“Some,” he called back.
“I’ll meet you up ahead at the rest stop. When you get to the trail, turn to your right. It’s about half a klick ahead on the trail.”
Should he take the caller’s word? He could attempt to escape, but they’d found him in the middle of a forest, and not even on a trail —and they knew standard, including measurements. Thomists? That was looking to be the most probable conclusion, but anything was still possible.
He continued making his way uphill. He came to the trail after less than a hundred meters, although he hadn’t been able to see it until he was almost upon it. Again, it was a manicured and wood-fragment-mulched walkway. Roget stopped, then looked north and south. He saw no one. He turned north, walking at a deliberate pace.
The rest stop was little more than two benches on the uphill side of the trail, with another stone fountain on the downhill side. A woman wearing a long-sleeved green shirt, gray trousers, and gray hiking boots sat on the bench nearest Roget. There was no one else in sight except the two of them.
She stood as he approached. She was a good thirty centimeters shorter than Roget, and muscular, but neither slender nor stocky. Her hair was white blond, and her face was oval with deep gray eyes, wide cheekbones, and a jaw that was just short of being square. Her skin was either lightly tanned or that shade naturally. With the planet’s shields, how could he tell?
He stopped a meter short of her but did not speak. He saw no obvious weapons.
“I’m Lyvia. I’ll be your guide to Dubiety.”
“That’s what you call the world?”
“Officially and unofficially. What does the Federation call it?”
“Haze.”
“You haven’t told me your name. Or the cover name you’ve adopted. Either will do.” Lyvia smiled.
Her expression was fractionally warmer than polite, and slightly amused, Roget noted. “Keir. Keir Roget.”
“We have a hike ahead of us, Keir. It’s a good twelve klicks to the trail-head station. I’ll explain a few matters along the way, and you can ply me with questions. Some I’ll answer. Some will have to wait, and some you’ll be able to answer yourself in time.”
“All your responses will be Delphic, I’m certain.”
“Only if you take them that way. We try to be factual. Oh, and I’d ask that you be careful with the weapons and those powerpacks built into your suit. Matters could become difficult if you hurt anyone.” She turned and began to walk.
Roget had to take three quick long steps to catch up with her. The trail was wide enough for two to walk comfortably side-by-side. As he matched her pace, he couldn’t help but think that she’d shown no surprise meeting him, and no fear and no hesitation in turning her back to him. It hadn’t been a bluff. Nor had it been naiveté. Haze—or Dubiety-knew where he’d come from and had been prepared to meet him within a day and a half of his landing in what appeared to have been a relatively remote area … or at least an area removed from easy transport access. That raised the question of how much more the Federation knew than he’d been told. It also suggested just how expendable he was.
“This is one of the Thomist worlds, I take it?” he finally said.
“Thomists settled Dubiety. You should be able to tell that once you’ve seen more.”
“What sort of commnet do you use?”
“There’s a full planetary net.”
“You don’t care much for the standard broadcast spectrum. Why not?”
“Broadcomm has definite physical and physiological effects. We’ve avoided those.”
“Such as?”
“Both implants and hand-held devices have adverse impacts on brain physiology. That’s especially true for certain genetic profiles. Overall, the economics don’t work out, either.”
What did brain physiology have to do with economics? Roget was getting the feeling that all her answers might hold the same sort of non sequiturs. “Would you mind explaining that?”
“Any answer I give,” replied Lyvia, “would be either simplistic or wrong. It’s not my field.”
“It might give me an idea, at least,” said Roget mildly.
“That’s exactly the problem in too many high-tech societies, even in some that are not so high-tech. Simplistic and wrong ideas lead to simplistic and wrong public opinion and wrong-headed public policies. That retards progress far more than is gained by so-called open dialogue by those who don’t understand. Generalizations breed misunderstandings, and misunderstandings lead to greater problems in maintaining an orderly society.”
“But most people don’t want long and technical answers to simple questions.”
“That’s their problem.”
“How do you keep people from giving those simplistic answers?” asked Roget.
“Personally, in conversation, and privately, they can say what they want. Anything meant for public communication falls under the libel and slander laws.” She laughed. “That’s what keeps most litigators in business.”
“They can get damages if someone says or writes something factually inaccurate?”
“Exactly. One of the factors in governing the award is the number of people to whom the inaccuracy was conveyed.”
Roget was both intrigued and appalled. “What about the use of accurate facts or figures to misrepresent?”
“If it’s by a public figure, either a representative of an organization or elected official, and it’s bad enough, it’s a criminal offense.”
“How can anyone determine that?”
“The test has to do with relevant information withheld or omitted.”
“In a noncriminal case, what if they can’t pay?”
“We have a great number of public service positions, both for criminal and civil offenders. We’ve found that well-compensated litigators, solicitors, business directors and managers, and elected officials have a great aversion to maintaining trails such as this one or handling sanitary duties in the subtrans system or working land reclamation and enhancement… or any other number of equally necessary and not always tasteful tasks.”
