Honor - Kevin Killiany [17]
Animals that speak are killed.
Chapter
8
“Another week.” Fabian Stevens glared into the fire.
Bart Faulwell, seated across the table from his friend, shook his head sympathetically. The two had met for lunch at a tavern in a ski resort in Pludnt. Their table was comfortably near a massive fireplace, the exact mirror of its twin at the other end of the long room paneled in dark and highly figured woods.
A few thousand kilometers to the south hundreds of solar mirrors focused their light on the face of the southern polar ice floe, starting the water on its journey north to irrigate the temperate zone. Here, however, the snow-clad slopes of long extinct volcanoes provided the best skiing in the southern hemisphere.
It was dark outside, Stevens and Bart’s personal lunchtime coinciding with local dinner, and the tavern was filled with what Bart assumed were tourists. They had the festive air of people far from home and responsibilities.
It was remarkable to him that on a world close to global famine, populated by a people who across a dozen regional cultures were emphatically uninterested in events beyond their horizons, tourism was a universal passion. He’d discussed it with Carol Abramowitz. The cultural specialist had explained global tourism was a recent phenomenon, something that had developed in the last two centuries.
When the Bundinalli had developed warp drive and discovered space around them was crowded with dozens of alien species and civilizations, their definitions of “local” and “familiar” had undergone a radical change. Now they routinely took vacations to places their great-grandparents hadn’t even imagined. But fundamental natures didn’t change that quickly. Tourism off-planet was essentially nonexistent. For all their newfound mobility, their destinations were still local.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of their meal. The local specialty was a game animal that tasted very much like lamb roasted with dried fruit put up in the traditional manner—dried in front of the very hearth they were enjoying now—from the previous summer’s growing season. They both had identical platters; local rules of symmetry did not allow different meals to be served at the same table, and the aroma was enticing.
Bart carved a forkful of meat and skewered a slice of fruit. Good. Every bit as good as the aroma. If he were stationed here another week he’d probably put on a kilo.
He said as much to Stevens.
“It’s good,” his friend said. “Almost in a league with rastentha soufflé.”
Bart snorted. Stevens had been singing the praises of the Brohtz specialty to anyone who would listen.
“Any luck finding someone willing to program it into the replicators?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Stevens shrugged. “Soloman said he’d look into it once the present mission was over, but…”
He let his voice trail off.
“What did Corsi say when you told her about the delay?” Bart asked.
“Nothing,” Stevens said, slicing a thick chunk of meat from his portion. “Just the automated response from the shuttle.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“Not really,” Stevens gestured with his laden fork. “Like Tev said, the Zhatyra observational array was due for its ten-year download when the war broke out. They’ve got one cloaked satellite they know is down and eleven more that need their recordings downloaded, memories purged, and other routine maintenance. Even with the extra week Dom and Pattie will probably still be at it when we get there.”
Bart said nothing. The additional week was only an estimate. They both knew that if the S.C.E. couldn’t get a handle on stabilizing the Bundinalli water system in that time they would be here even longer.
Reaching into his shoulder bag propped against the leg of the table, Bart pulled out a leather folio and placed it on the table.
“Here.”
Stevens looked at the folio, then at Bart. “What? Your letters to Anthony?”
“No. I replicated a folio for you,” Bart explained. “It’s just like the one I use for writing to Anthony. I figured