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"When you rise in the morning give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength.
Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living.
If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself."
– Chief Tecumsah, Shawnee
The next morning, Samara was nowhere in sight, and sunlight poked around the curtains, filling the room with a ghostly half-light. Logan dressed and made his way downstairs to find Samara and Jesh already eating. She was wearing coveralls like him, ready to do some freighthopping. A large blue-enameled pot sat in the center of the table, and he picked up the life-saving, chocolaty scent of coffee.
Not waiting to be asked, he poured a mugful, taking several quick gulps, even though the coffee almost burned his mouth. It had a peculiar tan appearance rather than the usual blackness of regular coffee, and tasted so smooth, it went down as if lubricated with silicon. Even better, there was none of the usual bitter aftertaste he'd expect from cheap coffee. He reached for the pot again.
Jesh chuckled. "Easy there, feller. World ain't gonna run out of egg-coffee anytime soon."
He took another swallow, in case Jesh was wrong. "What's the plan?"
"Breakfast. Then we make our way to town." Jesh gestured at Logan's hands. "Sam says she needs to check those."
The gloves Samara had given him were now covered in grime and more black than blue. As soon as he thought about his hands, they started to throb. He wasn't sure he wanted anyone disturbing them, though he knew she was right.
While he tucked into a plate full of buttermilk pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage with one hand, Samara cut the glove off his right and dabbed it with a damp flannel. It hurt like hell, and he gritted his teeth to stop from crying out.
Once clean, it looked better, but still reminded him of something that had been thrown on a fire and left to burn. She had more of the gloves, but her supplies of the healing gel were gone. Jesh tutted, then vanished into the rear of the house, returning with a jar of paste that resembled yogurt contaminated with used axle grease. Despite the dubious appearance, it soothed the pain, and after Samara put a fresh glove over it, she turned her attention to the other hand.
"Anyone sees you walking round with those, they gonna know you ain't from these parts." Jesh pointed at the sterile blue gloves. "That sorta thing ain't common here. Hang on."
He vanished again, this time returning with a pair of men's fine leather gloves, laying them on the table next to Logan. "Part of my Sunday-go-to-meeting best. Don't got no real use for them now. They'll cover things up till those hands heal up some."
Logan swallowed the last forkful of sausage, then thanked him. "Why are you helping us?"
Jesh didn't say anything for a while. "I'm an old man. I've seen enough to know life's full of hardships. They visit all of us eventually. Reckon you ain't done nothing but tried to protect yourself, same as any man."
"Or woman," Samara said, as she finished Logan's left hand.
He had to admit, they felt much better than when he'd first woken. He reached for the money belt and unfastened it. It seemed only fair to give Jesh something for the trouble they'd put him to.
"Here, let me—"
Jesh held up his hand. "Whatever you're figuring on, I'd rather not. I ain't asked for nothing and don't need nothing. Whatever's in there, you best keep it. You'll likely need it more than me.
"Once you're set, I'll take you into town in my wagon. I need some supplies, so it won't seem out of the ordinary. You can hide under a tarp in the back where no one will see you. When we get near the railway, I'll signal you to slip out. I got a canvas bag here. You can use it to keep the clothes decent while you're riding the train. Ain't no one gonna see you on there—you can change when you get off, but make sure no one is around."
Logan shook his hand, pressing as firmly as he could without causing too much pain. "Thank you for... everything."
Samara stepped up and shook Jesh's hand too. He seemed a little surprised, and his face turned bright pink when she kissed him on the cheek. He pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch.
"We better get going. Morning train will be here in forty-five minutes."
They gathered their gear and packed it, along with the fresh clothes, into the canvas bag, leaving the day packs on the bed. Samara added a small pile of the golden coins.
"He'll find them after we're gone," she said.
Jesh was already out the front when they went downstairs, and they clambered into the back of the wagon. It was as messed up as Logan had come to expect since crossing the border. He'd imagined something archaic pulled by horses, but the reality was equal parts modern and ancient. The rear was a wooden box affair, indistinguishable from something that might have been seen any time through the last few hundred years, but instead of horses at the front there was a large, two wheeled misshapen box attached to the yoke. There were no reins, but Jesh held a crude control unit connected to the box through a sturdy black cable. The smell of oil and burning wood hung heavy in the thick morning air, tickling Logan's throat.
Again, the wanton use of harmful fossil fuels. It wasn't Jesh's fault—he was a product of his culture, but it was easy to see why attempts to save the environment a hundred and fifty years ago had failed. Global problems needed global solutions. Anything else was nothing but an exercise in futility.
