Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(115)

“If I can do the math or fly a plane or play an instrument, yeah, sure. Can your people do that?”

“Of course.”

I sigh.

“When was the last time you went out there, in the city?”

“Often enough. I speak to my people from time to time.”

“Right, and I’m sure they’re all very candid and open with the guy that will cut off their hands if they piss him off.”

“You, who have never set foot in my country, know my people better than I do?”

“I don’t have to set foot here.”

I turn up my nose.

“Why is that? What special knowledge do you have?”

“I watch television.”

He snorts.

I round on him. “You get a lot of press, you know that? You’re a pretty famous guy.”

“What does this press say?”

I frown, biting my lip. I’m digging a deeper hole with every syllable, I can just feel it.

“You oppress your people. You use your country’s economic power to bully other countries. You might invade Solkovia any day now.”

He leans back in the padded leather seat. “What if I do? Would that be so terrible?”

“Of course it would. You can’t just invade another country.”

“Oh?” he says wryly.

Before I can answer, he leans forward and speaks to the driver in rushed Kosztylan.

As the car descends the mountain, it makes a sharp turn, into town.

I tense, staring through the windows, not sure what to expect. Barbed wire and electrified fences. Thugs in black uniforms patrolling the streets with machine guns.

What I see is a garbage truck. A weird garbage truck. It rolls smoothly from stop to stop without lurching or belching smoke, like I’m used to. In fact, it makes no noise at all until it uses a mechanical claw to scoop up a dumpster from the side of the road and dump it into the back of the truck. As we pass, I blink a few times.

There’s no driver. There isn’t even a cab, just a bank of cameras and pods, like some kind of radar.

“Is that…”

“A self-driving garbage truck, yes. Hydrogen powered. The electric drivers are better suited for other applications. There are two sets of trucks, gathering organic and recyclable refuse. The organic refuse is turned into natural gas which is in turn used to supplement the power grid and fuel some government vehicles.”

I turn back to him. “That’s pretty impressive, I guess. Where are all the people, though? Isn’t it lunchtime?”

He leans toward me and glances at the clock in the front seat. I pull away slightly then straight myself. My shoulder brushes his.

“The lunch hour does not begin for another fifteen minutes.”

I eye him. “Lunch hour? The entire country has lunch at the same time?”

“Except for cafeteria workers,” he says, laughing softly. “Also those in essential positions that require human attention at all times.”

“You tell everybody when to eat lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Do you tell them what to eat?”

“They have a choice.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Of whatever they want?”

“Of course not. Menus are set according to state standards.”

I feel a chill run up my spine. This man tells an entire country of people what to eat, and when.

“There are exceptions. Feast days. I allow the people to observe certain holidays. Christmas is popular with the children.”

“Do you tell the parents was presents to buy?”

“That sort of nonsense is not permitted. It’s a feast day, not a celebration of crass materialism.”

I just stare at him.

“You don’t let parents give their kids presents?”

“Why would they need them? They are all well provided for.”

The car takes a sharp turn, heading down a sloping road that cuts messily in a diagonal across the others, away from the city center. All the buildings look the same, efficient but stark concrete slabs and polished steel and glass. It feels so empty. There’s no one on the street.

“What are cities like in your country?”

“You’ve been there. I saw you on TV at the UN.”

“I want you to tell me.”

I sigh. “Fine, you know what they’re like? There’s people on the street, going places and doing things. There are shops.”

“There are shops here.”

“Shops that sell what you let them, right?”

“Your country has no rules on what shops can sell?”

“Of course, there’s safety standards and stuff and you can’t sell illegal things, but—”

“Give me an example of an illegal thing.”

“Um, marijuana.”

“That is also illegal here.”

“You know what happens to me if I use it at home?”

He shrugs.

“It’s decriminalized. Unless I’m selling it I get a ticket. I pay a fine. What would happen to me here?”

“For using it? Reeducation.”

“Oh, that sounds fun.”

He sits up, visibly irritated, and grits his teeth. “For selling it, death.”