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Bureau (part 2)
Millimillenary appeared to be completely covered by city-scape, the entire habitable surface of the planet divided up into a grid, with buildings that reached up for about fifty storeys, providing a third dimension that the map wasn't required to show. The streets were based in pale concrete, paved with slippery white ceramic plates, and would have been rather drab and utilitarian if it wasn't for the hundreds of different xenoforms who streamed up and down them. There appeared to be a large single lane of foot-traffic (or at least what passed for feet on some beings) moving in one direction, and two smaller lanes on either side, moving in the other direction. This tended to work to the disadvantage of the sentients who were on the outside lanes, and it became apparent that it was often easier to travel three or four blocks out of your way, just to use the quicker inner lane. In places, she saw what appeared to be short grey trees, bare of leaves, the branches dividing into three from the base, progressively sub-dividing to a mass of thread-like tips. She reached out to stroke a branch which was about the thickness of her little finger, and it writhed away from her touch. Waddell's shop occupied the entire ground floor of one block; the outside was a mass of holographic signs in dozens of languages, including Anglic, Russic Europan and Katakana. There were beeps, squeaks and hums that she recognised as signs for xenoforms that didn't have a visual sense. She spent a few minutes looking for a door, found one (concealed within a hologram of a two-metre-tall chocolate sundae -her mouth was watering already) and entered. The ice-cream parlour was located in the centre of the store, with the clothing displays surrounding it. The clothes looked like theatrical costumes - surely, no-one wore Elizabethan ruffs these days! She began to think that this store catered more for xenoforms who wanted to dress up than for actual humans. She wondered why she hadn't thought to ask the data-post at the ExPort exactly how many humans there were on Millimillenary. At least the music was terrestrial - early Robert Smith. There was a dejected-looking young man with short dark hair sitting behind the counter. He was cleaning a small metal part from a blender that was disassembled around him. A xeno that resembled a metre-tall kiwi-bird hopped up on to the counter and said, "Reeee? Reeeeeeee?" He took a glazed cherry from a bowl nearby and tossed it to the xeno, which caught it with the end of its long, flexible snout and jumped off. She approached the counter, and with an audible click, turned off her notepad. The young man froze. "Excuse me, I'd like to order a chocolate s-" he looked up, and almost fell off the stool he was perched on. He leaped off the stool, dropping the part he was cleaning, rushed over and grabbed her shoulders. He stared into her face with a disturbing intensity. "Are... are you a human?" He was trembling. "Yes... why? You seem rather upset." His eyes grew wide, and a look of hysterical disbelief appeared. "Upset... upset, she says. My god! You are only the third human being that I have seen in seven years! UPSET!" he began to laugh hysterically. She broke free from his grasp, and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He kept laughing, eyes squeezed shut, and she was obliged to slap him. He stopped abruptly, gasping, face almost white except for a red palm-print, staring at her in shock. "I'm sorry," he whispered, turning and stumbling back to the counter, picking up the polishing-rag as he went. It was then that she noticed a chain bolted around his ankle. She rushed after him, catching his arm and spinning him around to face her again. He refused to meet her gaze, so she took his chin in her hand and lifted his face. He closed his eyes and tried to struggle free. She threw her arm around his shoulder, drew him close and pressed her lips to his. After a moment's hesitation, he responded, returning her attention hungrily. His hands slipped around her waist, hugging her to him intently, slowly forcing her back onto the counter. She let him proceed, wondering what sort of circumstance could put someone in a position where he had to live apart from his own people for so long. She got the story out of him eventually. His name was Marek, and his great-grandparents had started this venture out, just over a hundred years ago, when the NRNAL-10021 district was still under development. As the district became less local- and more tourist-oriented, the business prospered to the point where they owned the entire block, right up to the fiftieth floor; at this point, they had attracted the attention of a