[ 3.3 ]
Like many institutions of higher learning, the origins of the traveling universities were closely tied to religion. While the journeys had begun with a single ship, funded as part of a joint Ivy League venture, the Sagitta’s trip to Luna and back proved enormously popular with students and the public alike, and many more followed soon after.
Unfortunately, the expense outstripped the demand, especially with serious competition arising for space travel resources in the military and corporate sectors. Salvation came in the form of Bartholomew Rebok Sixsmith, who was not only the owner of the largest collection of privately-owned spaceships in the free worlds, but also a member of the Ginomaitics, a splinter sect of the Seventh-day Adventist Church. The Ginomaitics held that the ascension of Christ had been quite literal, that He waited for mankind somewhere out in space; furthermore, they believed Earth to be a doomed chrysalis, and thus it was imperative for scholars to amass, duplicate, and — crucially — transmit and distribute as much knowledge as possible in preparation for the day when the faithful rejoined the Lord among the stars.
With Sixsmith assuming the majority of the financial burden of the early educational expeditions (in addition to significant contributions from his fellow believers), the program swiftly expanded, adding extra ships and, over the decades, more and more flights — to and from Earth to Luna, Luna/Mars, Earth/Venus, Mars/Churchill, Churchill/Belt, and even from the Belt to Kuiper, for the particularly adventurous. As time went on, the fleet went from scrappy retrofits to fully equipped long-term voyagers, from single-semester extra-credit hops to the preferred venue for higher learning among the brightest and wealthiest spaceborn. Firnas, Serafin’s alma mater, was among the most highly regarded of the university flotillas, consisting of five major ships on regular cycles from Luna to all major Copernican ports.
At least, that’s how it had been before the war. As the Iblis spread across the solar system, each destination had been reluctantly dropped from the itineraries, until even Luna-Earth was deemed too great a gamble. The Universal Soviet might have allowed the university fleets to move unhindered, but the Iblis were unconstrained by conventional human traditions like compassion, tradition, and morality. With the crisis ended, the trips had started up once again, although the UFA had assigned the UFS Khobar, a modestly sized but highly capable corvette, to accompany the university flotilla on its first sojourn to Mars, out of an abundance of caution.
The development of the traveling universities had led to a duality in their culture: in matters of education, there was no professor who would refuse a position, no visiting lecturer whose fee could not be paid; no new technology or program they were unwilling to embrace. In many other aspects, however, the fleets — Firnas in particular — were remarkably spartan: consensus enhancements outside of the classroom were perfunctory; the student habitats, tiny, spare, and only grudgingly improved when they reached a state of decrepitude severe enough to potentially endanger students’ well-being. These living conditions could be offset — after the first year — if students were willing to expend their own resources, but most limited themselves to occasional visits to the caravan of support ships.
Another point of contrast: while the fleet’s academic program embraced innovation and experimentation, the transformation of the flotillas into proper institutions in their own right brought increasing regulation, tradition, and ritual. One rule in particular gave Serafin considerable trouble: while full professors were largely free to override the Preception system and made alterations to the Curriculum, those with less standing — lowly interlocutors, for example — required approval not only from each affected department, but explicit authorization from actual humans in charge of said departments. Presumably, this was intended to discourage the exact sort of scheme Serafin was about to embark upon, but Serafin happened to possess both the stubbornness and the skill-set required to subvert these pesky restrictions.
And so, with some assistance from Norah, Serafin composed a list of necessary signatures; dividing the list in two, he sent Norah out to contend with the academicians, while he obtained the rest.
The first override is simple:
On Wednesday, Serafin takes the people-mover to first ring. He walks slowly when he arrives, taking time to adjust to the full 1G, but it isn’t long before he’s wandering through the gardens, admiring the floating Palladian facades of premium housing before he ascends to the bow, into the Almani module, home of the Administrative offices. Above the entrance hangs a sculpted metal triptych, with Sixsmith at the center, casting his compassionate gaze on the doomed Earth.
(Technically, Religious Services isn’t a part of the Administrative, but technically the Department of Morals isn’t a part of Religious Services, either. It’s the sort of convoluted organizational nonsense Serafin has come to expect when dealing with the sort of people who believe they ought to manage the trajectory of the heavenly bodies.)
Despite their ostentatious exterior, the Almani modules are surprisingly drab: grey walls and small desks, with no consensus imagery outside the announcement board and the usual additions to the obligatory symbols of faith — a bit of glow on the cross, a slow spin of the ying/yang symbol. Serafin is the only adult in the room; the rest of the chairs are occupied by anxious students. On the far side, a young couple sits holding hands; oddly touched, Serafin wonders what offense they’ve committed in their commitment to one another.
Soon, an old blesser bot arrives and ushers him to a storage room that someone has attempted, without much success, to convert into an office. There are shelves on all sides crammed full of seized materials: boxes of booze, stacks of books, and piles upon piles of fads and other electronic devices. One corner, behind the desk, is fenced off with security mesh — Serafin is alarmed to see what appears to be a woman locked inside, but realizes at second glance it’s only an obscenely proportioned pleasure unit nestled among fireworks and what appears to be a collection of old air rifles.
“Yes! Come in! This is the place. You’ve arrived, you’ve arrived,” says Denison, rising up from a pile like a gopher, sending a small pile of propaganda avalanching to the floor. “Help yourself to a confection, if you like!” He motions toward a basket of fresh baked goods sitting precariously on a crate. “Missus Fyfe is always bringing these round. Gets rather cross if we don’t finish them.”
“Oh, no thank you.”
“Feel free to take one with you. Hope you don’t mind—” Denison examines his muffin closely before he begins to peel the paper away like an archivist separating the pages of some damaged ancient text. “Missed breakfast today, and I’m not supposed to take my medicines on an empty stomach. Now then: what should I do for you?”
