Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (20 page)

“No simplistic explanations on public comm? And that's not simplistic?” muttered Roget.

Next he made an inquiry on the subtrans. There was more detail there, including technical material on the placement of the magfield generators, but Roget was left with the definite sense that certain critical details were missing—such as how the Dubietans could generate enough power to power an entire transit network with trains moving at the speeds he'd calculated.

That led to an inquiry on planetary power generation. The system informed him that local power grids were generally supplied by fusion units, since fossil fuels, solar surface radiation, tidal, and geothermal technologies were all impractical. Planetary power was supplied by other means.

Planetary power? To what did that refer?

The only answer he got to that question and all sort of variations was that the information was unavailable due to the complexity involved.

“It's only complex when they don't want anyone to know the details,” he murmured, not caring that his words were doubtless being transmitted and studied. After a moment, he realized something else. He couldn't have gotten as much comparable information off any Federation net.

He pushed those thoughts aside and inquired about communications specifics. The holojector showed him schematics on how all dwellings were linked by a form of fiber optics, but he couldn't get a description or much of anything on how they managed to transmit all kinds of radiation and energy without scatter.

Finally, after other even less fruitful searches, he put aside the holojector controls, cleaned up, and dressed. It was just after what passed for dawn when he left his quarters and walked along the upper hall and down the ramp to the reception area, looking for a door or some access to a lower level.

He found it in a niche beyond the ramp. It even opened as he neared, revealing a wide straight ramp headed down. At the base of the ramp, some eight meters below the ground floor, was a spacious open area and another wide corridor headed back in the direction of the front of the guesthouse.

He followed the corridor to another door, this one with a screen and keypad, which opened to his code. Beyond was another large antechamber, and to his left was what looked to be another code-accessed door. Roget ignored that for the moment and walked forward toward what he hoped was the door to the freightway. It opened as he approached.

Deciding on caution, he stood in the middle of the open door and studied the space beyond. It was simply an underground tunnel that looked to be the width of the walkway above. As he watched, a small lorry glided by silently, followed by another coming in the opposite direction and on the opposite side. Both had drivers, or loaders, or someone, sitting in the cab.

After a time, Roget stepped back into the large room—a receiving chamber, perhaps—and walked over to the screen and keypad on the side wall. Then he shrugged, stepped forward, and tapped in his guesthouse code.

A single off-key note chimed, followed by, “You have no deliveries in storage, Agent Roget. If you are expecting anything, please try later.”

Roget nodded. While he hadn't actually observed the storage area, he had seen the freightways, and the response to his inquiry strongly suggested the truth of Lyvia's descriptions. He had to use his code on the other screen to reenter the guesthouse. Then he made his way up to the reception area.

He waited less than ten minutes before Lyvia arrived.

“Good morning.” He stood as he spoke.

“You're cheerful this morning.”

“Would it do me any good if I weren't?”

“Probably not.” There was no humor in her response. Instead, Lyvia extended a small tube with a belt link. “Here. There is a limited credit authorization on this. You'll have to tell anywhere you use it that you'll need to input your code manually. It's the same code as the one you've been given for the guesthouse facilities. Using the tube without a link is not common, but it's frequent enough that no one is surprised.”

“The poor?”

“No. It's usually for people who don't want their identities known, or those whose assets are encumbered by litigation, or those who have had ID difficulties.”

“You actually have those sorts of problems? I thought you'd solved everything through economics and regulations.”

“Sarcasm doesn't become anyone, Keir, you especially.”

He inclined his head. “If my attempts at levity have offended you, I apologize. I am having a great deal of difficulty in obtaining any meaningful information.”

“I'm not at my best before breakfast,” Lyvia replied.

“What about using this on the subtrans?” Roget held up the tube.

“There's enough there for you to travel freely on the local system, and that's the one area where you can just point it at the black recorders and you don't need a code authorization.”

“I mean no offense, but how much is there on the tube? I don't want to order meals or goods I—or your government—can't pay for.” Roget used the clip to affix the tube to the waistband of the singlesuit.

“For now, there's a thousand dollars. The average meal at Dorinique is fifty, at a bistro perhaps fifteen to twenty. Local subtrans for you is a flat four dollars per entry.”

“Why me?”

“The system adjusts for those who are linked. Those who aren't linked pay the average.”

That made sense to Roget. “Why now?”

“It is Saturday, you know? And tomorrow is Sunday. More important, the Ministry wants you to explore Skeptos on your own. Security services don't listen to agents who are only on guided visits. I can't imagine those in the Federation are any different. Now … you can take me to breakfast.”

“Where?”

“I thought we might try Veronique's.” Lyvia turned and headed for the door to the outside walkway.

Roget found himself hurrying after her—again.

Veronique's was a small café four blocks west of the guesthouse and two south. Roget noted that Lyvia had picked where they ate so that he'd walked in every direction around the central square.

Once they were seated, Roget barely had time to look around the rear room with its plaster walls and pseudo-uncovered bricks that suggested an ancient French farmhouse, when the server arrived, smiling. Roget ordered something called eggs bernaise with tea. Lyvia asked for the breakfast crepes.

Once the server delivered the beverages, Lyvia took a long sip of her coffee, then looked at Roget. “I had some hard-copy maps printed for you because you can't link to the system and ask for directions. I'll give them to you after we finish. Just remember not to litter or try to force your way where you're not granted access. Since you're not linked to the commnet, you won't hear warnings or instructions.”

“Is there anyplace I shouldn't go?” He took a sip of the tea.

“Anywhere that you're not granted access. Don't assume that's because we're keeping you from such places. They just may be private dwellings or places where the owners don't allow any strangers.”

