I also saw that the private sector had responded to the UN's arm-twisting in spades. Along with their probable cash donations, I spotted the logos of at least five major corporations on various buildings along the way. Small operations, undoubtedly, at this point. Nevertheless, it was a vote of confidence in the colony's future, and a nice psychological boost besides.
The locals had done their part, too. There were all sorts of businesses nestled in among the houses, from bakeries and neighborhood grocery stores to the more homespun sorts of places like leather-workers and pottery makers. I spotted electronics shops, small-engine assembly plants, and even a tool-and-die manufacturer, all the signs of a colony determined to become self-sufficient as quickly as possible.
The colonists' private lives also seemed to have been taken care of. The houses were simple but nice and seemed reasonably well-kept. There was a fair sprinkling of homes that looked unoccupied, but it was possible their owners were simply off at long-term jobs elsewhere on the planet, working the mines or forests or else renting scuba equipment to holiday-makers at Janga's Point. Nowhere in Imani City, not even in those half-empty neighborhoods, did I sense anything remotely resembling an atmosphere of defeat, as one of the more effusive commentators had dubbed it.
Not, that is, until we reached Zumurrud District.
If the reporters had come to New Tigris looking for doom and gloom—and knowing reporters, I had no doubt that they had—this was definitely where they'd spent most of their time. The houses here, which had probably started life as nice as those in the rest of the city, were showing the signs of severe neglect. Worse, there were a surprising number whose broken windows and carved graffiti showed complete abandonment. The handful of shops had security grates on windows and doors, and there seemed to be at least twice as many taverns decorating the street corners as I'd spotted elsewhere in the city.
There were also a lot more people on the streets. Some of them were walking purposefully along, but there were a goodly number who were merely sitting or standing in small groups, clustered together on doorsteps or leaning on lampposts. The groups seemed self-segregated by age, with one block's loiterers consisting of bitter-faced middle-aged men, while the next block's were composed mostly of teenagers.
There were few women in evidence in any of the groups. Possibly they were gathered inside the houses instead, looking as bitter or depressed as the men. Or maybe the majority of the women had long since moved out of the neighborhood.
"All this in only twenty years?" Bayta murmured as we walked past another group, this one composed of bitter-eyed men in their mid-twenties.
"It's actually worse than that," I said. Like the other groups we'd passed, the men here had broken off their conversation as we approached, gazing at us with the odd expressions of people who wanted to be suspicious of the strangers but weren't sure we were worth even that much effort. "It's probably really only ten years of decay, not a full twenty. The first ten years would have been filled with typical mad-dash government activity and excitement. Hordes of new colonists being brought in, buildings and businesses going up, industries started, and everyone as optimistic as hell."
"What happened?"
"What happened was the same thing that happened with all the colonies," I told her, feeling a quiet pang of sympathy for these people who'd been casually brushed aside when the governmental winds changed direction. I knew exactly how they felt. "The initial push wound down, the UN brought all the temporary workers back home, and all the extra torchliners they'd rented for the big push were flown to the Tube, disassembled, and packed back aboard Quadrail cargo cars. Suddenly the colony found itself basically ignored while the UN started pouring its money and attention into the newest rage to catch its eye."
Bayta shivered. "Yandro," she murmured.
"In this case, yes, it was Yandro," I confirmed. "But it could have been anything that caught the bureaucratic imagination. Regardless, New Tigris suddenly found itself in the position of a jilted girlfriend. All alone, the gravy train dried up, and with a couple of wheezing modified torchferries her only contact with her former boyfriend."
"But the colonists must have expected something like that would happen eventually."
"I doubt the plan was any big secret," I said. "And to be fair, most of the people here don't seem to have been all that bothered by it." I looked at a group of four teenagers idly tossing a small ball back and forth by one of the broken-windowed houses ahead. "Unfortunately, others just gave up. Interesting."
"What's interesting?"
"That group propping up the front of the bar," I said, nodding toward a tavern a couple of doors past the four teens where a half-dozen men were idling around the doorway. "Notice anything unusual about them?"
"In this neighborhood?" Bayta countered.
"I'm serious," I said. "Note the age range. Everywhere else it's been teens or middle-aged or whatever. Very age-segregated. But the group up there has a teen, a young adult, two thirty-somethings, and that white-haired man has to be at least sixty."
Bayta digested that for a couple more steps. "And you think that's significant?"
"I have no idea," I said. "But it makes me curious enough to want to check it out. You thirsty?"
She sighed. "Do I have a choice?"
"Sure," I said. "You can wait outside."
"In that case, I'm thirsty."
"Good. Let's get something to drink."
We'd made it two more steps when the four teens between us and the tavern detached themselves from their abandoned house and casually re-formed themselves into a line across the walkway in front of us.
At my side, I felt Bayta tense up. "Just keep walking," I murmured to her, eyeing the youths and shuffling quickly through my options.
I didn't have many, and none of those were particularly attractive. I'd seen enough gangs in my time to know that any sign of weakness, such as turning around or crossing the street, would probably be like throwing raw meat into the shark tank.
On the other hand, showing too much strength, such as drawing my Glock, might easily escalate matters way beyond the point where I wanted them right now.
Which left only one real option: to continue on and hope my diplomatic skills had improved since my days in Westali.
I waited until we were within a few steps of the line and then nodded genially toward them. "Afternoon," I said, smiling pleasantly. "Nice day, isn't it?"
"Depends," one of the two boys in the middle said. His voice had the gruff toughness to it that I'd heard many a time in classic dit rec dramas. "You a cop?"
"Why, you think a cop would be interested in what you and your friends are doing?" I asked, still smiling. "No, we're just tourists."
"Tourists don't come to Zumurrud," he retorted darkly. "Who are you working for?"
The mixed group by the bar, I noticed, had stopped talking and were watching our little drama. "I'm not working for anyone," I said, taking Bayta's arm and bringing us to a halt three meters back from the line. "Like I said, we're just tourists."
The kid said a couple of rude words, again straight out of a dit rec drama. Apparently, when he wasn't hanging around street corners he was loitering in front of his entertainment center. "Yeah, right," he said.
"Fine; you caught me," I said, giving Bayta's arm a gentle but steady push to the side. She took the hint and eased a long step away from me. "I'm a special investigator for the Terran Confederation Opinion Bureau. Tell me, what do you and your friends like most about living on New Tigris?"
I'd expected that to do it, and it did. Glaring at me, he stepped out of line and threw a punch straight at my stomach.
At least he hadn't learned his fighting technique from the dit rec actioners, with their fondness for fist-to-the-jaw punches that in real life usually wrecked the attacker's knuckles. But he hadn't learned his technique from an actual combat instructor either. Pivoting on my left foot, I swiveled out of his way, catching his fist in my left hand and helping it along a little. As he continued to lunge forward off-balance I bent his arm back at the elbow, pushing his fist over his shoulder and dropping him flat on his back on the walkway.