Sigh.
Here’s the thing: I didn’t want to find out windows had easily hurt feelings. I preferred that my worldview didn’t include opinionated nanotech. But… link-seed, Vigil, blah-blah-blah. You know the song, sing along with the chorus — Faye can’t hide from the truth.
I reached toward the window again. Only one hand. The featheriest touch I could manage. A cool jelly palm made contact with mine, just as hesitant as me. Into my skull came the feeling of shyness — not my own, someone else’s, a million someone elses worried they’d made some social gaffe. It’s all right, I thought, projecting my words at the un-glass, I’m just jumpy is all. I forced my palm to linger an extra second, then pulled back, feeling the jelly hand slip away.
Ssssssss. A pop as soft as a soap bubble.
"An adequate start," Tic said. "Just don’t ignore them from now on."
"I never knew they… who programmed them for emotions?"
Tic leaned toward me and whispered, "Nanites only have two programmed emotions: boredom and involvement. A single bit-switch that tells them they enjoy doing their job. ‘Oh joy, we get to work for big people!’ " He smiled fondly. "But when the nanites communicate with you through the world-soul, the world-soul likes to add more emotional color. Truth is, getting to know your local nanites is mostly just a way to show the world-soul you’re machine-friendly. Like playing with a woman’s children to win the mother’s heart. You definitely want to stay on the world-soul’s good side — you’re a data-based organism now." He lowered his voice even more. "The world-soul likes to be called Xe."
I fair gulped at that one. Xe (pronounced Chay) was a female deity from the Ooloms’ ancient past, dating back millennia to the Divian homeworld… comparable in time and sentiment to the Greek goddess Gaia. The Earth Mother. As I’ve said I didn’t understand much about Oolom religions, but I was sure they all considered Xe mythical. A pretty legend, a gem of a metaphor, but definitely fictitious.
"Are you saying Xe is real?" I whispered.
Tic stared at me scornfully. "It’s the world-soul, Smallwood. An artificial intelligence distributed over a million different machines. It likes the name Xe, but even Xe knows it’s not Xe. Are all new proctors as gullible as you?"
"I’m not gullible," I grumped, "I’m just surprised the world-soul is… conscious. No one ever told me—"
"Xe’s picky in choosing friends," Tic said. "Who’s let in on the secret. Who gets shut out. If you remember this conversation tomorrow, feel honored."
"You mean the world-soul could wipe—"
"Shh." Tic put a scaly finger to my lips. "Wisdom doesn’t upset itself over something that might not happen."
Wisdom can go poke a porcupine, I thought. A self-aware AI with delusions of godhood had its fingers inside my cranium; and now I found that if Xe didn’t like me, it could wipe away all recollection of the past five minutes. I guess the conversation would never shift from short-term to long-term memory — thanks to an AI mucking with my mind.
And the entire Vigil was linked to that!
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’d found a grand old way to mess myself up this time.
Unless Tic was lying. Out-and-out delusional. I couldn’t deny there was something queer about the windows, the nanites and all… but this talk of Xe could just be an old loon’s demented concoction. Imagining he was the world-soul’s bosom buddy, when it was just an egoless congregation of computers, clean devoid of will.
Which was more disturbing? That my new supervisor might be psychotic? Or that he might be right?
Tic whispered, "Bye-bye," to the window, and patted the membrane a last time before turning to me. "Well, Smallwood. Down to business. I assume you’ve heard I’m your supervisor?"
"Yes."
"And you’ve also heard I’m a Zenned-out dotard with brains of sponge pudding?"
"Gossip has reached my ears," I said.
"All of it true," Tic replied, "except the parts that aren’t. Or the parts that are both true and untrue." He gave me a look. "I just said that last so I’d sound more Zen. Not that I know much about human religions, but mystics the world over love paradox. Which is to say they hate reductivist binary logic. Am I rambling?"
"You’re showing off," I told him. "Indulging yourself to make me think you’re really crazy."
He smiled. "Very shrewd, Smallwood. You’re smart as well as wide. But God Almighty, you are wide. Do you have to go through doors sideways?"
"No," I said. "And I’m married."
"With shoulders like that, no wonder. But don’t mind me — us old codgers always use sexual harassment to put women at their ease. People think it’s so adorable, we can get away with murder. And speaking of murder, what did you say that got Chappalar killed?"
The question caught me flat-footed. Ever adept with brilliant repartee, I said, "Huh?"
"Chappalar," Tic repeated. "We were both at a party for him the other day. Quiet fellow — never spoke a word through the whole ceremony. And speaking of speaking, whom did you tell? That you intended to visit Pump Station 3." Tic leaned his hangdog face toward mine. "Who knew you’d be there?"
"Why are you asking?" I said. "Do you think you’re investigating Chappalar’s murder?"
Tic put on his scornful look again. "That’s police business, Smallwood. Well outside the Vigil’s authority."
I breathed a sigh of relief. Prematurely.
"My assignment," Tic went on, "is to assume Proctor Chappalar’s duties. Which makes me your supervisor. I’ve reviewed your schedule, and you have no current commitments, correct? City council withdrew the water-treatment bill you were scrutinizing?"
I nodded.
"Then you need a new project to keep you busy," Tic said. "Proctor Smallwood, I assign you to scrutinize activities of the Bonaventure Civilian Protection Office. That’s undeniably within the mandate of this Vigil branch."
No question, that. We were authorized to watchdog the local cops; in fact, we were legally required to give them a look-see from time to time.
"So," Tic said, "keep an eye open for all the usual things. Corruption. Slack work habits. Pilfering office supplies. What?" He cocked his ear toward the window. "Oh." He turned back to me. "Especially be on the lookout for people who don’t wash their hands before entering the nanotech lab. Foul old bastards."
"Do the Bonaventure police have a nanotech lab?" I asked.
"Don’t ask me — you’re the one who’s scrutinizing them. Far be it from me to tell you what to do." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Now here’s what I want you to do. You’re clearly at a total loss for direction, so why not monitor a representative criminal case currently being investigated?"
"Did you have something particular in mind?"
"We’ll pick a case at random. Oh. Here’s one." He reached onto my desk where there was a single file packet stamped with the Bonaventure police crest. I hadn’t put the file there. Tic read the label on the packet and said, "This will do splendidly. The Chappalar murder investigation. Proctor Smallwood, you will scrutinize the police handling of this case to the best of your abilities. I, of course, will accompany you to provide the seasoned voice of experience."
He waited for me to answer. I gave a slight nod. Precious good thing we weren’t overstepping our authority by intruding into police business.
Tic tossed the file onto my desk. "You’ll want to review the police report as soon as possible," he said. "When you do, you’ll see that those boobies bungled the interrogation of their prime witness. A human woman — one Faye Smallwood. You may have heard of her. The detectives downloaded what she saw at the murder scene and assumed it was all she knew. Can’t imagine why they mollycoddled her. Of course she had political connections, so perhaps she pulled some strings down at city hall."