Roget kept a pleasant expression on his face and asked, “You mentioned elected officials. What’s the governmental structure?”
“Nothing too unfamiliar to you, I’m certain. Representative democratically elected lower House of Tribunes. The upper chamber—that’s the House of Denial—consists of those with specific areas of expertise. They’re elected from nominees from various occupations and subjected to denial by the House of Tribunes.”
“Do you have political parties?”
That brought another laugh, one more rueful. “Oh, yes. At the moment there are seven.”
“Proportional voting of some sort?”
“It’s not quite that simple. I’ll have to get you a copy of the constitution.”
For roughly three hours, Roget asked question after question. The answers provided by Lyvia were as satisfactory as her first replies. That is, they answered almost none of his real questions. Dubiety was sounding more and more like a fascist state run by environmentally-oriented lunatics. Yet, he reminded himself, lunatics didn’t create orbital shields that could shred dropboats and keep the Federation at bay.
As the trail came to the top of a low rise, the trees ended abruptly. Lyvia gestured at the low circular grassy depression ahead. “There’s the trailhead station.”
A columned portico with a domed roof some fifteen meters across stood in the center of the grassy swale. Trails radiated from the circular stone walk that bordered the structure. All the stone was of a pale gray that was probably almost white but looked faintly rosy in the amber light that filtered through the orbital shields.
As they walked nearer, Roget could see two ramps under the low domed roof, each slanting into the ground—one on each side of the portico. A couple wearing hiking gear emerged from the ramp opposite the one immediately in front of Lyvia and Roget. Neither hiker so much as looked in Roget’s direction.
“This wa
y,” Lyvia said pleasantly.
The mouth of the tunnel holding the ramp was encircled by a deep green band. On each side, waist-high, protruded four black squares, each some ten centimeters on a side. Lyvia raised a black tube and pointed it at one of the squares.
“Paying the fare?” asked Roget.
“Paying yours. Mine is deducted automatically.”
The tunnel beyond the entry formed an oval with a flat base, roughly three meters wide, and the top of the ceiling was about four meters above the ramp. The flooring looked to be a deep green composite that offered a certain amount of give, combined with enough roughness to provide easy traction. The walls were a deep greenish gray, except for the two curved lighting strips some thirty centimeters wide set three quarters of the way up from the ramp surface. The light from the strips was slightly whiter than the amber that filtered through the atmospheric shields.
As he walked down the curving and sloping ramp, Roget asked, “You don’t have any aircraft, flitters, that sort of thing?”
“We don’t use them. They’re energy intensive and excessively hard on the environment. They also create unrealistic expectations.”
“Don’t use them? That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
She smiled. “It’s accurate. You’ll see.”
“Unrealistic expectations?” asked Roget.
“I’ll explain once we’re on the subtrans.”
Roget started to protest in exasperation, then just smiled politely.
The ramp descended in a semicircle, then straightened for the last few meters before emerging onto a simple concourse that stretched some twenty meters to Roget’s right. The walls of the concourse curved slightly, suggesting that they were but a fraction of a larger arc. A series of four archways punctuated the straight wall facing Roget. A half-transparent, half-translucent light green substance filled each archway.
Lyvia walked briskly to the third archway, halting there. “It shouldn’t be long now. Not too long anyway.”
Two older men stood talking several meters away, right before the last archway. While Roget thought he heard some familiar words, clearly language on Dubiety had diverged from the Federation standard. Yet Lyvia spoke Federation standard perfectly.
“If you listen closely for a while, you’ll begin to understand,” she said. “It’s more a matter of cadence and localisms.”
Roget hoped so. He could feel a gentle but persistent breeze, and he glanced to his right, taking in the slots in the end wall of the concourse. Even straining his senses, he could detect no sounds of machinery.
“About expectations?” he asked.
“Later, after we’re on the subtrans,” she repeated.
Roget decided not to push her. A good fifteen standard minutes passed before the translucent green doors slid back to reveal the interior of the subtrans. Again, Roget had been unable to detect the approach of the underground conveyance.
Lyvia stepped through the archway, and Roget followed her. The subtrans’s interior was simple enough, two individual seats on each side of a center aisle, set in groups of four, two seats facing two others. The flooring and walls flowed into the graceful seats, a deep green, with a brownish amber “trim.” There were no windows, just a featureless wall.
Lyvia took a wall seat and gestured for Roget to take the seat across from her. He eased his small pack off his back, then settled into the seat, expecting it to be excessively firm, if not hard, since it looked to be the same material as the walls and flooring. Surprisingly, the seat was yielding and comfortable. His pack went between his legs.
The platform door closed, leaving a wall as blank as the one facing it.
“That’s a great deal of wasted space.” Roget pointed to the open area between the doors.
