Authors: M.L. Janes
Alien Tongues
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Alien Tongues |
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© 2016 M.L. Janes |
Mark O'Reilly |
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Alien Tongues
Agency
When he got the call to go to his boss's office, Séamus expected to be fired. A sorry end to his dream.
Since joining the Agency a little over two years ago, not much had gone right for him. He felt sure he had failed badly on his last assignment. Three months trying to create a reliable source at the mosque without anything to show for it. Maybe others would have done no better, but he doubted it. He had heard these other agents talking to sources and potential sources. They were persuasive, artful, devious, quick-witted in responding to objections or refusals. He, on the other hand, frequently found himself out-argued by even the working-class boys and suffering some lecture in failed silence. He may have been able to pass the entrance tests, but it had become increasingly clear he did not have what it took for this kind of raw, intuitive intelligence work. He was the plodding type, and he was going to have to find a job to match. Too bad about this endless recession.
At 4 pm that Friday, the early January London sky was already dark as he pushed his chair back from his cubicle, pulled on his suit jacket, grabbed a notepad and made his way to the principals' floor. Maybe he would call Sheryl and suggest they eat out that night – it would be better to break the news of losing his job in a restaurant where her reaction would be more muted. His feet felt increasingly leaden as he approached the secretary's outer office. The elderly Mrs Watson, forever in a twin-set which today was beige, gave him her usual nice smile.
"They're ready for you, Dear. Just knock and walk straight in."
They? It did not take more than his boss to dismiss him. Séamus felt a moment's twinge in his stomach as he wondered if this might be some investigation. Surely his expense claims were the most modest in the office? He told himself not to overreact, straightened his jacket, rapped twice on the door and opened it.
His boss was not at her desk. She was seated on the sofa next to the window, and beside her and in adjacent armchairs were three men. A tea tray sat on a low table between them. Four cups were poured and a fifth cup stood empty. This was all a very good sign. Séamus stood at the door, waiting for the invitation to enter further.
"Séamus." His boss, Mrs Barbara Coates, looked up at him and smiled reassuringly with her mouth. Her eyes, as always, showed nothing. "Please come and take a seat. Would you like tea?"
There was a straight-backed chair between the armchairs, but comfortable-enough looking not to make this appear like an interrogation. He thanked his boss for tea and took the chair, avoiding eye-contact with the other men until introduced. As always, Barbara Coates looked elegant and exceptionally attractive for her forty-ish years – a green silk dress that proved the absence of any fatty bulges; tasteful jewelry which perfectly suited her short, blonde hair. The classic English Rose. She poured the milk and tea deftly, passing the cup and saucer in a gracious movement which left the tea inside completely still. Séamus was afraid that, if he picked it up, his hands would shake. He just continued to stare down at it.
"Let me introduce my guests," his boss continued, glancing to her left. "Professor James Wilkie from Cambridge, and Dr Andrew Stott from Guy's Hospital." Then she turned right. "And Terry Lawrence from the Ministry."
The Professor smiled and reached out a hand to Séamus. Séamus leaned forward and shook it. The man wore a light grey suit and red bow-tie which, combined with his longish white hair and short beard, gave a somewhat eccentric impression. The doctor raised a hand to acknowledge Séamus and also smiled. He too had long white hair but was overall more businesslike in style. The man from the Ministry nodded his acknowledgement without expression, as befitting a very senior civil servant on the arrival of a rather junior one who has yet to demonstrate any significant capability. He was perfectly groomed and tailored in a way that Séamus imagined the man would be on every occasion. Though the British class system was a shadow of its former self, Terry Lawrence could not help but look like he was bred at the top of it. It was a style that Séamus, in his ready-to-wear high-street suit, admired and envied.
"OK, Gentlemen, I am now going to hand it over to you." Barbara Coates looked at Wilkie. "Professor, why don't you start?"
"Delighted." The short, white beard thrust a little closer to Séamus. "My area is the cognitive sciences, particularly the study of languages. By that of course I mean the science of language itself – how it is stored and used in the brain, why it is structured in a certain way and not some other way, what are the common properties of different languages, etcetera." The professor paused. "Mr FitzGerald, do you know what a
creole
is?"
Séamus's mind raced for a decent answer. "It's a language that forms out of two or more other languages, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's one main feature of it. And it's a complete language, with its own grammatical structure, so it can be used to express complex ideas without ambiguity. That makes it different from a
pidgin
, which is a sort of primitive language formed just out of the words of different languages. Generally, a pidgin gets created when a group of adults who have different tongues are required to live and work together. A creole is then created out of the pidgin by their children. You see, children have an absolute mastery at learning complex grammar and, if a group of them are given a language without a grammar, they will make one up. And they'll faithfully use that grammar thereafter."
"The Professor is in danger of giving us a fascinating lecture," interrupted the doctor. "Wilkie, this is important stuff for FitzGerald here, but may I suggest we hold the detailed theory for the moment in the interest of time? I want to have him understand the essential details of the assignment now so he can make a quick decision about it, otherwise we're going to have to jump to Plan B or Plan C very quickly. Would you mind if I tried a much cruder version of the story?"
