“What obscure name is that?” Pete inquired.
Martin’s grin flashed with a metallic gleam where several a missing teeth should have been. “Vindobona. The Roman name for the camp that became a city on the Danube River. It fits the location and Vindobona had walls, although they were rectangular like all Roman encampments, instead of mostly circular.”
It’s pretty obscure all right, but on the other hand it’s still better than Ubistadt, or ‘Here,’ Pete thought.
The next day Arturo and Pete drove out in one of the rovers. “We’re down to five now,” Pete reminded Arturo. “No rock hopping in this one.”
“I don’t rock hop. Hover tanks ignore rocks.”
“Do they?”
Arturo slowed until they edged past a slow-moving rock-maker and its tow vehicle. “Pretty much. It has to be one massive rock for the lift system not to be able to get over it. Not saying you can’t get stuck, because I’ve seen idiots manage it, and it’s a stone bitch to get the beast off the obstruction, but it takes work. They don’t cross deep water, though, or at least they didn’t when I was in. Rumor had it a new, really all-terrain version was coming out, but people have been saying that since the first tank rolled out of the smoke at Cambrai a few thousand years ago or so.”
“Probably the same people who predicted that we’d have a completely safe mining system in just a few years.” Pete studied the passing terrain. “I think four millennia is more than a ‘few’ years. And who promised that we’d have the fliers back up a week after the magnetic storm.” The failure of the aviation system rankled. That should have been one of the priorities, but no. I can see how people come up with conspiracy theories about the evil machinations of ColPlat Ltd., even though bureaucracy overwhelms any conspiracy ever hatched.
Pete eyed the surface marks designating the new right-of-way for his water pipes. The farmers had already harvested the area, letting the surveyors correct any errors by the auto-markers. There’d been more than usual this time, Pete grimaced.
Arturo chuckled, “Rover sick already?”
“No, just thinking about equipment burps.”
A loud snort came from the driver’s position. “Forget equipment. What do we do when the sun burps again?”
“The Company’s astronomers and solar weather office says that the flare cycle is over and things will settle down for a thousand years or so. You doubt them?”
Arturo frowned and drummed his fingers on the leg of his trousers, eyes on the autonav display and the roadway ahead. “No more than usual, since they only have one solar satellite back up and working. We’ll have, at most, eight minutes warning the next time a major flare launches our way, by the time the data are recorded, transmitted to the observers, evaluated, and then broadcast. I’ll probably lose the last of my pavers, and may the Lord help anyone out in the field. Can you stop one of those big harvesters or planters and unplug, then shield everything that’s electrically fragile? Certainly the district and regional power grids will finish collapsing, more or less.” Arturo tapped beside the autonav’s display and frowned before concluding, “Plan for worst case and hope for the best.”
“Point.”
Pete watched the land on his side of the rover, studying the old river terraces and how the river looked at the moment. He’d been surprised to learn that the Donau Novi peaked twice each year: once in late spring and again in mid-autumn. Rains south and west of the city’s district fed the second rise. The fall floods tended not to be as large or long lasting as those of spring, but still needed to be considered in his plans. The less we do in the floodplain and lowest terrace, the better off everyone is. He’d heard rumors of someone petitioning for a new dam on the Donau Novi, in a narrow spot just below the eastern edge of the hills, roughly a hundred and fifty kilometers or so by river upstream, in addition to the weir near Donaupas. He doubted that either request would go through to final approval, given the Company’s approach to human interference with native hydrologic and faunal patterns. Right. They terraform the planet so that nine tenths of all species of everything die, replace them with things taken from at least eight different worlds, and then gripe about mining or building hydro dams. Typical bureaucracy—once it gets big enough, it loses contact with reality.
The road began climbing into the hills, giving Pete a better view of the river until the trees grew too thick. Arturo resumed manual control of the rover after finding signs of someone else’s collision with a cow. “That’s not supposed to happen.”
“I guess the cow didn’t read the traffic warning bulletin.”
They arrived at the work site half an hour later. “You’ll need these,” Pete said, tossing Arturo a helmet, safety harness, and locator beacon from the stack next to the sign-in point.
