Doyle Phoebe Heejanus
Phoebe bailed from her patrolcraft as it touched down alongside the next Incident Site on her
list. She somersaulted across grass, grunting with each thump, her hands clutching her
just-a-baton-now dreamstick above her head. Once, twice, then crouched on hands and knees, she
spun around. The craft had dumped med-tek after her, then climbed away. She snatched up her kit
and strode toward the scene of a reported riot. A pair of med-tek carts righted themselves and
shot past her. Their long shadows probed ahead of them.
Her patrolcraft growled into the reddening sky, out of reach, to orbit and await her call, just in
case something went terribly wrong here as it had so many times today for so many of her
constables. At this time and place, she worked — and risked — just like them.
The dramatic entrance suited her belligerent mood — and impressed the rioters locked down by
tanglefog as green and smelly as last week's lunch. Kangiqsualujjuaq Plaza seemed cluttered with
an auto-mannequin convention or maybe, a jam-fest of performance artists. Clumps of people,
single, pairs, up to about ten or so, stood or slumped or hunkered en tableau. Some still
struggled against each other or the tanglefog, but most had succumbed to exhaustion and merely
attended their wounds as best they could while they waited.
Waited for the inevitable arrival of anshin, even if it were only one. Phoebe had modified the
Response Pattern five-kay seconds ago to dispense with teams. It now stated "one riot, one
constable" and that included her.
Ironic actually. What starts as a savage, atavistic betrayal of their chosen way of life distills
down to a hope, even a plea, for those patterns to work properly. A mob immobilized turns into a
disjointed crowd of unhappy people.
In the process, though, people were hurt, even killed. "Killed!" Just the word cut. Phoebe shook
off the lament and refocused on getting across the lawn to the plaza itself.
She didn't hurry, partly from caution, partly from fatigue, partly because after tending to rioters
all day, she felt they didn't deserve anything more than due diligence. Let them enjoy the rank
smell that much longer, or perhaps, they'd gotten used to it like she had after attending to all
these Incidents. Besides, the carts would address the worst injuries better and faster than she
could.
She did peer into the dusk settling around the snarled rioters. They suffered, she knew. Unable
to run or even walk because the tanglefog stuck them to everything nearby, exposed to whoever was
tangled up beside them, trapped with their injuries, they fell prey to the worst psychological
traumas of a modern society: helpless despite technology and isolated because of it. In addition,
property was damaged and business disrupted.
Such things didn't happen nearly as much when dreamsticks worked. But they didn't anymore — no
one knew why, though one of her toadstools was working on it. She and the rest of her combine were
too busy coping with zhuhndí to fret the why.
And with Fated synchronicity, death followed the loss of dreamsticks. Over four-hundred zhee-tely
— including eighty-seven anshin! — died before Phoebe, sending Central into its archives, could
bring tanglefog to bear. Thirty-plus after that. This ultimate in failures had gnawed at her
heart beginning with Yenhuu, her first casualty, early this morning. Each death after that added
another notch to her pain.
They just couldn't get to Incidents fast enough with enough resources. Each Incident seemed
larger, took longer to settle and clean up. The statistics didn't seem outrageous, even a decrease
in total Incidents over yesterday. The clinics — Bless them! — had found room for the
casualties. How will they be able to keep doing that?
On the paths, though, the Incidents piled up. Even after she broke up constable partners, even
with trainees and calluses working, each anshin struggled with a queue of Incidents, cleaning up
each one, pressing on.
Hunkered down, grinding it out. What choice do we have? The only way to get to the end of a rope
is to keep pulling it. Do the work and move on and do the work again. While remaining caring,
diligent and above all, alert.
Plus, tanglefog was slow to target since its automata depended on Beobachtung data which was no
longer available. And tanglefog, launched ballistically from Central Station, spread over the same
area at the same speed every time, not adaptable like constables wielding dreamsticks. And
tanglefog did not adjust for its victims, miring young and old, firm and infirm, not selective like
—
Her sneak-boots hit pavement. It filled the triangular plaza, lapping against a handful of
theaters, their tall façades cluttered with dark marquees and dimmed posters. Tonight's
performances cancelled, their Em-Deh entrances probably said, updated by managers huddled inside in
the dark. After all, injured and pathetic former rioters still cluttered the approaches to their
entrances.
Phoebe scanned for triage flags. Pattern said she should search particularly for the red flags
that called for assistance, but she felt drawn to see if any showed white.
