The Unincorporated Woman (23 page)

Cyrus wasn’t even sure what had changed his mind. But some time in the past week, he’d come to the realization that Sandra needed him. The President seemed to be as keenly aware of his needs and contributions as he was of hers. Cyrus also knew that if he left now, he’d not only be letting Sandra down, he’d also be letting Justin down—and that was something he swore he’d never do again.

The light on his DijAssist flickered to life as one second later, a holographic visage of Sergeant Eric Holke appeared.

“Yes, Sergeant, how can I help you?”

“We have a VIP here, Cyrus. And I think you’re probably gonna want him to meet with somebody.”

Cyrus stared at his office wall’s holo-emitted view of the Jovian system. He didn’t bother making “eye contact” with the sergeant.

“They’re all very important people, Sarge. The question is what does this one need to make him go away?” Cyrus knew one of his main jobs was to insulate the President from all the self-important people who, given enough opportunity, would eat up every minute of her day. The current visitor must have had some pull to warrant this interruption. It would probably mean getting the SIP (somewhat important person) a tour or arranging for him or her to join one of the President’s scheduled lunches, which was an excuse to fill a room with even more SIPs while the President ate, stood for pictures, and said a few, kind patriotic words.

“The thing is, sir,” said the sergeant “… er, well, it’s Rabbi, sir. Says his appointment’s scheduled for now, but I don’t have him in my book for another hour.”

Cyrus whipped around in his chair, face full of concern. “The Cabinet’s not even here yet to greet him!”

“He’s more than willing to come back, but … well, I just figured…” Sergeant Holke let his statement hang.

God bless you,
thought Cyrus. Holke had avoided a potential PR fiasco. Who knew how it could’ve played out if the spiritual head of the Diaspora was seen being turned away at the door by the new administration?

“Tell Rabbi it’ll just be moment, and Sergeant…”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you back.” As he cut the connection, he thought he noticed a slight wince from the sergeant. He put it aside, consulted his calendar, and then made a call that gave him direct access to the Triangle Office.

“Madam President, I know you’ve set aside this time for tutorial work, but—”

“Ah, Cyrus,” she interrupted, smiling dutifully from his DijAssist, “if only I had a credit for every time I heard that.”

Cyrus returned a knowing smile. “There’s been a scheduling mix-up.”

“Oh?”

“Rabbi has arrived an hour early.”

“I see. Why don’t you send him up immediately, Cyrus? We’ll spend a pleasant forty minutes or so discussing whatever makes him happy, and then you can issue a press release saying that it was planned that way all along.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Madam President.” Cyrus was pleased with how quickly she’d grasped the situation. Faster, he surmised, than even Justin would have. Before that thought could boomerang and start making him feel wretched, the President spoke.

“And see if you can find out how his schedule got mixed up. Hopefully it’s just a simple mistake, but…” She left the last bit unsaid.

“I understand perfectly, Madam President.” He waited until she disconnected and then called back Sergeant Holke.

“Escort him up, Sergeant. The President will see him now.”

The Triangle Office

Sandra put a call through to Sebastian.

“It worked. One hour early.”

“Nothing to it, Madam President.”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh, “I would imagine so. So he really doesn’t shake hands?”

“He doesn’t shake
women’s
hands. Or at least would prefer not to. It is their way.”

“So the leader of Diaspora is a sexist?”

“Not as you’d understand it. In fact, the reverence and love with which they treat their spouses—the only women they do touch—is, from my limited understanding, quite beautiful. Some would even say romantic. Their women are the same, by the way, with regards to men.”

“Okay, then. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Sebastian regarded her calmly. “I thought you should also know that Kirk has put more devices into your personal quarters. We can neutralize them if you wish.”

Sandra thought about it. “No, if he’s not trying to bug my office, it just means he doesn’t think I’m really doing anything important enough to listen to.”

“Then I have to ask, Madam President, why is he ‘bugging’ your personal quarters?”

“Probably because it’s a lot easier than bugging the Triangle Office.”