sub-set of the Parkry, who demanded a cut of the profits. When Marek's grandparents had refused, they had been denounced to the NoSaNoOs as possible technocrats, in the employ of the Interdicted Moridani, and had been banished. Marek's parents, too young to join his grandparents in exile, had been indentured to a local Information Trader, who had taken over the business (after assuring the Parkry that they would get their cut). "... which, as I rapidly learned, was the way things were done around here. Still are, in fact." Marek fell silent. Kelanie hugged him again. "What I can't understand is they would put you into such menial, mind-numbing labour as this, when you would be more useful to them in an -" he glanced up at her, "- administrative position?" He scowled. "Kelanie, this entire planet is knee-deep in bureaucrats. I could spend several lifetimes here, gradually moving up the ranks, and one day, maybe, maybe, I would get to a position where I could filch a packet of blank memory cartridges. Maybe." Kelanie was silent. Marek hadn't yet realised how high up in the structure her position was. There was an awkward pause, during which Marek absently polished an already-gleaming spoon. Kelanie's stomach broke the silence with the sort of gurgle you'd get from not eating for three days. She glanced longingly at the array of ice-cream-like substances; Marek glanced at her apologetically, and then rushed to prepare a `Waddell Special' for her. After sharing the large sundae with him, she asked if there was somewhere she could sleep, and Marek pointed to a pile of hessian- like sacks in an alcove, evidently his home. The chain from his leg was fixed to a point next to a small wash-trough from which water gurgled quietly. There were a few holograms pasted on the wall, and a small audio player. She took him by the hand and led him over to his bed.
"If that's the way it looks, then it probably is, but I would be She woke a few hours later, with a sore throat from the sharp oxygen-rich air. Marek was hugging her as if he were afraid that she'd escape. She idly stroked his cheek, smiling. It wasn't often that she had the time, or the inclination, for such recreational activity in her position. The intensity of the emotion Marek had revealed after his isolation touched her deeply, and she began turning various schemes around in her mind, with a view to releasing him from his servitude. Marek noticed the bracelet she had received at the Millimillenary ExPort. "What did you do to deserve that?" "The Parkry at the ExPort gave it to me when I arrived... what do you mean, `deserve it'?" Marek stroked the pattern of raised metallic dots. "It looks like the markers that the NoSaNoOs place on crates of interdicted technology... I think it's an identifier for possible criminal activity, sort of like a warning... it means that if you were arrested, you'd be taken to the Office of Threat Termination immediately, no questions asked." "Threat Termination? That sounds a bit extr-" Suddenly, a voice, speaking in Anglic, called out from the main counter. "Waiter? Way-y-te-r-r!!!!" She was mildly surprised to recognise the voice - it belonged to a pre-millennium video actor, Rik Mayall. She turned over, and peered at the counter. She couldn't see anything there, but the voice called out again, in exactly the same tones. She suspected that it was being generated by a digital sampler. She got up, draped some loose bedding material around her shoulders, but after realising that there were very few xenoforms on Millimillenary that would be offended by a naked human, she draped the cloth over Marek instead and went over to the counter, taking her notepad just in case `waiter, waiter' was the alien's complete Anglic vocabulary. Looking over the counter, she saw something like a swollen turtle shell, almost two metres long and a metre tall. She could see her reflection in the smooth, glossy black surface; the shell was completely featureless, not even a sign of feet, wheels or other methods of propulsion - it seemed to slide along the ground by sheer willpower. She felt a faint tickling sensation behind her breastbone as the xeno turned to face her, probably caused by some sort of sonar-based sense. The xeno spoke again, employing another audio sample, a very old one judging from the degree of noise that accompanied it: "Where's our fish? We've finished our fish!" Kelanie was paging through her notepad's Species ID files, which had been greatly augmented by access to the local data service; this alien lacked a name that could be easily represented in human terms, and was simply denoted by the code `N-SVW-Tre/A'. There was a Tertiary language interface available, so she patched it in and spoke to it. "How