[ 3.1 ]
Today, there is a painting at the front of the classroom.
At first glance, the painting appears to be a simple landscape, over half of its massive six by twelve foot canvas dedicated to vast fields and rising hills, nestled in the gloom. But amidst the fortress ruins at the bottom right-hand corner, two prominent figures are illuminated by a splash of sunrise, capturing the viewer’s eye: a dark-skinned man, dressed in drab, early 21st century western fashion, and a bearded man, wearing loose, traditional perahan tunban.
They are embracing in front of a sandali, where they have been drinking tea. Their limbs are carefully rendered, each turn of the wrist and bend of the finger full of implication and meaning. The western man seems resolute; the bearded man’s expression carries grief or rage, depending on who you ask. Behind them, nestled in the dark, stand other figures; some pleased, some disappointed, some ambivalent.
On the floor, a glass teacup, shattered.
When Serafin arrives, he can’t help but take a moment to admire the work — the vigorous chiaroscuro brush-strokes, dashed off with nearly cavalier abandon, yet still perfectly capturing the morning glow. And all of this accomplished in the time before mind-displays and digi-palettes!
But the pleasure of his aesthetic meditations recedes when he notices the Interfaith kids, huddled together in sync, hands on each other’s shoulders. Here they are, in the presence of one of the finest twenty-first century masterpieces, as instantly recognizable as any work by Trumbull or Goya or Picasso, and they’re too busy muttering to themselves in the corner to notice.
But it’s not their fault, is it? It hasn’t been an easy century for the arts, nor art education. The painting’s complexity and nuance have been crushed by chronological distance and quotidian dilution; it has been referenced so often its meaning in the public consciousness has faded like oils on a neglected canvas.
But perhaps Serafin can change that, today.
He tosses his fad on the desk to make a little noise, to let them know he’s arrived, then settles in and begins reviewing the study logs for the past week. Flow states look good, except for Wainwright and Breeze (no surprise there). He briefly considers a blackout quiz to make sure everyone’s on track, but they’re running a little behind after last week’s Persian debate, and he’d prefer to avoid getting docked; best to press on and try to finish the module on schedule.
In the beginning, Serafin struggled somewhat to find a balance between teaching, monitoring, and getting back up to speed on modern history. Over time, he’s become more comfortable shifting back and forth between asking questions, checking student diagnostics, and occasionally shifting direction when Preception suggests there’s some concepts the students are struggling to understand.
When the chime sounds, Serafin looks up; most of the students are ready to go, but the Interfaith kids are still in the corner, still lost in prayer.
He glances at Norah, nods toward them — would you mind? — but she can offer only a stricken, panicked expression. No great surprise, really.
Serafin clears his throat. The praying continues.
He’s being snubbed. Slighted. He slides open the roster, to see who’s responsible.
Wainwright and Breeze are in the huddle, of course, along with the three Martian legacies. Serafin can see Mendelson — which makes sense, given his father is the head of Campus Christian Ministry; Doug Bhaird and his big ears are also visible, he’s the Standard sponsor boy who makes up for his status anxiety with an excess of enthusiasm for whatever latest idiocy his friends have managed to devise.
But in the center of the map, the likely culprits: Benjamin Masri and Chip Hartshorne.
Serafin is tempted to simply begin the seminar, let them keep going, see how far they’ll take it. But the rest of the students are growing uncomfortable, so in the interests of maintaining decorum, he taps his throat for broadcomms.
“GENTLEMEN, IF YOU’RE QUITE FINISHED COMMUNING WITH THE DIVINE, I’M AFRAID THERE ARE MORE MUNDANE MATTERS THAT REQUIRE YOUR ATTENTION.”
That breaks the spell; they close out with the usual Interfaith “may the blessings of the one true God be upon you.”
Serafin leans back, doing his best to appear tolerant rather than irritated as they shuffle back to the forum table. Benjamin Masri, to his credit, appears somewhat sheepish; Chip Hartshorne, the shaqi little brat, elects to not only make eye contact but even has the audacity to smile as he takes his seat.
