Copyright
2014 by Stephen Goldin. All Rights Reserved.
On her
own for the first time in days, Martia found it all too tempting to lie
on the bed and stare at the ceiling—but then images of Carlo intruded
on her thoughts. Carlo with his laughing brown eyes and dark, curly
hair; with arms not overly muscular but strong enough to hold her
tightly against his chest; with a tongue that insinuated itself
sensuously past her parting lips and into her eager mouth; with those
hands and their incredible fingers exploring and exciting her body; and
that tongue again, doing things that made her gasp just to think about.
But her hands were wandering downward of their own accord, and she
quickly rolled onto her stomach, stifling those thoughts. Carlo wasn’t
a safe subject. That’s why she was here, to get away. Her beloved Carlo
had betrayed her. Not with another woman—that she could have forgiven
quickly enough—but by using her to reach a position of trust, to steal
secrets from her father’s company, and then to dump her by running off
to his homeland, leaving her to feel like all kinds of an idiot.
I should’ve known. I should’ve known.
Why didn’t I know? All those trips to his “sick mother.” I’m not some
lovesick fifteen-year-old. Sure, security cleared him, but I should’ve
known.
That thought could not be borne. Better to run away from everything
than live with the memory of Carlo’s treachery burning her mind. I was an idiot. I should’ve known!
She didn’t want to interact with other people, and there was a limited
choice of things to do by herself aboard the train. The video library
had a collection of nearly-new movies—but she’d have to settle for
watching them on the tiny monitor in her cabin, and she’d already seen
all the ones she’d wanted to see in first-run…and most of them with
Carlo. She quickly shut down that line of thought. Watching videos was
out.
That left reading. She pulled the thick green loose-leaf binder out of
her suitcase, the official QSA Legation Manual she’d been provided
with—all the instructions, rules, and regulations to administer a U.S.
settlement town in the Quasiverse. She’d glanced through it once at
home, but she was so busy packing and getting ready for her new life
that she couldn’t concentrate on it then.
She hefted it thoughtfully. It was weighty, and promised to be as dry
as the Sahara in summer. And, like her most boring college textbooks,
it probably had some very useful and necessary facts, buried amid piles
of senseless garbage designed to put the most eager young mind to sleep.
She reached down and placed the thick binder carefully on the floor
beside her bed. There’d be plenty of time for that nonsense. She’d be
stuck on this train for three days, plenty of time to wade through
bureaucratic jargon. Today, she needed to relax.
Walking over to the dresser, she reached behind Lydia the monkey,
un-Velcroed the secret pouch in its back and took out the treasure
she’d worked so hard to smuggle aboard with her—the ereader that, in
addition to the AI Lydia, contained her entire library to maintain her
sanity over the next three years.
For some reason she couldn’t figure out, computing devices even as
simple as handheld calculators were banned from the Quasiverse.
Boarding instructions clearly said, in capital letters, to leave all
computers and cell phones behind. Maybe there was an explanation buried
somewhere deep in the loose-leaf binder, or even in The Imbecile’s Guide,
but it was not obvious on her first casual inspection. And if the
security personnel had discovered it when she checked through the gate,
her entire library—and Lydia—would have been confiscated.
She was glad she had her library of romance novels as her guilty
pleasure. If it was chocolate, she’d probably end up weighing three
hundred pounds. But no one could expect her to be parted from these
books for the full term of her service.
First and foremost in her collection, the prize jewel, was the full set
of Lydia Chastaine’s romance novels, all 112 titles published so far.
Lydia Chastaine was, in Martia’s opinion, the greatest romance writer
who ever lived. Being bereft of those books would be an even worse blow
than losing Carlo.
Next in importance was the “Lydia Chastaine Selects” line of romances
by other writers, books personally selected and recommended by Ms.
Chastaine herself. As of the day before Martia’s departure, this line
numbered 527 titles.
Below those came all the books Martia could download from the five
other major professionally published romance lines that she found
acceptable. About a third of these were historical romances (which
Martia wasn’t quite as fond of, but they did offer a diversion) and the
rest were contemporaries. Not all the titles were currently in print,
but Martia had managed to locate several thousand more of those, some
of which she hadn’t even read before.
