The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. by Neal Stephenson
Action Item: Review and upgrade weapons safety procedures. Institute mandatory training webinars for all DODO personnel authorized to handle weapons.
SLIDE 8: OPERATION “BOLSTER GAINS”
ACHIEVEMENTS TO DATE (3 of 5), “BROKEN WINDOWS”
POLICY PLACED IN EFFECT
Upon initial inspection, DODO Site Prime was observed to be in substandard physical condition with several plants deceased (presumably owing to lack of appropriate watering rota), dirty dishes in sink, a cold cup of coffee in the microwave, a low standard of maintenance in the men’s washroom (the women’s was not inspected), and whiteboards rendered unusable by virtue of being entirely covered with cryptic symbols. Red Team Leader spontaneously took initiative to effect a “broken windows” policy of proactively cleaning and tidying the space as a way of setting an example to inspire/motivate demoralized Blue Team personnel.
SLIDE 9: OPERATION “BOLSTER GAINS”
ACHIEVEMENTS TO DATE (4 of 5), INCIDENT REPORT
Remaining Blue Team personnel filtered in between 8 and 11 a.m., with no clear policy apparently in effect regarding work hours. At 9:13, Dr. Frank Oda and his wife, Rebecca East-Oda, entered the facility. Dr. Oda affected bewilderment at the dramatic upsurge in whiteboard usable space area, and inquired as to the fate of the “calculations” he had left on them the night before. Red Team Leader briefed him on the “broken windows” policy, but before its rationale and benefits could be enumerated, was interrupted by Mrs. East-Oda who went off agenda with a lengthy and impassioned monologue containing a litany of unprofessional remarks as to the qualifications and character of Red Team Leader. The tone and style of her delivery did not meet reasonable expectations as to social skills and concern for feelings of co-workers. Admittedly this may be a high bar for Mrs. East-Oda who according to background checks has no work experience in high-performance collaborative organizations and a history of lashing out in defense of Dr. Oda. Oda himself was entirely silent during this event, staring off into space in a distracted manner possibly indicative of neurological impairment (presumably age-related). The situation was defused when Blue Team Leader (Lyons) emerged from an adjoining room and announced that he was in the habit of photographing Dr. Oda’s whiteboards and archiving the images as a hedge against mishaps of this type.
Action items: Mrs. East-Oda should be placed on a Performance Enhancement Plan with the clear expectation that she will be terminated with prejudice if her attitude does not show clear improvement. Dr. Oda should be closely observed for further signs of senile dementia and placed on medical leave as indicated.
SLIDE 10: OPERATION “BOLSTER GAINS”
ACHIEVEMENTS TO DATE (5 of 5), THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX
Red Team Leader took advantage of a clean, available whiteboard to bullet-point a number of gambits, ranging from persuasive to kinetic, that might be employed in order to break through Sir Edward Greylock’s reluctance to pivot his 1601 investment strategy toward the East India Company. Noticing a strong, intoxicating fragrance he turned about to discover that he was under observation by an ostensibly young woman matching the description of the Asset. Other Blue Team members had drifted away one by one, claiming that they had other duties to attend to, but the Asset had arrived quite late and seemed to have been observing me for a little while. She was dressed and groomed in a manner likely (and presumably calculated) to pose a distraction to co-workers. Speaking in a strong foreign accent, she demanded an explanation of what I was doing. She found my response strangely amusing. I inquired as to what was so funny. Offering her a whiteboard marker in a contrasting color (which she refused), I requested that she supply point-by-point rebuttals (anticipating a lively exchange of views, I had left ample whitespace for same between my bullet points). She refused to accept the proffered writing instrument or even to supply itemized refutations in a verbal format, instead issuing what, if I understood it correctly, was a blanket dismissal of the entire way of thinking underlying my program of suggested Greylock inducement modalities. During this time I witnessed her fidgeting with the previously mentioned Smallogep, which resembles a raggedy tangle of yarn. When I pressed her again for more actionable feedback, she waved the Smallogep toward the part of the whiteboard where I had bulleted some more forward-leaning measures and told me that these were utter folly because they ran the risk of producing something that sounded like “near osh.” I requested an explanation of the seemingly undesirable phenomenon of “near osh.” This only produced more laughter from the Asset, who, once she had recovered her composure, assured me that if I were the sort of person who needed to have it explained, there was no point in explaining it to me.
