away, his security guy, still standing there and staring at her, suddenly spoke up with a contemptuous, “Bet you’re a vegetarian.”
Startled, and oddly offended, Sarah shot back, “Bet I’m not.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” And without warning, out popped a little ditty of her dad’s, something which had lain dormant and forgotten inside her for nearly ten years: “Carnivores win wars.”
Van Meyer stopped in his tracks midway across the floor and looked back at her, smooth-faced with surprise for one instant before he erupted in hearty laughter. The soldier’s smile was slower to spread, but it did, and with a certain reluctant admiration. “I like that one,” he said.
“Oh ja ! That is good! I must remember, and so true besides! Danke , Miss Fowler, what a pleasant way to begin day. Piotr, at your convenience?”
The soldier gave her an unlooked-for and unwelcome clap to the arm which hurt a little, but actually seemed sincerely cheerful, and went to catch up to his boss. Sarah watched them go, still smiling, hoping what he’d said about good work was true even though some part of her (a damned broad part of her) didn’t trust him.
She was singing to herself on the monorail again ( My Baby Takes the Morning Train , just the chorus, over and over), shut up to swipe her card at the Checkpoint gate, and started in again on the other side (Dolly’s Nine to Five ). The cry went out. The smell closed in. She got started.
She found Will Hobart and Jules Verne at home today, although Verne was just leaving and didn’t want to answer the questions. When she asked if she could come back again the next day, he took her case and threw it on top of his house, then stalked off.
She spent two hours trying to climb up and get it down. The ladder that had been a part of the trucking trailer he lived in had rusted out. She tried to climb it and went flat on her ass with shards of metal in her hands. There were no trees to climb, nothing light enough to drag over that was still sturdy enough to stand on. The roof remained two feet over her head even when she jumped. Two hours.
Bang. Tak-tak-tak-tak. Samaritan looked over the edge of the roof and down at her.
She stood, dirty and sweaty and already thoroughly miserable, and finally said, “I lost my case.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “What a coincidence. I just found one.”
“May I have it, please?” she asked, without much hope.
“I love to hear you beg.” He walked back along the trailer, out of sight, and returned with the case in his hands. Samaritan said, “Catch.”
She reached up for it.
He popped the latch and flung the case’s contents wide. Hundreds of carefully-arranged papers flew, caught wind, rattled out over the reservoirs and down the causeway. Requisitions, incident reports, case notes, resident files, Hobart’s completed questionnaire, all of it. The heavier stuff—her paz, manuals, her map of Cottonwood, some pens—rained down over the road. Samaritan closed the case, hopped down to stand beside her, and gave it to her.
“Say thank you,” he prompted.
“You know, it is possible to be oppressed and still be an asshole!” she snapped, snatching up her paz and wiping rust-red dust on her thigh.
“I’m sure it is, but why tell me? No one’s oppressed in here, caseworker. We all need to be taken care of, right? We’re all just a bunch of dumb bugs.”
She left him there and started cleaning up as much as she could. Useless effort, useless. The papers were ruined, garbage. They belonged where they lay, indistinguishable from all the other garbage, but she couldn’t just leave it. She grabbed soggy handfuls from the culvert’s crumbling bank and started stuffing them back into her briefcase. Papers floated on the dark water just below her. She knelt down on the cracked and unstable ground, leaning out over the rancid pollution of it, and tried to reach them.
“You know we piss in that,” Samaritan said, no
Startled, and oddly offended, Sarah shot back, “Bet I’m not.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” And without warning, out popped a little ditty of her dad’s, something which had lain dormant and forgotten inside her for nearly ten years: “Carnivores win wars.”
Van Meyer stopped in his tracks midway across the floor and looked back at her, smooth-faced with surprise for one instant before he erupted in hearty laughter. The soldier’s smile was slower to spread, but it did, and with a certain reluctant admiration. “I like that one,” he said.
“Oh ja ! That is good! I must remember, and so true besides! Danke , Miss Fowler, what a pleasant way to begin day. Piotr, at your convenience?”
The soldier gave her an unlooked-for and unwelcome clap to the arm which hurt a little, but actually seemed sincerely cheerful, and went to catch up to his boss. Sarah watched them go, still smiling, hoping what he’d said about good work was true even though some part of her (a damned broad part of her) didn’t trust him.
She was singing to herself on the monorail again ( My Baby Takes the Morning Train , just the chorus, over and over), shut up to swipe her card at the Checkpoint gate, and started in again on the other side (Dolly’s Nine to Five ). The cry went out. The smell closed in. She got started.
She found Will Hobart and Jules Verne at home today, although Verne was just leaving and didn’t want to answer the questions. When she asked if she could come back again the next day, he took her case and threw it on top of his house, then stalked off.
She spent two hours trying to climb up and get it down. The ladder that had been a part of the trucking trailer he lived in had rusted out. She tried to climb it and went flat on her ass with shards of metal in her hands. There were no trees to climb, nothing light enough to drag over that was still sturdy enough to stand on. The roof remained two feet over her head even when she jumped. Two hours.
Bang. Tak-tak-tak-tak. Samaritan looked over the edge of the roof and down at her.
She stood, dirty and sweaty and already thoroughly miserable, and finally said, “I lost my case.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “What a coincidence. I just found one.”
“May I have it, please?” she asked, without much hope.
“I love to hear you beg.” He walked back along the trailer, out of sight, and returned with the case in his hands. Samaritan said, “Catch.”
She reached up for it.
He popped the latch and flung the case’s contents wide. Hundreds of carefully-arranged papers flew, caught wind, rattled out over the reservoirs and down the causeway. Requisitions, incident reports, case notes, resident files, Hobart’s completed questionnaire, all of it. The heavier stuff—her paz, manuals, her map of Cottonwood, some pens—rained down over the road. Samaritan closed the case, hopped down to stand beside her, and gave it to her.
“Say thank you,” he prompted.
“You know, it is possible to be oppressed and still be an asshole!” she snapped, snatching up her paz and wiping rust-red dust on her thigh.
“I’m sure it is, but why tell me? No one’s oppressed in here, caseworker. We all need to be taken care of, right? We’re all just a bunch of dumb bugs.”
She left him there and started cleaning up as much as she could. Useless effort, useless. The papers were ruined, garbage. They belonged where they lay, indistinguishable from all the other garbage, but she couldn’t just leave it. She grabbed soggy handfuls from the culvert’s crumbling bank and started stuffing them back into her briefcase. Papers floated on the dark water just below her. She knelt down on the cracked and unstable ground, leaning out over the rancid pollution of it, and tried to reach them.
“You know we piss in that,” Samaritan said, no
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