Doyle Phoebe Heejanus
Late was late, a hundred seconds or a thousand. What's Okra up to? Those invisible fingers
started a vertebrate dirge, insistent, impatient tapping inside Phoebe's spine. He's pulling the
best stall in the book: buy three days by scheduling a can-feel, then don't show, buying even more
time. Or so he thinks.
Phoebe sat forward, elbows on the table's edge. Her guile with Okra hadn't worked after all: the
big-dog-to-little-dog tone, her knowledge of his intrigue with Gatogrebok, her threat against the
Bears. The fingers of compulsion wrapped into a fist that squeezed. He's not buying time,
however. He's buying trouble, High-Multiplier trouble.
She pushed her teacup aside and sent a glare out through the shoppe's open doorway. Just how long
is he going to make me wait —
"Chief?"
Phoebe shifted the glare to the proprietor. He stood there in his shiny shoes, dark trousers, and
striped suspenders over a puffy shirt with garters around his biceps.
"A call for you." He gestured discreetly toward the public Em-Deh entrance set beside his serving
counter.
"Thanks," Phoebe gruffed, then relented. She added, more cheerily, "The tea's superb, as usual,
Lofarns."
While Phi Lofarns scurried off toward a pair of arriving customers, Phoebe stalked toward the call,
knowing it had to be Okra. She appreciated anyone who could psych her so well. A wait long enough
for her to realize what he's doing, but not long enough for her to have charged out of there in a
huff. But he's definitely overestimated my tolerance for brush-offs.
The entrance's narrow, translucent door, slick, shiny, and dusky, slipped out of the way, then
closed Phoebe in again as she settled on its sculptured seat. A line of tangerine dots wandered
about the foilscreen. She fingered the agent-for-assurance. The entrance quit doodling and
flashed a drab request for a meeting/will-be-seen addressed to her from Okra ... of course.
She assumed a wry, but patient expression and tapped the accept button.
Okra greeted her with a broad expression of chagrin. "Doyle Phoebe! I am so sorry!" He released
a breath apparently held while waiting for her to answer. "I — I have an emergency. People here,
including all three of my bosses, insist that I attend to their needs. You know, we like to say,
'Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part,' but I, for one, just
cannot make it stick."
He held up a hand, cutting off any question Phoebe might've had. She didn't, though. She just
waited, with her gut reaction idling, until it was her turn.
"I have reconsidered what I said to you the other day. I — this isn't easy for me, Doyle
Phoebe — I am sorry. I've made a poor start. I'd like to make it up to you by showing you four
plans and a schedule. By that, I mean our Neighborhood's Police, Fire, Medical, and Counseling
Programs for this year, plus our constables' patrol schedule for the next twenty-one days. At
least, that way you can see that our levels of expenditure may not be as meager as you, uh, fear.
And you can predict the where-and-when of our resources in case you need their help — or
vice-versa.
"I'll give you a few days to read them, then I promise you a zhuhndí can-feel, if you'll show some
flexibility in the final timing." He spread his hands in sincerity and hope for her
understanding. "How's that?"
Enough to get started, gratis with no reciprocal demands. Enough to satisfy my open agenda,
little-dog-to-big-dog. And stall me once more. The need for control clenched inside her. But I
want more. I want you, Okra, and The Tangent, obligated to me, compliant, predictable.
"Naturally, I'm disappointed not seeing you here," she started slowly, to throw Okra off his brisk
pace. "I—"
The three-beat warble of a Risk-of-Injury Alarm rang through her mind, followed by the trumpet-cry
of a High Multiplier. Relayed by her patrolcraft, parked on a roof across the street, to the
transducer clipped in her hair. Of course, she'd set her alarm threshold extra high for the
duration of this can-feel. How could things have turned so bad so quickly?
"Wait a minute, Okra, I'm getting an alert." He looked concerned.
Central continued its monolog by induction. It used her internal voice, light, clear, toneless.
Like polite schizophrenia, but with reliable information. =Incident count now at twelve, across as
many communities. Execution of Response Patterns nominal. However, trend — Incident count now at
fifteen. Execution still nominal. However, trend analysis indicates possible threat to
intra-community budgets. Your attention will soon be required. Alert ends.=
Okra seemed puzzled. "You'll accept these documents, then?" he barged in.
Two invisible hands clutched Phoebe's spine now, plucking at her with frenzy. She immediately
sought to shake off the smaller one, inserting her own stall into the match with Okra.
"The job calls," she said, "so you listen closely, Okra. I accept your documents since I expected
nothing less out of our can-feel. How—"
"I understand, Chief," Okra broke in with a flat, obedient tone. He poked something off-screen.
"On their way." He paused.
Unctuous twerp. "However, we're not done working on this. Current events require that
Skeinswift integrate tightly with the rest of Ganj Dareh, your people with mine. Not to mention
gong-she."
"You'll keep my documents confidential?"
Now he's being downright rude. "Of course I will, and I'll contact you tomorrow to
schedule our next meeting." You didn't buy much time after all, did you?
Okra sat back, a determined expression slipping over his features. Then he cranked on a smile.
"I'll let you go then, Chief."
A chill surged over Phoebe's skin. Now he's rushing me? For a second, The
Tangent/Niger/Ibrahim sparked like a molten fountain of guilt, but Ganj Dareh's needs seethed to
new heights within her, drowning the guilt. What's happening to my town?
She swivelled toward the booth's door. It snicked aside, disconnecting the will-see, revealing the
shoppe with its homey clutter. She stood as the foilscreen flashed a sign-off panel, then resumed
its doodle. She marched for the door, barely aware of the proprietor's farewell.
