Freehold (7 page)

They approached a portable teppanyaki stand, where the chef whirled his knives like implements of combat, interrupted by a gout of flaming alcohol that elicited a shriek of delight from one onlooker and bellows of approval from two soldiers in uniform. Kendra stopped to stare.

They were in dress uniform. Off post and in public.
Had she done that on Earth, she would have been attacked, beaten and mugged inside of six blocks by some gang or other.

A few steps past the chef, Robert guided her to a food vendor who had the plumpest, healthiest fruits and vegetables she had ever seen. The display looked as perfect as an advertisement. Rob grabbed a small, elongated item and began to haggle.

"So how much for these sickly looking Satan peppers?" he asked in mock disgust.

"Such a deal at five for a cred. But for you, my friend," the bearded vendor returned, grinning, "twenty for five creds."

Rob snorted. "After I saved your life on Mtali? Fine gratitude you show me. Five for fifty cents and I'm being generous." While he said this, several onlookers started giggling at the exchange.

The reply was, "Indeed you are, but I must feed my three wives and seventeen children. I hope you will understand. Seventy-five cents." This elicited more chuckles.

"Okay, fine."

"But only if you take ten."

McKay laid three quarter cred coins down and said, "Not fast enough."

"Thank you." The merchant smiled, clutching the coins greedily, "Now little Johnny can get that operation he needs."

"They're putting in a soul?"

"Taking out his conscience."

The audience responded to the finale with howls of appreciation and moved back in to buy huge quantities of produce. McKay grabbed several other items, slipped them into a paper bag and money swapped palms again.

As they resumed their walk, McKay munching on a "Satan pepper," which did not sound at all like a snack food to Kendra, she commented, "If that shtick happens all the time, I'm surprised he doesn't need an entertainer's license."

McKay blew air and licked his lips. "Whoo, that was a potent one!" he remarked, eyes glazing slightly. He turned and said, "You don't need licenses here. I'll show you the bazaar if we get a chance." He shook out the bundle attached to his pouch, which turned out to be his cloak, and laid it on the ground, gesturing for Kendra to sit. As she did so he sat next to her and pulled three fresh strawberries the size of plums out of the bag. "I don't know how hot you like your food," he resumed, "But Satan's are hotter than anything you'll find on Earth, habaneros included. So I got you these instead."

"Thanks." She smiled, then wrinkled her brow. "No licenses? But how do you keep out bad entertainers and merchandise?"

"Hey, bad ones have to learn somewhere. And shoddy merch gets noticed pretty quickly."

"I can't believe that works as a quality control measure," she said doubtfully.

"Try your strawberries."

She did so and was amazed. Juice dribbled down her chin. Sugar would have been wasted and cream would have masked the flavor. "Okay, they're great," she mumbled around her second bite. "Thank you."

After snacking, he guided her to the restroom so they could wash the juice off their hands. Kendra winced, knowing the condition of public restrooms back home, but walked in anyway, hoping to find an automatic faucet that worked . . . and was stunned.

First, the restroom was for both men and women. And there were private stalls. There was no guard visible. She thought of the possible crimes behind those doors and made a note never to enter a public restroom alone after dark.

Second, the facility was clean. As clean as the one in her new flat. After washing her hands, she wandered around outside admiring the architecture, amazed that a restroom could have architecture, and bumped into McKay again. "I don't get it," she said. "No rules on anything, and this is the cleanest park I've ever seen. How?"

"People care enough to maintain it," he explained as they went outside again, "and any vandalism is gone in less than a day, at the vandal's expense if he's found, so there is a real motivation against damaging things." He was leading her back the way they came as he said this and stopped briefly to retrieve his cloak, which was still on the ground, untouched. She was silent again.

Liberty Park was too huge to be seen all at once in purple duskiness, but they toured the main north-south walkway. All lawn edges were neat, the grass appearing to have been laid like carpet. Occasional flower islands erupted in wild bursts of native and Terran flora. The trees were beautifully pruned and some of the bushes were shaped interestingly. They passed a broad fountain with people wading and playing in it, wandering entertainers and vendors of food, liquor and intoxicants, thousands of cheerful people and several playgrounds occupied by happily screaming mobs of children.