“Apologies, Interlocutor Serafin,” Chip says. “We got caught up in the spirit.”
“Crowns on, Mister Hartshorne.”
Chip picks up his headset and places it on his head with sardonic magisterial reverence; soon the alphas and thetas are dancing on the Preception roster next to his name, all signals pointing to a young mind eager to receive wisdom.
Serafin doesn’t believe it for a second.
“So, let’s review,” says Serafin, motioning toward the semester’s outline. “In the main course, you’ve seen the Capitalist governments fall increasingly on the back-foot. There’s the growing instability in the United Kingdom, the Gaelic Crisis; in Europe, the occupation of West Germany — and in the United States, we’re only a few years out from the Pentagon Coup, the greatest American political crisis since the Civil War. In space, the russkiye continue to dominate lunar colonization and have already started establishing preliminary colonization infrastructure on Mars. So it is not an exaggeration, I think, to suggest the new millennium began with a rather bold shade of Red.
“But as is often the case with empires, the Soviet machine was not quite as strong and unstoppable as it might appear at first glance. In this seminar, we’ve looked at their struggles with force projection during the Soviet-Persian War, and how that conflict fed into the increasing domestic troubles. Today, we’re going to start tying all of these strands together, and see how the Capitalists got back into their fight, thanks to the Liberation of Afghanistan — which is why I thought it would be appropriate to begin with a brief study of the painting behind me… which I’m sure everyone here is familiar with?”
“First Light in the Pandsher Valley,” says Lucas Guerrero.
“Very good. Anybody know who painted it?”
“It’s a Lartisien,” says Bhaird. “Late period.”
“Correct! And does anyone know what’s special about this particular copy?”
Silence and stares.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Serafin says, stepping aside so everyone can get a good look. “This actually isn’t a copy. This is the original; I asked Archives to bring it up. In fact, I believe this is the only extant Lartisien outside of Earth-space; it’s on its way to its new permanent home in the Schulman Gallery. You can come up and take a closer look, if you like.”
Serafin is a permutationist, but he knows Earthers are obsessed with originals, constantly fussing over provenance and authenticity. His gambit appears successful: the students rise from their seats and gather around to murmur and appreciate ‘the real deal.’
“So, I’m sure you’re all familiar with the popular interpretation of First Light,” says Serafin, as they ogle. “It depicts the beginning of the United Alliance; the western powers coming to the aid of their eastern brothers and helping them to overthrow their Communist oppressors, and so on and so forth. But I thought we might try to go past this surface reading, and look at what else the artist might have been trying to express with this piece. Mister Harman, what can you tell us about the subjects of this painting?”
“They’re politicians, right?” says one of the Martians, the one with the heavy eyebrows and nervous smile that only shows his gums and upper teeth. “It’s an American legislator meeting with the president of Afghanistan.”
“Contact, but no seal,” says Serafin. “The American — Omar Murphy — did serve as a member of the United States Congress, but he was only a corporator at the time. And the other gentleman is Abdul Durrani — it was actually his brother, Rahim, who eventually became the first president of free Afghanistan. So we have our American, and we have our afghani. But there are more men in the painting, are there not?”
Serafin pulls up his visualizer and highlights the other figures. “One, two, yes? Any idea who they are? No? Well, let’s take a closer look. The first man in the shadows, what can we see about him?”
“He has a beard!” says Mendelson, enthusiastic and unhelpful as always.
“He’s holding a rifle,” says one of the Mars kids.
“He’s… missing a leg,” says Wainwright.
“Anything else?” Serafin asks.
“He’s wearing a kolah namadi,” one of the remotes says.
“Very good!” Serafin says. “So let’s try to piece this together. We know one of his limbs has been amputated, we know he’s got a modified M16 rifle, and we’ve got a hat, which, while quite dapper, is somewhat unusual for the region. What might we conclude?”
“He’s a veteran.”
“Maybe he’s from Iran?” Benjamin Masri suggests.
