Chapter V – The Ma is Not the Territory
So last time, we finally met Slango and got ready to get off this Johnson-forsaken island, only to learn that our crew-mate, and off-and-on hookup, Brock had managed to get himself lost. For good or ill, we’re not the kind of hardened spy who shrugs and moves on, so now we’re on a rescue mission (while still carting around the contraband plans rather than giving them to Slango to ferry back to the ship; again, I’m getting the sense that we’re not as good at this espionage stuff as we’d like to think). Oh, and I forgot to mention it at the time, but the time in the status bar updated from “early afternoon” to “late afternoon” somewhere in there – clock is ticking.
We’ve got to head past the Bureau of Orthography to reach the bus station our team uses as a dead-drop, so we stash all our stuff then drive past the roundabout to make our way east, only to have an earlier-than-expected run-in with the fuzz:
The whole Roundabout has ground to a halt, with protesters walking in the street and in some places completely filling the road. But this is mostly a nuisance until I notice that there are a couple of teenagers handcuffed to a tree.
I give the wheel a yank and run the car up onto the central traffic circle a little way. Call it a parking job. We need to get those kids out of here before their arrest is processed and they go to storage. I might not have the nerve to do anything by myself, but you’re with me, and I’m starting to appreciate that’s like being Batman.
Well, Alex at least is still impressed with us, and if the powers that be really do bin protestors that’s worth sticking our neck out a bit.
(Flagging there’s a missing line break after this paragraph in the transcript, by the by).
>out
I can see an officer making his way between the cars and stopping at the fake ones. Maybe we’d better conceal our car before we leave it – we may need to make a quick getaway later.
Oops! Probably a sensible precaution.
>put paste on car
We open the backpack.
We surreptitiously smear some of the Origin Paste onto the car. Nothing obvious happens, of course, but that is the whole point.
[Your score has gone up by one point and is now thirty-eight.]
OK, now it’s time to spring into action:
>out
We open the door of the car.
We climb out of the car.
Traffic Circle
A giant Atlantida statue stands at the center, decorated in an unorthodox fashion with a sign and a stuffed octopus. Atlantida is to us a bit as Uncle Sam might be to you, except that she embodies the spirit of the people rather than the government. In recent years she’s become a symbol of opposition to the Bureau.
Two teenagers are cuffed to a brown tree, apparently for safe-keeping while the All-Purpose Officer undoes their vandalism. He has a diminutive affixer.
“Go ahead, put us in Cold Storage!” shouts the defiant teenager. “I’m happy to sleep through all this shit and wake up when we have jet packs and a government that respects the rights of its people.”
The All-Purpose Officer shifts the restoration gel rifle from one hand to another; looks around; and then props it against the foot of the statue.
This is horrifying, but at the same time, if this was an option I could see some people opting into it; you’re going in with the hope that things will eventually get better, which may or may not be warranted but at least you’re already in the worst-case scenario.
Also, ooh, a diminutive affixer! I’m guessing we can’t get our hands on that quite yet but seems like a handy albeit specialized bit of kit (might be more useful if it could be adapted to French – you could turn a filet mignon into mignonette, say).
That rifle seems much more yoinkable, though:
>take rifle
The All-Purpose Officer is right here. You have too much sense to make a move until he’s a little more distracted.
The nervous teenager looks unhappy. “We won’t get out of here until our families are all dead and global warming has reduced Atlantis to three square feet of hilltop.”
The All-Purpose Officer goes around to the back of the statue and begins to climb up the leg, finding footholds in the folds of Atlantida’s gown. It looks like a precarious business, but he’s determined.
Yeah, that’s the downside of turn-into-an-ashtray and wait it out. Though if any polity is hardened against global warming, it’s probably Atlantis – they can turn any flood into food, after all.
Anyway our timing was off, so let’s let the cop get a little further away before we make another move.
>x octopus
Slightly wrong, actually, but I suppose they didn’t have a stuffed squid handy. Of the four symbols associated with Atlantis, the squid – representing invention and individuality – is the one that has greatest resonance for protesters.
This one has been tied to Atlantida’s hand alongside the olive branch she traditionally carries.
…I’m not sure how you get “invention” and “individuality” from squid – honestly, octopi seem like a better fit for those ideas to me.
