Doyle Phoebe Heejanus
Phoebe strolled through the courtyard, lush and cool in the early morning. Around her, others
arrived for the tactical meeting. They didn't talk much, just acknowledged each other's presence
with a smile and maybe a nod. That tradition gave her the chance to appreciate the shadow-cut
stretched rose of the dawn as it limned the inner walls of Central Station. The combination of
long light and that color and cool air and night-end quiet and too little sleep gave a crispness
and — she allowed the confession — rare pleasure to the experience.
"Chief!"
Fates! Direct from corporate Hell! Phoebe halted. A rose bush tickled her elbow, one of its
thorns plucking at her sleeve.
During the brief night, she had managed to forget Byukan-Hamil's sea-gull. Now, as he rushed
toward her, she remembered why she had invited him here: to test him, his plan, and his ablity to
handle pressure in a gauntlet of his peers. To Phoebe, her community tacticians rated just as high
in the scheme of things as any visitor from Byukan-Hamil's consortium staff, no matter what any of
the Partners would say. If Nitsta failed this morning, she and the combine were no worse off than
two days ago. And if he carried the meeting — which she doubted — well, then, she could easily
set up other hurdles for this corporate bird with a hatchet concealed in his briefcase.
Nitsta hurried up, his suit a nice blend of mutant-natural fibers, but cut so sharply it
transcended his body. Yet, above the severity, his puffball hair waved with stiff composure. He
carried an llevar under one arm. A holo-projector weighted down the other hand.
"I'm here!" he announced.
"Good." She managed a ripple in her lips that pretended to be a smile.
"There are a lot of people around," he said. "Early shift?"
Phoebe paused and re-examined his face. It looked freshly scrubbed and touched by excitement. His
cologne came across unusually brisk. "A tactical meeting of the combine that includes me and all
my direct reports."
He wrinkled his brow. "You mean all these people work for you? Directly for you?"
"One tactician for each of the 143 communities. What did you think?"
"Well." Nitsta dropped his gaze and he turned away in a fidget. "At Byukan-Hamil, there's a —"
He scrunched his face as though he'd bitten something sour.
"More of a hierarchy," she finished. Of course, they'd ignore such basics up there, but a
sea-gull, delivering wisdom from the mountains, should be conversant with business fundamentals.
Like which part of a Balance Sheet carried liabilities. Like the principle that applied here.
With an evil grin inside her mind and a pan face, ready to start the pressure, Phoebe lectured
Nitsta, "Yeibichai Pattern Language for Management prescribes shallow organizations, 'a maximum of
three levels' I think it says."
He flinched. Surprised, she watched closely as his averted eyes shimmered and he blinked the hint
of tears away.
Yes, she'd been patronizing, but sea-gulls, by definition, were tough. What's with this one?
Suddenly ashamed by his display, by having caused it, Phoebe strode away, leaving Nitsta to catch
up.
#
Their meetings/can-be-felt of this size gathered in a bowl of stone-white terraced seats, sectioned
by four aisles, that rose around a small platform. Sitting in the highest tier next to the stepped
aisle, Phoebe finished her muffin, then dragged her longing gaze away from the food server oozing
warm, sugar-bright aromas two meters below her. She swallowed hot qahwah instead and focused on
Nitsta in his first-row seat across the way. She had taken this place to get this view of him.
So far, he didn't match her expectations. Sea-gulls, from experience, from rumor, were never this
young, this sensitive, definitely not this earnest. But that contrast just made her more guarded.
At this distance, she would be immune to any more of his histrionics — if that's what they were.
She shrugged the mug upward and sipped more qahwah. At any rate, time for this sea-gull to meet
his true victims — the combine would suffer more than she when Nitsta fingered her. However, she
had to seem fair, receptive, even supportive, at the start at least, because she didn't know who
would listen in on this can-feel or its Beobachtung recording.
Phoebe stood up, the mug resting between her hands. "Good morning," she began, then waited for the
replies that rippled across the tiers. When they were done, all the tacticians — 144 of them,
including her — were grinning.
Habits can help you feel better, Phoebe knew, habits that reclaim and refresh shared experiences.
She cherished this one, bred from many repetitions of this gathering. In all seasons, in all types
of weather, they came together at dawn to focus on the same issues, the same job, the same
customers. They argued and they agreed, and carrying that common perspective, they split up to
work as one combine across the direvnya. This moment of greeting each other restored that habit.