“That would make sense,” Serafin says. “Lartisien is reminding us of the role that refugees and expatriates played in the Liberation. This gentleman likely doesn’t represent anyone specific, but rather a group: by the end of the war, millions of Iranian refugees were living in Afghanistan. They were alternately ignored and abused by the state, but they had two major assets: a profound hatred of the Soviet Union, and a deep, intimate familiarity with Soviet tactics.”
“Why would the Soviets allow them to conspire like that?” asks Mendelson. “I mean, for that matter, why let them in at all?”
“Good question.” (It’s not, but he’s trying to keep Mendelson engaged.) He turns to the rest of the class. “Why do we think that might be?”
“It might have been to their benefit during the war with Iran,” one of the remotes suggests. “They can’t fight if they’re not around to fight it.”
“That’s certainly one reason. Any others?”
“They didn’t have a choice,” Masri suggests.
“Elaborate.”
Masri shrugs. “It’s the turn of the millennium, right? The governments wouldn’t have good enough tech.”
“They had planes and satellites, didn’t they?” Wainwright protests.
“Sure,” says Serafin, “but remember: back then, every plane needed a pilot. And as far as satellites went… you’ve probably got more powerful computers embedded in your shoes than the computers they put into their satellites back then. This is before blanks, before Seldon engines, before BCI chips, before identi-scans. While nation-states took the idea of borders quite seriously, there were very real practical limitations in maintaining said borders. And even today, the tracking of populations is no simple matter — consider the chaos that has come with the Iblis Crisis, for example.
“But what about this fellow here, at the doorway? He seems rather sinister, doesn’t he? Are there any clues here to his identity that we can see?”
The students throw out some bad guesses.
“Alright,” says Serafin. “Let’s look at what he’s doing. He seems to be resting his hand on the head of this furry little fellow, yes? Any idea what animal this is?”
“A goat!” says Breeze.
“It’s a markhor,” says Chip, bored. “National animal of Pakistan.”
Serafin glances at the monitor — Chip’s out of sync again, but even out of sync, he’s got a better grasp of the material than everyone else.
“The land of the pure, yes,” says Serafin, “but there’s one more crucial detail here.” Serafin taps at the mouth of the markhor.
“What’s it eating?”
“Is that a snake?”
“That it is,” Serafin pulls up a stylized symbol: a fearsome markhor skull with a dead snake in its mouth underneath the moon and crescent. “This is the logo of the Pakistani intelligence agency, Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence he happens to be standing at the threshold, either — we just talked about the Iranian border, but the border to Pakistan also played a pivotal role in the Liberation.”
Serafin removes the highlight from the painting, then takes headshots of each figure, moving them to the center of the room.
“Each of these figures will play a pivotal role in the drama we’ll be covering over the next few weeks. But there are others we need to bring onto the stage as well, like Bacha Karmal, and of course Governor Kozlov, who I’m sure you’re all familiar with. Now, some historians mark the 2005 Desecration of the Grand Mosque as the beginning of the Liberation, but I would actually go back a little further, to the 2004 elections—”
“Hold on, sir,” Benjamin Masri says, raising his hand.
“Yes, Mister Masri?”
“What about the other man?”
“What other man?”
Benjamin gestures toward the edge of the tableau, toward a few small streaks of paint, in the soft, murky gloom. “Right there.”
“Ah, well spotted!” Serafin says. “Most reproductions focus only on the meeting, which tends to crop this fellow out — and he’s too small to make out when you step back to view the gestalt. He tends to be known as the Latecomer. Would anyone care to guess his identity?”
“Perhaps he’s death?” suggests the pug-nosed Martian.
“Or someone who died,” says Harman.
“Maybe it’s not even a man!” Bhaird says. “Perhaps it’s a commentary on how women are pushed into the shadows in these conflicts.”
“I heard it was Lartisien himself,” says Wainwright. “That he was placing himself as a witness to what was happening.”
“It’s an optical illusion,” scoffs Hartshorne. “There’s nothing there.”
“All valid answers,” Serafin says. “But unfortunately, we have no way of knowing. Lartisien’s notes and preliminary sketches have been lost, and this is one of the rare pieces he never discussed publicly. This was a deeply personal piece to him; his father graduated from Kabul University, and most of his mother’s family was killed in the conflict. Whatever the truth of the Latecomer is, it’s a valuable reminder to look closely, think carefully, and most critically — to make peace with uncertainty.”
