People walked up and down the steps. Only a few looked in his direction, and they looked quickly away.
The sky overhead was dirty, covered in a haze of gray and brown. For all the haze, an orangish sun poured out heat. Sweat oozed from all over his body. After several moments, Roget walked down the marble steps. The stone felt gritty under his shoe soles, and the sun beat down on his uncovered head.
“Senator…” A young woman hurried toward him. She held a thin and angular microphone that she thrust at him. “Can you tell us the progress on the debate on the agreement proposed by Beijing?”
“Progress?” Roget laughed. “What progress? They want to take us over. We don’t want to be taken over, but we don’t want to pay the cost of independence … or of an effective military. Everyone wants someone else to pay, but now that you’ve taxed the upper middle class out of existence and driven the rich offshore, who’s left to pay? You people have crucified anyone brave enough to explain that. There’s no one left in there who has enough nerve to tell their constituents that … or to tell you.” He pushed the microphone away and resumed walking down the marble steps.
Behind him there were murmurs.
“… say he’s lost it … coherent only some of the time…”
“… why they keep electing him…”
“… blaming us…”
Roget walked to the base of the steps and turned left on the sidewalk beside the empty asphalt drive and toward the low white buildings to the north beyond the trees at the end of the short expanse of green. Why couldn’t they see it? Why was the obvious so impossible for them to understand? He felt so tired.
He reached inside his jacket for his phone. Except he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and the phone had vanished. He needed to call …
Who was it that he needed to call? He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember?
Where was his jacket? He had been wearing a jacket. He couldn’t go out into the chamber and speak on the floor without it. Where was it? He looked around. How could he have been so stupid as to have forgotten his jacket?
A blinding pain shot through his chest, and he staggered. His eyes watered. A moment of blackness washed over him … and passed.
When he could see again, the white marble buildings that had been less than a hundred yards before him swirled and melted into oddly shaped red stone. Some were only a few meters taller than he was. The green grass and trees had vanished, and he was walking on red sandy soil.
He stopped and glanced down at his chest. He was clad in a one-piece coverall of shimmering white. So white …
An institution? Had the administration had him committed? Carted off because he’d said too much? Or had they used national security as an excuse?
Roget blotted his forehead. How had it gotten so hot? He tried to swallow, then moisten his lips. They were dry and cracked.
He shook his head. It felt like it was splitting, and everything wavered around him. Where was he?
Something brushed his hip. He looked down at the white cylinder attached to his belt.
It was … he grasped for a name.
What was it?
His monitor! That was what it was. With that recognition, he looked around again, then reached down and grasped it. His eyes burned, and his fingers were clumsy, but he finally managed to get his position. He was nearly at the foot of Shinob, a good klick east of the Mill Creek wash and the Virgin River.
How had he gotten out here?
Dehydration. That must have been it. How could he have been so stupid? He reached for the small water bottle at his belt on the left side. It was full. He drained it.
After several moments, his head seemed to clear, and he turned back west. He kept his steps measured as he followed the old and dusty trail back toward the Virgin River. He still didn’t understand how he had gotten on the east side of the river. He’d only been at the bridge itself. At least he hadn’t fallen in. He could have drowned, even in the shallow water, but his boots and his singlesuit showed no sign of dampness.
And what about the delusions about being called “Senator”? Or the marble buildings and the hazy sky? He knew he’d never been anywhere like that. He’d never seen buildings like those, nor had he seen a sky that polluted.
He knew about dehydration, but there had been nothing about delusions. Nothing at all.
He kept walking. No one was about to come after him any time soon, even in the comparatively mild midday heat of winter. He was just glad that he wouldn’t be in St. George in full summer.
He hoped he wouldn’t be.
He tried not to think about the dehydration delusion as he walked on. While it had seemed so real, it had been a delusion, hadn’t it?
Or … his thoughts were still foggy … Something had happened. What? In a dingy café … that was it!
The Lee House. The lunch with Marni and the momentary blackout when the busboy had hit him with the tub of dishes, but what they had done must have been what gave him the delusion. He finally accessed his internal monitors, but they indicated no toxins, only borderline dehydration, and how had he gotten here?
Slowly, he recalled. He’d been taking a water chem reading …
He shook his head. He needed to get back to the bicycle and back to the FSS building, and he needed to drink more, as soon as he could. Dehydration … that had to be it. Didn’t it?
17
19 MARIS 1811 P. D.
Roget woke earlier than he would have liked on Saturday, while it was still dark, or as dark as it ever seemed to get on Dubiety. He did have another thought, something he should have considered far earlier. Before he even dressed, this time wearing his own blue singlesuit, he walked into the main room of his quarters and began to search the holojector menu. If it accessed entertainment and other real-time material, there was always the possibility that it offered more.
After close to fifteen minutes, he located something called “Inquiries” and pulsed it.
“State your inquiry, please.” The words seemed projected into his ears and nowhere else.
“Orbital shield system, functions and construction. Respond in Federation Stenglish.” All the system could do was refuse to answer.
“Stenglish not an option.” But the holojector did create an image of Dubiety, shown as a schematic cross-section of the planet. The molten core was somewhat smaller than Roget expected, and the planetary magnetic field depiction showed six poles, rather than two, and none of the three sets had anywhere close to the same orientation, nor did they correspond even approximately to geographic poles. The maximum field strength of each set was also at differing distances from the planetary surface. The fields generated by each looked to be more tightly focused than “normal” planetary mag-fields.
Roget grinned, if momentarily, until he realized that he could have discovered the inquiry aspect of the holojector/commnet earlier.
He did have to ask the system to repeat the explanation three times before he thought he had a general understanding of how the shields worked. Supposedly, each shield level was linked to a specific magnetic field, and the fields generated some sort of current or secondary field that created the orbital motion of the shield components.
When Roget couldn’t get any more information on how the fields were structured or maintained or precisely how the orbital motion was accomplished, he tried another tack.
“Internal construction of each individual orbital unit?”
“Please restate your inquiry.”
Between his nonexistent Dubietan old American and his use of simple words, it took close to a dozen attempts before the system projected another schematic. Each piece looked like a miniature modified lifting body, but that didn’t make any sense because there was no atmosphere to speak of, not for aerodynamic purposes, at the orbital levels of even the lowest shield. The diagram showed a thin outer skin with what looked to be some sort of miniature devices along the inside of the rounded edges, but the system did not provide dimensions o
r details on the internal devices.
“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.
Haze and the Hammer of Darkness Page 15