It was quiet in Subcommittee Member Mizrahi's office. There was a whisper of air through the ventilation duct, and a faint rustling from the drooping leaves of the spider plant as it twisted gently from its hook in the ceiling. Beyond that, silence. Canaan found it pleasant.
Though there was a chair in front of Dr. Mizrahi's desk, and a pair of couches to one side of the room, Canaan preferred to stand just inside the door, arms folded. He didn't look at the office so much as survey it. The furnishings were new, the sleek beige and gray surfaces still unblemished. The floor was unscuffed. But amid the cleanly newness there was evidence of Dr. Mizrahi's personal history.
A framed picture of Dr. Mizrahi and her surrogate daughter MOMO sat on the desk, to the right of the network screen. Canaan recognized Second Miltia's main spaceport in the background. There was something too conspicuous about the frame's placement. Dark green flimsies were spread out on the low table between the two couches, several of them two or even three generations out of date. There was the spider plant. And in the charging niche set into the wall, just to the side of the dock, was a wooden box.
It was a small cube, eight centimeters on each side. From where he stood, Canaan couldn't see any markings or embellishments. Given its placement in the charging niche, it might have held small cords in a previous century; now, it was a curiosity. Canaan realized he was staring, and stopped.
He was already acquainted with Dr. Mizrahi, though not closely. They'd met during MOMO's abortive analysis several months back, and they had several mutual acquaintances among Vector Industries's staff and that of the Kukai Foundation, but this was the first time they'd be working together directly.
Canaan shifted his weight, and reflected that this office was only a small part of the CAT Testing Ground. Before he could expand on that thought, the door slid open with a soft hissing noise. Canaan hadn't been blocking the door, but he moved anyway.
Dr. Mizrahi spoke first. "Canaan, it's good to see you again. I hope you haven't been waiting long." She smiled.
He'd been there for two minutes and forty-three seconds, but chose to say, "Not long."
"Why don't you have a seat, and we can begin discussing particulars," Dr. Mizrahi said, moving around the desk. She stopped when Canaan made no move toward the guest chair.
The cheerful atmosphere that Dr. Mizrahi had tried to evoke was already evaporating. "You don't play well with others, do you, Canaan?" she said, settling against the edge of her desk. It was an informal posture, though it prevented Canaan from gaining much of a height advantage.
"I'll follow orders." He wasn't interested in forming any complex attachments. It was best to keep things simple.
There was a slight pause. "I'd rather things weren't the way they are, either," Dr. Mizrahi began. "But we can't afford to be at odds. We have to learn to trust each other. The universe has changed too much for us to remain suspicious of each other. We've only recently discovered we have a common enemy."
That was true enough, though calling Vector an enemy might have been something of an exaggeration.
Canaan checked that last thought. Something he rarely thought about (and which was paradoxically never far from his mind) was that he was a Realian. He'd been made, not born, and while he was a unique model, he shared some basic specifications with the commonly manufactured combat models. One of those specs was an ingrained veneration and loyalty toward Vector Industries and their practices. But he'd also been designed and encouraged to question his basic assumptions.
No. As things stood, Canaan could no longer consider the company that had made him above reproach. Not after their involvement in the Gnosis Terrorism. Helmer had tried to make that clear when he'd given Canaan this assignment, but it was only starting to sink in now, in this office, away from so much that'd become familiar.
The facility wasn't completely devoid of familiar faces, though. There was Allen Ridgeley, whom Canaan had traveled with around the same time he'd met Dr. Mizrahi. There were a handful of Allen's fellow Vector engineers. (Canaan knew enough about Allen to doubt he was involved in any corporate cover up, and he was willing to extend that view to Allen's associates.) There was Dr. Mizrahi herself. But he couldn't call any of them close.
"Canaan?"
There was one terrible second of disorientation when Canaan finally noticed how long the silence had lasted. He was gripping his upper arms hard enough to make his knuckles sore; he relaxed his fingers. Deflection seemed wise. "That little speech sounded rehearsed."
Dr. Mizrahi tilted her head to her left. "It might have been. I do want us to trust each other. And I've heard things about you."
"What sort of things?" He'd noticed she'd been gripping the edge of her desk, a nervous gesture very like his own.
"That you don't play well with others." Canaan grunted at that. Dr. Mizrahi continued, "For a long time, I was much the same way. I've worked with many people—in the scientific sector, in the Subcommittee, in the government—but I don't give my trust easily."
"And that all changed with the 100-series Prototype's analysis?" Canaan felt a twinge of shame at how he'd referred to MOMO. He'd traveled with her, too, on the same mission as Allen—and MOMO had been rather more vital. Yet he was feeling hostile.
"Yes," Dr. Mizrahi said, "that had a lot to do with it. And . . . I learned things about my daughter I never knew." She was referring to Sakura, the girl who'd died fifteen years ago, the girl MOMO was modeled after. "Also . . . I was getting tired. Of feeling cut off. Of keeping everyone at arm's length."
As she spoke, the feeling of anger within Canaan became more pronounced. That he felt so agitated was disturbing in itself. He wanted time and seclusion to examine his reactions. "I told you I'll do what's required of me."
Dr. Mizrahi looked at him. She pushed herself upright. "And what if I ask too much? What if I asked you to betray someone?"
Canaan sucked in a lungful of air; it was involuntary. "You wouldn't."
She nodded. "You're right, I wouldn't. But did you mean 'I wouldn't' as in it's not in my nature, or did you mean it as in you're considering that I might be capable of asking that?"
"I—" Canaan paused. Things were getting away from him. "You're attempting to coordinate."
Humans could ignore their health if they wished. Things were different for Realians. If a human let himself deteriorate, that was his choice, and his problem. He was only accountable to those he chose to be accountable to. A Realian, though . . .
In the same way that Canaan didn't often think of himself as a Realian, he rarely thought of himself as an asset. Which he was. Most Realians conferred with a general coordinator. If behavioral issues arose, then they started seeing a councilor. Canaan, being unique, had a private coordinator. Malcolm Richter wasn't here, though. This woman was. And she was pushing.
He'd make her work for his cooperation. "You called me here. I already have the details on the Gnosis Terrorism and Vector's complicity in harboring Grimoire Verum. If you want me to make contact with Scientia, if you want me to infiltrate one of the research teams here, I will. But don't push."
Dr. Mizrahi flinched at those names. Canaan remembered too late that she'd been in the middle of those incidents.
There were monsters in the world. That had been true as long as there'd been humans, but new monsters had begun roaming the fringes of civilized space. The Gnosis lurked in the dark between star systems, striking the unwary and leaving death in their wake. They were as insubstantial as ghosts, and as deadly as reapers. It was a fanciful way to think about them, but the old words for terror remained under the thin veneer of civilization, and as synthetic as Canaan was, he responded to them, too. Dr. Mizrahi had a glassy look in her eyes.
What kept the terror at bay for many was the understanding that the Gnosis were "out there." They were a distant terror, someone else's problem. People were safe in their cities. Gnosis only struck in deep space. Planets were safe. And then they weren't. Across a wide swath of Federation planets, in countless cities, the Gnosis had appeared with horrifying suddenness.
Their conduct had been bewildering. Before the Terrorism, the Gnosis had been an indiscriminate threat. These had acted with purpose and direction, seeking—someone.
Canaan had a name in his database for the man who'd done the directing, but there was little information on Grimoire Verum. Vector had kept the remnants of his consciousness sealed in a secure portion of the Unus Mundus Network. He was connected with the disappearance of Lost Jerusalem, or at least he shared a name with the lead researcher who'd conducted the experiment that led to the disappearance of humanity's homeworld, four thousand years ago.
