Pla Cliff Derkinit
Cliff let himself lapse back to just walking. Thankfully, blessedly, at last, he was entering the
gardens that fronted Central Station. Twelve blocks, the qi-che had broken down twelve blocks
away. He'd trotted that whole distance, hurrying down the paths to keep his appointment with
Phoebe. But he was close enough now he could just walk.
He really wanted to give up even that effort, so he could collapse — almost — on that comfy bench
right over there, set into a circle of cuetlaxochitl, and just concentrate on taming his breath and
pulse, but he really was too late for that kind of catch-up.
Instead, he should now prepare for this can-feel Phoebe had abruptly called late last night. He'd
planned to focus on the meeting right about now anyway, after spending the whole ride over here
working instead on early-morning Rendezvous business. Deep in his llevar, reviewing plans for the
day, skimming over his direct-reports, the twenty-six people now working directly for him who were
really running the Rendezvous now. And doing a damned fine job of it! This double-dozen —
baker's dozens, that is — managed classes and residences and sports and food and clothing and ...
and ... all the other things that people need, details of which had ceased to be his concern. And
damned glad of it too. They enabled him to work as strategist, regarding matters like the still
expanding population of the Rendezvous. As was his habit, he had witnessed the first arrivals for
the day, down at the drome. Fifty-five hundred Gastarbeiter were expected on the trains today,
bringing the Rendezvous' population to an even thirty-one thousand — plus almost another
seventy-two hundred einheimischer Arbeiter who also attended from their gong-she. Even with those
massive numbers — well, maybe not massive compared to the rest of the city that Phoebe was
concerned with — about 3.1% in fact — but very large compared to the Rendezvous' capacity when he
got it started just eight days ago. Even so, things were running fine. Pretty as a newly minted
penny, he thought proudly.
In counterpoint, a welt of despair, traced by a life of experience, scored his heart. The uncaring
universe loved chaos. Sometime or other, someone or other, would inflict something or other.
Cliff just couldn't forget that even in the most upbeat circumstances.
Like when the qi-che from the drome had squawked and squealed to an unplanned stop, then told all
its passengers that it had called for repairs. Cliff had decided to go the remaining distance on
foot, hustle even, do him some good after all these long days engulfed by the Rendezvous. And he'd
thought he could prepare for the can-feel while trotting. Funny, he hadn't made the slightest
progress on that. Funny how even the repetitive, routine process of throwing one foot in front of
the other took all your mind when you weren't used to it. Funny how hard it had become so
quickly. Yet he'd kept it up. He felt a bit smug over that.
And Phoebe? he reminded himself. She wanted results from him, results he'd promised at that
impromptu pivot-meeting in an alley somewhere in Drumcree Neighborhood. Another thing his
double-dozen gave him: time for special projects, like arranging Serious-Creativity workshops to
focus on Ganj Dareh's tribulations. He'd gotten them off the ground yesterday, a total of seven
different sessions across the day. And with what result?
Cliff hoped Phoebe wasn't counting on a whole lot this soon. Because I don't have a whole lot.
One substantive idea so far, an interesting one, but just the one, all the same.
He threw open a glass door and hurried into the station's entrance room. Following Phoebe's
directions, he crossed its terrazzo floor and mounted the staircase at the back of the entrance
room. He trudged slowly up the middle of the wide, spiraling steps. Legs twinging, lungs quickly
straining, heart leaping back to double-duty, he studiously ignored the ripples he caused in both
up and down traffic. On the first landing, he swerved without looking and provoked at least one
curse.
"Gesundheit," he said full-face to the objector. The guy's expression was precious, half-snarl and
half-boggle. Laughing, Cliff knew he'd remember that one and kept going, Life's scars forgotten
for the moment.
Phoebe had told him the first doorway on the second floor of the west wing, but the small, oblong
room — crammed with table and chairs so it wasn't an office, must be for can-feels — sat empty.
Just like a tactician, just too damned busy to waste even small seconds waiting on anybody. Cliff
pled guilty of the same thing. Well, not guilty really. Any tactician worth his salt
evolves into a dynamo incapable of sitting still. As long as Phoebe doesn't keep me
waiting in the process.
