Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (16 page)

“That's because of the environmental costs of manufacture,” Roget pointed out.

“Then why are the panels cheaper in Fort Greeley, Helena, or Colorado Springs? Or even in Topeka?”

“Transportation costs, I imagine.”

She laughed. “You have an answer for everything.”

The answer that Roget hadn't given, and that Marni hadn't voiced, was that the Federation made living in smaller and environmentally fragile communities almost prohibitively expensive, as well as uncomfortable. That was an understandable reaction to the excesses that had preceded the Wars of Confederation.

When they reached the John D. Lee House, Roget opened the door and held it for Marni before following her inside. The café was as unprepossessing as Roget recalled. An old battered wooden door with tinted windows so old that they were barely translucent was framed by two far wider windows that functioned better as mirrors. The entire café was no more than eight meters wide, with two lines of tables alternating with booths running back some ten meters. In a small open space in front of the door was a dark wooden stand. Both tables and booths were bare dark wood—or synthwood—covered with a hard transparent finish that revealed all the abuses the wood had taken over the years. Almost half the tables were taken, mostly by men, but there were several mixed groups, and even one table with three women.

“We just sit at any table that's vacant and set,” Marni murmured, leading the way to the left and to a narrow wooden booth that could barely accommodate two, one on each side.

Roget gestured for her to take the front seat. That would allow him to watch whoever came in … or left.

Once he was seated, he looked around the booth, then saw the two menus—film-covered paper with a simple listing. He handed one to Marni.

“Thank you, kind sir.” She barely glanced at it before saying, “I think I know what I want.”

“You've been here often.”

“There isn't that much choice in St. George, and it is close to work and not too expensive. I don't come that often.”

Roget smiled, then studied the menu, finally deciding on Southwestern chicken with Mex-rice.

An older woman in a long skirt and a short-sleeved gray blouse appeared. Her gray eyes were as washed-out as the blouse. “What'll you be having, Marni dear?”

“The Dutch-oven beef and potatoes. Lots of sauce. Water.”

“You, sir?”

“Southwestern chicken and the Wasatch lager.”

“Be right out.” The woman stepped away, neither rushing nor dawdling toward the serving window at the back of the café.

After a moment, Marni said, “I sometimes have the chicken. It's not bad for a change.”

Roget looked across the shiny but battered wood booth table at Marni. “You seem rather overqualified to be a finance clerk.”

“It's about the best a university biology grad can get in St. George. You might notice that jobs aren't exactly plentiful here. I thought about trying to become a monitor, but I wasn't that interested in the kind of science you need to know.”

“The kind of science? That's an odd way of putting it.” Even as he said that, Roget wondered why she hadn't mentioned her advanced degrees.

“The kind of science that is as much environmental propaganda as science.”

“The Federation does have a certain bias against excessive consumption.”

“Only in Noram and Sudam … and Europe, what of it that's still livable. I've seen the holos and the figures for the Sinese sector. They aren't stinting in Taiyuan or Peiping or … lots of places.”

Roget didn't point out that losers didn't often get to be choosers. “They're always looking for finance types. You could go there.”

She shook her head. “My family's here. Besides, it wouldn't be the same.” She paused. “Have you been there?”

“For training courses.” That was understating matters, but true. “It's not bad. Different. Expensive on a monitor's pay. Very expensive.”

“I don't see how you could stand it, having to spend so much, and especially being so close to so many people…” She shuddered.

“There's more privacy than you'd think. Most people just aren't interested in others. We'd like to think so, because we want to believe we matter to others.”

“That's why I like it here. People share so much, and they do care.”

“You're fortunate.” Roget glanced around the café. “Who was John D. Lee?”

“He was an early pioneer.”

“I never heard of him.” Not before Del Parsens had mentioned Lee, anyway.

“That's not surprising. He was tried for murder after he led a troop against early U.S. government infiltrators posing as settlers passing through. He was executed because he was Brigham Young's adopted son, and the U.S. feds wanted to make an example out of him when they couldn't get to the Prophet.”

“Oh.” While he didn't know the history of the area in that kind of depth, Roget had some doubts. “An early Saint martyr.”

“Of sorts.”

At that moment, the serving woman returned with two plates, setting one before each of them and then returning with two glasses, one filled with water without ice and one empty and with an amber container. “There you go.”

The lager was cold; the glass was cool, but not chilled. Roget poured the pale amber liquid into it but did not drink, waiting for Marni to sip her water or take a bite of her food.

She sipped the water first, then began to cut the beef, covered with a reddish-brown sauce. “I wonder if grass-fed meat tasted that different.”

Roget shrugged. “Supposedly, high-end replicated beef is no different.” He cut a thin slice of the chicken and then ate it, finding it moist and tangy.

“How would we know? There are only the control herds anymore.”

“Maybe that's why I prefer chicken. It makes more sense to grow it than replicate it.”

“How do you like it here?”

“It's better than the Fort,” he said.

She nodded emphatically. “The Caravansary isn't bad, but you pay less here. You might try Vhasila's some time, too.”

“What kind of food do they serve?”

“Old Mediterranean.”

Roget took a swallow of the lager, then concentrated on his meal. He enjoyed the rice even more than the chicken and did not speak for a time. The lager was surprisingly good. He'd have to remember the brand, except it would doubtless be prohibitively expensive outside the region.

As he finished the last bits of rice and chicken, at the
clank
of crockery clashing, Roget glanced toward the rear of the café. There, a heavyset young man was clearing dishes from a table.

“Ernest isn't always as coordinated as he should be,” observed Marni.

“Do you know everyone in town?”

“Most people do, after a while.”

