"Tic never did what he was told," Jupkur said, as if I couldn’t read it for myself. "The coordinator would assign him to review some paragraph overnight, and in the morning, Tic would have looked at a completely different section. Mind you, his insights were often brilliant… but that didn’t make him any friends, considering that someone else was probably reviewing the same text without the same degree of inspiration. If the coordinator asked, ‘What do you want to look at, Tic?,’ he’d answer, ‘I don’t know yet. Whatever feels important.’ Which is not exactly helpful when you’re trying to keep things organized."
I nodded. People sometimes get the notion proctors are rampant individualists, boldly charting our own paths to track down corruption. But mostly, we’re methodical as mustard — you only get to follow your hunches after you’ve done days of preliminary donkeywork.
"So Tic got booted from the trade-treaty team?" I asked.
"Depends who tells the story," Jupkur said, lowering his arms and letting the words on his back fade away. "Most of my sources think that’s what happened — he got the old leave-ho. But one friend at Vigil HQ says this was Tic’s own decision. A day after the killings, Tic suddenly announced he was needed in Bonaventure. And when a master proctor wants a transfer, he gets a transfer… especially when his current team won’t be sorry to see him go."
"You think Tic might be coming here to investigate Chappalar’s death?"
"Heaven forbid!" Jupkur said with mock horror. "That’s police business, isn’t it? The Vigil has no mandate for criminal investigation. But it’s just possible that such a quibble slipped Tic’s mind… whatever shred of mind he has left."
"Lovely," I said. "The man’s senile, and you’ve made him my supervisor."
"He asked to be your supervisor. And how could we say no to a master proctor?" Jupkur grinned. "Besides, what’s he going to do, Faye? How much trouble can you get into in placid little Bonaventure?"
"Chappalar got murdered," I said.
"Point taken," Jupkur admitted. "But Chappalar didn’t actually get himself in trouble. He was a victim of circumstance, nothing more. Someone decided to kill proctors because they were proctors. It’s a global matter, Faye, and whatever Tic does, how can it make you more of a target than you already are?"
"Gee thanks," I muttered.
Jupkur waved his hand airily. "You’re a target, I’m a target, he, she, and it are targets. Surely you don’t think anyone is singling you out, Faye? This is political, not personal. Some weak-minded local has obviously bought into the Freep propaganda that the Vigil is undemocratic… we’re a wicked unelected body of petty dictators, who do nothing but interfere with free representation. Heaven knows, the Freeps have been harping on that theme ever since we started getting under their skin at the trade talks. So some tico crackpot decides, yes proctors are Evil Personified and must be stopped. In time, the police will catch the culprit; I hope before another attack. But in the meantime, I don’t intend to change the way I do my duty. Do you?"
"Of course not," I said. "I’m just worried about Tic."
"Don’t be. At worst, his mind wanders; at best, he’s still a master proctor. Tic could teach you a lot. And I’m sure you can help him too."
Jupkur freighted those last words deep with meaning; and I caught the hint. A senile old fart just got himself posted to Bonaventure, and someone had to baby-sit him. Surprise, surprise, the senior proctors sloughed off the job on junior me. Crap flows downhill.
"All right," I said, trying to keep the grumbles out of my voice. "Tic and I are a team. Anything else you want to tell me?"
"Just one thing." Jupkur — Jupkur of the thousand-and-one smirks — suddenly lowered his gaze to the floor, abashed. "Tic was chief scrutineer over the Global Health Agency. During the plague." Oh. Ouch.
"No one blames him for anything," Jupkur went on hurriedly, "He demanded a review when it was all over, and the tribunal absolved him of all culpability. Actually, they wanted to give Tic a commendation for swift and decisive action. Things would have been even worse if he hadn’t driven the government to move quickly. But Tic didn’t want a gold medal — he wanted to do penance for all the deaths that happened on his watch. People say he hoped the review panel would crucify him: expel him from the Vigil, rip the link-seed out of his head. When they exonerated him instead, it sent him into a screaming fit, swearing he’d kill himself."
Jupkur shrugged. "The only problem was, Tic had caught the paralysis like everybody else, and couldn’t hold a knife to slash his wrists. The disease clung on too — kept him immobile twice as long as anyone else. Psychosomatic, of course: guilt kept him numb months after the microbes were gone. So the emotional therapists went to work, and by the time he could move again, he was past the suicidal stage. Just not past the self-recrimination. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention the plague in casual discussion."
"Jupkur," I groaned, "I’m Henry Smallwood’s daughter. Ooloms still stop me on the street to shake my hand. The subject is going to come up."
"Don’t you bring it up," Jupkur said. "Tic might take it the wrong way. As if you’re boasting that your father had to clean up Tic’s mess."
"I never boast about my father," I told him. Which shouldn’t have been true, but was.
When I got to my office, Tic was there: standing by the window, solemnly pushing his hand into the clear membrane then pulling it back, listening to the sucking sound.
Ssss-pop. Ssss-pop. Sssssssssssss-pop.
His face had a look of fierce concentration, as if this was a momentous assignment demanding his full attention. No smile or frown: nothing but focus. He reminded me of Barrett’s favorite basset hound, an old frump of a dog who would stare worriedly at a rubber ball for hours, wondering if maybe — just maybe — the ball could be used as a toy.
"Hello," I said. "Can I help you?"
"No," he replied, "I’m doing excellently on my own."
Sssss-pop. Sssssssssss-pop. Ss-pop.
"What are you doing?" I finally asked.
"Playing with the nanites. Simple souls — they just love being teased. Can’t get enough of it."
My heart skipped a beat. No, no, no, I thought quick-hop, nanites don’t have souls. Every last one of the little buggers was dumb as earwax. Put a billion together and the most you got was an idiot savant window that could impersonate jelly. Nanites definitely did not have personalities or… or…
Some killjoy part of my brain wouldn’t repress what happened the night before — how the nanites on the chair whimpered and turned tail when I gave them a dirty look.
"You think the nanites enjoy what you’re doing?" I asked.
"They like the attention," Tic said. He threw me a glance over his shoulder. "Whenever I take a new post, I make sure to befriend the local nanites. They’re always so desperately lonely. Taken for granted. No one ever gives a thought for their feelings." Ssssss-pop. "You, for example. This is your office, and they tell me you haven’t even introduced yourself."
"I’m just new," I found myself saying. "I only got the office a few days ago, and I’ve been busy ever since."
"You aren’t busy now."
Tic gave a tiny jerk of his head toward the window — the sort of hinting gesture that people pretend is so subtle no one else will notice. Reluctant as a rabbit, I crossed the room. Tic bobbed his head at the rightmost window. "Those fellows have been asking especially about you." I thought, Maybe this is a Vigil initiation prank. A stunt to make the new kid embarrass herself. Jupkur sets me up to think Tic is a total loon, and Tic gets me to do something witless just to humor him. Soon, all the other proctors will jump out laughing. Or else Tic is a total loon. Or else… no, I didn’t want to think about that. Placing my hand against the glassy un-glass window, I said, "Hi, guys. I’m Faye. You’ll be seeing a lot of me now, sitting over in that desk."