White for death, the newest visitor to this quagmire that had developed slowly under her feet. A
waste of time, looking for white flags, because she could do nothing to help. Once med-tek said
you were dead, there was nothing tek or human left to be done. Still, she had found enough death
already today to provoke this morbid curiosity in each new Incident.
Nobody had died this time.
Relieved, Phoebe checked back to the red flag she'd spotted in her skim. A cart hunched there, its
stiff, stubby arms delivering a face-hugger. The flag had muted its blazing fire-red to
dried-blood.
She hoped the injured zhee-tel lay unconscious. Her customers didn't like being treated by
automatons. That, more than expense, had kept these enhanced carts stored in the basement of
Central Station, along with the self-deploying triage flags, scattered by Central after the
tanglefog had settled. The carts had never been used before, at least during her career with
Ganj Dareh anshin. The virtual archive had found them, then a zhuhndí search had produced enough
to support half of her constables. Without them, they'd be even further behind working Incidents.
Still, they were expensive. She'd flinched when the accounting data had been restored to
active duty along with the machines. Budgets died that day along with anshin and zhee-tely.
Phoebe looked for the next fire-red. Triage-tek arbitrated among themselves about their
casualties; the worst unattended blazed its priority over the others. The second cart, guided
electronically by the flag, got there before she did.
Figures darted in, ratoneros attacking, two of them, going after the cart's med-tek. Phoebe
started to sigh, but a grin broke through. Clean up enough of other people's messes and you crave
a little action. Nothing like a righteous fight to get your heart thumping again.
She dashed to intercept, leaping tangled singles and pairs, skirting larger mounds of people. Some
sent weary gazes as she passed. A few called out. That turned one of the looters around. Young,
scruffy around the edges, his clothes catalog, not gong-she, he pulled a thick, steel chain from
his belt and scuttled forward to give his partner time to get what they'd come for. He swung the
chain with cocky threat.
Phoebe hefted her dreamstick, almost forgotten in her right hand. She smacked it into her left
palm, setting a equal-handed grip, and headed right for the looter, pouring on the speed.
His eyes widened. His stance slackened. His right foot hedged backwards. He checked her out
again, hedged once more.
Phoebe planted a foot, changed directions toward the other looter who was ripping med-tek loose.
"Anshin!" she hollered to gain some time. "Get away from the cart!" That one flinched around.
The other, with the chain, reset himself, considering her now-exposed flank.
She feinted toward the chain, to unsettle him again, but continued another step, another psych. He
took it, stepping forward. She flicked the dreamstick, left wrist throwing its tip precisely at
the ganglia behind his upper lip. The blow stunned him while missing his front teeth. She swung
her body to the 'stick, cranking it back, then ramming it into the youth's solar plexus. With a
roar of breath, he jackknifed forward. She side-stepped, rapped his mastoid to render him
unconscious, and moved on.
The other youth abandoned his loot with a jerk. He spun to run away, but Phoebe got there just as
he planted his foot. She whacked that knee from behind. It collapsed, flinging him to the
ground. She plucked dreamjuice aerosol from her belt and put this one to sleep chemically.
Phoebe straightened. Her lungs grabbed air. Her heart raced. Sweat broke across her forehead and
back. Life coursed within her! Wonderful!
A few deep breaths later, she slapped detention swatches, complete with charges, date-time stamp,
and location coordinates, on the looters and notified Central that they needed transport to the
cells.
That chore complete, she checked the cart. Face-huggers sprawled around it, useless, their sacs
ruptured or dirt-clogged. Two doors sagged on hinges, and the cart's foilscreen showed yellow with
"Repair required" written in black. A dent in my capability I'll never get back: budgets; time;
and ... Gloom whispered to her heart again, pointing at its master, impending doom. With a step,
Phoebe broke away from tempting self-pity. She looked for the cart's patient. A face-hugger
showed a red flag with steady vital-signs. Nothing more to be done here.
With conscious diversion, Phoebe spun on her heel and scanned the scene again. She sighted a fire
for her to tend and found herself trotting, hurrying to help. After all, that's why I'm here.
Three men lay intertwined: two yellow flags and one red, glowing vividly in the late afternoon.
Phoebe scurried around the tangle. She settled her kit and brought out a face-hugger in one move.
She applied the device, then knelt to watch it work. It announced numbers without its own flag;
nearby, on the man's shoulder, the triage flag changed to yellow. Ready for evacuation.