may I serve you?" The notepad converted her expression to Tertiary, and from there to N-SVW-Tre/A, which sounded like a wavery cockatoo screech which rose in volume and then faded again. Apparently, the N-SVW-Tre/A's natural communication took place on a frequency higher than human hearing, because the translator returned its response after a short pause, during which all Kelanie heard was the faint jingling and crashing of the music. "I had thought you incapable of sarcasm, Marek. (carriage return line feed). Have you been taking lessons behind my back? (carriage return line feed). And from which of our worthy customers did you steal that instrument? (carriage return line feed). I believe that it is high on the NoSaNoOs Interdiction list, if it is what it appears to be, and if you continue to point it at me, I will have you beaten. (end of file)." What an asshole, (carriage return line feed), Kelanie thought. Marek rushed up, pulling on a pair of pants, and threw himself down in front of the xeno, kneeling, arms thrust back, forehead almost touching the floor. Acting on instinct, Kelanie started a holographic recording, sure that Marek's employer was about to give a graphic example of how poorly it treated him. The tickling feeling wavered, as if the xeno was having trouble distinguishing between them; it finally oriented towards Marek, edged closer to him and suddenly lashed out with a club-like flipper, hitting Marek on the side of the head and almost knocking him down. Kelanie watched, restraining herself; the holographic recording clearly showed blood running from a deep scratch on Marek's forehead. The xeno turned to leave, and Kelanie nodded, stopping the recording. After finding a particularly cutting insult in the N-SVW-Tre/A's relation-table, she stepped over and delivered a solid kick to the rear end of the xeno's shell, pushing the alien across the floor into a cluster of hat-stands, one of which fell over. The xeno shuddered like a stalled motor-vehicle for a moment, and then seemed to regain its composure, turning to face her like an armoured tank. She felt the tickling feeling definitely as the blank curved turtle shape surged towards her. Marek grabbed her arm and whispered, "Come on, don't make things any worse than they -" She held out her notepad and thumbed the Send key. It gave out a short screech that stopped the N-SVW-Tre/A in its tracks. There was a moment of silence, during which even the background music seemed to quieten. Kelanie felt the tickling feeling waver as the xeno hesitantly looked her over. It hissed, and her notepad translated. "Confirm. (carriage return line feed)" She smiled grimly, typed her response, sent the translation. It was so quiet that she could hear Marek breathing behind her. The xeno's response must have been highly emotional, as it was carried on a sound-wave that was well in the supersonic range... the translator caught it, though: "Such transactions are not covered by NoSaNoOs Code. (carriage return line feed). You must offer a minimum amount to allow a tax to be levied on the exchange. (end of file)." She popped a dull metallic sphere out of plastic bubble-pack she had been given at the Earth ExPort, and tossed it to the floor in front of the xeno, which scrambled after it and then turned to leave. As it trundled away, she felt the tickling feeling intensify, almost to the point of an ache, which suddenly cut off as the N-SVW-Tre/A passed through the exit. "Marek?" He had vanished. She followed the chain that had looped around one of the stools mounted behind the counter, and led to the Millimillenarian equivalent of a broom cupboard. Marek was crouched inside, with a piece of recycled hessian paper-cloth pressed against the cut on his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. "Marek, you can come out now. It's safe." "He's going to kill me. He's going to come back and kill me and cut me up and feed the pieces to his children. He said that he'd do that one day if I ever got out of line." Kelanie knelt down next to Marek, putting her arms around him. "He won't. He can't, because I bought you from him. In fact, I bought the whole enterprise." Marek opened his eyes and stared at her. "You couldn't have. I doubt that anyone on Earth has enough money to buy this property - what did you say to him?" "I reminded him of a sub-section of the NoSaNoOs Code, the part regarding proper treatment of equipment and subject races, and I told him that if the InterSpecies Advisory group saw this recording I'd made, that he and his entire species could be deported as a possible `Risk Of Violent Species' classification. I then offered my word as `a Human' that I'd erase the recording if he sold you to me... and he couldn't sell