“A very long trip and hike,” Lyvia replied.
That was what Roget thought she said. He just nodded and smiled politely.
A few minutes later, the subtrans slowed, then stopped. The doors opened, and Lyvia stood. So did Roget. He lifted his pack and slung it over one shoulder, then followed Lyvia from the subtrans onto a larger concourse close to a hundred meters in length and toward one of two tunnels leading further upward. Lyvia was moving to the left tunnel, and Roget stayed close behind her.
A slender man in a black jacket and trousers glanced hard at Roget as the agent hurried to stay with Lyvia.
Roget checked the time. The trip from Avespoir to Skeptos had taken twenty minutes, but nine minutes had been for stops. Add another six minutes for acceleration and deceleration, although those were estimates, and the subtrans had covered the four hundred klicks in the equivalent of roughly fourteen minutes—figuring three additional minutes for speed changes. Something was wrong with his figures or the numbers Lyvia had provided. Seventeen hundred klicks an hour? Underground?
Roget drew abreast of his guide just before they started up the tunnel ramp, a good ten meters wide. “Four hundred klicks from Avespoir to Skeptos?”
“It’s more like four hundred fifteen, actually.”
“And a klick here is still a thousand meters?”
“So far as I know, it’s never been anything else.”
She could have been lying. Roget doubted it, and that had serious implications. Then, he had no illusions. He was supposed to reach those conclusions.
After some twenty meters, the tunnel joined another one, close to filled with men and women heading upward. Despite the number of people leaving the subtrans station, no one crowded anyone else. Still, Roget could sense the man in black not all that far behind him.
The air was markedly cooler than it had been in the tunnel when they emerged, and did not hold the semiperfumed scent of the forest … but it was still humid.
“This is the central square of Skeptos,” Lyvia said, stepping to one side of the walkway and stopping to offer a sweeping gesture that took in the open space, as well as the buildings surrounding it, although none looked to be more than thirty meters tall.
Roget let his eyes range over the square, merely an expanse of deep green grass surrounded by four stone walks twenty meters wide. They stood close to one corner, the southwestern one, he judged, hoping he wasn’t too disoriented by the lack of a distinct sky and no sun for direction. A single stone monument rose from the center, a round column some thirty-three meters high. Atop the column was a sphere of shifting silver gray haze. Narrower walkways led from each corner of the square to the circular raised stone platform around the column.
“The column?” he asked. “Some sort of memorial?”
“A representation of Dubiety.”
Roget glanced around the square again. Beyond the perimeter walks were low buildings on all sides, low especially in comparison to those of Taiyuan, between which were the stone pedestrian ways that radiated from the corners of the square and from the middle of each side of the square. There was no provision for vehicular traffic or for airlifters of any sort.
“We need to get you settled. This way.” Lyvia turned south and strode quickly along the wide walk, past what looked to be an eating establishment on the right.
“A restaurant?” asked Roget.
“Dorinique. It’s very fashionable now. It’s also good … and expensive.”
“The more expensive restaurants and other establishments are the ones closer to the square, then?”
“Or to other subtrans stations. Not always, but usually.”
“Isn’t there any transport that’s more … local?”
“Local transit is below the regional subtrans. Those were the people coming from the other tunnels.”
Local transit was lower than the regional links? That definitely seemed odd to Roget, but he didn’t ask, not yet.
They passed several other restaurants and a boutique that looked to cater to women. Overhead, the silver gray of the sky began to dim, just a touch, although there were no clouds below the haze. Roget noted that from outside of the shops on the street level there were no exterior indications of what might be housed in the upper levels of the buildings, but then, that was true in Federation cities as well.
The next shop caught his eye. “Finessa? A man’s boutique?”
“Why not? In most species, the males are the ones who strive the most to display.” Lyvia smiled. “Be careful with preconceptions here. My cousin Khevan—my mother’s cousin, really—is the marketing manager for the twenty-odd shops of the group. He’s also a former cliff ranger.”
“Cliff ranger?”
“They deal with poachers and collectors in the mountain wilds. Very stressful and physical occupation.”
“I got the impression you didn’t have that sort of unruliness.”
“All societies do. How one handles it is a fair measure of a civilization.” Lyvia kept walking.
Roget’s feet were getting sore, but he said nothing.
Six very long blocks later, Lyvia stopped before a two-story structure some thirty meters wide. The stone archway framing the door was trapezoidal. “This is the guesthouse. You might want to fix it in your mind.” She turned and pushed open the door.
Roget followed her into a small antechamber. The door on the far side was closed. A single eye-level keypad was mounted on the wall. Above the keypad was a screen. She took the small tube attached to her belt and pointed it at the screen.
For a moment Roget sensed the faintest of energy emissions or emission reflections.
“The keypad is for the use of residents who are not linked or are unable to access services. You’re one of them. The code is written down in your rooms.”
The door hummed, then slid into a recess, revealing a small reception area where several chairs were grouped around a low table. The chairs were wooden armchairs but looked to have deep blue permanent cushioned seats similar to the yielding composite of the seats on the subtrans. All of the chairs were empty, and the top of the polished wooden table was bare as well.