“I’m Jim Serafin, from History—”
“Serafin, Serafin. Where have I heard that name before?”
Serafin winces — the burdens of celebrity — but the connection goes another way:
“Ah!” Denison looks up. “You must be JJ’s father! I spoke with him the other night!”
“You spoke with him?”
“Oh, oh, not in any official capacity! He was in attendance for the Interfaith mixer. A very charming, well-mannered young man. His courtship of Miss Tai has been entirely honorable. You have nothing to worry about, I assure you!”
“Well, I suppose a little worry is probably healthy.”
“I completely agree!” Denison says cheerfully. “Sometimes I wonder if we don’t need a Department of Vice! Ho ho ho!”
Ho ho ho. “That’s an… interesting view, for someone who works in Morals.”
“I suppose it is, at that! But despite our rather draconian reputation, Mister Serafin, we don’t send out the peacekeepers every time a student engages in self-abuse. Don’t tell the people upstairs, but there’s not really much work for us Moralists these days; the system largely runs itself.”
“The students do seem to have taken a rather ascetic turn.”
“Mm, yes. You would have attended in the… ‘50s?”
“‘40s.”
“Well before our founding, then. Must be a bit of culture shock for you, there!”
Serafin nods. “Bit of booze and and some light petting was considered more or less part of the curriculum, back then.”
“Oh, yes,” says Denison, sounding wistful. Serafin is momentarily distracted by the mystery of Denison’s age, which isn’t listed on his roll call — aside from the hunch of his shoulders, he appears to be in his early twenties, but Serafin notes there’s no consensus displays visible — just a collection of old-fashioned panels scattered around the desk, and even an ancient pixel-based device that’s probably older than Serafin. And the way Denison moves — not slow, exactly, his hands don’t tremble, but with the caution of someone who doesn’t trust his own proprioception.
Having successfully extracted the muffin, Denison begins to pull off small pieces and nibble at them one by one.
“… and of course,” Denison continues, “for many years, Administrative’s policy was rather simple: if one is to taste sin, best to do it in a controlled environment — a completely reasonable view, absolutely! But I’m afraid campus culture took an unfortunate turn following your matriculation. I can’t say if it was the general upheaval of the ‘50s, or some generational cycle, but Firnas reached a level of debauchery which was, frankly, unsustainable. Professors assaulted! Students drinking during class! Attempts to unionize. Why, one particularly enterprising young man even managed to sneak some young ladies on board and started running a cathouse out of the corporative dorms — can you imagine!”
“I never heard anything about that.”
“I should hope not!” Denison says, with enough enthusiasm to send crumbs flying. “Considerable effort and expense went into maintaining our reputation. But something had to be done, and so the Department was established to help return things to order. Tracking student comms, monitoring their interactions, dress codes, segregating the undergrads — somewhat illiberal, admittedly, but a necessary evil.”
“Seems to have done the trick.”
“Perhaps! But who can say, really? Cause and effect… so difficult to disentangle! I’ve been spending some time researching this, actually—” Denison holds up a panel of graphs and charts, incomprehensible at this distance. “— and rather curiously, there appears to have been a rather noticeable decline in I&Is (improprieties and immoralities) a full year before the new measures were put in place. I set some data-crawlers on it, still waiting to hear back, but I have come to strongly suspect the moral pendulum might have already started swinging back well before the grand intervention.
“And this newest batch… well! It’s as you say. Believe it or not, the majority of our work these days is actually done with the active cooperation of students — they come to us with some bad habit they’re trying to break, and we establish a regimen to help them break it. A voluntary system, which they’re only too happy to follow.”
“I suppose that works. As long as a student is aware they have a problem.”
Denison leans forward, fingers steepled, intrigued. “One of your flock gone wayward?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Let me guess: accelerated?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Mm. They are fascinating, aren’t they?” says Denison. “Astonishing potential, but… just to give you fair warning, they do require a firmer hand than your average student. They tend to struggle with hyper-sensitivity, dysregulation, and obsessiveness; research suggests it’s best if they abstain entirely from the usual vices. Considerably more sensitive to intoxicants; substantially more prone to addiction.”
“What about religion?”
“What about it?”
“Mine seems quite….”
“Fanatical?”
“Fervent, at least,” Serafin says, carefully. “Nothing wrong with a bit of faith, after all.”
Denison pauses mid-chew, then laughs.
Quite perceptive, this one. Serafin wonders if it’s socializers, or if the nature of Denison’s occupation has simply refined his natural talents.
“You needn’t fear giving offense here, Mister Serafin. Just between you, me, and the stars — while I do share office space with the Interfaith coalition, I am, myself, an atheist.”
“Is that so?” Serafin is surprised. “I understood your sort to be a rare breed, these days.”
“We’re more populous on Earth, although these certainly aren’t our salad days. Skepticism fares poorly in an age of (supposed) miracles. Are you a man of faith?”
“More a man of uncertainty, I’d say. How does your, ah, irreligious nature square with your profession?”
“Oh, I’d argue it helps! The Department is entirely secular — although it needn’t be; as a religious institution, Firnas would be well within its rights to require students observe scriptural codes of conduct, so long as allowances are made for alternative faiths.”
The blesser knocks, and pokes its head into the room.
“Excuse the interruption, Mister Denison, but the Reverend Mendelson has requested a real-space meeting at your earliest convenience. An ‘unfortunate situation’ has arisen which requires your immediate attention.”
“Oh! How alarming!” Denison says, strokes at his beard, attempting to remove the crumbs — he’s successful, but only at relocating them to his shirt. “My apologies, Mister Serafin, I am regrettably tangent-prone. What was it you came to see me for?”
“It sounds like you’re needed. We can always reschedule, if you—”
“No no, you’ve come all this way! Wouldn’t want you to have to make two trips. Give me the compression.”