Finally, there were the indie titles, and those were in numbers beyond
reckoning. Self-published by romance fans like herself, Martia knew
that some of them would be quite good, some ordinary, and some
positively wretched—but she hadn’t had time to weed through them before
she had to leave. At least she’d have plenty of opportunity for
discovery on her sojourn in the Quasiverse, and she could easily delete
any books that failed to meet her personal standards.
All told, her book-buying binge had set her back an amount that would
have made anyone who worried about budgets quiver, even including the
ones that had been free online. Small price to pay, she thought, for
books to keep her mind off her own problems—and especially off Carlo.
This collection would give her plenty of other men to think about. Of
course, most of those men caused problems for their heroines, but those
were other women and other problems. Martia could deal
with those with impunity.
Martia skimmed through the list of titles and finally decided on Hungry Heart,
Book One of Ms. Chastaine’s wonderful “Heart” series. Martia had
already read it twelve times and knew it was a great settler of jangled
nerves. She lay back on the bed with the ereader in front of her face
and let the familiar text flow by her.
Day followed uneventful day as the train sped through the Quasiverse to
their destination. Richard brought the meals she’d ordered and took the
dirty dishes away, and other than that, Martia had no human contact.
But she didn’t need any. She had her romance novels to enthrall her.
She fully intended to spend most of this time reading the official
green binder, or even The Imbecile’s
Guide,
but after a few minutes with it, her mind would start spinning and
she’d lose her concentration. Carlo’s voice would taunt her, his face
appearing before her in a mocking grin, and she couldn’t take that.
Lydia was, at best, a vapid conversationalist. That left her romance
library—but fortunately, that didn’t fail her. She plowed through book
after book of plucky heroines overcoming obstacles, and eventually
finding love with the perfect men who could understand them and satisfy
them in all sorts of ways. They reconciled her to the knowledge that
heartbreak was just a step along the path to love and happiness, and
that true fate was out there just waiting for her to discover it.
Just after breakfast on the fourth morning, the P.A. announced the
train would be reaching Burgundy in a couple of hours, so all
passengers should pack their belongings and make ready to depart.
Martia, who hadn’t left her room the entire trip, had very little
packing to do.
Her instructions had said the train would arrive late afternoon on
Monday, and she was to report immediately to the legation. Accordingly,
she was ready with clothing she hoped would make a good impression on
the legation staff: a gray Imre designer pants suit, a white shirt, a
small blue and red scarf, and a pair of gray Juan Lauran shoes with
medium heels.
She examined herself critically in the small bathroom mirror. Just
enough make-up to make it seem she wasn’t wearing any. The faintest spritz of expensively subtle
perfume. Shoulder-length brown hair whose bangs obscured most of her
wide forehead. Well, the more of that
she covered, the better she felt. Wide-set brown eyes that looked way
too soft and innocent, no matter what she did. Rounded apple cheeks
instead of the sharp, stylish cheekbones she yearned for. Broad mouth
that appeared to cover half her face. She almost never used much
lipstick, afraid of accenting it still further. And just the hint of a
double chin. I’m too young for a
double chin, damn it! she thought with a mental grimace.
But most of all, the nose. So short, with just the tiniest uprising at
the tip. Way, way too small for such a broad face. Martia knew most
Jewish girls would kill for her nose, and those with any money at all
spent small fortunes trying to acquire it. But when she looked at it,
all she could think of was Daddy saying, “How did a Jewish girl ever
end up with a nose like that? Shirley must have been screwing around.”
She always meant to ask her mother, on those rare occasions when Mom
flitted briefly through her life between missions to save the world,
but somehow never got around to it.
But at least there was the Complexion. Martia tended to think of it
with a capital C. It was her one unmistakable claim to perfection, the
smooth, unblemished expanse of skin. Even Mother—actually her
stepmother Elaine—complimented her on it. “Martia has such a beautiful
complexion,” she’d say to her society friends, particularly those who
might introduce Martia to eligible young men. It was as though, having
said that, she was relieved of having to say anything else
complimentary about her stepdaughter—or, often, of having to say
anything at all. Martia usually felt wholly defined by her complexion.
When she’d repacked her suitcase, she sat on the bed with her back to
the wall and read her ebook. When arrival was imminent, she sighed,
bookmarked her position, and took the ereader over to the dresser where
the monkey was waiting patiently. “Sorry, Lydia,” she said as she
secreted the device in the hidden compartment. “I don’t know if they’ll
do another inspection here, and I don’t want to have you confiscated.