Serafin lets that hang for a moment. The students examine the painting closely, searching for more secrets. Lartisien’s masterpiece feels eerie now, perhaps even haunted. There are a hundred other details he could point out, but there’s simply no time.
“Getting back to the elections,” says Serafin. “The Azadi Party overperformed. But what was it about their victory, specifically, that infuriated Moscow? You all reviewed their party platform last night. Any guesses?”
Plenty of guesses, but nobody gets it. Serafin’s not surprised — most people overlooked it at the time, as well.
“I would say, ultimately, that it all comes down to mining. The Azadi Party won popular support because they promised to fight unemployment; they promised more jobs in a variety of sectors: mining, processing, engineering, resource, transportation, you name it. There were a lot of jobs like that in Afghanistan at the time, but most were going to foreign workers. So what could they do?
“Well, one of the other planks of the Azadi Party platform — largely ignored during the election — was a call to renegotiate existing resource concession contracts, which were finally beginning to expire. Contracts for uranium. Lithium. Gold. Neodymium. Lanthanides — everything a growing post-terrestrial empire needs to grow up big and strong. All well and good, and all within their legal means — but the Soviets viewed it not only as an insult, and a threat to vital strategic supply chain. So they reacted — overreacted, really. Which would backfire rather horribly, ultimately, since supply chains also tend to fare rather poorly in the midst of a revolution…”
Chip Hartshorne shifts in his chair, stretching and covering his mouth; the stifling somehow more insulting than a proper yawn.
After his morning seminar, Serafin submits himself to his third interview of the month, async with some Venturist pundit out of the Belt. While there have only been a handful of requests from the major certifieds, a lot of smaller shows are clamoring to have him on.
The interview proves to be a tedious, fawning affair, consisting largely of the host alternating between complimenting Serafin, complimenting himself, and describing in great detail the the latest developments in local colony politics before asking Serafin’s opinion. Serafin’s responses are diplomatic and eloquent — he’s put in the proper training since the Oberoi, determined to avoid any contretemps similar to the Hardlight appearance — but ultimately every answer is a variation on “That sounds concerning” and “I really couldn’t say.” Despite this, the pundit seems delighted. “We’ve got to have you back soon!”
Certainly not how Serafin would prefer to spend his time, but orders are orders.
With that chore complete, Serafin walks through Odom Hall to the other side of the ring, then makes his way to Storage, the heart of the History department. The entire section is crammed full of artifacts deemed important enough to send into space in the unlikely event that Earth is wiped out by some calamity — but not so important that their loss would be devastating should their new home meets an unfortunate (and far more likely) end. It’s a tightly packed treasure trove of seventh century Middle Eastern stelae, scrolls, and reliquaries, which Serafin would love to examine and study, if he only had the time.
Heading around the obelisk, Serafin climbs down the ladder into the small, cramped chain of mod-pods, known as the Warrens, the only space reserved for real, human historians. It’s cramped down here — so cramped, in fact, that they have to hold department meetings elsewhere. Part of the problem, of course, is that it’s been crammed full of books — some strapped to shelves, some in crates, some in stacks — but every single one is the property of Christopher Fyfe, who is currently seated at the dining table, holding court.
“Jim!” Fyfe says, as though he’s surprised to see Serafin still on board. “Good of you to join us! I rejoice to see that such a prominent media figure as yourself can can still make time for us humble academicis!”
Serafin’s not sure if these jibes are born of Fyfe’s jealousy or some principled stand against media attention. Either way, Serafin has long since given up on clever responses, so he simply grunts before retrieving his leftover manakeesh from the refrigerator.
“Did you hear about Galloway?” asks Benton Cordwainer.
“No. What about him?”
“He called an emergency session of the board of trustees last night,” Fyfe’s assistant volunteers. “Tried to declare a vote of no confidence in Pace.”
