Perception Fault Page 12

  “Grey Goose?” Trace turned again to look at the shelves. “Nothing up here, but wait a moment…” He knelt and rummaged in a cabinet behind the bar, coming up with a tiny bottle featuring a small goose on the label above three tiny squares of red, white and blue. “I believe this is what you’re looking for.”

  J.B. leaned forward and nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “Most vodkas are best served ice-cold, so if you’ll allow me.” Trace filled another glass with ice, then twisted off the cap and emptied the tiny bottle into it, the liquid barely rising a third of the way up. “Let that sit for a minute or two to chill to the proper temperature, and enjoy.”

  Ryan drained his glass, finding the last swallow of beer as pleasurable as the first. “Fireblast, that was probably the best beer I’ve ever had. You folks really have something here.”

  “Thank you, sir, we certainly like to think so.”

  “So what was with those coins Carter passed to you when we came in?” Mildred asked, having finished her drink and sucking on a piece of liquor-coated ice.

  Trace grinned again. “You mean Carrington’s Coins?” He took one of the smooth-edged circles of metal out from under the counter and set it spinning on the surface with a flick of his finger. “Mr. Carrington came up with these a couple years ago, as an incentive program for excellent work or service to the community. He doles them out as he sees fit, and the recipient can exchange them for certain goods or services. They are difficult to obtain, but not impossible. One will get you an entire day off from work or duty—or one drink at this very bar. Speaking of drinks, yours should be just about ready now, sir.”

  J.B. sipped the colorless liquid in his glass and smiled. “Almost like I remember it.”

  “Vodka doesn’t taste like anything, as I recall,” Mildred said.

  “It’s not the taste, but what it’s associated with.” J.B.’s gaze grew distant as he stared into his glass.

  “Want to share a memory, J.B.?”

  “Nope, Millie. Just want to savor the drink and think back to when I was fifteen.”

  No one pressed the Armorer for details. He had never spoken about his youth, not even to Mildred. J.B. remained silent for a few minutes.

  “So, how does the vodka taste?” Ryan asked.

  “About the same as it did then—something, yet nothing. If I had to describe it, I’d say it’s like drinking pure, liquid coldness.” He sipped again.

  Everyone was quiet after that, those who had them sipping their drinks until their glasses were empty. Trace caught the vibe the group was giving off, and was content to give them their space and silence, cleaning up the bar and polishing glasses until the door swung open to reveal Carter standing in the entryway.

  “Your escort has arrived, Mr. Cawdor.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ryan led his group through the lobby and out the hotel’s main doors, where a mil wag with its top removed, much like the one that had brought them here, idled outside. An older black man with a lined, careworn face and sergeant’s chevrons on his shoulder waited by the passenger door, hands clasped behind his back. “Ryan Cawdor?”

  “That’s me.”

  “My name is Sergeant Pard Caddeus. I’m here to escort you and your group to dinner with Mr. Carrington. If you will all please step up into the vehicle, we can be on our way.”

  Ryan helped Krysty board, then climbed in himself, receiving a small smile at his gallant gesture. J.B. did the same for Mildred, leaving Jak and Doc to scramble up as best as they could. Once everyone was situated, Caddeus closed the door, walked around to the driver’s side, got in and they headed out.

  The heat of the day had dissipated somewhat. While it was no longer as blazingly hot as the afternoon had been, the early evening hadn’t shed all of the day’s warmth yet. Combined with the light breeze, the open-air trip was refreshing after the closeness of the well-preserved hotel. The six members looked around again at the streets they passed through, lit by electric lights instead of smoking torches or fuel-burning lanterns, and watched various people going about their business. There was a noticeable absence of unruly behavior—no public drunkenness, gaudy houses or violence in the street, either by citizens, sec men or both.

