So . . . Melissa Hayworth specialised in non-Earth affairs. Interesting.
A link on her name brought up her personal information. Single, no children. She had grown up in Germany, where her mother, after divorcing her first husband, had married a businessman by the name of Ludo Chan. Ah—that explained a lot.
I know what it is like, she had said.
She did know what it was like, living in two worlds. She was not so very different from me, having acquired a Damarcian stepmother when I was ten.
Melissa had done well at school and later won prizes for journalism. Frankly, she deserved better than Flash Newspoint.
The biography listed recent articles she had contributed, not just to Flash, but other news services as well.
Union toys with us. That gave her opinion loud and clear.
It’s official: believers are out. That was not true, and I would have to fight to counter this perception, that somehow gamra thought that religion was primitive and needed to be renounced before Nations of Earth had any chance of full membership of gamra. It was the Coldi perception, emphatically not the gamra stand on the matter, and the two were not the same.
This morning’s article was: Vanished scientist had many secret ties.
Did this have something to do with non-Earth affairs? I followed the link.
Most people in weather forecasting know British scientist Elsi Schumacher for her Earth-spanning climate models which won her the prestigious Selinger Prize for Scientific Excellence two years ago. People would not associate her with dealings with powerful extraterrestrial governments. Yet this is what seems to be the case, and these ties may yet prove the key to her disappearance.
After Dr Schumacher failed to turn up for work on Monday, investigators have delved into her life for possible clues to her disappearance. She is unmarried, and a possible unconfirmed love interest is a colleague of hers who has repeatedly denied any involvement. Dr Smith says that their relationship was platonic, as “Dr Schumacher seemed always far too busy to invest time in personal relationships.” It seems likely that the clues to her disappearance lie in her professional life. Recently, another side to this life has been revealed. Dr Schumacher had been working on a project funded by sources within the Union of Planetary Entities. . . .
Now that was interesting. Never mind that I got increasingly irritated with the insistence of the press on using that outdated and incorrect translation. It gave the impression that gamra was an equivalent of Nations of Earth. It wasn’t. Gamra eysh’ zhamadata meant network of settled worlds, literally. Gamra maintained the network, the Exchange, the only possible means of interstellar travel between the members, and all member entities had a say in its running, or, more precisely, who could use it and who couldn’t.
I clicked on a link which showed pictures of Elsi at a dinner function with Coldi delegation members—I recognised none of them. Another picture had her sitting at the table next to, of all people, Sirkonen. The pair were deeply engaged in conversation, Sirkonen holding a glass of wine. What was he doing there? The caption said the picture was taken at a prize-giving ceremony. Perhaps Sirkonen had been there to hand out the science prize Dr Schumacher had won. Maybe. It seemed to me that he was far too much of a heavyweight to be present at a smallish ceremony, let alone to chat so informally with someone not in a high political position. I let it slide.
Back to Melissa’s article.
No one at the Dawkins Centre for Climatic Research could confirm the exact nature of the project, only that Dr Schumacher had recently come under funding stress, and that she had perhaps over-stretched herself and her project members in order to secure funding. A colleague, who did not wish to be named, mentioned several visits from extraterrestrials—confirmed to be Coldi—at the scientist’s lab. After at least one of these visits, she appeared to be agitated. However, searches on the Centre’s computer have found nothing out of the ordinary. . . .
I linked through to the Dawkins Centre, where I found the scientist’s name listed on the staff. Her personal area listed her prize and a description of the research, but there was also another link: whole-planet modelling.
That brought up a selection of maps with coloured areas. One was of Taurus, sections of the continent shown in red and orange hues. That summed up how I felt about the four years I had lived there. Hot, hot, and hotter.
There was a map of Mars, too. New Taurus even, although that one had large areas of white.