you unless he sold the shop as well." Marek's face fell slightly. "So, you're my owner now." "No! I'm not even your employer - bureau associates aren't allowed to have anything to do with the private sector. I'll have to sign the entire thing over to you." She smiled. Marek got up. "First thing we have to do, is sell it. My master - my old master- is probably off right now to find some mercenary Pthalklin Ervae that he can pay to torch the place, that's the way their minds work... I know a few factors who'd be interested in this property." He moved over to the telephone, keyed the contact panel. Some words appeared in angular Tertiary script, which her eyepiece translated as Finding Free Data Channel: Please Wait. They waited, Marek tapping his fingers impatiently on the console. More letters appeared on the screen:
Kelanie was incredulous. "Government propaganda! They never stop, do they... I wonder how the NoSaNoOs Bureaucracy has managed to stay together for this long... I thought that bureaucracy was one of the least inherently stable forms of government." Suddenly, the telephone screen cleared, and a voice spoke in Anglic: "Human Bureaucracy is inherently unstable. NoSaNoOs Bureaucracy is not founded on greed and the inherently human sense of blind self-importance. This message was brought to you by the office of Millimillenarian Technological Control." Marek smiled at this, and when he caught Kelanie giving him a quizzical look, he said, "They're always listening... it's just as well you didn't say anything really inflammatory, otherwise," (the 'phone pinged, and the call open message flashed up) "those Ervae that my ex-master is hiring would find a big hole in the ground here when they came to torch the shop. Anyway, your call is always put through just after one of those little messages... you just have to be careful that you don't say something too inflammatory." Marek addressed the telephone in flawless Tertiary, and a bizarre psychedelic pattern appeared on the screen, oscillating and flashing through hundreds of glowing colours. Kelanie got the impression of two twisted toroids intertwined in mid-air. Marek asked, "Keery? Nur-wah Marek, Keery!" Whatever-it-was chattered in hollow-sounding, oddly-modulated Tertiary, to which Marek rapidly replied, speaking over the translation that Kelanie's notepad supplied, going too fast for it to keep up. The thing pulsed bright green three times; Marek held up five fingers; it pulsed blue-green four times; Marek held up four fingers with his thumb bent over; the thing flashed orange, red and a piercing hot pink colour, and the image disappeared as it broke the connection. Marek stood there for a few moments, eyes wide, a faint smile on his face. Kelanie left off fiddling with the notepad's playback, and asked him, "Keery?" "Kireedeonibalikathadamiax." "Well? Did you sell it? How much did you get for it?" When he didn't answer, she nudged him and repeated the question. "Oh? Yeah, she bought it..." He went over to the counter and started rummaging around underneath, looking for something. She moved over to join him, shifting boxes as he dragged them out from underneath the counter. "Well? Come on, Marek, don't be a tease - how much?" Marek found what he was looking for - a spherical yellow-glass bottle filled with clear brown fluid -popped the cap off took a long swig and said: "Four and one half CCi." He suddenly sat on the floor, grimacing at the taste of the fluid. "CCi?" "ComonCurensy Isotope. It's the official medium of exchange on all the NoSaNoOs Civilised Systems - don't you know anything?" "Well, apparently, the NoSaNoOs don't consider Earth civilised yet... that's the first I've ever heard of - what was it?" Marek got up, went over to the platform-cash register mounted into the counter, and retrieved a note from the cash tray. He held it out to her. "ComonCurensy Isotope. It's a form of sheet-carbon TCI, in an-" "TCI?" "Total Conversion Isotope, in an easy-to-fuse format; the NoSaNoOs are generally energy-based when it comes to currency. Earth is still trying to make information-based currency work, aren't they?" She nodded, examining the note. "We may be locked into the idea of an economy based on barter, but at least we don't use this sort of thing anymore." She held out her wrist, revealing the silver button contact of her Work-Credit-Hour meter. Marek took back the note, replacing it in the till from force of habit. "This is the largest bill we have - that's a `Five by ten to the power of minus twelve' CCi note." He noted her expression, and grinned. "Yeah... I remember once that the entire human solar system - all the planets and their resources - was once priced at twenty CCi." Kelanie tried to compare that to a