“Why the harness?”
“So we can pull you out from under any rock falls. We used to have rock shields too, but most of them fried in the first storm, so now we only check them out to the men working the active tunneling face.”
Pete led the way past a knee-high metal and composite barrier fence to the edge of the work area. The site did not exactly hum with activity. Instead a low, constant rumble, more felt than heard, filled the air, as mechanical diggers excavated the rock below the top of the hill. Pete walked a little way down the slope until he could see the edge of the next valley to the east. They’d have to use a siphon to cross it, and he dug a set of very old-fashioned, primitive binoculars out of his rucksack and looked across the valley. “There,” he whispered, sighting the black hole marking the next run of pipe.
“That’s going to be a mess to bridge,” Arturo observed from over Pete’s shoulder.
“Not going to bridge. Going to use a siphon and gravity. The entrance over there is half a meter lower than the outlet at this end, so the water will go down, across, and back up, then reenter the hill and keep going. Officially it’s to avoid disturbing the viewshed.” He turned back to the construction specialist. “Actually it’s because it would be a very obvious target.”
“Gormies?”
“Anyone with a grudge,” a new voice corrected. Pete and Arturo turned to see Thomas Riley limping up to meet them. “Hi Boss, come to get in the way?”
“Nah. Arturo’s wife wanted him to disappear. Told her we could arrange that. Tom, this is Arturo Montoya, the gent who gets to hide the last run of the aqueduct. Arturo, Tom Riley, the site supervisor and our horrible warning.”
“Pleasure,” Tom said as he shook hands with Arturo. “If you see me running, you’d better catch up and don’t ask why.”
“Let me guess—you played with firecrackers in your misspent youth,” Arturo grinned.
In reply Tom lifted the leg of his coverall, revealing an artificial limb. He held up one gloved hand, “This too, and other bits and pieces. There is no timer long enough for my taste.”
“How’s work on the qanat coming?” Pete asked, cutting to the point.
“So far so good. We’re not drilling or blasting at the moment, and the pumps have been going so we could finish the lining, so it’s safe to go in if you want. Clock in, please.”
Pete beckoned and led Arturo up the slope a little, then almost a kilometer south, past the parking area, to another work site. “Tunnels bother you?”
“No. Why?”
Pete signed another time log with his and Arturo’s names. “Clip both leads to your harness, please. We’ll unclip at the bottom of the access.” He attached a cable and a rope to his safety harness, then opened a heavy metal hatch on the top of a large grassy hump. “Don’t try to slide down the ladder. This isn’t the Navy.” Pete swung one leg, then the other, over the edge of the curbing and began climbing down the long access tube. He descended almost twenty meters straight down, stepped off the ladder and unclipped before getting out of Arturo’s way. Water reached his ankles and he sniffed carefully. He smelled wet tunnel and fresh air, but nothing else. Good. Once the other man unclipped, Pete turned on his helmet light. “This way
.”
“What are we in? I’ve never heard of a ‘qanat’ before.”
“It’s an ancient type of water gathering and transport system.” Once in the main tunnel, Pete pointed upslope. His light shone on damp synth-stone and petro-composite brick that formed an arched tunnel. The tunnel extended into the distance with a slight uphill run. “The main tunnel intercepts a major subsurface aquiclude, or water barrier, four kilometers that way. From there the tunnel runs almost to the edge of the hill to the east, where it joins the main aqueduct line. Right now the water’s being diverted out upstream, so the men can repair one of the catchment wells within the line, down that way.”
“So it’s another gravity-run aqueduct. Why not just call it that?” Arturo’s voice echoed a little.
“Because this takes the water from underground, stays underground, and is also augmented by a few rainwater catches that feed in through the vertical access tunnels. There’s no above ground runs anywhere, at least not until we reach the connection to the main line at the edge of the hills.” Pete led the way to one of the wells and pointed his light down. “These help clean the water during low flow periods, acting as stilling ponds of a sorts in case any sediment gets into the system.”
“What happens when they fill up?”
