The sun broke. It crept lazily across the roof. Equally lazily, Asach waited for it to reach the cloak, rather than moving the cloak to greet it. At last, its warming rays crept out of the morning chill, each nano-cell embedded on the fabric sparkling for a nanosecond, then soaking the light into its black depths as the line of rosy light marched on.
Only when the entire cloak was basked in rapidly rising heat; only when the photovoltaics were pumping at full power, did Asach stir and rub on the keypad. A chart appeared. Asach tapped an icon, then took a bearing and tapped on a point at the hemline that was directly aligned to the sun. Another tap on the chart. Another tap on the cloak, this time in line with the setting chip of a moon. The moon was only a pathetic chip of an asteroid, but it glittered on the dawn horizon. Another tap. A pause. Then the fabric of the dish began writhing, as if it wished to twist off the tripod, reinvert, and rejoin the cloak. At last, it settled on an orientation, and a shape.
Asach unsnapped a ‘tooth from beside the keypad, and stuffed it into one ear. One more tap. An inaudible sound burped into the ether. It hurtled across the roof, away from the hill, away from Bonneville. It raced across scorched fields; past wastelands. It raced the sun across the plains, trying to beat the light to the horizon. It met the horizon; left the horizon; raced to the edge of atmosphere. Where Air met No Air, it bounced, just a little, and dragged down even further it plunged out of the sun’s reach altogether, into New Utah’s black shadow, sheeting through the ice of space. It was a tiny message. It was only one word. It was:
“[Ping!]”
The little composite sphere, left to drift alone for thirteen years, snapped awake from its reverie. Thirteen years, and an eon of technology later, it still knew what was wanted. It still knew what to do. It answered.
An agonizing second later, Asach laughed out loud at its cheery reply. It was: “[Ping!]”
Saint George, New Utah
Michael Van Zandt was not having a good day. Because he was having a bad day, he was having a bad tantrum for the benefit of the clerk at Orcutt Land & Mining. The office was hot and stuffy. City electricity was out again. It was incomprehensible to him why. People in Bonneville managed to keep their buildings cool. People in Pahrump managed to keep their buildings cool. He managed to keep his own house cool. So why was air conditioning out of the reach of Orcutt Land & Mining?
Zia sighed, and tried again. “Myneer Van Zandt, I cannot give you a receipt for deliveries that you have not made! If you—”
“Why is this so hard to grasp? Deliveries have been made. We stockpiled twenty-two kilos at your depot in Bonneville! The chit is—”
“Is not OLaM scrip! It is—”
“Not scrip, because it is not scrip! It’s a full-fledged promissory voucher, and—”
“It can be a full-fledged whatever you like, but it is not going to fly! I cannot validate a voucher issued by a contract buyer I’ve never heard of! If you needed—”
“If I needed what?! He was standing in the middle of your mucking warehouse. How am I supposed to—”
Zia slapped her hand on the counter, then stabbed for emphasis on one of a dozen ID facsimiles pressed beneath the laminate. “Any 10-year old on this planet knows: No badge, no deal! I don’t care if your promissory voucher came from the Prophet himself. If you can’t give me a valid badge number, I can’t give you a tithe receipt.”
Michael had sunk beyond anger, beyond frustration. Now he was plumbing despair. His face was ashen. His voice caught on every word.
“TCM tithe collectors are booked into my House for the night. Tonight. My House. If I can’t show them a tithe receipt—” and then his shoulders collapsed. He stood vacantly for a moment, and then paced to a seedy chair next to the grimy window overlooking the sidewalk. He sank into the hard, cracked seat. He stared out at a row of rusting signpost stumps, and muttered, to no one; to anyone: “I’m ruined.”
Zia had crossed a line herself. Detached, disembodied, sick to death of the scam she knew full well had happened. An illicit cargo. A midnight rendezvous. A dark warehouse. An efficient, knowledgeable buyer. The conversation: “Of course, we can’t issue commodity scrip Mr. Van Zandt. Not for this cargo. What we can do is give you a for services promissory voucher. Just exchange it for tithe receipts at the Saint George office. Safer for you, anyway. Full value, right? Even if the price fluctuates? Better all ‘round, eh?” And then twenty-two kilos of prime opal meerschaum just—ceased to exist. And Michael Van Zandt left holding the Stick. No scrip to exchange for company stores; no tithe credit to settle the TCM books.
Yes, any ten-year-old from New Utah would have known that score. But Michael Van Zandt wasn’t a ten-year-old, and he wasn’t from New Utah. She looked at him, slumped in the rickety chair, languid and patrician in his Bonneville whites, trying so hard to look the part, but New Utahan he definitely wasn’t. She looked beyond him, to the window, grimy and yellowed because water could not be spared to wash it. Through the window to the filthy, littered sidewalk, until her eyes, too, came to rest on the rusting stumps of signposts. And came to a decision of her own.
“Myneer Van Zandt.”
He looked back at her, sharply.
“Perhaps we might come up with some more—creative—clerical arrangement.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Perhaps I could issue a receipt for this year’s tithe, against your promise of future deliveries to that value.”
Michael shot to his feet. “Now look here! I’ve already delivered twenty-two kilos at current prices. You know full well —”
“That prices are about to drop? Yes. That’s the gamble, isn’t it? The price rises, and then it drops. And we both know why. The difference is, I know someone who knows exactly when.”
“Why should I care? I already——”
“You already fell for a sucker’s deal, Myneer. Consider it a sunk cost. Think about it. I know someone who can tell you exactly—exactly—when the next shipment will flood the market. And exactly—exactly—when it will dry up again. Surely you know someone who knows what to make of that? How to recoup your losses?”
“And how do I know that you will keep that promise?”
“A time-honored tradition, Myneer Van Zandt. Hostages.”
Michael looked confused. Zia smiled.
“If you agree to what I’m about to do, you will move me, and my family, into your House in Bonneville.”
“I do not need any more household help in Bonneville.”
“Oh, you’ll find us useful, Myneer Van Zandt. But it goes with the deal. Because if I do this, I’ll have no choice.”
Michael shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. The TCM collectors are already there by now. At my House. They’re probably already at my House.”
“Well, there’s where you’re in luck. As it happens, I’m making a depot run. Today. To the Bonneville warehouse. FairServ hop leaves in an hour. Two seats left.”
“FairServ? But that would cost—”