“There’s an exercise I’d like to run.” Serafin pulls up the proposal, sliding it over to Denison’s workspace. “Some of the simulations may deviate from the standard curriculum, and my understanding is I need approval from your department—”
“Not needed! But, generally encouraged.” Denison slides on one sleeve of his jacket, forgetting the other one as he loads the proposal onto one of his displays and begins skimming through it. “You’re teaching… Early Twenty-First Century Conflicts?”
“That’s right.”
“Fascinating era. Well, if you believe this will benefit your students, then I’m sure it’s all to the good,” Denison says. He places his hand on the display and makes a liturgical gesture. “There you go. Authorized.”
“Ah — thank you,” Serafin says, surprised again, but not so foolish as to question a lucky break.
“Call it an act of faith.”
The second override is coincidence:
After lunch at the ASF faculty veterans club, Serafin returns home, at Lucy’s request, only to discover she is on her way out the door.
“Where are you going?” Serafin asks.
“The widows have asked for my help getting Valerie’s affairs in order,” Lucy says, as she assembles her bags and boxes. “Her co-workers have been no help at all, I might add — apparently she was doing something terribly classified involving Iblis tech. But they’ve finally sent over some female peacekeepers to escort us so we can ‘access her quarters’ and collect her belongings. Didn’t leave a will, I’m afraid, but she’s got a sister on Deimos I’ve been speaking with.”
“That’s good of you. The widows do know you’re not a widow, right?”
“I might as well be!” Lucy says. “Frankly, this trip has been a crushing disappointment; every man I’ve come across is either JJ’s age or yours, and the few in between are all too busy praying or studying to show a girl a good time! Honestly, what are the worlds coming to?”
“JJ seems to be doing alright for himself.” Serafin takes a seat at the counter, helping himself to some of the chickpea chips, which Lucy allows before bagging them up and adding them to the pile.
Lucy scoffs. “JJ may as well be dating a blank. Did you know she’s getting her primary in Logology? The study of studying! Many blessings upon Esther Tai, the blandest of all God’s creatures.”
“Be nice.”
“Speaking of being nice: I need you to watch Billy while I’m gone.”
“This is rather short notice—”
“Don’t worry!” Lucy says cheerfully, tying on her white and yellow cashmere shawl. “I’ve prepared dinners for you both in the refrigerator. I promised him he could go to the park today; he has a play-date with Donny and Abigail. He’ll likely run himself out there, so afterward you can relax and work on your book ‘til I get back.”
“Can’t JJ do it?”
“JJ is on the Alhazen with the Bore of Babylon, attending some lecture. The Hermeneutics of Tedium, I assume. Please, baba, I’ll owe you one.”
“You owe me everything. I’m your father. I brought you into the worlds.”
“Well, one more favor should hardly tip the scales then, should it?”
Lucy, Now Departing, ignores Serafin’s protests as she simultaneously taps a message on her wrist, hands her bags to the service blank, and checks her appearance in the mirror, pausing only briefly to give Serafin a quick peck on the cheek. “You’ve worked so hard,” she says. “Take a break! You deserve it.”
In the bedroom, a small dinosaur sits on a pile of laundry, tail slowly swishing back and forth. While it has the general shape of a tyrannosaur, its legs and tails are shorter; its teeth and claws less sharp; and its eyes are absurdly large, allowing for much greater emotional range than its extinct original.
It also talks, which is probably also not scientifically accurate.
“Hello, Mister Serafin!” roars Roary the dinosaur cheerfully, hopping back and forth and waving with both tiny arms.
Serafin is not Roary’s biggest fan (particularly at his original sticker price) but Billy has been obsessed with dinosaurs ever since he could comprehend the concept, and Lucy made a persuasive case that robot companions were developmentally beneficial, and, crucially, she was able to locate a used model in good working order at a significant discount.
“Good afternoon, Roary,” says Serafin. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No thank you, sir! But I’m fully charged and ready for adventure!” Roary lets out a roar that sounds more like a puppy’s first attempt at a howl.
“Mm. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Billy anywhere, have you?” Serafin asks.
Roary looks around with comic exaggeration. “Well, I don’t see him anywhere,” he says, waiting for Serafin to play along.
“That’s too bad,” says Serafin. “I suppose I’ll just have to go to the park by myself—”
“Here I am, jiddo!” shouts Billy, bursting out of the closet, arms raised high. “I’m here! I’m here!”
“Here you are,” Serafin agrees. “Well, come on then, if you’re coming.”
Has there ever been, in all of history, a better child than Billy? Has there ever been a grandson so bright, so happy, so polite, so sweet? Surely not. In his bright eyes and tousled hair one sees the adumbration of a new age dawn. Why, just the other days, Lucy was cooing over his fingers — how was it that his fingernails were so perfectly formed, so shiny, so pink so clean? How could he not be loved? How could he not be adored?
Billy’s life is not without struggle, mind you — his time at Firnas has been quite challenging. Growing pains, stomach aches, colds, abrasions from a fall, a particularly stubborn baby tooth; at times, it seems miraculous that anyone survives adolescence. But in the midst of these troubles, his spirits have remained undimmed, which only makes him more precious and dear to everyone around him.
On the way to the park, Billy reviews his school week, updating Serafin on his classes, his teachers, his recesses, his lunches, his friends, his games, his mother, his father, his uncle, only stopping occasionally to point at and describe any people or objects they pass by. Behind them, Roary waddles along, shifting its weight from side to side, keeping balance with its tail.
Lately, Billy has become fascinated with Serafin’s prosthetic and he fires off question after question about its functionality.
“Could you pick up a power block?”
“A small one, I suppose.”
“Could you pick up a hauler?”
“No,” Serafin says.
“Why not?”
“Too much torque.”
Billy doesn’t follow. “But you said the arm muscles are stronger than your muscles.”