Serafin scowls. “Rotten move.” Sidney Pace is the department chair, although he’s currently on sabbatical, receiving a series of age reversal treatments on Shepard; it will be several more months before the doctors know if they’re taking effect.
“Made a hash of the notifications, though,” says Cordwainer, through a mouthful of freeze-dried fruit crisps. “Enough opposing votes logged on, so his whole rotten scheme fell apart. He threw quite the tantrum afterward. A rather shameful display!”
He offers some crisps to Serafin, seems irritated when Serafin accepts.
“Isn’t Galloway running War Tech these days?” Serafin asks. “They’re the kings of the campus, and now they’ve got an entire solar system full of hardware to pick through. Why bother hassling us?”
“Ideological, it is,” says Fyfe, with an isn’t it obvious wave that sends a bit of protein paste sailing from his spoon. “Man’s a prag.”
“A prag?” says Serafin. “They were on their last legs when I was an undergrad. I’d have thought they’d have gone extinct by now.”
“The war’s been good for them,” says Cordwainer gloomily.
“Indeed. ‘Of what use are the Literae Humaniores in the face of the machine armageddon,’ and all that rot,” says Fyfe. “Truly, Mister Serafin, you should really be paying more attention — if Galloway, he’s like as not to break off the entire department, and fire it off into the sun! Possibly with us inside!”
“Well, I’m happy to show my support,” says Serafin. “But I’m not much for politics. Probably best if I just keep my head down and teach my seminars.”
“How are your seminars going?” Cordwainer asks. Cordwainer fancies himself as something of a mentor to Serafin, although he has yet to offer any advice Serafin has found at all helpful.
“Alright, I suppose,” says Serafin. “Attendance is steady, engagement is good, acquisition rates are solid. Bit of a disruption this morning with some Interfaith kids, but nothing too serious—”
“Interfaith!” Cordwainer’s face twists up like his freeze-dried fruit has gone sour. “They’re a menace! You should report them!”
“You should not!” Fyfe barks. “If you go crying to Admin every time a student throws a paper airplane, you will not be long for this place.”
I don’t want to be, Serafin doesn’t say.
“All the same,” Cordwainer grumbles. “Their very presence is a disruption. I don’t even know why they’re allowed in the fleet!”
“Article 9?”
“Article 9 applies to religions,” Cordwainer snaps. “Interfaith claims to be an entirely secular enterprise, meant only to facilitate religious dialogue—”
“Does Article 9 even apply to us?” Fyfe’s assistant asks, genuinely curious.
“— but of course,” Cordwainer continues, crisps forgotten, “anyone who has gone to the trouble to conduct a proper study of the Interfaith ideology and practice knows perfectly well this claim is an ludicrous sham. Understand, Mister Serafin, I do not object in principle to syncretism; every major faith absorbs local traditions and practices — one need only examine the transformation — demotion, really — of the Celtic goddess Brigantī into Saint Brigid of Kildare, or the development of the baptismal sacrament, and its obvious origins in the rituals of the Hebrew mikveh…”
“Now you’ve done it,” says Fyfe, giving Serafin a waggish glare.
“… or perhaps we might consider the Kaaba, the quintessential cynosure toward which all Muslims direct their prayers, and yet which pre-dates the rise of Islam by centuries! Only a fool could deny that various faiths influence and are, in turn, influenced by one another. But there is a vast difference between this natural, gradual development and the grotesque artificial amalgamated Interfaith creed, which I would further aver….”
Having developed sufficient momentum, Cordwainer carries on in this fashion for some time — with his full white beard, dated black academic regalia, and baroque gesticulations, he could easily be confused with the preachers and prophets he studies.
Fyfe occasionally interjects with a sincere question, more frequently with puckish inquiries intended to knock the lecture off-course. But Cordwainer has been teaching long enough he can reflexively incorporate nearly any digression into his lecture. Only the arrival of Cordwainer’s assistant, with a warning that it’s almost time for class, finally brings the lecture to a halt; even then, Serafin has the impression the old don is only pausing, not stopping, and that his next class is about to be subjected to an anti-Interfaith earful.
Serafin begins to depart as well, but Fyfe waves him back.
