Power Lines (22 page)

“No unauthorized personnel allowed on base, sir. Orders of Captain Fiske.”

The officious little jerk was more helpful than he meant to be. “Yeah, but that’s who I came to see. Captain Fiske. Tell him Lance Corporal James Satok is here to see him about his mining operations.” What the hell. He
had
been a lance corporal in the corps once.

“A little old to be a corporal, aren’t you?” the kid asked, not bothering to add “sir” this time. “And I’d say you were way out of uniform.”

“Is that what you’d say, lad? Is it really?” Satok leaned forward confidentially, his arm resting casually on the window of the gatehouse. “Well, now, that may all be very true, but I was a lance corporal just as you’ll soon be if you’re smart and don’t interfere with me. I’ve a load of raw ores of just the sort the company has been looking for, and I can tell your Captain Fiske where the company can get more of them here.”

“Oh, sure,” the kid said with a sneer.

“Hey, if you don’t believe me, come and look for yourself.”

“I can’t leave my post, and if you’d ever been in the corps, you’d know that”

“Son, I was in the corps long enough to know that playing by the rules too strictly can get you in as deep a pile of shit as not playing by them at all. The ore’s in my vehicle, just over by the trees there. You can keep one eye on the fraggin’ gate all the way. Just come and look and you’ll see why you have to tell Fiske I’m here. Look, I might even be able to cut you in . . .”

Without a word, the guard unfastened the door and followed him to the shuttle.

“Now, the ore is back here,” Satok said, pointing to the cargo area. The moment the guard turned, he hit him over the head with a thick lump of ore he’d set aside for such a use. Then he stripped him of his uniform and put it on. He also took the badge and weapon, which might come in handy. Throughout all this, Luka said nothing. As soon as Satok had the uniform and the weapon, he shook the boy awake.

“Now then, asswipe. How do I find this Captain Fiske?”

The boy, in thermal underwear only, looked about sixteen and his eyes were a little crossed. “He’s not on the base,” he said.

Satok turned the boy’s weapon on him. “I’m tired of playing games with you, punk. You will answer at length and in depth. Where is Fiske and how do I get to see him?”

“But he ain’t here. He’s gone to Shannonmouth to meet with the special investigative team from the company. They’re probably at the village meeting house.”

“You’ve been so helpful,” Satok said. He almost blasted the kid, then thought that if his sellout was going to lead to his being a solid citizen, maybe a fresh homicide wasn’t the best way to begin his new life. So he tapped him with another piece of ore, gently but at the physiologically correct point to insure long unconsciousness, and left him in the woods.

Torkel Fiske danced attendance on Marmion de Revers Algemeine, giving her the complete lady-killer treatment, much to her well-concealed amusement. Though he looked much as Whit had looked at his age, and was really quite a charming boy, Marmion decided that he was totally lacking in his father’s finesse. There was a somewhat febrile boyish quality about him that was not unappealing. However, it was coupled with a certain calculation and a certain lack of . . . depth? Soul? She wasn’t sure.

She had prevailed on him to escort her to Shannonmouth because Sinead Shongili, sister of Sean, and Aisling Senungatuk, sister to Clodagh, were still there and she did want a chance to chat with them, as well as visit another of the small communities. She suspected they would be all much the same, but she couldn’t present an in-depth report without some comparison.

There was something to be said about a landscape that was
still
a landscape, fresh-smelling and softly chartreuse as trees and shrubs responded to the precipitated springtime. There wasn’t even that much mud on the trail to Shannonmouth: maybe “trace” was the better word, for the way they followed could barely be called a “road.”

“Why aren’t there connecting
roads
between the communities, Torkel?” she asked as her curly-coat delicately made its way.

Torkel regarded Marmion with something like open-mouthed surprise, but the smile that followed gave her an uneasy feeling. “The very thing, Marmion, the very thing. I do believe we have shortchanged the locals by keeping them in virtual isolation.” And he continued to smile until the houses of Shannonmouth appeared where the trace became wide enough to be termed a road, muddy and churned as it was, with rough boardwalks and stepping-stones connecting the houses and forming bridges from one side to another.

