Carlyle tugged free a lock of hair caught in his collar. “Are set-sets the only way to run the cars?”
<i don’t need this nurturist crap in my own home, cousin. i’m not a bird with its wings clipped—you’re a bird stuck in its shell.>
I hope, good reader, that the name of ‘Nurturist’ has faded by your age, that the zealots are quiet, and that the wound sliced by the violence has finally healed. For me it has been two centuries since the Set-Set Riots rocked our young Alliance, so the wound has scabbed over, but reminders like Eureka still pick it raw.
“Please!” Carlyle answered, “I’m not a Nurturist, and I didn’t mean the question adversarially, honestly, I just genuinely want to know. It’s such an adversarial topic, I can’t ask anything without it being a question someone asked in anger some time.”
<fair. it’s not the only way to run the system. it launched in 2170 but cartesian set-sets weren’t developed for another 40 years. before we took over they had almost 100 car crashes every year instead of 9, and the speeds were lower then too, they couldn’t fly safely over 900 km/h. now we fly them over 1000.>
He nodded. “You must be very proud, protecting so many people.”
<i’ll be proud if i get up to 1100, let everyone on earth spend 90 less hours stuck in a car each year. that would be achievement.>
Carlyle smiled; that sentiment at least transcended the barrier of plastic and sensory rift.
<so why are you really back?>
We are fortunate Eureka could not see the shock on Carlyle’s face. “I told you.”
<you were lying. you say situations like this take multiple visits like it’s a normal thing, but it’s not normal, your return probability wouldn’t be under 1% if it was normal.>
He floundered. “It’s not normal, it’s a very unusual situation.”
<is it thisbe? love at first sight?>
“What?”
<i wouldn’t blame you. thisbe’s great.> A facial expression might have helped Carlyle tell whether Eureka was joking, but a Homo sapiens whose world since birth has been raw data swimming in the void does not learn facial expressions like a “normal” child.
Carlyle leapt to his feet. “Absolutely not! Thisbe’s my parishioner!”
<you’re one of *those* sensayers.>
“If you mean a sensayer who takes my oath seriously, yes, I am!”
Carlyle on his feet, his Cousin’s wrap swishing like storm, is what greeted me as I rounded the landing and reached the living room. The sight of me forced instant calm upon the sensayer, but, for the set-set who sees only cars, I wasn’t present in the room until I spoke. “Sorry to interrupt, Member Eureka, but you’re being a little cruel.” I hadn’t intended the words to have a double meaning, but they did in some sense apply to how Eureka was treating Carlyle, as well as how they were taunting Cato.
<if my sib’s such a big baby they can’t cross a room to use the bathroom with a stranger in the house, they deserve toughening up!>
“Sib?” Carlyle repeated, frowning his confusion.
I smiled apology. “It is in no way your fault, Cousin Foster. Cato Weeksbooth is in that room,” I pointed, “and has been sending Eureka messages for several minutes. Cato desperately wants to cross through here to get to the bathroom, but they’re phobically afraid of sensayers.”
Carlyle followed my gesture, and may have been quick enough to glimpse a sliver of black hair and white cloth through the cracked door before it slammed.
“Sorry!” Carlyle called. “I had no idea!”
I shook my head. “It’s not your fault. There’s no way you could have known.” I moved close enough to Cato’s door for my gentle voice to reach him. “I’m taking the sensayer downstairs now, Doctor Weeksbooth, no need to worry. I’ll make sure they leave by downstairs, and I’ll let you know when they’re gone.”
I will not repeat the sob-strained mix of thanks and curses which Cato muttered back—no, they were not even curses, just those words that sound like curses which children use who aren’t quite brave enough to say a real forbidden word. Better not to meet him here, good reader; Cato Weeksbooth is a beautiful if fragile creature, and I will have you meet him when he is a little more himself. Today you meet Eureka.
I turned to Carlyle, and gestured to the stairs. “Shall we go down?”
Carlyle was frowning hard at Eureka, his pale forehead wrinkled by a consternated mix of guilt and blame. “Why didn’t you say something? I would have gotten out of the way.”
<i don’t help cato be neurotic, it isn’t good for them.>
Carlyle opened his mouth to object, but caught himself. He smiled, not a forced smile, but the kind where we smile for ourselves, to force away a darker feeling. “I’m the intruder here so it’s your business. I’ll look forward to getting to know you all better with time. Unless you still want to request a different, non-Cousin sensayer?”
Eureka twitched. <is your opinion firmer now?>
“My opinion about set-sets? I can’t make up my mind from just talking to you for two minutes.”
<most people make up their minds talking to me for no minutes. i guess you aren’t horrible. if ockham approves it, you can stay.>
“High praise, thank you.” Carlyle waited, but a set-set does not smirk.
“Shall we?” I invited, returning to the stairs.
“Yes, thank you.” Carlyle turned toward Cato’s door. “I’m leaving now, Doctor! I’m sorry!”
The sensayer made it almost to the stairwell before text froze him in place. <you never said why you really came back.>
A third time the same question; bash’ security may be Ockham’s domain, but Eureka is a watchdog too, the keener because they know how to make interrogation feel like playful nosiness. My breath caught. It wasn’t just the danger in the question, it was the sight of Carlyle’s face, which relaxed into a smooth, angelic tranquility, beautiful and captivating, like a piece of art, the statue-smoothness of his cheeks, the childlike delicacy of his brows, the golden glimmer at the edges of his hanging hair. In that moment he might have been his mother. “Sensayer business,” he answered in a light, sweet voice. “I don’t think I could describe it if I tried. You don’t have the right background or terminology. After all, I’ve cultivated my mind for something too.”
It is hard for me to express what extraordinary praise Eureka’s reply carried: <voker.>
Why do we shorten the words most precious to us? Ba’pa from bash’parent, ba’sib from bash’sibling, in old days mom from mother, Prince from princeps, Pope from papa, and here the hasty ‘voker,’ never the archaic ‘vocateur.’ In 2266, when the work week finally shortened to twenty hours, and crowds deserted those few professions which required more, the first Anonymous, Aurel Gallet, rushed to defend ‘vocation’ with a tract which is still mandatory reading for three Hive-entry programs. Why is a calling passive, he asked? Why is one called helplessly to one’s vocation, when surely it is an active thing? I find my calling, take it, seize that delight, that path before me, make it mine. I call it like a summoned magic, it does not call me. His new word ‘vocateur’ (one who calls) was born to remind us that a person with a strong vocation is not a victim driven helplessly to toil, but a lucky soul whose work is also pleasure, and to whom thirty, forty, fifty hours are welcome ones. Surely the inconvenience of pronouncing one more syllable is a small price to commemorate a term so powerful that here it cuts across the barrier to thrill the hearts of both Cousin and set-set.
Carlyle smiled a true, warm smile at the compliment. “You too.”
I led him down to Thisbe’s empty room. There was a special feeling of release as I closed the door behind us, like shutting out the swelter of a fearsome August. I could see from Carlyle’s easing shoulders that he felt it too.