  As he looked around, Ryan realized another difference between other villes and this one—there weren’t any sec men patrolling what would be considered the downtown area. The fatigue-clad men and women were certainly around, but they were often performing other duties. Here it seemed like everyone followed an unspoken but understood rule not to get in each other’s business. It was strange, but comfortable in a way, knowing that they didn’t have to constantly be on the lookout for the eyes of the law watching them.

  Of course, Ryan thought, remembering his conversation with J.B. back at their rooms, that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching us by other means. As the vehicle wound its way through the city streets, he kept an eye out for cameras or other surveillance gear, but didn’t see any, which didn’t mean anything, either. The powers that be had come up with plenty of ways to hide the spy cams and other equipment back in the day, and smart, enterprising people all over the Deathlands had come up with ways to modify the old tech to new uses.

  The wag pulled up to a small, old, two-story building that looked as if it had been standing on the same spot forever, from predark and even before that. The thick, weather-beaten brick walls and small windows made it look like a building that had been wrenched out of time and deposited here in the twenty-second century. A large green canvas awning stretched from one side of the first floor to the other, and on it was written Buckhorn Exchange in neat, white letters.

  Turning off the wag, Caddeus turned to the group. “We’re here. I’ll be around for the evening, as well as other members of my squad posted around the building. So if you see one of them near a door or window, don’t be alarmed. Mr. Carrington is waiting for you inside.”

  He got out and opened the passenger door again, letting everyone file out before closing the door. Leading them to the front of the building, the sergeant returned the salute of an armed private in front of the entrance, then pulled the thick wood and glass door open and held it as the group walked into the building.

  The place-out-of-time motif continued in here, as well, with the interior covered in rich, real wood that had been lovingly maintained, creating a look straight out of history. The floor, walls and furniture were made out of the same heavy, dark walnut, lending a sense of eternity to the entire place, while the upper half of the main room was covered in red velvet and adorned with dozens of mounted heads of various animals, including buffalo, pronghorn antelope, deer, elk and other game animals. More animals were mounted on stands around the room, including a snarling cougar that made Ryan’s hand drop to the butt of his blaster, it looked so lifelike. A wooden bar with a genuine brass-rail and spittoon underneath was in another small room of the main dining area. The aroma of cooking meat was redolent in the air, making Ryan’s mouth water.

  Doc and Mildred were the most appreciative of the place, pointing out different animals and comparing muttered notes over what each one might have seen or remembered in their own times gone by. The rest of the group was simply left to look at the place as a sort of snapshot of history, of a time they would never know, preserved and brought forward to the here and now, to serve as a backdrop for a meal the likes of which the place’s founders could have never imagined.

  The entire establishment was empty, except for two figures at the head of a long table. Dressed in a black suit jacket and matching pants over a white shirt and braided leather string tie fastened with a clip containing a rattlesnake head in amber, Josiah Carrington was engaged in a quiet yet heated conversation with his daughter. Rachel was dressed in blue jeans, a button-down shirt and black cowboy boots, her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing the strong lines of her cheekbone and jaw.

  Upon seeing them, the two stood. The elder Carrington wore no visible weapons, but Rachel h
ad a small revolver in a hand-tooled leather holster at her hip.

  Josiah raised his arms in welcome. “Evening, friends, please, come and sit down! You are all honored guests of the Free City of Denver, so relax and enjoy yourselves tonight.”

  The six companions trooped over to the table, which was set with brightly colored plates decorated in geometric patterns of brown, blue and white, with silverware with stag horn handles next to them. Josiah pulled out the seat at his right hand. “Ryan, if you please.”

  “My pleasure.” Ryan walked up to the chair and sat, with Krysty on his right side, Doc next to her. Jak took the chair at the opposite end of the table, and J.B. and Mildred took the ones on the other side, with the Armorer sitting next to Rachel—just in case. Carrington’s daughter looked as if she might have been carved from stone, although her eyebrow raised when she saw the blaster on Ryan’s hip.

  “There was really no need to bring any blasters to dinner, Ryan.”

