CHAPTER 2
Warren Springer Stowe strolled along the narrow street with a spring in his step. Cherry Aisha seemed more calm and capable than he had even imagined, and far prettier than the old military picture he had seen. She resembled an image he had seen from Old Earth, a dark-eyed beauty with a funny red dot in the middle of her forehead. Cherry lacked the red dot, but she embodied the final piece of his scheme on Bethune, and with her on board, his plan was falling together, nearly ready to obtain this long-ignored treasure. He imagined that particular treasure waiting all these centuries . . . a 1968 Mustang left to rot like a piece of garbage. It was a crime against all that was good and right . . . and a hell of a lucrative opportunity.
So many automotive treasures lay forgotten just like this, due to that singular sociopolitical event in human history.
According to the history lessons, after the early expansion era from Earth, the great Techno-Socialist Republic coalesced, promising all the usual things, only at a greater scale, and success was assured through the use of the latest Artificial Intelligence technology. Unlike every other preceding utopia, the Techno-Socialists would employ an AI engine to adjudicate equity and guarantee fair outcomes for all. Like every other great socialist “republic,” it inevitably expanded its control until any history that contrasted with the ideals of the new utopia became intolerable seeds of sedition. Unlike earlier utopias, the Techno-Socialists could engage in instantaneous deletion of information from virtually every data system joined to every network. The Super Cleanse purged images and information wholesale, destroying ten million times more data than all prior book-burning events in human history combined. In the wake of the Super Cleanse only scattered bits of imagery, data, and films survived. For future generations, this left only so many tantalizing clues of a beautiful, enigmatic era from humanity’s past, and that era took on a legendary, fairy-tale status.
Warren Springer Stowe only represented one particularly passionate, educated fanatic in a galaxy-wide throng of devotees, but he liked to think his prized hoard of film snippets, images, and music comprised one of the most comprehensive collections around.
As he crossed the street, he looked at the flow of evening traffic milling around the vibrant nightlife of Torino, weaving through glimmering pedestrians on every side. One establishment had drawn his attention already, its antiquated ornamentation reminding Warren of some Old Earth pictures of a quaint desert city, with dark minarets and crenelated walls, while its name, Rick’s Café, seemed detached from its décor in a puzzling manner. Although the image seemed a trifle confused, the operators of the bar clearly strove to evoke the feel of Old Earth, and Stowe couldn’t resist a peek, despite the pressing business before him.
He pushed through faux wooden doors studded with stubby iron spikes and stepped within the dim interior. Rick’s provided an old-fashioned bar running along almost the entire far wall, old-timey liquor bottles forming a mosaic behind, high ceilings rising above a spacious dining and drinking area. Equally old-fashioned tables and chairs dotted the tile floor, a white piano unattended against one pillar, a collection of live musicians performing a sultry song on antique-looking instruments. The whole aspect tickled a recollection in Warren’s memory, feeling absurdly familiar from some fragment of Old Earth film, and he gazed about with satisfaction. This café could only be the loving creation of some other Old Earth fan, and he wondered what source material the proprietor used for his model. They clearly got their hands on some choice bit that had survived the Super Cleanse.
Even the tune moaning out from the band, low and moody, seemed to be lifted out of a fragment from Old Earth, its melody evoking yet another trace recollection in Warren’s mind as the musicians appeared to actually play their anachronistic instruments. Warren only possessed a vague understanding of ancient musical implements, but he thought he identified a saxophone and a . . . clarinet among the ensemble, the musicians swaying as they performed.
Such attention to detail demanded a reward, in Warren’s view, and he strolled to the bar, eyeing the chubby bartender with approval.
“What’ll you have, sir?” the bartender asked, speaking with an unfamiliar accent, probably added for ambience.
“You have brandy?”
“Yes, sir. Brandy, or a delightful cognac.”
Better and better.
“Cognac then, friend,” Warren said, looking on appreciatively as the barkeep poured a generous portion from an actual bottle. Warren took the glass and turned to survey the varied clientele, wondering how many patrons understood even a fraction of the historical context they dined within.
The cognac rolled agreeably over Warren’s tongue, the warmth flowing to his belly as his attention drifted to a severe-looking man and woman seated near the band, half-full glasses in their hands, their eyes fixed on Warren. A faint alarm rang in the back of Warren’s mind, but his gaze moved on, noting the attractive woman in the band, her fingers flying over the silver keys of her . . . clarinet? Clarinet.