“They can be. But they’re still attached to me. Think about it like this: you eat your oatmeal in the morning with a spoon, yes?”
Billy nods.
“Well, imagine if you had a spoon that could grab onto things. You could probably hold onto a bowl easily enough, right?”
“Yes.”
“But if you tried to use your grabbing spoon to grab onto the kitchen table, it wouldn’t work. The table would be too heavy. Why, if you pulled too hard, the spoon would probably come out of your hand. It’s the same basic idea with my arm.”
Billy considers this. “Someone should make a grabbing spoon! That would be amazing!”
“Sure,” Serafin says. “Maybe we can make one with the builder.”
“That would be neat!” says Billy. “What if you replaced your whole body with metal? Could you lift it then?”
“Perhaps,” says Serafin. “But I don’t think you’d want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because your body is sacred. Do you know what consciousness is?”
“Yes!”
“What is it?”
“Being awake!”
“That’s part of it. But it’s also being aware.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“I guess I don’t really know what con - consize—”
“Consciousness.”
“I guess I don’t really know what it is.”
“That’s alright. I don’t think anybody really does.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh,” says Billy. “I like being me.”
“That’s good. But you’re you, and I’m me, right? But why? Why am I in this body and you in yours? We don’t really understand that, or if it’s even possible to move whatever makes you ‘you’ from one body to another. If you put your you in another body, would you still be you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nobody does. That’s why it’s important to be careful.”
Billy wrestles with this, squinting at the problem, the same way Serafin’s father did, the same way JJ does; Serafin hasn’t ever thought to check, but he suspects it’s the same face he wears when he’s wrestling with the Idea. Finally, Billy reaches a conclusion:
“Do you know what a grabbing spoon would be good for?”
“What?”
“Booza! Booza! I want booza!”
“Maybe later,” Serafin says.
When they arrive at the recreation module, Serafin is somewhat relieved to see Miriam has not accompanied Donny and Abigail — they are instead being looked after by their nanny. Serafin motions go ahead, and Billy shrugs off his backpack and dashes off to tell them about the grabbing spoon.
Serafin, not terribly inclined join the small crowd of caretakers, finds an isolated bench and checks the latest reports from the cognifier and his latest messages. He’s halfway through a response to Rita when he realizes someone is standing nearby, a stout man with a trimmed beard, hands tucked like a waiter.
“Hello!” the man says, daring a short, nervous wave. Francis Soames, assistant head of security, according to roll call, but going by his shabby shirt and ancient, worn blazer, he appears to be off the clock. “Do you have a moment?”
Serafin gestures, and Soames takes a seat on the bench, back upright, like he’s never been comfortable, and doesn’t intend to try it any time soon. “Which one’s yours?”
Serafin highlights Billy. “My daughter’s, actually. I’m just on watch duty.”
“He looks like a strapping young fellow! How old?”
“Eight in three months.”
“Ah! Mine are seven and ten. I, uh, hope it’s alright, us being here — we’re actually from third ring, but, you know, they love it here, and the higher gravity’s good for them, you know—”
“Of course.”
“It’s just that — we were here a month ago, and there was this woman from Admissions… she gave me an earful about it, said we didn’t belong here. Threatened to call security. I told her I was security, and she got even madder—”
Serafin waves this off. “I don’t give a hoot. All that crud about haves and have-nots — that’s what the other side cares about. We’re better than that.”
Billy rushes back to Serafin. “Can I play with the goggles?” Billy asks. “I want to show something to Donny and Abigail.”
“Did your mother say it was alright?”
“Yes!”
Serafin is suspicious, but fishes the consensus goggles out of the backpack and hands them over anyway. “Thank you!” Billy sings, rushing back to the little McNaughtons, who eagerly bring him into their game, some elaborate affair where colorful alien creatures guide them through elaborate adventures. It’s a treasure hunt this week, which can only be completed by solving puzzles (coincidentally related to their school work).
“I got my girls a pair, last year, at the surplus sale,” Soames says. “Some good deals to be had there.”
“Yes, well. Got to get them used to it.”
“I suppose. But it makes me nervous sometimes, you know — artificial reality isn’t as artificial as it used to be! I know they’ve got the child safety protocols, but I worry, you know, they’ll gonna grow up not knowing what the difference is between what’s real and what’s not.”
“What is the difference?”
Serafin is being flippant, but Soames seems genuinely stumped.
“Francis,” Serafin says, closing his displays. “Was there something you wanted to discuss?”
Soames clasps his hands together again, a rather servile gesture he’s likely picked up from years of dealing with the tantrums of the future executives, CEOS, and sultans of Copernica.
“Well! Uh, as a matter of fact,” Soames says, sheepishly. “I, uh, know who you are, Mister Serafin. I saw you on Hardlight.” (Serafin dies a little, as he always does when the interview comes up.) “You were pretty high up over at Paean Medical, right?”
“Senior security facilitator, yes.”
“Well, I don’t mean to interrupt your afternoon, but I have a — well, a security matter, I was hoping to speak with you about.”
Interesting. Serafin has always wondered who actually believed his Hardlight story.
“A recent death, a young woman, I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about it: Valerie Moss?”
“I’ve heard the name. She was a member of the Dowers?”
“The . . . Dowers?”
“The widow’s club,” Serafin clarifies. “Died in an accident on first ring, as I understand it.”
“Yes, that’s the story,” Soames says. “Might even be true.”
“What’s the rest of it?”
“Well, uh, the… I should say, that this, um… it’s just… this is an ongoing investigation….”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
Soames brightens, glad to be on the same wavelength. “Well. The way she died wasn’t so clean as all that. First recordings we got, she’s coming out of the women’s hab, and she seems fine. But then she takes the people-mover to first ring. Gets off, goes into one of the premium interface rooms, and she’s in there for a few hours.”