  The one-eyed man leaned back in his chair as a server appeared out of nowhere and filled his thick-walled glass with water. “I notice that didn’t stop you from coming here strapped, either.”

  “We are always surrounded by our enemies, so it is best that we all be prepared, especially after the events of this afternoon.”

  “Well, I certainly hope that you do not consider us among that repellent group,” Doc said as he lowered his tall frame into his chair.

  “I couldn’t possibly count such a well-dressed man among my enemies.” Rachel smiled at the old man, making him blush and reach for his water glass, nearly knocking it over in his embarrassment.

  Josiah smiled, the first real expression of delight Ryan had seen on his face. “I see that Doc Tanner has partaken of some of the things our city has to offer. I hope the rest of you have done the same.”

  “Your hotel is marvelous, and Trace at the bar makes the best White Russian I’ve ever had,” Mildred said, earning a nod from Josiah.

  “Good vids, too. Not seen anything like.” This from Jak, slouched at the end of the long table.

  “You’ll find the beds most comfortable, as well, a far cry from sleeping on the open road, or on a hard cot in a bare ville.” Josiah picked up a dark green bottle next to his wineglass on the table. “I’ve also taken the liberty of opening one of our rarer treasures, a few bottles of wine from Australia, bottled more than a century ago. It’s held up rather well—much like myself, I might add.” Josiah acknowledged the chuckles that came from Doc, Mildred and Krysty, and the smiles from Ryan and J.B., who, while maybe not quite as polished as the others, knew when to give their host his due. Only Jak missed the joke completely, staring around the room at the huge stuffed heads looking back at the party with their dark glass eyes.

  “Everything’s been great so far,” Ryan said. So far, the experience had been much like many other villes he’d seen, only this one had been much cleaner. The local baron would show off his town and whatever treasures passed for wealth in them before trying to wheedle a favor or job out of Ryan and his crew, often resorting to ransoming needed parts or even kidnapping to enforce their “request.” While Denver had amenities the likes of which Ryan and his group hadn’t seen in a ville in a long time, it didn’t hide the basic fact that the city had problems that seemed beyond their ability to handle—but a small group of the right people just might be “persuaded” to do whatever it was that needed handling for them.

  Ryan picked up his wineglass and swirled the rich, dark red liquid around, raising the glass to his lips and sniffing it before taking a sip. He’d drunk enough predark vintages to know what it should and shouldn’t taste like—more or less. The wine was smooth and earthy, with hints of tobacco and chocolate as it slid down his throat. He’d noticed that Josiah’s glass had contained the dregs of earlier indulgence, and wondered how many the man had downed before they had arrived.

  His musings were interrupted by the arrival of several servants each bearing a covered dish that they set in front of each diner, along with baskets of warm, crusty bread. Josiah stood as the servers removed the covers and filed out of the room. “I hope you don’t mind that we’ve planned the menu for the evening. It’s better to give you a taste of what our lands have to offer.”

  Ryan and the others looked down at the small chunks of pale meat swimming in a white sauce with an aroma that brought with it a hint of peppers.

  “Anyone guess what it is?” Rachel asked, her fork already lifting to her mouth.

  Ryan had a good idea, but J.B. beat him to it. “Rattler.”

  If she was disappointed, Rachel didn’t show it. “Very good, Mr. Dix.”

  Ryan dug into his own plate, finding the meat tender, although a bit stringy, with the pungent sauce adding more than a bit of kick. Jak inhaled his, as usual, while the rest of the companions enjoyed theirs at a more leisurely pace. Grabbing a thick slice of bread to soak up some of the sauce, Ryan was pleased to bite into tangy, chewy sourdough.

  “Quite the establishment you have here,” he said after swallowing, letting another server remove the plate.

  “From what we learned, the Buckhorn was the oldest established restaurant in Denver, and still is.” Josiah refilled Ryan’s and his glass as he talked. “Apparently about two centuries ago, give or take a decade or two, a buffalo scout named Shorty Zietz founded this place, and it’s stood here ever since. Even the nuking didn’t affect it much, so when we found it, it was like all it needed was a bit of cleaning and restocking, and its been serving the good people of Denver ever since.”

