Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (12 page)

He even half-wondered if Lyvia were some sort of private operator who'd picked him up on her own. After a moment, he dismissed that … mostly. She spoke Federation, and no one else seemed to. She'd known where his dropboat had landed, even something about his angle of descent through the orbital shields, and she'd addressed him immediately in Federation. If she could muster those kinds of resources as an individual … he had even bigger problems than he'd thought. And so did the Federation.

He left his temporary quarters with five minutes to spare, walking down the utilitarian upper hallway wearing the deep gray singlesuit and carrying inside it the small stunner. Besides the stunner, his boots were the only item of his own that he wore, but he hadn't cared for the almost slipperlike slip-ons that had been left in the closet of the bedroom. When he started down the circular ramp to the reception area, he saw that Lyvia had also changed. She wore a rich green and feminine one-piece suit, with a dark gray vest and dress boots that matched his singlesuit.

She waited until he reached the bottom of the ramp before speaking. “You like solid footware, I see.”

“I always have.”

“I can understand that. You look good in a dressy singlesuit.” Both her mouth and her gray eyes smiled.

“Thank you. So do you.” Roget inclined his head. “How do the locators in the singlesuit work?”

“I have no idea,” she replied, “except that they're passive. No one but me knows where you are right now.”

“That could change in a moment.”

“It could. That's up to you.” She paused. “What are you in the mood to have for dinner?”

“Something good, not excessively spicy, nor so subtle as to be boringly bland, and preferably something that you'd also enjoy. In short, I'm in your hands … as I've been all day.” Roget kept his voice light and ironic.

Lyvia laughed. “You do have a sense of humor.” She turned. “We'll go expensive.”

Roget followed her out through the antechamber and into an evening under a sky that remained ever so faintly amber. Already he missed seeing stars in the heavens.

“I've confirmed reservations at Dorinique.”

“That was on the central square, wasn't it?”

“Yes. We'll have a window table. That way you can watch the square.”

Watching Lyvia was likely to be more interesting and practical, but there was no point in saying so. Roget slipped to her left and matched her steps, much less hurried than earlier.

The walkways were slightly more crowded than before, but Roget saw more couples, and their pace seemed more leisurely. The air was slightly cooler and comfortably humid, but barely so.

“Things are slower in the evening.”

“They should be, don't you think?”

Roget hadn't thought about that. Taiyuan was far faster, Fort Greeley far more utilitarian and worn down, and St. George and Colorado Springs far slower, but Skeptos was a planetary capital. “Are there continental or regional capitals on Dubiety?”

“There are regional administrative centers, but we're not a republic with regional governments. That's an inefficiency that's no longer necessary.”

No longer necessary?

There was something about the way the walkways and buildings were lit, but they had walked almost a full block before Roget realized exactly what it was. The light from the buildings or the almost invisible arching street lights didn't scatter. Nor did the pavement reflect it in the slightest. Yet the walkways were well-illuminated in a fashion that afforded no shadows for lurkers or those up to little good.

As they continued walking, Roget could hear a violin playing, cheerfully, rather than sounding lonely. He glanced toward the center of the square where a young woman stood on the low stone platform below the monument. He didn't see any form of amplifier or projector. “Buskers, yet?”

“No. Musicians apply for the privilege, and they're paid. If enough citizens register approval, they get a bonus. Sometimes it's considerable.”

“What if people don't approve?”

“No one is allowed to play who isn't technically proficient.”

“That sounds rather … restrictive,” suggested Roget.

“We don't cater to unrestricted public taste. That panders to the lowest common denominator, and the more it's catered to, the lower it goes.”

“Elitism, yet. What about popularity?”

“That's fine, but only when it's based on excellence.”

“Great elitism, then,” Roget said lightly.

“There's a great deal to be said for elitism, so long as it's only a barrier to incompetence and not to ability.”

“An interesting way of putting it.”

“What other way is there to put it?” Lyvia turned toward the door, which opened from both sides.

They walked inside, and the door closed.

A woman in a singlesuit with angled alternating stripes of white and black stood waiting. She wore a white sleeveless vest.

“Rholyn, two,” Lyvia said.

“By the window, yes?”

Roget had to strain to make out even those simple words.

“Please. This is my friend's first trip to Skeptos.”

“This way.” The hostess turned and walked around a head-high partition. Behind it was a row of tables for two set against the window.

As Roget followed, his eyes and ears were caught by the four musicians playing on a small circular stage in the middle of the restaurant. He recognized the large keyboard instrument as an ancient acoustical piano—except it clearly wasn't ancient—while a tall woman played some sort of reed instrument. The two others played strings, a violin and a cello, he thought.

Roget took the seat facing the door, from where he could observe the comings and goings of patrons, once they stepped past the partition, and both the square and the restaurant. His eyes drifted back to the instrumentalists.

“You look surprised,” observed Lyvia.

“Acoustical instruments? With all your technology?”

“Technology is a focused application. It doesn't do particularly well with the best forms of music, especially in dealing with overtones, because they're not always consistent, and they're not meant to be.”

Rather than reply, Roget studied the table. The cloth covering it was pale green, but looked to be synthetic, as was the upholstery on the comfortable and supportive chairs. The cutlery, while curved slightly in a fashion he had not seen, was recognizably human. Each setting had a darker green cloth napkin, and a crystal tumbler and a matching goblet. To the left of the setting was a single shimmering sheet with writing on it—a menu.

The muted sounds of conversation and the continuing music seemed familiar, and yet unfamiliar, because Roget still understood few words and did not recognize any of the music. He was thankful that it was melodic and not driving.

Lyvia said nothing.

“You said that I was a friend,” Roget finally spoke. “I'm glad you think of me in friendly terms.”

“You haven't proved otherwise. I hope you don't.”