The conversation, if it could even be called that, was cut short when Dr. Stokes emerged from her office carrying what I later understood to be a briefing document that she had prepared for Blue Team Leader. She summoned the other members of the team and led a pre-mission briefing session, short on actual operational detail and heavy on historical trivia. Blue Team Leader seemed distracted and unfocused. At more than one point during the meeting I observed him gazing fixedly at the whiteboard on which I had drawn up my bullet points. When it was time for the mission to begin, Dr. Stokes had to snap him out of his reverie and inquire as to whether he felt ready to venture once more into the ODEC. While I cannot read his mind, I interpreted this as suggesting that my intervention and my suggested bullet points had impacted his thinking. This gave me some hope that during the DEDE that commenced a few minutes later he might take more direct and aggressive action to resolve the logjam that has developed around Sir Edward Greylock’s investment strategy.
SLIDE 11: CONCLUSION TO INTERIM SITREP
• DODO Site Prime in state of general disarray
• Corrective measures under way; some personnel resistant to change
• Abundant grounds for HR proceedings against several members of existing Blue Team staff should that be desirable from tactical standpoint
• Smallogep requires further analysis
• Recommend wait and see approach but only for brief window
LETTER FROM
GRÁINNE to GRACE O’MALLEY
A Sunday of Late-Harvest, 1601
Auspiciousness and prosperity to you, milady!
It’s in a dozen Strands that Tristan Lyons has tried to sway Sir Edward Greylock to put his money into the East India Company, and in each one Sir Edward seems on the verge of doing so, and yet Tristan returns from the future with word of no success. He has now amended his strategy, so that he appears to Sir Edward twice in a week, that they may have an unfolding conversation and he may twice impress upon him, without seeming to do so, the wisdom of entrusting his fortune to the East India Company.
The German with the sharp yellow beard is present in all of these conversations, though according to Tristan he hears much and says little. At least we know his name now: Athanasius Fugger. Himself pronounces it “Fucker,” in the German style, but it’s “Fugger” they spell it when abroad in England. He is some manner of third cousin thrice removed to Sir Edward’s German mother. Like all of his clan, he is a banker, and ’twould seem he has Sir Edward’s ear. Tristan complains that this Athanasius has “a poker face that would make him a million in Vegas,” which means naught to you and me, but to him what it signifies is that it is impossible to make out what the fella is thinking—whether he favors the plan of investing in the Boston Council or the East India.
Nor is it much Tristan can glean from Sir Edward himself. For each time, doesn’t Sir Edward claim he is “seriously considering moving his investments”? And yet each time, when Tristan goes off to spy upon that factory, isn’t the factory still there?
So I made Tristan an offer, and it’s sorely tempted he was to accept: if he would but tell me plainly everything, the whole of his schemes and their necessity—why magic declines, why he wants to save it, and with whom, and by what means—I would find others who might also prevail upon Sir Edward, and I would find other wit
Tristan is eager enough to be meeting the Court Witches, once I allowed that there were some. Especially it was the younger ones he wished to meet, for he has a most ambitious plan that is somewhat mad, and yet ’twould amuse me to see it come to pass: he wishes to create a broad constellation or “net-work” of witches who might overlap in time, if not in space, so that he and his brethren, having traveled to some particular time, might freely move about the globe with the assistance of these witches, in any era of their choosing. So if our young witches here can be brought into his fold, then when they be old, they will be alive at the same time as the witches in the New World who are helping him there already, and thus he and his brethren can be moving between the New World and the Old with ease, as Breda and myself move Your Grace’s agents between Ireland and London when the need arises.