It was unclear if someone in Vector had released him, but Verum's consciousness had escaped containment, and begun a search for a girl called Nephilim. His daughter, if Canaan's database entry was correct. At this point the record became confused. The name Nephilim seemed to refer to both Verum's daughter, and a Realian girl in the care of the Contact Subcommittee. There was a suggestion that they were the same entity.
It'd been the Realian girl that Grimoire Verum had sought. Dr. Mizrahi had been in the Subcommittee lab with the girl when the Gnosis had attacked. Canaan hadn't been there, but he'd seen footage from the security cameras.
Help had come in time, but it had been a close thing.
Though the incident had become a three month old memory, it was obvious that Dr. Mizrahi recalled it very clearly. Canaan let his arms fall to his sides.
"Asking betrayal of someone isn't in your nature," he said.
Dr. Mizrahi looked flustered. "What?" Then she forced herself to laugh. "You got me off guard. This isn't going how I expected it."
"How did you expect this to go?"
Dr. Mizrahi shrugged, and looked sheepish. "In my favor." She waved a hand toward the couches. "Can we sit? Please."
Canaan nodded.
They faced each other across the table. Dr. Mizrahi spoke first. "I am acting as a coordinator. I'm sorry I couldn't have Mr. Richter brought along with you."
"What was the reasoning in leaving him behind?"
"Budget concerns—at least officially. I need a competent staff to help with my work, but the bean counters would rather I kept that to a minimum. So I decided to settle for one Enhanced Memory Model Realian. I've been given to understand you're very good." This, with a knowing twitch of her lips. "But I couldn't convince them to bring Coordinator Richter in, when I could do the job myself."
Canaan's nod was slower, this time.
Dr. Mizrahi looked at him. "Helmer hadn't told you?"
"He told me it was best if you filled me in on the details," Canaan said. "He said he'd smooth things over with Vector."
"Which means he's concocting an elaborate web of misinformation."
"I'd come to that conclusion myself."
Dr. Mizrahi smiled at that, and Canaan felt an odd sense of vulnerability. He missed his previous hostility, but it had become difficult to manifest. The carefully arranged flimsies on the table were opaqued, offering no distractions or inspiration.
The office was secure, but they were two people allied by necessity in a stronghold built largely by the same people who'd let Grimoire Verum loose on the world. They couldn't afford to be at odds with each other. Canaan said, "What do you need me to do?"
"For now? Be visible. Gather records. Establish a presence for yourself. I want the people here to become accustomed to seeing you around."
"Easy enough."
Dr. Mizrahi stood. "In fact, I need you to come with me to the Second Special Performance Ground. There'll be a weapon demonstration in an hour I want us both to have a firsthand view of."
"The upgraded AGWS design from Hyams?" The AG-03 had been retired from active use for the last two years.
"That's the one. There's something about the new design I'm curious about."
"So am I." The words slipped out of Canaan's mouth.
"Canaan?" Dr. Mizrahi stood near the door, finger raised near the open switch. "Is there something about the demonstration you're concerned about, too?"
Canaan thought back to a half hour ago, standing alone and surveying the office like enemy territory. "It's—" He almost said nothing important. "I want to know about that box," he said, with a glance at the charging niche.
"That? I keep a little sunlight in there," Dr. Mizrahi said. When Canaan only stared at her, she added, "MOMO gave it to me, a couple of years after she was activated. She said, 'Mommy, it gets dark where you work. So I trapped some sunlight in here for when you need it.'" She took the box from the niche. "I . . . never got around to throwing it out. Now I'm glad I didn't. It's come in handy lately. But I know I can't open it: the light would escape." She held it out.
Canaan saw that it had a logo with the words "Peach Orchard Jellies" printed on one side. He took it, and felt awkward.
Dr. Mizrahi said, "It's not logical, I know. But it can't always be monsters." She took the box again, and put it back in the niche.
Abruptly the awkwardness vanished, to be replaced with curiosity. "Would you ever open it?"
"Oh no." This time Dr. Mizrahi's smile was impish. "I already ate the jellies."