"I'd like to delay the regular agenda," Phoebe said to pick up the lead again. "Byukan-Hamil sent
over someone to write a proposal that responds to the Gatogrebok challenge. It's a novel
situation, so I think we should listen to his plan. Everyone O.K. with that?"
Murmurs populated the bowl, neither concurring or demurring, merely commenting. Waiting was always
the wisest course whenever BH asserted itself.
"Dyr Kanpachiro Nitsta," Phoebe announced and with a gesture, handed the meeting over to him.
Nitsta acknowledged with a short wave from his seat and flicked something on his llevar. The
projector resting in front of him covered itself and the central platform with a holograph.
Designed for omnidirectional viewing, the display showed a classic poly-network project plan with
plenty of room around it for notes. From this angle, it showed a two-dimensional activity
network. It could easily go 3-D, adding the resource, specification, or linking network to the
view. Or rotate to make one of the other perspectives dominant.
"My first job is orientation," Nitsta began, his gaze focused on his llevar's foilscreen, but his
baritone voice rang clear in the morning silence. "Getting to know you, your Collective, and your
approach to servicing them. Up front—" he flashed his face quickly to all sides, then aimed it
back at his work "— I acknowledge that your time is valuable and in short supply. I think my plan
minimizes the amount of time you will spend on this effort and maximizes the impact of that time."
He paused, again quickly panning his audience, as though allowing comments. No one stirred.
Squirming slightly, he continued.
"Ee-oh." O.K. "Let's look at the plan. As you can see—" the top line of the chart lit up, its
diamond of completion glowing beneath today's date "— we've already successfully completed the
first activity. I arrived, talked with the chief, and found my way to my quarters, which the chief
kindly located for me within walking distance of the Station here."
Without looking up, he chuckled, but no one else did.
"Well," he answered the silence. "I plan on sifting through your data for four days —
Bid-minus-18 through Bid-minus-15. I'll be looking at statistics, demographics, incident rates,
complaints and comments taken from the Collective. As soon as I am given access to the data—" he
searched the stands until he stared at Phoebe "— I can get started on that. All by myself.
Without bothering any of you."
That drew a clap, a single loud slap of hands, from several spots in the closely packed audience,
like staggering footsteps.
Nitsta hunched his shoulders, a slight roll that he quickly corrected. "On Bid-minus-14, I want to
start three days of inspec — er, visits to your Community Stations. I'd like to talk to you and
to your people—"
So it begins, Phoebe thought, the laying on of hands. They explore at first, then they redirect,
and finally, they strangle. She had to admit the packaging differed this time, but there it was,
just the same. Well — gut fairness! Stuff the listeners! I'm setting this guy straight.
"Our people work!" barked Phoebe. "And when they're not working, I want them away with families,
with chores, with hobbies, restoring their psyches for when they come back to work." She focused
on Nitsta, four rows below her, but felt faces center on her.
Hidden behind his stand of hair, a thick, black halo, Nitsta didn't respond. Even his lower body
posed, unresponsive. Then, he poked at his llevar: the three-dimensional chart flicked away. And
he lifted his eyes to engage hers. He managed to speak clearly, yet directly across the distance.
"Your people hold — in their experiences ... and their conclusions from those experiences — the
key points to a successful proposal. I can hypothesize patterns from the data, but we all know
that data is the dust of life, the dessicated remains of reality. I need living patterns drawn
from the warp and woof of interaction with the people you're serving. We should be able to reap a
significant competitive advantage out of your incumbency." He faltered. "If you'll only let me."
A suspiciously academic response. Phoebe said, "Just what were you doing before Jac Irwin
drafted you for this effort?" The distance was a bit far for dialog, but Phoebe was used to
projecting herself and her voice.
Nitsta glanced away, then along the rows of tacticians who surrounded him.
Phoebe knew the numbers — she depended on them to bear down on this sea-gull — 20 on the first
level, 28 behind and above them, then 36 more, then another 44 in back of them, and finally 16
others, including herself, scattered along the top circle.
Nista kept his gaze moving while he answered, "I have been developing a Pattern Language for
proposals." His voice quavered. "That is: I have established an exhaustive set of the problems
that are addressed by nearly all of our proposals; I have also derived the set of problems that BH
combines have had in expressing responses to those customer issues. Following that, I have
developed solutions, called 'patterns,' to both types of problems and connected those patterns in a
cascade that enables a standardized approach to adapting the overall language to a specific set of
requirements."