Let’s just attach your arms snugly around me while you go into silent
mode. Just remember how important you are to me.”
“I’ll remember,” Lydia promised. “I love you.”
It was just a few minutes later that Richard knocked at her door to
tell her they’d arrived, and ask her if she needed any help leaving the
train. She let him escort her down the passageway as she wheeled her
suitcase behind her.
They stepped off the train and, wonder of wonders, there was no
inspection station to pass through. “Checked baggage retrieval is that
way,” Richard said, pointing to the left. “Local time is 3:57 pm Monday
afternoon. Have a pleasant stay in Burgundy.”
“Thank you for being so delightfully nonintrusive,” she replied,
handing him another twenty. “Where can I get a cab?”
“There are no cabs in Burgundy. No cars of any kind, in fact. There are
some private carriages, but nearly everybody walks here. Don’t worry,
it’s a fairly small town.”
Martia frowned. No one had bothered to explain this before. Neither the
official green binder nor The
Imbecile’s Guide
thought to mention it. The concept was almost alien. She’d traveled to
other places and understood the concept, but she was born and raised in
Los Angeles; no one walked on the streets of L.A. except to or from a
parking lot. She was glad she’d used her exer-bike every day at home;
at least her legs should be up to the challenge.
“Well, I’ll need some help with my trunks. I can’t carry them around by
myself. Are there any porters or anything?”
“Oh, they’re always hanging around the baggage area when a train comes
in. The way you tip, you’ll have no trouble finding help.” Richard
nodded, gave a small salute, and went off to help other passengers.
Martia looked around with a slight frown. This depot was nowhere near
as shiny and new as the one in Concord. It was basically a large
concrete barn with a ceiling that arched two stories above her. A big
hanging sign said, in faded blue letters, “THE QUASIVERSE SETTLEMENT
ADMINISTRATION WELCOMES YOU TO BURGUNDY.” Other people were exiting the
train talking to one another, filling the open space with boisterous
echoes. There was lots of movement, sound, and chaos. The place felt
grimy.
Well, she thought, if
I’d wanted beautiful surroundings, I could have gone to Paris or
Tahiti. I came here because there’ll be no Carlo to clutter up my life.
She turned and walked to the left as Richard had indicated, then
suddenly stopped dead. There, ahead of her, were the first Quasi locals
she’d ever seen in real life.
She should have been prepared for almost anything, because she knew
almost anything could happen in the Quasiverse. And, in truth, these
natives looked more commonplace than many she’d seen pictures of. They
were hard to miss, being bright cherry red, and at first glance, seeing
them through the crowd of detraining passengers, they appeared to be
drawing carts the same color they were. Then the crowd parted a bit,
and she could see these creatures were
the carts. The front parts of their bodies had wheels like unicycles,
while the back parts of their bodies had small flatbeds like pickup
trucks. They had thick, brawny arms, no hair, and ugly flat faces with
three eyes. They looked like nothing so much as bald, red, wheeled
centaurs.
There were perhaps a dozen of the beings loitering around the baggage
claim area. As Martia watched, one of her fellow passengers hailed a
native, spoke to it for a moment, and handed it a large suitcase. The
creature swung the bag around onto its back and took off following the
man out the door.
Martia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Well, the
system looked simple enough. She might as well give it a try. She tried
waving at the creatures, but none of them seemed to see her. She
reached into her purse and, after a moment’s fishing, pulled out a bill.
She’d never quite realized before that the U.S. government printed
twenty-dollar bills with ink pheromonally scented to attract Quasi
natives, but the effect was nearly instantaneous. Within seconds, she
was surrounded by a herd of the locals, all eyes fixed on her with rapt
attention. She pointed at one of them who looked the biggest. “You,”
she said. “I have some trunks that need to be carried. Can you help me?”
“Yes, Mister Boss,” the native said quickly.
“Miss,” Martia corrected him automatically.
“Miss-ter,” the native said.
Martia dismissed the correction. What difference did the gender
misidentification make in the scheme of things? She looked at the cargo
section of his back and saw it was only wide enough to accommodate two
of her six trunks, let alone her suitcase. “Those trunks are mine,” she
said, pointing and speaking louder. “We may need a couple of your
friends to help us.”