As they neared a darkened area of tall, manicured bushes in a closed design, Kendra pointed and asked, "What's that?"

McKay glanced over and said, "That's the maze."

"Oh, I love mazes. Let's go look," she suggested.

"I don't know that we should," he said, some doubt in his voice.

"Why not?" she inquired back.

His unconscious leer of a grin grew back. "Besides being a maze, it has many little cul-de-sacs. Usually occupied, especially at this time of night," he explained.

"Occupied . . ." she began, then continued, "I think I'm misunderstanding you. You seem to be implying 'occupied' by lovers."

"No implication. Flat statement."

"Ohh!" she exclaimed, then looked doubtful. "You're pranking me, right?" she asked with a sideways grin of her own.

"We could go and see, if you doubt me," he told her.

"Now I know you're bluffing," she said. "Let's go, then."

He pulled on her hand as she neared the entrance and said, "Shall we bet on it?"

"What odds?" she asked doubtfully.

"If I'm wrong, I buy you a drink. If I'm right, it costs you a kiss."

And she knew she'd been had. He led her in and as her eyes adjusted to the darker environs, she could see in the smaller side passages that couples and small groups
were
making love. Creatively, in some cases. Kendra felt like an intruder and kept her eyes averted most of the time. They strolled the passages for a minute or two and McKay said, "Only thing is, I can't find my way out in the dark."

"You better be pranking on that one," she told him, unafraid.

"Maybe if you jog my memory," he said, pulling her closer.

She grabbed his head and locked lips with him, doing her best to shock
him.
He returned in kind and several seconds later they parted breathlessly.

"Oh, yeah. The exit," he said distantly. "And dinner, I think. I'll treat. If you insist on equity you can treat at some future point."

"Okay," she agreed. "Thank you."

They walked out by a circuitous route, then angled across gentle rolling slopes through an area with several small stages full of performers. They found themselves suddenly out of the park on a sidewalk, no fence or other barricade to indicate the boundary. A sign across the crowded thoroughfare proclaimed,
Stanley's Surf n' Turf.
The restaurant had a number of tables scattered across the broad sidewalk and looked to be doing excellent business.

Crossing the street was a game, played by dodging manually controlled traffic one lane at a time, then pausing for another opening. It was exciting and terrifying and Kendra was breathless by the time they arrived at an empty sidewalk table.

McKay dropped his cloak and pouch to his side and peeled off his top to reveal his corded muscles. Kendra looked around, realized that most people were topless, some women wearing halters similar to hers, and took off her tunic. It
was
more comfortable.

A waiter approached and placed a bowl of brightly colored salsa between them, with a basket of freshly baked chips, still steaming and fragrant. "Hi, Rob," the man greeted cheerfully. "Drinks for you and your lady friend?"

"Just a friend, Rupe. Drinks, yes. Amber ale for me. And we should probably have mild salsa this time."

"Certainly," Rupe replied. McKay always ordered hot, but perhaps the lady . . . 

"Wine cooler for me, please," Kendra supplied.

"Oh, you're from offworld," Rupe said, taking her hand briefly. "Rupert Stanley, owner and manager. Your drink is free, then, lady."

"Kendra. Thank you. And I think I can manage medium salsa."

"I would recommend the mild also," Stanley suggested. "Rob will not lead you astray knowingly. Not while you're sober, anyway." His grin implied the comment was a joke. He wandered off to greet other patrons, speaking into a comm as he did so. Shortly, another server brought drinks and a less garish bowl of salsa. They ordered prime rib, medium rare, with salad and potatoes and Kendra was amazed at how cheap food was.

"No ID check," she commented, almost used, in her mind, to the virtually nonexistent government on Freehold. "Drinking age on most of Earth is . . ."

"Twenty-five," McKay provided. "And you look about fourteen Freehold, or twenty-one Earth."

"I
am
twenty-five, actually," she corrected. "But thank you. I don't drink much," she admitted.

