Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (24 page)

In an open grassy area to his left, Roget turned to watch a gray-haired woman running, holding a string with a small kite attached. Even at full speed, the woman could barely keep the little kite airborne.

Roget said nothing more. He just kept watching and walking until he and Lyvia were on the path away from the cottages and had passed the subsonic barrier.

“Now you've seen the Manor Farm Cottages.”

“How can anyone do that? How can you?”

“It's their choice.”

“That's no choice,” snapped Roget.

“No … they have a choice. They can ask for personality modification or guided re-memory emphasis. All of them have rejected that. They claim that they wouldn't be themselves.”

“Isn't that true?”

“Absolutely,” Lyvia agreed. “But the people that they are as themselves make choices that impact violently and adversely on others, occasionally fatally, and individual freedom must always stop well short of other people's persons.”

“So you'd turn them into automatons…”—he struggled for the word—“… zombies, the living dead.”

“They're very much alive. Not particularly sane, but definitely alive. Medicating or adjusting them might turn them into zombies, though.”

“And you can't do anything better than this? There has to be a better way.”

“Sometimes there isn't. There are limits to what one can do to the human brain,” Lyvia replied. “Are you running around screaming that we're evil monsters who won't share our technology? Even if you feel that way?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly. Even you choose to behave civilly in a situation where you feel under threat. If they choose to live in what amounts to an animal farm … that's their choice,” Lyvia replied. “We don't feel obligated, beyond the basic necessities, to coddle those who are unwilling to make decisions that allow them to function in society. We don't believe that we should have to spend huge amounts of resources keeping people who won't act responsibly comfortable and in better situations than those who work. Unlike some societies, we require accountability and real choices.”

“What sort of choice is that?” He gestured back toward the cottages.

“It's a real choice.”

“Why don't you just … adjust them?”

“Without their consent? And then where would it stop?” asked Lyvia. “Once you give governments the power to adjust people and their perceptions, you're on the road to empire and ruin. Throughout history, societies have forced unfree choices on people. We don't force the choices; we just insist on the consequences of those choices falling on the choosers—except when it's clear that there isn't the mental capacity to choose. There are very few people to whom that applies, and they're handled far more gently and warmly.”

“What about the lack of emotional capacity?”

She gestured back toward Manor Farm. “They end up in cottages like these and they remain there for life … or until they decide they want to change.”

“That's … cruel.”

“Is it? All choices involve change,” she said patiently. “These people wish to hurt others in one way or another, either by refusing to take responsibility for their actions or taking emotional or physical pleasure in inflicting abuse. That's not acceptable.”

“What about those who seek adventure, the thrill of danger? Do you imprison their minds as well?”

Lyvia smiled. “No. Just as there is always another dynasty, so to speak, there are always frontiers, and we let them seek such—just not on Dubiety.”

“What do you mean by ‘another dynasty'?”

“Isn't it obvious? In stable empires, the rulers change. If matters get too bad, another family or group usurps power, and matters go on mostly as before. Societies that have frontiers tend to be more stable in the center because the adventure-and-danger seekers gravitate toward the frontiers, as do the antisocial or the less advantaged.”

“How many of your well-adjusted citizens know about places … like these?”

“Every last one of them over the age of eighteen. It's called the Omelas requirement. I don't know the origin of the term, but it means that they have to see that, while all choices are possible, they all have repercussions, and that even in the best of societies, the greatest cruelty is freedom of choice. A society that eliminates all misery eliminates true choice and freedom.”

“The great freedom to be miserable.” Roget didn't hide the sarcasm.

“Without it, there is no joy.” After a moment, she gestured behind them. “Do you think I really wanted to bring you here? That I enjoyed this?”

Roget was silent.

 

20

26 LIANYU 6744
F. E.

Roget did get some sleep on Saturday night and early Sunday morning, but he still woke with a headache—and a very sore leg. He could move his leg, and that would have to do. A very hot shower helped get rid of the headache and eased the soreness in his leg somewhat. As he hurried through a marginally palatable and fully replicated breakfast, he considered what he needed to do … and what the Saint dissidents might do—although he had no doubt that they thought they were patriots or idealists or true believers, something along those lines.

One possibility was that none of the conspirators would do anything and, if questioned, claim that Smith had been operating on his own. The other was that they'd attempt to remove any additional evidence located elsewhere. Roget was betting on the second, and that was another reason why he was up early on Sunday.

He sponged and wiped off the nightsuit as well as he could, then donned it. He did not power it up. That would come later. While it wouldn't be as effective in daylight, its background matching provided excellent camouflage during the day, especially inside and when he wasn't moving, and that might come in useful. Then he reloaded the wrist-dart, still with just paralyzing darts rather than the lethal variety, and gathered his equipment together. Within ten minutes he was out of the apartment, walking up 800 East to the tram station, where he waited ten minutes before he took the next eastbound. He was one of three people in the entire car, and the other two were Sudam men who seemed to be dozing.

Once he left the Red Cliffs station, and he was the only one who got off there, he walked to the path down Middleton wash, through the gate to Delbert Parsens's studio, and up the path and around to the east side of the building. The sign in the outside niche read
STUDIO CLOSED.
That didn't surprise Roget. He'd discovered that most Saint establishments were closed on Sunday, as they had been traditionally for centuries, if not longer.

He stepped into the shadows of the entrance at the top of the stone steps and powered up the nightsuit, then eased the mesh hood over his face. Roget could sense the energies of the building's security system, but it was on standby, suggesting that people were inside, for all that the studio area looked empty. The door was locked, but only manually, and it took but a few moments with his picks before Roget was inside. He locked the door behind himself, replaced the picks in his waist-pak, and moved slowly down the long gradual ramp from the entrance into the main studio, keeping close to the walls and display cases to his right.

