Ex Arcanum, Scientia

MARCH- 2513. TIP THE ODDS AND RIG THE GAME.

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He would have forgotten it was there if not for the weight.

The case hung from his wrist on a carbon-nanofiber tether so strong he was scared to let the bag go. If he did, he wondered if his hand would fall with it. He was certainly the weaker link, but it probably wouldn’t yank hard enough in this gravity. In his old life, he would have complained about it— the cases were secure enough without a tether, the tired refrain would have gone. It’s a useless inconvenience that no one uses. The self-scuttling charges were certainly enough to prevent such valuable information from falling into the wrong hands.

That was then, and this was now. He had to admit, the engineers had done an excellent job masquerading the tether as simply another piece of fashion-forward wristwear, easily hidden by long enough sleeves. Only the weight of the case, tugging ever so gently at the edge of the brace whenever he went to set it down, served to anchor him against the tides of nostalgia, the fluorescent lights and endless carpet battered and stained threatening to suck him back to his own college years. He much preferred those days. It was simpler then. He had a future ahead of him, a known path he need only walk. There was no map anymore. There were, however, signs.

One of them read “DR. ALAN STUYVESANT”, “PROFESSOR OF SYNTHESIZED LANGUAGE”, and “465”. It was the clearest one he’d read in a long time. The faux-wood door had no window. Printouts of webcomics scattered themselves across the door, cracking jokes on the hidden inanities of great knowledge he could never learn. The Captain grimaced. He hoped they were funny to somebody.

“It’s about time,” Officer Taylor, CIA, glanced at her watch. “Besides, he doesn’t have anything before this.”

“Fair enough,” The Captain knocked. Once, twice, three times.

He was glad he couldn’t hear anything through the door.

It swung open, and a man at the latter end of middle age walked to it with a nod of the head. The office’s harsh lighting glinted off round-framed glasses as he glanced up to greet the Captain. He got the feeling the Professor did not need to do that for most visitors. “Captain Starling, I presume?” The Professor scowled. “I have to wonder, what does the military want with a simple academic?”

The Captain and the two officers with him filed into the office, closing the door behind him. Taylor pulled a bug sniffer from her jacket pocket, the faux leather glinting under the florescent lamps. She began scouring the room as the two men in the middle seemed to study each other, waiting to see who would make the first move.

“All clear, Cap.”

“Thank you, Taylor.” The Captain nodded, and sighed. “Professor Stuyvesant, ‘simple academic’? Don’t insult my intelligence. Or yours, for that matter. You come highly recommended. The good folks at the Federal Intelligence Activity love you.”

“Of course the Martians love me. I’m theirs.” He grinned, a snicker on his lips. “You should ask the Americans, or the Chinese. I’ve heard I’m quite the… Wángbādan? Something like that.”

“Well, you come with commendations, and a UNIC-SCI clearance. We like that.” He gestured towards the circular table in the center of the office. “Let’s talk.”

“Let’s.”

Taylor remained standing, too busy inspecting a plaque propped up in his bookshelf. “Oh, that?” The Professor poked his head around the Captain’s wiry frame. “My son’s. Not a day goes by.”

The Captain looked over at the alcove. The burnt sienna flag of Mars sat folded into a neat triangle amidst several open medal cases. One caught his eye. An American Navy Cross, marked in its case with a simple label:

FT3 BECK STUYVESANT
MARTIAN FEDERATION NAVY
ATTACHED USS PUERTO RICO (DDK-840)
OCTOBER 27, 2470

He sucked in a breath. Fuck, the Puerto Rico? “I’m sorry for your loss, Professor.”

“He died a hero,” he paused, an inscrutable mix of sorrow and pride overtaking his face for but a moment. “That’s at least a little comfort.” He waved a hand. Not the time. “So. Business, then?” Stuyvesant pulled out a chair, and sat.

“Unless you have any better ideas.” The Captain sat down, placing the metal case on the table with the tether clearly in view. The Professor’s eyes immediately started flicking back and forth.

“Look, I’ve enjoyed my… more quiet work, in the past, but… This is a nice job. Hometown, close to the family, I get to shape lives! It’s very fulfilling. The youths of Mars won’t learn the intricacies of synthesized language on their own, now, will they?”

“I mean,” The Captain thumped a textbook lying on the table with his free hand. “Maybe they will. You wrote so many nice books.”

“Oh, those don’t even have the half of it,” Stuyvesant growled. “Trust me. People think they know synthlang, they don’t—” He chuckled. “Do you even know what synthlang is?”

“Frankly, Professor, I don’t.” A calculated half-truth. Not like you, anyway. Keep talking, my friend.