Descriptions of weather patterns, air streams and weather trends. All based on the models that described the process of global warming as it had happened on Earth. Oh, I could well see the value of the expertise. Apparently, if fifty-year trends were to be believed, Taurus was in the process of becoming hotter, if that was at all possible. Just the thought made me sweat. A small ice age was expected for Earth within the next thousand years.
Wow. Interesting stuff. Bring on the mammoths.
I went through a few more screens. Coloured blotches superimposed over maps. Oceans, continents, mountain ridges.
Hang on—hadn’t I seen a map like this before—in the information Sirkonen had given me?
I dug the datastick from my pocket and inserted it in the reader. The first page still came up empty. My mind filled in the blanks—A report written by Elsi Schumacher of the Dawkins Centre?
Yesterday, I had been too tired to notice much. Now the lines underneath the coloured sections stood out clearly. I was looking at a map of Asto, the Coldi home world. Two continents curved towards each other in mirrored moon shapes, a mountain ridge along a land-locked ocean. The continent on the left was home to the mega-city of Athyl, the epicentre of Coldi society. Beratha, the other major settlement centre, was on the second continent.
What did all these colours mean? Purple, blue and green, a bit like the reflections in Coldi hair. I flicked to the legend predicted rainfall changes.
It rained little on Asto; large areas of the planet were dead and uninhabitable even to heat-adapted Coldi, and no other people could visit the planet. Asto’s people found water in deep fissures that ran through the desert like lashes of a whip. They irrigated the desert, and grew mushrooms on the fissure walls, but much of Asto’s food was imported these days, mostly from Ceren, the second world in the system, green and lush, and the home of the city-state of Barresh, gamra headquarters.
I tilted my head sideways to read the small print on the map . . . the models predicted an increase in rainfall, and not just a little bit, either. Nasty stuff. Rain on Asto was high in acids, in hydrofluoric acid to be precise, stuff that ate its way even through glass.
But what about all this was so important to Sirkonen?
The guard tapped me on the arm, gesturing at the reader. “Does the Delegate want me to take that? We’re about to land.”
I hated going through the security checks at the airport in Athens at the best of times. Black-clad Nations of Earth personnel scanned all our luggage while surly Greek border guards with guns formed a lethal line keeping queued-up and impatient passengers in check. There were still people who didn’t understand why, when passports and visas had been scanned and approved and luggage collected, there was yet another, far more intrusive, border check by Greek and Nations of Earth military.
Yet, failing any form of agreement between Nations of Earth and gamra, these guards were the only line of defence against criminal elements from other worlds; Athens was a tightly-guarded exclusion zone. Getting out was even harder than getting in.
Did I have any forbidden items, such as weapons, spyware, electronics that could be turned into spyware—there was a long list.
I showed my reader and infusor. More guards were called, while the items went from hand to hand. I was flagged as an interplanetary passenger and Person Of Interest. They searched my bag, every item laid out on the table. Eyebrows rose at the sight of my bloodied shirt.
“Had an accident,” I explained, and showed them my bandaged hands. My heart thudded, because I was
certainly the very type of person these guards were here to stop leaving, but Amarru’s promise held, and I walked into the terminal hall onto the only piece of land on Earth where gamra people could come without Earth-based ID or visa.
A car with driver waited outside the building, the small gamra symbol inconspicuously on the front passenger window. I knew the young man behind the wheel; he was a local who earned a bit of money while he studied law at University. It was comforting to see a familiar face.
He took my luggage while I slipped into the back seat, the guards in their usual positions.
Then we were off and the car slotted into the steady stream of buses and taxis.
There was no denying that the presence of the Exchange was beneficial to Athens. Although the ridiculous border control had done a pretty good job at killing tourism to the area, gamra brought much business to the city, with riches that more often than not didn’t originate on Earth. The entire streetscape reflected it in subtle ways: in the mixture of building styles; in the neat Coldi text on the walls of apartments, advertising, Coldi-style, who lived within; in the thick growths of oleanders planted in strict symmetrical patterns; in the kids whizzing down the footpath on board-scooters; in the maroon curtains and sheets flapping on washing lines.
