FRED ARRIVED JUST as a wave of russes was leaving the headquarters for their split shifts. To Fred’s surprise, he was a celebrity. Word had leaked about his scuffle with the warbeitor last night. Because of the confidentiality rules, he was unable to set the record straight that he wasn’t the hero of the hour—but that the TUGs’ illegal particle weapon was. All he could do was accept the accolades of his brothers with typical russ humility. (Humility—Fred decided to keep a running list of russ traits that he shared or lacked.)
Fred clocked into a scape booth and asked Marcus to open his Rondy space.
“Certainly, Myr Londenstane,” the mentar said, “but there’s nothing there that can’t wait a few hours. Why don’t you take the morning off. You had a very stressful day yesterday.”
“Thank you for your concern, Marcus,” he said, “but I’d rather do it now.” (Obsessive attention to detail.)
“As you wish. But allow me to schedule you an autopsyche session when you’re done. After what you’ve been through, you may find it helpful.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” (Aversion to so-called mental hygiene.)
Marcus opened Fred’s Rendezvous workspace and left him to his chores. There were scores of details to resolve, but as Marcus had said, nothing urgent. Fred called up the proxy he had cast when he bailed from the Rondy meeting. The log said it had been in storage since the meeting adjourned.
A mirror image of Fred’s head and shoulders and a gloved right hand appeared before him. “About time you showed up,” it said. Fred’s proxy wore an expression of patient annoyance, which surprised and embarrassed him. Proxies tended to be locked in to one’s emotional state at the moment of casting. Had Fred’s annoyance with the organizing committee been so apparent? (Emotional transparency—not a russ trait.) If so, blame it on the utter stupidity of the committee chair, Myr Pacfin. (Inability to suffer fools.)
“So,” the proxy said, “how’d it go? Inspector Costa and the mentar hunt.”
“Fine,” Fred said.
“Fine? That’s it? That’s all I get? Fred, it’s me—Fred,” the proxy said. “I’m your proxy. The confidentiality ban doesn’t apply to us, remember? You’re going to delete me when you wrap things up.”
Fred sighed. “Sorry. Let’s see, we captured the last Cabinet backup in an Opticom hub and then cornered the Cabinet prime next to a city waterworks crib under the lake. Reilly Dell was riding shotgun, by the way, and we were glommed by a NASTIE and had to be dry-cleaned.”
“Whoa!” the proxy said. “Back up and slow down.”
But Fred had no intention of backing up or slowing down. “Veronica Tug tells me you hired five hundred TUGs to patrol Rondy.”
“You spoke to her again?”
“Yeah, she saved my bacon last night.”
“Say again?”
Fred rubbed his face. “Let’s just say,” he said, “that the TUGs were in the right place at the right time to do me a big favor.”
“Com’on, Fred. You can’t leave me just hanging like that.”
But he had to; otherwise he’d find himself giving a blow-by-blow of the raid on the mysterious house in Decatur, its warbeitor sentry, the deadly plasma rings, and all the rest. Then the proxy would ask about the canopy ceremony and Mary, and he’d have to tell it about her companion gig and Cabinet. He had to draw a line.
“About this TUG contingent you hired,” he said.
“All right, all right,” the proxy said. “I didn’t hire them, but I agreed to allow five hundred of them to wear armbands and to patrol the convention floor in exchange for keeping our forty pikes off the floor.”
“What? I’m supposed to tell our pikes to sit on their hands?”
“Exactly. The pikes won’t be allowed to show their weasely little faces. The TUGs will be under our command and will limit their actions to verbal persuasion.”
That actually wasn’t such a bad idea. The chartists at these affairs rarely got rowdy and would much rather be policed by fellow chartists anyway, and the TUGs could probably keep the peace with their looks alone. “I suppose MC and Nick are good with this arrangement?”
“Yeah, the mentars are all on board.”
Once nudged in the right direction, Proxy Fred continued his termination debriefing with typical russ efficiency. (Efficiency.) When it was finished, it sighed and said, “That’s it.”
“Nothing else?”
“There is one more thing I thought I’d tell you. I don’t know how much weight to put on it since I’m just a—you know—artificial construct of you, but I had a feeling about this Veronica Tug person.”
“What kind of a feeling?” Fred said.
“A hunch.”
“And?”
“I felt I could trust her. Which was why her helping you is so interesting.”
“I see. Thanks for telling me. And thank you for your service.”
“It was nothing.”
Fred and his proxy watched each other for a few moments in silence, and then the proxy said, “Will you just do it already?”
“Uh, sorry,” Fred said. “Marcus, delete proxy.”
The Fred proxy disappeared. Fred closed the Rondy space and logged into the Longyear Center to inquire about Inspector Costa’s status. She was still in critical condition.
Fred left the booth and went downstairs to the canteen for coffee and donuts. The place was nearly deserted, with so many russes mustered out on extra security details. And any russes not involved in trying to keep the affs from killing each other were no doubt working as bloomjumpers, now that Chicago had no canopy to protect it. (Brave.)
BACK IN THE scape booth, now that his work was finished, Fred asked Marcus for a datapin containing the complete BB of R Heads-Up Log. It was an unusual request—he usually let Marcus navigate the log for him. Marcus produced the pin, no questions asked, and Fred turned on the booth’s isolation field, excluding Marcus and any other snoops. The brotherhood’s booths provided pretty good privacy, not as tight as their null room, but much more convenient.
Fred pressed the pin into the reader, and a directory appeared on the workbench before him.
Fred knew more or less what was in the HUL. The log was a compendium of russ records and thoughts going back a hundred years to Thomas A. himself. Most of it was related to work issues, the how-tos and wherefores of security work. There was a Brag File describing especially harrowing missions, with confidential details excised. Marcus had already entered yesterday’s scuffle with the warbeitor, though without naming names. There was also a Wall of Honor for russes killed in the line of duty. And one of the most popular features on the HUL was the List of Lists. Altogether, there were over seven hundred thousand entries in the HUL, which, when Fred thought about it, didn’t amount to much considering that they represented about a half-billion russ/years of experience.
Proceeding on his theory that there was a secret log not listed in the directory, Fred browsed the HUL from front to back, looking for anything that might give him a glimpse into the mysterious russ heart. He supposed he could just ask Marcus if anything like that was recorded, but he assumed that if it was, it would be kept secret from Marcus as well. After three hours he gave up. Except for certain lists that scanned like poetry, his brothers seemed about as expressive as trees.
Fine, he would work on that. Fred opened a new volume in the HUL and entitled it the Book of Russ. He took a deep breath and began:
“To my brothers cloned: Contrary to all evidence, we, the sibs of Thomas A. Russ, do enjoy a rich inner life. Why we are so reluctant to share it with others, or even among ourselves, is anybody’s guess. Today I start what I hope will become a new tradition among us—the habit of brotherly openness.”