>x branch
A metal olive branch, complete with metal leaves and metal olives.
>x sign
It reads:
The Spirit of Atlantis is the Spirit of Referendum!
NO MORE “NON-REFERRABLE PROCEDURES”…
…ON INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS
…ON ECONOMIC POLICY
…ON HUMAN RIGHTS
I gotta say, as a resident of initiative-happy California I’m a bit suspicious of government-by-ballot-measure, especially as applied to stuff like human rights – putting minority rights up to majority vote is not a best practice. But I suppose given where we’re starting from something is better than nothing.
>x tree
It’s a tree of indeterminate species. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t here yesterday. Though the leaves are dusty and brown, there’s no leaf-fall at all underneath the tree, and it’s not one of the palms that usually grow in this area.
So yeah, gelling this up seems like the move here (I’m not wearing the monocle for obvious reasons).
But predictably:
>put gel on tree
There’s too much intervening crowd for us to get there with any speed.
In the meantime, the officer’s gotten far enough away that I think we have a window:
The nervous teenager struggles against her bonds.
Gritting his teeth, the All-Purpose Officer climbs for access out onto Atlantida’s huge metal arm. It looks about as sturdy as a substantial tree branch, but more slippery, and inconveniently angled.
>take rifle
We pick up the rifle. It fits well in your hand: good heft. I feel like we know how to aim this thing. It’s illegal to carry, but that doesn’t seem to be bothering you right now.
One of the other protesters tries to free the teenagers while the All-Purpose Officer isn’t paying attention, but the bonds are too strong.
Once the All-Purpose Officer comes level with the sign, he shoots it with the diminutive affixer, turning it into a signet. It’s an outsized signet bearing the crest of the Bureau of Orthography, now hanging around the statue’s neck in the same way that the sign did a moment ago.
Occurs to me here’s another easy supply-chain here (slight mechanical spoiler here for a device that I think’s been alluded to but hasn’t come on-screen yet – it will by the end of this update, though, if you want to hold off on reading this until then):
Making a sign is obviously very easy and low-cost, and the diminutive affixer turning it to the signet opens up the possibility of using the homonym paddle to turn it into a cygnet – since the paddle doesn’t have the no-living-thing restriction. I don’t know whether swans are good eating or not, but that’s as much fowl as anyone could want.
Anyway, let’s save the day:
>shoot rifle at tree
We shoot the restoration gel rifle at the brown tree. With an audible SPLORT, the brown tree becomes a brown tee. It’s a brown wooden peg for putting a golf ball on. Apparently the All-Purpose Officer performed a little light R-insertion when he found himself in need of a portable tree.
Freed from attachment to the tree, the teenagers look at each other and then run off into the crowd.
The All-Purpose Officer glances around, but you’ve made us stand so our body conceals the rifle from his angle. He growls in annoyance. “Station,” he says, apparently to thin air. “I need back-up.”
Understood, says a tinny distant voice.
Laboriously and with obvious irritation, the All-Purpose Officer pries the arms of the stuffed octopus off the statue’s wrist, where they appear to have been fixed with glue.
Oooh, he’s got an R-inserter already? I thought the t-inserter was still experimental, but sounds like at least some insertion technology is already at the production stage.
Anyway our work here is done, let’s skeddaddle. But first let’s cover our tracks:
>drop rifle
We prop the rifle back at the foot of the statue.
The crowd is parting. We might be able to leave soon.
The All-Purpose Officer tosses the stuffed octopus away. It falls pathetically to earth.
Aww, poor thing (look, it fell pathetically, so understandably I’m not engaged in the pathetic fallacy).
>take octopus
We get the stuffed octopus.
The All-Purpose Officer begins to climb down.
>enter car
We get into the car.
Phew, we did it!
I’m a little surprised we didn’t get any points for that, but I’m guessing the score only increases for moving along the critical path, whereas it seems like we could have possibly failed to rescue the protestors if we spent too much time lollygagging. Let’s jump to an alternate world and check:
> z
Time passes.
The teenagers look at us rather desperately.
The All-Purpose Officer begins to climb down.
(Another small line spacing issue there, in all the other bits there’s been a break between what the teenagers do and what the officer is up to. Stuff like this is a major Inform bugbear in my experience!) After more waiting:
The All-Purpose Officer gets off the giant Atlantida
statue.