Even in the way people on the street moved in groups of two, or four, or eight.
“You’re very quiet today, Mr Wilson,” the driver said.
I jolted upright.
We had left the traffic behind and now followed an oleander-lined road between six-storey blocks of concrete flats. “I’m tired.”
“Late night?”
“Yeah.” He could certainly say that again, and I wondered if he hadn’t heard what had happened, but had no desire or energy to inform him. I was looking forward to a room in the short-term accommodation at the Exchange: a bath, clean clothes, and a good nap. The Exchange wouldn’t open until after dark, a rule lingering from the time of hiding and secrecy, and kept that way because it suited arrangements with local air traffic control.
Stately houses behind high walls replaced the apartment blocks. Spreading pine trees provided dappled shade. The road wound lazily up a hill.
Almost there.
A man walked a dog past the cream-coloured wall that surrounded the Exchange complex. He gave our car no more than a cursory glance when we turned into the driveway.
The gates were closed, a solid wall of metal. I did a mental double-take. I’d first come here twelve years ago, and this had been my home for eight years. I had never seen the gates closed.
“Has there been trouble here, too?” A chill crept over my back; my lazy feeling of safety vanished.
“Not yet, but things are tense in some parts of the city. Nations of Earth sent an aircraft carrier into Piraeus late last night. Some people didn’t like this and have been keeping the police busy.” Coldi protesters, no doubt. And police would be aided by Nations of Earth servicemen; I had no doubt about that, either. Anything to keep the Coldi faction under control. No, Nations of Earth didn’t like this little enclave of alien-ness, at all.
The sticker on the windscreen let out a tiny flash of light. The gates clicked open and moved inward, revealing the driveway lined with majestic date palms leading up to the building. Ten storeys, white, and looking very much like the private hospital it had once been.
Home.
Without Nicha.
As the car crawled up the driveway I glanced at the furthest wing which disappeared into the hillside. That part of the building was a recent addition. It spilled over with equipment to run the generator which powered the peripheral equipment of the Exchange. In the old days—and the original Exchange node had been built in 1968—the power-hungry devices frequently blacked out the entire city. Another reason why running at night made sense.
On old photographs, the hill was covered with pine trees, hiding the opening to the docks, a concrete maw which used to be a lot smaller than the present one. Now it was free of surrounding vegetation and . . . its metal shutter open?
What the . . .
The car stopped under the shady awning. I let myself out, and while I walked around the car to get my luggage, became aware of the buzzing of many voices. A sea of people crammed in the foyer of the building, a huge hall, normally almost empty.
I stopped, turning to the guards, another chill creeping up my spine. “Mashara, what is going on?”
“People are scared. They are trying to leave. Gamra have authorised emergency daytime departures.”
The chill increased. Riots against Coldi shops and houses, the emergency council sanctioning military intervention, warships in port . . .
“Don’t worry, Delegate. We have authorisation for preference. Let’s go.”
They rushed to the building, leaving no time or breath for questions.
Once the automatic doors opened, noise and heat washed over me. The hum of voices like angry bees. The guards cleared a way into the crowd. Their tall forms towered over the sea of Coldi heads, glistening like the inside of an abalone shell. I also spotted the diminutive forms of two Kedrasi with their distinctive fox-red hair and mottled skin, but those, and myself, were the only non-Coldi people. Haggard-looking families, surrounded by bags and boxes and suitcases and crying children, formed huge snaking lines before the counter against the far wall.
“Wait here, Delegate.”
The guard with the sunglasses wrestled his way to the counter while the other remained with me.
In the far corner of the hall, people crammed before a wallscreen.
On the screen, a man stood behind a dais bearing the Nations of Earth symbol. His skin looked sallow and lights made sweat on his forehead glisten.
