The first thing you need to know is that Recorders don't lie.

I don't mean the musical instrument, of course. Those lie all the time. Mostly they lie around in a child's desk drawer after that child has finished an embarrassing year at school learning to play hesitant renditions of old tunes on them. But I digress.

A Recorder is a man or woman who travels from world to world to make official note of events. On many of the hundred or so planets which make up the League of Laxis, no one would dream of holding a major ribbon-cutting or groundbreaking or button-pushing without a Recorder there to see it done. On others, Recorders are called to witness births, marriages, or deaths of particularly important people, or of those who hope to be important someday.

Before they leave school, most Laxans try their hands at the nastily exhausting writing tests which are the first step towards becoming a Recorder. Those who pass and decide to go on spend three years studying in the classroom, then four as an apprentice in the field. They are trained to report exactly what they see, to keep their conclusions and feelings about events separate from the Recordings. Once they become full Recorders, they carry enough defensive weaponry that attacking a Recorder is considered suicide on League worlds, and their pay scale makes "Is a Recorder rich?" the question of choice for things that should have been obvious all along.

Religions vary widely from world to world, but Recorders are esteemed everywhere. If it's not Recorded, then it's not real, Laxans say. Many people dream of talking to a Recorder, of being found worthy for their words to enter into the chronicles of history. Many others dream of being a Recorder, of being the one who chooses what is worthy to chronicle.

I wish I could tell them how hard a job it is. Especially when it involves other people's pain.

My name is Jack Murtland. I've been a Recorder for fifteen years. A bit more than halfway through that span, I was summoned to the world of Vychem, to bear witness to peace negotiations between two of its peoples. When I left, I had two companions I didn't when I arrived. One was a person, the other a secret. I've kept them both (for the differently appropriate values of the word) since that day.

Recorders don't lie. But they do have to choose which truth to tell.

This is the story of the choices I made.

For the Record.

Worldport 620 never slept. It quieted down some in the early hours of the morning, or whenever thunderstorms strong enough to interfere with transporting blew in, but I'd never seen it entirely dead.

Today was no exception. The middling-sized hall where my entry gate let out was filled with people. Some were walking, others were riding small machines which looked like a cross between a Segway and a UFO. These Personal Transports, or Petes as everyone called them, were the exclusive property of the various Worldports where they operated, if only because no one else could make them work. The prevailing theory was that Worldports were unlikely enough by themselves that Petes could slip by the reality checkers in their shadow.

After checking the number above my entry gate—16—I pulled out my instructions. My destination was gate 506.

I know I need exercise, but this is ridiculous.

I headed for the nearest Pete-rental station.

Aboard my Pete, gate 506 programmed into its tiny computer brain, I started browsing once more through my newest assignment. It looked similar to others I'd done in the past, but Recorders who didn't learn within the first year of their apprenticeships that the details made all the difference never became Recorders at all.

Two hundred years ago, or as near as makes no difference, the world of Vychem was in the middle of a golden age. Technology was developing at a breakneck pace, the economies of the various countries were booming, people were all getting along, and the prevailing attitude was that the good times would last forever.

They hadn't.

One of the dominant religions of the world developed a nasty streak which took its followers quickly from "devout" to "fanatic," by which I mean they stopped being willing to die for their faith and started being willing to kill for it. These fanatics destroyed a few major technical centers around the world, killing several thousand innocent people and sending Vychem's economy over a cliff. The fragile checks and balances of global power came undone, and several wars broke out simultaneously, destroying even more of the technology that a great many of Vychem's people depended on for daily life.

I found myself glad I hadn't lived in those times, or been the Recorder assigned to chronicling those wars. We're called to be dispassionate, but even Jennifer Farley's most carefully neutral words carried the weight of the suffering she'd witnessed on Vychem. Of course, she was one of the best—a 'Farley' is what Recorders call a particularly well-written Record, one that leaves the reader feeling as though he'd been there—but even in such a body of work as hers, the Records of the Vychem Wars stood out.

The Wars ended at last, as all wars do, and the survivors turned to rebuilding. The League sent its usual disaster help, food and clothing and other basics, but once the Vychemese were out of immediate danger, they politely refused further assistance...

I frowned at the ending of the sentence.