“Courtesy as a conversion tool?”

“You're suggesting that Dubiety is an enemy of the Federation. Why? Have we done anything to harm you or the Federation? Besides leave the Federation behind more than a thousand years ago?”

Gently spoken as her words were, they brought Roget up sharply. “Are you? An enemy?”

“Have we sought you out? Attacked you? Sent agents down from warships to spy on your planets?”

“I wouldn't know,” admitted Roget.

“We haven't, but I can't prove a negative.” She smiled and picked up the menu. “We should order.”

“Are you paying for this?”

“I'll be reimbursed. Have what you like. I imagine it's been some time since you had a truly fine dinner.”

“That's true enough.” He couldn't even remember when that might have been. He picked up the menu. He squinted, trying to decipher the words before he realized, belatedly, that the words were printed in old American script. While some of the spellings were unfamiliar, he could make out most of the fare descriptions. The entire menu was simple, listing four appetizers, three salads, two soups, and five entrees.

A young man appeared tableside, wearing the same type of striped singlesuit as the hostess had. “What would you like to drink?”

Roget actually understood the antique clipped words.

“I'll have an Espoiran red,” Lyvia said.

“A pale lager, if you have it,” Roget offered.

“Lager? Oh … pilsner. We have Cooran or Sanduk.”

“The lighter one.”

“Cooran.” The server inclined his head. “Thank you.” Then he was on his way toward the rear.

“You'll pick up the word patterns before long,” said Lyvia.

“How did you learn Federation Stenglish?”

“I studied it, of course. It's broadcast all over the Galaxy.”

Roget saw the server returning with a tray on which were a goblet and a chilled glass that looked like a cross between a tumbler and an overlarge champagne flute.

“Here you are, sera and ser.”

“Thank you,” replied Roget.

“Might I take your order?”

Roget ordered the Chicken Emorai, whatever that was, and a green salad with patacio nuts and a crumbled cheese. He thought Lyvia ordered some sort of beef in pastry.

Lyvia lifted her goblet. “To your enjoyment of dinner.”

Roget inclined his head. “And to yours.”

Her goblet held a pinkish vintage. Roget looked at it questioningly. “Red?”

“It tastes red, but there are some side effects of the shields, and we don't do artificial colorants in anything edible.”

“How do the orbital shields work?”

“They deflect some solar radiation, transmit the majority, and reradiate the remainder. I don't know the physics behind their operation.”

“Why are they there?”

“Dubiety is really too close to the sun. It was more like Venus until the terraforming.”

“Ice asteroid and comet bombardment?”

“Among other techniques.”

“Such as?” pressed Roget.

“High atmospheric bioengineering, nanitic heat dispersion … I don't know all of them.”

“Why not just seek out a planet in a habitable zone?”

“At the time, that wasn't feasible.”

“Why not?”

“There were traceability issues.”

“From the Federation?”

“Who else?” She smiled wryly.

“We still found you.”

“Much, much later, and that makes a difference.”

“What sort of difference?”

A smile was the only answer he got.

“How long have the orbital shields been there?”

“Exactly…” she shrugged. “Today's date is 17 Maris 1811
P. D.
That's 1,811 years since the first landing. The basic terraforming took something like two-thousand real-time years before that.”

“Two thousand years before the landing eighteen hundred years ago, when you left the Federation less than two thousand years ago?”

“Give or take a hundred years.”

Roget laughed. “That's quite a story.”

“Time isn't what you think it is,” Lyvia said mildly, stopping to take a sip of the pinkish wine.

There were two possibilities. Lyvia was lying. Or she was telling the truth. Roget didn't like either one. He didn't have any sense that she was lying. In fact, she seemed to be almost taunting him with the truth, but that could be because her lies were so outrageous. If she did happen to be telling the truth … then the Thomists possessed technology that posed an incredible threat to the Federation. But that raised yet another question—why hadn't they used it?

No human culture had ever failed to use superior force against a former enemy, if only as a coercive tool. But did the Dubietan technology provide enough of an edge against the obviously numerically greater Federation? When did numbers outweigh technology … or vice versa?

The entire restaurant seemed to swirl around Roget for a moment, but he knew that was just his own mind trying to deal with the surreality of the situation in which he found himself. He'd been dropped onto an unknown planet beneath a series of shields that were technically impossible, and he was having dinner in a fine restaurant, and he'd just been told that the culture had been founded some four thousand years before by refugees who had left the Federation barely less than two thousand years before.

The other possibility was that he was unconscious, and some alien intelligence was playing with his mind to such a degree that he just thought he was having dinner. That didn't make him feel any better because he was fully aware of the tastes, the smells, and the sounds. While Lyvia Rholyn was attractive to the eye and had a nice figure, she wasn't exactly his type. Any alien intelligence that could simulate all that and orbit a shield system in three layers was potentially deadly.

But … if it were that deadly … why bother to play with his mind at all?

He took a swallow of the Cooran.

The server reappeared with his salad and a thick creamlike soup for Lyvia.

Roget glanced out the window toward the square. A couple was walking toward them, and the woman had a leash in her hand. On the end of the leash was a small dog. Roget smiled. “That's the first dog I've seen.”

“We had one when I was growing up.”

Roget watched as the dog—seemingly a long-haired red dachshund, not short-haired and black and tan like Hildegarde or Muffin—made his way past Dorinique, almost strutting as he did. “Are pets less common?”

“Less common than what or where?” Lyvia raised her eyebrows.

Roget shrugged. “That's the only one I've seen.” He took a bite of the salad, with a dark greenery that didn't taste that unfamiliar, for all its deep coloration. The nut fragments were good, but not a taste he recalled, and the cheese crumbles were similar to, but more tangy than, a blue cheese or gorgonzola.