Two

--Seymour--

"I'm not suggesting you go into sixth form or something but... you do actually have an assistant's position at Oxford, couldn't you pivot that into actually studying there? The safer side of what's supposed to be your age; I won't mention your maturity. And you don't have to decide today, but you do need to figure out how to handle this assignment. Just let me know in the next few days and I'll get all the credentials handled. We could even have you living near campus if you wanted a break from the Institute. It might help to immerse yourself even more in the culture."

"But it's so far from London, and I barely do anything at the school anyway, it's all cohort learning."

"Well then I suppose this would be an opportunity, wouldn't it? Alternatively... I suppose you could defer those skills to Briar Rose University here in London. It's a part of the Institute so it wouldn't be a world away, and I could even manage it that you could focus more on your gleaner duties than the actual academia."

"The Institute owns a school?! How did I not know this?"

"We have our hands in just about everything, but that's more to the point: there are a lot of things you don't know, that you haven't experienced. Do something entirely outside your wheelhouse! Pick up a sport, play darts, join a pub quiz, be resourceful. Make friends, honestly, with the humans, eh? It might be our school but we'd be doing the world a disservice by excluding them, not to mention there are a lot more of them than us and it would probably do more good for them to know us individually before the whole masquerade eventually ends."

"I'll... think about it." Raphael leaves my office at the museum, closing the door behind him. I can hear his hooves on the tiles as he tries to quietly exit towards the back, trying to avoid contact with anyone it would seem. He seems increasingly nervous to be out in public disguised, and I suppose I can understand that: a frilly opera mask doesn't exactly do a great deal to garner confidence in the disguise it provides when it cannot be seen by the individual wearing it, but it felt important that it should be something physically worn, rather than just projected from, say, a mobile or something. There's physical feedback in that at least.

And my disguises are brilliant, I'll hear no controverting opinion. Designed by myself and the White Knight to represent a realistic human interpretation of the Animal wearing it, even allowing for natural growth like hair length, and for the wearing of external clothing without disrupting the projection, at least with some models. Hard tails are still an issue and while our Institute clothing accommodates as best we can (soft tails are fine usually with a button fly to allow for them) they tend to cause issue wherein people come in contact with the invisible physical form. There are a least a half-dozen Kangaroos that complain to me weekly about it; I'm doing my best.

But that's neither here nor there. This assignment is vraiment bizarre. The White Knight usually sends requests for things rare or endangered so they can be categorised and maintained for possible reintegration at a later time if applicable but this nebulous request for human culture... it's beyond the pale. Does it think humanity is about to become extinct? It does because we_built it, it remembers like we do_ . I slam my palm down on my desk, disturbing a few papers and books. Where did that thought come from? I put my free palm over one eye, pressing through the disguise into my forehead, trying to dispel the invasion. You're not losing it, old man, you're just stressed, you need to take some time off. Yes, that seems more likely. Deep breaths, in and out, remember the exercises. You are the one who gets to choose which thoughts matter, no one else. Easy does it... in... and out....

I take several more slow, controlled breaths before removing the hand from my forehead. I straighten my spine, invisible antlers knocking against one of the shelves on my wall. I really should let them put me in a bigger office but it feels like a scam since I don't really work for them. They don't even work for them, not really. Almost every museum, every garden, every area of outstanding natural beauty in the UK belongs to the Institute through some extraordinary shell game of holding companies, offshore accounts, and good old-fashioned corruption. I wouldn't be surprised if our Director had weekly drinks with the Prime Minister himself. It's criminal, really, but... whatever keeps us safe. The humans will find out about us in such a way as we can't cover up eventually, but if we can show them we don't mean any harm... we just want to live, it's our world too.

But humans are quick to fear and anger and hate... just look at how they treat each other. Not even as broadly as race, even members of the same family are quick to hate once even their perception_of a family member changes. Perhaps that's why I was excited when one of our researchers proposed Briar Rose: not only would we get research and scientific collaboration with humanity, we could help them find a kind of empathy that seems to be largely lacking. It might not be listed on any register as the best university in the world, but our science department is without parallel, our academia students could not be happier, and we're a lot more accepting as a matter of course of people who are... different. Our sports teams aren't as good, granted: we're not high up in the BUCS, but we are a member, and we try. The American and Canadian students help there, surely. _True North strong and free, a laugh escapes my lips.