A mystery it is to me, why anyone would want to do this in some era not of their own living. ’Twould be exhausting. The complications are legion and you would need an áireamhán so large that it would fill a room, and months it would take to work through all the twigs and stems to guard against the lomadh. Himself seems to understand this, and yet will not be dissuaded. He will not explain more to me, but it’s arrogant he is in believing I should give him everything he wants anyhow. “It’s for the sake of magic’s preservation,” has quick enough become his new rallying cry, and I believe him to a point but ’tisn’t enough to keep me his ally if he will not tell me more. Sure I’ve played enough people in my time that I do not like being played my own self.
Although sure it’s gorgeous shoulders he does have.
So I have told Tristan that until he confesses more of his strategy, he would not be meeting any Court Witches or even being introduced to others who might help change Sir Edward’s inclinations as to his inheritance. But I did agree to introduce him to one other witch, should something ill befall me before his work here is complete.
A wealthy merchant’s daughter she is, fixing to be married by her ambitious father on the Feast of St. Ethelburga to a country gentleman. Rose is her name. I met her when first I came over from Eire, years back. Her father loved the theatre and took her and her brothers to the comedies, where I met her and knew her for a witch. It’s often enough I cross paths with her, and have watched her grow to be a lovely lass. She makes it a habit to go to the plays of a Wednesday, and since Tristan has now taken to returning for a second visit, to “follow up” with Sir Edward, I suggested he come then, and I could introduce them.
So we met up with Rose just outside the Globe gates, because of all the entertainment to be had in London, she always has a yen to see that Stratford Gobshite’s latest. There were mobs of folks streaming in and the chatter was loud, so it was, and not a few of them stank as bad as the backstage fellas. Rose is a wee thing, plump and round-faced, with blue eyes and black hair, almost pretty enough to be Irish. I’d already explained to her all about Tristan.
Tristan was, of course, wearing one of Ned Alleyn’s costumes. Recognized it right off, Rose did, and feigned more interest in it than in our visitor. Tristan doffed his cap and bent his knee—far more honor than a lass of her rank demanded, but he’s a chivalrous type—and Rose instantly said to me, in a tone of delight, “That’s half of Dr. Faustus he’s got upon him, isn’t it?” (For wasn’t Faustus the play of Kit’s at which Rose and I first met.)
Tristan straightens up, frowning a bit, and Rose gives him a brief courtesy, hardly more than a dip of the head. “God ye good day,” says she to us both. And to Tristan, “You must be Gracie’s new friend.”
“She’s been very kind to me,” said Tristan.
“I’ll wager she has,” chuckled Rose, more to me than him. I shook my head no; she shrugged (she doesn’t take to the lads much, does our Rose). Tristan either truly did not understand, or chose to counterfeit ignorance.
“I am on a mission that requires the aid of many of you,” he continued. “I hope that you will support my cause as generously as Gráinne—as Grace has.”
“We could have met inside the gates,” Rose said to me, as if Tristan was not even there.
“If we’d gone inside, we’d have had to pay a penny each, just to watch Dick Burbage recite lines Will Shakespeare probably nicked from Raff Holinshed,” I retorted. “Including his usual insults ’gainst the Irish.”
Rose smirked and said to Tristan (as if she’d never been ignoring him), “Has Gracie been bending your ear with her rant about how Will Shakespeare hates the Irish? She’ll go on all day if we let her. So then. What is it exactly that you’re asking of us? You may safely call me a witch here, nobody’s listening and anyhow they wouldn’t care, not here.”
“My brethren and I are seeking witches who would be willing to align themselves with us, so that if we come here on certain quests, we might be Sent to other places or times, and most especially, that we might be returned to where we came from.”
“Gracie says you’re doing this on account of centuries from now, magic is lost from the world and you are trying to restore it.”
“Aye.”
“How does it come to be lost?”