The engineer in him also spotted this was a dual-purpose setup. The wagon had a full yoke, allowing horses to be used if you didn't have the engine unit, a strange nod to versatility, albeit in a somewhat backwards sense.
Jesh worked the controls, and black smoke belched out of a rusting vertical pipe that turned out to be a smokestack. The fumes surrounded them in choking clouds, clearing after he brought the vehicle around in a half circle to head down the lane.
"Scrunch up tight when you go under the tarp," Jesh said. "That'll make it less obvious if anyone casts an eye on us. No need yet, but be ready."
The road "into town" was in the same poor condition as the others they'd seen, and the wagon rumbled and lurched along at a pace no greater than walking speed. From a distance, the town appeared incongruously innocent, presenting a picture of life from an earlier, simpler time. But as they approached, signs of change and upheaval became apparent.
The town sat in a narrow valley with buildings lining the main street. They might have been constructed at any time from the nineteenth century. Like many eastern communities, Scottsville must have expanded after the Big Shake had driven people from the west coast. The floods of newcomers would have needed the quick, cheap homes that now dominated the hills on either side, where rank after rank of gray, ominous concrete row houses looked down on the older quarter.
They were close enough now to be noticed and slid under the foul-smelling tarp. Logan left a small gap allowing him to see through a knothole in the wooden side wall. Perhaps he was being overly suspicious, but a movement caught his eye. Even in the low light, Samara's gun was visible in her hand—obviously he wasn't alone in his paranoia.
"Ho there."
The engine backed off, and they trundled to a stop. The voice sounded familiar.
"Morning, Jesh. Up bright and early today?"
The engine noise dropped. It was Phelps, the Regulator from the day before. Without thinking, Logan drew his gun as well.
"Teddy." Jesh sounded calm. "What can I do for ya?"
"Seen more o' them fellers you spotted?"
Logan's fingers tightened around the gun, setting off the ache in his hands once more.
"Nope. Ain't seen a blessed soul since you last night. Still no sign of Cleet and the boy?"
"Not a thing. I got men combing the hills, but nothing yet." The Regulator paused. "What brings you to town?"
"Supplies," Jesh drawled. "Heading to the market and Old Shannon's store."
"I ain't sure I shouldn't deputize you, Jesh. We need all the help we can get searching for Cleet."
"Always willing to help, Teddy. But I'm kinda slow these days. You willing to let me have a coal chit for the engine?"
There was a long pause. What was happening? Logan couldn't see anything through the knothole.
"Already signed a dozen chits for the others. I guess we can manage. But keep your eyes open."
"If those fellers I saw did it, they'd be long gone by now. Don't you think?"
"Reckon so. Anyway, can't stand here yammering all day. Absolute be with you."
"And you."
The engine picked up speed, and they trundled forward. Logan relaxed and put his gun away.
"You okay back there?" Jesh's voice was low, barely audible over the engine.
Logan looked at Samara, and she nodded. "We're good," he hissed.
"About three hundred yards there's a cutting on the right. When you slip out, the trees will hide you. Then follow the bridge toward the river. Train runs right along there. Move when I holler."
"Thanks, Jesh. Again."
The short distance took far longer than seemed necessary. Was Jesh handing them over to the Regulators?
"Now," Jesh said sharply. "Good luck."
Logan pushed the tarp back, threw the bag out, and slid over the side. They weren't traveling fast, and Jesh didn't slow down. A second or two later Samara followed, and they ducked into the foliage filling the cutting. They waited a few minutes, but there were no signs of alarm, and they edged through the trees.
The bridge Jesh had mentioned rose above them but was broken down and ramshackle. Sections of concrete were missing, replaced by wooden trestles. The mismatch of construction jutted out to cross the grimy waters of the gray river below. They hid by one of the remaining concrete supports a few meters away from the railway line. All they could do now was hope the train wasn't traveling too fast.
A whistle sounded in the distance. They'd cut it close. Logan peeked around the moss-covered concrete base. Smoke plumed into the air a few hundred meters away.
"I feel like I've traveled back in time. Shouldn't we be wearing Stetsons?"
"Would it make you feel better?"
Samara was as stoic as ever. What could have happened to cause her such nightmares? He understood her mention of Dollie, but the rest was a mystery she'd probably never reveal. About as likely as him going deep sea diving on Europa.