“Time for a little ludum?” Fyfe asks, holding up his Scenario deck.
“Maybe a quick one,” says Serafin.
They withdraw to the pod Fyfe has claimed for his office — the same dimensions as the break room and similarly book-stuffed, but the floor has been carpeted and the ceiling wood-paneled in accordance with Fyfe’s elevated status. Serafin weaves through the piles to the ancient, battered desk, where Fyfe slides over a leather-bound stack with titles like Eastern Peripatetics: Diversity and Discontinuity, The Incoherence of the Philosophers, New Developments in Graeco-Arabic Transmission and Reflections of Alhazen.
“I feel good about this one,” Fyfe says cheerfully. “The omens are in my favor. I think today’s going to be the day.”
Serafin shuffles while Fyfe spins up a map.
In the beginning, the weekly game was only pretense, an opportunity for shop-talk, but Fyfe has come to view it as a genuine contest. He’s lost every match this semester — he consistently fails to protect his resources and he’s terrible at concealing his intentions — but he persists with a doggedness Serafin can’t help but admire.
The beginning is fairly standard: Serafin takes Blue; Fyfe, Gold; both sides claiming territory on a semi-randomized terrestrial range. This round, Blue is resistance, which offers only a modest amount of military resources and less developed territory — but said territory is more firmly under his control, and the population much more supportive. (There’s also a nice little pocket of resource generators in the south to help balance things out.)
After a fairly standard opening and a bit more personal chitter-chatter, Fyfe slides casually into what he clearly wanted to discuss from the beginning.
“You’ve got a Benjamin Masri in one of your seminars, yes?” Fyfe asks, over-committing to a contested hillside.
“That’s right,” says Serafin, deploying a Subversion card to move artillery without detection. “Youngest student in my class. Also one of my best — has a tendency to overwork his reports, but he’s very sharp, impressive grasp of the fundamentals.”
“Yes, I took a gander at his records,” says Fyfe. He can see Serafin’s doing something around the central mountain range, but not what — so he brings in even more forces, which suits Serafin just fine. “Quite impressive, even amongst our quite impressive set. You don’t suppose he’s a wiggin?”
“I don’t really believe in wiggins,” Serafin says. “But he’d be a plausible candidate if anyone is, I suppose.”
“Ah, well then. That might explain why he’s been flagged by OFI.”
Fyfe attempts a feint, which Serafin easily deflects.
“No kidding. Any idea why?”
“Me? By Jove, of course not,” says Fyfe cheerfully. “I’m just a humble professor of history and zig coach.”
(Another classic Fyfeism that has long since worn out its welcome.)
Serafin isn’t entirely clear on how Fyfe fell out of favor with the Shadow House — unlike Serafin, Fyfe’s transgressions haven’t been widecasted across the cosmos — but whatever they were, they’ve left him stranded in higher education for decades, even when the fighting was at its fiercest. Ashley once speculated it wasn’t failure at all, but rather the opposite: an excess of success that made fellow operatives seem incompetent, and thus made Fyfe intolerable.
Whatever the reason for his exile, Fyfe seems to have made peace with it, even thriving in the aftermath: his classes regularly sell out; he’s created a well-regarded history series about the influence of ancient thought on the free civilizations; he’s demonstrated a considerable talent for raising funds from otherwise miserly colonies — why, he’s even won the hand of Chancellor Gooderham’s daughter, Genevra, following the passing of her first husband.
That said, there is one stain on his second act: at some point, Fyfe’s dual employment became something of an open secret amongst the faculty and administration. Serafin can’t imagine that SIS approved or appreciated the disclosure, but Fyfe has one additional skill: he is adored by students, and thus an extremely effective recruiter — which is why, Serafin suspects, SIS has turned a blind eye to his indiscretion.
“What I do know,” says Fyfe, growing overconfident and beginning to aggressively push into Blue territory, “is that they’re concerned about his relationship with another student, one Chip Hartshorne.”
“Concerned how?”