The severe man and woman still stared. Warren felt it, and he perceived their movement from the corner of his eye as they stood and approached, walking directly to him, halting a long step away.
“You are Warren Springer Stowe, aren’t you?” the man asked.
Warren sipped from his glass, setting it down on the bar beside him before he looked at the man. “That’s me,” Warren said, glancing at his female counterpart. “And you two must be . . . what? A floor show?” Warren drew his small slender case from an inside jacket pocket, opening it to reveal his coveted supply of tobacco.
The man and woman shared a look. “I’m Bartson,” the man said. “I’m the district attorney in this locale. This is Masters, my assistant.”
“Oh, I see,” Warren said, sprinkling tobacco on the small rectangle of paper and rolling it into a neat cigarette. “Bartson, Masters. Nice to meet you both.”
Bartson’s gaze drifted to the cigarette as Warren struck a small flame from his smoking case, puffing the cigarette to life. “That’s not a class-one intoxicant, is it? They’re not permitted on Bethune.”
Warren inhaled and blew a cloud of smoke over Bartson and Masters. “Nope. Not even a class-two or -three intoxicant. It’s called tobacco. It’s an Old Earth thing. Only a mild little stimulant.”
Warren struggled mightily to withhold a harsh cough. He had tracked down the seeds and grown his own tobacco after eagerly watching a number of surviving snippets of old film. The Old Earth people sure seemed to love tobacco, as far as he could tell, and he relished the whole process he saw in those old films, but the art and science was evidently lost. He figured either the seeds he bought were not the right species of tobacco plant, or his curing method remained flawed, because no matter how many times he tried smoking cigarettes, they tasted bad and made him feel lousy. They were great, however, for blowing clouds of smoke on people you didn’t like. Maybe it would also make their clothes smell funny like it did Warren’s.
Masters stifled a cough, waving away the smoke with a frown. “What are you doing on Bethune, Stowe?” Bartson asked, wrinkling his nose at the acrid tobacco smell.
Warren puffed the cigarette again and gestured broadly. “Rick’s, man! This place is amazing.” He laughed, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “And the Gear, of course. Alien tech. Very old. Very cool. And so alien, right?”
Bartson stared skeptically at Warren. “Right. We don’t need any of your shady dealing here, Stowe.”
“Shady dealing? Shady dealing? Really, District Attorney Bartson, you shouldn’t buy all the mean-spirited rumors you hear. I’m a consultant and collector. Very respectable.”
Masters had a sudden look of comprehension, whispering something to Bartson, who listened, his eyes widening. He focused on Warren with an accusing expression on his face. “You’re here for Cathwaite’s collection, aren’t you?”
Never having heard of Cathwaite or any such collection, Warren said, “If I happen to look in on Cathwaite’s collection, I can hardly be reproached, can I?”
Bartson’s jaw tightened, his lips thinning. “If you in any way touch that collection, I will see you locked in a cell that will tickle that love of the medieval for which you are so famous.”
Warren took another drag from his cigarette, again resisting the urge to cough, and smiled at Bartson. “No need for all this ruckus, Bartson.” He blew a smoke cloud over the two potentates. “You must not be aware, I am a licensed dealer and collector in every region of the Confederated Worlds, so relax.”
Masters waved the smoke away, her eyes gleaming triumphantly. She opened her mouth to speak, but Bartson halted her with a sharp look, turning back to Warren. “You have been warned, Stowe. When you find yourself rotting in our delightful prison you will only have yourself to blame.”
Warren wondered what Masters had been about to say, and he wished he knew.
“Prison? Not very hospitable soul, are you, Bartson? Show me where in Confederated law a citizen is forbidden from simply examining an ordinary collection, and I will happily spend all my time in Bethune right here in Rick’s.”
The two legal pukes turned on their heels, but not before Masters shot another enigmatic look toward Warren. There was a suggestion of triumph in that look, and Warren didn’t like it. He watched them push through the outer doors of Rick’s, and Warren extinguished his cigarette, rinsing the nasty taste away with a mouthful of cognac.
Bumping into the district attorney so close before a job didn’t feel particularly good, but he was too close, with too much invested to pull the plug now. Besides, he was Warren Springer Stowe, and his level of genius could not be stopped by a couple small-minded bureaucrats.