Doyle Phoebe Heejanus
Phoebe commanded her workstation to interface her with the Partner meeting.
Filling her foilscreen, eleven people sat in straight-backed chairs around an elongated table, five
down each side and one at the end. Phoebe knew that the people she seemed to be looking at — the
Team of Partners for Byukan-Hamil Consortium, including her boss, Za Leez — weren't assembled in
this way, just as she knew the meeting/can-be-seen automaton was picking up her image from her
foilscreen and making it look — to the others — as if she were sitting at the opposite end from
Har Norma Byukan.
Phoebe admired the woman, the most influential of the eleven, though they all carried the title
'Partner.' Known to be a 16-Tenner or so, well along in her middle age, the Senior Partner looked
good in a pin-striped suit coat. One thick, light-brown braid draped over her shoulder — it's
only a picture, Phoebe reminded herself sternly. That's how a meeting/can-be-seen worked:
attendees were allowed to substitute false simulations of themselves and maybe even automate words;
they didn't have to fake their participation in a can-see, but they could.
She waited for someone to talk to her.
"Item Eight," Har Norma said. "I noticed we have competition on the renewal of the anshin contract
in Ganj Dareh. So, I scheduled this discussion and asked Doyle Phoebe Heejanus to help us with
it. Welcome, Chief."
"Thank you, Har Norma."
"Have you got a problem here, Doyle Phoebe?" asked the Partner at Har Norma's left hand. His
marble-like gaze bored into the table in front of him, then he raised it to look right at Phoebe.
"Is it possible that your customer base will be receptive to Gatogrebok's proposal?"
With two quick taps, Phoebe activated the help glyph hanging in one corner of her foilscreen, then
picked 'Names' from its pop-up menu. The can-see labeled the last speaker "Jik Dain Bedlip." Now
she had a name to go with a virtual face, but that didn't help much. Jik Dain had little
reputation in the field, away from the consortium's headquarters. As time pressed her to speak,
she remembered something about him cleaning up messes ruthlessly, but fairly. Also, there was
something else — the can-see prompted her with a soft tone — about Har Norma grooming him. Or
was it that she hobbled him? The can-see prompted her again.
"It's entirely possible." Phoebe worked to keep her voice neutral, matter-of-fact. She
pulled her gaze from the center of her foilscreen and sent it to one of the few panels she kept on
constant display. This one, martyr-red, showed two columns: under "Index of Satisfaction," she
read "Anshin Performance;" under "Inference," "45% Satisfied". Below that, in a smaller font,
appeared the words "Discussion Groups Active: 16,731 Forums & 22,361 Klatsches," followed by a
couple of "Notable excerpts." All produced daily by a little hacker she used to keep track of the
shifting flows in the Collective's mindset. Despite her best efforts, the people of Ganj Dareh
were ready to vote their discontent — and put Phoebe and her people out of work.
"How's that?" Another voice came from the workstation.
Phoebe jerked her attention back to the meeting. A flashing label marked the last speaker: Jac
Irwin Codedivisionma. The man's image was subdued, true to the original, from what she had seen.
She guessed at the question and let words flow:
"We haven't shown the Collective here anything new in a long time. Plus, we've been cutting back
on the services we do offer. It's improved our profits, but as I've been warning in the last four
of my Periodic Reports, we've fallen woefully behind anshin on the other continents. The global
conferences —"
Har Norma stiffened at the far end of the table. "You've not flagged any of those concerns for my
attention."
"Nosir." Because it's the quickest way to lose your job in this Consortium.
"Then you must have felt no real threat."
"I, too, have grown ... concerned about some ... of our aging practices," Jac Irwin said before
Phoebe had to respond. She blessed him with her eyes.
"Irwin, I want to hear from the Chief before we talk about this."
"There ... is no necessity, Norma," Irwin said. "I ... have prepared for ... just such a
contingency—"
"Why isn't it 'necessary' to listen to one of our tacticians tell us how she's been failing in her
duties?"
"Norma—"
"Doyle Phoebe." Har Norma's image appeared frozen with disapproval. "Why haven't you satisfied
your Collective? Why haven't you done everything possible to stanch this erosion of service
level? Why haven't you come to me directly when you couldn't handle this yourself?"
Jac Irwin stood at his place. "I ... call into question this line ... of discussion."
The screen-wide meeting mutated subtly. Phoebe searched the monitor, alerted to the change by a
sense other than vision. Then, she realized the already stolid can-see had lost all hint of
movement. She was locked out of whatever was happening — kicked back out to zhuhndí while her
fate — and Ganj Dareh's fate — was being determined in virtual reality.
"Gut it!" Phoebe snatched up her last dart. "Stuff it!" She wrenched around in her chair. "And
mount it on the wall!" She hurled the missile. Everything stalled during its flight, even her
heart. A second later, it thudded into the target's outer rim and released time to flow again.
Phoebe thrust a finger toward the target. Fury, frustration, and heartache channeled through her
arm, so rigid it trembled, but they didn't leave her. They were trapped inside her, despite her
little tricks with darts.
