"So if you don't do anything wrong and keep your mouth shut you can cruise?"
"In theory. However, the chance of spending a year without going to Citizen's Court is negligible."
"You're joking. Go to court every year?"
"It's a different system than Earth. The Oath requires a court appearance, so does a documented marriage. Registering the birth of any children who will be able to inherit or of your own birth if your parents didn't. Traffic incidents. Use of force in self-defense may, if there are questions. Civil disputes over wages or benefits. The only reliable way to avoid the system is to move so far out in the brush that no one will encounter you. Some do that."
"And the whole government runs on those fees?"
"Citizens pay for the privilege of ruling, getting a small stipend in return and the court fees paid are more generated income. The military and safety patrols charge for any assistance we render on duty and most of the large corporations donate a small percentage to the military as an insurance against our need in industrial accidents. They also use us as testing and advertising for any products we may find useful. Our main exports are industrial and military technology, and our military is better than any media advertising. There is a strong charitable and cooperative tradition here—if people are done with something, they generally hand it down or leave it where it can be salvaged. Taxes aren't needed for welfare or to be wasted on second-rate education or artificial 'pensions.' You buy everything for yourself on an open market of companies that want your business."
"I don't see how that can possibly work fairly," she disagreed, shaking her head.
"Well, it costs less than half as much to educate a student here, who will score much higher on any aptitude test. Literacy is above ninety-six percent, and I believe North America is about eighty-nine percent. And no, it isn't fair. Some schools are better than others. But more depends on the student than the school, and people are not equal. I point out that our standard of living is considerably higher than anywhere on Earth and we accomplish it without taxing people into poverty."
Kendra wasn't convinced, but the system did seem to work. She hadn't seen many homeless people on the street, although she suspected that a lot of them probably starved in short order. Starvation was probably a wonderful motivator. It was also probably a painful killer. Then she considered that millions of people starved on Earth every year and all the politicians could suggest was a higher contribution rate. She decided that somewhere was a solution that would work for everybody, and fell asleep pondering a philosophical issue unresolved for at least three thousand years.
It was odd waking the next morning. Between the Sparkle and the interrupted sleep, she felt bouncy, but remote. She slipped out of bed and headed for the shower, feeling better than the previous day, but still weak and congested. Her legs ached horribly from even the little she'd walked. The steam helped her sinuses and her feet were a bit better. She dressed in the same basic casual garb and stepped into the uniroom. Rob was still asleep in the chair, having dozed off while they'd talked, and she decided to let him rest while she dug into her comm. She had been wondering what the libraries had to offer and now was a good time to look. She began a random search.
Rob woke a few minutes later, brushed his fingers across her shoulder and went into the bathroom. He was out quickly, showered, alert and naked. "I'll get some breakfast," he told her, walking toward the door. She nodded distractedly without interrupting her reading. The library she'd found was amazing.
He returned clothed, with a sandwich, freshly baked and warm, that contained some cut of pork and a strong cheese. She took it and put it down, saying, "Thank you." She turned in her chair, pointed to the screen, and said, "I don't believe this!"
"What?" he asked around a mouthful of breakfast.
"There are books in here on demolition, keypass forgery, manufacture of firearms, vid manuals on sadomasochistic sex, a treatise that claims Caucasians are an inferior species responsible for all rape and warfare and recommending our random murder—"
"That would be Invidi Masul's pathetic inferiority complex. He's done six vids and a series of lectures on that subject and keeps finding idiots to support him, including Caucasians," Rob elaborated.
"They allow him to say things like that?!" Kendra burst out. She was incredulous.
"Which 'they' is going to stop him when there's an obvious market for idiocy?" Rob asked. "You must be reading the Metapanics catalog. They'll publish anything that someone will buy, from Masul's verbal masturbation to an excellent selection of books that were smuggled off Earth when the history books were made 'relevant and nonjudgmental' about a hundred years ago," he helpfully provided.
