something apparently soothing about the motion and the noise — the baby, even if he was fussy, calmed right down every time.
“Hey,” Jay called as he came through the door. “Daddy’s home. How’s the world’s most beautiful boy and his mother?”
Saji smiled. “He’s almost asleep.”
Jay nodded. “How was your day?”
“Great.” Saji kept rocking, slow and steady, as she told him the adventures of Mark Gridley, the brightest, funniest, most gorgeous child who had ever been born. Every diaper change, every burp, every wiggle. What amazed Jay — what had amazed him from the moment he first saw his child — was that he found everything about Mark just as fascinating as Saji did. He could just sit and watch the baby do nothing. Jay’s new favorite way to spend an hour resting was to lie down with Mark sleeping on his chest. Jay had never felt anything like this before: He was a father, and he couldn’t get enough of it. Had anybody told him even a few months ago that this was how he’d be, he wouldn’t have believed it.
“You want to hold him?”
“Yes.”
They switched places. Jay put the baby over his shoulder and restarted the gentle motion of the chair. Mark yawned, made one of his funny squeaks, and closed his eyes.
“And how was your day?” Saji asked.
“Not as much fun as yours.” He explained about the changes coming to Net Force. Mark fell asleep in the middle of this, apparently not at all interested in his father’s work. He’d sleep for at least an hour, and the drone of their voices wouldn’t wake him — once he was out, he slept like, well, a baby…
“So, what are you going to do, Jay?”
“For now, go along and see how things shake out. I can always get another job if the military folks turn out to be a bunch of bigger idiots than I think they will be. Though I have to say I would be surprised if that’s possible.”
The baby sighed, and added a kind of warbling moan at the end.
His parents smiled at each other. What a wonderful child he was.
3
Thorn was in the gym, doing what he often did when life got more complex than he liked — practicing his fencing. The exercises were familiar, comfortable, and worked best when you just did them and didn’t think about them. Which was pretty much the way it worked in a real fencing bout, too. Thought was simply too slow. The hand was quicker than the eye, it was true, and the blade was quicker than the mind. In fact, in all the years Thorn had been fencing, he had only ever met one guy who claimed to be able to process each action on the strip as — or before — he made it. Thorn didn’t doubt the guy, but he’d never understood how he could do that.
Right now, Thorn was working on a basic footwork drill: lunge, recover; step, lunge, recover, retreat; step, step, lunge, recover, retreat, retreat; and so on. When he’d first started, his goal was to be able to take ten steps, lunge, recover, and then retreat those same ten steps. These days he went for the entire length of the fencing strip, or piste. The idea was to end up exactly where you started. It developed footwork and form on lunges, and also helped with strength, speed, and smoothness.
He gave up after a while. There was just too much going on inside his head to completely let go of it. The exercise was helping, but not enough. He left the strip and went over to an area of the gym where he’d hung several golf balls on strings set at different heights. He began attacking, picking a particular ball and then throwing attacks of varying complexity, from simple lunges to compound attacks involving bastinadoes and ballestras, each one ending with a strike on the golf ball he’d selected.
Another basic exercise, this was aimed solely at the epeeist, and could greatly improve point control, among other things.
He hit each golf ball three times, and then quit, more frustrated than relaxed. He just could not keep his concentration. Too much to think about. Like sleep on a restless night, the more he reached for that no-mind state, the further it retreated.
When he’d taken this job, it hadn’t been a step up, insofar as money or his career went. Far from it, in fact, but that didn’t matter. He was rich enough from his software creations that he didn’t need to work another day in his life. He had taken the job as a personal challenge, and as a way of offering something to his country in return. Not a choice a lot of boys growing up on the reservation would ever have.
But now? With the military taking over Net Force, there would be changes coming. They might say they would leave it alone, but Thorn knew better. The more hierarchy in an organization, the more it had to make things fit. If the military just barged in and said this was how things were going to be, like it or lump it, they’d find themselves holding an empty sack. The people in Net Force who ran things were all adepts — any of them could bail and have another job lined up before their chairs got cold, and even the military, which wasn’t always the most forward-thinking of organizations, had to know that. Hardware was easy; keeping people who knew how to run it right was not so easy.
That was one of the first lessons Thorn’s grandfather had taught him about hunting: Tromp in too heavily, you spooked the game.
So, yeah, they’d leave things alone to begin with. Except for that edict to shift priorities so their problem came first, there probably wouldn’t be much to look at, insofar as changes went.
But it was coming, Thorn knew. He had run his own company, and had been around the block a few times. It might be subtle at first, but there would be policy changes rolling down the pike, and one day the players at Net Force would look up and realize they weren’t in Kansas anymore…
The question was, what was Thorn going to do about it?
For the moment, the easiest choice would be just wait and see. He could type up his resignation and be ready to leave if things went sour.
That was the easy way. But he had a responsibility that he needed to at least try and see through; he had come here to help, and as long as he could do that without outside micromanagement, he’d stick around. That was the failing of a lot of bosses — they hired good people, but then spent too much time looking over their shoulders, poking their fingers in where they shouldn’t.
Thorn had always been a hands-off manager himself. He figured that if you laid out good money to hire an expert, you should stay out of his way and let him do his job. An unhappy worker didn’t do as good a job as a happy one, and nothing made a skilled hand unhappier than a boss who didn’t know when to shut up and mind his own business. Especially when his help made things worse…
Thorn had bought out a small software company once for less than a third what it was worth, because of that very situation. The company made a communications package, very sleek and functional, tightly written and fairly simple. The CEO, who knew less about computers than he did sales, kept coming to his programmers with demands about how to improve things. The programmers didn’t like that at all, of course; worse, when they implemented the demanded changes, the product didn’t work as well and didn’t sell as well as it had before.
Naturally, the CEO blamed the programmers for his mistakes. People started to quit, and the stock dropped. By the time Thorn got there, there were only a few of the good people left. He bought the company, fired the CEO, stripped out the things that made the product clunky, and sales went back up. Old programmers came back, the ones who were still there stayed, and everybody was better off. Well, everybody except the fired hands-on executive…
He hoped the military wouldn’t do something like that CEO, but looking at it realistically, he had to consider the possibility. And if that happened, he could either stay and fight or he could walk, but it was his bicycle they were messing with.
He smiled at the punch line of the old joke, one his grandfather had told him back on the rez when Thorn was in his teens:
