Vigiant (18 page)

Tic stared at me scornfully. "It's the world-soul, Smallwood. An artificial intelligence distributed over a million different machines. It likes the name Xé, but even Xé knows it's not Xé. Are all new proctors as gullible as you?"

"I'm not gullible," I grumped, "I'm just surprised the world-soul is... conscious. No one ever told me—"

"Xé's picky in choosing friends," Tic said. "Who's let in on the secret. Who gets shut out. If you remember this conversation tomorrow, feel honored."

"You mean the world-soul could wipe—"

"Shh." Tic put a scaly finger to my lips. "Wisdom doesn't upset itself over something that might not happen."

Wisdom can go poke a porcupine,
I thought. A self-aware AI with delusions of godhood had its fingers inside my cranium; and now I found that if Xé didn't like me, it could wipe away all recollection of the past five minutes. I guess the conversation would never shift from short-term to long-term memory—thanks to an AI mucking with my mind.

And the entire Vigil was linked to
that!

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I'd found a grand old way to mess myself up this time.

Unless Tic was lying. Out-and-out delusional. I couldn't deny there was something queer about the windows, the nanites and all... but this talk of Xé could just be an old loon's demented concoction. Imagining he was the world-soul's bosom buddy, when it was just an egoless congregation of computers, clean devoid of will.

Which was more disturbing? That my new supervisor might be psychotic? Or that he might be right?

Tic whispered, "Bye-bye," to the window, and patted the membrane a last time before turning to me. "Well, Smallwood. Down to business. I assume you've heard I'm your supervisor?"

"Yes."

"And you've also heard I'm a Zenned-out dotard with brains of sponge pudding?"

"Gossip has reached my ears," I said.

"All of it true," Tic replied, "except the parts that aren't. Or the parts that are both true and untrue." He gave me a look. "I just said that last so I'd sound more Zen. Not that I know much about human religions, but mystics the world over love paradox. Which is to say they hate reductivist binary logic. Am I rambling?"

"You're showing off," I told him. "Indulging yourself to make me think you're
really crazy."

He smiled. "Very shrewd, Smallwood. You're smart as well as wide. But God Almighty, you
are
wide. Do you have to go through doors sideways?"

"No," I said. "And I'm married."

"With shoulders like that, no wonder. But don't mind me—us old codgers always use sexual harassment to put women at their ease. People think it's so adorable, we can get away with murder. And speaking of murder, what did you say that got Chappalar killed?"

The question caught me flat-footed. Ever adept with brilliant repartee, I said, "Huh?"

"Chappalar," Tic repeated. "We were both at a party for him the other day. Quiet fellow—never spoke a word through the whole ceremony. And speaking of speaking, whom did you tell? That you intended to visit Pump Station 3." Tic leaned his hangdog face toward mine. "Who knew you'd be there?"

"Why are you asking?" I said. "Do you think you're investigating Chappalar's murder?"

Tic put on his scornful look again. "That's police business, Smallwood. Well outside the Vigil's authority."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Prematurely.

"My assignment," Tic went on, "is to assume Proctor Chappalar's duties. Which makes me your supervisor. I've reviewed your schedule, and you have no current commitments, correct? City council withdrew the water-treatment bill you were scrutinizing?"

I nodded.

"Then you need a new project to keep you busy," Tic said. "Proctor Smallwood, I assign you to scrutinize activities of the Bonaventure Civilian Protection Office. That's undeniably within the mandate of this Vigil branch."

No question, that. We were authorized to watchdog the local cops; in fact, we were legally
required
to give them a look-see from time to time.

"So," Tic said, "keep an eye open for all the usual things. Corruption. Slack work habits. Pilfering office supplies. What?" He cocked his ear toward the window. "Oh." He turned back to me. "Especially be on the lookout for people who don't wash their hands before entering the nanotech lab. Foul old bastards."

"Do the Bonaventure police
have
a nanotech lab?" I asked.

"Don't ask me—you're the one who's scrutinizing them. Far be it from me to tell you what to do." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Now here's what I want you to do. You're clearly at a total loss for direction, so why not monitor a representative criminal case currently being investigated?"