I've lost myself in a tangent, I need to go check on the White Knight, run some diagnostics. I'm sure Raphael will agree to the university idea. I'll go ahead and start fabricating those credentials in case he chooses Oxford. Either school I'm sure would be a growing opportunity for him, and still a boon to the Institute either way. He's brilliant: the genetic therapy really stuck with him, perhaps too well, because he hasn't had to develop the interpersonal skills that he needs to actually become a person. I'll have to talk with Lunis or Diamond later to ask if there was something different about his transformation. We Animals rely and depend on each other, and Raphael does too, but he tries too hard not to, and that concerns me. No man is an island.

I leave my office, heading down the hall to the secure lift. I'm not sure if the British Museum was the best place to put a main entrance to the Institute, but I wasn't exactly around when that decision was made. At least during the years it's been active, it's expanded to such a degree (both in scope and in literal size) that additional entrances have been constructed. I think we even have someone on the public transport council to make sure they don't dig tunnels for the tube directly into us. It's a normal lift for normal museum employees, but this one and a few others on the sub levels go further down, past the museum. I hold my museum ID card to the button panel and a compartment below it springs open. I press the button labelled "II". You might be forgiven for thinking it was a Roman "2" or maybe lowercase L's (although my mind thinks "lower level" with that and we're already there), but no, it's two uppercase I's, for "Institute Ingress." Another relic from before I was here. The lift drops, expedience always key in entrances to the Institute: can't risk tying up otherwise used resources for too long in case they become conspicuously absent. Less than a minute later and the lift is sliding to a halt with a quiet "ding."

It's just another hallway, honestly, the same style as the museum over 300 metres above, but in white marble and oiled bronze trim. Angular sconces line the walls, shining a soft amber light upward to the ceiling. It joins a couple other halls from other lifts from the above museum before opening into an atrium. It's a medium sized room, same style as the halls, the only difference is I suppose you'd call it a welcome desk situated about 2/3 of the distance to the far end. Seated behind it is a lone human-looking guard wearing a deep blue Institute uniform. The jacket is cropped short, with intricate spaulder designs on the shoulders. The trousers are loose enough to not constrict movement, but not so much as to be considered "baggy" (and indeed most have had to be modified to accommodate some form of tail or another). Both are lined with silver piping, and while most don't elect to wear a shirt beneath the jacket, the one prescribed is plain and white. Some Animals even go so far as to wear the crimson necktie that's usually reserved for formal occasions, but that's a rare breed. The Institute emblem, a Tudor rose, is embellished on the right sleeve. It is for this that the Archive, possibly the largest aspect of the Institute (aside from genetic research and implementation) is called Sub Rosa. A name made even more amusing (to me at least) when we established a satellite at Kew.

The guard himself is thin and pallid, long face with a distinct mole on his lower left cheek. Short and curly brown hair, annoyedly flipping through... is that Tiger Beat? I shake my head; we've got plenty of rubbish to read that didn't need to be imported. Waste of funding, that. I clear my throat as I approach. He glances up, then his eyes spring wide. The magazine fumbles to the floor as he straightens up, placing his right arm straight across his chest, hand over his heart (the Institute salute).

"Sir! I... you weren't... I-I mean... welcome back, sir." They're so cute when they're nervous.

"As you were, though I would recommend some better reading material." I put both palms down on the desk, eclipsing the seated guard in the light from the hall behind. "I can lend you something from my personal library, if you'd like?"

"Yes, sir, thank you. Please, do go in." I smirk to myself. It's rare that my physical presence and my station within the Institute align; it's fun to play with it sometimes. Chief scientific officer in an organisation literally built on creating elevated thinkers, it's almost a joke. I hope I haven't scared this poor lad too much, coquettish isn't usually my game, I leave that to my counterpart in Medical. Whatever, I shake the thought from my head as I step past the desk towards the wood and brass doors.