“Recorded?”
Soames shakes his head. “She had cryptos on. When she comes out, she’s a mess — she’s not wearing her shayla, her clothes are a mess, she’s got wounds on her face and limbs, just in an awful state. Then, all of a sudden, she starts into some poor soft-boned sophomore from the Belt — really lays into him, bad enough they had to send someone from the Avicenna to put him back together.
“A few Good Samaritans managed to stop her, but then she… well, she ran up to the gardens, and… it looks like her head got smashed on one of those fancy marble benches they’ve got over there. Peacekeepers were deployed, but it happened so fast… fractured skull — fractured the marble, if you can believe it.”
“That’s horrifying,” says Serafin. “Any idea who did it?”
“That’s the thing of it,” says Soames. “Best as we can tell, she did it to herself.”
“Good Lord.”
Soames nods, hunching over even further. “Firnas is a high-pressure environment, you know, not everybody can hack it. We lose a student or two every year — used to be worse before they started making them wear the crowns. And we had a kid break his neck in the ziggy before the war, thruster malfunction. But I tell you what, all my years working here, what that poor woman did . . . I’ve never seen anything like that. She finally died yesterday. Probably a blessing.”
Serafin commiserates, since that seems to be what Soames wants. Serafin’s seen his own fair share of horrors over the years, although he’s careful to avoid specifics — instead, at the earliest opportunity, he redirects to the practical.
“You said the interface session was encrypted, but do you know what kind of scene she was running?”
“Heart of the Starduster. Standard romance/adventure experience. I sent it to the Consensus Department and they said it was clean, no injections or sub-code.”
“Is the Belter kid talking?”
“Yeah, but he’s as lost as we are. The attack seems random — our logs don’t show any interactions with him and her, real-space or consensus.”
“Any history of mental illness?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“Sleepers and anxies. But that’s half the faculty and most of the students here.”
“BCI?”
“Top of the line Millick Biotech.”
“You said she had injuries when she came out of the room. Self-inflicted?”
“Yes. How did you—”
“What you’re describing sounds like an externally induced psychotic episode.”
“I, uh. Jeez,” says Soames, raising his thick eyebrows at Serafin. “You got to that quick.”
“It’s an old Universal Soviet trick. Preferred method for dealing with dissidents, back in the day. But those security gaps would have been coded out before the war, you’d need weeks of close proximity with military-grade tech to punch through now.”
He’s probably shared a little too much, but Soames doesn’t stop to wonder how Serafin might know that.
“That’s what we’re digging into right now,” Soames says. “Although we’re still waiting on permissions from her next of kin. The problem is… the rest of the campus is starting to get riled up about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were able to lock down the campus feeds, but there were witnesses, and, well — this isn’t a Red ship, we can’t stop them from talking. The student network has picked it up, and now there’s a million rumors floating around offcon, a lot of crazy talk. But they’re going in a different direction with it.”
Serafin thinks about it. “If not the Soviet, then….”
“Right. Iblis tech. Hell, they could even be right, for all we know. But the kids are getting very agitated — it’s getting bad enough I asked Admin to unpack some of the security drones, just in case. The students know Moss worked in War Tech, but if they find out she was in the reverse-engineering program, I’m not sure what we’re going to do.”
Serafin winces. “I hate to tell you this, but….”
“But what?”
“My daughter mentioned Missus Moss’s work just this morning. And while she’s not above a bit of gossip, she’s also not the sort to actively seek it out. If Lucy knows, then it’s probably already common knowledge.”
Soames swears, but immediately glances around, ashamed, to make sure none of the children heard. “There’s a lot of Firnas students who hate the idea of trying to crack Iblis machines, they think the whole War Tech department should be shut down. They’ve got a whole club, meets every week on the Ada. A few months ago some of the little ludds managed to take over one of the ships in the Wyss fleet — they had to bring in an assault team, no deaths, but a lot of damage. Real messy. Personally, I don’t like the idea of those machines being within one AU of me and my girls, but — we don’t know anything yet! There’s nothing to say her work had anything to do with what happened—”
Billy runs up and stops at the bench. This time, he bothers to notice Soames, and is unsure how to proceed.
“Hello, Billy!” Soames says. “My name is Francis. How are you today?”
“Hello!” says Billy. Having concluded Serafin’s new friend is uninteresting and all social obligations have been fulfilled, Billy turns to Serafin. “Can, um, can Abigail… can… Donny… can they… um…?”
“Yes?”
“Can Abigail and Donny come over?”
“Well, probably not today,” Serafin says.
“Tomorrow?”
“They are very welcome, as long as they have their mother’s permission.”
“Neat! Thank you, jiddo!” says Billy, excited, rushing back to let them know.
When the boy’s out of earshot, Soames leans back in. “Listen, do you think you might be willing to come in for a consult? I’ve got a good team — a great team — but… what do we do, really? Break up fights, try to stop students from sneaking in contraband… we’re not really equipped for something like this.”
Serafin thinks his response over — a rejection, to be clear; he’s already decided that he wants nothing to do with this. But it’s probably best to stay on good terms with Security.
“I’m sorry Francis, but I don’t think I would be of much service,” Serafin says, finally. “My job primarily consisted of protecting high-value assets; I don’t know the first thing about solving crimes — if that’s even what this is. But I do have a suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
“Put in a request with the Khobar. A ship that size will have a dedicated ASF special investigator on board. Whatever’s going on, I assure you, they’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Soames nods, excited. “That’s a fine idea, Mister Serafin, very fine indeed. I’ll put in the request straight away.”
“Wonderful,” Serafin says. “You know, you should drop by next Saturday, we’re having some people over for dinner, you should bring the girls. Lucy’s making kibbeh.”
“Oh, I’d love to! If it’s not too much trouble. I take the girls to the automat more often than I care to admit… and I’m so busy with work — half the time I just skip lunch and just grab a protein pouch….”