First, he peered back into the stairwell, up to the glass wall starting at the next floor, and
confirmed by the suns that he indeed stood in the west wing. Next, he stared along the
thoroughfare of the wing itself and ... lifting his nose, he followed the qahwah smell to a server
set into an alcove. There, he found the chief along with three other anshin.
Much to Cliff's approval, Phoebe wore her dawn-gray jumpsuit, as did one of the others, a
brown-toned fireplug of a man with sharp eyes. The remaining pair, tall, strapping youngsters,
filled out their blue-gray uniforms with pride, silver badges adorning chests and caps. These
three carried dreamsticks and belts of loaded pouches.
Cliff selected a mug from the shelf waist-high around the small alcove, then poked around the
various vessels, judging strength, blend, and age by smell and color. He noticed that Phoebe
watched him with curiosity.
"A moment, please," he murmured, using a tone that complemented this role of bemused old
gentleman. He made a decision and filled his mug. He sipped, then gulped. "Now that's good
qahwah!"
"You can thank Dyr Kanpachiro for that," the Chief said.
"I shall do when I get the chance. And I must find out how to divert some of it into my gong-she.
No offense, but the qahwah out there is barely tolerable."
"None taken. It's not my combine."
"No, I guess not."
Phoebe sent a meaningful look at the other anshin, then said to Cliff, "Back to the meeting room,
Cliff?"
"After you." He waved her on.
Inside the room, Phoebe waited for him to choose a seat, then swung into a chair across the table.
Not a friendly meeting, after all, he surmised. Then she jabbed the air between them with a
finger. No, not friendly at all.
"Tell me this." Phoebe stared at him over her finger. "Why did thugs from your Rendezvous attack
The Bluffs last night? Why did they harass and injure two-hundred fifty-nine of my zhee-tely,
customers and staff alike, almost killing some of them? Can't you keep your Die
Gastarbeiter under control?"
Impossible questions amounted to rhetorical ones. Rhetorical questions always pushed Cliff toward
the philosophical, and Cliff always took his philosophy with a pinch of whimsy, so he said, "Who
knows what evil lurks in the minds of men?"
"Are you aware of the increasing number and violence in the collisions between your people and
mine?"
"My people?" Cliff raised his eyebrows to simulate confusion. "Your people? Are we going through
that routine again?"
"Yes." Phoebe narrowed her eyes and lips even further. "That way you know who I'm talking
about."
Cliff knew she'd always been serious about her job, but now, he thought he saw obsession flirting
with him from the interstices of her mind. It didn't scare him though: sometimes obsession was
the only thing that pulled someone's fat out of the fire.
"I have some idea," he murmured.
"Cliff, yesterday, we reached a high of nine-hundred and fifty Incidents, including everything from
exchanges of words to exchanges of—"
"More solid greetings." Cliff raised a palm to stop her rant. He decided to cater to her
seriousness for the moment. "Yes, Phoebe, I do understand. My Off-Work Coordinator has set up
seven full-time positions to manage the aftermath of these altercations, from med-tek follow-up to
counseling to legal representation. However, I am not specifically aware of the events at ... The
Bluffs, did you say?"
"It's a restaurant, a nice restaurant." She jerked her head toward the east. "On the
bluffs."
A very visible incident, then, clientele-wise and geography-wise.
Phoebe kept on, "Sixteen Gastarbeiter swept out of the woods and—"
Cliff took up his own furrow once more and plowed on, squelching this rehash. "My staff and I have
caught up with our runaway steed, this Rendezvous of Futures. We seem to have overcome its scrawny
past and gained some control over its robust future direction. What we cannot contain are its
speed, by which I mean numbers, and its temper, by which I mean morale.
"When I speak of morale, I include problems of focus and motivation, of convincing people long out
of work to rise to the challenges of innovation and creativity. I regret that they are acting out
in their spare time as well.
"I'm sorry for what happened at The Bluffs.
"However, let's not forget that some of my Gastarbeiter are really einheimischer
Arbeiter. Your people, that is."
Phoebe straightened herself in the chair, minute adjustments she probably wasn't aware of. Cliff
reconciled himself to more conflict.
