Human Test Page 4

  My apprentice locked-out the movement, sized and installed the proper pin, and then reversed her actions and gave the pendulum a couple of gentle impulses to get the clock ticking again.

  “Why did they use a wood stick for the pendulum arm?” she asked.

  “The length is more stable than most metals, at least in this climate, so it keeps better time.”

  “And what’s with the stack of random washers? It looks like somebody was playing ring toss on those little posts clamped to the pendulum arm.”

  “Those are regulation weights, to change the center of gravity for the pendulum. More weight raises the center of gravity, shortening the period so the clock gains.”

  “How come I haven’t seen any before?”

  “Some clocks have them, some don’t. This is just the first time you’ve noticed.”

  “This is your teaching method? I have to ask before you explain anything?”

  “Sue suggested it,” I admitted. “I’m going to give the clock a quick cleaning before I reset the time. You really should go down and eat before you get heatstroke.”

  “Hurry up and we’ll go shopping,” eBeth instructed me as she started down the stairs. “It would be too ironic if a clock engineer ran out of time to buy his wife a Ferrymen’s Day present before the holiday.”

  “Very funny. Why don’t you scope out the stores and meet me by our bikes in an hour. Then we’ll go and purchase whatever you’ve picked out.”

  “Now you’re thinking,” my apprentice said. “How much gold did you bring?”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  Four

  My team members were all running late for our Tuesday night meeting and I sent Spot to fetch eBeth. I couldn’t help wondering if she had forgotten to wind her watch again, and I resolved on the spot to build her an automatic movement that would wind itself. Peter had come over for dinner earlier, and then the two young Earthlings had gone on a fishing date at the creek. I was still surprised by how easily they had transitioned from fighting against ogres and skeleton bosses on the Internet to battling the local version of trout with no evidence of success, but at least once a week they headed off into the dusk with their fishing tackle.

  I caught a faint flash of infrared in my peripheral vision and turned to see Sue and Stacey coming down the road from the opposite direction. They were conversing silently about something, and the only word I caught before they spotted me waiting outside and broke off communications was “Mark.” In accordance with the security protocols I had put into place, my team members were keeping all artificial signaling to an absolute minimum, but low-power infrared for point-to-point communications wouldn’t be spotted by any orbital monitoring systems.

  “You’re late,” I said as they stepped up onto the wooden porch in front of The Eatery that gave customers a place to kick off the mud in the rainy season.

  “Our weaving circle finished the carpet today,” Sue told me, taking possession of my left arm and giving me a peck on the cheek. “We burned the midnight oil this past week getting it done, but all of the women are looking forward to the extra money it will bring in before the holiday.”

  “You really should have stopped by to hear the singing,” Stacey said. “I’m glad I came back in time for Sue to invite me along.”

  “I watch the recordings,” I reminded her. “I’ve seen it all through Sue’s eyes.”

  “It’s not the same thing as being there,” my second-in-command insisted. “You have to experience life in order to appreciate it, Mark.”

  “I went once,” I protested.

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I’m sure I remember. There was a problem with the spool rack and you surprised everybody by fixing it.”

  “You’re confusing a memory I shared with your own experience,” Sue said, giving me a smile as if she somehow approved of this technical glitch on my part.

  “I’ve been making a collection of the authenticity videos that all of the artisans record for shipment with their products,” Stacey announced. “It’s so much easier than acquiring and transporting physical artifacts.”

  “I’m glad to hear you learned something from our stay on Earth,” I applauded her. “Maybe this mission will be your last punishment assignment. But how are you accessing the Ferrymen’s Eyes? If you’ve broken the encryption then you’re risking giving away our presence.”

  “Why do you insist on using that ridiculous name? They’re off-the-shelf ‘My Life’ recorders produced on Alpha Seti Seven that the Ferrymen’s purchasing agents hand out like popcorn. And I didn’t have to break the encryption because nobody ever changes the factory default password.”

  “Which is?”

  “Admin,” both of my team members answered at the same time, an answer I should have guessed from my three years posing as a computer repair technician on Earth.

  “And the women in the weaving circle aren’t uncomfortable knowing that the Ferrymen are recording every word spoken and knot tied?” I asked.

  “They grew up with the recorders and they know that it means a premium price for their goods,” Stacey explained. “Now that I’ve tracked the process from orders through the final delivery, I can say that the whole system is elegant in its simplicity. Every step in the chain is captured by ‘My Life” recorders supplied by the purchasing agents. The recorders are sent to the spaceport for processing at each stage, and editors stitch the video together for shipping with the finished products before wiping the memories for reuse.”

  “So there are computers at the spaceport,” I said. “What sort of network are they running?”

  “They don’t have any computers, just a giant building full of dedicated ‘My Life’ editing stations. It looks to me like they maintain the chain of custody from the initial order right up until shipping, and they keep adding video to the physical media that will ship with the product.”

  “The Ferrymen sit around editing videos?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Of course not. They hire humans for the work. This is all in my report.”

  “Why haven’t I seen it?”