"Did you have something particular in mind?"

"We'll pick a case at random. Oh. Here's one." He reached onto my desk where there was a single file packet stamped with the Bonaventure police crest. I hadn't put the file there. Tic read the label on the packet and said, "This will do splendidly. The Chappalar murder investigation. Proctor Smallwood, you will scrutinize the police handling of this case to the best of your abilities. I, of course, will accompany you to provide the seasoned voice of experience."

He waited for me to answer. I gave a slight nod. Precious good thing we weren't overstepping our authority by intruding into police business.

Tic tossed the file onto my desk. "You'll want to review the police report as soon as possible," he said. "When you do, you'll see that those boobies bungled the interrogation of their prime witness. A human woman—one Faye Smallwood. You may have heard of her. The detectives downloaded what she saw at the murder scene and assumed it was all she knew. Can't imagine why they mollycoddled her. Of course she had political connections, so perhaps she pulled some strings down at city hall."

I glared at him. Tic grinned. "Or else," he said, "she started babbling about peacock thingies, and they thought she was a total loon."

"Did they call me that in the police report?" I asked, reaching for the file.

"Of course not," Tic replied, moving the file farther away from me. "Not in so many words. At any rate, the police believe in peacock thingies now. To a modest degree. Considering how the navy went berserk and kidnapped you, the constabulary has decided you weren't completely crazy, vis-à-vis mysterious tubes of light. Which is too bad—it's high time I worked with someone more
tico
than me."

I gave him a long hard look. "I'm strongly beginning to suspect you aren't
tico
at all."

Tic looked offended. "Ms. Smallwood," he said, "I'm
tico
as a
terrijent...
which is a little brown beetle not noted for odd behavior, but it was the first alliteration that came to mind. More to the point, I am by far the oldest proctor in the entire Vigil. If I'm not approaching a state of Zen by now,
there must be something wrong with me.
Do you understand? In the normal life cycle of proctors, I'm at a point where I should be One with the universe. Or at most 1.0001. I should be asymptotic to apotheosis. Holding regular conversations with the major deities. Feeling the infinitesimal flux of the cosmological constant. Speaking the mystic language of the wind. If I'm not ecstatically demented with otherworldly bliss, Smallwood, a good many people will lose their faith that there
is
such a thing as Zenning out. Including myself; and I hate disappointing poor crazy old men."

Despite the intensity of his words, he'd spoken with precious little emotion. Precious little emotion you could identify anyway. Was he joking at his own expense? Confiding a deep dark secret? Speaking straight from the heart? "Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Why not?" he replied. "When it crosses my mind to do something, I don't ask why, I ask why not. And usually there's no reason not to, so I just go ahead." He paused, then added, "It's given me the strangest collection of hats."

I stared at him a moment, then said, "You're
tico
enough for me. Don't lose faith in that Zenning-out business."

He smiled. "What a sweet girl. Now let's talk about Chappalar's death."

Outside the window, the shadow of our tree stretched off on a diagonal, reaching far across the rooftops as the sun set behind us. The street straight below had already gone dark enough for safety lights to be turning themselves on: children skipping past in jackets that shone bright orange so they couldn't be missed; adults with coats phosphorescing in more prudish colors, or the occasional curmudgeon with no lights at all—clods who preferred to get run down in traffic rather than stand out in the darkness. ("What if someone's following me?" I once heard a man say. "Why wear clothes that make me an easy target?" As if snipers were a daily danger and careless drivers no trouble at all.)

Tic picked up the police file packet from my desk and idly turned it over in his fingers. "Chappalar's death," he said again. "The police neglected a vital line of questioning, and as discriminating proctors we should consider whether to draw this to their attention." He glanced up at me; the lowering dark made his face even pouchier. "Who knew where you and Chappalar would be?"

I'd barely registered his question the first time he asked it. Now it settled down more solid in my mind... and I realized Tic had hit on a serious point. The androids struck the pump station
before
Chappalar and I arrived; they'd taken out all the staff by the time we showed up.