No one was in the studio. Roget glanced at the block of redstone Parsens had been working earlier but didn't see that the sculptor had made that much progress on the John D. Lee statue. He continued through the studio and up a short and narrow ramp to the older section of the building. The staircase to the lower level wasn't concealed at all, but lay behind a partly open door off the old main foyer of the building. Roget could sense energies below, as well as hear the murmur of voices that grew louder as he eased down the steps. At the bottom was a small foyer and an open door to the right. The room there was empty, but was set up as a small lecture hall or classroom.

From where were the voices coming?

Then he realized that the mirror at the rear of the lower foyer wasn't anything of the sort, but a reflective holo screen. He started to ease his head through the screen near the edge, fighting the disorientation, and found himself looking at a closet. To his right was a side panel, barely ajar. He stepped into the closet, then peered through the narrow opening in the sliding side panel.

Beyond it was a long chamber, and along one side were piping and what looked to be antique heat concentrators and generators. Beyond them was an array of more modern and large flash capacitors. As Roget had suspected, a small geothermal power plant lay under the studio, most probably the source of the thermal discharge to the Virgin River.

Roget couldn't see that much beyond the three men who sat around an old table, except that there was a solid wooden wall on the west end of the chamber. That didn't mean there wasn't another hidden doorway or passage, not the way the Saint conspirators seemed to favor them. After a moment he recognized two of the three—Parsens and Sorensen. The third looked like the single image of William Dane he'd been able to find.

Roget listened.

“… tried the antidotes with Brendan, but by the time we could get to him he was already gone…”

Antidotes? Roget had made sure that his wrist-dart had only used paralytic darts, not combat darts that immediately shocked the nervous system into a fatal shutdown. Had Smith had allergies? But if he had, why had the others been prepared with an antidote … unless they were waiting for a security raid?

“Mitchell … he said he'd be here later. Something came up in his ward…”

“Something always comes up in his ward, especially if there's anything possibly inconvenient to do … or decide … unless he knows someone else will do it…”

“ChinoFed has to be the new E&W monitor … no one else new in town…”

“… early thirties and a temp appointment … says FSA to me…”

“… could be a deep agent they activated…”

“… wouldn't have two of them here. They don't think we're that big a problem…”

“No … just think that the only good Danite is a dead Danite…”

Danites? It took a moment before Roget recalled the religious terrorist organization that had been agitating for local regional rule, based on “cultural differences.”

“They'll see.”

“They might see too soon. They got Brendan, and Tyler says that there's a Federation inspector at DeseretData already with a military escort. They've found the armory.”

“Not everything was there.”

“Enough, and enough for proof.”

“Only against Brendan.”

“… won't stop them…”

“Do we move everything out of here?”

“Where do we move it? And why? Except for some personal weapons…”

“The FSA can claim anything they find is illegal. You know that…”

“Too bad Marni's stuff doesn't always work…”

“… converts some…”

Converts some? Chemical conversion? There was no way that could work. In any case, Roget didn't dare wait too long, and he'd heard enough. He lifted his arm and fired the first dart, then the second. Both Sorensen and Parsens were convulsing before Dane leapt to his feet and whirled toward the panel door, his hand reaching for the nerve shredder on the table.

It took Roget two darts to get a clean shot, but Dane struggled, then collapsed.

Roget pushed aside the panel and hurried toward the fallen men. All three were twitching, and Sorensen began to gasp.

Antidotes? Roget searched Sorensen quickly but couldn't find anything resembling an inhaler, a syringe, or an injector. He moved to Dane, but found nothing there. Parsens had an injector of some sort, and Roget immediately pressed it against Sorensen's bare neck.

Slowly, the gasping stopped—except both other men had begun to wheeze. Abruptly, Parsens shuddered and stopped breathing. Then, so did Dane.

Roget stood, slowly.

Had all of them been death-sensitized to Federation paralytics? Why? So they couldn't reveal the extent of the conspiracy or the underground—the Danites? He turned toward the west wall … too late.

“I wouldn't move if I were you.”

Roget finished turning, slowly, to face the speaker, standing before an open door on the west end of the underground room. The one side of the door matched the paneling, one reason why Roget hadn't noticed it.

Marni Sorensen stood there, wearing motion-detecting goggles, with a nerve shredder trained on him. “Stay right there, Keir. You may be in a camosuit, but there's no one else quite so tall as you in town.”

“I wouldn't think of moving. But I do have a question for you before you shred me. What was that business with the false memory?”

“It wasn't false. It's just a chunk of memory. Not yours, but one picked to give you a chance to understand. To learn what's really important in life. At worse, it would disorient you. We would have preferred that you understood. Live converts are far better than dead FSA infiltrators.”

The whole idea of memories inserted into his brain chilled Roget, but he couldn't dwell on that. Not at the moment. “Whatever it was, it killed an innocent photographer…” That was a guess on Roget's part.

“He had the same chance you did. To understand—”

“And become an unwilling convert?” Another guess on Roget's part.

“It doesn't work that way. It just opens you to understand. He was another Federation spy who couldn't understand…”

“He was just an observer.”

“
Just
an observer? Like you're just an E&W monitor.” Her laugh was short and harsh. “It really is too bad you won't get to relive the rest of the memories. You might understand, then, you traitor…”

“Traitor to what…?”

“I couldn't expect you to be loyal to Deseret, but you could have been loyal to the United States…”