The native’s gaze followed where she pointed. He rotated his head in a
strange way, flexed his shoulders and, with the ease of a man growing
taller by standing up and losing his lap, his back simply expanded
outward until, in a matter of seconds, it was long enough to take in
all her luggage. “I can take it. You want?”
Martia laughed a little nervously. “Yes, I, uh, I want.”
The native, his torso easily able to swivel around more than 180
degrees, reached out, grabbed the trunks one at a time, and stowed them
easily on his back. His arms seemed as extendable as his back, so he
could reach all the way to straighten out the cargo without any help.
Martia handed up her suitcase, too, and the Quasi easily found an
appropriate spot for it.
“Uh, you know the way to the QSA legation?” Martia asked belatedly.
“I know.”
“Good. Take my things there.” She handed him the twenty dollar bill. He
looked at it without reaction. Then, while he seemed to have no clothes
or pockets, the money disappeared somewhere
and he started off at a slow enough pace for her to keep up easily They
went through the broad doors of the depot and Martia confronted the
town of Burgundy.
Although Richard had told her it was late afternoon, the sky was very
dark, filled with heavy, ponderous clouds. It was pouring ferociously.
Born and bred in Los Angeles, Martia had never learned to plan for
possible bad weather. To be sure, she owned some expensive rain gear.
It was all packed securely in one of the trunks on her porter’s back.
She grabbed the creature’s shoulder to stop him. “How far is the
legation?” she asked.
“Three blocks that way,” he pointed.
Well, three blocks shouldn’t be too bad, even in rain like this. Then a
thought occurred to her. “Can I ride on your…er, back?” she asked.
The porter shook his head vigorously. “No. Only cargo allowed.” His
voice was as flat as always, but something in his body language
indicated he was deeply offended, as though she’d violated some
religious taboo.
She sighed. She’d wanted to come to a strange land, now she’d have to
live with it. “Okay, let’s go.”
There were no street lights here, and the town was almost completely
dark. She remembered the phrase from The
Imbecile’s Guide:
“The wide, sunny Quasiverse streets…” She only had to go one step
before she realized how wrong that was. She couldn’t offhand see any
sidewalks, and the streets of Burgundy weren’t paved. They appeared to
be hard-packed dirt—only, in this torrential rain, that dirt was
already liquefying.
“Shit!” Martia exclaimed.
“Mud,” her porter helpfully corrected her.
Taking a deep breath and resigning herself to the total loss of her
Imre pants suit and, in particular, her Juan Lauran shoes, Martia
trudged onward alongside her porter/guide. Within seconds, her hair was
a wet, stringy mass dripping streams of water down her face, and her
clothes clung to her body in a fashion some non-discriminating men
might call sexy. Her eyelashes collected fat drops of water she had to
keep blinking away. Each step she took made a slorping
sound. The only positive development was that she’d chosen to wear her
contacts instead of her glasses, so she didn’t have water streaming
down the lenses as well.
One thing she noticed was that her porter’s wheels didn’t seem much
better adapted to the mud than her two-inch Juan Lauran heels. The
creature slogged slowly beside her, uncomplaining. as they made their
soggy way through the storm.
In the dim evening light, Martia couldn’t make out much of the town
around her. The buildings all seemed to be low, dark shapes, indistinct
shadows in the gloom. Some of them had lights in their windows, but
their illumination made little improvement on the depressing
surroundings.
She found herself counting eagerly. One block, two, three, four. She
was beginning to doubt her guide. Either he didn’t really know where he
was going, or how to count, or he was measuring distance “as the crow
flies.” Five blocks….
“Legation,” the native announced.
Before them was a fifteen-foot-tall stone wall running a full city
block wide from side to side except for a ten-foot-wide metal gate in
the center. The bars were thick steel, reminding Martia more of a
prison than of the gates in front of estates that she was used to
seeing at home. Behind the wall was a yard separating it from the main
building, which she could barely see through the downpour. A spotlight
on the building shone down, illuminating the area in front of the gate
and the yard between gate and building.
Martia gave the gate a tentative shake but, as she’d feared, it was
locked. She peered around on the wall until she found an intercom
button. She pressed it. Nothing happened. After a minute, she pressed
it again. Nada. Again. Zilch. After the fourth try, a voice came from
the speaker. “Go away. We’re closed.”