“. . . a projectile, which pierced part of his lung and intestine. He was rushed into the hospital immediately, suffering internal bleeding. Doctors have been working since then to repair the damage and save his life. . . .” The man wiped his face. Silence hung heavy in the non-Earthly audience. “Unfortunately, the fight was lost about half an hour ago.”
My heart skipped a beat. And another one. Sirkonen had died?
People stirred. A young Coldi boy standing on tiptoes in front of me asked the adult with him, “What is he saying?” He used the accusatory-he pronoun form.
“He says that the president has died.”
Through the roaring of blood in my ears, the voice of the Nations of Earth spokesman went on, “. . . I now pass the microphone to Acting President Sigobert Danziger, who will make a statement on behalf of the Nations of Earth executive committee and the emergency council.”
Danziger came up to the microphone, a stunned, emaciated toad. He’d probably had less sleep than me.
He opened his mouth, but an announcement in the hall blurred his first words.
“. . . will be assuming the presidency as of now. I will work with the committee appointed by President Sirkonen to hold new elections. Meanwhile, let it be known that no expense will be spared to uncover those guilty of this attack and bring them to trial. . . .”
A man next to me mumbled, “They say we are responsible for the president’s death.” Also using the accusatory pronoun.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Delegate?” The guard gestured towards the counter. “The Delegate mustn’t linger.”
“This news is important, mashara.”
“It is more important that the Delegate move to the counter.” He held out his hand, showing a dark-skinned palm. “Delegate, please? The Delegate’s documents.”
I rummaged in my pocket and found my citizenship pass, which he gave to the woman behind the counter. The people in the queue shot me strange looks.
I subtly shifted the sides of my jacket, showing my shirt in gamra blue. That earned me some respectful nods. Lips murmured, Delegate. I hated myself, drawing on status to jump the queue when all these people had much more pressing reasons to get out.
The female receptionist had my information up on
the screen, in curly Coldi script. She took the black citizenship pass out of the reader and handed it back to me. “If the Delegate is so kind to follow mashara to the departure hall, but please do not linger.” Her voice was barely audible over the noise.
I followed the guards through the crowd, out the hall. We ran through the corridors, one guard in front, one behind. The guards’ legs were much longer than mine, and they only had to jog to keep up with me, while I was going flat out, sweltering in the increasing temperature.
Nor were we the only people in a hurry. Families lugged big bags, their faces grim. Children cried; their parents shouted. Others tried to push past them. People massed at the doors where everyone needed to scan their citizenship cards.
Small trolleys ran along rails on the walls, quietly going about their business of deliveries, oblivious to the crowd.
A sea of people waited at the lifts; the guards urged me into the staircase, which was also full of people. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Some people just couldn’t. There was a woman carrying twin toddlers while struggling with luggage. An old man needed to take the steps one by one, holding up the flow. The lift zoomed past, faces pressed against the cubicle’s glass walls.
About fifteen sweaty minutes later, I burst into the light, heat and noise of the departure hall. At this time of day, it should have been dark and empty of life, but all lights blazed overhead. Aircraft occupied every bit of space of the ten levels of balconies around the huge hall’s perimeter. People crowded around ground-hugging shapes with spreading wings. Cargo doors gaped. Shuttles for passengers, heavier craft for freight, even the smaller Trader craft with powerful engines, every single craft had opened its doors to the tide of Coldi refugees.
Engines fired up, whined. Lights flicked on and off. Doors thudded shut. The air hummed with communication, so much that crackles of charge zapped blue in midair where too many signals collided. I’d heard this could happen, but I had never seen it.
The guards urged me along the gallery, where a crowd was cramming up the stairs into a public shuttle, the same craft on which I had travelled on my earlier visits to Barresh, a sleek form, about the size of a medium-sized airliner, which made it large for gamra transport. Ceiling lights reflected in its gleaming purple-tinted metal. Flashing pinpricks of red light lined the wings.
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