Vigiant (17 page)

Except that they didn't gibber. Zenned-out proctors acted happy enough. Blissful even. And when they deigned to pay attention to the world, they seemed keen witted and shrewd, full of insight. Brilliant, perceptive, intuitive, wise. Most of the time, though, they were cabbages. Not catatonic or delusional—just shifted to a set of priorities that didn't mesh with the rest of us. Eating strawberries while being attacked by tigers, that sort of thing.

Or so the stories went. It'd been a long time since we'd actually seen a Zenned-out case on Demoth—the most elderly proctors had all died in the plague, and the survivors weren't old enough to have their brains go soupy.

Till now.

"So," I said, "does this mean Tic is unstable?"

Jupkur shook his head. "Not the way you're thinking. He's just dancing to a different drummer, as you humans say. Not dangerous, but not very useful either." Jupkur hopped off the edge of his desk and shook out his gliders to get them to hang more comfortably. "Have a look at this."

He turned his back to me and spread his gliders wide like a triangular sail, point-down. In a moment, printed words appeared on the surface of the membrane—an effect that freaked merry hell out of me the first time I saw it. As I've said, Ooloms don't have conscious control over their chameleon abilities; but Jupkur (at flamboyant expense) had coated the back of his gliders with pixel-nano under command of his link-seed. At parties, he could give himself moving tattoos... which he did at every opportunity. Flagrantly. And don't ask me the subject matter.

A right tease, our Jupkur.

I looked at the writing on display, as he used himself for a projection screen. "What
is
this?" I asked.

"Part of a report," he replied. "From the coordinator of the team who are scrutinizing the trade talks between us and the Freeps. That was Tic's last assignment."

I skimmed the words. About Tic. The phrase "inattention to duty" stood out... possibly because Jupkur was making it flash bright red.

"Tic never did what he was told," Jupkur said, as if I couldn't read it for myself. "The coordinator would assign him to review some paragraph overnight, and in the morning, Tic would have looked at a completely different section. Mind you, his insights were often brilliant... but that didn't make him any friends, considering that someone else was probably reviewing the same text without the same degree of inspiration. If the coordinator asked, 'What do you
want
to look at, Tic?,' he'd answer, 'I don't know yet. Whatever feels important.' Which is not exactly helpful when you're trying to keep things organized."

I nodded. People sometimes get the notion proctors are rampant individualists, boldly charting our own paths to track down corruption. But mostly, we're methodical as mustard—you only get to follow your hunches after you've done days of preliminary donkeywork.

"So Tic got booted from the trade-treaty team?" I asked.

"Depends who tells the story," Jupkur said, lowering his arms and letting the words on his back fade away. "Most of my sources think that's what happened—he got the old leave-ho. But one friend at Vigil HQ says this was Tic's own decision. A day after the killings, Tic suddenly announced he was needed in Bonaventure. And when a master proctor wants a transfer, he gets a transfer... especially when his current team won't be sorry to see him go."

"You think Tic might be coming here to investigate Chappalar's death?"

"Heaven forbid!" Jupkur said with mock horror. "That's police business, isn't it? The Vigil has no mandate for criminal investigation. But it's just possible that such a quibble slipped Tic's mind... whatever shred of mind he has left."

"Lovely," I said. "The man's senile, and you've made him my supervisor."

"He
asked
to be your supervisor. And how could we say no to a master proctor?" Jupkur grinned. "Besides, what's he going to do, Faye? How much trouble can you get into in placid little Bonaventure?"

"Chappalar got murdered," I said.

"Point taken," Jupkur admitted. "But Chappalar didn't actually get himself in trouble. He was a victim of circumstance, nothing more. Someone decided to kill proctors because they were proctors. It's a global matter, Faye, and whatever Tic does, how can it make you more of a target than you already are?"

"Gee thanks," I muttered.

Jupkur waved his hand airily. "You're a target, I'm a target, he, she, and it are targets. Surely you don't think anyone is singling you out, Faye? This is political, not personal. Some weak-minded local has obviously bought into the Freep propaganda that the Vigil is undemocratic... we're a wicked unelected body of petty dictators, who do nothing but interfere with free representation. Heaven knows, the Freeps have been harping on that theme ever since we started getting under their skin at the trade talks. So some
tico
crackpot decides, yes proctors are Evil Personified and must be stopped. In time, the police will catch the culprit; I hope before another attack. But in the meantime, I don't intend to change the way I do my duty. Do you?"