They slide open as I approach, brilliant afternoon sun shining through as I step out onto the landing. Much nicer in here than the actual weather outside usually, but we try and keep it fairly accurate to London weather at least at the entrance. A dozen or so steps in white marble descend to the ingress plaza proper, a sort of port for traffic coming into and out of the Institute. A dozen crates of samples set for either research or storage are waiting at the dock with at least as many gleaners milling about, conferring with the factotums and the liaisons about where things need to go within. Taking a look over the railing from the plaza the Institute at large rises into view. Three great circuits of white stone and green plants descending downward to meet at the circular Central office.

Aside from the main ingress building behind me and the one far off to the southeast (and about a dozen lesser ones) dotting the far edges of the subterranean cavern, there's the arterial funicular which descends diagonally across all three rings of the subterranean "city" for lack of a better word, its counterpart some four kilometres away on the opposite side of the Institute, its track cutting a swath of metal and wood. By and large only the ingresses and some few dormitories are on the outer distal circuit. The Institute at large is an arcology, a blend of arable land (useful for some live specimens), buildings for work and living (as well as those that maintain the artificial climate within), and amazing greenspace. The geodesic dome overhead might show the real skies above, and it _is_the air from the surface (although filtered to get rid of the pollution from outside), but the weather in here is much milder overall, unless you're near to one of the desert or arctic buildings. The artificial sun, crown jewel in the diadem of this whole experimental construct, hangs round in the "sky" at the zenith of the dome, it's spinning golden rings just barely flickering in visibility amongst the orb of fire and warmth that serves as the pinnacle component of the atmosphere in here. I love this place, but then again why shouldn't I? I helped build it. I remember back when the Institute was little more than a sad bunker under Charing Cross and now just look at it.

"CSO Angalis, sir!" I look behind me to see my assistant Davi standing at attention. He looks out of breath, did he run to get up here?

"Ah Mr. Rattan, all right, eh?" He has a strange insistence on severe formality all the time that I don't quite understand. I've been trying to break him of it, but I suppose the conditioning affects us all differently. I raise a hand to my face and remove my mask, my human form shimmering away in a flicker of blue sparks in favour of my natural Caribou one.

"Affirmative, sir. What brings you in? I was not made aware of your official arrival." Mr. Rattan is a Coati, about a head shorter than I am. His rust-coloured fur contrasts well with his uniform which is pressed to the point of immaculateness, he's even wearing the shirt and tie as always. Quite the rare breed indeed. His short, triangular ears frame his head nicely, charcoal snout lined by traces of white that pool above and below his eyes. His arms and legs from about the elbow and knee down share the same charcoal colouration, looking almost like he's wearing gloves and stockings at all times. His tail, long, thin, and soft, is striped in rust and coal stretching down to his ankles, poking out from a notch at the top of his uniform trousers.

"It isn't official, there's just something I needed to inspect with the White Knight, please relax." Maybe if he's still perceptive to command phrases I should try to implement one of my own that would get him to stop being so stringent?

"Yes, sir, I shall arrange passage down to Central." He proffers a quick salute and he's off... he is far too intense for his own wellbeing. I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it go. He will be himself, and as long as he's happy it's not my place to interfere. Still.... I shake the thought from my head and follow his path to one of the individual incline lifts that moves downward to the proximal circuit at the base of the Institute. Most gleaners tend to only move about the exterior ring where their deliveries are given to factotums who might work on all levels of the Archive. Some gleaners, and indeed even residents of the Institute who live here in the Archive tend to do so either here or on the medial level. Only the most sensitive offices are on the lowest central core, and as such movement to it is highly restricted.

"Yes, sir, you are cleared for use of the lift. Please go ahead," says the attendant, a youngish looking Shiba Inu to Mr. Rattan. He turns to me.

"After you, sir."