Now that they’re friends, Soames thinks nothing of it when Serafin casually throws in a while you’re here… I’ve got this pesky authorization for a curriculum deviation… and Soames signs off while rambling about food the entire time. He doesn’t even look — why bother? Would his new friend Jim Serafin ever steer him wrong?
As Serafin pretends to listen, he takes a moment to try to enjoy the day: the smell of the grass and sycamore, carried by the breeze, the warmth of the false sunlight shining down through the leaves. Out by the swings, a group of children have gathered, dancing and shouting, until they blend into a mass of bright colors, round faces, thin arms rising into the air, grasping for invisible rewards as faithful animals and robot companions hop and bark and sing enthusiastically at the periphery. It’s impossible to tell them apart, in the chaos; if Billy is there, in the center of it all, Serafin honestly couldn’t say.
The third override is trivial:
“Any progress?” asks Fyfe.
It’s just Serafin and Fyfe this week, so lunch and Scenario have been combined. Today’s match is ancient polity against ancient polity, but despite Fyfe’s ostensible expertise, he’s still making a hash of it — he currently has an entire legion roaming the swamps for reasons Serafin can’t begin to fathom.
“Coming along,” says Serafin. “I’ve put something together, but I could use a little help.”
“What do you need?”
“It would be best if Norah wasn’t present for next week’s lecture.”
“Easy enough. I’ll schedule a meeting. Probably time for me to give her the annual speech about how she needs to stop faffing about and get her lecture certification renewed. You given her a tumble yet?”
“Certainly not,” Serafin says stiffly.
“Too bad.” Fyfe pinches his lower lip as he watches Serafin adjust his cards. “Probably give the poor birdy a touch of confidence; you’d be doing her a favor. There were these sisters in Nursing during the war….”
“Also,” says Serafin, determined to drag the conversation back on track, “my lesson plan keeps getting flagged by Preception. I’m working on getting overrides, but I need a signature from the head of the department—”
“No need,” says Fyfe. “Computer! Full approval for whatever Mister Serafin has planned!” Off Serafin’s look, he adds: “Kannon’s got a lot on his plate, so he gave me authorizations. I just help out with the opus vanum every now and then.”
“Much appreciated,” says Serafin. “How fares the department?”
“On the brink, as always. The Mukkadam Concern is considering moving to restricted donations — no good for us, of course. Can’t prove it, but the prags are likely behind it. And everyone’s in a tizzy over this Valerie Moss nonsense. A few of my boys asked if they could skip class! They didn’t even know her!”
“She was friends with my daughter, but I never met her.” Serafin sends an expeditionary force over a stack of books that doubles as a mountain range, giving him better insight into Fyfe’s territory. “Apparently she was involved with Interfaith? The funeral is tonight.”
“Yes. I suppose I’ll have to attend.”
“Did you know her?”
“I did. Rather well, in fact.” Fyfe scours his plate with the last piece of chicken in the hopes of finding some stray drop of sauce. “She was my main point of contact in War Tech, actually. Helped us stay up-to-date on the program.”
“How is that going?”
“About as well as this game.” Fyfe raises taxes to cover his military expenditures, which is received by his subjects as well as you might expect. “A pity, really. Wonderful figure (you could tell, even under the robes). But I can’t say I’m surprised. Bit of a scatterbrain, she was — one of those eggheads who could build a rocket out of spare parts and then forget to wear a suit when she got in the airlock. I was always having to refactor her reports to make them comprehensible. Rather astonishingly credulous, as well, to be honest… not really cut out for our sort of work.”
“There’s going to be an investigation. Any, ah, cause for concern?”
Fyfe scoffs. “From campus security? The Iblis could take the ship and they wouldn’t notice until they got turned into protein paste. I might ping as an associate, but what of it? I am associative by nature. So long as no one sniffs too deeply, all will be well.”
A knock at the door — Fyfe’s assistant from the book department enters, holding a small stack in his hand.
“I am in a meeting!” Fyfe barks, and the assistant flees in terror. “Although — you know,” Fyfe says, waving at a sudden idea with his chicken bone. “Perhaps we could make use of it?”
“How?”
“You said she was associated with Interfaith, yes? Given the circumstances around her passing, suppose it became public knowledge she was engaged in some sordid tryst with Mister Hartshorne? The whole mess would get cleared up eventually, I’m sure, but in the interim… I can’t imagine the holy rollers would be terribly inclined to break bread with a possible murderer and fornicator — one or the other, perhaps! But surely not in hyphenate.”
Serafin does not hold Fyfe in particularly high regard, but this sort of stitch-up job seems beyond the pale, even for him.
But, no use in appealing to the morals of an immoral man.
“Is that wise?” says Serafin, instead. “If we steer the investigation in the direction of the Interfaith boys, they’ll likely all fall under suspicion. There’d be no way to guarantee Masri wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.”
“I don’t — well. Mm.” Fyfe’s mustache droops. Serafin’s point seems to sit sour in his stomach — he wants to disagree, but can’t quite figure out how. “No, I suppose you’re right.”
“Besides, I’m taking care of it.” Serafin does his best to sound territorial. He emphasizes the point by sending his advance force into Fyfe’s agriculturals, setting farms and fields ablaze.
Fyfe glares at Serafin, the tiny fires reflecting off of the grease on his chin. Finally, he scrapes his face with a napkin, tossing it at the edge of the game board, where it crashes into a small city, which lights up in terror at this punishment from the gods.
“Yes, well. Continue with your little scheme. But acta non verba, Mister Serafin. I would advise you to hurry.”
The fourth override is expensive:
There’s no need for receptionists anymore, of course, let alone human ones, but they do add a touch of gentility when one is engaged in bureaucratic formalities, and the jobs have the added benefit of providing an opportunity allow less fortunate students to work off fees that fall outside of their scholarship, or discipline the unruly.
