“Well, there has been a steady drop in processing capacity at the Second Intelligence Base over the past few months,” said the next speaker, looking over at the section of the hall where the employees of said base were seated. “Would that have anything to do with this little accident we’re now dealing with?”
All gazes shifted to the Second Intelligence Base’s seating area, a close-up of which was now being displayed on the giant central holofield. The highlighted speaker who stood up to address these concerns was an elderly man whose nameplate read: Base Director. I had never seen this person in my life and was fairly certain he didn’t live or even work at the base.
“Our staff members are currently investigating the cause of the accident,” he said. “We are also still investigating the cause of the decline in performance, but cannot say at present whether or not the two phenomena are directly related. As of now, we have not found any evidence that suggests causation, nor have I received any reports from our on-site staff that indicate even a general hypothesis in that regard.”
The elderly man’s vague, noncommittal statements served only to throw up a smokescreen around the issue. I looked over at where Narain was sitting in the reenactment, his face remaining completely calm and collected throughout. I didn’t know how much of the actual facts he’d divulged to this “Base Director” fellow, but it was abundantly clear that there was no intention of sharing information with the representatives of the other eleven intelligence bases.
This sort of connivance—this withholding of valuable information—would never be possible under ordinary circumstances. The vast majority of information that was available to the general public was provided to by Titan, and it was extremely difficult to conceal anything the network deemed valuable to the public good. Information people might find unacceptable, or that might adversely affect them, was divulged at Titan’s discretion. Free flow of information was now a worldwide societal norm.
But here, in the organization that managed the network that managed our entire world—was a layer of society even Titan couldn’t touch. It would be counterproductive to let Titan have a seat at the table when it came time to negotiate decisions regarding itself, so it was only allowed to regulate these discussions in the most superficial capacity. The results of this decision were obvious; without any central leadership, the meetings frequently wandered off track, and lies and deceit ran rampant. People could be as foolish or conniving as they wanted when there was no watchguard to hold them to account. That said, there was no denying that Narain was also covering for me here by remaining tight-lipped, so I couldn’t condemn him for it.
“Well, be that as it may,” said the director of another intelligence base, “we need to address the situation before it completely escapes our control. I’m sure we can put together a team of our most qualified specialists and dispatch them to the Second Intelligence Base to investigate and promptly shed some light on the issue.”
“But the surrounding area has been designated a precautionary exclusion zone. We have to consider the worst-case scenario…”
A hush fell over the assembly hall as the speaker’s words set the imaginations of the others running wild. I could see them trying to picture what that “worst-case scenario” might look like, and the mood was becoming apocalyptic.
“If something terrible were to happen,” said a single elderly attendant to the entire congregation, “would the local security force be able to stop it?”
Silence prevailed once more. I tried to consider the question myself, as an onlooker watching a mere reenactment of the proceedings, but even to a layperson like me, the answer was fairly obvious.
The security force was the highest authority in the world—namely because it had the power to give and enforce legal orders. It was about the only organization that could exert its authority peremptorily in the interest of protecting the public order from those who might throw it into disarray. This was done via a unified network of security phalanges designed to thwart any antisocial forces that might disrupt the public good. They could accuse and apprehend transgressors of suspected crimes, and exert their authority in the interest of upholding societal order. But all they really had the power to do, at least in the current era, was restrain individual humans using minimal force. As the overall rate of crime in our society diminished year by year, so too did the power entrusted to the security force.
There was a time, in the distant past, when humanity possessed much more fearsome authoritative power. Back when there were still conflicts between individual countries, governments would generally stockpile all manner of destructive force to intimidate, or even annihilate, their enemies. This was known as “military force”—and it was far too much power for human hands to hold.
Thankfully, in the Titan era, we’d finally managed to come to an agreement about this fact, and eradicated the very framework that allowed for these international conflicts known as “wars,” and dismantled all destructive weaponry whose only purpose was to lay ruin to ourselves. Our civilization had evolved in such a way that the use of such force was mandatory for millennia, and now it had evolved beyond the need for such things, so we’d cast them aside, only retaining the minimal amount of protective authority. Only enough to stop a would-be criminal, or discipline a misbehaving child. But even all the security phalanges in the world combined did not possess the kind of power it would take to neutralize a thousand-meter Titan gone rogue.
“Well, be that as it may,” ventured a shaky voice, “we cannot simply let this threat go unchecked. We must take some form of preventative action…”
At this, the assembly fell into argument once more. I skimmed through the rest of the reenactment—at times, they almost came close to agreeing on this or that preventative measure, but they failed miserably to agree on a more general course of action. And so, after determining that a second day of deliberations would be necessary, the emergency response meeting was adjourned before any conclusions could be reached.
From start to finish, Narain had spoken not a word.
13
A portion of the exterior “wall” that had been blocking off the Titan’s ear canal from the outside had now been renovated. The convoluted photopolymer structures of the exoskeleton’s interior had been cleared away, and in their place was a large empty space with a single broad window, more than two meters tall and wide, looking out into the December sky.
I tried pushing on the glass, and a burst of cold air came rushing in. I tried again, this time pushing with both hands on the edge of the frame, and had to fight against the strong, high-altitude winds trying to force the glass door shut again. When I prevailed and stepped outside, I found myself on a brand new balcony Coeus had kindly constructed for me. I assumed he did it out of consideration for my mental health, as he likely knew how claustrophobic it felt being cooped up on inside his exoskeleton, but I honestly felt bad that he was so thoughtful even as his own mental health was in tatters.
I wandered out beneath the setting sun and did a loop around the balcony, surprised at just how spacious it was. You could host a full-on barbecue out here. With a grip on the hand railing, I looked down at Lake Mashu beneath us, its limpid waters as placid as ever. The city of Teshikaga, sprawled out at the foot of the crater’s outer edge, was equally still, its nearly half million residents nowhere to be found.