"Of course not," I said. "I'm just worried about Tic."

"Don't be. At worst, his mind wanders; at best, he's still a master proctor. Tic could teach you a lot.
And I'm sure you can help him too."

Jupkur freighted those last words deep with meaning; and I caught the hint. A senile old fart just got himself posted to Bonaventure, and someone had to baby-sit him. Surprise, surprise, the senior proctors sloughed off the job on junior me. Crap flows downhill.

"All right," I said, trying to keep the grumbles out of my voice. "Tic and I are a team. Anything else you want to tell me?"

"Just one thing." Jupkur—Jupkur of the thousand-and-one smirks—suddenly lowered his gaze to the floor, abashed. "Tic was chief scrutineer over the Global Health Agency. During the plague." Oh. Ouch.

"No one blames him for anything," Jupkur went on hurriedly, "He demanded a review when it was all over, and the tribunal absolved him of all culpability. Actually, they wanted to give Tic a commendation for swift and decisive action. Things would have been even worse if he hadn't driven the government to move quickly. But Tic didn't want a gold medal—he wanted to do penance for all the deaths that happened on his watch. People say he hoped the review panel would crucify him: expel him from the Vigil, rip the link-seed out of his head. When they exonerated him instead, it sent him into a screaming fit, swearing he'd kill himself."

Jupkur shrugged. "The only problem was, Tic had caught the paralysis like everybody else, and couldn't hold a knife to slash his wrists. The disease clung on too—kept him immobile twice as long as anyone else. Psychosomatic, of course: guilt kept him numb months after the microbes were gone. So the emotional therapists went to work, and by the time he could move again, he was past the suicidal stage. Just not past the self-recrimination. If I were you, I wouldn't mention the plague in casual discussion."

"Jupkur," I groaned, "I'm Henry Smallwood's daughter. Ooloms still stop me on the street to shake my hand. The subject is going to come up."

"Don't
you
bring it up," Jupkur said. "Tic might take it the wrong way. As if you're boasting that your father had to clean up Tic's mess."

"I never boast about my father," I told him. Which shouldn't have been true, but was.

When I got to my office, Tic was there: standing by the window, solemnly pushing his hand into the clear membrane then pulling it back, listening to the sucking sound.

Ssss-pop. Ssss-pop. Sssssssssssss-pop.

His face had a look of fierce concentration, as if this was a momentous assignment demanding his full attention. No smile or frown: nothing but focus. He reminded me of Barrett's favorite basset hound, an old frump of a dog who would stare worriedly at a rubber ball for hours, wondering if maybe—just maybe—the ball could be used as a toy.

"Hello," I said. "Can I help you?"

"No," he replied, "I'm doing excellently on my own."

Sssss-pop. Sssssssssss-pop. Ss-pop.

"What
are
you doing?" I finally asked.

"Playing with the nanites. Simple souls—they just love being teased. Can't get enough of it."

My heart skipped a beat.
No, no, no,
I thought quick-hop,
nanites don't have souls.
Every last one of the little buggers was dumb as earwax. Put a billion together and the most you got was an
idiot savant
window that could impersonate jelly. Nanites definitely did not have personalities or... or...

Some killjoy part of my brain wouldn't repress what happened the night before—how the nanites on the chair whimpered and turned tail when I gave them a dirty look.

"You think the nanites enjoy what you're doing?" I asked.

"They like the attention," Tic said. He threw me a glance over his shoulder. "Whenever I take a new post, I make sure to befriend the local nanites. They're always so desperately lonely. Taken for granted. No one ever gives a thought for their feelings." Ssssss-pop. "You, for example. This is your office, and they tell me you haven't even introduced yourself."

"I'm just new," I found myself saying. "I only got the office a few days ago, and I've been busy ever since."

"You aren't busy now."

