Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (27 page)

The west end of the Plaza was empty except for them, as were the green-tinted marble steps leading up to the simple arch that was slightly trapezoidal. The south facade of the capitol had no columns, no ornate decorations, just sheet walls of marble, interspersed with long narrow windows. At the top of the steps was a set of greenish translucent doors that opened as they approached. Inside was a foyer stretching a mere ten meters on each side of the doors and extending back six meters or so. On the north side of the foyer were two sets of double doors, wooden doors, rather than the translucent automatic ones.

Roget glanced around, but he saw no one in the foyer.

“This way.” Lyvia walked toward the right-hand doorway. The old-style wooden door actually had brass handles. She pulled on the handle, and the door swung toward her. Inside the chamber, the lights flashed on. She left the door open until Roget took it when she walked inside.

As he released the door, letting it swing closed, Roget followed her into the chamber, a half-amphitheater with true wooden desks set on tiered daises, all facing a raised podium. Behind the podium was a holo projection—a starscape of some sort. Roget moistened his lips as he studied it. He couldn't be absolutely certain, but the image appeared to have been captured from orbit above Dubiety facing outsystem. It was a true image, not exaggerated, because there was only one disk, and that was tiny, most probably the nearer of the three outer gas giants.

Most government assemblies featured flags, or seals, or symbols designed to create a sense of unity and/or patriotism. The only decoration in the House of Delegates was a vast projected hologram of the endless universe. Otherwise, all the walls were bare.

“Is that the only hologram projected?” he asked.

“There are three others, but they're all starscapes. Each is from a different quadrant of Dubiety's orbit. They change seasonally.”

“This is the winter one, then?”

Lyvia nodded.

Roget continued to survey the chamber before finally speaking. “This whole part of the building's empty.”

“Both ends are,” replied Lyvia. “Neither House is in session. The Judiciary operates year-round.”

“What about staff?”

“The Tribunes don't have official staff. Each has a small office on the upper or lower levels. It's just large enough for them.”

“Are any of them around?”

“I couldn't say for certain, but I'd judge not. Anyone who has a problem with existing law or wants to propose legislation can comlink those problems or suggestions to their representative. That doesn't require that they be here.”

“No one wants to meet face-to-face?”

“They very well might, but it's frowned upon, and in certain cases cause for dismissal from office.”

“What?” Roget had trouble believing that. Dismissal for meeting with citizens and constituents? And she had called the Dubietan government representative?

“The right to personal representation is highly overrated, not to mention one of the greatest contributors to corruption in governments that are theoretically democratic and/or representative.”

“If you wouldn't mind explaining that point…”

“You don't see why?” Lyvia's voice was tart.

“No. I don't. How can someone possibly represent a group or a district or whatever without being able to meet with them?”

“First, anyone who is eligible for election has to have lived in the same area with those they represent for at least ten years, and no one can be elected to the House of Tribunes who is less than forty-five. We don't much care for representatives who haven't been successful in something else first. Second, anyone can petition them and send them concerns. They just can't do it face-to-face.”

“And image-to-image is different?”

“All images are recorded. Permanently.”

Roget began to see where the explanation was headed. “Subject to recall?”

“Subject to examination by the House of Denial and by any concerned citizen.”

“But some people don't present themselves well when it's not in person. They need to have physical feedback.”

“For what? To play on the emotions of the representative? To influence by other than the merits of their position? To override careful judgment with an upwelling of sincerity?” The scorn in her voice was biting. “Or worse, to offer or suggest indirect favoritism? Or an out-and-out bribe?”

“How do people know what their constituents are thinking? Do they have to rely on polls or surveys?”

“Polls and surveys are prohibited.”

That was another shock to Roget. “And you think you allow freedom of expression?”

“Anyone can say anything that's truthful to anyone through any commnet and in any public venue. You might remember that. They just can't contact others on an organized basis and ask what those others think. That also applies to debates and discussions in any governmental forum.”

“That doesn't sound exactly like representative government.”

“It's very representative, Keir. It's a systematized way of avoiding political mob rule where government bases its actions on what people think they want rather than on the best judgment of the representative.”

“What about businesses? Can they survey the public to see what people want to buy? Or is that prohibited as well?”

“No. They have to offer the best they can and learn from their experiences. We try to reward leadership, not followship. We're not interested in following the lemminglike path that doomed the old United States and most of the Euro-derived so-called democracies.” Lyvia paused, then asked, “Have you seen enough here?”

With only an empty chamber before him, Roget had. He nodded.

Lyvia led the way back out and then around the front foyer and toward the rear of the building before turning to her right into a wide corridor leading toward the middle of the capitol.

Roget looked down the corridor, presumably to the Judiciary. “Are we going to see the justices?”

“We can walk down there and see what's in progress. Visitors aren't allowed in the chambers, but whatever is happening in the chamber is projected out into the main foyer. The same is true of the House of Tribunes and the House of Denial.”

“Aren't you concerned that someone might present a false record of the proceedings or the debates?”

“With seven political parties and a very enthusiastic crop of attorneys who would love to seize the assets of anyone who did that? It's rather unlikely. Also,” she added, “distortion or falsification of records of government proceedings is one of the few offenses that can merit a death sentence.”

“But not murder?”

“Corruption of government kills and abuses everyone, and it's always for personal or professional gain, not for social improvement. In any case, we have very few murders,” Lyvia said dryly. “Murder and child abuse are among the few offenses that result in a sentence of permanent alterations to brain functioning.”

“And some of those in Manor Farm Cottages are there for that reason?”

“Possibly. There are some who cannot function in society after such treatment.” Lydia resumed walking toward the Judiciary chamber.

