Echo (18 page)
“There was other stuff. Sometimes we had a group of people with a particular interest. They’d tell us what they wanted, hunting oversized lizards, maybe. You know, the kind of thing you needed a projectile to bring down. Those made me a bit nervous, I’ll admit. We stopped it after we almost lost a couple of our customers.” He signaled a server, asked if we wanted another round. Alex said yes because that would keep him talking. Then Korminov turned toward me: “You look like a skier, Chase.”
“I’ve done a little.”
“We had a flight you’d have enjoyed.”
“A skiing tour.”
“We had the longest known slopes in the universe. And you got to take them at low gravity. I’ll tell you, it was a ride. I’m pretty sure they’re still doing it. And there was a tour for explorers, for people who just wanted to be first to look at a place where nobody else had ever gone.”
We broke it off for a few minutes. Alex didn’t want to be seen as pressing. We talked about the Bronson Institute, and how good people weren’t going into medicine anymore because the AIs did so much of the work. Soon, Korminov said, it would be all robots. And when some problem came along that was a bit different and needed some judgment, nobody would be there. “Mark my words,” he said, “make it automatic, and we’ll forget how to be doctors. Then there’ll be a plague of some sort and—” He shook his head. The human race was doomed.
Alex mentioned that I was a pilot.
“Yes,” he said. “I remember reading that somewhere. You’re exactly the kind of person we used to look for to run the tours.”
We’d mapped out the conversation ahead of time. And the prime issue had just opened up. “Walter,” I said, “I’ll tell you the job I’d have loved.”
“What’s that, Chase?”
“To be the person who went out and decided where to send the tours.”
“Ah, yes. The scout.”
“It sounds like the best piloting assignment in existence.”
“It was exciting.” He glanced over at the lectern. “Chase, I was talking up there about my own ambition to be a pilot. And that was the job I wanted. Scout. Going to places where nobody else had been. And charting them. Now, the prospect of running one of those damned missions would scare the devil out of me.” He fell silent.
“You know, Walter,” Alex said. “I met one of your former pilots recently. Rachel Bannister. Do you remember her?”
“Rachel? Of course. Sure. I remember her. Beautiful woman.”
“She’d have enjoyed inspecting systems, I suspect.”
“I’m sure she would.” Suddenly, he discovered he needed to circulate a bit. “Well, I have to be off,” he said. “Been nice talking to you guys.”
There were two other pilots at the event who’d flown for World’s End. One had been there at the turn of the century. We got talking, and I asked casually if he knew who’d been the scout.
“The what?” he asked.
“The person who determined where the tours went.”
“Oh,” he said. “Sure.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s been a long time.” He cleared his throat, thought about it. Mentioned someone named Jesse. Then corrected himself. “Hal Cavallero,” he said. “Yeah. Hal was the guy who set up the tours.”
THIRTEEN
Don’t throw anything away, Clavis. There is nothing that does not gain value with the passage of time.
—Tira Crispin,
The Last Antique Dealer
The Last Antique Dealer
In the morning I had a call from Somanda Schiller, who was the principal at the William Kaperna High School, located on Capua Island, about sixty kilometers offshore. I was scheduled to talk with some of the students there two days later. It would be a group of seminars about what we do, and why artifacts are important, and why it’s essential to learn from history. It was a presentation I’d done several times before in different places. The teachers always seemed to like it, and the kids were usually receptive. I enjoyed doing them because I like having an audience and playing VIP.
Somanda was a large woman with a pale complexion and the look of someone who’d seen too much nonsense ever to take the world seriously. She was standing by a window.
“Chase,”
she said,
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel your presentation. I’m sorry about the short notice. If you’ve incurred any expenses, we will of course meet them.”
“Chase,”
she said,
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel your presentation. I’m sorry about the short notice. If you’ve incurred any expenses, we will of course meet them.”
“No,” I said, “it’s okay. Anything wrong?”
“Not really. What we’ve run into—Well, I just didn’t see it coming.”
“What happened, Somanda?”
“We have some parents who think that what Alex does is objectionable.”
“You mean recovering artifacts?”
“Well, that’s not the way it’s being phrased. A lot of them see him as someone who, ummm, robs tombs. As a person who sells what he finds instead of donating it to museums. And that he expedites others who trade in what they consider an illicit market.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. Be aware that this is in no way a reflection on
you
.”
you
.”
Hal Cavallero had left World’s End in the early spring of 1403. According to his bio, he wanted to take some time off, “just to enjoy life,” but he never went back. He eventually landed with Universal Transport, where, for thirteen years, he’d hauled commercial goods around the Confederacy. Then, in 1418, he went home to Carnaiva, a small town in Attica Province, on the plains. There, he and his second wife Tyra adopted a four-year-old boy. They became members of the Lost Children Council, adopted six more kids, and founded the Space Base. Volunteers pitched in, the Council contributed funds, and eventually the Base became a shelter for more than one hundred orphaned or abandoned children. Cavallero received recognition for his work, including the Pilots’ Association’s Ace Award for his contributions.
Three days after the pilots’ luncheon, I was on an overnight glide train headed north, watching the weather turn cold. It’s a long run through bleak, cold forests. Eventually, the train comes out into the Altamaha Basin, which was lake bottom at one time. Now it’s rich farmland. There was a two-hour stop at Indira, the heart of the funeral industry (known locally as Cremation Station). I got out, walked around, stopped at a gift shop, and eventually went back to the train. Several new passengers were on board. Three women and two kids. One of the women caught my eye. Not because of her striking appearance. In fact, she would not have stood out in a crowd. But her features suggested she would have made a perfect mortician. She was pale, somber, thin. Looked emotionally detached. She strode past me, eyes focused straight ahead, and slid into a seat. Then it was on to Carnaiva, where we arrived at midmorning.