So how did they know where we'd be?

We hadn't given the station any advance notice of our visit. Even Chappalar and I didn't know very far ahead—we'd only decided the previous evening, just before leaving our office for the night.

So who
did
know where we were going?

None of the other proctors, that was sure. Chappalar and I headed out together, without talking to anybody else. And we hadn't logged our intentions with the office computer—Chappalar had a case of the stubborns about that, always wanting to leave things open so he could change his mind on the spur of the moment.

So who knew? Only the people Chappalar and I might have talked to after work.

I'd told my family I was going out on a scrutiny—the first of my career, and the whole house was excited. But I'd made a joke of teasing them, keeping it a big secret: can't tell, Vigil business, might be a bust-their-balls raid that'll hit all the broadcasts. I'd held out till little Livvy's bedtime, when I whispered in her ear I was just going to a water-treatment plant; she proudly-loudly announced the news to everyone else, they laughed, and that was that.

"As far as I can remember," I told Tic, "I never mentioned Pump Station 3 to anyone. I just said I was going to a water-treatment plant. Five of those in the city."

"As far as you can remember?" A squidge of emotion flickered across his face; but thanks to those blasted goggles, I couldn't tell which emotion it was. "Ms. Smallwood... you realize your link-seed can delve into—"

"I know," I interrupted. "They explained at
müshor."

The same way my link-seed could package up memories for the police, it could rummage through my mind for forgotten minutiae stashed below the conscious threshold. The process wasn't perfect—our brains are lazy buggers who adjust memories for easy storage, throwing away some details and approximating others with images that are already in our mental cupboards. Still and all, the night in question was recent enough that I shouldn't find too much distortion.

"It's rather imperative for us to be sure on this," Tic said. "If you explicitly told anyone you were going to Pump Station 3..."

"Yes!" I snapped, "I know it's important!"

He peered at me owlishly through his shaded goggles. Then he asked, "Stick or bag?"

"Excuse me?"

"When I was a dewy-eyed novice," he said, "my mentors took the direct approach in helping me deal with my fears. Whenever I hesitated to use my link-seed, they either hit me with a stick or put a bag over my head. I hated the bag most, so that's what they usually used." He sighed dramatically. "Such barbaric days—I swore I'd be more enlightened. By which I mean I'm giving you the choice. Stick or bag?"

I boggled at him, wondering if this was just a joke. So far as I could see, he didn't have either a stick or bag... but then, he wore the usual Oolom tote pack, a flat ort-skin pouch positioned at groin level, held in place with straps up around the neck and down to the ankles. The pack was just big enough to hold some escrima rods, and a sack or two.

Even as I watched, his hand drifted down toward the tote pack's zip-mouth.

"No stick, no bag," I said jump-quickly. "I'll do this. Just give me time."

"At your convenience." Tic folded his hands in front of him: the picture of a man willing to wait.

Waiting for me to invoke my link-seed demon. To tweak fate's nose by hooking up again.

Look. This is getting stale for me too—the constant whining about my link, "Oh, woe, what if my brain goes splat?" You must be saying, "Snap out of it, honey. The seed is a gift, not a curse. And anyway, the thing is so thoroughly twined around your neurons, you have no choice but to live with it."

The same words I kept saying to myself.

I hated the fear. It was so daft
childish
—to train seven whole years, then melt into drippy dread when I finally got what I wanted.

Crazy. Witless. Typical Faye.

But you don't want me moaning how screwed up I was. Either you're sick of that too, or you don't believe me. Just a middle-class drama queen, blathering about her dodgy past when she seems pretty damned functional. Good health... addiction-free... loving family... not overly crippled by depression, neurosis or psychosis. Not even ugly with freckles anymore. Stop complaining, bitch.

Fair enough.

But hating the way you get the mopes doesn't make it easier to step clear of the past. Or the present. Or the future when it scares the bejeezus out of you.

Fear is fear. Pain is pain. Even when you know you're being boring.

It bored me too. Frustrated me. I kept telling myself, "Get over it!"