"You're tactician for the Rendezvous. Its—"
"De-facto tactician," Cliff corrected absently.
"Its members, Gast or einheimischer, work for you. You're paying for their food and lodgings, as
well. In fact, the Rendezvous has become their identity direvnya. Therefore, you can control
their behavior. I want you to fix it."
"Che-song-ham-ni-da?" Pardon? Since when is a tactician responsible for what his people do during
their free time? He'd arranged work, homes, entertainment, hobbies, support groups, but he didn't,
couldn't, wouldn't control every second of their lives.
Phoebe drilled him, body gathered behind stare. "Get them all together and tell them to leave my
people alone."
"Why don't you?"
"What?"
Cliff lifted a hand from his mug and drew twirly patterns in the air between them. "Gather the
Ganj-Dareh Collective and tell them to be more tolerant, move over and give some fellow
humans a little slack, sacrifice so that others may dare to hope, be true to their pattern language
and appreciate diversity, that sort of thing. After all, you're responsible for the management of
peace in your bailiwick, am I right?"
"Do you know how many people you're talking about there?"
"486,019 adults in the Collective, when I last checked. Do you know how many people I'm
shepherding with a lot smaller crew?"
A scowl directed Phoebe's gaze to some random bit of floor. She did give her head a weak shake.
He laid out the numbers, then added, "They're scattered in gong-she throughout the direvnya,
nesting in your physical space, sponging off your largesse, tracking mud through
thirty times their number, all of whom have jobs, homes, income, and respect.
"I'm also handling your own out-of-work zhee-tely, who are doubly ashamed.
"It'd be like herding cats to tell these unfortunate people that they have to be nice to
their hosts at the same time they're self-proclaimed pariahs. Honestly, Chief, get some
perspective on the situation!"
Moons of Yeibichai! Why'd I do that? Well, can't take it back now.
Phoebe seemed to take his lecture like an avalanche of blows. She slumped to one side. Her mug
tilted precariously. Shadows invaded her eyes and blanch drove blood from her skin. The effect
was startling against her freckles and red hair.
That welt of despair revived its pain in Cliff's heart. If his own responsibilities whelmed him
so, how much did Phoebe's larger ones deluge her? If his inadequacies plagued him, how often did
her shortfalls keep her awake? While he held people's self-esteem and livelihoods in his control,
she held their well-being, their very Life Expectancies, in hers. His burdens lightened just by
being compared to hers.
Yet, as he watched, something — probably a soul-sourced injection of resolve, something he'd seen
only rarely — propped her up again. Thank the Moons for obsession! Flinty eyes lifted to him. A
steady hand lowered the mug to the tabletop. Then, she spoke to him with a voice filled with
determination.
"So, did your Serious-Creativity workshops produce any ideas we can use yet?"
Ah, down to business. Good.
Cliff met intensity with intensity: he set his mug aside; he thrust his head forward; he braced
himself with elbows on the table; he drew passion and presence from his own soul and expressed it
in his voice.
"I'll give you some background first, some fundamentals not appropriate to our alley-based meeting
the other day. Then we'll talk ideas. Are you with me?"
Phoebe copied his posture and nodded.
"A primary pattern for the Rendezvous is 'total immersion.' You may think that the participants
have plenty of time to stroll about your direvnya and get into trouble with the residents, but I
assure you that's not true, unless you think a one-day break out of four — just like everyone else
on this planet — is too much. From the very beginning, my staff and I have considered development
of professional and personal capabilities, enhancement of esteem and skills, and stimulation of
psychological and physiological foundations.
"We know these people are troubled. Who wouldn't be after Seveners out of work and
living off the Collective? So we've been giving them lots of attention. A program as extensive
and thorough and personal as ours has got to make the participants feel good. After all,
somebody is going to a lot of effort to focus on their needs, their development, their future."
Cliff lightened his delivery with a deprecating chuckle. "Fortunately, my Department had such a
program on the shelf. Comes from plenty of time to think and justify our existence and no work to
do."
"Zero training budget," Phoebe murmured and nodded in sympathy.