Kendra was silent for a moment. "He was advocating genocide," she said, trying to make her point. Was everyone on this planet unaware of the risks? "The same listing has detailed instructions and engineering diagrams for nuclear weapons!"
"Colonel Watanabe's
Improved Low-Yield, Reduced Radiation Mining Charges for Populated Areas, "
he agreed. "A text used in most engineering schools. We built one at the secondary school I went to. Basically moved a small mountain three meters to the left."
Kendra was stunned silent again. This society had no restrictions on hallucinogens, sex or weapons-grade nuclear material. She tried again. "It's dangerous to allow people to build bombs. At the least, they might screw up and take out their own subdivision."
"Nukes are necessary for asteroid industry and heavy mining. We've never had a problem," Rob assured her. "And I believe Sydney, Tomsk, and Saint Louis have all had terrorist-built nuclear weapon incidents."
"Well," she returned, offended, "I can guess where they got the stuff."
"Sorry. Sydney and Tomsk were before we started trade with Earth. The Saint Louis material came from Argentina according to my military history training," he said. She looked about to protest and he quickly continued, "Now I want you to consider: any legal adult here can do anything he wishes with the only restriction being that no one else gets hurt. Every few weeks, some idiot blows his kitchen apart while trying to make fireworks for a holiday, and has to pay his neighbors for broken dishes. About five percent of the people in the park yesterday were armed—"
"Including children!" she put in. "There was a girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen Earth years, whatever that is here, toting a pistol."
"Yeah, that really is stupid," he agreed. "What kind of pervert would want to rape a nubile eleven-year-old?"
Catching the sarcasm, and realizing the thrust of the question, Kendra calmed a little, and said, "If there was a decent police force, she wouldn't have to worry."
"Earth has a policer, deputy, armed federal or national agent or soldier for every forty people. How's the crime rate?" he asked rhetorically. "Please believe me; statistically, you are perfectly safe on the streets here. The crime rate is the lowest of any human society on Earth or out here."
Kendra was still in turmoil. She believed his numbers were correct, she also knew in her heart that anarchy caused crime. It wasn't
safe
to let amateurs carry guns or make explosives and it was just plain irresponsible and sick to let people advocate genocide or take photos of a man tied up in positions like that, having things like that done to him.
Not for the first time, she wished she could go home.
They agreed to table the discussion, and Rob told her of local events, sports and customs. He suggested that it was a good time to learn about guns and said he'd loan her one for the time being. She protested loudly, until he called up a picture from a news archive that showed an adult male ripper standing over the body of an Earth elk in Lakeside Park. She agreed with his logic on the only way to negotiate with such a creature and followed him next door to his apartment.
He showed her the basics of weapon safety. He showed her his guns.
"Are you planning on staging a revolt?" she asked.
"No. Why?" he replied.
Pointing at the hardware on the bed, she said, "All of this."
"Well, let's see," he said, reaching for the first and explaining at length. "This is my military issue weapon. It stays here most of the time, unless I'm on an extended trip, in which case it goes with me. The Merrill is my primary sidearm, in public or on duty. The Colt is an antique. The Sig-Remington is for game—"
"You
kill
animals with those things?" Kendra was really getting scared.
"I'm not a sport hunter. I eat what I kill," he said. Kendra was disgusted that he thought that justification.
"It is a truly
sick
society that kills helpless animals," she said.
"Rippers, goddams and slashers are not helpless. And you seemed to enjoy your steak last night."
"It came out of a vatory and you know it," she volleyed back. She stared at him for several seconds before understanding the expression on his face. "My God, that was an animal?"
"Used to be, anyway," Rob said with a nod and a grin that was meant to be mean.
Kendra ran for the bathroom and lay down on the floor. She'd hoped it would be cool, but it was heated for comfort. Right now she didn't care. She was afraid the roiling in her guts was going to turn to vomiting and just as afraid it wouldn't. Nausea washed over her, her pulse thrummed in her temples and she broke into a sweat. Rob was over her in seconds. "I'm sorry about that. I knew you didn't know, but I didn't think it would hit you that hard."