  “Because you banned us from making electronic transmissions,” Stacey reminded me. “As much as I enjoy touring the countryside on a bicycle, I haven’t been able to attend your last eleven meetings because I was at the provincial capital infiltrating the spaceport.”

  “Right. Wait until the others get here and then we’ll all hear it at once,” I said. “I don’t know what’s keeping Paul and Helen, but I’ll go across the street to fetch the others.”

  “eBeth isn’t back yet?” Sue asked.

  “I sent Spot to get her. I wish I understood what she and her young man see in sitting on the bank of a creek and getting assaulted by alien insects while failing to catch fish they would release in any case.”

  “Most of the insects lose interest at the first taste of human blood, and I seriously doubt that they’re fishing.”

  “I think you’re wrong there,” I told her. “I’ve even caught eBeth humming while she ties those flies that the fish ignore. It seems to me she’s pretty passionate about the sport.”

  “She’s pretty passionate about something,” Stacey said, and I saw her elbow Sue, who seemed to be struggling to suppress a reply.

  Across the road a bell jingled as the door of the apothecary shop opened and a late customer hurried off into the night clutching a small blue bottle. Justin and Kim followed a moment later, the latter pausing a moment to flip the sign in the small window from ‘Open’ to ‘Back in Two Candles.’

  The only recumbent bicycle on the planet shot down the road at breakneck speed and skidded to a halt in front of The Eatery. Paul climbed out of the teardrop cab, which he tried to pass off on everybody as lacquered papier-mâché even though I knew perfectly well it was fiberglass.

  “Missed you,” he greeted Stacey. “I’m going to have to start training homing pigeons if Mark continues to insist on radio silence.”

  �
�That’s so sweet,” she said, giving him a hug, but twisting away from a longer embrace and whispering, “Later.”

  “What?” I asked Sue, who looked oddly depressed by Paul and Stacey’s obvious play-acting.

  “We better go in,” she said in a long suffering voice just as Kim and Justin reached us. “Has anybody seen Helen?”

  “She stopped by the machine shop looking for eBeth earlier,” Paul volunteered. “I told her that Peter and the girl were down by the creek canoodling.”

  “They don’t have a canoe unless you built them one,” I objected. “And if you did, it better not be fiberglass.”

  “Idiot,” Sue said in exasperation. As she hauled me roughly into the dining room, I reviewed the conversation and failed to find any mistakes on my own part. I computed the probability was over eighty-seven percent that she intended ‘idiot’ as a term of endearment or a pet name.

  “This place is unsanitary,” Kim declared, running a finger across a table and then sniffing at the tip. She reached into her large shoulder satchel and brought out a bottle of homemade disinfectant, the main ingredient of which was pungent white vinegar that she fermented herself, starting with alcohol provided under protest by yours truly. The former health inspector began splashing all the tables with liberal doses of the clear liquid, and Justin followed behind her with a rag, swabbing it all around.

  “I’ll just go out and come in again when you’re finished,” Paul said, but rather than putting his words into action, he headed behind the bar and helped himself to a mug of ale. “Anybody else want one?”

  “Go easy on the inebriation algorithm,” I begged him. “We have milestones to discuss tonight.”

  “Are we getting inebriated?” Helen asked from the door as she entered. “Ugh, I hate that smell,” she added, wrinkling up the nose of her encounter suit in perfect imitation of a human. “I bet our meetings would be more productive if you had fresh baked cookies to set the aroma.”

  “Next time,” Sue promised her. “How does a batch of carob-chip sound?”

  “Yummy. eBeth and Peter were right behind me, but you know how they dawdle in the dark.”

  “Lack of infrared vision,” I excused the girl’s tardiness.

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Helen replied with a smile.

  “Idiot,” Sue repeated, more forcefully than the previous time. The probability she was using it as a term of endearment plummeted.

  “Well, if you’re all done abusing your mission commander for the evening, how about—good, Spot,” I interrupted myself as he herded the young couple through the door. “Feel up to guard duty?”

  The dog gave me one of his patented “You’ll be getting my bill in the mail,” looks and headed back outside. Everybody else settled in around the two tables I’d pushed together.

  “Catch anything?” I asked Peter, who for some reason turned redder than his sunburn as eBeth giggled. Sue kicked me under the table, which I took as an instruction to skip the small-talk and proceed immediately with the meeting. “Does anybody have any new business to report before we hear from Stacey?”

  “I just found out that the Ferrymen’s Day holiday is actually ten days, and they close the school for two weeks,” eBeth said.

  “A lot of the businesses we deal with in other villages and towns close for all of the first week,” Paul confirmed.

  “We’ll be open,” Justin said. “Humans tend to need a lot of medicinal herbs during the holidays.”

  “The Eatery will remain open as well,” I decided. “Maybe a couple of you can come in and help if Frenay and her husband want to take the time off.”

  “Can I invite my students for a party?” eBeth asked. “All of the other teachers do it.”

  “As long as it’s not during the evening rush,” I told her. “This place isn’t exactly making me a ton of money.”

  “It’s not too late to move to the provincial capital,” Stacey said. “There’s no shortage of gold flowing through the spaceport, and you could easily find work as an engineer. All of you would earn ten times what you’re making in this backwater.”