"We know what a Pattern Language is, kid." Alaxxchia — Phoebe's guess — boomed his
protest so that anyone in the surrounding courtyard could hear it.
Nitsta swung to confront the speaker. "Yes, but have you ever written one yourself? Worked your
way through second- and third-level abstractions, correlated existing research, conducted original
research, and validated the correlation between problem and solution in such a way that the
language works piecemeal, for either repair or creation? Of course not." The sea-gull broke their
contact with a dismissive twist of his shoulders.
Phoebe pressed out another question: "How many proposals have you generated using this pattern
language of yours?"
Nitsta suppressed a glance toward her. Instead, he addressed the far side of the bowl. "This will
be the first."
"And you expect it to work?"
Nitsta sprang to his feet, his mouth open, his eyes wide with disbelief, his arm clutching the
llevar under it. After a moment where his body twitched with indecision, he blurted, "How else are
you going to get this done in time? How else are you going to build a proposal
that will beat Gatogrebok? They've got nothing to do but sell to Ganj Dareh. You've got a city to
care for while writing the most important proposal of your career. How else are you going to
beat the competition?"
Calmly, content in her superior position, Phoebe replied, "We'll get it done. A little extra work
from everybody."
"When? You're getting up before dawn now!"
"We'll manage."
"Then do it!" He marched out the nearest exit and vanished behind the bleachers.
Faces turned to Phoebe again. Some came with grins — of sympathy, she hoped — and some showed
other emotions, suspicion, fatigue, even resentment. But most of them carried no reaction. They
just used the time to finish their breakfasts. So how am I going to convince Ganj Dareh to
keep us? she wondered.
Nitsta reappeared in the passage. His face carried a mutt of an expression, a confused blend of
emotions. He stepped carefully around the central platform and halted just below her. He
hesitated there, then trudged stiffly up the steps till his face came level with hers.
Jaw tight, eyes glimmering, he leaned past the man in front of Phoebe and said softly, "I can't
afford to walk out of here, and you can't afford for me to leave."
He straightened, heaved a deep breath, then pivoted. Projecting his voice once again, he spread
his next words across the audience. "Why don't each of you just pick a time during those days —
Days minus-14 through minus-12 — and let me know when we can talk. Any time, day or night. I'll
accept whatever seconds you can give me. And I'll work any conflicts." He settled his attention
back on the chief. "How does that sound?"
Phoebe nodded.
Nitsta looked down at the llevar clutched to his chest. He gave his head a slight shake, then
raised his eyes again to address everyone.
"I'll just summarize the rest of the schedule, rather than message you. On Bid-minus-10, I plan to
review old proposals and their results, selection percentages, proposed and negotiated
modifications. On Bid-minus-9, I will review with the chief — and anybody else who wants to
attend — our competitive analysis. Then, on Bid-minus-8, I will vanish from the face of the earth
to generate the proposal and get it approved up through the Team of Partners, relieving the chief
of that perpetual headache." His eyes lingered on Phoebe during those words.
"And on Bid-minus-0, I will personally see that the proposal is delivered to the Ganj-Dareh
Collective. Then you and I will —" He drew a long breath. "You and I will work the Collective,
encouraging them to select us over the competition. We'll have ten days to show them that we're
starting a — what? A whole new chapter in our relationship? A fresh start with a new approach?
That's something you can think about between now and then, a theme for our marketing campaign. Any
questions?"
There were none. Phoebe heard some rumblings of discontent, however. She guessed their feelings:
real people didn't do marketing.
"Right," Nitsta resumed after he had gathered the holo-projector. "I return the agenda to the
chief." He walked from the meeting area.
Nope. Phoebe stared after Nitsta. Not your ordinary sea-gull. Without looking around, she felt
attention from the others. No heads turned near her, but she knew they were waiting for her
reaction. She paused a moment, trying to figure what that should be. In the silence, a faint
trill arose in her mind, somewhere far behind her left ear, a trill of possibility, of hopeful
possibility. But the young man had to pass more tests — well, maybe just one more test — before
she could begin to trust him, begin to disclose what he needed to write a proposal. But, just how
good could such a proposal be? whined her doubt demon.
Phoebe noticed movement. She sent her eyes around the bowl. There were lines at all four servers,
her people making some use of the hiatus. She nodded, approving the break — if they had to meet
at dawn, the least the combine could do was supply breakfast — and climbed down for another muffin
and a qahwah refill. They'd resume the tactical meeting when she was ready.
