Weir Annadetcall
Weir arrived in a gong-gong qi-che amid a clamor of students who were running late because the
automated minibus balked at its duties. Nudged and re-nudged as he climbed down, he found himself
standing near the center of a plaza, cozy, triangular, too small for the
Something-Roughly-in-the-Middle Pattern.
The wash of youngsters drained away into a school that staunchly dominated one of the plaza's
sides. They streamed through an airy entrance-room that fronted a cluster of doorways with
trellises covered in haere-mai vines. A proctor used smiles and arms to herd them toward
classrooms on the building's three floors.
The plaza's other two sides sported a café apiece, tables sprawled onto the pavement, entrance wide
and welcoming, connecting the day, bright and active, with shadows and indolence inside.
Bracketing these dens, pairs of doorways stepped neatly in both directions. One of each pair led
you inside to an office clearly seen through a window adjacent. Occasionally, the window stood
open and you conducted business through it. The other door took you up steps to an office implied
by a balcony above the first-floor window. A few of the staircases rose straight to the balcony
for open-air transactions.
A scattering of people lent motion to the scene. Most finished their breakfasts at the cafés. A
few ambled toward or into the offices.
All very, very ordinary. No challenges apparent to Weir's chore here this morning, to lease
property from Skeinswift Neighborhood. So, this stirring in the midst of my intestines, this
tapping at my senses, comes from within me; just because I'm out on my own, venturing in
surroundings new by myself? No need to lead others? No point in worrying how the combine is
faring in its tasks? Just get my own little chore done. Is that what's going on here?
Weir drew a long breath scented with freedom temporary. Holding it in, he bent to his llevar and
compared the plaza's layout with the displayed list of directions. Gone were the instructions that
had taken him from his sleep-and-eat to qi-che to plaza. Now his foilscreen read, "Face the
school." He already did. Next: "Pivot left till you face Vallon Café."
He exhaled noisily through a grin — Yes, indeed! Tactician's definition of fun: a simple chore
amidst a complex life. — then scanned along the school till it ended at a path leading away from
the plaza's corner. Across that break, he picked up another march of door duos and traced them
until tables and chairs spilled out of a rectangular cave. The sign above it cured all doubt about
its name: Vallon.
The next instruction read, "Keep pivoting. First pair of doors past the café: go upstairs to the
Skeinswift Neighborhood Collective's Realty-Sharing office, operated by the Wether Combine."
Surprisingly, the note didn't add "subsidiary of Byukan-Hamil Consortium." That had seemed to be
the pattern in this direvnya.
Weir pinpointed the specified entrance, then strode toward it, but as he reached out for the
doorlatch, a voice stopped him.
"Don't go up there."
A woman, outwardly friendly, broad but not tall, hair tousled, leaned through the open window of
the first-floor office. Its sill, waist-high, widened into a counter, supported only an
agent-for-trade and two styluses electronic.
Weir stepped in her direction and cocked his head to invite explanation.
"Yokebow hasn't shown yet," she said.
"Yokebow?"
"Our associate who takes care of realty-sharing. Don't know where he's gone to. Not like him to
be late like this. Oh, once in a while, he's got lead in his feet, pants, and eyelids, but not
like this. You'll have to come back."
"Can't you help me?"
"You know, I'd like to, but the Collective's pretty touchy about realty. Major revenue stream, you
know."
"Don't you have redundancy?"
Her pudgy face lapsed into scrutiny. "You're not from Ganj Dareh," she stated.
"Agreed."
She stroked her chin as though it helped her make up her mind. "Yes, we do pattern redundancy, but
that's for emergency. And it's not an emergency yet. Yokebow's just late ... so far. Tomorrow
will require other considerations. Did you have an appointment?"
"Denied."
"Why don't you make an appointment?" she recommended. "Through the Mirnaya Direvnya. That way the
office can let you know when you can come by, whether it's Yokebow or his alternate."
"I was hoping for some progress today."
Her face relaxed again. "I know, and I'm sorry about that." She settled onto her elbows. "You
looking to lease? Buy? Build? Repair? Tell me about it."