"A problem easily cured in a town where ninety-six percent of chowdowns brew their own house beverages," he advised. "So be careful. Servers will politely tell you when they think you've had too much, but won't stop you short of bankruptcy or public disaster."

"Uh-huh," she nodded, taking the data in while scooping salsa with a chip. She took a bite, felt the chip melt away and swallowed. It was very fresh and tasty.

Then the bite hit her throat. She grabbed for her drink and downed two gulps. Finishing, she yelped, "That's 'MILD?' "

"Too much?" McKay asked.

"Dealable with," she admitted, "but I'd call that at least medium-hot."

"The original and second settlers had a large minority of Southwestern Americans, Thais and Indonesians. Peppers do very well here and became a hobby, eventually a lifestyle."

"You're telling me," she agreed, recovering at last. She resumed nibbling, but in much more delicate bites than her first. It was delicious, once her tastebuds were seared off.

Changing the subject, she asked, "Were you really on Mtali?"

"Oh, yes," he said, looking quite serious, "Spent three days dodging triple-A, had most of a Hatchet shot out from around me, lost several close friends and spent the rest of the month flying nonstop CAP missions and expending an impressive amount of munitions."

"You arrived just as I left, then," she told him.

He looked surprised. "What were you doing on Mtali?"

She smiled wanly, "Pacelli, Kendra A. Sergeant Second Class, United Nations Peace Force. Service number 6399-270-5978. Logistics and Fuels."

"Okay," he nodded, "now you are indentured to Jefferson City, with almost no personal belongings. I think there's a story here."

"I can't go into it," she told him, shaking her head and looking distressed. "No one should know my background either, but I had to tell someone. You having been on Mtali . . ." she faded off.

"I understand that at least, without explanation."

"Please promise you won't mention it."

"Mention what?" he asked, a mock puzzled look on his face.

"Thank you." She smiled.

The steak and salad arrived and they dug in. The food was fantastic, with subtle flavors that made it unlike anything she'd had before. Garlic was omnipresent here, and pepper, with traces of ginger, horseradish and lemon. Despite the wonderful taste, Kendra was beginning to realize that she would never enjoy the foods she grew up with again. Then she felt the gravity tugging at her breasts, the growing ache in her feet, the thinness of the atmosphere that made breathing a chore for her. She was lost in a strange city full of armed people, unaware of most of the mores and dependent on a chance-met guide for her survival. She didn't notice her glass being refilled and drank more as her spirits sank lower. This society had a system that just didn't
care
about people.

Then she remembered that the system she had barely escaped didn't care about people either, despite its talk.

"You look very unhappy," McKay remarked.

"I know," she said, "and I shouldn't. It's just that every time I think I understand, everything around me changes again. The food is different, the people, all the rules, including the ones I don't realize exist. The only thing that seems similar is the language."

"That is the problem exactly," he told her.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"If we spoke a different language, you would realize that this is an alien culture and that you were an outsider trying to fit in," he explained. "But the similarity of language confuses you, especially since we use some of the same words for entirely different concepts."

"Such as?"

"Ever seen Central Park in New York?"

"Once."

"Does Liberty Park fit your definition of 'park'? Does Jefferson fit the word 'city'? We use the same words, but with completely different images in mind."

"So what can I do?" she asked, understanding but not reassured.

"Pretend we're aliens. And I would suggest putting a hand over your glass, so it doesn't get refilled." She did as he suggested, startled, just as a server came by with a pitcher. She listened as he continued. " 'Drink' here implies refills until done and we sip them, while swallowing lots of water for the heat and dryness. I suggest you drink that full glass."

She did so, forcing herself to swallow. She had never liked drinking water. "Even the water tastes funny," she complained.

"It's low on chemical purifiers, compared to what you're used to," he explained while donning his tunic and cloak. She realized that the air was quickly becoming brisk and followed suit. The cloak did ward off the night air.

McKay paid the check with cash, she saw, rather than a credcard, sliding out bankslips from a folder she wouldn't dare carry openly on Earth. As they left, she said, "I'm sorry to be so depressing a guest. That was a memorable meal, thank you."