Chapter 2

Five weeks later I was dropped off in the middle of a moonless October night by a small Galileo-class shuttle thirty miles south of Muleshoe, Texas. Naval Intelligence thought that the CAP testing facilities, where transporter pads were usually located, could be under observation by Earth First operatives. While EF and their fellow travelers might not have the Confederacy’s advanced facial recognition software, a photo of me walking out of a Confederacy facility might start the wrong people asking questions.

I had considered some simple changes to my face in the medtube, but the Naval Intelligence team that I worked with thought that it would be counterproductive. The team’s leader told me, “When Richard Stewart left Earth two years ago, he was a late-fifties theologian.” (I didn’t correct her about my field, which had been Divinity. I know, who cared?) “Now you appear to be early-twenties. You had a severe limp for a decade, now you don’t. Even people that knew you when you were young will think, ‘Hey, that guy kind of reminds me of a young Richard, but Richard is old and long gone.’ Face recognition software might identify you, but people will view you through the filter of their prejudices.”

I was glad that I was keeping my devilishly good looks. I might need to deal with people from my former life, and I didn’t want to have to try to convince them that I was me.

The cute Lance Corporal, who had rented the car I was to use, handed over the keys and a wallet filled with fake ID and real money. I was temporarily Ricky Stacks, which I thought sounded like a stripper’s name. I hopped into the car and, after a minute to re-familiarize myself with the primitive human technology, drove south on US Highway 84, headed for Lubbock.

Driving through the Texas night I felt stretched. My feet were back on my home soil, which I never thought I’d touch again. But in the clear, black sky the band of the Galaxy arched overhead, wheeling in the night. I never thought to ask which star was Poseidon’at, so I could pick out my new home.

I twitched, then realized that I had sub-vocalized my question.

“Thanks, Alfred. It’s nice to know I’m still in the same physical universe.” I turned on the radio and picked up a local station. It was playing a classic Patsy Cline song, “Crazy.” Yes, I must be crazy to be here.

Crazy, crazy for feeling so lonely

I’m crazy, crazy for feeling so blue

I knew you’d love me as long as you wanted

And then some day you’d leave me for somebody new

My heart and thoughts were light-years away, on Demeter.

I arrived in Lubbock while it was still dark and checked into a cheap motel. I noticed that Alfred had remained oddly silent during the drive.

That Music.>

.

“That’s right, you’re not from Texas. I’m a redneck at heart, Alfred.”

“Yes, Sir. As you say, Sir.”

The next morning, as I walked down the street to a diner for breakfast, I became aware of a very strange vibe. Earth, or at least the Central Texas part of it, had changed in the last two years.

General civic maintenance seemed to have degraded. The streets seemed trashier, and in poorer repair. A lot of storefronts were boarded up. I thought about what Ruth said about people going on the government dole as jobs went away. If I were in charge, I would have some of those people start picking up litter in the street to get their checks, but that’s the military mindset. Follow that route and soon people will be painting roadside rocks white.

Running the TV news as I dressed this morning had let me know that civic life had degraded along with the general downturn. Police reports of youth gangs harassing people in the streets were becoming common. In some of the rougher neighborhoods, cars had been trashed and set ablaze. Responding fire crews needed escorts from the local police.

Women’s clothes were confusing. Most of the women I saw were as provocative as they were the day I was extracted, lots of skin, lots of eye-catching colors, and lots of slutty messages on t-shirts and shorts. But a significant fraction of the women I saw wore clothes that were positively modest: blouses that closed up to the neck, skirts down below the knee, nothing that was too tightly tailored or form-fitting. Some few even looked like extras in Little House on the Prairie, with long dresses and sun bonnets covering their head, hiding their faces.

After a moment I realized that the women who were dressing to cover up weren’t dressing to show whom they were, but to show whom they were not. They were not showing the feminine shape of their bodies. They were not trying to catch a high-CAP-score male’s eye. Yet those girls dressed for pick-up seemed, I don’t know ... tawdry. Months spent in the presence of genetically body-sculptured spectacular women casually walking around nude had given me a pretty discerning eye for the female form. The girls on the street were okay-looking, I guess, but the strategically placed strips of cloth that served as clothes were a desperate attempt to mimic what these girls thought concubines would wear. I wondered, what kind of reaction a concubine in her first grey shift would provoke in these people?

I sat down at the diner’s counter and a middle-aged waitress, without asking, set a cup and saucer before me, and poured coffee. “Thanks,” I said, “You read my mind.”

She smiled, showing off the deepest, cutest dimples I had ever seen. “You’re welcome. Have you decided what you want?”

I felt myself blush, which surprised me. “I guess I’ll just have the corned beef hash and a side of pancakes, ma’am.”

“Well, aren’t you the cutest thing!” she exclaimed, “You’re at least decent enough to blush at your wicked thoughts!” I started to protest, but she pushed the creamer closer to me. “Don’t worry Honey, at my age I count those kinds of thoughts as a big complement.” She looked at me quizzically. “I see so many people come and go in this job. Have we met before?”

I smiled and said I didn’t think so and that this was my first trip through this part of the country. She frowned thoughtfully and turned away.