Crying quietly, trying to keep her face taut, Kendra opened her mouth to speak and felt her composure shatter. "I don't belong here. I come from a civilized little town where people live normal, decent lives. And I want to go home," she wept.
Rob pulled her head gently into his lap. "I know it's hard. I've had the same culture shock the other way. The difference being that I knew I was going home. This is a lot to throw on you all at once, but you have to learn it or you won't be able to cope."
Nodding, she forced her breathing to normal. It was some time before her nerves quieted. "I need to go lie down," she told him as she rose carefully. "It's not personal, I . . . I've just had too much input today."
His strong grip helped her to her feet. "Sure," he replied, voice still cheerful, if a bit forced. He walked with her and at the door he said, "Hey—"
She turned to face him. "I'm sorry. I get very intense. Tell me to back off if you need to," he told her.
With a smile that was only half forced, she said, "Okay," before turning to go.
"Here," he said, and thrust a holstered pistol into her hand. "I hope you never need it."
She replied, "Thanks." It felt odd in her hand and she wasn't sure what else to say.
Back in her room, she resumed reading at the comm desk, ate a sandwich and soup for dinner, as that was still about the limits of her pantry, and made notes of other things she'd need. Everything she'd ever taken for granted had to be reassessed and considered. It was frightening in many ways. Everyone wants "freedom," she decided, but the more free one was, the more responsibility one had. She wondered again if she'd made the right choice of new homes.
Periodically, she'd touch the holstered pistol on the corner of the plain polymer desk. Its presence bothered her in many ways, and yet it became more reassuring as she read about what was essentially a frontier planet. The fact of that reassurance bothered her even more. The gun was a tool, not a talisman. It couldn't solve problems.
Sighing, she dimmed the window and turned off the lights—manually—and crawled into bed for a nap. She twitched restlessly and got little benefit from it.
About dinnertime, Rob knocked on Kendra's door, heard her say, "Come in unlock door goddammit!" as she remembered there was no voice circuit available. She opened the door for him.
He squeezed her shoulder lightly and asked, "What's going?"
"Shopping for insurance," she said sitting down at her comm. "It's outrageously expensive."
"Not compared to paying a bureaucracy and . . . ah," he interrupted his own monologue, looking at her sidescreen of notes. That would make it really expensive. "Like some advice? Systems efficiency is my job. You've fallen for Novice's Trick Number Six," he said.
"Okay," she said. "Can you explain that?"
"Start here," he pointed. "How likely are you to have cancer or cardiovascular trouble in the next five years?"
"Not very," she admitted.
"Then cancel it and don't waste money on it."
"But it's part of the package," she protested.
"That's just a marketing ploy. You can build any policy you like. Your renter's insurance will be cheaper through these people and unless you plan on running a home industry in this shoebox, you don't need much. If you damage the furniture, just work out a payment plan with the owner. Add this, eliminate this. I would spend money for a wrongful death policy—"
"Why? What is that?" she asked.
"In case you mistakenly kill someone thinking it self-defense or accidentally run them over or such, you don't want to have a court find you negligent and fine you their life's earnings."
"They can do that?" she asked, suddenly scared.
"Can and will. You also need investigation insurance; if you are involved in a crime or a victim of it, someone has to pay to dig up evidence for you. Spend money for good vehicle operations coverage and a minimal amount for disability and unemployment. You need to be fed and have a roof, but not much else, since you don't have extraneous assets. If you take that, your total is . . . one zero three twenty a month."
"That's . . . lower than I expected," she agreed.
"Great. Glad to help. My basic service fee is two hundred credits. Cash or account?" Seeing her face he added, "I'm joking. But do keep people's intentions in mind when asking help from strangers. There are some really mercenary people out there."
"Yeah," she agreed, "I met one the other day." She thought unkind thoughts about Tom Calan again. That memory would last a long time.