recent estimate of the solar system's worth in Human terms, and gave up, settling for the approximation that Marek was probably richer than anyone she'd ever met before - in fact, richer than anyone on Earth. "...and you've never seen one?" "I don't think so, no... all I have is the name: `Tendeysharhi', and the Species ID N-FRF-Bla/G. Mind you, I haven't had a really good look through the local data service yet - I find myself continually interrupted..." she smiled at him. They were exploring the city, looking for somewhere to stay while Kelanie completed her mission. This was the first time Marek had been outside the shop since his indenture, sixteen years ago, and he was just as bewildered as she. They had followed the grid pattern until they came up against a huge, blank curved wall which cut smoothly through the streets and buildings. They had back-tracked around the blocks, coming up against this wall each time, and had made no progress for about an hour when they decided to stop at something resembling a street cafe and sort out their next move. Marek ordered iced tea (the only terrestrial thing on the `Seff Cafe' menu) while Kelanie tried to sort out the indexing system used by the local data service. "This is strange, it's like a binary tree, but it has branches going both ways..." Kelanie gave up looking for a map that she could understand without requiring severe modifications to the structure of her brain, and started tracing N-FRF-Bla/G in the Species ID section. She found it, right next to `N-FRF-Knh/K' -which was the code for Humanity; it was that cat-like alien she had met onboard the NoSaNoOs transport. "Crash it," she murmured, "that xeno could have been the one I was supposed to meet." Something had come over to them and was trying to communicate, tweaking its translator. It had a small, rounded body perched on long, stilt-like legs, a pair of small hands held up in front like a kangaroo's; a large domed head with four tiny red eyes set more or less evenly at the front, a wide, lipless grinning mouth, and no neck. Its translator said something, some of which Kelanie's notepad could understand: `Undefined -Undefined - Haircut? - Undefined.' She grinned at Marek. "A Xenoform barber! Do you think I need a haircut?" The alien bent at the knees, bowing and smirking. Marek was earnestly trying to help the xenoform fine-tune its translator when Kelanie spotted a familiar feline form slinking into a building across the street. She grabbed Marek's arm excitedly, dragging him away from the cafeteria and the dome-headed xeno. She pressed up against the clear plastic of the office-space across the road from the cafeteria, just as a massive explosion rocked the street, pieces of debris from the cafe clattering against the sheet-plastic next to them. There was a brief space of silence, followed by a wierd cacophony of alien moans and hoots of distress. The air was soon thick with the buzz and click of translators, overlaid with tinkling bell-like tones - sirens that signalled the arrival of the Bythian Militia who were soon swarming over the site like insects from a hive that had been attacked. Kelanie spotted the barber striding away on its improbably long legs, tucking something into a spherical satchel. She dragged Marek into the office-space, glancing about for a doorway out of the front-desk/screening area that the feline xeno could have taken. A datapost was mounted into what passed for an enquiries desk. Kelanie approached it, tugging Marek (who was still trying to see what was going on across the street) with her. "Where are we?" she asked the datapost, which displayed the usual `please wait while I translate that' moire, and then said - surprisingly, in Anglic: "Kelanie A'liiya Camden? You had an appointment with Ambassador Aouwwrr'lrr-Interface-to-the- Enemy this morning. She is in at the moment if you would like to reschedule that appointment." Kelanie was surprised for a moment, and then said, "Yes... of course. Why wasn't I notified of the meeting?" The datapost chewed this over for a few moments, and said, `Evidence points towards a Matter of Pride, between members of the Tendeysharh Embassy Staff, because you shared a berth on a NoSaNoOs Transport with Ambassador Aouwwrr'lrr- Interface-to-the-Enemy's mate. Impropriety was assumed." Kelanie frowned. "I didn't touch it. Him, whatever! In fact, I deliberately slept outside the-" she was cut off by a protracted yowl, which was translated by the datapost and Kelanie's notepad simultaneously. "Exactly! Wasn't my mate good enough for you?" Kelanie turned to see the feline xeno that she had spotted from the cafe. She (assuming it was a `she') was similar in form to the Tendeysharhi she'd shared the berth with on