the last leg of my flight was from Chicago, but it overshot Seaside by a few miles so we could get a glimpse of the Inland Sea. “Sea” is a little grandiose; it’s only half again as big as the Great Salt Lake. But it’s impressive, a perfect blue circle sketched inside with white lines of wakes from pleasure craft.
The place I was headed was only six miles from the airport. Taxis cost entertainment credits but bikes were free, so I checked one out and pedaled there. It was hot and dusty, but the exercise was welcome after being stuck in airplanes and airports all morning.
It was a fifty-year-old building style, all mirror glass and steel frame. A sign on the frizzled lawn said ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S HOME.
A man in his sixties, wearing a priest’s collar with everyday clothes, answered the door and let me in.
The foyer was a white box devoid of ornament, except for a crucifix on one wall facing a holo of Jesus on the other. Uninviting institutional couch and chairs with inspirational literature on the table between them. We went through double doors into an equally plain hall.
Father Mendez was Hispanic, his hair still black, his lined dark face scored with two long old scars. He looked frightful, but his calm voice and easy smile dispelled that.
“Forgive us for not coming out to greet you. We don’t have a car and we don’t go out much. It helps maintain our image of being harmless old loonies.”
“Dr. Larrin said your cover story contained a grain of truth.”
“Yes, we’re poor addled survivors of the first experiments with the soldierboy. People tend to shy away from us when we do go out.”
“You’re not an actual priest, then.”
“In fact I am, or rather, was. I was defrocked after being convicted of murder.” He stopped at a plain door that had a card with my name on it, and pushed it open. “Rape and murder. This is your room. Come on down to the atrium at the end of the hall when you’ve freshened up.”
The room itself wasn’t too monkish, an oriental carpet on the floor, modern suspension bed contrasting with an antique rolltop desk and chair. There was a small refrigerator with soft drinks and beer, and bottles of wine and water on a sideboard with glasses. I had a glass of water and then one of wine while I took off my uniform and carefully smoothed and folded it for the return trip. Then a quick shower and more comfortable clothes, and I went off in search of the atrium.
The corridor was featureless wall along the left; on the right were doors like mine, with more permanent nameplates. A frosted-glass door at the end opened automatically as I reached for it.
I stopped dead. The atrium was a cool pine forest. Cedar smell and the bright sound of a creek tumbling somewhere. I looked up and, yes, there was a skylight; I hadn’t somehow been jacked and transferred to somebody’s memory.
I walked down a pebbled path and stood for a moment on the plank bridge over a swift shallow stream. I heard laughter up ahead and followed the faint smell of coffee around a curve into a small clearing.
A dozen or so people in their fifties and sixties stood and sat around. There was rustic wooden furniture, various designs arranged in no particular order. Mendez separated himself from a small conversational group and strode over to me.
“We usually gather here for an hour or so before dinner,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Coffee smells good.” He led me to a table with samovars of coffee and tea and various bottles. There was beer and wine in a tub of ice. Nothing homemade and nothing cheap; a lot of it imported.
I gestured at the cluster of Armagnacs, single-malts, añejos. “What, you have a printing press grinding out ration cards?”
He smiled and shook his head, filling two cups. “Nothing so legal.” He set my cup down by the milk and sugar. “Marty said we could trust you enough to jack, so you’ll know eventually.” He studied my face. “We have our own nanoforge.”
“Sure, you do.”
“The Lord’s mansion has many rooms,” he said, “including a huge basement, in this case. We can go down and look at it later on.”
“You’re not kidding?”
He shook his head and sipped coffee. “No. It’s an old machine, small, slow, and inefficient. An early prototype that was supposedly dismantled