"Your floor, Old Chap."
The doctor leaned forward towards Séamus, arms resting on his knees, a pose of urgency that Séamus guessed he used sparingly. "Look, FitzGerald. We have four young women. All from Asia. They will arrive in a few days' time at our facility in Yorkshire and take part in a highly confidential and extremely important experiment. I stress that they are coming entirely of their own free will, and know that they'll be handsomely rewarded for their efforts. These women – girls, you might call them – are exceptional in several ways. First, they have tremendous language capabilities. That's obviously the Professor's department. Second, they have almost as exceptional numerical skills - that's also the Prof's area. Third – and this is my area – they have some psychological issues. Sociological, you might say…"
"They're thieves," added the man from the Ministry.
"Yes, Terry, each of them has been convicted of theft once or twice. That activity is connected with their mental issues, but theft is not a mental issue
per se
. My point is, they are not easy girls to handle. And the experiment for which we need their participation will greatly tax their energies over an extended period of time. They will need a minder, and that minder will need to be dedicated to making sure they finish the job as expected."
His boss turned to Séamus. "That minder would be you. This assignment will require you permanently stationed at the Yorkshire facility for what could be as much as twelve months."
Strange new facts kept hitting him like punches. A confidential experiment about pidgins and creoles. Four convicted thieves. Minding them for maybe a year in the remotest part of England. If it wasn't the undoubted seriousness of four very senior members of British society, he would have sworn this was some kind of comedy skit.
"Why did we choose Asian girls?" Lawrence asked. "Don't we have enough thieves to pick from in London? I understand it's the one industry that's booming in this economy."
The last remark was so flippant, Séamus thought, that only such a senior individual could make it without censure. Obviously the girls had been chosen for their gifts, and a history of theft was unavoidable baggage. The professor addressed the first question.
"It was purely statistical," he explained. "First, these linguistic and numerical gifts are extremely rare. They are relatively much more common in Asia than elsewhere, and the population for which there exists accessible data is 70% Asian. So we had a decent choice there, and very little from Europe and America. Second, we needed current mastery of both Eastern and Western languages, which is far more common in Asia. Third, we needed governments that were cooperative with our aims, and didn't have to follow time-consuming, data-privacy procedures. Fourth, it helped to have girls from families which were in financial difficulty, and who would find it hard to turn down a generous reward."
He paused. "The fact that these particular girls have been convicted of theft is largely due to family medical bills. London thieves, even if we could find one who qualified, have the National Health Service."
Séamus felt he needed to say something at this stage, just to show he was following what was going on. "Principal," he replied, "Do you firmly believe I am the right agent for this assignment?"
He could tell by her expression that he had said the right thing in the right tone. It sounded like he had accepted, but he was also showing he understood his track record, and he was inviting an explanation of one clearly incongruous item.
"Yes, Séamus." His boss looked into space thoughtfully. "I know your last assignment didn't go well. That was much more our mistake than yours – it simply didn't play to your strengths. You know, we pick a very select group of agents from a large field of candidates. Each of you is chosen because of some special skill set. We Principals make it our business to know most of you better than you know yourselves."
The doctor pointed to his watch, but she held up a hand to him to say, we need a moment on this – it's worth it. "Let me tell you, the mosque job is nothing compared with this one. Maybe this is the biggest job of all time for the Agency. Both the doctor and I know you are the best agent we have for this assignment. I can't explain to you why now; maybe when it's well under way. But any of our female agents would be wrong for this one, let me assure you. You have to trust us. Are you telling me you will do it?"
What on earth was he accepting? A year in a laboratory with four foreign tea-leafs (or was it tea-leaves)? He was leaping off a cliff in the pitch-dark, his boss assuring him there was enough water below. Why didn't he care at that moment? Why was his heart fit to burst with joy?
Séamus was too young to have known of Margaret Thatcher while she still lived, but he imagined his boss sharing some essential qualities of the Iron Lady in her younger days. When it came to life's strategy, there was never a shadow of doubt to be found and not even the patience to debate. Conversations served one purpose only – choosing the tactics to achieve the unchanging strategic end. Many men had detested this quality of Mrs Thatcher, as perhaps they did of other women who shared it. But Séamus could feel only a sense of awe for a human being so different from himself, and who provided him with the direction he needed. Maybe his boss was tricking him, but at that moment it didn't seem to matter. She had told him in front of these other leaders that he had been chosen because of his special skill set, and that was enough. Right then and there he would follow her anywhere. He confirmed his acceptance.
His boss smiled again, more broadly than when he had entered, but again with stone-cold eyes. The professor leaned across the table and again shook his hand. "Congratulations, Mr FitzGerald. You are placing a lot of faith in us and we appreciate it. I think we can now save the briefing until we get to Yorkshire. Please be there by Noon on Monday. A car without driver will be available for you at the train station and it will be yours for the duration."
With that, the meeting ended. As Séamus walked back to his desk, he pondered that he had just given up a year of his life in London, and perhaps his relationship as well. How could he possibly explain his decision to Sheryl? He found his mind running through a series of expensive restaurants where she was least likely to raise her voice at him.