Roget studied the corridor that seemed vaguely familiar, totally unfamiliar as it was, walking several meters before a wash of blackness swept over him. He took an unsteady step, then blinked. When he opened his eyes, the corridor was different.

Fluted columns lined both sides, and it was narrower, and the ceiling lower. The floor was a mixture of a reddish stone and one of grayish white, both highly polished. He stood in the middle of a group of people, all very young. Beside him was a tall and willowy brunette girl.

“Another explanation,” she murmured, her eyes flicking to the front of the group where a fresh-faced guide had stopped.

“This corridor is known as Statuary Hall. That is because of all the sculptures that have been placed here over the years.…”

Roget/Tanner took in the guide's words as his eyes drifted from statue to statue. He recognized one or two, but most were unfamiliar, although he probably would recognize their names from American history.

“Joe…” whispered the youth to Roget's right, “Cari said you got your call. When do you leave?”

“In May just after the end of the semester.”

“Where are you going?”

Roget—or Tanner—didn't want to answer that question. He just smiled. “Wherever they send me.”

“You must know…”

Roget/Tanner shrugged. “It doesn't matter.” Except it did. That he did know. He'd hoped for a mission somewhere in the Far East, but he was going to Peru. His parents had said that the country was like southern Utah, with red hills and mountains, but the Andes were far more imposing than places like the Wasatch Range or even Brian Head or Cedar Breaks. He'd wanted to improve his Mandarin, but it appeared that he'd just have to learn Spanish as well.

“This way,” announced the guide, as the tour resumed.

“You could be a senator someday, Joseph,” suggested the brunette in a low voice.

“I'm more interested in being a pilot, Cari.”

“I suppose I could get used to being married to a pilot.”

Roget/Tanner managed not to gape. He and Cari had dated, but he'd never tried anything serious, and he certainly hadn't proposed. How could he, with a mission coming up, three more years of college, and, if he were fortunate, flight training after that?

“You'll be more than a pilot. I know that.”

“You know more than I do.” His eyes drifted to the small rotunda ahead.

He could feel dizziness creeping up over him …

Roget found himself sitting on a stone bench. To his right and across the foyer was a holo showing a justice in a gray robe behind a judicial podium, looking down at a woman in a formal singlesuit and black jacket.

“… did the defendant ever provide you with any evidence about the accuracy of the assertion in the prospectus…”

“Keir?” Lyvia's voice was strained.

That surprised him. “Yes. I'm … here.” He'd almost said that he was back.

“You walked down the corridor as if no one were around you, and you were saying things about being a pilot.”

“Flashbacks,” he admitted. He wasn't about to admit that they weren't his flashbacks, not exactly. “It happens sometimes.”

“And they sent you to Dubiety?”

“FSA doesn't know.”

“Or they don't care.”

That was certainly possible. “I couldn't say.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. They don't happen often, sometimes not for years.”

“When you're under stress, I'd imagine,” Lyvia probed.

“Not even that, necessarily.”

She nodded, not in agreement, but as if she had heard what he had said.

What was it about the Dubietan capitol? Or was it just that it
was
a capitol, and the first time he'd seen it?

“We should get you something to eat. A low blood sugar doesn't help.”

“That might be good.” He was hungry. He was also worried. He hadn't had a memory flashback in years, not since deep-space small-craft training, as he recalled. Dreams, yes, but not daytime flashbacks.

 

24

28 LIANYU 6744
F. E.

By the time Roget was escorted out of the unmarked Federation flitter at the FAF base outside Cheyenne, it was late on Sunday afternoon, and the two Air Force senior rankers were most insistent that he check into the medical facility immediately. Roget did … and then spent an uneventful evening and a restless night. On Monday he was ushered from medical test to medical test. None of the results were conveyed to him, and he had a quiet dinner in the officers' dining room. He slept somewhat better on Monday night, but not enough better that he didn't have vaguely uneasy dreams that he could not remember when he woke.

At nine thirty on Tuesday, two FSA guards appeared and “requested” that he accompany them in an unmarked electrocar to the base security building. He did, and at almost precisely ten hundred he was escorted into a large office that held a large, plain, and impressive desk without a visible console, and three chairs set before the desk. The walls were plain, doubtless to enable projections. Sitting behind the desk was a silver-haired Sinese in a colonel's uniform.

“Agent-Captain … please sit down.” The colonel's voice was pleasant, almost musical. “You've had a rather trying month, it appears.”

“I'm fine, sir.”

The colonel smiled politely. “That's what the results of your medical tests show. You've recovered completely from the injuries of your previous assignment. Outside of a few abrasions and bruises, your body shows no signs of further abuse.” The colonel paused. “According to the medical staff, there is no apparent physical reason why you should have been found unconscious outside the sculptor's studio, but the readings from your internals and the medical personnel present confirm that your consciousness had indeed been affected.”

In short, Roget thought, the doctors had confirmed that he hadn't been faking, and they were all worried.

“Do you have any thoughts about this, Agent-Captain?”

Roget's internals could sense the various energy flows around the room, and he had no doubts that every bit of interrogation and surveillance technology known to the FSA was trained on him. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“Please proceed to offer those thoughts.”

“As I reported earlier, I was injected with an unknown substance by the Sorensen woman. Shortly thereafter, I suffered extreme dehydration and disorientation. I would surmise that the efforts involved in resolving the situation in St. George triggered a follow-up episode. Since I have experienced no additional symptoms, and since the medical tests, from what you suggested, sir, apparently indicated no remaining unknown substances in my system, it would appear to me that it's unlikely that there will be future occurrences.”