...though each of the two cultures I witnessed developing did so for a different reason—one set of people wished to do the work themselves, while the others insisted their current state was the will of the gods. Those who held the gate sites politely asked me to leave, indicating that when they needed a Recorder again they would send for one. If you, reading this now, are that Recorder, to you I say: Be wary by day, and doubly so by night. Not all on Vychem is as it seems.

My Pete emitted a two-tone chime, and I looked up. It was slowing to a stop outside gate 506, which appeared to be a rough stone archway such as might lead from one chamber of a cave to another. Opposite it was gate 505, a rectangular doorframe made from red brick. A Worldport gate reflects the nature of its terminus on the other side, which in turn hides itself in plain sight, changing to look like whatever is around it.

Both gates were situated on a small side hall with a grubby, unused look. Not surprising, if Vychem had been so thoroughly destroyed by war as the Record indicated. The planetside gate sites would still be available—any attempt to build over them would have been thwarted by the disappearance of personnel who stepped through the wrong door at the wrong time—but depending on how much knowledge had been lost in the wars, they might have been shunned as sacred, haunted, or evil until recently.

Wonder who remembered they were none of the above?

The answer, along with another piece of my life's work, was waiting for me through gate 506.

Here's hoping it'll be a challenge this time. I'm sick to death of this easy stuff they've been sending me on.

I climbed down from the Pete and took my backpack off it, tapped the "Home" button to send it back to the nearest rental station, and stepped up to the gate, skimming down the last few lines of my official notification of assignment.

Your contact on Vychem is Madam Carada Picto, current leader of the Luxian people, who are a mainly agrarian society. She, and her nation with her, desire a formal settlement of peace with the more mechanistic Murcani, who live in a string of cities north of the Luxian lands. Madam Narada wished it stressed that no state of war exists between Luxia and Murcan; she merely wishes the current peace, in her words, "made real." We welcome this indication that Vychem is beginning to heal from its times of trouble, and look forward to the day when we may welcome it into the League of Laxis once more.

Shouldering my backpack, I flicked a finger up the reader's screen, scrolling the text of my notification back to the top and the seal of the Laxan Recorders' Council. "Immediate transport, please," I said to the gate computer, waving the seal past the recognition module. "Official Recorder business."

The computer chimed once. "Immediate transport to Vychem for Recorder Jack Murtland confirmed," said the pleasant female voice from the speaker. "Return times from this gate are local noon and midnight. Mind the edge. Have a nice day."

"Thanks," I said. "You too."

Even with computers, politeness never hurts.

The archway filled with the darkness of a windowless house at midnight, and I stepped through.

Gate transport is impossible to describe, so I won't try. One moment I was in the Worldport, and the next I was somewhere else. In this case, as I'd expected from the shape of the gate, it was a cave.

Two people were waiting for me, both holding candles. One was a mature woman, not quite old enough to be my mother but definitely with five or ten years on me, and the other was a boy about twelve or thirteen who had the same straw-blond hair and pointed chin she did. Both were dressed in rough tunics and long pants, and their shoes looked to be made of canvas.

"Recorder Murtland, so good of you to come," the woman said, beaming as she advanced on me. "Welcome to Nottu; it's as close as we have to a capital here in backwards little Luxia. I'm Carada Picto, but you must call me Cara, and this is my son Irvin. Say hello, Irvin."

"Hello, Irvin," the boy said dully.

His mother swung around and hissed like an angry cat. "Stop that this instant! What will the Recorder think?"

"I think he has a sense of humor," I said, drawing the woman's attention back to me. "Stand him in good stead when he goes out into the world. Pleased to meet you both—" I held out my hand to her. "—and if you want to be Cara, you'll have to call me Jack."

"Jack, of course." Cara beamed again as she shook my hand. "Do follow me, you must be tired, coming all that way, and we have a room ready for you. I'm afraid it's not much, especially compared to what I'm sure you're used to, but we live very simply here in Luxia, and if you need anything, just ask me or Irvin, we'll do our best to find it right away..."

I set my brain to "record" and followed her out of the cave, Irvin behind us both, his face set in a half-sneer that looked fairly permanent. With a mother who treated him like he was four, I wasn't surprised.

Still, if I can get his confidence, he might be helpful. Kids see everything, and nobody pays attention to them...

Except that Recorders are taught to pay attention to everyone.