Weir hesitated. They had adopted a low-profile for this phase of the project: go in, get ready,
then open the curtain. But no use causing a chill. He went over and leaned on the
window-counter too.
"I'm with a combine that's competing for the anshinkan contract for Direvnya Ganj Dareh. We're
settling into a few neighborhoods to demonstrate the kind of services we'll be delivering once we
win the contract. This is one of the neighborhoods we're considering. How does that sound?"
Her face no longer seemed so friendly, but it hadn't hardened into suspicion either. Weir thought
he saw wariness, but also curiosity.
"Overall," she said after a slow start. "The approach sounds good. You're facing quite a long
haul to replace Byukan-Hamil. Where you from? Never mind, you're not from anywhere on Continent
Popovich; that's all I need to know. But ..." Her eyes wandered away from his. "You might want
to research your neighborhoods some more, so you can pick the ones that will give you the best
return on your investment." She swung her gaze back and leveled it on Weir. "Skeinswift won't
provide that. Now, you'll have to excuse me." She grimaced a half-smile and withdrew to a desk.
Weir automatically retreated, then followed his gaze to a table at the Vallon Café. The woman had
talked about Byukan-Hamil with an edge to her voice; there had been nothing in there to indicate
any affiliation or even association with the consortium. The rest of that speech possessed
firmness of judgment, based on appraisal intelligent of her own experience — except for the
warning. Yes, "warning" was not too strong. What was that for?
He chose chai from the table's menu, then settled into a chair, slouched so his rump hung over its
front edge, legs locked, heels resting on a chair adjoining, head set so he could keep an eye on
the office he'd just left. He liked settling into a position comfortable for thinking, without
worrying about how he looked to the rest of the combine.
Should he move his team to another neighborhood? Such a move would delay their clinic's opening,
but hassling through this neighborhood's bureaucracy could be even more costly. Other
neighborhoods did offer better demographics than this one, less crowding.
Still, he had picked Skeinswift for lots of good reasons: proximity to the drome, prosperity — as
denoted by stability of population and high levels of employment — toward the high end of
Ganj Dareh's communities, no Incidents reported by the anshinkan, full representation of the Cycle
of Life. Who knew their administrators would be so difficult to work with? No' that you could
tell that from their offices neatly occupying this whole side of the plaza.
What did this Combine Wether look like, anyway? Weir settled his llevar on the table, flipped it
open, and switched to holoscreen. He kept its bugle calls turned off lest he disturb people around
him.
A server strode up, dipped his head in greeting, and slipped a tray onto Weir's table, nudging it
into the screen's geography. Teapot, milkpot, sugarpot, empty mug. Matched set of cruets? Weir
sat up, putting lumbar to seatback, smiled perfunctorily at the server, and refocused on his
screen. The directions he'd been following hovered there. He poked his finger into the "tell me
more" cue/Em-Deh.
Under the title "Wether Combine", a classic organization chart unfolded: a bottom row of member
names segregated into offices, with a single name of a leader for each; all the offices connected
to two blocks at the top, tactician and strategist for the combine, one reporting to the other.
The same name, simply "Okra," filled both blocks.
Weir absently retrieved the mug from the tray and set it before him. He lifted the teapot and
swung it over to the mug. Steam wafted from the spout and carried aromas to his nose. Cloves.
Cinnamon. The sting of ginger and — pepper? And something else, a broad, woody smell that filled
his nose. Huh?
"Hey!" Surprised, Weir settled the pot too quickly onto the table; it clattered. He sent his next
words into the café. "What is this?"
The server, his swarthy face concerned, hustled out, wiping his hands on a full apron covering dark
slacks and white shirt. He frowned as he said, "You ordered chai. I brought you chai."
His mind wide open with questions, Weir said, "This isn't the chai I know."
"You're not from around here, are you?"
"No."
"Perhaps you're used to from-Roossija chai whereas Villon serves only the best
from-Bharat chai. Unfortunately, the languages imitate each other where the beverages only
overlap."
"Oh." Feeling a bit silly, Weir lifted the teapot's lid and sniffed cautiously. "This is Indian
chai?"
The server, his expression severe, nodded stiffly.
"And people drink it with all this stuff in it?"