  “That is one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Carrington—”

  “Josiah, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Mildred’s inquiry was interrupted by the next course, a salad of wild greens, including dandelion shoots mixed with lettuce, radish and wild onion, covered in a creamy dressing with chunks of a pungent cheese mixed in.

  Doc’s head popped up to stare at Josiah when the plate was set in front of him. “Blue cheese dressing?”

  “Yes, although the milk is a mix of cow and buffalo. I’m afraid we just don’t get enough pure cow’s milk to make it straight. Still very good, however. Anyway, Mildred, you were saying?”

  “Just a moment…” Mildred sampled the salad, her eyes closing in delight. “Just when I think the Deathlands are one long pit of despair, we come across somewhere like here, and I’m drinking a drink I haven’t had in a—long time, and eating a delicious salad with dressing instead of munching dried meat or tasteless protein bars. For this alone you people deserve to prosper.”

  Ryan tried his own and found the cheese too sharp for his taste. Nevertheless, he made sure to clean his plate—after all, food was still food, no matter what plate it was served on, or with what liquid to drink.

  Josiah sipped his wine and smiled. “Thank you for your kind words, however, all of this is due to a lot of hard work from a lot of very dedicated people.”

  “That reminds me—how did you find people to staff your hotel like that? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that level of hospitality anywhere before.”

  Josiah had only nibbled on his salad and moved the plate away from him. “It’s simple, really. Every position at the Magnolia, from the front desk clerks to the people who prepare the various rooms, is a reward for dedicated service and exemplary behavior. The people there have to want to work in the hotel more than anything, and must demonstrate their loyalty to the city itself through various means before they can be placed in a position there. It is one of the highest careers in the city, and is aspired to by many.”

  J.B. cleared his throat. “I find it hard to believe a hotel clerk holds a higher position than any of those men we saw on the wall this afternoon.”

  Rachel broke in. “Father’s not saying that the staff of the Magnolia holds a higher social status here, simply that many wish to leave their jobs toiling in the fields or herding the cattle to work in a position that may suit them better. For as many that want to secure
a job there, though, there’s just as many who are comfortable herding buffalo or cattle—or defending our town on the wall. And everyone is educated to the same level at our school. Each position is just as important—there is no hierarchy.”

  “Indeed, except for the ones on top.” This came from Doc in a loud voice, making all heads turn toward him. “No doubt a learned man such as yourself knows the phrase ‘all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.’”

  Josiah set his wineglass on the table, ignoring his daughter’s hand on his arm. “You did not mention that you had a scholar traveling with you, Ryan.”

  Ryan’s eye flicked from one end of the table to the other. “I should’ve warned you that Doc’s temperament can shift like the wind, particularly when wine is involved.”

  His attempted joke fell flat as the two men stared at each other. Josiah broke the suddenly heavy silence first. “I am familiar with the work of Orwell, Doc, indeed, I have seen the world he wrote of in his stories come to pass time and time again. When I struck out to try to create a new place to live, one free of the vice and hatred and bigotry and the strong always crushing the weak, I faced the most basic problem endemic to all societies—who should rule? For, mark my words, someone must. It cannot be a completely democratic society, for then each person thinks their voice should be listened to the most, and only the mob holds sway. Previous methods, from the vaunted Senate of Rome to the bicameral legislature of America in the late twentieth century, all were equally flawed in some way, subject to the will of weak and corrupt men who signed their souls away for power, money or influence. No, the only way to go in these dark times was to create a benevolent dictatorship, as distasteful as the term sounds. The moment I realized that, every decision made from that point on had a single goal at its base—how will this help the city? Everything I have done since arriving here has had that sole aim as its foundation—how will this improve the Free City of Denver? I like to think that the results speak for themselves.”