Freehold by Michael Z. Williamson Page B

Shrugging, she tried it straight.
    At first she thought it was mocha. Then she realized it was just chocolate. Actually, not just chocolate, but chocolate thick enough to stand a spoon in. It was bittersweet and warmed her through. She took it to a table and found a seat. She rapidly found herself standing again, being introduced to fifteen people whose names she knew she would forget by lunch. There was another, larger group off in one corner, who looked more reserved. They were not introduced.
    Stewart came out a few moments later. "Simms," he said, reading names off a roster, "take five of the labor and clean up the North End from those concerts yesterday. Pasky, you take ten through the south side of Liberty and the Bazaar. Juma, take five to Riversedge and put up chairs and power for the Rally by the River . . ." He read off several other names and tasks. Finally he called, "Pacelli."
    "Yes, sir?"
    "I'm told you can run coordinate machines."
    "I've done some."
    "Good. Come with us."
    She followed Stewart and a redheaded woman to a medium flatbed hauler. They all piled into the cab and Stewart drove them into the park. "Kendra, this is my wife Karen. She's my deputy and does most of the administration while I do the designing, although we switch off, sort of. Karen, Kendra is the immigrant from Earth I told you about."
    "Great!" Karen smiled, gripping hands. She was in her local late twenties, or mid forties for Earth, younger than Hiroki. She was slightly lined, but very well kept. She smiled a huge, toothy grin. "Glad to have another tech. We've been needing one for several weeks now. Maybe we can be caught up by mid-summer. I'm told you're familiar with several varieties of imported flowers?"
    "I've only used industrial CMs," Kendra explained, "not the free operating ones you use for commercial exterior work. I know flowers informally."
    "There's only a few quirks that are different on the machines. You'll get it," Karen assured her.
    They stopped in an area of the park unfamiliar to Kendra and got out. The two showed her the basics of the machine, made sure she had a passing familiarity with the programming language and handed her a flash chip for the system.
    "There's the manual in case you need it. We want a flowerbed laid out like this," he said, indicating a sketch on the screen, "on the south slope of that hill. We'll pick you up in about a div. Here's a radio in case you have any problems."
    They watched as Kendra activated the machine and had it walk out of the trailer and up the hill. They then drove off, leaving her nervously flipping through the manual. The device was apparently similar in concept to the computerized tools in her father's force-beam shop. Once set, it would plant the various seeds in the geometric patterns programmed into it. She got to work inputting the data, the code being almost identical to what she was used to with the shop tools. Once that was accomplished, she dug in the included toolbox for a scale and measured off distance from the path. She found the appropriate starting place and let the machine go.
    It ambled around, scraping and furrowing the ground, drilling holes and dropping seeds. She watched it for a while and realized there was a problem. Two large trees were very close to the edge of the pattern and might interfere. She paused the program and considered options.
    She listened to the radio for a few moments and determined that the traffic was utterly without formal rules or code—it was mere chatter. She waited for a break in conversation and said, "Mister Stewart, this is Pacelli."
    "Yes, Kendra?"
    "We appear to have two trees in the way of the program. What do you want me to do?"
    "Can you work around them?"
    "With some reprogramming, yes."
    "That's fine."
    When Stewart returned, he looked over her modified arrangement with a critical eye and smiled. "Very nice," he said. The machine was walked back onto the hauler and taken to another location. Kendra was given