They could hear the dogs barking long before they caught sight of any humans, though there were curly-coats browsing here and there. Marmion was certain she saw the flick of an orange tail or two disappearing in the underbrush. She must get one of Matthew’s boys—they did so like to do graphs and charts and reports—to do a census of the cat population of this planet, if the cats would stay still long enough in one place to have their orange noses counted. And dogs. And curly-coats.

With the animal “early-warning system” in excellent working order, most of the population had turned out by the time the visitors arrived. Marmion was delighted, but Torkel seemed less than pleased, especially as Sinead Shongili stood, feet braced as official welcoming committee, partially eclipsing Aisling Senungatuk.

“Sláinte, all. I do hope you don’t mind us coming down here,” Marmion said, smiling a greeting first to Sinead and Aisling and passing it around the circle of people. “But Shannonmouth is so close, and Clodagh didn’t think you’d mind if we visited. Torkel was kind enough to show me the way, though I think now I could have found it on my own. The cats, you know. They wouldn’t have let me make a wrong turn, nor Curly here.” She affectionately slapped the pony’s neck. Curly’s ears twitched back and forth at the sound of her voice, but pricked forward again as it turned to Sinead.

Sinead’s lips curved in a smile. “Sláinte, Marmion. You were expected and are welcome.” She gave only a curt nod to Torkel. “Dismount here and Robbie’ll take care of your curlies.” She signed for a gawky youngster to come forward.

When both Marmion and Torkel had swung down onto the boardwalk, Sinead put one hand on Marmion’s shoulder.

“This is Marmion de Revers Algemeine, of whom we have spoken, and you all know Captain Fiske,” she said, and there was a murmur of sláintes and hesitant smiles. “Come.” And with that Sinead turned on her heel and led the way.

Torkel muttered something under his breath about primitive manners and looked pointedly away from the swaying backside of Aisling. The villagers fell in behind the guests.

“Did all the plants survive the journey?” Marmion asked.

“Oh, yes, they did,” Aisling said, bubbling with pleasure. “And Aigur and Sheydil have some for us to take back. It’ll be such a marvelous summer for plantings. One of the best we’ve had.”

“To that point,” Torkel said, striding to Aisling’s side and smiling broadly, “something Dama Algemeine mentioned, you know, I think Intergal really should see to building good roads between villages, and proper greenhouses so you don’t have to wait until full spring to have your gardens started.”

“Really?” Sinead stopped in her tracks to stare at him. Aisling nearly ran into her. Before she did, Sinead was once more striding forward, or, rather, stretching to meet the next board on the haphazard walkway. “How nice!”

Marmion saw Torkel Fiske flush at such an unenthusiastic reaction to what was, for him, an extraordinary concession. She thought she approved of Sinead’s patent skepticism. However before Torkel could get himself in deeper or prejudice the notion completely, Sinead was marching up the porch steps of a house that had cats sunning themselves all over its patchwork roof of recently replaced shingles, their orange coats an odd contrast to the raw wood. Lounging on the sunny end of the porch were two intertwined track-cats. Marmion saw Torkel give a little shudder. They were large, Marmion realized, but so intelligent. She could see it in the eyes of the one whose head was toward them: open only to slits, but the expression looked deliberate. The cats had probably known when she and Torkel had set out from SpaceBase, she mused.

“You’ll be hungry,” Sinead said, opening the door into a house that was rather sparsely furnished even by the Petaybean standards Marmion had observed thus far.

Then she saw the huge loom that took up most of the available floor space. Benches and chairs hung from nails on the walls; other things were up off the floor, too, to allow easy access to the loom. A woman was working shuttle and batten with a deftness that made the individual motions a blur—only the
clack-clack
as she changed combinations of harnesses provided any noise. She looked up from her work, nodded, smiled, and continued to concentrate on what she was doing.

“We brought provisions,” Marmion said. “Oh! How silly of me not to grab my—”

The door opened again and the gawky youngster lowered the saddlebags to the floor and departed so swiftly that Marmion had to shout her thanks to the closing door. She then glanced apprehensively at the intent weaver to be sure she hadn’t distracted the woman.

Sinead smiled. “That was good of you, but I think our larder can stand two extra mouths tonight.”