The front of the train passed by. Judging by the shape of the diesel unit, it was a bio vehicle, the same as the highway transports. He grabbed the bag and ran alongside the filthy coal trucks. The train couldn't have been doing over ten kilometers per hour, but that was a pretty fast run, especially as it still felt like he had a knife stuck in his leg. Samara matched the pace easily and swung on board, but he was flagging.
She held out her hand. "Give me the bag."
He lifted it awkwardly, but Samara got a good enough hold on it to drag it on board, then reached out again. Without the burden, he closed on the freight car but was a good thirty centimeters from reaching her hand, even as his legs started to buckle. Frustration turned to anger, adrenaline washing away the pain, and he halved the gap.
He spotted a gantry several meters down the track. If he was forced to run around it, that would be the end of the line—he'd never catch up again. He drove his legs harder into the ground, the gravel underfoot threatening to spoil his renewed effort. Then Samara's hand caught his, and she pulled on his arm. The gantry was approaching fast, and he gripped her hand, pulling with all his strength. Then his feet left the floor, and Samara hauled him onto the train, as though she were landing a net full of fish. The gantry swept by, clearing his legs by scant centimeters.
"Next time, let's take a cab," Logan croaked, dragging in shuddering gasps of air as he leaned back against the cold steel of the coal truck. They'd cleared the town, and the train was picking up speed. Finally, something was going their way.
*
His optimism didn't last long. They sat uncomfortably on the metal shoulders near the coupler. The train was easier than walking and definitely quicker, but not by much. Now they were on an open line it accelerated, but only to about thirty kilometers an hour. He estimated the journey to Richmond would be around three hours in a straight line. But the track followed the winding path of the James river, which increased the distance and forced the train to slow and stop occasionally.
By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, they'd been on the train over five hours and both reeked of diesel and coal. There was no way they could risk riding the train all the way, and they jumped off by a large, arched rail bridge crossing a broad, rocky section of the river at ninety degrees to the line.
Despite their attempts to avoid the worst of the dirt, they were covered head to foot with coal dust plastered to them by diesel fumes. After checking the area was clear, Logan stood guard while Samara cleaned up in the river, then he did the same. The fresh clothes from the bag made them look somewhat respectable, though the smell lingered.
"Now we're fine upstanding citizens, lead on." Logan tucked his gun inside the voluminous lining of the suit and covered his hands with the leather gloves.
"I'm your wife." Samara pulled on the cowl-like bonnet. "I walk behind you. I'll guide you using the transmitter."
He'd almost forgotten about the misogynism. How was it possible for such a culture to survive? More to the point, why did women stand such behavior in the first place? Now, they undoubtedly had no choice, but it hadn't always been that way.
They followed a path east and found a wooden footbridge over the canal, which had run parallel to the tracks for the last few kilometers. The bridge was rotting and appeared as though it would give way any minute, but they hurried across. Once past the brown-stained water, they passed through a park housing the remains of a large red-brick memorial. On the other side, they came to a quiet paved road and followed it north, finally entering the bustling streets of Richmond.
Richmond's long history went back far before the first European settlers arrived, and before the famous "Give me liberty, or give me death" speech. He wondered how that fighting spirit could have been crushed under the twin boots of religious dogma and indoctrination. Despite the changes, the city was still relatively large and one of the greatest population centers in what was now the MusCat Central region.
The streets were busy, both with people and vehicles, and the roads and buildings were much better maintained than others they'd seen. Logan's natural instinct was to walk alongside Samara, and he had to force himself to stay the requisite two meters in front. She stayed connected to him through a thin golden cord she'd produced from her clothing supplies. This apparently indicated his "ownership" of her. Aurore would have had a fit if she saw this.
He flagged down a taxi, though it wasn't anything like a modern AeroCab. This one was firmly tied to the ground on four large wheels and was dirty enough to violate numerous health codes in the USP. The back seat fabric was unpleasantly tacky to the touch, and he didn't want to know what had caused it. It also stank of tobacco, which may have been from previous passengers, but the driver was smoking, so the point was moot.
The driver spat a loose piece of tobacco through the window. "Where to, Mac?"
"The Buraq Station, please."
There was no screen between them, and the driver held a plastic box over his shoulder, a red light flashing in one corner. It took Logan a few seconds to understand what it was, and he fished out the plastic card Brant had given him what now seemed like months ago.
The light turned green after a few minutes and spit out a small paper receipt. He grabbed it and the taxi pulled out into the traffic.
"You folks from out of town?"
Before Logan replied, he heard Samara's voice faintly through the implant. "Don't answer. He's BOPA."