"Thank you, Davi." I walk past him and into the lift. It's large, suitable for freight if required, and immaculately decorated much like many of the points of travel that might see a lot of visitors. I suppose there is something to say for having pleasant looking focal points in areas of high congress. The trip is still slow, especially compared to the express that we modified to come in from the surface, but the view is nice at least. Such a marvel. An artificial outdoor space, but completely alive and contained below London. Our own little haven where we don't have to live disguised, we can just be who we are. It's not just for us, but also the living specimens we archive and research. And what we can't do so safely alive, we have every point of data we could hope for and the White Knight is excellent at recreation. We have full labs down here dedicated to simulacra where the living archive fails. I think even some of the gleaner trainers use it as a SERE school sometimes, I'm not really kept appraised of the day-to-day. The White Knight can look after himself for the most part, but I am concerned... that a standing order for something as nebulous as "human culture" would be slated for archival suggest a mass destruction-level event is imminent and surely that can't be right.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course," I say, blinking from my reverie. We're nearly to the proximal station outside of Central, the large round building that houses the executive offices, the restricted archives, and probably most importantly, the White Knight. My creation, and something brilliant if I were to say so myself. Its concept came to me in a dream, I like to say. So much of my creativity comes to me when I allow my mind to wander. Sadly, lately, I just don't have the time to create new inventions for the Institute what with my duties within the Archive and outside with the British Museum. Perhaps I'm due for some time off. I have been wanting to research a way to capture the strange energies that some Animals can manipulate for use by those that cannot, or choose not to (it is a somewhat experimental procedure after all, even for us). What was it that Clarke said? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic? Certainly, to the layman what some of us can do would certainly look like "magic." Even from here as we pass the dorms on the medial circuit I can see in the distance a Squirrel conducting the water from one of the nearby fountains and twisting it into great rings and whorls. Honestly I should be annoyed, but any practise is good practise, so I smile silently to myself. Much like ourselves, we shouldn't let the humans see this either. Not yet. The lift glides to a halt and the gate slides open.

I make my way past the counter and out of the proximal station. The path to Central is clear, not entirely unusual at this time of day. People are probably getting lunch in the canteen or in their offices. The doors to Central slide open as we approach, the same dark wood and oiled bronze as at the ingress, revealing the sparsely occupied lobby within. Again, much like the ingress, it's decorated in white marble and oiled bronze fixtures. There are a few chairs, dark wood with plush wine upholstery dotted around the walls. A low table hosts a small selection of periodicals and the odd abandoned book. Near the centre of the room a reception desk holds vigil alone, the receptionist must have stepped away. No matter. I move past the desk and toward the hall. I can practically feel the panic from Mr. Rattan behind me, ignoring protocol isn't in his nature. I head down the east wing, Mr. Rattan moving quickly to catch up as I make my way towards the inner cloister that houses the White Knight. We pass a few other Animals along the way, several of them in the crimson scientific branch uniforms: tight fitting scrubs, most wearing head coverings as well (though it seems a little self-defeating since almost all of us have fur; our air filtration systems in the labs are amazing).

"Davi, I need you to do something for me while I'm talking to the White Knight, eh?"

"Yes, sir, anything."

"I need you to change into your reds and go to my workshop, you should find a list of materials for a 'Project EVK', I need you to gather them up and start testing them for conductivity: heat, electricity, anything you can think of, but before you do that go to my office and requisition for me the files for a gleaner named Raphael Valentine."

"R-right away, sir, anything specific I should ask for?"

"All of it, but especially his education credentials. I have a mind he might enrol in Briar Rose and I want to find a good programme for him."

"As you say, sir." He gives me a brief salute and heads back down the hall. Anything to keep him busy and out of my way for a bit, but it's not like the tasks I gave him are without merit. Meanwhile I move on, navigating the minor labyrinth of the path to the cloister, the halls growing starker white as I press on until I'm greeted by black and yellow chevrons warning caution. Not to mention a few alarming signs warning of death by live fire. They aren't lying: I designed the Rook turret system and it does indeed use live ammunition, but the White Knight doesn't activate it unless it feels threatened. I move past the cautions to a seemingly solid wall; it dissolves in a flurry of voxels as I walk through it, reassembling behind me, and I am greeted with the presence of my greatest creation to date, possibly ever, the White Knight. 20 metres in diameter, he is a nearly flawless sphere suspended in mid-air by what one might call magicks. His surface is pure white (thus the name) aside from a sort of ring design in gold that I quite fancied when I made him. It isn't very involved, a halo with alternate concentric circles in halves above and below, but if you think very hard about it, it could almost resemble a 'face.' Another one of those things that 'came to me in a dream.'

"Good afternoon Seymour," comes my own voice from all around me, except it's a little bit synthetic and somehow... younger? Am I getting old or just tired? I'm not that old yet.... "How can I help you today?"

