra said with a nod. 'My wife and I.'
'Of course. I look forward to meeting her.' Apart from anything else, Asaldra could be so unresponsive that Marje looked forward to finding out what kind of woman could put up with him, but she kept quiet about that thought.
Asaldra smiled with his mouth, but his eyes stayed the same. 'I'll see you later, then.' He bowed slightly and left.
Marje stood up and began to pace around the conference table. It wasn't much but her legs and her spine welcomed the exercise. She would have to deal with this office, she thought, looking around her. Li Daiho had decorated his office as he had decorated his Himalayan home, with books and shelves that gave it an almost dusty feel clashing with that ghastly twenty-first century carpet. There was also a real-time window giving a view of the Ross Sea outside, and on one wall an hourglass – the logo of the College. It was cleverly arranged so that the sand appeared to be rushing from the top to the bottom, yet if one looked closely it seemed the sand wasn't moving at all. And yet again, Marje knew it was moving, but too slowly for the eye to detect. The top half was almost empty and the sand would be completely gone in another 27 years. To remind the onlooker of this fact, the hourglass was superimposed over a large 2 and a 7, side by side. They too changed with each passing year, as Marje knew from previous visits to the office.
It was twenty-seven years until the end of the Home Time, but the thought had never really bothered her. By then she would be comfortably settled on a retirement world.
Enough daydreaming, back to work.
'Display incoming,' she said, and the latest batch of in-mail that was yet to be dealt with appeared in front of her as she walked. She frowned at one of the items; she had already seen, and ignored, several like it. 'Query: why do I keep getting reports from this correspondent?'
All the reports of all the correspondents had of course been logged long before she was born, but the Register only released them little by little, giving them the illusion of news just in. It was one of the quirks programmed into it by Jean Morbern, and something no one had the know-how to alter. This correspondent had begun reporting in the eleventh century and its stories had so far been of negligible interest to her.
The voice of Records spoke to her through her symb. 'Commissioner Daiho asked to be apprised of all reports coming from this particular correspondent. Do you wish to discontinue?'
'I do,' Marje said. Clearly the correspondent had had a pre-programmed disposition which had been of interest to Daiho, but she was more interested in cutting down on the workload. 'No further reports as of now. Move this one and all previous to archive.'
'So noted,' Records said.
Pre-programmed dispositions. That was something else she would have to get her head around. There was always a pile of petitions from various societies and interest groups to have one or more correspondents from the next batch to go upstream predispositioned to their own particular concern. Right now, for instance, the Technological History League of Russkaya ecopolis wanted a
correspondent who would seek out the great engineering thinkers of their day. The Association for Atonal Composition had supplied a list of musicians and composers that it wanted interviewed. And so on. Selecting which groups to favour and which not was a politically fraught occupation and Marje decided to put it off until she had more practice. Maybe she should investigate that patrician thing . . . make friends, get an idea of how it was done . . .
'Marje Orendal, may we talk?' said another symb voice.
'Commissioner Ario,' she said. 'Of course.'
The full red-outlined eidolon of Yul Ario, Commissioner for Fieldwork, appeared in front of her. 'Marje,' he said. 'We have been remiss in not welcoming you into our midst yet.' He had a wide smile that seemed quite sincere.
'I've been busy . . .' Marje said.
'Of course, of course.' Ario held out his hands. 'Anyway, welcome to the office of Commissioner. Did you know we have monthly briefings? The next is tomorrow and we'd like to see you there – you know, get to know you socially . . .'
'I'd be delighted.'
'Good, good! Tell me, how's young Hossein coming on?'
'He's doing nicely, thank you,' she said. 'You know him?'
'Oh, yes.' Ario looked surprised. 'Didn't you know? I'm his sponsor. He used to be with me in Fieldwork. Miss him, sometimes. Surprised he transferred. I was going to give him a timestream. I suppose he just wanted a change.'
'Yes,' said Marje, surprised. She hadn't known. Maybe Asaldra had felt he was going to be promoted too high. Perhaps being an assistant was simply his preferred station in life.
This conversation was going somewhere: she could feel it. Ario was the kind of man who had to spiral up through the pleasantries to get to the point.
'So, Marje. Have you been thinking about sponsorship yet?' Ario said.
'Yes, I've been thinking,' Marje said, with a sinking feeling. The patrician thing again. A good patrician was expected to take on at least twenty sponsorees, though she knew some who had something like fifty. From those to whom much was given, much was expected.
The question was, where to start?