He closed his mouth and leaned back, wishing he was somewhere civilized.
"How's the weather back home?" The driver pulled the car around a vehicle unloading at the roadside. "Would you look at this jackass? Absolute save us from idiots like that."
Logan had no intention of answering, then heard another whisper from Samara.
"Tell him not to use such language."
He hesitated, thinking about what to say.
"He blasphemed." Samara's voice tickled Logan's ear.
Logan coughed. "Please don't talk like that around my wife. I wouldn't want to have to report you."
"Shit," Samara hissed.
"Sorry, Mac." The driver seemed embarrassed. "Look, I don't want no trouble."
At last they reached the station, which showed definite signs of schizophrenia. One part of it was a square, old brown stone building, topped by a red tile roof and clock tower. A hundred or so years ago it must have been impressive, but now it was a little ragged around the edges. A throng of people were milling through the arched entrances on the lower sandstone-faced level. This must be the main entrance.
The other section was modern industrial in comparison—a series of long, low prefabricated arches spread out over the size of a football stadium. The roof was the mottled gray-blue of galvanized steel, but even from a distance, he spotted patches of rust along the seams and corners. The cab pulled up near the entrance, and they climbed out into the rush of people, letting the flow carry them inside.
The tall windows gave the interior a vintage glow that reflected off grand travertine floor tiles and highlighted the impressive columns and embossed roof. Signs for the ticket booths hung from the roof and Logan followed them, a journey made more awkward than it should have been by the cord they were both holding.
"You messed up back there." Now they were in a crowd, Samara was talking louder over the implant. "The driver was a BOPA agent. They lure people into religious transgressions so they can shake them down. Pay up and they keep it quiet. If you don't they report you."
Logan's jaw stiffened. "What did I do wrong?"
"You acknowledged my presence in public. It's not done here."
He stopped abruptly, his lips twisting into a sneer as he fought the urge to run for the border. That any society might function that way was ridiculous. "I'll try to remember to be more of a jerk," he muttered.
The ticket desk was staffed by an older man, his whiskered cheeks puffed out as he peered over a pair of half-moon spectacles.
"Where to?"
Logan tried not to stare. Routine Geneering had eliminated most vision issues decades ago. Now, people only wore glasses at the beach or as a fashion accessory. He had no idea what to say, but Samara whispered into the implant, and he repeated her words.
"Isbanir Transit Center, one way."
Normally, he'd have specified two tickets, but Samara's warning about acknowledging women made him bite his tongue. He hoped the clerk would assume two people because he hadn't specified a single ticket. How did they handle family groups? That seemed impossible without acknowledging others, including women.
The man behind the desk smiled but didn't produce any tickets. Perhaps the clerk hadn't heard him. He was about to repeat the order when Samara whispered to him again.
"ID and travel documents."
He pulled out the paperwork and handed it over. The clerk checked the documents and swiped them under a small UV light perched on his desk. Logan shifted uneasily, hoping the forgeries would pass the inspection. To his relief the man handed them back without comment a moment later
"SuperBuraq Roomette. That will be seventy-six-twelve, including transit fees, sir." He touched his finger to the brim of his blue cap.
It seemed cheap considering the distance, but he wasn't about to argue. He took out the payment card again and put it in the card reader. After a small delay, it flashed green. While this was happening, the clerk wrote out two tickets by hand, then stamped them when a small bell rang to announce the transaction was approved.
"Departs platform nine. Twenty-one fifteen. Absolute bless your journey."
Logan took the tickets and glanced at them. The price was over seven thousand, not the much lower figure he'd assumed. "Thank you."
His face flushed, leaving him wanting nothing else than to escape the oppressive sense of scrutiny pervading the atmosphere. He had the feeling a set of horns had grown on his head, proclaiming to everyone that he was the Evil One incarnate. He stepped away, hoping Samara would follow him.
"Sir?" the clerk called out, his voice sharp.
Logan turned hesitantly back to the ticket booth.
The man's expression seemed hostile. Then he tapped the card reader. "Your paycard, sir."
The stub of plastic was sticking out from the slot. Logan took two steps forward, then pulled it out and tucked it inside his jacket pocket, hardly daring to breathe. "Thank you. Again."
"Good day, sir."
They walked back into the main station area, and Logan shivered as a prickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He did his best to whisper to Samara. "Four hours. What now?"
"Out front. We need to shop."
"Now?"
"A journey like this without luggage? They'd be onto us right away."