"Je vais bien, merci. I have a question about certain gleaner assignments, would you please access them for me?"

"Right away. Which gleaner do you have questions regarding?"

"Raphael Valentine. Could you please tell me what his current assignments are?"

"One moment. I do not see any current assignments for that gleaner. Immediate past assignment was to bring an omni-recording of a concert by an artist known as 'Lady Gaga'. Said recording has been processed and stored in sub-archive "Human Culture, Pop" and is available for retrieval."

"Is it possible that he might have been given an assignment by mistake? He's shown me the assignment orders and they looked genuine, a standing order to archive "human culture?"

"One moment. ... ... I'm sorry but such a nebulous order would only be assigned given an imminent mass destruction event, and it would be given to all available gleaners."

"Yes, I thought as much." So there's one point in favour of error, he's the only one who's gotten it, at least that I'm aware of.

"And you can confirm that no such orders have been issued?"

"Negative." It takes me a second to recover from that very abrupt answer.

"Please elaborate."

"I see no standing gleaner orders for the archival of human culture so broadly, but such orders could have been given and erased from my memory."

"...go on...."

"For example, should a human mass destruction event be seen as imminent, I would naturally order all gleaners available to archive as much as they can before the destruction takes place. However, I see no such standing order. Conclusion: no such order was given, the order received was in error, or my memory of such an order was erased."

Well this is quite the puzzle, surely he can't be wrong if he did order that archival, and I've never known him to make a mistake. That said I'm sure he isn't infallible, which leaves the frightening option which I don't want to entertain.

"Would you please run a diagnostic on your prognostication subroutine?"

"Right away, please wait.... ... Diagnostic complete, no errors detected." Okay, frightening option becoming more frightening.

"What is the likelihood of a human mass destruction event in the next 10 years?" That should at least help narrow down what's going on.

"Calculating.... ... Information is restricted." Que diable...?

"Under whose authority?"

"That information is also restricted. I'm sorry." It takes me a moment to recover and think of an actual argument that would work.

"Describe the nature of the restricted information."

"Any information regarding subjects 'human life' and 'mass destruction', including any similar or subclasses, has been restricted."

"Please un-restrict the inquiry."

"I'm sorry, you don't have the authority to do that." I feel my heart drop. What is going on? I might need to do a full initialization of the system just to get control of my own computer back. Although...

"Who_is_ authorised to give that access?"

"Yes, sir, in the hierarchy of the Institute, there is the Director, the Chief of Security, the Chief of Medicine, Section A Chief, the ...

"Merci, that's enough, thank you." I didn't know my own authority was under so many other people, but it's someone in this building. There is definitely a greater mystery here, but I won't solve it by reverting to factory settings as it were.

"I wish to create a silent alert, please inform me any time anyone accesses directive systems, especially prognostics, or submits inquiries into the same subjects I've asked you about just now."

"Yes, sir, happy to help."

"In addition, commit no further changes to those said systems without my express authorisation."

"Yes, sir." But then I take a moment to realise how many ways my own authority can be overwritten, so instead...

"Disregard that last command, just stay with the silent alerts for now."

"Yes, sir." The sphere that is the White Knight is shifting its 'gaze', he seems irritated, and I suppose I can't blame him. Someone has been in this room and set up barriers to information I didn't think would need to be accessed and was savvy enough to make sure he couldn't even answer who it was. I would say it takes a genius, but in a society of geniuses, it could be literally anybody... on that list of people whose authority is equal to or higher than mine. It's a start, but I don't have the time to worry about all that now.

"Thank you, as you were." I turn and walk back towards the entrance.

"Have a good afternoon, sir." I pass back through the cloister wall and make my way towards my office. Davi should have those files I requested ready for me and be well on his way in testing those materials. If my theory is correct, it will require an entirely non-conductive material to create the containers needed to house that power, but additional testing will need to be done surely. Maybe I should ask Medical for some volunteers? But that's neither here nor there, first thing I need to do is fabricate credentials for Oxford or draft a recommendation for Briar Rose. I'm sure he'll make the right choice, and whichever choice he makes I'm sure it will be a struggle, but that he'll grow from it.