“Are you coming?” asked Lyvia.
Roget responded by stepping through the door, which closed behind him. Except for the fleeting emissions involving the door screen, Roget had sensed no others, and still didn’t, even inside the guesthouse.
Beyond the reception area was an open but railed circular ramp leading upward.
“You’re on the second level.” Lyvia started up.
Roget once more followed.
Halfway down the bare corridor off the ramp, illuminated by an amber light from the ceiling strips, similar to the sunlight filtering through the orbital shield arrays, she halted before the second door, again using the belt-linked tube to open it.
She stepped into a room some eight meters by four, with a window looking westward at another building. The view was clear, but Roget had observed the heavy tinting on the outside of all the windows they had passed and had no doubts he’d only see the tint from outside if he looked up from the wide walkway below. The chamber was sparsely furnished with a single couch flanked by two armchairs, all three pieces set around a low wooden table. On the left wall, less than a meter from the window that stretched almost from wall to wall, was a wooden desk set against the wall, with a chair of matching wood.
Lyvia walked to the desk, then turned. “There’s a sitting room, a bed chamber and fresher, and a small kitchen with a standard replicator. Directions for the replicator and other systems and the code for your rooms and the guesthouse itself are here.” She pointed to two sheets of paper on the desk. “The holojector controls are in the left desk drawer and the comm unit is in the right.”
“Just like that?”
“I’m certain you can figure them out, and you’ll learn more of what you came to find.” She paused. “Oh … there are two singlesuits that should fit you in the bedroom closet.”
&nbs
p; “Should fit me?”
“They’ll be close enough.” She smiled. “You have internals for time. I’ll meet you down in the reception area in forty minutes, and we’ll go to dinner.”
“Hours are the same here?”
“The hours are the same length, but there are only twenty-two.” She walked back to the door, which opened for her, and left Roget standing in the middle of the sitting room as the door closed behind her.
He walked toward the door. It didn’t open. He headed back to the desk and picked up the single sheet with the word “Codes” at the top. There was a single alphanumeric line: RogetW976A. Roget looked at it for a long moment. She’d never been out of his sight, and he’d never sensed any emissions or transmissions.
He took a deep breath of the heavy air. He smelled more of himself than anything else. Lyvia was definitely right. He needed a shower or the equivalent … and a good meal, preferably not from the replicator. He also needed to read all the directions.
But first he went to the keypad by the door and punched in the code.
The door opened. He nodded, stepping back into his temporary quarters and letting it close.
10
18 LIANYU 6744 F. E.
Roget slept late on Saturday. For him, late was eight, even in St. George.
After he roused himself and finally made his way to the kitchen side of the main room, he checked the menu on the replicator. Nothing looked all that appetizing, but he selected hot tea and eggs romanov, which fell within his caloric and energy budget. They turned out to be a very poor replication of the original concept, but he forced himself to eat most of them before sliding the remnants into the recycler. He wouldn’t have them again, not from a cheap replicator with a limited ingredient basis.
Then he washed up and donned another white shirt and a fresh pair of dark slacks, since the heat limited anything to one wearing before cleaning, at least for him, and then headed out for a day of ostensible errands. He walked up 800 East to St. George Boulevard to catch the tram.
An older couple was already standing on the platform when Roget got there. The man was tanned and had brilliant white hair. The woman’s hair was blond, as appeared to be the case with most Saint women. Roget couldn’t help but wonder why the older men affected such silver white hair when standard hair treatments allowed people to retain their natural color throughout their lifetime at minimal cost.
“Good morning,” he offered pleasantly.
“Morning,” replied the man. “Must be new in town.”
“Relatively,” Roget admitted. “I’m Keir Roget.”
“Mason Bradshaw … my wife, Leitha.”
Leitha inclined her head politely.
“Pleasant weather we’re having right now,” said the man. “Enjoy it while you can.” He turned as the tram pulled up to the platform, then stepped forward into the tram car once the doors slid open.
Leitha scuttled after him, every movement an apology.
Roget followed but took a seat farther back in the car.
Two young men hurried in after him and sat midway between him and the couple, but on the opposite side from Roget. For the short trip to the center station, none of the other four said more than a few words.
Once the tram came to a stop, Roget waited until the others exited, then took his time leaving. He paused at the top of the ramp leading down from the platform, looking southward at the single St. George branch of the Deseret First Bank, located on the southeast corner of Main and St. George Boulevard, just south across the boulevard from the electrotram central station platform. Like most financial institutions, DFB was global in scope. Unlike most that had originated out of the WestEuro culture, its clientele was largely based on sectarian affiliation or—in a place like St. George—local residence. Roget walked down the ramp, taking in the building, a two-story Navaho sandstone structure that, like much in St. George, was a replica of an earlier historic edifice, except for the solar panels. William Dane’s office was there, but Roget doubted Dane would be in on a Saturday. Even so, given the screen-based banking services, no customer ever saw bank officers except by appointment. Roget didn’t have a plausible reason for requesting one. Not yet, and his superiors would be less than pleased at any immediate obvious outreach.