Roget nodded but wondered just how much access he would actually have.

The server returned and set a platter before him. The eggs bernaise turned out to be a pair of poached eggs, each set on top a half muffin, a slice of ham, another of a sharp cheese, then topped with a piquant sauce with tarragon.

Roget looked to Lyvia. “How much is real?”

“The eggs probably are, and the cheese started with replicated milk products, but the process after that was old style. The ham is high-level replicated.”

“That's a lot of power going into replication,” he observed.

“Less than the total would be for a fully agricultural society. Besides, the planetary ecology wouldn't take the strain of that much so-called natural farming. There are still areas that aren't much more than barren rock and sand, especially in Thula and Westria, and to a lesser degree in Verite.”

Partly replicated or not, the dish was tasty, and Roget didn't leave any scraps. Neither did Lyvia.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I promised Aylicia I wouldn't be too long.” She rose from the table and slid a long envelope from the hidden thigh pocket of her singlesuit. “Here are the maps I promised. They're fairly high resolution.”

Roget stood quickly and took the extended envelope. “Thank you.”

“You need to pay,” Lyvia reminded him.

“Gratuities?”

“They're very optional. Nothing for standard service. Ten percent for exceptional service.”

“Five percent today?”

“Generous, but not out of line.” A faint smile crossed her lips and vanished.

Roget walked toward the podium/payment station and the hostess standing there. “I'll need to enter my code manually.”

“Of course, sir.” She stepped away from the podium. “The total is on the screen here. Just use the pad on the side.”

The transaction process was as simple as Lyvia had indicated it would be.

As they walked out of Veronique's, Lyvia glanced at Roget. “I'll meet you in the lobby of the Ministry of Education and Culture at ten on Monday morning. Director Hillis thought another interview and a briefing might be useful. Enjoy your weekend.”

With those words she hurried away, leaving Roget standing on the walkway.

He had to admit that had a Thomist landed anywhere on earth, he or she wouldn't haven't been given funds, maps, and access, and allowed to explore, not at least without some form of escort. Still, the Dubietans could certainly keep track of him.

He looked over the maps, then shrugged and folded them back into the envelope, slipping it into a thigh pocket. He might as well wander at first. He turned and began walking. He covered another four long blocks westward past a mixture of small shops, bistros, and unmarked buildings, before he came to an expanse of green that he judged to be a klick square. Evergreens of a type he'd never seen before, with long soft blackish-green needles, marked the perimeter of the park, if that was indeed what it was. All of them ranged in height from four meters to six at most. He walked through the pewter-colored metallic archway between the evergreens. Ahead, the path split.

Roget took the left branch, leading toward a circular grassy field where children, ten or eleven years old, he thought, were playing a game of some sort on what looked to be a circular grassy field. They carried short lengths of a metal shaft ending in an oval mesh frame. There was a single post in the middle of the field, and four narrow open cones branched from the post at a height of five meters.

Half the players wore silver jerseys, and half wore a shimmering purple. Both teams contained girls and boys, it seemed, and the object of the game appeared to be to use the mesh-sticks to fling a yellow ball into one of the cones on the post.

Roget followed the path up a slight slope to where several benches were located. Grass sloped down to the field some thirty meters away. A few handfuls of adults, both men and women, stood around the edge of the field, but the benches were empty. Roget seated himself and began to watch the players. After a time, some aspects of the game became clearer. Narrow strips of the grass had been colored to show four circles. The first circle was red and ran around the post some three meters out. No player crossed that line, nor the other red line, the farthest one, some thirty meters out. The other lines were a brilliant yellow, at ten meters, and a brilliant blue at twenty.

A whistle shrilled as one player smacked another's arm with his stick. Immediately, the smacker left the game and stood in a yellow box just outside the perimeter.

“Are any of them yours?”

Roget frowned momentarily—not at the friendly tone, but because he had understood the words and because they had definitely not been in Stenglish. He turned to the older man, wearing old-style black trousers and a black shirt with a shimmering gray vest, who stood at the end of the bench and smiled. “No. Just watching.”

“They're worth watching.”

Roget nodded. He didn't want to say much, aware as he was that, while his understanding was better, his speech certainly remained alien.

“To be young again, and carefree.” The man shook his head, then walked eastward in the general direction of the central square.

After the man left, Roget stood, then continued to follow the path as it wound toward a set of gardens bounded by a rough wall of black stone, behind which were more of the dark evergreens. As he followed the path through the opening in the wall, he could see that most of the plants were not the green of earth, but either a paler green or of a green so dark that it was almost black, like much of the lettuce in the salads he'd had on Dubiety. Less than a third of the plants were flowering. The blooms were, again, either on the pale side or very dark. One striking flower was a purple black trumpet with gold-fringed blossom ends. He'd never seen anything like it before.

He bent forward and sniffed. The fragrance was lilylike, if not exactly, with a hint of gardenia. Then he straightened and continued through the garden. He walked another thirty meters along the garden path when he saw a pale-leafed plant that was wilted and desiccated, either dying or dead. For some reason, the dying plant struck him, but he kept walking. Another thought struck him. He hadn't seen any butterflies. He turned back to the garden.

Deliberately, he inspected the first flowering plant at the end of the garden. It had a variation on traditional earth flowering plants—stamen, pistil, and pollen. So did the second. The third had tiny blue flowers, but as he studied it, he heard the faintest whirring, and an insect—more like a tiny hummingbird—appeared, flitting from flower to flower.

Roget resumed his walk.

Beyond the garden on the southwest side of the path, he neared another game of the same sort, but the players were clearly older, and there were more adults ringing the field or pitch or whatever it was called.