“Ar Thurp End Ragon? By the dangling Bachelor, what kind of name is that? I don’t recognize the format. Which part is your privy name and which is your gene-line? And why is your age marked as classified? I’ve never seen anyone’s age marked classified.”

“A remarkably old name, sir. We put the family name last.”

The new man’s voice was surprisingly deep and melodic, rich with nuances of tone. Norbert did not know, even after so long on the senile homeworld of man, what archetypes the baselines and firstling folk used. But this man must have downloaded psychological structures for the magnetic personality type. The ringing voice was regal, genial, jovial, slightly sly, slightly dangerous. It was the kind of archetype that dumb kids eager for rank and ladies’ favors would like.

Norbert would have wagered that this was a guy who fenced with a blade, threw red roses to damsels, and invented sonnets in iambic pentameter to mock his foes after a swordfight but before escaping through a kicked-out window on a white silk line. Norbert knew enough about mudra and mandala to recognize the nerve-muscle traces of the type. It was something about the devilish twinkle in his eye.

And yet something did not fit. Norbert could not figure how the Firstling had adapted from baseline to non-orthogonal psychology so quickly. No one could swap out a sub-personality that promptly. It was almost as if the fellow had rewritten his base neural structural command sequences, his own instinctive reactions, on the fly.

“End Ragon, then?” said Norbert, attempting an avuncular smile. “Well, Able Starman End Ragon, the mission here concerns a calendar reformer. Describe the controversy to me.”

“Sir,” the squire said crisply, “according to the Unrevised Vindication Calendar, Jupiter should have ignited the Fourth Great Burn of the deceleration beam four hundred fifty years ago, but the Revised Anomaly Calendar says the Fourth Burn is not due for another one thousand five hundred fifty years, and we all must fast on short energy rations and conserve until then.”

Norbert nodded. “Go on.”

“The Revisionists say that since no flare of launch light from Canes Venatici was detected at the due time, an X-ray anomaly two thousand years later was the launch. Hence, the Swan Princess who stole a star doubtless tarried at M3, and the Vindication of Man will be long delayed. The Vindictive say the Vindication comes on schedule, but that the Authority at M3 has given some novel means of propulsion to the vessel, which humble Earthly science cannot detect; and they say the anomaly was some small exogalactic matter swept into the bowshock of her sail at near-lightspeed, suffering total conversion.”

“Perfect,” said Norbert. “Your answer comes straight out of the Political Officer’s Correct Attitude Manual. So the Vindictives are as mad as everyone on this mad world here, and curse the darkness of the deceleration beam, and are shooting at the cities of the machines in protest, to show one and all what near-lightspeed can do. Therefore, what is your opinion of the matter?”

“That it is an injudicious matter to discuss openly.”

“Correct! But if you are directly ordered to voice your opinion by a superior? What is your opinion then?”

“That, given the Treaty of Jupiter which ended the Crusades, every loyal man should follow the calendar of the local prince and current lord placed over him. For the Inner System of Sol, that means to follow the Summer Kings, who are Revisionists.”

“More correct! And what should we Starfarers do, since we sail from star to star, and are loyal to no local princes, but loyal only to the dream of the Vindication of Man?”

“We should not discuss the matter at all, and give our dates in the sacerdotal reckoning.”

“Most correct of all! But the Starfaring Guild does not like wars, revolutions, or reformations, because they disrupt the Launch Schedule. That means loudmouthed men, even men of the cloth, who discuss the calendar reform too openly must, for the good of the Guild, be silenced, because there is no Vindication for Man if the starships sail not.”

Norbert leaned back, waiting to see if the other man would say anything. The other man stood at ease with no expression on his face, and said nothing. Norbert took that as a good sign.

“How do you feel about killing priests, Able Starman End Ragon? They are notoriously Unrevised.”

“Actually, sir, if I may?”

“Mm?”

“It would be Squire, not Able Starman, since I am affixed to the Marine Family and Clan avowed to this base, practiced in the gentlemanly arts of blade, speaking whip, mudra, and shorepistol”—Norbert congratulated himself. He knew a bravo when he saw one.—“and assigned to you in your role as Special Airlock Operations Agent, not in your role as Praetor.” Special Airlock Operations was the archaic euphemism for Ship’s Assassin.

“What? Dangle it! I have no role as Praetor. I am a Quaestor.” Norbert held up his glove again, and performed the salute to send the data flow across his palm.

The new man held up his palm and saluted, this time more slowly, pausing the playback as his final orders appeared. “Actually, sir, if I may, I have been ordered to report to an officer named Norbert of ideal-type Brash of line, phylum and family Noesis Mynyddrhodian mab Nwyfre of Dee Parish, North Polar Continent, planet Rosycross, venerable of a.d. 51550, and the rank is Praetor. It seems you have been given a brevet increase in rank, at least temporarily, for this mission. Did the Noösphere not inform you?”

“Zznah?!” The Brash were supposed to be coolheaded, and take startling news nonchalantly, or with an airy jest, but this was so unexpected that Norbert emitted the shrill nasal noise of a true hillcountry Rosicrucian before the archetype habituation cells in his cortex could react. “I-im-imp-impossible! No one becomes a Praetor straight from Aedile! The rank of Quaestor interposes! And even for a Quaestor, there is supposed to be a board of review! A midnight vigil! An augury and—by all the Bachelors!—and I am not qualified! I don’t have the years lost or the years served! Unwed it! Un-WED!”

“Is that a swearword among your people, sir? It sounds stoop— Ah—it sounds mildly unusual.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to curl your virgin ears. We are married before we are born on my planet, so we don’t have anyone not helping to swell the underpopulation numbers. Since the first marriage is nonconsensual and never consummated, our sacerdotes permit an annulment of the first wife after you’ve been married to a second wife for a year. It is not so bad, since we are a Torch World, no more than a hundred thousand miles from our sun, so a year is about a week long.”

Norbert realized he was rambling, and snapped his mouth shut. But talking—especially talking about his home—had given him the moment he needed to deploy his Brash archetype structures in his cortex. The artificial nerve cells sent messages to his organic cells, released chemicals in his bloodstream, and so on. He could feel the change in his posture and body language like an actor settling into a character role. He was calm. He was unmoved and immovable, yet eager for action, equally willing to live for a laugh as die spitting in the executioner’s eye. He was brash!

“I get it,” said Norbert. “The ghosts of the old captains and shipmasters used their right of intervention for the sake of the Guild. No time for the proper ceremonies. So I get picked because I am a nobody. I kill the damned unwed Vindicator Breastbeater and shut his big mouth, for I have no family name here on Earth for anyone to retaliate against, right? What can the Summer Kings do, make it snow on me alone? And if I don’t kill him, or something gets flared up, I can be decommissioned for having exceeded my authority, and turned over to the currents. Jettisoned. Dropped out the waste lock.”