She did remember one thing from the big green binder. “The legation
never closes.”
“We do.”
“It’s open ’round the clock.”
A pause. “We use square clocks.”
“Ha ha. I have business in there.”
“We open at nine tomorrow. Come back then.”
“I have orders to report immediately upon my arrival.”
“Come back at nine.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
There was a slight pause. “Corporal Fuckoff.”
“Yeah, you’re a fuckoff, all right. Listen, I need to get in. I’m
soaking wet. It’s raining out here.”
“I know. That’s why I’m in here.”
“Listen, corporal, I can make things very rough for you.”
“Not before nine o’clock tomorrow, you can’t.”
He obviously didn’t know he was talking to a sub-legate. She thought of
informing him, in no uncertain terms. Then she thought again. She
didn’t want to come in here and start throwing her weight around first
thing. It would make a bad first impression. Besides, that was what her
father did. She didn’t want to be her father. Definitely not.
“I have nowhere else to go,” she said. There was a slight quaver in her
voice that she hadn’t intended.
The corporal was quiet for a moment. “Try a hotel.”
“What hotel? Where?”
“Try the Burgundy Grand. It’s slightly better than the Burgundy
Central.” Was there the slightest tone of sympathy in the voice?
“Thanks,” she said, but as far as she could tell she was talking to
empty air. No more sounds came from the speaker.
She turned to her porter. “Can you take me to the Burgundy Grand Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go then,” she sighed.
They slogged off through the gloomy rain. None of this was going the
way she’d expected. She tried to empty her mind and not think about the
gloom and the rain. They’d only make her feel cold and wet and mad. She
tried to think of herself as the heroine in a romance novel. Plucky and
high-spirited, that was her. Those heroines never let tiny
disappointments like this get them down. They strove through obstacles,
and were rewarded with a handsome guy for their efforts.
Be brave, she thought. Be plucky and high-spirited.
But she didn’t feel brave, or plucky, or high-spirited. She felt cold
and wet and mad. And alone. Oh so terribly alone.
“Lydia, I feel miserable,” she said to her stuffed monkey, a soggy mass
around her shoulders.
“Remember, I love you,” the monkey replied. Her voice could barely be
heard above the noise of the falling rain.
Martia didn’t respond. She just lifted one heavy foot after another as
she followed the guidance of her sullenly silent porter.
After a depressingly long time, they reached the brightly lit entrance
to the Burgundy Grand Hotel. Martia scraped her muddy shoes as best she
could on the outer mat. She grabbed her rolling suitcase from the
porter’s back. “Wait here for me,” she told the Quasi, since she didn’t
see any immediate way to fit his width inside the door. The native gave
a quiet nod. He didn’t seem to mind being told to wait outside, barely
sheltered from the rain by the hotel’s awning.
Martia opened the hotel door and was immediately bathed in light and
warmth and dryness. This was the way the world was supposed to be.
She’d stayed in many hotels in her life. This was home.
The lobby looked like that of many small hotels, though not usually of
the class Martia frequented. Half a dozen comfortable, though not
luxurious, chairs were spread around the open area in pairs, with a
conversation table between each pair. Each table held a large lamp, and
there was indirect overhead lighting as well. A once-expensive but worn
carpet covered the floor between the door and the registration desk.
The lobby was empty except for a woman in a chair by a front window,
and a bearded young man behind the registration desk.
Martia walked across the lobby with as much dignity as she could
muster, only too aware that her hair was dripping onto her face, her
clothes were dripping onto the carpet, her monkey was a sodden mass
around her shoulders, and her Juan Lauran shoes, no matter how much
she’d wiped them, were trailing mud across the floor—although she could
see that other people had done the same earlier this evening. The
wheels of the suitcase dragging behind her made a high-pitched
squeaking she’d never heard from them before.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked politely as Martia approached he desk.
“Yes. I’d like a room, please.”
The young man switched to his professionally apologetic face. “I’m
sorry, ma’am, we’re all booked up for tonight.”
“Nothing?” Despite her best efforts, she could hear the desperation in
her own voice, so she reached into her purse for further inducement.
