A few years ago the government had declared a policy of “modernization.” Though the statement was issued in the duke’s name, everyone knew that Tas Bavol – the heir to all of Newforest now that his older brother Pias had been banished – was really running the show. Taxes immediately tripled, but the benefits did not increase correspondingly. All the citizens had received for their money was an oppressive government that was more computerized, more centralized. Every citizen was issued a special identification card different from the standard imperial ID card; he was supposed to carry this new card with him wherever he went, and had to produce it to authorities on demand or face a stiff jail sentence. In the course of just a few months, Newforest had gone from being one of the most unstructured societies in the Empire to being one of the most authoritarian.
These changes did not sit well with the normally easygoing populace. The name of Tas Bavol was seldom spoken these days without spitting. Even though Pias was technically a nonperson who’d been erased from people’s memories, there were still references to him as “the lost one,” and not a few wistful thoughts that he might return some day, somehow, to rid Newforest of its troubles. Still, people didn’t say such things too openly, for one of the things Tas had bought with all the new taxes was an efficient new security force, complete with crisp brown uniforms and shiny brass buttons that gave the agents their nickname of “brassies.” Opposition to the new regime was quickly silenced, and some of its severest critics had simply disappeared, never to be seen again.
Pias was not at liberty to ask too many direct questions without compromising his cover identity, but he couldn’t help wondering how such a setup could come about within the empire ruled by such a just figure as Empress Stanley Eleven. A laissez-faire policy was all very well in the abstract, but it had been taken to great extremes here on his home world – and Pias wanted to know why.
The Smitts insisted that Pias sleep in the house rather than the barn as he was willing to do, and again refused his offer of payment for their generosity. The next morning when he needed transportation into Garridan, Pias insisted on buying the cartly and wagon rig he’d need, rather than taking it from the Smitts on an indefinite loan. He made sure the price he gave them was more than fair to compensate for their generosity and helpfulness.
Pias set out along the road at a leisurely pace, in keeping with his disguise as a country fellow visiting the big city for the first time. Klarika Smitt had given him a hearty breakfast and packed a substantial lunch for him to eat along the way; were it not for his worry about what was happening to his native world, Pias would have been as carefree as he appeared to be. He saw copters circling the area a couple of times, but his rig looked like such a perfectly natural part of the Newforest landscape that they did not question his right to be where he was.
It was late in the day when he finally reached the capital city. For all Tas’s “modernization,” Garridan looked scarcely changed. There were a few new buildings in the skyline, but still none over four stories tall – a very practical consideration on a high-gee world. The city – which was really more like a town – was still only a few dozen square kilometers in area and retained its essentially rustic character. Most of the traffic in the streets was mechanized, but cartly-drawn vehicles were still prevalent enough to be unexceptional. It all made for interesting traffic problems, and motorists in Garridan had frequent occasion to curse the slow-moving beasts that blocked the intersections.
The dirt road Pias had been following became a paved one at the outskirts of the city, and it was here he encountered a roadblock. At first he was worried that it had been set up especially to capture the intruder, but then he saw that it was of a more permanent nature. This checkpoint kept tabs on all traffic going in and out of the city, and would not specifically try to trip him up. Even a routine check could be trouble if it were set up properly, though, so he had to remain alert.
He pulled his wagon up to the roadblock and stopped obediently at the officer’s order. “What’s your name?” the policeman asked brusquely.
“Gari Nav, if it please you, sir.”
“What’s your business in Garridan?”
“I just want to visit and see the sights. Been living out in the hills all my life and decided it was time to see something of the world.”
This answer did not sit well with the officer. Anything that did not fit within the narrow confines of his experience was a potential trouble spot. “Let me see your card.”
“What card?”
“Your citizen’s card.”
“I don’t have any card.”
“Everybody has a card.”
“Not me,” Pias said with naive simplicity.
“Citizen’s cards were issued to everyone on Newforest over the age of ten.”
“Then they must’ve missed me, because I never got one.”
The officer fumed and spoke a few words into his wrist com. After a moment instructions came back and he spoke again to Pias. “You’re to leave your wagon here and come with me,” he insisted. Pias obeyed with outward cheerfulness, though his innards were tensed for battle at any moment.
Pias was searched thoroughly, but had fortunately taken the precaution of burying his weapons a short distance outside town. It left him feeling somehow naked and helpless, but considering the police-state mentality that now prevailed on Newforest, it was better than being caught with unregistered weapons. Guns would be useless in this initial police confrontation. If he survived this, weapons could be obtained easily enough in the city if one knew where to look for them.
Having determined that Pias was unarmed, the policeman put him in a car and drove him down to the central police headquarters – a building that had been substantially improved since Pias’s last visit to Newforest. With little reported crime on Newforest, the police had always been a formality that no one, least of all themselves, took very seriously. All that had changed, and Pias found himself in the middle of a busy, efficient office where people in their spotless uniforms moved briskly about their urgent tasks. The faces were humorless, the atmosphere heavy and solemn.
Pias was taken into a stark office and seated in front of a desk, where a higher-ranking officer questioned him for over an hour about his background. Pias stuck to the story he’d invented for himself – that he lived on a small farm up in the hills and had few dealings with civilization. He hunted or grew most of his own food, trading with neighbors for the few other things he needed. No one had ever come to his farm to give him a citizen’s card and he’d never heard about them until today. His tone was unfailingly polite and helpful with out giving the police anything they could use against him.
The police were especially suspicious because the unknown intruder was still at large, but Pias was so obviously a native of Newforest that he managed to allay most of their doubts. In the end, they decided to issue him a citizen’s card and consider the matter closed. Pias was fingerprinted and had his retinal patterns recorded; all that and more information about him was encoded on the small blue plastic card they gave him. He was told to keep the card with him at all times and then driven back to the roadblock, where he picked up his wagon and was allowed to enter Garridan officially.
Pias had brought plenty of money with him, and spent a week living in Garridan, growing more and more alarmed by what he saw. The citizen’s card was a necessity on Newforest; not only did the police have the right to stop anyone at random on the street and ask to see the card, but it was impossible to buy anything with out presenting the card at the time of purchase. From renting a hotel room to eating meals to buying basic toiletries, there was virtually no aspect of life that was not controlled or regulated by that simple blue card.
More alarming than that, though, was the attitude of the people. Newforest had always been a lighthearted world, and the inhabitants of Garridan had been noted for their easy informal ways. Now there was a pall of fear over the town. People were particularly careful about what they said and to whom they said it, and in variably looked over their shoulders before speaking to make sure no police were in the area. People spoke in whispers in dark corners; Pias, as a stranger in town, was excluded from most conversations, though there had been a time when even strangers shared in the activities of Garridan. Nowadays, no one could afford to trust someone he didn’t know.