Sidney would have cut in there. He would have teased Thandi about her tendency toward sweeping condemnations. Then he would probably have swung into the tree and tossed down the goat like a bag of laundry.
But Sidney, of course, was not there. It had been five weeks since the Swan Rider had taken him to the grey room. Far away, on the governor’s ship off the coast of Baton Rouge, there had been flags lowered. There had been speeches about sacrifice. But here, at Precepture Four, among the people who knew Sidney, who in our own way perhaps loved him—here, we found it hard even to say his name.
“?‘Scourge’ seems a bit harsh,” I said, in his memory.
“They’re an ecological menace,” said Thandi. “Do you have any idea how many millions of acres have been turned to desert by goats?”
“I like cheese, though,” said Han.
“Perhaps she really is stuck,” I said. “Look. Her hoof—her back right hoof, in the crotch of that branch there.” I pointed. “If she is stuck, we’ll need a lop-saw.”
“Also a ladder,” said Grego, who was grinning—probably because I’d said “crotch.” But mercifully he did not remark on it, and he and Atta went to get the tools.
It was almost noon; hot, dry, and windy. The apple leaves were gold from the dust on their tops and silvery underneath. The sun came through them in swirling coins, and beyond, the prairie chirred and whirred with grasshoppers.
The goat kept us company with a running commentary. One hears rumors that Talis and his people are experimenting with uploading animals—scanning their brains and copying the data into machines—in order to improve the process for humans, who still rarely survive it. One hears that such animal AIs sometimes speak. I cannot imagine they have anything interesting to say. I could pretty much translate Bat Brain’s placid baas. I’m a goat. I can reach the apples. I’m a goat. I’m in a tree.
Despite the heat, and the sprinkle of droppings, it was a peaceful moment, a lull. The apple trees screened us from the relentless gaze of the Panopticon. Through the leaves I could see it rising above the main hall like something built by an insect, all chitin and gleam. The quicksilver sphere at the top of the mast was home to some kind of intelligence—not a humanish one like our Abbot, but something purely machine, something that had no personality and never slept.
Sorry about the constant crushing surveillance and all that, says Talis.
We know this because of the Utterances, the book of quotations from the great AI assembled as a holy text by one of the sects of northern Asia. If you are a Child of Peace, it behooves you to memorize the Utterances. In this case, chapter five verse three: Sorry about the constant crushing surveillance and all that. But you’re supposed to be learning to rule the world, not plotting to take it over. That job is decidedly taken.
The Children of Peace, over four centuries, have learned to plot exactly nothing. But we have learned, too, how to find the hidden places, and cherish the small moments. Sheltered from the Panopticon by the apple trees, and excused by the stuck goat from the near-constant labor of the Precepture gardens, we misbehaved, albeit mildly: we sat down in the shade and ate apples.
“Goats also give us butter,” said Han. “I like butter too.”
Thandi took a breath as if to launch into the next chapter of Goats: The Scourge of History. But she let it out again as a sigh.
We could have talked about any number of things—the work of the garden, the work of the classroom, the recent revolutions in Sidney’s part of the world that had installed new leaders and would soon produce new hostages. We didn’t, though. There are so few moments to be quiet. And what is prettier than an apple orchard in summer? The grey and ordered trunks, the sharp-sweet taste of under-ripe apples. . . . We let them conjure a mood of peace and tenderheartedness.
The moment didn’t—couldn’t—last. The boys were already coming down the row with the ladder. Xie was unfolding from the ground; Thandi was pulling Han to his feet, and then, suddenly—
A sonic boom.
It crashed into us like a slap to the ear. The stuck goat shouted. From the trees all around, loose apples pattered down. Grego bolted for the edge of the grove, leaving Atta alone with the ladder.
We all wanted to go with him, of course, but—
“Wait! The goat!” I called.
My classmates stopped and turned and looked at me. On their faces, varying degrees of annoyance, resignation, and respect sorted themselves into agreement, obedience. This is what it is like, in my experience, to speak as royalty. Even to other royalty.
“Our duty is with the goat,” I said.