“Then someone has to clean the catchments downstream more often. In case you were curious, the usual water flow will be about here,” Pete indicated waist high.
“That must be one hell of a water layer at the source.”
“It is. We’re drying up a stream by catching it at the spring, but in a few years no will know anything ever flowed in that little valley.” Pete turned around and led the way back up to their entry ladder. “Seen enough?”
“Yeah. It’s kinda chilly in here.”
Pete waited to answer until they reached the top and logged out of the tunnel. He needed all his breath for the climb. I am not in as good shape as I thought, he puffed to himself. I need to work out more, in my copious spare time.
After looking around other parts of the work area, Pete and Arturo checked out of the site and began the trip back to the city. “You mind if we stop by the Heritage Center on the way? I need to see about something,” Arturo asked.
“No problem. Getting a pie for Ann?”
“Confirming a delivery.” With those cryptic words, Arturo sat back, watching the computers and drive monitors do their thing. Pete studied the landscape again, seeing with his mind’s eye how the aqueduct would run out of the hills, over the old river bend, through the end of the small ridge and into the city.
“You were serious about not using the river, weren’t you?” Arturo asked after a while.
Pete nodded, still looking out the window. “Absolutely. Be too easy for someone to cause trouble from the river, and it needs chemical purification, and is vulnerable to floods. Tapping the groundwater is much safer in the long term, needs no chemicals, or very few, and after a few years, no one should be able to find the route of the aqueduct without special equipment. I trust the Union navy, but we’re a hell of a ways from help if someone shows up.”
“Point. Speaking of which, ah, never mind. Just answered my own question.” The rover slowed and Arturo guided it down into the vehicle parking area outside the Heritage Center gates. They got out and Arturo led the now-familiar way through the gate, past the information station, and into the semi-private section of the village.
“Nicholas, are you in?” He peered into the carpentry shop.
“If it’s Alex, no, I’m not. If it’s Mrs. Patten, I’m in the fields and won’t be back until at least after sundown.” A square, brown haired man with thick-muscled hands walked up to meet them. “How can I help you?”
“I just wanted to make certain you’d gotten the delivery without any trouble,” Arturo explained.
Nicholas relaxed. “Yes, I did. It’s tucked into the main stack and drying nicely. They came through the back way and didn’t bother anyone.”
“Good. There’s probably be two more, that size, before my crew finishes.”
“We’ll take them all. It’d be a sin to let them go to waste. Especially ones of that quality.”
“That’s what I thought when I saw them. Thanks for taking them off my hands.”
Pete wondered what strange business he’d gotten pulled into. Art’s delivering something here? Rocks? No, because a carpenter doesn’t need rocks for anything. The light dawned. Logs. I bet Art’s disposing of some of the trees he has to cut here, since they need wood and won’t ask about papers, permits, and species harvest limitations. How many more Company regulations are we going to break before sunset, I wonder?
“Ah,” Nicholas glanced around and lowered his voice. “Could I interest you in some fresh produce?”
They left with three bags of various vegetables and some apples. Arturo said, “You never heard this, but they’ve expanded the farms again. So far, the Company surveyors haven’t caught on. If anyone asks, they are vocational therapy gardens for improved settlers who are suffering from PTSD due to events in the sub-sett.”
“Vocational therapy.” Pete looked at a beautiful, faintly blue apple on top of one of the produce bags.
Arturo nodded. “It’s almost true, because most of the newcomers are either people from the sub-sett like Fritz and Maria, or—” He stopped. “Or Mennonites fleeing trouble up north.”
“What trouble?” Something inside Pete began to chill.
That evening, Pete lay back in his reclining seat at the apartment and wondered what would come next. Cynthia had gone out to a music performance, leaving Pete to reheat food and consider the next disaster looming just over the horizon. Thinking about Arturo’s news made him shiver all over again, with fear and anger both. People from ColLandPlat, the enormous sprawling hub of the planetary administration, spaceports, and home to hundreds of thousands of improved settlers, had begun raiding the outlying settlements. “Sometimes the sub-setters take food and clothes, other times furnishings and cookware, although no one knows what they do with those. Probably sell them as scrap or just dump them somewhere, or use them as weapons. They harass the livestock and have even killed a few of the farmers, roughed up more. And security won’t stop them. They say the farmers need to be faster calling them in, because they can’t station security people everywhere.” Arturo’s fists had clenched. “And the Mennonites at least won’t fight back.”