the NoSaNoOs transport; slightly shorter (almost the same height as Kelanie herself); different markings, a much furrier tail, and what appeared to be an elaborate gold necklace which, on closer examination, proved to be a NoSaNoOs ExoManipulator, a second set of small mechanical hands which could be worn around the neck. Many races here wore them, particularly those which had poor substitutes for hands, without opposable thumbs. "I was supposed to contact one of your staff with regard to detailed information about the correct approach to - " Kelanie began, and was cut off again by the Tendeysharhi. "Yes- that is me. While this gesture is largely symbolic, it is nonetheless important that it be performed properly. Follow me." The feline xeno glanced at Marek. "That... can wait outside." Kelanie glanced at Marek, smiled, and said, "This is Marek Waddell, one-time owner of-" she was cut off yet again - Tendeysharhi seemed to like doing that -as Mrrr'lrr's mate mewed, flattening her ears, her tail lashing back and forth. "I have heard of you. We put in a bid for that property, and were out-priced by `Keery'..." her eyes narrowed to emerald slits, and she growled, "Can you think of any reason why I should not attack you right now?" Marek grinned and replied, "Only that the property isn't worth anything like what Keery paid for it - the previous owner is going to have it burned to the ground... if it hasn't happened already..." He paused in thought. Kelanie was thinking along similar lines. "Do you think the explosion in the cafe was an attempt on us by your N-SVW-Tre/A?" Marek shook his head. "They only hire Pthalklin Ervae for that sort of thing - they have one of those ninety-year contracts for mercenary work. If I can use your data service for half an hour," Marek said to Aouwwrr'lrr, "I think I can bribe some Parkry and learn something." Ambassador Aouwwrr'lrr lashed her tail in a gesture of assent, took Kelanie by the hand and said, "Meanwhile, I will instruct your mate in our customs."
She led Kelanie to a Tendeysharhi conference room, something like a large tree turned inside-out; branches as thick as Kelanie's waist emerged from one wall, crossed the room and entered the other. The light in here was a dim blue-green, from bioluminescent strips embedded in the domed ceiling. Aouwwrr'lrr perched on a branch about three metres from the ground, with her chin resting on her paws, and regarded Kelanie with calm, feline intent. She mewed softly, her expression tinged with soft purring trills, and Kelanie's translator offered: "I am a student of Primate Psychology. I have been a student of Primate Psychology for six (years), and yet I must confess that I cannot understand humans." Kelanie sat on a branch below Aouwwrr'lrr and replied, "Feel free to ask me anything. My position requires a knowledge of, ah, primate psychology." Aouwwrr'lrr's tail flicked once, and she said, "I believe that you came here without being given much justification from your superiors. Correct?" "Yes..." "Don't you feel a need to question that? Don't you want to know why you've been sent here?' Kelanie thought for a moment, climbed up to sit with her back against the bole of a tree set into one wall, then said, "No, I don't. Most people who work for a government agency - well, most people at my level - are used to accepting unusual orders and not questioning them. The world we work in - even, as we are, occupied by the NoSaNoOs and with most of the difficult decisions a government usually faces, taken from them - is very complex, and no one person could be expected to grasp more than a facet of the whole thing." Aouwwrr'lrr narrowed her eyes. Her translator said: "... and yet someone in the NoSaNoOs manages this task. Some single entity somewhere must know exactly what is going on." Kelanie suddenly began to have some doubts about this mission. She recalled something Robyn had once told her: that in some conversations, the topics were delineated more by what was avoided than what was discussed. She recalled that the Tendeysharhi had once been a subject race of the Moridani, who were the dedicated enemy of the NoSaNoOs. She turned to frame a very pointed question, but was surprised by a heavy thump as Aouwwrr'lrr leaped down to land next to her on the branch. Aouwwrr'lrr held up her paw, claws fully extended, and said, awkwardly, in Anglic: "Race like Tendeysharhi, always listen to by 'Sa'No'Os. Careful, when you say into translator, of what you will say." Kelanie was silent for a moment, then said, "Tell me how your mate would like to be approached for this occasion." They settled down to business, discussing the Tendeysharhi sexual mores and customs. Kelanie resolved to investigate this matter further.