The clerk’s eyes were not unkind. “I’m sorry, it always happens this
way the day a train arrives. Every closet, every cranny booked solid.
Would you like me to phone over to the Central and see if they’ve got
anything?”
“Thank you, yes, that would be so kind.” She pulled out a twenty and
placed it on the counter between them.
The clerk picked up an older model voice-only landline phone, turned
away from her, and spoke in a low voice whose words she couldn’t make
out. After a minute, he hung up and turned back to her. “I’m sorry,
ma’am, but they don’t have anything, either.” She noticed he pocketed
the twenty anyway.
“I see. Thank you.” Martia’s voice was tiny and shaky. She turned and
walked uncertainly away, like Marie Antoinette walking to the
guillotine in clown shoes. The world seemed suddenly far away; sounds
were distant and faint. She suddenly didn’t know what to do.
“Hello,” called a voice.
Martia stopped. It sounded like someone was talking to her. It
certainly wasn’t the desk clerk. She blinked a couple of times. Why
would someone be talking to her? She didn’t know anyone here. She stood
frozen in a dim haze.
There was a motion in the corner of her eye. The woman sitting in the
chair across the lobby was waving at her.
“What…?” Martia said in confusion.
“Care to sit down with me?” the woman asked.
Martia felt frozen in place. “I…I….”
“Of course, if you’ve got someplace else you need to be, I’d
understand.”
“No, I…I…that is, I….”
“Come on,” the woman beckoned.
Martia found herself turning in that direction and walking over to the
woman. The suitcase rolled squeakily behind her.
As Martia approached, the woman stood up. “Angela Yee,” she said,
extending her hand.
Martia self-consciously ran a hand through her hair, and winced as
water flew off. “Martia Rosenthal. I’m, uh, afraid my hand’s a bit
wet.” She tried to wipe it off on her blouse, which did no good at all.
“I’m used to worse,” Angela Yee said good-naturedly. She didn’t
withdraw her hand.
Reluctantly, Martia grasped the other woman’s hand. Angela Yee’s
handshake was firm and friendly.
“Have a seat,” the woman said, following her own advice.
Martia looked at the proffered chair, then down at her own sopping wet
clothes, then back at the chair. “Uh….”
Angela Yee seemed to read her mind, and laughed. “The hotel won’t
mind,” she said. “They’re
used to worse, too.” She looked over to the registration desk. “Albert,
could you at least find some towels for this poor woman?” The desk
clerk scurried away.
“Thank you,” Martia muttered, and obligingly sat. She stared across at
the other woman, appraising her for the first time. Angela Yee was a
slender, beautiful woman, taller than Martia—well, who wasn’t?—wearing
a one-piece yellow dress, not expensive but immaculate. And dry. She
had one of those Oriental faces that didn’t reveal its age; she could
have been anywhere between twenty and sixty. Her black eyes sparkled,
and she had an attractive smile.
“You and your…uh, friend
looked like you needed a moment to sit down and regroup.” She nodded at
the sodden Lydia clinging pathetically to Martia’s shoulders.
“Lydia’s a monkey,” Martia said.
“I apologize, Lydia,” Angela Yee said somberly. The desk clerk came
rushing over with a small stack of towels, and Martia began eagerly
rubbing one through her hair.
“Martia,” Angela Yee continued, “you look like you could use a drink.
That is, if you’re old enough.”
“Twenty-four. Need to see my license?”
“I’m the last person to card anyone. What’ll it be?”
“White wine.”
Angela Yee turned to the desk clerk. “Albert, two glasses of your
finest maison blanc, s’il vous plait.”
“Merci,” Martia said.
“De nada.” She looked Martia
up and down, then looked again. Her eyes went wide. “My God, is that an
Imre suit? And…and Juan Lauran shoes?”
“They were,” Martia said
dismally. “The only Juan Laurans I brought.”
“If that happened to me, I’d be suicidal.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
The two women settled into silence until the clerk came back with their
drinks. Martia started reaching for her purse, but Angela Yee waved her
away. “This round’s mine. You get the next one. Albert, put it on my
tab.”
“Thanks,” Martia said. She took a sip and made a face. “This is
inordinately average.”
The other woman took a sip of her own. “Hm, yeah. Must’ve been a good
month.”
“Why are you being so good to me, Angela?”