The All-Purpose Officer picks up the restoration gel
rifle.
The teenagers look at us rather desperately. One of them glances at our S-remover and then at the olive branch.
Oh, interesting, wonder if there’s an alternate solution here! Obviously there’s no S to be removed here, but we could take off that leading O…
> remove o from branch
We reset the device to o. It takes a little more care with aim than usual, but we do manage to strike the olive branch, turning it into a live branch. It goes green and healthy at once.
The All-Purpose Officer glances around, but he doesn’t notice us. He growls in annoyance.
“Station,” he says, apparently to thin air. “I need
back-up.”
Understood, says a tinny distant voice.
The teenagers look at us rather desperately.
The All-Purpose Officer fires the restoration gel rifle at the live branch, but the statue is holding it at a difficult angle. The gel splatters uselessly across the huge metal arm.
The All-Purpose Officer shifts the restoration gel
rifle from one hand to another; looks around; and
then props it against the foot of the statue.
Well, that bought us more time – which we’ll now fritter away again.
“The power of the people!” shouts one of the protesters approvingly.
“Station,” comments the All-Purpose Officer. "Aborting work on the statue until back-up arrives. Situation here is volatile.”
NEGATIVE, replies his tinny interlocutor. Statue to remain clear as first priority. This is from Oracle.
The All-Purpose Officer begins to climb Atlantida once more.
Hmm, “Oracle” – first we’ve heard of them, I think?
(Omitting the Zs here, this plays out over a number of turns):
The protesters are cheering and stamping their feet. People in the cars are honking. The All-Purpose Officer tries to crane his head around and see who exactly is making all the trouble, but he quickly realizes he can’t do that and hold on at the same time. The All-Purpose Officer clambers back onto the arm.
The All-Purpose Officer reaches out and touches the live branch. He must have a small restoration gel applicator. With an audible SPLORT, the live branch becomes an olive branch.
The All-Purpose Officer begins to climb down.
The All-Purpose Officer gets off the giant Atlantida statue.
The All-Purpose Officer picks up the restoration gel rifle.
The teenagers look at us rather desperately. (x4)
One of them glances at our O-remover and then at the olive branch.
Is he going to fall for that trick again? We can at least put a new spin on it:
> remove b from branch
We reset the device to b. The device buzzes, puzzled. It has tried to create a “olive ranch”: evidently “branch” is too tightly bound to its modifiers and can’t be manipulated separately.
Oh boo – I suppose it should technically be an orchard, not a ranch, but still.
> remove o from branch
We reset the device to o. Confidently we reconvert the olive branch.
“Guillemets,” swears the All-Purpose Officer, daringly.
Did not copy, say again? asks the tinny invisible radio.
“Did Oracle happen to say why the statue was top priority?” asks the Officer.
That’s a negative, responds the radio.
Ha! Guillemets are the French quotation-mark thingies – << and >> – but I’m guessing it’s less the meaning, and more the taboo-breaking, that makes it a good swear word.
“Station,” growls the All-Purpose Officer into thin air. “I am
underpowered and back-up is not arriving. We need three vans and a DP tank.” His face is shiny with sweat.
DP tank? Confirm request! insists the tinny radio.
“That’s what I said,” the All-Purpose Officer responds.
I’ll have to clear this with Herself, the radio complains. The All-Purpose Officer clambers back onto the arm.
Hmm, wonder if “Herself” is the same as the Oracle?
All plays out the same as last time, and we play the branch game one more time:
Tormented, the All-Purpose Officer seems beyond speech, while the crowd has lost interest in the symbolic potency of the statue and is starting to lapse back into irritability. You overhear someone asking where to find soft-serve ice cream. From far off there is a rumbling of heavy vehicles approaching.
There’s a bright light and a catastrophic bang and world goes eerily silent. The protesters are gone; all but one.
A policeman in blue is cuffing a single old woman in a Not Guilty
shirt. Her eyes are wild with fury and fear and simple madness.
And that, my friend, is why civil disobedience doesn’t work around here. We’ve just seen a depluralization.
The game pauses here to underline the gravity of what’s just happened – as speculated above, deplurization does leave a multitude of minds all jostling together in one head, which is horrifying to contemplate.