The tunnel we'd been walking through widened out into another cave, and I realized that Luxians, at least these two, lived underground. The candles my hosts were holding and the embers of a fire in a corner cast enough light for me to see a wooden table and chairs to one side, a tall shelf made of rocks and boards against another wall, and two expanses of undyed canvas blocking similar tunnels to the one we'd entered by. Cara went to the farther left one and pulled it aside, waving me towards it.

"It's a bit small," she said anxiously, "but it's private and dry. I do hope it'll be all right."

"Just fine," I assured her, and meant it. Some of my colleagues insisted on palatial accommodations wherever they go, but I had a feeling this was palatial for the culture in question. Besides, I'd slept in far worse places.

The tiny cave was, as advertised, private and dry, and the pallet on the floor looked to be stuffed with straw. A sheet of thin material and a pair of thick blankets sat atop it, neatly folded. A clay pot was tucked into an alcove in the far wall, above which was a natural shelf of rock containing a pitcher of water and a shallow bowl. Irvin had dripped some of his candle's melted wax onto the shelf, and was now holding the candle in the wax while it solidified, making sure it would stay upright.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Absolutely." I gave Cara my most sincere smile. "As long as the water's safe to drink, I'll have everything I need for the time being."

"Wonderful, I'm so glad to hear it, and yes, the water's just fine, Irvin brought it in from the stream this morning, so if that's all you need, we'll just be off—Irvin Hypatios Thaddeus Filbert, you've done quite enough over there, come to bed this instant, it's late and you know how you are in the mornings if you don't get enough sleep—"

"Yes, Mother," Irvin said quietly, but I caught the glare he shot at her as she turned away, and hoped I hadn't correctly interpreted the phrase his lips formed. It wasn't anything a twelve-year-old should know how to wish, least of all on his own mother.

Though if any mother deserves it...

Irvin headed for the door, but I held up a hand to delay him. "What's your full name again?" I asked under my breath.

"Irvin Hypatios Thaddeus Filbert Picto," the boy recited, looking at me suspiciously. "That going in your Record?"

"Yes, I think it will." If only to give my readers a better impression of the inner workings of Carada Picto's mind. "Got anything in there you like to be called?"

A brief smile wiped out the sneer, and for the first time I saw a person I might be able to like in the boy across the cave. "I had friends once," he said. "They called me Todd."

I set my bag down in the alcove beside the pot and began unfolding the blankets, spreading one over the pallet with the sheet on top of it and setting the other one at the top for a pillow. "Mind if I use that?"

"Please." Todd glanced at the canvas door covering. "Just don't expect Mother to follow your lead. She wouldn't take a hint if it were wrapped up in pretty cloth and handed to her on a silver platter."

"Thanks for the warning."

Todd turned towards the door again, then paused. "Test the water," he said, almost too quietly for me to hear. "And don't believe everything you hear."

Before I could ask him anything else, he was gone.

Test the water, huh?

I pulled open my bag, found the medical kit, and opened the pouch of Important Papers (patent pending), which indicated via color if water wasn't safe to drink and why not. I'd once used a handful to convince a culture which had replaced most of its science with religion that they really shouldn't shovel manure into the streams they used for water, not even if their gods told them it was all right.

Fanaticism by any other name is still deadly to the innocent.

I sighed, dismissing the memories, and dropped the small white strip of paper into the water pitcher. It floated there for a moment, then turned a deep cobalt blue.

Blue. I've seen blue somewhere before. Not in the field, it was back at school...

A moment of digging inside the bag of IPs netted me the user's manual. Holding it near the candle, I skimmed quickly down the spectrum of colors to blue.

"Blue indicates the presence in the water of a plant-based toxin," read the small print beside the colored box. "The deeper the color, the more toxin is present. Some plants which grow by water sources are naturally poisonous, so a blue test strip does not necessarily indicate human activity, but the user should nonetheless proceed with caution. An accidental poisoning makes one no less dead."

I looked again at the blue paper floating innocently on the surface of the water.

They tell you at school that a Recorder's life is never dull.

What they don't tell you is how much shorter it can abruptly become.

Closing the bag and putting it away again, I blew out the candle and lay down on my bed. I could figure out who, if anyone, was trying to kill me in the morning.

Welcome to Vychem—such a nice place, you'll want to stay forever...