Weir Annadetcall
Weir dropped into his chair and requested amplification of voice, not image. He didn't want his
face, with its nose like a potato and lips grainy, hanging over everyone's heads and intruding up
from the screen at each seat. Especially while he gave his first major speech since forming this
combine. The eel of nervousness rippled through his bowels. Stage-fright normal? he wondered.
Or fear of failure much larger?
To buck off these anxieties, he forced himself to duty immediate. "Come to order!" he barked,
words required to start the record, official and automated, of this can-feel. The riff of chatter
playing in the room quieted.
"Thank you all for coming. Everyone's no' here yet, but I'm going to start anyway. I'm Weir
Annadetcall, tactician for this combine. I'm sure you're familiar enough with my presence — the
Celestial Singer knows we've spent plenty of time together recently — that I'll dispense with
pictures.
"We're about to start the final stage of our project to win the contract anshinkan in Ganj Dareh.
Success here will change all of our lives in ways more strategic: relocation permanent to a new
direvnya across the ocean, the first combine of Gatogrebok to do business on Continent Popovich!
We'll be able to put aside this existence focused on marketing, which is so tactical, so temporary,
and get on with our lives, providing anshinkan service to the Collective Ganj Dareh!"
A chant worked its way out of several whorls in the crowd until it merged into one sound, uniform
and low-key. "Go Direct to Ganj Dareh," all of his people repeated with a single fingersnap as a
refrain.
For another hundred seconds, Weir sat with a grin on his face. Managing an organization of nearly
six-hundred people compared to kayaking on a river, at times smooth and bound to their common
direction, at times full of fury and spume, always powerful and ultimately, in control of their
destiny together. He recognized that he could not go anywhere without them: they were his means
of action, but only as far as they were willing and capable. They didn't fear his authority as
tactician: jobs were plentiful, and gong-she an acceptable alternative.
However, as tactician, he did have the power to direct the flow of his combine and their project,
sometimes a matter of shaping the banks, but mostly just removing the rocks, keeping the eddies
clear and clean, and everything else necessary to eliminating obstacles. Such administration and
coordination had been sufficient so far. For the moment, they rested in equilibrium, he riding
high, their power contained, content to follow — and carry — him. But that could easily change,
especially in these moments when he had to hone their power and re-direct the course they were used
to. Or so he feared. He hadn't undertaken such leadership with this group before.
He bid for their attention. "Zhee-tely." Villagers. Comrades.
And the chant faded to an echo, though the undercurrent of emotion still charged the expansive
room.
"I asked you all here to inspire such a demonstration. My work is done." He chuckled, and many
others joined him. "For the moment." Laughter rippled then.
"We are now running Stage Three of Plan Ganj-Dareh-Anshinkan." Weir paused and was greeted by an
explosion of clicks, whirs, and seat wiggles as the combine tuned into the plan's display. "We are
gathered here in this hall, exceptional for its message about the power of Patterns, to conduct the
first meeting/can-be-felt of this Stage. We will go from here into a series of sessions working,
presentations combine-level, and seminars team-level — three more days of preparation before the
Crew-for-Selling moves into Ganj Dareh itself.
"Note that the plan allows no time for transportation. In fact, I have received quite a few
messages about this oversight apparent. What the plan does no' show is that these preparations
will take place on-board ship."
Weir paused. The surf-tongue of conversation that he expected — speculations about pleasures or
vexations aboard, anticipation of parties, confusion maybe about rewards premature — scurried over
the room's pebbles, then settled again into the chant, "Go Direct to Ganj Dareh." Günter had said
they were well-prepared. This very reaction proved that, much to Weir's relief, but he wanted
more.
He wanted fever. He wanted focus. He wanted the best people to comprise their edge cutting into
Byukan-Hamil's bastion. He wanted help managing the bulk of the combine as it stayed behind on
Grissom. And he wanted assurance that he understood his job. One last process, then, to channel
them, to test him, to cement their union, before together, they carried challenge across oceans and
offered brand-new choice to a Collective of people unused to anything like it.
"Zhee-tely." Quiet returned.