As I finished breakfast Alfred’s reminder stayed with me. I sipped my cooling coffee, and I let my eyes roam. The waitress came over and warmed my cup. “Honey, can I get you anything else?”

I wondered if she was trying to send me a double message. I looked at her uniform blouse; it had the name “Mildred” stitched in script above her left breast. “I don’t know, Millie. Can I see your CAP card?”

Mildred started. She looked around to see if anyone had heard me. “Honey, that kind of talk around here is not the healthiest thing.”

I apologized. I was just trying to flirt, not get either one of us in trouble. I finished my coffee, left her a very large tip, and left.

As I walked out of the diner, in the distance I heard a church bell ring. I realized that it was Sunday morning. I felt an almost physical compulsion to walk into the nearest building with a cross on it. I had been to the Brotherhood church in this burg many years back, but I needed to check with my implant to remember where it was. It was a couple of blocks walk, so I enjoyed stretching my legs in the morning light and entered the sanctuary with minutes to spare. I didn’t see that the waitress, Mildred, noted the direction I was walking when I left.

The congregation was mixed. It was mostly older folks, but there were several families. My eye was caught by several teenaged girls, tan and sleek and in sundresses that seemed barely appropriate for church wear. I didn’t see any of the Little House on the Prairie dresses in that group. I felt like a shark, swimming lazily in a small lagoon full of bright reef fish. They all looked delicious, and I was reminded again that I did have a concubine slot, but I knew that the last thing I wanted was one of these children that had no idea what they were getting into. Two girls, sisters seemingly, burst out of a side door and colliding with each other, nearly ran into me. They halted and their wide eyes ran up and down my body. They didn’t say anything, but blushing and giggling, they turned and ran through the church’s front doors. I again thought about the fact that I was short one concubine. Then I came to my senses.

The service was comforting in its predictability. Song, opening prayer, three songs, communion service, song, sermon, and final song. I didn’t need to use a hymnal; the songs were all ones that I had memorized as a child. The arrangements were all four-part harmony, and I knew the tenor and bass lines. I had been singing with Paula and the girls, so my voice was in fine fettle. I threw back my head and opened up my throat, enjoying myself.

Perhaps I enjoyed myself too much. By the third song, I noticed that I was getting sidelong glances from the around the sanctuary. I throttled myself back and concentrated on blending in. The sermon was innocently boring. I had decades of practice in maintaining a pleasant, alert look on my face while my mind planned my next steps.

After the service, I was greeted by several of the congregants. The preacher was first as I stepped out of the church’s sanctuary and into bright sunshine on the front steps. “God bless you this morning and thank you for joining us!” He beamed. “What a fine voice! I really enjoy hearing someone with the gift of song letting loose and praising God!” He looked at me closely. “Brother, have we met?”

I shook his hand back. “I don’t believe so, Brother. My name is Ricky Stacks and I’m not from around here.”

“Huh. Well, perhaps you’re visiting relatives hereabouts? You sure look familiar, like I’ve met your Daddy.”

A couple of men, deacons of the church, I would bet, came over to see who the stranger was that was blocking the line out of church and keeping them from their Sunday dinners.

I chuckled. “Not that I know, Brother. I’m from California and I’m traveling on business. I just couldn’t miss service this morning.”

“What’s your line, Brother?” A short fellow in neat brown suit and a neat comb-over from that group of deacons asked.

“I’m a professional recruiter. There’s a fellow down the road aways that my boss wants to hire, but he’s reluctant. Money doesn’t seem to be a problem, so I guess that he wants more benefits. In any case, my job is to close the deal.

“But here, I shouldn’t be talking business on the Lord’s Day, and I’m keeping your dinners waiting on my gabbing.”

They all assured me that it was no hardship, but before I could reply, they turned and shook hands with the preacher, then collected their wives and children and walked off.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Brother Stacks?” I turned around to see the man in his late-forties with the neat comb-over and his wife and their kids. “I’m Mel Seine, and this is my wife, Cecil. We would be purely honored if you would share Sunday dinner with us.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put you to the trouble of a last-minute guest!”

Cecil, the wife, spoke up. “Hush that talk! We have plenty and we would be delighted to have a traveler at our table. Do you like fried chicken? Black-eyed peas? Collard greens?”

Embarrassingly, my stomach growled loud enough for the small group of us to hear. Everyone laughed.

“That settles it Brother Stacks.” Cecil said. “Mel, you tell him that he is obligated to come to supper right now.”

Mel shrugged at me and grinned. “You heard my boss. I’ve got no choice but to bring you along.”

In a scruffy ranch-style home in a run-down neighborhood in Austin, a phone rang three times. The thin, pale, sour-featured man sitting watching Meet the Press didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn down the volume of the television.

After a short pause, the telephone rang again, this time it rang twice. The man pressed “Pause” on the television playback and scooped a laptop from its place on the floor next to the chair. The thin man booted it up and surfed to an on-line dating site. A new dating prospect profile was available to him. Her name was ‘Helga.’ Helga’s picture was not very attractive, but that didn’t matter because the person that created the profile wasn’t a woman.