Weir Annadetcall
Shadows seeped about him, long and inky, agents sent by the remains of the double-suns to steal
back their warmth. The garden had subtly, but distinctly inverted invitation into threat, or at
least its possibility. And rather than a retreat, it had become open to the world, sharing in its
woe.
Weir's eyes tracked to the back of the house-row. Through that door was light and warmth and
comradeship. Part of him yearned to slip into that comfort, the part that was left over from his
life as a member of a combine, not its tactician. Another part of him sat astraddle his thornbush
of responsibilities unmoderated by experience. With his bowels marking time in a rhythm both muted
and turgid, the dutiful part of him sorted, and re-sorted, and re-sorted yet again, the facts of
their situation.
Death, injury, and sadness enveloped his combine. Their work polishing the proposal, due in three
days, flagged before the flood of hurt and traumatized. Rowl's constables filtered that flood,
turning away some whose need seemed suspect, arresting others based on Phoebe's alerts, but passing
through many, many zhee-tely. Incidents nearby generated their portion of victims, but their
clinics treated people from communities surrounding as well. The city's load-balancing policyware
automatically shunted people to them, and the public did notice where lines were shorter.
Day after day, they reacted, and Weir didn't suffer that well. He'd learned, from training and
from zhuhndí, that pro-active leadership worked better. He longed to work on the source of the
problems, not just fix their symptoms.
But his advisors cautioned against reaching out.
Prospective customers suffered, and he wasn't supposed to fix it. His combine fell behind
schedule, and he wasn't supposed to fix it. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and he wasn't
supposed to fix it.
Finally, he'd called for help. Maybe this evening, in this garden of shadows physical and
spiritual, Günter would give him leave to take action.
"Boots&Saddles" sounded. In his llevar, a panel/Em-Deh reported that Günter Gatogrebok was
answering voice-only. When the sound arrived, it was hollow with parts bouncing off surfaces
reflecting. It was also tinged with bubblings and lappings and even small splashes.
Günter's voice came out of this background: "Talk to me, Weir."
Weir spoke quickly into the Mirnaya Direvnya, pushing out the barest outline of the events in
Ganj Dareh, of Prokopowicz's work, and of his own concerns, with confidence that the global lattice
would dump his words completely and securely into the only ear for which they were intended.
The roundtrip did seem to take some time before Günter said, "I see that you've already got Rowl
and his cadre over there."
"Defensive only."
"The additional costs are negligible, Weir, so I'll leave that up to you. However, please remember
that you and Rowl have been given no authority in Ganj Dareh yet. I don't want you getting
involved in peace-management outside your clinics."
"Grumble," Weir muttered. Polite, but vehement objection. He didn't mention his obligation to
Okra that might make such formalities moot.
"I know you're not happy with the situation, but we're just going to have to rely on Byukan-Hamil
to do their jobs, like Prokopowicz said, ironic as that is.
"In the meantime, Weir, stay safe, do a terrific job of health-care, and keep your eyes
collectively open to the consumer's needs, in that order."
Weir said, "I will modify the proposal-in-draft to increase funding for constables, med-tek, even
Nurses."
"The increased requirements will go away when BH loses the contract: they'll drop this Rendezvous
of theirs and all Gastarbeiter will go home."
"Denied, Günter," Weir whispered. "It could get even worse around here then and we — I —
will have to handle it then."
"By the names of all the hells! What are you concerned about? When we have funding, we will be
able to manage anything that comes along."
"I'm concerned about suffering, Günter." Weir's voice was still soft, not out of fear of the
Con-Hominium's leader, but out of awe for the responsibility he would face alone.
That lag in transmission-time intruded again. "Weir," Günter said calmly, even solicitously. "If
one of your team-leaders brought this problem to you, what would you tell him?"
Oddly, his part in the role-play came immediately. Startled by this answer from his blindside,
Weir said, "Tell him it's not his job to worry about this. Her job, rather, is to care for these
people when they come in off the path and ask for it. His job is to provide health-care that opens
their eyes and pleases their souls, yet within the scope of his resources and responsibilities.
And that I would work the issue at the appropriate levels."
"And what are the 'appropriate levels' here, Weir?"
"The Singer of the Heavens?"
"Or Her equivalent, agreed." Günter's voice became hushed. "Do not let the job grow beyond its
bounds, natural or contractual, Weir. Do the job you know how to do, and the rest, well, the rest
will just have to take care of itself. Agreed?"
"Agreed, Günter. Thanks. Meeting adjourned."
The panel/Em-Deh folded itself in two over and over until it was too small to see, then it deleted
itself from all resources in the llevar. Weir idled over that familiar process. A lesson there,
he thought, very much like Günter's.
I just hope I can get my mind to mind it.
But Weir was more afraid that he'd get used to this trend, tactical, reactive, tending demands
only. Will I forget how to take action when the time comes? If it comes? He could only
hope not: he had no time to ward off such a failure with practice, role-plays or otherwise. In
the meantime, thinking short-term would have to be its own reward.