Regrettably, Sofia Macaluso, the guardian of the Consensus Department, has the surly attitude of the latter.
“You’re over budget,” the surly brunette says, pulling up Serafin’s seminar budget on her display. “Says here you spent a ton getting some fancy painting pulled out of Archives? You’re not even teaching art. Why didn’t you just represent it?”
“I am aware of the overrun,” Serafin says, again. “However, this is a very important presentation—”
“Preception says you’re off-course, too.”
“Yes. Which is why I have authorizations from the department chair—”
“Hold on,” she says, holding up a finger. Her eyes grow distant, and she taps her thumb and pinky together. “Um… the logistic growth function?” She smiles sweetly, evidently having gotten the correct answer, but drops the smile as soon as she repersonalizes. “You need to get authorization from Morals, too.”
“I don’t need it, but I have one,” Serafin says, yet again.
“Oh. Well, I still can’t authorize this.”
“Of course you can. You’re a facilitator.”
“No, I literally can’t — the system won’t let me. This is getting flagged by Financial.” She throws another chart up next to Serafin’s old nemesis, the semester financial projections. “This is way too much. Even if you dropped your spending to minimals for the rest of the semester, you’d still run dry by early November.”
Serafin’s prepared to argue, but that’s actually a fair point.
“Maybe you can simplify it,” she says, squinting at his proposal. “Wow, you’ve got everything in here — olfactory, heat, some gravity effects. Honestly, sir, most people can’t even tell the difference between full spectrum and mid-sim. I had a beach party for my birthday last year, and I only paid for basic water effects? Nobody even noticed.”
“What if were to cover the excess myself?”
Sofia punches the proposal in, giving the result a long slow sniff, like she’s trying to smell the numbers. She turns her display to show him the estimate. “Could work,” she says, “if you’re willing.”
It’s a disgusting amount, enough to put a healthy dent in his salary. In more prosperous times, Serafin would have authorized it without thinking; today, it’s almost enough to make his eyes water.
(And despite being on orders from Fyfe, Serafin strongly suspects he will not be reimbursed for any of this.)
“Wonderful,” says Serafin. “Let’s ring it up.”
The final override is tough:
On Friday, Serafin decides to kill two birds with one stone, with a ride over to the Avicenna for the final override approval and an overdue checkup. It is here, unfortunately, that Serafin’s proposal receives serious, careful evaluation for the first time.
“I don’t know,” the medical administrator says, after an hour of notes and suggestions and revisions, waving at the more extreme cluster of theoretical situations. “These look a little intense. Particularly this region… might hit some nasty distressors here.”
“Not to worry,” says Serafin. “I’ll be sure to steer them away from any of the more extreme potentialities. And they’ll be wearing their crowns, of course, so the exercise will disengage if their biometrics start spiking.”
“Well, yes,” the administrator says. “Of course….”
That does the trick: there’s nothing the medical types love more than biometrics. The administrator nods, and thumbs his approval.
Mission accomplished at last, Serafin heads downstairs, relieved and exhausted, and plunks down in one of the uncomfortable checkered couches in front of the slowly rotating IRCC symbol. Nothing too exciting — one of the Soviet Mars water reservoirs is contaminated; one of the United Kingdom refineries in the Belt has declared itself insolvent; one of the Churchill legislators has died in a star-cutter race, a nasty collision that’s left four others dead. In local news, one of the Archimedes professors is celebrating his centennial; there’s also a notice of a course alteration occurring soon, to allow the fleet to visit the Second Battle of Phobos graveyard. It will only add a week to the voyage, but it’s still stirred up quite a bit of controversy.
“We’ve seen the ships, twisted and torn, still seeking their final spin,” a student intones portentously. “An atrocity space, where nightmares dwell, a frozen scream of pain—”
“And there’s still bodies!” another student chimes in. “Never put to rest! If you ask me, we ought to leave it all alone—”
“Mister Serafin?”
The nightingale, clad in blues and whites, motions for him to enter.
He has come to suspect these waits are artificial — surely it should be possible to schedule patients more efficiently, with all this vaunted space age tech? Serafin has developed a theory (slightly paranoid, admittedly) that doctors maintain such long waits intentionally; perhaps out of tradition, but mostly to establish psychological dominance over their patients. It might be your life, but it’s my schedule.
The nightingale brings him to a small examination room, occupied by a medi-drone, an squat, old, ugly red and white model that isn’t much more than a box with articulating arms. It looks like it’s gotten kicked around a lot over the years; as it initiates its poking and prodding protocols, Serafin begins to understand why. As the abuse continues, the nightingale runs through the standard questions.
“Have you been taking any medications that have not been prescribed to you by your doctor?”
Serafin shrugs. “I take sleepers sometimes. Dispensary only.”
“Have you attempted to disrupt or subvert your BCI implant?”
That’s a new one. “I wouldn’t know how.”
“Have you recently suffered any violent impulses?”
Serafin motions toward the medi-drone. “Thought about taking a shot at this guy.”
“Please refrain from assaulting the Portable Testing Unit.”
“Hear that?” Serafin says. “You get a pass this time.”
“The doctor will be with you shortly. Do you have any questions?”
“Yeah, what time do you get off?”
The nightingale tilts its head. “Please refrain from making advances toward the autonomic nursing unit.”
Why don’t they make these things with a sense of humor?
“Good morning, Mister Serafin! How are you today?” The doctor flicks his eyes up to review Serafin’s records, answering his own question. “Just making sure everything’s still attached, ah?”
“I’ve been having some issues with my prosthetic, actually,” Serafin says, holding up his false hand. “Minor twitching… it’s subtle… sort of like when you flex a muscle for a bit too long.”