Phoebe glanced at the other men. One glared at her from a single eye, the other bloody and swelled
shut. His right hand still clutched the third man's shirt-front. Puke-green tendrils locked his
assault in place. That man, also conscious, didn't glare. He merely pleaded with his eyes because
his mouth had been fogged shut.
She parked her fists on her hips and demanded, "What's this all about? Explain yourselves!"
"He's from-Twa," the one-eyed man grumbled. "I'm from-Hutu. Our great-grandfathers—"
"And him?" Phoebe glared back, her thumb pointing at the face-hugger.
"From-Twa," he mumbled. "I had to get him before he got me."
The other raised muted protest. Phoebe cleared his mouth with a dose of a different aerosol.
"My brother! How is he?"
"He's stable. He'll be alright once he gets to the clinic."
"This mamlambo jumped him from behind with a rock. I struck back, but this accursed gunk showered
down on us before I could deal with him properly."
Phoebe wished she could fog him shut again. His hateful words tempted gloom out of that mental
recess where she'd parked it, time and again, all day. She'd turned it aside with work. There was
plenty of work to do, today more than ever. She pushed herself to her feet. Find the next flag on
fire.
"Wait!" from-Twa cried. "Release the rest of me!"
"Shut up!" she snapped. She'd also started fighting gloom with frank treatment of some of her
customers. "My counselors will release you when they can give you a good talking-to. In the
meantime—"
=Available for a can-hear with Pfic Ira Hayes?= Central asked Phoebe silently.
"Of course," she answered aloud. Too tired to juggle cerebral and physical realities, she didn't
care what the humbled rioters thought. She did walk away from their tangle, though, to talk to the
moderator of the Forum for the Ganj-Dareh Collective, the most influential person in town outside
the combines.
Ira said, "You'll like part of this, but not the other. Which end do you want to start with?"
"I can use some good news about now."
"I can put every tactician on your ad-hoc team into one room tonight. Some are happy to help you,
but I did have to twist a few arms."
"Thanks, Ira. I'm glad you can see past the end of your metrics, and I'm glad you're not alone in
that attitude. You see what's happened today? We need a big solution and we need one
now. I just hope they can brainstorm fast and pick good ideas out of the 'storm even
faster. We've got to make changes in this town!"
"Which brings me to the bad news. You busted your metrics, Phoebe. Too many people
involved in Incidents, way too many. And zhee-tel deaths, including your anshin, are
unacceptable. Our policyware bypassed delinquency notice and reopened the anshin competition. It
posted seven other Notices of Competition as well: Utilities for Electricity and Water, Food from
Markets, Restaurants, and Gong-shi-tang, as well as Construction and Recreation. And we'll
hit Delivery of People and Goods in two days if they don't improve. We're holding off on Em-Deh
because Streicher seems to be trying hard."
Worries about her job awoke with a harsh twist. Smothered lately by more urgent concerns, they
still powered part of her obsession. "Any change in schedule?"
"No. The policyware can't initiate a competition when one's already going."
"It's moot, then. Who else can jump in at the last moment?" She pressed those worries, like
hemorrhoids, back inside. No profit in fretting that now. They resumed their dull, steady ache.
"I realize that, Phoebe, but we'll have to fine you as well."
What'd I say budgets about being dead? "I know. Don't you fret, Ira: it's but a single drop
compared to a Red-Winter storm."
"I'm sorry, Phoebe, but there's nothing I can do."
"Yes, there is. Help me get all of our people working together for a change. At the can-feel
tonight, and tomorrow and the next day and—"
"All right, all right." Ira chuckled. "You're the best, Phoebe, maybe our only hope. I just pray
the rest of the Collective feels that way when they vote fifteen days from now."
"If I last that long. If we do."
"Just have your proposal submitted on time. Five days left."
"I will." Kanpa popped into her mind, with a brave smile and hurt eyes. How can I stay mad? I'll
never call him "Nitsta" again. "See you tonight."
"Meeting adjourned," Ira said, and Central's touch left Phoebe's mind.
"Wait a minute, Central," Phoebe called. Central returned its chime of attention. She sent her
gaze around the plaza again. Five more red flags demanded attention. The working med-tek cart
scurried toward the one on fire.
"Re-assign my Incident queue," she told Central. "I've got real work to do, real strategy to make
happen." She found the latest fire-red flag and set herself in motion. "Just as soon as I'm done
here."