  “And we’d be a hundred times more likely to be spotted as alien AI. If nobody else has anything to add, why don’t you bring us up to date on how you spent the last three months?”

  “Well, I’ve been collecting,” Stacey said, which came as a surprise to nobody. “I started out by looking for key cultural artifacts because that’s what I’m into, but I ended up focusing on raw footage from the ‘My Life’ recorders that the Ferrymen purchasing agents hand out to everybody involved in producing goods for off-planet exports.”

  “The AI who needed six tractor-trailer loads to ship home her loot from Earth gave up just like that?” Justin asked skeptically.

  “It took a long while to sink in but these people really are different,” Stacey replied earnestly. “They don’t place any special value on being first in art, if that makes sense. They honor the creator’s imagination and skills, and almost every development in their cultural history has a name attached to it, but in terms of the work itself, they assume that every copy will be better than its predecessor.”

  “But what about the works by masters?” eBeth interjected. “On Earth, the museums were full of paintings and sculptures that were worth more than dozens of people could hope to earn in a lifetime.”

  “Doesn’t happen here,” Stacey said. “They have no word for counterfeiting, and creative people, from musicians to mechanics, believe that there’s no greater praise than having your work copied.”

  “That explains why nobody could tell me where to apply for patents.” Paul took a long swallow from his ale and shook his head ruefully. “I thought they were playing games with me so I did some playing back. I guess I have a few apologies to make.”

  “Let me tell you about the art museum in the capital,” Stacey continued. “Every painting, carving, statue, and piece of pottery on display is numbered. I asked about it at the main desk and they explained that the number is for the corresponding work in the gift shop catalog. I’ve never been one to collect copies but I went there because I was curious to see how good the replicas were. The gift shop turned out to be a warehouse attached to the museum, and while I was looking around, employees kept on coming in with slips and taking pieces out of numbered racks. I finally asked why the patrons didn’t come to pick up their own purchases, and a clerk explained to me that museum visitors just take the exhibit off the wall and pay on the way out. The cashier makes a note and sends to the gift shop for a replacement.”

  “You mean that they continually restock the museum with new copies?” Helen asked. “That’s different.”

  “But what about the original?” eBeth protested.

  “If it was ever in the museum, it would have been sold a long time ago, but my guess is that pieces have to be copied quite a few times before they attain the status to be included in museum collections,” Stacey explained. “Of course, some of the copies are quite expensive if the work is technically difficult to replicate, but nobody worries about which was the first and it creates a lot of well-paid work for artisans.”

  “Did you find any more signs of imported goods from the rest of the galaxy in the capital?” I asked her.

  “Yes, but without an electrical grid or a network infrastructure, there’s pretty limited demand for alien goods.” She glanced over at Paul, as if seeking support before going out on a limb, and he nodded. “And I have a theory about it.”

  “Why the Ferrymen aren’t importing goods that would work here, including magically enhanced objects?”

  “I didn’t see any crystal balls labeled, ‘Made in Eniniac,’ in the shops, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  There was a rumbling growl and I looked over to see that Spot had his head in the front door.

  “You’re supposed to be patrolling the perimeter, and she said ‘made,’ not ‘mage,’” I scolded him. The dog withdrew. “I wish I’d never told Spot that he’s
a dead ringer for the Archmage of Eniniac. I think it’s gone to his head.”

  “I’ve found that when I’m teaching it pays to stay on topic,” eBeth volunteered brightly.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “Please continue, Stacey.”

  “While there aren’t any high-tech goods on offer, I’ve seen signs of alien influence all over. For example, there’s a store that sells beautiful locally-made wood furniture that I would swear is copied from Hanker designs.”

  “Hankers like Pffift?” eBeth asked. “When he visited Mark’s apartment on Earth, we had to put two normal chairs side by side for him to sit, and he didn’t look very comfortable.”

  “The proportions are different, and the chair-backs are altered to accommodate human spines, but the aesthetic remains pure Hanker. Then there was the gift shop that was selling silver chopsticks with ornate serving bowls as a set.”

  “Pharide?” Sue asked.

  Stacey nodded. “They were made by a local silver-smith, but the chopsticks had those little indents on the ends that the Pharides designed for serving individual fish eggs, and the bowls all come with an attached saucer for holding ice chips.”

  “Maybe the locals are copying ideas from the export goods they’re producing for the Ferrymen,” I suggested.

  “Pffift would have known if the Ferrymen were exporting Hanker furniture,” Paul pointed out. “And the Pharides are allergic to silver. I’ve always wondered if human myths about werewolves are based on Pharides sneaking onto Earth at some point. They look the part.”

  “Maybe the Ferrymen are making goods for humans on one of the other two reservation worlds we know about and selling them here to keep trade in balance,” Peter suggested. “My eleventh grade economics teacher told us that export-based economies all run into serious problems.”

  “That’s an interesting idea,” I said, impressed that he remembered anything from high school. “Although I suspect your teacher believed that because your own country is dependent on imports. If we were talking about any species other than the Ferrymen, it would be worth investigating.”