You know they’ll be restored in a few hours, but not confined to that singular form. Most of them will probably get off with fines, except the teenagers, who have committed specific crimes against the majesty of the state. You know it’s unlikely anyone has died just there. You know that within minutes, the international news organizations will be running satellite pictures of a “suspected depluralizing event” on the island.
It’s not, so to speak, our business any more.
Traffic is starting to move again. We’d better get on to the dead drop.
Oof, that’s a gut punch, especially since a crime against the majesty of the state is typically known in the English legal system as lèse-majesté (law-French is a whole confusing thing, I can pontificate about it if there’s interest) – a form of treason sometimes punishable by death.
So this is a dark timeline – what if we rewind and avoid antagonizing the officer?
“Station,” growls the All-Purpose Officer into thin air. “I am
underpowered and back-up is not arriving. We need three vans and a DP tank.” His face is shiny with sweat.
It plays out exactly the same way, unfortunately. So yeah, let’s swap back over to the world where we saved the day and so we don’t need to think about protestors being disappeared anymore:
Roundabout (jammed into the car)
We are jammed into the car with our knees almost at our chin, looking out through the bulbous little windshield. The motor is growling like a housecat with pneumonia.
The traffic flows in a tight circle around a statue which we know all too well.
Confusing signs point in various directions: northeast to Deep Street, northwest to High Street, south to Long Street, east to Tall Street.
The car is making an unpleasant raspy growl.
Please don’t try to change lanes.
Oh what’s the worst than can happen?
>change lanes
Oh, please don’t, please don’t…
(That’s as much as we can do, no traffic-based IF-horror here).
Let’s get where we’re going:
>e
Tall Street (jammed into the car)
We are jammed into the car with our knees almost at our chin, looking out through the bulbous little windshield. The motor is growling like a housecat with pneumonia.
Tall Street is very quiet. No celebrations have reached this far, and neither is there any business today; so it has an air of dull abandonment. At the east end the street bends to go around an old park rarely visited.
To the south is the important blue rotunda of the Bureau of Orthography. The street runs west towards the busy roundabout.
>x rotunda
It is brighter blue than the sky and soars many stories.
I’m sure it’s pretty and all, but we’re not really in a mood to appreciate it.
It would surely be the height of foolishness to enter the belly of the beast, but as I recall there’s a museum here, so we might be able to play tourist and take a gander?
Oh, speaking of, wonder what the guidebook says:
>look up bureau
The entry is long and greasily flattering: resplendent blue dome, magnificent interior, warm and hospitable employees, world-renowned historical research department, etc., etc., etc.
Ugh, we’re in no mood.
>s
Rotunda
Echoing space, marble floor, eye-like skylight many meters above us: so far, the Rotunda might belong to any 19th-century government bureau of means and self-importance.
What sets this one apart is the lettering, each sigil no bigger than a flea, carved over every inch of the walls. Inscribed here is, in fact, the entire text of A New Orthodox Orthography, which means that if we had a great deal of patience and many rolls of butcher paper, we could take rubbings and wind up with our very own volume.
We don’t, of course. There are better things to do. More important places to go. The administrative part of the bureau is away to the south, and there is an exhibit of letter tools to the east, which is open to the public.
Near the street entrance is a sizable informational bulletin-board advertising the services of the Bureau; and next to this, pushed back to be out of the way, is a bin. In the bin is a shuttle.
>read text
It is far too small to read, especially since the letters are not painted or inked, just carved into the stone surfaces.
>x board
What Can Your Bureau of Orthography Do For You? inquires the bulletin board, in a sprightly casual font.
On a sheet labeled From Plumbing to Medicine… “And More”, the bulletin board describes the tools available to the All-Purpose Officers, including a synthesizer for combining two word-objects into one; Q- and Z-inserters (most letters are still under development); and even specially licensed equipment capable of producing living creatures.
For immigration and importation services, such as assigning Atlantean names to immigrants, neutralizing foreign-language pets, and approving imported goods, we are encouraged to visit the Customs House instead.
A handwritten note is tacked up after this, which adds that the synthesizer is unavailable for public use through Dec. 19th because it is on loan to the university Department of Language Studies. Hey, that’s my department!