At Alex’s suggestion, I hadn’t called ahead. Best not to alert anybody. Don’t give Hal time to think about it. Reduces spontaneity, he said.
“We want spontaneity.”
“Absolutely.”
Carnaiva was the last stop on the line. The town was surrounded by trees, the only ones in sight anywhere in that otherwise-bleak landscape. They acted as a shield against the bitter winds that blew in from the north.
The town was a haven for old families that had known one another for centuries. Nobody moved into Carnaiva; but those who moved out, according to local tradition, inevitably came back. It was a place, the locals said, where it was still possible to live close to nature. That was certainly true. If you liked hard winters, flat prairie, subzero temperatures, and fifty-kilometer winds blowing out of the north, Carnaiva was the town for you. The locals were proud of the frigid weather. I heard stories about how people sometimes wandered out in the storm and weren’t seen again until spring.
The town had money. The houses were small, but flamboyant, with heated wraparound porches and a variety of exotic rooftop designs. They were closer together than you’d usually see in a prosperous community. I suspected that was because, once you got past Carnaiva’s perimeter, once you walked out through the trees, the world went on forever, absolutely empty in all directions. So the herd instinct took over.
The population was listed at just over eight thousand. Its sole major business enterprise was a plant that manufactured powered sleds. It was also the home of the annual Carnaiviac, where kids of all ages came to race their sleds in a series of wildly popular competitions.
There was a church, two schools, a synagogue, a modestly sized entertainment complex, a handful of stores, a few restaurants (like Whacko’s and the Outpost), and two nightclubs. Nobody could remember the last time there’d been a felony crime, and Carnaiva was the only town on the continent to make top score in the annual Arbuckle Safest Place to Grow Up Survey. The view from the train station suggested it was also the quietest place on the continent.
Everything was within walking distance. I’d brought a bag, which I checked into a locker. Then I stopped for lunch at the Outpost.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to try Whacko’s.
The Space Base covered several acres of forest along the edge of Lake Korby, which was located two kilometers south of the town, and which, the townspeople claimed, was frozen except for a few weeks in the middle of the summer. I rode out in a taxi and passed above a sign identifying the place. It carried a silhouette of an interstellar, with the watchword, NO LIMIT. The fact that piers and boathouses lined much of the lakefront suggested that the locals were prone to exaggeration. The lake
was
frozen when I was there, however, and the boats were apparently stored for the winter.
was
frozen when I was there, however, and the boats were apparently stored for the winter.
In a cluster along the shoreline were a brick two-story building that served as school, chapel, and meeting place; a pool and a gym, both covered by plastene bubbles; and a couple of swings for the hardy. Cabins, which served as living quarters for the kids and staff, were scattered through the area.
The taxi set down on open ground.
“Mr. Cavallero’s usually over there,”
the AI said, indicating one of the cabins. It was fronted by a sign that read ADMINISTRATION. More swings stood off to one side. Two girls, both about twelve, were just coming out of the cabin. They were bent into the wind, each trying to hang on to an armload of ribbons and posters.
“Mr. Cavallero’s usually over there,”
the AI said, indicating one of the cabins. It was fronted by a sign that read ADMINISTRATION. More swings stood off to one side. Two girls, both about twelve, were just coming out of the cabin. They were bent into the wind, each trying to hang on to an armload of ribbons and posters.
I paid up, climbed out, and said hello to the girls. “Looks like a party,” I added.
One, dressed in a bright red jacket, smiled. The other laughed. “Victory celebration,” she said.
“Sporting event?” I asked.
“Cross-country.”
We talked for a minute or two. The event hadn’t happened yet. There’d be eighteen kids competing. Only one of them would win, but the entire organization would celebrate. “We have a lot of victory parties.”
I walked up to the front door.
“Good morning,”
said the AI.
“Can I help you?”
“Good morning,”
said the AI.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. My name’s Chase Kolpath. I’m working on a research project, and I’d like very much to speak with Mr. Cavallero.”
“One moment please, Ms. Kolpath.”
A cold wind rattled the trees, and a few snowflakes dislodged from the rooftop and the trees and blew around. Branches creaked, though the swings never moved. I wondered if they were frozen in place.
The door opened, and a redheaded man in a heavy white shirt looked up from behind a desk. He gave me an expansive smile and got to his feet. “Ms. Kolpath,” he said. “I’m Hal Cavallero. What can I do for you?”
“I’m doing some research,” I said. “I’d like to ask a few questions, if I may. I won’t take much of your time.”
A fire burned quietly.
“We don’t often get beautiful strangers in this part of the world. Sure, I’d be happy to help.” He looked older than I’d expected. Sallow cheeks, lots of lines around his eyes. There was something in his expression that suggested he was fighting a headache. Two children, a boy and a girl, were on the floor playing cards.
I explained that I was a staff assistant at Rainbow Enterprises.
“Okay,” he said, growing serious. “Who’s Rainbow Enterprises?”
“We do historical analysis, among other things. We’re currently working on a study of the touring industry as it was at the turn of the century.”
Other books
A Bad Spell in Yurt - Wizard of Yurt - 1 by C. Dale Brittain
Fugitives! by Aubrey Flegg
Savage Magic by Lloyd Shepherd
Hollowland by Amanda Hocking
Julia by Peter Straub
Lorik (The Lorik Trilogy) by Neighbors, Toby
Fall of the Seven Cities Saga (Book 1) by Brenham, Jay
Messalina: Devourer of Men
by
Zetta Brown
In the Palace of Lazar by Alta Hensley
Odette's Secrets by Maryann Macdonald