Pete could barely process the idea. Why would someone not defend themselves when their lives were in danger? Arturo had tried to explain, but Pete still had trouble wrapping his mind around it. “They use an old, pre-Unification Bible, and they have Scriptures that say you need to forgive your enemies and not to hurt people. Apparently some translations take it to the point that you should not defend your physical person or property.”
I like your Holy Writ better, Lord, Pete thought. No wonder they’re so shy, if they’re pre-Unification Christians. Talk about an endangered species! Or so everyone said, and Pete didn’t doubt the conventional wisdom and Church teaching. Yes, we’re supposed to be forgiving, but the prophet Jesus never said we should let people kill us without trying to at least protect our wives and children. And the threat of death by starvation counts as an attack in my book. And in exchange for their freedom to live in the old ways and worship as they choose, as part of their transportation contract, people at the Heritage Centers couldn’t draw on any subsistence assistance except in emergencies. Apparently the Company didn’t think having the winter food supply threatened and crops and livestock ruined counted as an emergency. The veins in Pete’s temples throbbed.
Pete left Cynthia sleeping when he went to the office the next morning. They’d both forgotten how much energy being pregnant took, even with modern nutritional boosters. He crept out of the apartment, glancing at the grey sky overhead as he crossed the courtyard. The warm, heavy morning air suggested that he’d need his rain jacket before the day ended. The low sky matched his mood.
On
ce at the office, he worked steadily for an hour or so, confirming the timetables and sending any updates to the subcontractors involved in the project.
Someone knocked on the doorframe, then said, “Tap, tap, tappa tap.”
“I gave at the office.”
“Tappata tappata tap tap.”
“I like my current religion.”
“Tap tap taptaptaptap knock knock.”
Pete gave in and opened the door. “We don’t need any cleaning supplies and I paid Guido already.”
“Glad to see you, too,” Gerald said, holding up a container. The scent of hot egg casserole wafted out of the box like incense. “The password is food.”
“Password approved, access granted,” Pete stepped aside as Gerald and Martin came in. Martin had a thermal carry bottle and cups and a second box. “Is this a bribe?”
“No,” the white-haired man assured him. “It’s bait to lure you into a trap and then to force you to listen to Bettina Monsiérvo’s voice at a terribly early hour.”
Pete’s eyes widened and he glanced over at his computer displays, automatically checking to see if anything “unprofessional” were on the screens. “She’s coming here?” What disaster’s unfolding now? She never leaves the corporate office complex unless she has to, or is on her way back to the district headquarters. His heart rate started rising, and he reached over to log into the maintenance net to check the alerts and alarms.
“No, no, sorry to scare you before breakfast.” Gerald assured him, “She’s still in the office complex, will be for a few more days I suspect, unless she gets called back to headquarters. No, we recorded our meeting yesterday.”
“With her knowledge and permission,” Martin added quickly. “So there would be no confusion later on. Gerald being a slow engineer type and me being half-deaf as well as retired.”
Pete helped himself to a mini egg casserole and one of the maize sticks, perching on the corner of his worktable. My parents would cry if they knew I’m eating real chicken eggs cooked in cow butter. Sorry, it’s a hard fate, but that’s what living on the frontier will make you stoop to. He savored the taste of the rich, eggy, cheese-filled concoction, alternating with bites of the sweet, crisp, maize-ear shaped maize-bread. Animal rights be damned, the Lord wouldn’t have made these taste so good if we weren’t supposed to eat them. He noticed Martin and Gerald didn’t waste any time devouring their share. Pete finished and disposed of the boxes while the others washed their hands. “So, bribe accepted and stomach settled, what happened yesterday?”
Fountains of Mercy Page 11