The woman rested her chin on her hand and stared, assessing Martia. “I
was wondering who the new girl in town was,” she said honestly. “You’re
not a factory hand or a settler. I wondered whether you might be
potential competition.”
“Competition? What do you do?”
Angela Yee gave a long, loud laugh. “You’re no competition,” she said.
“But why did you come to Burgundy?”
“I work for the Quasi Corps. Or at least, I’m supposed to. I went
straight to the legation from the train, but they said they were
closed. But they’re never supposed to close. I’m confused.”
“Welcome to Burgundy,” Angela Yee said with a snort. “Nothing’s ever
quite what it looks like, or what it’s supposed to be. I’ve given up
trying to figure anything out.”
“But I was told there’d be accommodations for me at the legation. If I
can’t get in there, I have no place to stay. Are there any reputable
boarding houses or places to rent until I can sort this mess out?”
Angela Yee looked thoughtfully out the window at Martia’s six trunks
sitting on the back of the porter standing patiently in the rain. “If
you travel that heavy, wearing Imre and Juan Lauran,” she mused aloud,
“you’re obviously a young lady of some substance. No, nothing you’d
call a ‘reputable’ boarding house. There are apartments to rent, I’m
sure, but you couldn’t find them at this hour. You’d have to start in
the morning.”
“Perhaps a house I could rent?” Martia persisted desperately.
Angela Yee shook her head. “There aren’t any single houses available in
Burgundy. You’d have to settle for an apartment.”
“That’ll do, especially if I can find a place near the legation. I’d
like to live near my work. I hate long commutes.”
“Same with me. That’s why I live here.”
“Oh, do you work for the hotel?”
“I freelance,” said Angela Yee.
“Do you think I could find a nice apartment near the legation?” Martia
repeated.
“What’s your budget?”
“Oh, that’s no problem.”
“Lucky you,” said Angela Yee.
“Or at least, it won’t be, as soon as I can get to a bank. I brought
traveling cash, but I’ll have to get to a bank to deposit my letter of
credit. Do you know a good one?”
“I use Burgundy Fiduciary. They’re rock solid. Even honest.”
“Thanks. I’ll visit them first thing tomorrow.”
A man entered the lobby from the street. He wore a yellow raincoat and
rain hat. He was bearded, of middle height, and very stocky. He didn’t
seem to mind that his raincoat was dripping all over the hotel’s carpet.
He saw Angela Yee and pulled a small notebook from a pocket of his
coat. He checked it, then headed in her direction. Angela Yee gave a
small sigh.
“Hi, Angie,” the man said. “I see you ain’t paid your tax this month
yet.”
Angela Yee reached into her delicate little purse and pulled out a
couple of bills, handing them to him without comment. “Thank you,” the
man said graciously. “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.
And speaking of that….”
“Now?” Angela Yee said.
“Nah, gotta do my rounds. You free tomorrow night?”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Angela Yee.
The man looked over at Martia. “I ain’t seen you around before. You
paid your taxes yet?”
Before Martia could reply, Angela Yee said, “She’s brand new. Just got
in tonight. I’ll pay for her this time.” She took another couple of
bills from her purse and paid the man. He thanked her and moved on to
the hotel clerk.
“Is that how the QSA collects taxes here?” Martia asked, squinting at
the back of the man in the raincoat.
“This is a more informal tax.”
“What’s it for?”
“The prospect of continued good health,” said Angela Yee. “Now, what
were we talking about?”
“Oh. I was wondering whether I could find a nice apartment near the
legation.”
“That’s about the classiest area of town. If you’ve got the cash,
you’ll find a good place right away.”
“Wonderful. Now all I have to do is find someplace for tonight.”
Angela Yee looked out the window at the rain still pouring down from
the gloomy clouds. She sighed. “Well, it’s obviously going to be a very
slow night. Why don’t you stay with me? I’ve got a king-sized bed,
plenty of room, and I wouldn’t mind hearing some news from the real world for a change.”
Martia’s eyes lit up. “Oh Angela, you mean that? Oh, that’s wonderful.
You’ve been so kind to me, I hardly know what to say.”
Angela Yee waved the praise away with a dismissive gesture. “Don’t
worry, honey. That’s just my heart of gold. We all gotta have one.
Union regs.”
Order a copy of this book.