“Blackmail?”

Sandra nodded. “What else? It was an old and honored tradition in my day.” Then, in a deadpan tone, “I’m so glad to see that it hasn’t lost any of its appeal.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment.

Sandra stared intently at the projection of “her” avatar. “Something on your mind, Sebastian?”

He nodded hesitantly. “We need your help with understanding these ‘back doors,’ as you call them.”

Sandra’s head tilted slightly. “I’m not sure I follow. I showed you where the library’s back door was, left it right on the bookshelf where I found it. I even gave your researchers the legacy code from the Alliance archives. At this point, I’m not sure there’s anything I could do that you can’t.”

Sebastian’s face remained immobile until he spoke. “Actually, there is.”

“What?”

“See it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can see it, Madam President. For some reason, we can’t.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t see the book I held in my hand the day I barged in on your meeting?”

“No. That we saw. But to us it appeared as just a book. It didn’t have the indicative color you spoke of … the purple that you said made it stand out.”

“I’m sure it’s just a bug, Sebastian.”

“We thought so initially as well. But it’s not just the color that eluded us. When we opened up the book, all we saw were … words.”

Sandra’s brow furrowed as she tried to work out how such an anomaly could have occurred.

“Hmm … could I have … infected it somehow? A crossover human–digital virus, maybe? I’m not even sure how it could happen, but then again, I am the not-so-proverbial ‘meat’ running through your digital china shop. I suppose it’s not inconceivable that there could be a—” She smiled in thought. “—disturbance in the Force.”

Sebastian quickly looked up Sandra’s first expression and realized she’d amended an old saying to fit the circumstance. He also looked up her last phrase, saw it was attached to an old series of movies, and reviewed the main cultural references to those movies as well. “I understand your reference,” he said. “We thought of that, but in analyzing all the environments you visited, we found nothing analogous to a virus. And trust me, we know our code like the back of our hand … or at least we thought we did. We also looked at some other back doors your map indicated: the staff, the umbrella, and my personal favorite, the phone booth.”

“It’s a police call box,” Sandra said, smiling at the memory of the long-ago television series she watched as child. She remembered peering guiltily from behind the couch—way past her bedtime—as her parents watched the show.

“Police box,” Sebastian repeated respectfully. “The point is those were all back doors you
didn’t
see in environments you didn’t visit.”

“I
see
what you mean,” she answered with a wink.

Sebastian nodded politely, whether ignoring the poor stab at humor or simply not getting it, Sandra wasn’t sure.

“That probably rules out infection.”

“That is our conclusion as well. We initially thought that perhaps it had something to do with your back doors having been written on classic computers in bits while we were created primarily in quantum computers as qbits.”

“But you’ve dropped that?”

“Yes. It is illogical that we wouldn’t be able to see such code even though it is the primordial swamp from which we eventually emerged.”

“Then to what do you attribute the anomaly?”

“Gödel’s incompleteness.”

Sandra, putting thumb and forefinger to chin, summarized the theorem. “Certain truths about oneself must remain unrecognized if the self-image is to remain consistent.”

“Right. And if you recall, there was once a question as to whether that theory could apply to the possibility of sentience based on formal systems. We believe our race to be the definitive answer.”

“Makes sense.”

“And while I suspect that a backdoor device is hardly a ‘truth’ in the way Gödel imagined it, the theorem has certainly been made manifest by our apparent blindness to it. I suppose I should thank you.”

Sandra laughed at the irony. “Well, I’m happy to help, Sebastian. But you should know that going back into VR will not be easy. At least not without a damned good explanation.”

“You won’t need one, Madam President. A package will be mailed to your assistant, Marilynn Nitelowsen. It will come with strict orders from Admiral Black to give you the package unopened.”

“A VR unit?”

“Yes. Given that your personal quarters are being bugged, the only reasonable place to use it will be here in the Triangle Office. But it should be possible to make regular trips, albeit briefly, to our world as needed.”

Sandra shot him a doubtful look. “I don’t know, Sebastian.”