“Well, I can only speculate, but I believe Mister Hartshorne is perceived to be a dangerous negative influence. The Hartshorne familia has fallen in with the Earth First crowd… anti-UFA, anti-intelligence, anti-space — pretty much any anti- anything you’ve got, really.”
Serafin boosts his Intelligence asset on the field — a risky play that requires a probability check, but his passing allows him the opportunity to take a covert peek at a few of Fyfe’s cards.
“Hm,” says Serafin. “Mister Hartshorne is… disagreeable, to be sure, but he’s never shown much interest in politics.”
“Perhaps not, but corruptio optimi pessima, Mister Serafin. If we don’t take care, he’s like as not to convince poor Benjamin to give up the heavenly struggle and spend the rest of his life in some rundown Earther monastery, praying for our downfall while the Union tears us apart.”
Once Gold is far enough in, Serafin strikes, brutalizing the hillside. Fyfe seems to have expected this, and marshals a respectable response; he is taken aback, however, when Serafin follows up with an attack on Gold supply lines that also allows him to seize control of a crucial valley Fyfe has relied on for resources.
“How did you—” Fyfe sputters, sitting up and staring at the board. “Oh, hell.”
“So what do you think should be done?”
“Well, I can do nothing, of course. If I were SIS liaison — which of course, I am not — it would be highly inappropriate for me to be seen involving myself in the personal affairs of students. Not to mention the more practical and immediate concern that neither student in question is enrolled in any of my classes.
“But you, Mister Serafin — senior security facilitator turned interlocutor — lack any such ties. And even better, Rota Fortunae has placed both of these beautiful young minds under your tutelage. Perhaps you might persuade Mister Masri to keep better company?”
Desperate to stop the bleeding, Fyfe deploys his emergency defenses and pulls all of his troops back, but Serafin follows, doing his best impression of Kutuzov.
“I’m not sure that’s entirely wise,” Serafin says. “They’re at that recalcitrant age… my school chum and I were told we were a bad influence on each other around the same age, and it only brought us closer together.”
“A fair point. Best to avoid direct intervention. But something must be done, and it appears to be a matter of some urgency.”
“Tempus fugit?” Serafin asks, smiling.
“Quite so,” says Fyfe, unamused. “Can I entrust this task to you?”
The golden borders of Fyfe’s home territory fade away as Serafin’s forces march in — Fyfe curses, and Blue’s flag appears over the map, signaling yet another Serafin triumph.
“I’ll think of something,” says Serafin.
“Excellent,” says Fyfe, stroking his mustache and staring at the board, trying to understand how his position fell apart so quickly. “Well, it appears I must yield unhappily yet again, so….”
“Ah,” Serafin says, “there was one other matter.” Should I have let him win? Serafin wonders, but too late for that now. “We’ve talked about my access to the SSCI data-bank—”
“Yes — what of it? You managed to publish your little paper without it, didn’t you?”
“My monograph, yes. But I’m still working on my larger project—”
“All well and good. But as we discussed last time, there’s really no reason a civilian would require access to a classified intelligence database—”
“Of course,” says Serafin, fighting back less civil impulses, “but I’ve done a bit of research, and there is precedent for limited access to be granted for academic researchers under the revised Free Society Data Act, so long as the request is reviewed and approved by an intelligence officer with Siriyun clearance — say, a chief of station? Which you would technically be, if you were SIS liaison for the university—”
“Which I am not.”
“Which you are not.”
Fyfe grimaces as he gathers up the rest of the deck. Serafin presses on:
“I don’t need much, really, I’ve built a query stack, it’s all ready to go—”
“I applaud your dedication, Mister Serafin, but between my classes, my research, my coaching, and my, ah, extra-curriculars, I’m unsure how I might find the time to process your request….”
“I know it’s irregular,” Serafin pleads, “but I’ve come to a crucial stage in my research. There’s really no other way I can get the information I need—”
Fyfe closes his eyes and raises his hands.
“Alright, alright. Very well. I tell you what, Mister Serafin: bring the Hartshorne dilemma to a satisfactory resolution, and I shall see about getting your Q’s bumped up the queue. A premium, we’ll call it. Fair play?”
“Fair enough.”