On-Grid
The Wardian
Bentamin chastaMeir, the Warden of Civilization, stood in the window of his darkened office, and stared down at the street below.
At last, the kezlBlythe had made an error. There was an eyewitness to Zatorvia xinRood’s murder. He had never dared hope for so much. Only—
The eyewitness was—a norbear.
He might have suspected a Haosa joke, save Tekelia had delivered the information with the utmost seriousness.
“Norbears are not sentient,” Bentamin had said, and Tekelia raised black eyebrows.
“Are they not?”
“Not by law, is what I mean to say,” Bentamin had elaborated patiently. “They are natural empaths, and network builders. They may seem to reason when we interact with them, but in fact it is our intelligence that makes their narrative sequential. Tested alone, without a human intelligence translating, there is no proof of sentience.”
Tekelia frowned.
“I did consult the law library before I came to you.” A sharp glance from one blue eye and one amber. “I know that you are a busy person, Cousin. I may perhaps be wrong, as I am not a qe’andra, but it seemed to me that, according to law, the matter of norbear intelligence is far from settled.”
Bentamin very much feared that he had blinked. He had studied law, but he was no more a lawyer than was his cousin.
“You will of course do as you see fit,” Tekelia said then, rising. “Having just acknowledged that you are a busy person, I recall that I am also a busy person, and must move on to my next duty.”
A bow was produced, very fine.
“I bid you good e’en, Cousin. Let us stay in touch regarding Torin and Vaiza.”
“Yes. I will begin a search for an appropriate Healer this evening.”
“Thank you, Bentamin.”
A sparkling swirl of displaced air, and Tekelia was gone.
Bentamin rose and went to the comm unit to place a call to his most discreet agent, to put the search for a Healer into motion.
That accomplished, he stepped to his desk, tapped up the screen and queried the law library.
In truth, he had expected a single, brief cite, which he would dutifully read before he went home to his apartment in the higher floors of the Wardian.
The screen pinged. Bentamin glanced down.
Not one cite.
Dozens.
He sank down into his seat, and opened the first.
He was still at his desk, reading, when Suzee macNamara knocked on his door to ask if he wanted her to stay.
“Thank you, there is no need,” he said, sounding distracted to his own ears. He looked up and gave her a smile.
“I have a bit more research to do, then I’ll be going home myself,” he told her. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Warden,” she answered, but his attention was already back on the screen.
When he had at last read the last cite, he rose and went over to the window, where he stared down at the street below.
Not settled, he thought.
Not settled at all.