Ah, that’s good info on insertion tools – guess the more useful letters require more power?
Also, it sounds like their cops are also their doctors and plumbers and everything else? Given how cool under pressure the guy at the statue turned out to be, seems like that works out even worse than you’d expect.
>x bin
BUREAU PARKING, reads the bin, in thick black marker. DO NOT TAKE UNLESS AUTHORIZED.
In the bin is a shuttle.
>x shuttle
It’s a wooden device that holds a quantity of yarn, allowing the user more easily to pass the thread back and forth while weaving.
It is also a bit of a snarky joke on the Bureau’s part. Atlantean land prices being what they are, the Bureau prefers not to have to build a parking garage. Instead they have shuttles that an All-Purpose Officer with a homonym paddle can easily convert into a full-sized vehicle for use, and back again for easy storage.
The shuttles in their untransformed state are no earthly use to anyone else, of course, which is why they can be left around unsupervised.
No possible use to anyone, huh?
>take shuttle
We get the shuttle.
Let’s get out of here before someone notices the theft:
>e
Tools and Techniques Exhibit
This area, though technically part of the Bureau, is open to the public as a display of the tools (past and present) of orthographical dominance. Everything is, alas, behind glass. Over at one end of the room is a Regency version of your own letter-remover – known as the Model T, because that is all it was originally able to remove.
Next to that there is an anagramming gun and an Etymological Reversing Chamber.
Obligatory groan at the pun. But ooh, these look fancy:
>x model
The Regency-era T-remover is clumsy-looking and too big to lift, thanks to the coal boiler required to power it. It still bears the maker’s mark of one S. Meretzky.
Okay, that one not so much, but it’s clearly of significant historical importance.
>x gun
Anagramming guns are illegal now, of course, because of their desperately unpredictable behavior. This one is a huge heavy thing, though not quite an artillery piece, because of the colossal amounts of power required and all the stabilizers needed to try to collapse the letters back down to a single phrase.
Something makes you think of Brock’s comment about anagramming.
>remember comment
Galley
You and Brock were sitting at the galley table, Scrabble tiles in front of you. “This is what I admire about you,” he said, touching your foot with his. “Most kids raised by fundamentalist parents wind up the same way themselves, or they go off the deep end the other way. You just… rearranged the tiles you’d been dealt.”
More than he realized, in fact, now that you’ve added my tiles to yours.
Then we’re back in the present.
Aww, that’s sweet. Anyway, larceny:
>take gun
I don’t want to sound like I doubt your criminal credentials, or whatever, but I doubt even you can successfully steal from this display case. The casing material would stop a bullet.
Aww. Maybe later on we’ll get tools allowing us to turn GLASS into GAS, but for now I guess it’s look but not touch (actually, experimentation shows it’s a DISPLAY CASE, which is even harder to manipulate).
>x chamber
It looks like an iron lung – a large sealed chamber with extensive machinery surrounding it. It is able to make words run back to their linguistic roots: ape into apa, pearl to perle, and so on.
The machine is of little popular use and is principally applied by scholars under controlled circumstances.
Despite newspaper articles breathlessly proclaiming that the ERC will be able to produce the “God language” – mankind’s original tongue – in practice even the more modest research goal of rediscovering the vocabulary of proto-Indo-European would require prohibitive amounts of power. As one moves further and further from forms that are familiar to modern speakers, the reification effort required increases exponentially.
Umm wow, that is amazing. I actually had a Mage character whose paradigm focused on etymological transformations, so I’d be super psyched to play the game focusing on this tool. @Draconis, you have any other plans for the next decade?
So much for the museum, but there was one other exit from the rotunda:
>s
Before approaching the secretary ahead, we try to hide all our illegal things in the backpack.
Antechamber
The most important task of any government bureau is to keep away time-wasters, irritants, and uninformed members of the general public, who might distract the diligent workers within from their important tasks. The Bureau of Orthography is no different.
An instructive notice details the criteria for entry to the Bureau proper.
Here to guard access to the rest of the building is a secretary on a tall stool. The secretary is carrying the Regulation Authentication Scope and wearing a pencil skirt and a plain white top.
We can go north to the Rotunda and east from here.
She turns her eyes towards us but doesn’t say anything.