"Some or all." He reached over and touched the cruets one by one. "Extra cardamom. Extra
pepper. Extra ginger. A mix of fennel, mint, and chamomile. Cocoa. Honey. Vanilla-bean
extract. In varying proportions."
Weir inspected the man. He appeared earnest and proud. "I'll try it!" Weir said. "Thank you."
A tic of a smile crept onto the server's face. "I hope you like it." He walked into the café.
Weir poured a half-mug of chai plain in a stream, hot and amber, that plied the air with thicker
aromas. He sipped cautiously, his nose deep into the steam, his lips and tongue challenged by the
heat, his palate searching for flavors hidden by that same heat. No' bad. He sipped again. That
woody taste drew at his tongue. I could get used to this.
They don't like strangers here.
The thought jarred him. Not the server so much, but the woman at the office over there. And that
Nurse-in-Training on the bike yesterday. Why did they react that way? Did it infect just
Skeinswift or all of Ar-Kansas Community? All of Ganj Dareh? Günter had warned that the people on
this continent had turned away from the global pattern language. Am I facing that type of
degeneration now?
Weir glanced around the plaza again. It all appeared so ordinary, so comfortable because the
patterns were familiar. He could name every one. Cascade of Roofs. Connected Buildings. Family
of Entrances. Two-Meter Balcony. Street Windows. Windows Overlooking Life. Half-Open Wall.
Opening to the Street. Window Place. Waist-high Shelf. Nuances differed of course: colors,
motifs, selection, arrangement; that was expected, even required. How could they go so far astray
in other parts of the pattern language?
That eel of nervousness flickered below his belly. In response, determination flowed hotly up from
his chest. He focused on the first-floor office across the way. He could just see the back of the
woman who had warned him out of Skeinswift. You're going to lease that house-row to us. He
grinned at her, then pulled his attention back to the Wether Combine in the holoscreen. Even if I
have to go to your strategist to make it happen.
Like any decision, it changed the course of his life and all lives affected by his. He looked
beyond its watershed gestaltic for implications: What does this mean for me? What does this mean
for my team? What does this mean for my combine?
No change to the combine's overall plan. The other teams would continue unaffected, although the
mere thought of them prickled his conscience with a tang of failure. I'd better get out there and
check in with my team-leaders — as soon as I resolve this issue.
His team? An image came to him: the five of them sitting around their gong-she's common room,
plucking at training spare-time on their llevars, picking at each other, itching to get started.
He grinned and woke up his meeting automaton. In seconds, his team stared back at him in a
will-see.
"Make all preparations for work on the house-row," he said.
"Did you get permissions?" Melha apparently held the llevar used for the meeting. Lotche, Sier,
Dy, and Pietz crowded around him.
"No' yet, but I will. If you don't hear from me, assume that I did. Proceed with construction."
"Agreed," Melha acknowledged. "Meeting adjourned."
The meeting panel dissolved, leaving Weir pleased with Melha's alacrity and staring at the org
chart and the name "Okra" doubled up at its top. He drained his mug, then primed it with sugar and
cocoa, as an experiment, before filling it from the pot. A sip. Not bad; he'd have to try other
variations another time. He propped the hand bearing the mug near his mouth and refocused on the
holoscreen.
He could take several routes to the top of the combine. Only one took him straight there: the
Pattern of Customer Override. The pattern said, "As a customer, you may meet with a combine's
strategist or tactician, regardless of his or her schedule, and discuss an issue, but only when
necessary. As a strategist or tactician, you must meet with a customer who overrides your
schedule, because it may be the only chance you get to hear the problem."
Duty cautious colored the words. Yeibichai society considered this pattern special. It offered
relief when situations became confused and hidebound. It focused power where it should lie, with
the customer. But the power came wrapped with responsibility. Invoked too easily, the pattern
lost its ability to correct errors. Used too sparingly, the pattern struck harshly.
Weir knew the risks and the duties, but would the pattern work here?
He dragged Okra's name over to his messaging glyph. When the summoned logiciel asked for priority,
he clicked the button marked "Customer Override." With that, no content was necessary. He
finished his chai and sent the message. He then backed off to the org chart and asked for
directions to Okra.
He stood up and set out to follow them.