Tic gave a tiny jerk of his head toward the window—the sort of hinting gesture that people pretend is so subtle no one else will notice. Reluctant as a rabbit, I crossed the room. Tic bobbed his head at the rightmost window. "Those fellows have been asking especially about you." I thought,
Maybe this is a Vigil initiation prank. A stunt to make the new kid embarrass herself. Jupkur sets me up to think Tic is a total loon, and Tic gets me to do something witless just to humor him. Soon, all the other proctors will jump out laughing. Or else Tic is a total loon. Or else...
no, I didn't want to think about that. Placing my hand against the glassy un-glass window, I said, "Hi, guys. I'm Faye. You'll be seeing a lot of me now, sitting over in that desk."

The membrane yielded a titch under my palm, the solid surface going oozy. I expected that. I did
not
expect the gentle backsurge that came straightaway after... a cool jelly hand twining its fingers with mine. At the same instant, my brain bloomed up with a clear mental image of a million microscopic puppies licking my skin—an image superimposed over my real senses like a VR template.

"Jesus Christ!" I cried, yanking my hand back. It gave a thunderous pop as it came free.

"Good noise," Tic said. "Excellent volume. Can I hear it again?"

"No!" I snapped. "I thought... I thought I saw... I thought I felt..."

"Puppies?" Tic asked. "They wanted it to be a pleasant experience for you. You don't like dogs?"

"That was..." I gasped. "You mean the nanites..."

"Projected the image to say hello. They meant well, Smallwood. Now they're worried they've upset you."

"How could they project an image?"

Tic reached out a bony finger and tapped my forehead. "You're wired in now. Linked to the digital oneness. Like the nanites."

"But they're not intelligent!"

"Not very," Tic agreed. "But they're
connected.
They asked the world-soul to greet you on their behalf; the world-soul was the one who came up with puppies."

I felt my gorge rise... whatever a gorge is. "The world-soul projected something into my brain? Without my permission?"

"In any sensible society, saying hello to people gives them permission to say hello back."

"They aren't people, they're nanites!"

"Yes... and soon they'll be cranky little nanites if you don't say how much you appreciate their greeting. Small brains. Short tempers. Easily hurt feelings." Tic gestured toward the window. "Go on. You don't want to get on their bad side. Otherwise, the next time you run through a pane of glass, they'll deliberately muss your hair."

I stared at him. Tic had such a bland deadpan expression—a perfect poker face. (If frumpy old basset hounds could play poker.) For all I could tell, there wasn't an ounce of jokery in him.

Sigh.

Here's the thing: I didn't want to find out windows had easily hurt feelings. I preferred that my worldview didn't include opinionated nanotech. But... link-seed, Vigil, blah-blah-blah. You know the song, sing along with the chorus—Faye can't hide from the truth.

I reached toward the window again. Only one hand. The featheriest touch I could manage. A cool jelly palm made contact with mine, just as hesitant as me. Into my skull came the feeling of shyness—not my own, someone else's, a million someone elses worried they'd made some social gaffe.
It's all right,
I thought, projecting my words at the un-glass,
I'm just jumpy is all.
I forced my palm to linger an extra second, then pulled back, feeling the jelly hand slip away.

Ssssssss. A pop as soft as a soap bubble.

"An adequate start," Tic said. "Just don't ignore them from now on."

"I never knew they... who programmed them for emotions?"

Tic leaned toward me and whispered, "Nanites only have two programmed emotions: boredom and involvement. A single bit-switch that tells them they enjoy doing their job. 'Oh joy, we get to work for big people!' " He smiled fondly. "But when the nanites communicate with you through the world-soul, the world-soul likes to add more emotional color. Truth is, getting to know your local nanites is mostly just a way to show the world-soul you're machine-friendly. Like playing with a woman's children to win the mother's heart. You
definitely
want to stay on the world-soul's good side—you're a data-based organism now." He lowered his voice even more. "The world-soul likes to be called
Xé."

I fair gulped at that one. Xé (pronounced Chay) was a female deity from the Ooloms' ancient past, dating back millennia to the Divian homeworld... comparable in time and sentiment to the Greek goddess Gaia. The Earth Mother. As I've said I didn't understand much about Oolom religions, but I was sure they all considered Xé mythical. A pretty legend, a gem of a metaphor, but definitely fictitious.

"Are you saying Xé is real?" I whispered.