“Half the people out there think it’s when a synth starts speaking Arabic! Half of it I can’t make anyone learn, and the other half—”

“Is classified?” The Captain rapped at the titanium lid of the case. “I’m well aware, Professor. Of its sensitive nature, anyways. I was hoping you could explain what you do… what you do better than someone else, anyways.”

The Professor wagged a finger. “Ohhh… I see. Synthlang, my friend. Synthesized language has nothing to do with synthetics. It’s the only man versus machine chess match a human can still win. AI and VI systems use natural language to communicate with us, no? They have no need to pander to us among themselves. I read the inner lives of the most complex computer systems known to man… and some, perhaps, not. There are some, ah, darker corners of the ‘net, after all. Being an unaugmented organic certainly has its perks.” He grinned. “I mean no offense, of course.”

Officer Elliot, a synth, nodded. “Look, I don’t want to stick my head in there either.” The table shared a chuckle that hesitated to amount to a laugh.

“What I do, is I take samples of languages, created by machines, for machines, and I localize them for a more… neurally architected audience. I’m a code-breaker for ciphers that bear no resemblance, no commonality, to human language whatsoever. And I’m guessing… you need me, don't you? After all, there’s no one else who does what I do, and if there is, it’s because I taught them. One of one.”

“True enough,” The Captain nodded. “That’s what I was looking for. Because no one else does what I do, either.” He tapped the case. “Guess that makes us two a pair.”

“Really? With the way you’re acting, I thought you had a stronger hand.” Stuyvesant grinned, laughing at his own joke.

“Big poker guy?” The Captain smiled.

“Yeah, I dabble. Won the office pot a few times.”

“I actually don’t play.”

“Not a gambler?”

“I’m not inclined to it.” He shrugged. “Plus, I was too busy in school. Never learned.”

“You don’t need to bet to enjoy the game. Never too late, either.” Stuyvesant picked at a fingernail. “What’s in the box, anyways?”

“A gift.” He smirked. “Just gotta sign the form.”

“All due respect, this is gonna have to be really good to get me to uproot my life for your little pet project. My students’ll be devastated!”

The Captain grabbed the case’s handle.

“Can I read the form first?”

“Well, that’s not classified.”

Officer Taylor placed down a Non-Disclosure Agreement, and in a matter of minutes, they were on their way to the airport.

---

The CV-74 Kaskara parked on the tarmac at Ruacnoc Regional looked like any other COMPMARFORCOM heavy dropship, except perhaps for how seldom it lowered its main cargo ramp. A woman in a Hoplite rig stood, leaning against a nearby cargo trolley; her rifle sat slung under folded hands. She stood up and saluted as the Captain approached, waving a keycard over the locked side hatch. “SCIF’s this way.” The Captain beckoned the others to follow him as Stuyvesant climbed the steps into the cavernous cargo hold. “So why do you have that with you? It’s SCI, right?”

“We’re offsite. Not allowed to leave my person.”

“That’s not typical protocol.”

“We’re not typical.”

“Well, this is the first black program I’ve ever seen with its own dropship,”

“All due respect,” Officer Taylor shook her head. “You haven’t been around that many black programs.”

“I guess not,” The Professor grimaced. “Always more to learn, I suppose.”

The door to the plane’s portable SCIF opened with a keycard, a retinal scan, and a passcode. The Captain set down the case on a nearby table, cracked it open, punched in another code, and plugged it into the wall, shedding the shackle of the security tether. “There you go. It won’t explode now.”

“Wait, it explodes?”

“If I haven’t held it in a while. Much fussier than my daughter.” He walked over to the corner, picking up a paperback book. “Give that a look. I need to make sure I can help her with her homework. Hamlet.”

“Are you allowed to say that out loud?” Officer Taylor raised an eyebrow.

“No, wasn’t that… Othello?” Officer Elliot gave her a skeptical look.

Stuyvesant looked at the two of them with a crestfallen expression, plugging in a set of headphones. “We’ve been building up a database for seven years,” the Captain sighed. “Been using some of your students and automated methods to try and figure it out. You’ve been earmarked for other programs, and unfortunately, I’ve been unable to impress upon your superiors the importance of this project. Believe it or not, it's easier for us to move money than people.”

“How long have you been trying to get me?”

“Seven years.”

A laugh hung in the cramped, containerized room. “I guess you’re a good judge of talent.” He raised the headphones to his ear. “Audio?”

“Yeah, a little bit. Mostly sounds like screaming. Listening to a signal, and all. The visuals will interest you more.” The Captain flipped through the pages.

“Well? What do you think?” For once, all the Captain could muster out of the Professor was silence.

“I… don’t know.” He blinked. “This is… Wow.” A moment of silence hung in the air. “I mean, it’s pretty pointy. Where did you get this?”

The Captain looked down at the page and smiled. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth…”

“…than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”