“Where else would be a good place to eat?”

She frowned, thinking, before replying, “I told you about Vhasila's, and the Desert Grille is good if you don't want another replicated breakfast.”

The busboy stumbled, and the dish tub he carried jolted into Roget's shoulder.

“Sir … I'm sorry…”

Roget blinked. For a moment everything went black.

Then he was sitting at the table, as if nothing had happened.

“Keir … are you all right?” Marni's voice was urgent. “You looked so strange for a moment.”

“I'm so sorry, sir,” repeated Ernest.

“I'm fine,” Roget said. He wasn't sure he was. His internal monitors indicated that he'd lost a full minute of consciousness, but there were no recognized toxins in his system. Not yet. He'd known Marni wasn't trustworthy, but he hadn't expected her to attack or do whatever in a public restaurant in the middle of the day. Still, he seemed to be all right. So far. Did he accuse her? He almost smiled. Of what? Even as a security agent he had to have
some
proof.

He took another swallow of the lager.

“You looked dizzy there for a moment,” Marni said, guilelessly.

“I was. It could be that I got dehydrated.”

“That can happen. Every so often, visitors wander out into the hills and die because they don't bring enough water.”

“I'll remember that,” he said dryly. Then he finished the last swallow of the lager. “I suppose we need to return to our various routines.”

“That might be best. Adabelle will be getting nervous.”

“Your superior?”

“She's been here forever. You hang on to good jobs here.” Marni nodded toward the front of the café. “We pay at the stand.”

Roget rose, checking his internal monitors again. Nothing. As he followed Marni toward the front of the café, their server hurried to the wooden stand.

“For both,” Roget told the woman who had served them, “and 15 percent.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roget extended his CredID, checked the total appearing on the small screen, then thumbed the scanner.

Once they were outside, walking north on 200 East, Marni said, “You didn't have to pay, but thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Roget smiled. Paying for being attacked was something that hadn't happened before. He had the feeling it might not be the last time, assuming he survived. He was getting worried. Why didn't his system show whatever they'd done to him? What had they done? They couldn't have brain scanned him, not in a minute and without equipment.

“How long have you been working at the FSS?” he asked.

“Eight years.”

“Do you think you'll stay?”

“With what else is available here, where else would I go?”

Roget nodded, although he sensed a certain falsity behind her words.

“What about you?”

“They don't like monitors to stay in one place too long.” Nor security agents. “We're not supposed to get too close to too many people, and it's hard not to in places like St. George. In the cities…” He shrugged, noting a faint twinge in his upper right arm. Should he go to the local med-centre? He almost shook his head. His internals were better than the local diagnostics. They'd find nothing.

Neither spoke as they crossed St. George Boulevard.

When they finally reached the FSS building and the door to the accounting office, he stopped and smiled. “You're a very surprising woman.”

“Any woman can be,” she demurred.

“We'll have to have lunch again. It will be my choice.”

“It's always the man's choice in the end,” she replied lightly.

“That's what all women say.”

“What else could we say?” She paused, then added, “I need to get back to work.” She slipped into the accounting office.

Roget returned to the monitoring office, sitting down at his own console. He checked his internals again. So far, so good, but there was always the possibility of something delayed, and he needed to take care of that. He created a brief report on his personal monitor, including Marni Sorensen and the restaurant incident, then encrypted and burst sent it to his controller.

He hoped nothing would happen, but if it did … someone needed to know, and a report before something like a poisoning was a form of proof he hoped the Federation didn't need to follow up on. Then he stood and reclaimed the bicycle.

“Where are you off to now?” asked Sung.

“Another river reading. Then I'll check on the repair shop over on South Bluff.”

“You're wasting your time on the river. It's got to be geothermal.”

“I'm taking full water chem readings this time. That should tell me. Then I can compare them to the geothermal composition. If they come close to matching, you'll be right.” He wheeled the bike out of the office and down the corridor.

From the FSS building he rode down to the tram station, where he folded the bike, boarded the tram, and rode out to the Red Cliffs station. Then he rode to the Middleton wash path and down it to the parkway, where he got off the bike and walked down to the river.

Roget took out the monitor, then flicked the sampler fiberline across the water, letting it sink and ride some before reeling it in.

After making sure that he had the data, he walked downstream to where there was a narrow footbridge over the river. He crossed and walked back upstream, but stopped short of a point opposite where he'd taken the first sample. He repeated the process, then reeled in the line and slipped the monitor back into its belt case.

He almost reached the bridge when a wave of dizziness washed over him. He staggered to the bridge and grasped the railing, steadying himself.

Then the blackness rose, blotting out everything.

 

15

18 MARIS 1811
P. D.

Once they left the Ministry of Education and Culture, Lyvia walked straight toward the central square of Skeptos, striding past the building she had said housed the Ministry of Transportation.

“We're not going there?” asked Roget. “Isn't that the Transport Ministry?”

“No. That's just offices and the few administrators necessary to keep track of matters. You won't see anything useful there. We're going to the central subtrans center for all of Socrates. I would assume that you're interested in the technology and operation of our transport system.”

“You assume correctly.” As the amber outside light flickered slightly, Roget glanced skyward, but there were no clouds and no aircraft visible beneath the omnipresent gray haze, not that he expected aircraft any longer. “Do all towns and cities have access to subtrans?”

“Towns, cities, and villages. Either to a local system or a regional system, depending on a number of factors.”

“Such as?”

“Distance and imputed total costs, for starters.”

“What if the costs will always be prohibitive?”

“Then … there's no town, unless it's a protected recreational area like the Machiavelli Peninsula. The costs there are paid by taxes levied as a benefit on all inhabitants.”