“But I insist that you have the use of our supplies, Sinead. Clodagh said you were probably out of five-spice and—oh, what
was
the name of the other seasoning?” Marmion made for the saddlebags and began pulling out the bottles and sacks, and the dried foods that Clodagh had told her would be acceptable to any host. When she added the five-kilo sack of sugar, she said meekly, “I take so much sugar in my tea that I insist you have this. I promise not to use it all up, because there’ll be berries to conserve so very soon now.”

“That is very welcome indeed, dama,” the weaver said. “For we’ll have a fine crop, and soon, and there’s nothing like a bit of jam to make pan bread a real treat.”

“Aigur this is the dama I told you about, and Captain Torkel Fiske.”

Marmion’s quick mind mused over the implication that no one had talked about Torkel at all, but then, her appearance would be more unusual than his. Still, she could see by the twitch of his lips that he caught the subtle insult. Really, the Shongilis were a delight, Marmion thought. A pity to have to spoil them. For that matter, why should they be spoiled? They were marvelous just as they were.

Tea was brewed and drunk, sweetened by Marmion’s gift. Marmion brought Aigur’s cup to her loom so that she could have a closer look at the intricate pattern. She couldn’t resist fingering the texture and exclaimed at its softness.

“Curly-coat,” Aigur told her

“It’s such an amazing pattern. Some special order?”

“My daughter’s marrying and this will be for their wedding bed,” Aigur said proudly.

“Oh, it is stunning, but—” Marmion cut off the rest of her intended remark about how much weaving of this beauty and intricacy would bring in the sophisticated shops of her usual environment. “—such a labor of love,” she concluded, smiling.

The problem with coming from her usual ambience to this one was that even the most mundane items were unusual, from and of this world, and
that
was where they should stay. She should not contribute to the despoiling of Petaybee. She was becoming more and more certain of that.

“As I said, Sinead,” Torkel was saying, “we should really look into a network of roads between settlements, particularly over the passes.”

“Oh?” Sinead raised her eyebrows in polite surprise. “Then Intergal
has
come up with an all-weather surface that can survive the temperature, wind-chill factors, permafrost sinkholes, and ice intrusion?”

Torkel ducked his head, smoothing his hair. “We will. We will. It’s only a matter of time, Sinead, but a road system would certainly help.”

“SpaceBase folks, perhaps, while you’re ‘investigating’ Petaybee, but snocles in the winter suit us fine and can go many places you couldn’t put a road that’d last a year or two, and the curly-coats manage slush, mud, and summer hard tracks. No, Captain Fiske, though we will all appreciate the thought, I don’t think any road works are necessary. ‘Sides which we don’t have the personnel you’d need to construct them.”

“The company has enough manpower and machinery for that and all it takes is convincing the board to spend the money to solve the surfacing problem, Sinead,” Torkel repeated, and Marmion thought his voice just a trifle sharp. “Meanwhile, you wouldn’t say no to teachers, and schools, and libraries, and viewers.”

Aisling’s mouth made a perfect O. “Oh, books would be marvelous, and schools for the children.”

“They learn what they need to learn from their parents about how to live here,” Sinead said bluntly.

“There is such a wide world out there,” Marmion put in. Surely knowing more about the inhabited galaxy wouldn’t really harm the children; it would merely give them other interests than the limited ones of this planet, however beautiful and diverse.

“Which they see soon enough if they join the company,” Sinead finished blightingly.

“But, Sinead, there’s more in books about how to do
our
things differently. And more stories . . .”

“And old songs from many ethnic traditions,” Marmion put in. “And different instruments to play on . . .”

“We could sure use a few more decent fiddles,” Aigur remarked, and then continued hesitantly, “and I’d like to know how to read and write. That way I’d be able to figure out some of the old patterns my great-great brought with her.”

“Schools, teachers, reading, writing, arithmetic,” Torkel said emphatically. “We’ve not paid sufficient attention to
your
needs.” And he bowed smilingly at Aigur, whose eyes still shone with the prospect of being able to read.

Aisling leaned across the table and appealingly touched her partner’s arm. “That would be good to know, Sinead dear. For everyone, and not having to join the company to get the learning.”

“You must ask Clodagh,” Marmion said firmly. She ignored the look Torkel shot her.