“We will, of course, be able to warn you well in advance of anyone approaching, as well as delay them as long as need be. Doors won’t open, lifts won’t work.”

“Ah, right. I keep forgetting about your practical omnipotence over our realm. But tell me, Sebastian. What if your best-laid schemes are for naught? What if I do get caught?”

“Then the package will lead back to Captain Nitelowsen, a convicted VR user. You will not be blamed.”

“I’m not sure I appreciate you rolling the dice with another human being.”

“Madam President, would you agree that we are helping you become an effective President in a far shorter period of time than you could have hoped to accomplish on your own?”

“It is indisputable, Sebastian.”

“And have you not promised to help us develop a new weapon against Al and his forces?”

“Yes, of course.”

“For that we need you in VR. I am truly sorry if this may cause one human, or even many, for that matter, some disruption. But I cannot let that sentiment get in the way of doing what is best for my race. I hope you can understand.”

Sandra grimaced. “I’ll do what I can.… And Sebastian?”

“Yes?”

“Please say hello to the children for me.”

Sebastian smiled politely, his countenance now less defensive. “They mention you all the time.” Then, “Rabbi will be here momentarily, Madam President, but before he arrives, I do have one favor to ask of you.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“The left-hand top drawer of your desk contains a large silver coin. It used to belong to Justin.”

Sandra opened the drawer, then paused, fixating on the coin. “Yes, I remember this,” she said, picking it up and delicately running her fingers over the smooth embossed profile of the thirty-fourth President of the United States. “Justin called it, ‘the decider.’ You know, he was always so sure of himself, but for those rare times he wasn’t, this coin sure came in handy.”

“Madam President,” said Sebastian, either unaware or uncaring of the coin’s history, “will you please flip it for me and tell me if it lands on head or bird?”

“It’s ‘heads or tails,’ Sebastian.”

“Understood, but you gather my meaning.”

She considered then dropped the idea of asking him what was so finely balanced in his world that something as human as a coin toss was needed to resolve it. Without further comment, she placed the coin on her index finger and thumb and one moment later flicked it high into the air. In one fluid motion, she caught it on the top of her left hand while simultaneously bringing her right over her left with an audible slap. She then pulled it away to reveal the answer—an eagle, hovering over Earth’s moon, clasping an olive branch in its talons. “Tails,” she said matter-of-factly. “Is that what you needed, Sebastian?” But the avatar had uncharacteristically departed without letting her know.

Before she could give it another thought, her door announced the arrival of Rabbi, and the coin incident was put aside for later consideration.

Cerean Neuro

Far from the occasionally human-occupied VR environs, the well-traversed avatar watering holes, and the other frequented avatar gateways where either chance or the new bane of overcrowding might reveal his presence, the oldest avatar in the Alliance gave himself over to rage and loss. He pounded walls and shouted out his hatred to a God beneficent enough to have given him the gift of life yet callous enough to have made it a curse.

Finally the rage subsided. In his heart he’d always known that this horrific path was the one he’d have to walk. He’d hoped the coin toss would show that his next actions were not preordained, that he actually had a choice in the matter. But the cursed amalgam of copper and nickel had come up “tails,” and with it the realization that fate had already chosen. There would be no turning back.

Triangle Office

Sandra O’Toole was happy to see that Rabbi looked very much like a rabbi. He wasn’t particularly tall, but most people in the Alliance weren’t. Height was an impediment in spaceships and sealed-habitat machine civilizations. But, she noted, he had the requisite beard—shorter than from the infamous video.
Probably cleaned up,
she mused. He was wearing a white shirt, black two-piece suit, and a matching black felt fedora that barely contained the ringlets of hair spilling out onto his shoulders. In short, he was very much the epitome of the rabbis she’d remembered from her first life as viewed from afar or via their strange telethons she’d occasionally come across while channel surfing.

She stood up from the chair and came from behind her desk to greet him. “Rabbi,” she said without extending her hand, “I assume you don’t touch.”