"I'm His Highness' dog at Kew: Pray tell me Sir, whose dog are you?" Marek was busily applying skills he had picked up from a childhood spent on a world ruled by the innately bureaucratic Parkry; he was dealing favors. "The person at this end is waiting for an opening to appear so that the person can put forward a proposal." he said in Tertiary. The lower-level Parkry official he had found to bribe manipulated a data hand-set, and the reply was spelled out on the screen: THE PERSON AT THIS END OWES YOU NO FAVORS BUT WOULD BE INTERESTED IN ENTERING THAT STATE -ON THE CONDITION THAT ANY RISK OR INNOVATION COULD BE MINIMISED. Marek smiled. He had never met a Parkry that wouldn't take a bribe - if it could be assured that there was little chance of being caught. "The person at this end, by way of introducing the proposal, wishes it to be known that it is of Human Origin; that it is proud of its Human capabilities; that Humanity is seeking to better itself through becoming a society that uses Information as a basis for exchange, for currency." THE PERSON AT THIS END, WITH TYPICALLY SUBTLE PARKRY PERCEPTION, PERCEIVES THE TOPIC OF THE PROPOSAL BEFORE IT IS DESCRIBED. HOW CAN THE PERSON AT THIS END ENRICH THE HUMAN ECONOMY? Marek suddenly asked, with uncharacteristic bluntness designed to shock the bureaucrat, "Have the Militia found the ones responsible for the attack on the Seff Cafe?" The Parkry hunched its shoulders in surprise. THE PERSON AT THIS END IS NOT CLEARED FOR MATTERS RELATING TO THE MILITIA, BUT WILL ATTEMPT TO LOCATE A PERSON THAT IS. PLEASE WAIT. Marek smiled again, hearing the Parkry's favourite expression. Things had certainly moved faster when he made it clear how much money he was willing to devote to the exercise. The bureaucrat reappeared, bobbing its head when it saw that Marek was still attending. THE PERSON AT THIS END CAN REVEAL THAT THE MATTER WAS TAKEN OUT OF THE MILITIA'S HANDS SHORTLY AFTER IT HAPPENED. THE MATTER HAS BEEN REFERRED UPWARDS. "Upwards? From the Militia, upwards?" THE PERSON AT THIS END BELIEVES THAT THIS IS A VERY DELICATE MATTER. THE PERSON AT THIS END BELIEVES THAT IT MAY HAVE COMPROMISED ITS POSITION IN FINDING THE INFORMATION THAT HAS BEEN MADE AVAILABLE. It wanted more money. Marek went to deposit more CCI in the famous bank account that was officially registered to `Marissey', widely known as the temporary holding ground for Parkry bribes, but the bureaucrat at the other end ducked nervously, squeezing the data-handset in haste: THE PERSON AT THIS END HAS NOT COMMUNICATED EFFECTIVELY, AND WILL RESORT TO HUMAN BLUNTNESS: NO MORE INFORMATION IS AVAILABLE. THIS IS WHOLLY A MILITIA MATTER. Marek donated two by ten to the minus thirteenth CCI in the account anyway, after hearing this: the incident originated with the Militia, most likely by an agent hired by the Militia. He asked, "Is it possible to speak with a Militia official?" The Parkry twitched its vestigal antennae; the equivalent of a sardonic chuckle. The screen cleared and Marek found himself face to face with a Plateau Bythian, wearing weapons and ammunition belts (even though it was working in an office). It regarded him from one side of its hatchet-shaped head with obvious suspicion. Words appeared across the screen: "What do you want?" Marek lied skillfully. "My lifetime-companion was injured today, in an explosion at a cafe called `Seff's'. We are concerned that such events occur in a society as... controlled... as this one." The Bythian turned from the screen for a moment; Marek could see part of a shortwave-terminal as the Bythian searched a database; more words appeared. "The terrorist was apprehended, an agent of the Moridani." Of course. "We have a visual:" a window opened on the screen and a picture appeared: the Barber. "Do you wish to apply for a Government Reparation Benefit?" "No, thank-you; the injury was minimal." The Bythian closed the connection without asking if Marek wanted to know more. Marek had never merited the attention of the Militia before; not even his previous master had ever warranted interference at that level. This had to be something to do with Kelanie's mission. Marek decided that it would prove too expensive to probe further, also politically unsafe. The Parkry were bribeable; the Bythians were not.
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