Cliff went on, "In gong-she, we start their day with exercise and end it with entertainment, which
they provide. We put them into cafeterias for mid-day meal with a continual rotation of groups so
they're always seeing someone new, but we let them break their nightly fasts and sup in
gong-shi-tang with those who share their quarters. And those scattered in rented houses throughout
the communities? Why, we pick them up and take them back so they get the same experience.
"In between all that social stuff, we teach them and we work them. In the mornings, we give them
new skills and expand on their old ones. Then we turn around and make them exercise those skills,
by writing, in simulations, with mock competitions, in panels and discussion groups and task
forces. We're just getting started, but you should see some of the ideas for products and services
and delivery and lifecycle that we're getting."
Now hold on, Cliffie, don't blow your horn too loud or with too much pleasure. Time for the
"what's in it for me." With a little soft soap to enhance meager results.
"In keeping with these patterns, I convened seven workshops to tackle the challenges of
Rendezvous-cum-Ganj Dareh. Like all team activities, these gatherings take time to settle in and
produce substance. However, they've already generated one idea that I thought was worth your
time.
"Are you ready?"
It wasn't relief that surged through Phoebe's posture and expression. More like reinforced vigor,
like the new energy you see in the hero and heroine, hunched behind their barricade, when they hear
the cavalry/commandos/spacetroopers charging down the hill/through the jungle/across the void
toward their common enemy (whoever it is this time).
"Yes!" Phoebe said.
"The Collective has realty sitting empty while the gong-she are packed to overflowing, two sides of
one result of the recession. We've tapped into this reserve on occasion, but contrary to pattern,
why not rent them all back to us? Move Gast- und einheimischer Arbeiter out into real
houses, whether cluster, row, or hill? Make them feel like real people again, and fight depression
with recognition. Mix them in with the real people, and fight intolerance with knowledge."
"That's not my combine."
"Surely, as chief of anshin, you have some influence, if not authority, that you can use to cause
this change in pattern?"
Phoebe didn't answer. In fact, she didn't move at all, like frozen lightning. Cliff thought he
could hear her brain whirring, but dismissed that image for the metaphor it was.
Finally, she said, "That move would mesh well with some inductive-counseling projects I'm
formulating. So I like that, but wouldn't distributing your people throughout Ganj Dareh make your
life more difficult?"
"Yes. We considered that, but we could also generate more real jobs managing transportation and
other issues, so we guesstimate a net gain. Besides, if we improve lives, in the Rendezvous and
around it, that's worth the effort, don't you think?"
Another moment with The Thinker, then a happy light rose in Phoebe's eyes and a smile built slowly
on her lips. She reached out a hand.
Cliff sat up with a grin and returned the grip.
"We have a deal on that." Phoebe stood then, lifting Cliff to his feet. She tucked his hand
beneath her arm and led him from the room. She called down the hall, "Harlan!"
"Coming, Jefe!" A deep man's voice replied.
Phoebe looked back around and still holding Cliff's hand, said, "I hope you have some more time for
me, Cliff, because we're going out to your facilities, and we're going to arrest some of your
Gastarbeiter. Some tactics to emphasize a strategic point."
The brown fireplug and the tall constables marched in phalanx toward them. Their dreamsticks
flicked in counterpoint to their strides.
Phoebe went on, "Cliff, that attack on The Bluffs was different from most Incidents: deliberate
attack followed by escape. When I looked closer at the past few days, I found that modus operandi
had occurred before on a limited basis. So I made sure we did an especially thorough job cleaning
up The Bluffs, including the victims' wounds, and we went back to the previous Incidents too. We
found foreign DNA and we translated it to Em-Deh identifiers, then we tracked down the chuis.
"Cliff, you've got some rotten apples in that barrel of yours." She chuckled. "I thought you'd
appreciate that image." She sobered. "We identified twenty-one perpetrators as Gastarbeiter,
living in gong-she, taking your classes. I'd like you to come along while my men and I stuff them
into cells. Will you do that?"
By the myriad moons of Yeibichai! And I thought I was dominating this relationship with my age and
my wisdom. How wrong I was! And what else can I say except, "Of course, Chief. I'll be glad to
help."
