Freehold by Michael Z. Williamson Page A

talisman. It couldn't solve problems.
    Sighing, she dimmed the window and turned off the lights—manually—and crawled into bed for a nap. She twitched restlessly and got little benefit from it.
    * * *
    About dinnertime, Rob knocked on Kendra's door, heard her say, "Come in unlock door goddammit!" as she remembered there was no voice circuit available. She opened the door for him.
    He squeezed her shoulder lightly and asked, "What's going?"
    "Shopping for insurance," she said sitting down at her comm. "It's outrageously expensive."
    "Not compared to paying a bureaucracy and . . . ah," he interrupted his own monologue, looking at her sidescreen of notes. That would make it really expensive. "Like some advice? Systems efficiency is my job. You've fallen for Novice's Trick Number Six," he said.
    "Okay," she said. "Can you explain that?"
    "Start here," he pointed. "How likely are you to have cancer or cardiovascular trouble in the next five years?"
    "Not very," she admitted.
    "Then cancel it and don't waste money on it."
    "But it's part of the package," she protested.
    "That's just a marketing ploy. You can build any policy you like. Your renter's insurance will be cheaper through these people and unless you plan on running a home industry in this shoebox, you don't need much. If you damage the furniture, just work out a payment plan with the owner. Add this, eliminate this. I would spend money for a wrongful death policy—"
    "Why? What is that?" she asked.
    "In case you mistakenly kill someone thinking it self-defense or accidentally run them over or such, you don't want to have a court find you negligent and fine you their life's earnings."
    "They can do that?" she asked, suddenly scared.
    "Can and will. You also need investigation insurance; if you are involved in a crime or a victim of it, someone has to pay to dig up evidence for you. Spend money for good vehicle operations coverage and a minimal amount for disability and unemployment. You need to be fed and have a roof, but not much else, since you don't have extraneous assets. If you take that, your total is . . . one zero three twenty a month."
    "That's . . . lower than I expected," she agreed.
    "Great. Glad to help. My basic service fee is two hundred credits. Cash or account?" Seeing her face he added, "I'm joking. But do keep people's intentions in mind when asking help from strangers. There are some really mercenary people out there."
    "Yeah," she agreed, "I met one the other day." She thought unkind thoughts about Tom Calan again. That memory would last a long time.
    * * *
    Kendra woke at 7:30 Monday morning, or 2:75 Rowanday, local figuring, and got ready for her first day at work. She dressed in pants since she expected to crawl a lot, and checked the map before heading for the park garage. She stepped outside and began to walk. The sky was clear, turning that incredible blue again, and she enjoyed the sights. Nearing her destination, she began to realize how chill it was and that she'd forgotten her cloak. She hurried and was out of breath when she arrived. Despite the claims of "walking distance," it was a good twelve hundred-meter blocks to the park.
    The personnel door was open and she hurried inside. Squinting at the relative gloom, she saw a short man of obvious Asian heritage, who nodded. "You're Kendra?" he asked.
    "Yes," she agreed. He took her hand in the two-handed shake that she was gradually getting used to.
    "Hiroki Stewart," he said. Pointing, he continued, "Pot's over there."
    She nodded again and walked in the direction indicated and into a large bay. Several people were present and conversation died as they looked her over. She ignored them and headed for the coffee urn.
    A box next to it held several tenth cred coins. Deducing their meaning, she reached a tenth out of her pouch and dropped it in. She grabbed a poly cup from a stack and filled it, then couldn't find any sugar. There were several flavored mixes, but no sugar.