I’m inclined to ask whether she enjoys her job.
Hmm, a guard and instructions for how to get past her? My puzzle-sense is tingling:
>x notice
Please note that those wishing to enter must have a PASS suitable for visitors, which must include an UP TO DATE photograph closely resembling the subject. Passes that do not look like their possessors will be rejected.
Visitors will also need an additional proof of their business in the Bureau, such as a letter of invitation from a Bureau authority.
All credentials will be subject to inspection with an authentication scope.
Anyone attempting to enter the Bureau with a falsified pass or lack of proper credentials may be subject to FINES and INDEFINITE DETENTION.
Yeah, we are 100% sneaking into this place sooner or later. The list doesn’t look too challenging, though the photo might be tricky given that we didn’t exist until this morning.
>x secretary
Curiously, she refuses to quite meet our eye.
>x scope
It looks like a small hand-held telescope, or perhaps a very posh kaleidoscope: all brown leather and brass fittings, and a good heft indicating quality materials. The sophisticated electronics are all concealed within. If we look through the scope at something, we can see its true nature, regardless of spelling changes.
>x skirt
A prim, pencil-length number reaching to just below the knee. It is the regulation shade of Orthographical Blue.
…huh, is that why they’re called pencil skirts? TIL. Better keep that outfit away from the homonym paddles!
>x top
Devoid of ruffles, lace or other distractions.
There’s no reason for us to try this, but I’m wondering if we can just bluff our way past – the guard seems a little checked-out:
>e
We stride confidently toward the east – that’s my contribution, as you’re more of a shuffler or possibly a slinker. Actually, I think a little of your posture must still be showing, because we are stopped by the secretary.
“I’m sorry, those with passes only,” she says, before waving us out. She has a bored look: not one of the more zealous staff members.
I’d like to ask where to get a pass or ask whether she enjoys her job.
>ask where to get a pass
“Where did you say we might get a pass to visit the rest of the building?” we ask, in my very most polite schoolboy voice.
“Those with appropriately ranked academic research jobs are already in receipt of documentation,” she replies.
We could ask whether she enjoys her job.
No sequence-breaking for us!
>ask whether she enjoys job
“This must be a good job,” we say, in our best making-friendly-conversation way. “Getting to meet lots of new people. Access to all the bureau toys.”
“They never let me try any of the good equipment,” she says, with surprising bitterness. “When they brought in the T-inserter, they let Porson–” Then she stops, her expression that of a guppy being strangled.
We could ask how she got this job, ask who Porson is, ask what the T-inserter does, or ask where the T-inserter is kept.
Oh, there is a prototype T-inserter floating around! That might be tempting to steal, if we didn’t already have the plans.
>ask how she got this job
“How did you get this job?” we ask.
“Through the usual process,” she says. “I qualified through the regional spelling bee, then was submitted to a battery of examinations, followed by a three-year course of rigorous training.”
We could ask who Porson is, ask what the T-inserter does, or ask where the T-inserter is kept.
>ask about porson
“Who is Porson?” we ask curiously.
“Porson works in the Historical Research Room,” she says. “A job he got, I might add, through sheer nepotism. He’s no more qualified than I am, but they say he has a ‘job-related need’ to see all the new developments first.”
I’m inclined to ask what the T-inserter does or ask where the T-inserter is kept.
Yeah, that’s usually how meritocracy works in authoritarian states.
>ask what t-inserter does
“What does the T-inserter do?” we ask, as though we were a couple of yokels.
She raises her eyebrows as though she cannot believe the phenomenal idiocy of this question. No answer is vouchsafed.
>ask where t-inserter
“This T-inserter must be pretty delicate,” we say. I’m letting you talk, this time. I think I’m too direct. “I’m surprised the Bureau keeps it in a public building.”
She visibly struggles between two impulses: the feeling that she shouldn’t be talking about such a secret piece of equipment at all, and the desire to convince us that it couldn’t be easily found or stolen. Finally she compromises with “Not all parts of the Bureau are equally available to visitors.”
Hopefully that penultimate question made us seem too dumb to be a spy, but we might be drawing too much attention to ourselves here, especially if we’re going to be trying to sneak in later. Let’s get to the dead-drop.
[continued]