He shook his head a wee bit, looked exhausted for a heartbeat. “That would be a very long discourse,” he said.
She shrugged. “I am in no hurry, the worst that will happen is that I miss the players today.”
“I will tell you more if you agree to help.”
“You’ve got it backwards, sir. I will agree to help you after you tell me more. For instance, how does your romping around through space and time bring magic back? What exactly is it you be doing?”
He grimaced briefly. “I cannot tell you all that yet,” he said. “If you work with us, and it is a fruitful relationship, then I can reveal more.”
She frowned at him. “Do you perceive yourself to be doing me a favor? What do I care what happens to magic a thousand years from now? I’ll be dead and gone. I’ll help you now only if you make yourself interesting to me, and prithee pardon me but you are failing mightily to accomplish that.”
“I swear in God’s own name that I will tell you more just as soon as I can.”
“Will you?” She gave him the friendliest of smiles. “That’s lovely. Let me know when you’re capable of doing so and we can continue this discussion. God ye good day, sir.”
And off she sallied into the Globe, reaching into her pocket for a penny.
There’s many better a thing I can think to do with a penny. But at least the two have met, and under circumstances that make Tristan’s situation here plain to him.
Tristan, so unlike his usual stoic self, seemed dismayed as he watched her flounce off into the theatre yard to join the other groundlings.
“It’s nothing worse than anything I’ve said to you, lad,” I said, with a comforting hand on his shoulder because I do so like the curves on him.
“I must get home,” he said. “If you will not help me directly, I must get back to my time. ’Tis difficult there now. They need me.”
“You look like you could use some relaxing, Tristan Lyons,” I said with a smile, and put my hand on his arm. The gates closed to the theatre and the trumpet sounded within. “Come back to the Tearsheet.” I smiled invitingly.
He moved away from me, but I noticed it was in the direction of the Tearsheet he was walking anyhow. “That’s right,” I said, purring. “That’s the way you want to be going.” I walked past him toward the tavern. I heard a little irritated sigh as he followed me. “What’s making it so very hard back home?” I asked in a sympathetic voice, looking over my shoulder.
“There’s a new man where I work,” he said in clipped syllables. “We have different . . . methods. He is more forceful, and I am more strategic.”
“I like forceful,”
We got back to the brewery and marched right up to my closet, as always. By now our established method was that we stood in the room together, he in Ned Alleyn’s stolen costumes, and I Sent him away and then just folded up the clothes and locked them in the chest. But he really did seem so distressed, and I love the scent of a man under pressure. Playful I decided to be, and so I said, “Tell me everything in detail, or I won’t be Sending you home at all.”
The look of shock on his face was so fetching, I couldn’t keep myself from laughing.
“I’m codding you, Tristan Lyons—what would I gain by keeping you here when you won’t even kiss me? You’d scare all my customers away and I’d die of starvation, so I would.”
’Twas both relieved and annoyed he looked, briefly, then said, “I don’t believe that. You do not make your living as a bawd, as much as you want it to seem so.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Do you know that, or is it guessing you are?”
“Common sense. If a witch can evade torture, as you mentioned, she can evade poverty and degradation. The harlotry is a cover. For what, I wonder?”
I leaned in closer to him. “I’ll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours,” said I, and gave him the sweetest smile in my broad collection.
His eyes narrowed a touch and he looked sideways at me. “I’m not an idiot. Make me that offer without the smile and I’ll consider it.”
“What if I keep the smile but drop the offer?” I said. “Is it a smile I get from you in exchange? Perhaps a little something more?”
“We are in league together,” he said, holding up his hand as if I were the devil and he a priest. “I cannot do that with a colleague.”
“Delighted I am to hear we’re colleagues!” I said. “Pray tell me what scheme it is, in which it’s colleagues we are? And don’t be saying classified because if we’re in league, then we should be pooling our secrets, not keeping them from each other. It’s a waste of your time to be asking me for help if you’re not willing to take me into your confidences.”