Doyle Phoebe Heejanus
Phoebe rubbed her eyes, wiping the workstation from her sight with one hand while the other,
resting in its keyspace, reminded her of its screen full of demands. Her eyeballs felt gritty and
too big for their sockets. After just two short nights. She'd even taken a dose of
fatigue-scrubbers, customized mechano-chemicals supposed to clean up her body like it did when she
could afford to sleep long enough. Then she'd napped on her office cot for the suggested six-kay
seconds, long enough for one complete dream-cycle — Fates, what a nightmare she'd had! Trying to
cuddle and comfort a spiky beastie with claws and teeth and too many arms to count while it kept
crapping in her lap.
And she still felt rotten. It'd been a long time since she'd had to work under these conditions,
but she'd decided to stay abreast of all reports as they came in, Incident Reports, patrol reports,
counseling abstracts, consumer complaints, health assessments, more and more each day. Lots of
arguments going on out there in Ganj Dareh and lots of fights and lots of injuries, but no deaths
— no zhee-tel cheated of their Life Expectancy — so far.
Fates from all the Backdoor Planets! She had been so sure they could beat this thing. No, not
"beat" it, but handle it, she and the combine, the combine and the direvnya, they should have been
able to handle all these strangers. Now, she couldn't even keep up with the reports.
If only the Collective would step up to their responsibilities, take ownership for their whole
environment, deal with reality, not preference, like any good tactician would ...
Why am I focusing on individual people? Why am I thinking about Collective-wide forums? I should
be dealing with the tacticians! Tacticians by profession, like myself. No, not them, they
brown-nose BH metrics too closely, not like me at all. Tacticians by interest, then, like the
Realty Committee. Volunteers, amateurs, in the job for the love of it. Yes. And tacticians by
election, like Ira Hayes, moderator of Forum for Ganj-Dareh Collective, in the job out of duty.
Power too, power that depended on Collective-wide satisfaction, a metric worthy of its name.
Tacticians understand goals. Tacticians understand practicality. And tacticians understand we all
exist in the same boat, and if there's a hole in the boat, no matter whose end it's in, we're
all in trouble.
I just have to gear up these tacticians with the proper goals. Then they'll gear up the people
with the necessary support for my program.
Whatever that is.
I've got to get help in finding a path through these troubles. Cliff's idea about turning fallow
realty into gong-she is a start, but I can't quite get how or what comes after that. The
tacticians will help me there too ... if they know what's good for them — and everyone else.
Phoebe opened her eyes. The workstation stared back, but this time, it offered a hope of breaking
out, not just demands on her time, energy, and patience. It embodied the means to consult,
coordinate, and finally compel Ganj Dareh's tacticians to help her fix Ganj Dareh broken by the
Rendezvous of Futures.
Abrupt words ambushed her thoughts. "Here, try this." She jerked around.
Kanpa stood in the doorway, his hands cradling a steaming mug, his eyes wide.
Phoebe found herself off the chair and crouched, her arms ready to parry and strike. With a shrug,
she settled back down. "What's that?"
Kanpa pushed through the slatted gate and held out the mug. "Chicory, special qahwah from Henumire
— that's northern Nikolayev."
"For me?" Phoebe accepted the mug.
"I heard you'd really strapped on the workstation since The Bluffs and that empty run out to the
Rendezvous. I thought you could use a little pick-me-up, something, uh, zestier than what
you have been drinking."
Phoebe sniffed cautiously at the vapors. An exotic bitterness mixed with rich qahwah sent pleasant
pricks up through her nose. "You bought this in Ganj Dareh?"
He shook his head. "Couldn't find it here." He watched her expectantly.
She sipped carefully. The hot liquid warmed the back of her lips and spread over and under her
tongue. He'd sweetened it just as she liked it. Then the bitterness kicked in. She widened her
eyes. Take qahwah's bite, twist it a bit, then thicken it, and that was chicory. She sipped
again. The skin on her forehead and neck prickled.
"I like it," she announced.
Kanpa relaxed with a grin, his crown of thick hair settling slightly with a ripple. "Good. I know
a guy in Henumire, met with him through the Em-Deh. He said he'd put together a package, but then
I had to crack open a few coags so I could tweak transport manifests. And find a zhuhndí person to
actually carry the package between aircraft at a drome in the middle of Carpenter. But it all
worked out. I'm glad you like it."
Phoebe took a longer pull. Hot, zesty, as he had said. Warmth rippled over her upper body. She
lifted the mug in a toast. "Thanks."
"Good." Kanpa glanced down, away, then back at her. "Could I take this chance to talk to you
about a couple of things?"
Phoebe glanced at her workstation. "Keep it short?"
He nodded, then said, "I've about got the proposal ready for consortium approvals."
Proposal? Oh, right, for contract renewal. Fates, where has my mind been, to've forgotten that?
A surge of fatigue drenched in the Collective's disapproval. Maybe it would be best if we just
lost the contract. Then I could forget about these reports, about the Collective and the rest of
Ganj Dareh, about Die Gastarbeiter, run off to some other direvnya with gong-she emptied out by the
Rendezvous, be alone, sleep, eat, relax, not worry, not fret.
Images of basking in the sunlight, clouds building overhead, rain starting, growing to a deluge,
her wet face streaming with hair and water, yearning after the duties she'd left behind.
No, never work. I wouldn't be done after we lost anyway; there's the transition, another thirty
days at least.
What makes me think this town will last that long?
"Phoebe?"
She mashed her eyelids together, opened them, knitted her brows. "Yes, Kanpa, you were saying?"
He studied her with concern for a moment, then said, "Your staff and I have completed the last
round of reviews. Now it's your turn."
Phoebe swallowed more chicory, reached out and tapped a calendar glyph on her foilscreen. It said
she had another day. She aimed a wordless gripe at Kanpa.
"A day early," he said, "I know. I hustled your people to get it done — they were cooperative
despite the overload — because I wanted the extra time in Byukan-Hamil. I don't really know how
the changes back there are going to affect review schedules."
"Changes?" What's he talking about?
He pushed a calming hand toward her. "You still work for Jik Dain. Don't worry about the rest of
it for right now. I need you to take one last peek at the proposal, at least the Executive
Summary, before I fly out of here tomorrow. Would you do that?"
Phoebe opened her mouth. Images of basking popped back into her mind. She shut her mouth.
Running away really wasn't an option; the images faded under hints of a downpour of guilt and
regret. She set down the mug and used both hands to survey the queues arranged about her
foilscreen. Numbers of reports added up fearsomely. Gut it! She envisioned the proposal pages,
no longer in marked-up, chopped-up draft, but pristine, waiting for nuance and final dressing up,
screens and screens of it. Stuff it!
Whatever happened to working smarter? she asked herself. What's really important here? Where can
I really make a difference?
And mount it on the wall!
Without turning back to Kanpa, she said, "O.K. What time are you leaving tomorrow?"
"Early morning. You should really finish it today."
"Today." The word felt heavy, demanding. Today could take a very long time, especially when it
included the night: she could get a lot of work done ... and still not be finished with everything
laid out before her. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth. The proposal rose in this sea of
obligation like an iceberg. She hoped for strength and said, "O.K."
"Phoebe?"
She glanced around. Kanpa had stepped forward. One thumb dug at the other palm.
He said, "I'll be working upstairs the rest of the day, putting together presentations for all the
different kinds of consortium reviews. But I — I have planned a break for myself around supper.
Thought I'd check out this Large Square Dance of yours before returning to the one-eyed
slavedriver." He gestured at her workstation and licked his lips. "Care to join me?"
A fact popped through the mists in her mind. "You've missed the Dance. There won't be another one
for —" she peeked at her calendar "— six days."
"Oh." The word left his eyes and mouth round, his face apparently rounder with them in it.
Phoebe snickered. His face crashed into hurt. "Sorry," she said, laughter sneaking through her
words. "You just looked so — surprised."
Kanpa summoned a rueful grin. "Yea, well, I was just, well, hoping, I guess, that I could, um, get
you out of here, force you to take a break, get some perspective, relax so you could get a better
night's sleep, hit the bricks even harder tomorrow, wha'd'ya say?"
Phoebe turned her chair around to face him. Good point. Excellent point. Fates, she'd been
reading, listening, watching reports. Tackling the problems at too low a level. Much too
low a level. Working with tacticians, now that would give her the right leverage. She'd put the
reports aside right now. Spend the day on two things: rounding up the right set of Ganj Dareh
tacticians via can-sees; and reviewing the proposal one last time. Those were the most important
action items right now.
Then she could take a break for supper; afterwards, go back home for a nice, long sleep. The
direvnya wouldn't fall apart if she took the night off. Tomorrow, with Kanpa and the proposal
packed off to Byukan-Hamil, she could settle down and filter a consensus out of her impromptu
combine of tacticians. Set up those programs she promised herself. Target everyone on some
direvnya-wide goals.
Phoebe said, "The food pavilion is open even when there's not a Dance going open. We could ride
out there, grab something, let you look around the place."
Kanpa perked up, his face lengthening with delight, his back straightening as he stepped toward her
office's gate. "I'll zap a can-feel request to you, so you can add it to your calendar — with an
alarm." He waved. "See you then."
Phoebe whirled on the workstation, reached into its keyspace. Panels, menus, name, keystrokes
lined up in her mind like a trail of steps toward a better tomorrow.
