“Well,” said Justin, sitting back contentedly, “it seems that our host is a most generous man. Food, clothing, clean sheets and beds, hot and cold running water.”
“Yeah,” said Lampert, smacking his lips on the last of an apple. “Seems like a real prince. Makes me wonder what his angle is.”
“Angle?” said Justin. “What do you mean?”
Lampert raised and lowered his shoulders an inch or two. “Oh nothin’. It’s just that nobody does anything for no reason. Why’s this guy so hospitable, anyhow? Seems kinda… I dunno, too good to be true, maybe.”
“Maybe,” said Justin. “But if Baron Zero wished us any harm, I think we’d know about it by now. After all, here we are, essentially locked up, at the man’s mercy.”
“Yeah,” said Lampert. “I guess you’re right, Doc. But still, nobody does anything for nothing. You can take that to the bank.”
Justin let this go; as powerless as they were at the moment, it didn’t seem worth the effort to question their host’s motives. Besides, the Old Man, cynical and nasty as he was, always seemed to see these same traits in others. Justin preferred to reserve judgment.
They were also provided with books—about a dozen assorted genre novels from Before—for entertainment, and it was that afternoon, while Justin was trying to relax with one of these, a mystery novel, that Teresa came up, pointed at the book and said:
“Show me.”
Justin lowered the book. “Show you what? Oh, how to read?”
“Yeh,” she nodded. “I wanna read. An’ write, too. Now show me.”
He blinked at her, feeling suddenly impetuous and vaguely angry; he’d had about enough of her bossing him around.
“And what,” he said, “makes you think that I want to teach you? After all, you heard what the man said: he doesn’t allow slavers, which means that you can’t sell me, which in turn means that you don’t own me anymore. Not that you ever did, but now that’s a moot point. The long and the short of it, though, is that it all means that I don’t have to do as you say any more. Or am I mistaken?”
Teresa scowled dangerously, her features clouding like a sudden summer storm, but they then softened and resolved into a smirk.
“Yeah, you right,” she said. “You free now, hey? But what about them C-heads back at St. Alferd’s? Wasn’t fer me, you all be cooked and ate by now. Cannibo dinner, hey? Way I see it, you owe me.”
“Yes, but,” Justin began but then gave up. Teresa simply wasn’t someone with whom he could argue. And besides, she was right. He sighed and nodded at her.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll teach you what I can. But keep in mind, it will take a lot longer than two or three days to learn how to read and write.”
“Well then,” she said, taking a seat, “we best get started, heh?”
Their stay in quarantine wasn’t without another of the Old Man’s diatribes, either. At dinner on the second day, spurred by whatever motive, he wound up to a righteous pitch on the subject of how the United States had “lost its way”.
“Ya ask me,” he said (though no one had), “it was basic laziness, pure and simple. We all got fat and stupid and addicted to our precious gadgets and technology and couldn’t be bothered to learn or work or create any more.”
Justin sighed, already depressed by the topic, but most of the others seemed at least to be listening so he said nothing to discourage the Old Man and let him ramble.
“Give’ya an example,” he was saying, “show’ya what I mean. Back when I still drove, I’d always see these rude fuckers who’d pull into a convenience store, like an SA or whatever, and, even though there are plenty of parking spots, park right in front of the door. Like it woulda fuckin’ killed ‘em to walk fifteen feet! And not always fat people, either! Just sheer, unthinking, lard-brained lazy, you know? Shit, they were prob’ly the same bastards who never used their turn signals.”
No one responded. Justin more or less tuned out the rest of the Old Man’s screed—though the others seemed interested—and by the time the meal was over, so was Lampert. Another day, another spate of vitriol. At least some things stayed the same.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Q. Why did the survivor cross the road?
A. He didn’t. He got creamed by a banger war truck about halfway across.
If he’d had a lot of questions for Baron Zero initially, by the time their time in quarantine was up, Justin, chafing at the delay, had come up with a whole lot more. Finally, though, they were all freed from their airtight quarters and left to rove the House at will, and the much-anticipated conversation took place. It couldn’t have come too soon for Justin and proved to be most interesting.
About an hour after he’d been released, as he and the others were marveling at the Commons area of the House, a bewildering tangle of small kiosks, shops, and restaurants, he was approached by a smiling, well-groomed, sandy-haired young man named Carver who asked politely if he’d like to meet with Baron Zero.
“Right now?” asked Justin. “As in immediately?”
“If it’s convenient,” said Carver.
“Well, yes, of course,” said Justin, tearing himself from the welter of intriguing micro-businesses. “By all means, lead the way.” To Cass, Teresa, and the others, he said, “Well, I guess I’ll catch up with you later.”
“OK, Dr. Kaes,” said Cass. “We’ll keep an eye on Mr. Lampert.”
“Yes, good,” he said, seeing the Old Man already wandering away. “And with any luck, I’ll have some good news when I come back.”
“Let’s hope,” said Swails.
Carver led Justin a winding route through the House, upstairs and down, along narrow corridors and through a few doors, finally depositing him in a most remarkable office, inhabited by a most remarkable man.
The space itself was large compared to the other rooms he’d seen, with a lofty ceiling and one wall composed of floor-to-ceiling windows. There were bookshelves lining every other wall, crammed to overflowing with books of all size, some comfortable-looking couches and chairs, a round table covered in papers and electronic gizmos, and, dominating the space, a desk at least seven feet long, also strewn with drifts of papers and bits and pieces of electronic ephemera.
Sitting behind the desk, now rising to meet his guest, was Zero himself; about six feet tall, middle-aged, hirsute but not overgrown, heavy of brow and lank of limb and peering intently from behind the antique green glass lenses.
“Ah, Dr. Kaes,” he said amicably, extending a hand. “Welcome! Please, come in, have a seat! I hope your quarantine wasn’t too unpleasant?”
“No, it was fine,” said Justin, advancing to shake. The other man’s hand was cool and dry, the grip strong but not crushing. Up close, Justin would put his age at about forty or forty-five. “It was very relaxing, actually.”
“Good, good!” Zero said, resuming his seat. “And I’m glad none of you was infected. Can’t be too careful, can I? But first things first. I’m sure you have a lot of questions. Most folks do.”
Justin nodded, enjoying the civility, and sat down and crossed his legs. “I certainly do,” he said. “But where to start… Well, for one thing, what is this place? What do you call it?”
“Well, for my part,” said Zero, “I just call it home. Other folks have called it different things. Zero’s House is probably most popular, but there have been others. Shangri-La, Haven, New Haven. One Tolkien fan even called it Rivendell. But, like I said, I just call it home. As to what it is, well, that’s a little more complex, but essentially we’re just a great big family, trying to work together to make life a little less unbearable. Sort of a co-op, if you will, for anyone who survived and is interested in living in a, well, shall we say slightly more civilized environment?”