“That’s where large packs, luggage, and sometimes freight get placed. There are concealed and recessed tie-downs.”
The acceleration of the subtrans was gentle but continued for a time.
“Air travel? Expectations?” pressed Roget.
“Oh … that. Letting people travel by air creates a whole host of expectations. One expectation is the feeling that they ought to be able to go when they wish and exactly where they want. After all, there’s nothing like a maglev tunnel or the obvious limitations of one train at a time to reinforce the idea that not all things are possible. The expectations are even higher for those with resources and power, especially if the society allows them private aircraft of some sort. They believe their time is more valuable; they’re more important. That reinforces the feeling that anything can be bought, regardless of the cost to others.”
“That sounds like old-style socialism, even communism.”
Lyvia shook her head. “We’re very capitalistic, extremely so. We just price things at their total value. We don’t allow people to buy privileges at the cost of other people’s health or future, or life expectancy. Those are real costs. Most so-called market systems don’t include them.” She smiled. “At least, they haven’t in the past. We don’t always either, but we keep trying.”
Roget didn’t believe a word. “What about other expectations?”
“There’s the expectation that immediate travel at comparatively low costs is a right, rather than a costly privilege. There’s also the expectation that personal freedom of movement is a right, regardless of what it costs others.”
Roget decided that he was getting nowhere. “Where are we headed?”
“To Skeptos, of course. It’s the capital. Isn’t that where you wanted to go? To find out our weaknesses?” Lyvia smiled warmly.
8
17 LIANYU 6744 f. e.
By the time Roget arrived at the FSS on Friday, his first four days on the job had given him a very good understanding of the routine of an E&W monitor in St. George. Immediately after reporting each morning, he went over the status reports and reviewed all the anomalies reported by the system. Then he’d set up a preliminary prioritization of the anomalies, with recommended observation points. He’d offer those to Sung. Once the head monitor had approved his plan for the day, Roget was free to head out with his portable official E&W monitor. The monitor held all the data for the day. That way, no one could hack or razor transmissions because there weren’t any, and it kept down unnecessary energy usage.
Unless there happened to be an urgent surge in excess energy or water usage, Roget was free to arrange his observations to minimize his travel time. Since he was limited to public transport and his feet, he’d learned after the third day to be most careful in planning his route. Even so, his feet had ached by Wednesday evening, and Thursday night hadn’t been that much better.
He actually was in the office on Friday before Sung. The anomaly list was short—four shops; two residences in the historical district—probably poor insulation or equipment that needed maintenance; and an increase in ambient temperature in the Virgin River that couldn’t he accounted for by weather or solar radiation intensity.
The river had to come first because there was no telling how long that anomaly might last. He also might have to take several readings over the course of the day. He’d just finished his proposed priority listing when Sung appeared and settled himself before the main console.
“The list is up,” Roget said.
“Good.” After a moment, Sung turned in his swivel. “You’ve got the Virgin first. That’s right. But you need to move your first observation farther north, out east beyond the Green Springs tram terminal.” Sung called up a map on the console and motioned for Roget to join him.
Roget did.
A red triangle appeared—a good klick to the east of the station. “There,” announced Sung. “Don’t forget to check to make sure nothing’s coming down the Mill Creek wash, either. A reading there will determine whether it’s natural, or whether it’s coming from a source in town.”
Roget thought about the long walk ahead.
“Oh … you can sign out a bicycle if you don’t want to walk it.” Sung grin
ned.
“I don’t believe you mentioned that.”
“Supply keeps one for us, down on the lower level. They fold and fit in the carriers at the rear of the tram cars.”
“Thank you. I could use it today.”
Sung smiled. “I thought you might. You’ll need three locations on the river and three different intervals at least an hour apart.”
Roget had planned on that. He just nodded. “I’d better get going.”
Sung returned his attention to the console, and Roget finished loading the data into his duty monitor. Then he left the office and took the ramp at the end of the corridor down to the lower level. He had to walk the entire length of the corridor on the lower level to reach the supply office—a small cubicle with a door behind it, presumably to a storeroom.
The supply clerk was a black-eyed and black-haired woman. She looked up with a cautious smile. “Yes?”
“Keir Roget. I’m the new E&W monitor.”
“Caron Fueng.”
“Monitor Sung said that there might he a bike I can sign out?”
“There is.” The clerk smiled. “Sung must like you.”
“Oh?”
“He didn’t tell Merytt about the bike for close to a month. I’ll get it for you.”
Roget laughed. But as he waited for Fueng to return with the bike, he wondered if the head monitor suspected what he really was.
The bike that Fueng wheeled out was the compact type with wide balloon tires. Not the speediest on paved surfaces, but much better on trails and lanes or unpaved surfaces.
“Just a thumbprint, please.” She gestured to the authenticator on the corner of her desk. “I checked the tires. They’re fine.”
Haze Page 5
