All the Lives He Led-A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

of this reborn Pompeii came in two kinds. One kind was flesh-and-blood. Those were tourists who were coming from every country in the world that could afford tourism, wearing shorts and slacks and gowns and kilts and monokinis and burkas and headdresses, or any combination thereof.
    The other kind was the Romans. I hadn’t yet found out that some of them were plain Indentureds, like me, only dressed up in Roman costume, while others—well—weren’t. To me they all looked the same: like people who were real, authentic Romans from two thousand years ago. Some were wearing slave gowns, working in the (now again well-stocked) shops or carrying goods of one kind or another in yokes on their shoulders. Some were in togas, gravely strolling the streets.
    The buildings all had their upper stories back, too. Through the street doors of the villas we could see what the Bastard told us were called atria, with reflecting pools and flower beds and caged birds singing away. And—well, here’s the thing. I knew very well that what I was looking at was all virts and not anywhere near real, but it all looked pretty damn good anyhow. It looked like a place I might even have been willing to pay my own money to visit, if I weren’t going to be paid to work there, that is if I could ever have hoped to have the kind of money that visiting the Jubilee would cost.
    We weren’t there just to gawk at the sights, though. The Bastard had things to teach us. When we passed one undistinguished-looking alley entrance he hustled us by with a finger to his lips. Then, “Did you see what was in there?” he asked.
    I had. There had been an open three-wheeler parked down the alley with a man and a woman having some kind of an argument inside. They were both wearing big, fly-eye goggles that glowed in a kind of muted purplish light and covered so much of their faces that I couldn’t tell whether they were kidding around with each other or really mad. “Right,” he said, when we had all indicated that, sure, we saw the vehicle. “Those two guys are from the Ufficio dell’Antica. They’re here to make sure nobody damages any of the real old stuff that’s around—not that you probably could, really, since whatever didn’t get ruined by now isn’t likely to, ever. All the same, don’t fool with them. The Antica people are almost as bad as Security. Don’t make jokes about bombs or stuff, they’ve got no sense of humor. And they’re all over the place, and a lot of them don’t wear the uniforms. Oh, yeah, and there’s UN people around, too. They’re the ones that wear the blue helmets, but they’re only really worried about possible, you know, international criminals. Big ones, I mean. They won’t usually bother people like you.” He explained to us that Pompeii was blessed with three separate police forces, and they didn’t necessarily cooperate with each other. “So the best thing you new fish can do is stay out of the way of all of them. Got that? And—well, that brings us up to the real deal.”
    He looked around to see if anybody was paying special attention to us, then muttered, “Look over there. You see where I’m looking, right behind the fountain where those Roman soldier virts are loafing around. See that thing that looks like part of the villa wall, only there’s no ivy on it?”
    “It does not look like any particular thing at all,” the girl from Myanmar said.
    “That’s the way it’s supposed to look. That’s Security, there. They don’t want people looking at their offices. They’ve got weapons carriers and guys in full battle gear and all kinds of stuff inside there. That’s just in case. And they’re the ones you specially don’t want taking any kind of an interest in you. The Antica and the UN guys could toss your asses into jail, sure, but Security can kill.” He looked to see if we had appreciated the importance of his advice. Then he said, “Okay. Now look here.”
    He marched us across to another