“Fasciculations, by the sound of it. Any pain?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s have a look.” The doctor unclips his medicorder and starts scanning Serafin’s arm, studying the glowing blue consensus overlay of neurons and pseudo-neurons. “Looks like you’ve been taking good care of it. All your subscriptions paid? Firmware’s up to date?”
Serafin nods.
“Mm.” The doctor makes another pass, going deeper to examine the artificial muscles. “Well, I don’t see any obvious issues here, but we’d probably need you to leave it here for a few days so we can run full diagnostics.”
“I’d rather not.” As much as Serafin has come to dislike the prosthetic, he dislikes being without it more. He flexes his fingers, trying to force the phenomena, but no luck.
“I understand.” The doctor leans back, scribbling on his notepad. “I’ll send you a kit you can install at your leisure, and we’ll see if that picks anything up. Anything else?”
“I’ve got a limb replacement scheduled. Just wanted to make sure everything’s on track.”
“Mm.”
“Something wrong?”
“Well, about that — I’m just reviewing your file,” the doctor waves his hand, pulling a mess of limbs and statistics. “Physically, it would appear you’re an ideal candidate for the procedure: clean residuum, ideal genetic profile for bio-printing, your nervous system looks like it would adapt well to re-innervation.”
“But?”
“But… there’s a couple issues.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’m sure you discussed this with your previous doctor, but… there’s more to a limb replacement than just slapping a hunk of meat on your stump and sewing them together. Graft failures are relatively rare these days, but some patients have trouble adjusting to replacements. A risk of psychological rejection, as much as physical. It’s essential you’re in the right frame of mind for the procedure.”
“Well, I’m not crazy.”
“You’re not,” the doctor concedes. “But that doesn’t mean you’re necessarily in the right frame of mind.”
“Something wrong with my psych profile?”
“Would you say you’re under a lot of stress, Mister Serafin?”
“No more than anyone else.”
“Mm,” the doctor says. He makes a few gestures, pulling up Serafin’s scans, then throws the relevant charts and graphs on the wall. “In clinical terms, Mister Serafin, you’re what we in the medical profession would call a bit of a mess. Take a look at your DAS charts here — elevated catecholamine and cortisol, decreased serotonin, thyroid’s way off — you’re currently employed as an interlocutor, correct?”
“Yes?”
“Well, this is the sort of profile I’d expect to see from a warfighter in an active combat zone. Your implants are doing what they can to compensate, but really, you should have been put on mandatory sick leave years ago.”
“I got waivered.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“There was a war on.”
“I appreciate that, Mister Serafin. But the war’s over.”
“I’m fine.”
“For now, perhaps. But this isn’t sustainable. The longer this continues, the higher risk of suffering sustained, even permanent, damage. We have some excellent psychiatric services here, I’d really like for you to speak with someone—”
“No thank you,” says Serafin, firmly.
The doctor pauses, considering how to say what he’s going to say next.
“Mister Serafin, I am… familiar with your recent history. I watched your appearance on Hardlight. I’m aware you may have, ah, privacy concerns. Let me assure you, many of our faculty deal with highly sensitive and classified information, and the Avicenna is more than equipped to handle such matters. Even a few sessions with an DNF remodulator could help quite a bit….”
“I’ll consider it,” Serafin lies. His career is already teetering on the brink — there’s no way the Shadow House will ever let him back in if they find out he’s getting his head shrunk. “But you said issues, plural?”
“Mm, yes. Just one other concern, a small one, really: how do you intend to pay for the procedure?”
“I have insurance?” says Serafin. “I’m on the university program.”
“You are. But the university health insurance program establishes baseline at point of enrollment. And given the superlative quality of your prosthesis, we can’t very well argue your current condition is interfering with your work or impacting your quality of life—”
“Hold on a second. What?”
“Well, it’s just that, since the loss of your arm occurred prior to your employment—”
“Are you saying my missing arm is a pre-existing condition?”
The doctor seems confused by his confusion. “The loss of your limb occurred prior to your hiring, did it not? So….”
Serafin blinks. In the maelstrom of stupid, small problems that seems to dominate his day-to-day, this one has managed to whip by and smack him in the back of the head with the force of a crate whipped through the hold by explosive decompression. He’s already worked the problem in his head, but he vocalizes it just in case, to make sure he isn’t missing anything:
“I was insured by Paean, my previous employer….”
“Their liability ended when you came to Firnas. But that was Tier Two anyway; it wouldn’t have covered the cloning.”
Serafin never bothered paying for Tier One with Paean because he already had Tier One. Except—
“I should still have my SVMed coverage…?”
“You do. But you’re not active duty. There’s a stepped downgrade after you leave the service — one tier every decade, just about.”
Because the records say I’m not SIS.
And if Serafin isn’t SIS, then logically he wouldn’t have access to government medical benefits. They can’t take the risk someone might stumble upon something that contradicts the narrative.
Serafin rubs his temples as the doctor keeps chattering about loans and interests rates and alternatives. He’ll talk to van Arden later, but he already knows how that will go: a lot of “that’s completely unacceptable” and “we’ll get this sorted out,” the same as he’s been hearing for months.
And nothing will come of it.
It’s one thing to make sacrifices in the line of duty, to give your life for your brothers in arms, to die for the freedom of the men and women of the solar system. But this doesn’t feel like valor — this feels like a sacrifice to bureaucracy, a notion Serafin finds objectionable on an almost elemental level.
The tingling in his false hand returns, dancing around his knuckles, but he doesn’t mention it.
“… of course, you could pay out of pocket, if you believe this procedure is important to you.”
“How much?” Serafin asks.
“Mm. Well. It depends, really,” says the doctor, loading a calculator and running through the options.
The final tally’s not too bad; an amount Serafin could easily afford, had he kept every dollar he’d ever made in his life, and never spent a single cent.