Roget’s first “errand” was to stop by the art gallery in History Square. In some places, local art galleries revealed more about a place than weeks of talking to locals might. In others, they were merely commercial outlets. He waited at the boulevard for several electrocoupes and a lorry to pass before he crossed, then turned west and crossed Main Street in turn, grateful for the single patch of clouds that momentarily blocked the bright desert sun.
The redstone-walled gallery was on the northeast corner, and the door and windows were trimmed in a deep green. The sign on the dark-tinted front window read Glen-David’s. Roget opened the door and stepped inside, finding it comparatively cooler than most other shops. For a moment, he wondered why. Then it struck him. Certain establishments, like art galleries and medical facilities, had higher energy limits before geometric pricing kicked in.
“Good morning, sir.” A silver-haired and slight man stepped forward. He smiled politely, but not warmly. “Are you looking for anything special?”
“No. I haven’t been here before. Someone at work suggested I should.” Roget returned the smile.
“You should indeed. We do have images or prints of most of what’s on display. We can size them for whatever space needs you have.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Just let me know if you need anything, sir.”
Roget nodded politely, then turned his attention to the various works.
The art displayed was in a wide variety of media—hololight images, multishifts, pastels, watercolors, oils, and even a charcoal portrait. Most if not all of the subject matter was definitely local or Saint-derived. The Flight of Nephi was a multishift, an imposition/transformation of images flowing from that of a boy in ancient Israel to a man amid the jungles of Central America. The Destruction of the Temple was an angular and stark oil rendition of the Salt Lake Temple in the brilliant blue light of a focused nucleonic disrupter beam just at the moment before it turned to ashes and dust. That temple had never been rebuilt, not with the crater, now an extension of the Great Salt Lake, where much of the center city had been. The Long Walk was a pastel that depicted people in old American pioneer garb pushing carts along a trail flanked with prairie grass and bushes. Roget didn’t doubt its general accuracy, even if he didn’t know the historical context. One seemed slightly out of place, a portrait of a younger man in some sort of flight gear with a hazy combat aircraft that Roget did not recognize in the background. The card beside it read, “Original Not for Sale, images available.” The portrait was good technically, but not outstanding. There was no indication who it depicted.
Then, there were the landscapes—Kolob Canyon, the Patriarchs, the Gorge—and the portraits. Some of the names were familiar, but most were not.
A handful were terrible. Most were good. Some were better than that. Few of them appealed to Roget, and only one was good enough for him to consider buying even as an image. He wouldn’t ever have considered it, had someone described it to him. It was simply an oil of a small black dachshund sitting on the cushion of a blue velvet sofa. On one side was a knitted afghan of maroon and cream, disarrayed almost as if the dachshund had been sleeping under it and had just darted from it. The sun poured across her—the dog had to be female, although there were no obvious clues—from an unseen side window, and she looked expectantly out of the canvas, as if her master or mistress had just entered the room. Yet the skill—or love—of the artist was such that the dachshund was alive. She almost leapt out of the ancient canvas.
“The sunshine dog,” Roget murmured, in spite of himself. He turned away and took several steps. Then he stopped and returned to study the painting again. He couldn’t say why, but just looking at the image made him feel
better.
After several moments, he shook his head and walked toward the front of the gallery where the proprietor sat behind a small console. “How much for an image of the sunshine dachshund?” Neither the original nor prints would do. Not as often as he would be shifted around.
For a moment, the proprietor frowned, as if he didn’t understand why Roget would want the portrait of a small dog. “Full density image is 117 yuan, with tax.”
“That’s fine. I’ll take it with me.” Roget held his CredID before the scanner, then tendered his datacard. “Do you know the dog’s name?”
“I’d guess it was Hildegarde. That’s what she said the title was—Hildegarde in the Sunlight.”
“Thank you.” Roget thumbed the scanner to authenticate the charges, then took back the datacard. “It’s a good painting.”
“It’s not that expensive. You could have the original for six hundred.”
Roget shook his head. He wished he could, but he could take the image with him, and he couldn’t take the original, and he’d end up having to give it away, and no one he knew would see what he saw.
After watching the proprietor load the image into his personal flash monitor, he smiled and left Glen-David’s. Once outside in the warm sunlight, he walked uphill a block and turned west, stopping after about a hundred meters outside the picket fence surrounding the summer home of the Saints’ great second Prophet and Revelator. It was closed, but he read the brass plate on the pedestal outside the gate. When he finished, he tried not to frown. According to the plate, the dwelling was the actual original and not a replica, as he had thought. When the first War of Confederation loomed, a dedicated group of Saints disassembled the dwelling and stored it in a hermetically sealed cave in the mountains to the northwest of St. George. When it was finally reconstructed, a nanitic covering was applied to the wood to prevent further deterioration.
Roget had his doubts about the explanation on the plate, for many reasons, but it wouldn’t be wise to voice them. He turned and walked eastward in the direction of The Right Place. A slender blond woman was sweeping the sandstone slabs that constituted the walkway from the gate in the picket fence. Her back was to him as she swept around a redstone sculpture of a heavyset bearded man who wore a frontier-style coat. Roget assessed the sculpture as moderately good, but not outstanding.
Haze and the Hammer of Darkness Page 8