Sirens

by Darcy Pattison

  The anti-Risonian sentiment chafed at her the rest of the day as they drove back to Edinburgh. By the time they were back in Edinburgh late on Christmas Eve, everyone was exhausted.

  When they tried to check in with the Ambassador, though, they found that she and Jake were missing. Her cell phone was turned off, not even ringing. And there was a letter in the Ambassador’s hand-writing telling Colonel Lett to wait 48 hours before taking action. All would be clear on Christmas morning.

  Colonel Lett told David and Jillian, “Get some sleep. I’ll investigate. If we’ve heard nothing by tomorrow morning, we’ll tear this planet apart to find them.”

  19

  The Contingency Plan

  December 24

  Captain Bulmer escorted Jake and Mom to a tiny room with twin beds, rather like a cramped hotel room. He refused to answer any questions. He just shook his head and said, “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  Before they could respond, he was gone.

  He had abandoned them.

  A guard stationed at their door refused to let them wander about. Supper—an excellent fish stew—was brought in and they ate alone. Later, servants appeared to clear up. Jake tried to talk with them, but they refused to answer any questions.

  After a boring evening, Dayexi gave in. She found pajamas in the closet—of course, they were her size—and readied for bed. As she turned out the light, she told Jake, “This has been the worst holiday ever. I hope Christmas day is better.”

  Jake tossed and turned. Finally, he slipped on headphones and cranked up the volume, listening to his favorite Risonian opera; it was about Killia, the mythical founder of the capital city of Tizzalura—Jake’s home town on Rison. Dad had told him the story of how Rome was established by twins, Romulus and Remus, who had been raised by wolves. But this opera was better. Killia had been one of the first Risonians to leave the ocean, and he had fought wild beasts to establish a city on the high volcanic plateau. The songs were full of animals roaring, clanging battles, and a love that stretched from the highest volcanic mountains to the deepest oceans. Full of life, Risonian life. It was his music. He was a Risonian and he would listen to opera all night long if he wanted, he thought defiantly, even if he was locked up in a tiny room in the middle of a crazy, alien Phoke city.

  Killia and Mawgoritza (usually called Mawg) weren’t supposed to fall in love because they came from warring political families. But instead of a half-baked idea that got them both killed like crazy Shakespeare’s ill-fated Romeo and Juliet, these Risonians were smarter. Instead, they walked out of the oceans and far enough inland to establish a home.

  At first, they had to fight big cat-like predators to survive. Mawg stood watch with weapons drawn while Killia built them a log cabin. Then Killia stood guard while Mawg tried to figure out how to tend the food-plants they wanted and make it work. They were the first gardeners on Rison, and later, the first agriculture tycoons. Within twenty years, their wolkevs were sold in every market under water. And as people developed a taste for wolkev jam, pastries, drinks and more, Killia and Mawg claimed even more land. The extensive holdings—and love of all things wolkev—came from these ancestors of the Quad-des.

  Jake knew this story and the opera like it was his own story. And it was so much stronger than the Mer stories of building underwater cities. Killia faced many big cat predators and killed them. One cat-hide was still a rug in Swann’s room. The Mer colonized the seas, but only because they learned the right architecture, the bell jar, and then improved it as technology improved. Killia colonized the land of Tizzalura because he was strong and confident. He didn’t have to rely on a particular style of architecture to colonize.

  Jake wondered if he was being arrogant. He believed the Risonian struggles were harder, their triumphs deeper. Risonians were better than Earthings and Phokes. Now that was arrogant! Exactly like General Puentes, who thought Earth was the best, the strongest. No, Jake had to try to understand, and especially, to respect these other races and cultures.

  At last, weary with the struggle of trying to be big-hearted—and failing—he yawned, turned off his music, and lay down to sleep.

  

  December 25

  At 8:30 a.m., a knock at their door startled them. Jake opened the door to an unfamiliar military man.

  “So sorry,” said the officer. “Captain Bulmer regrets that he can’t escort you himself. I’m sent to take you to the—” he paused “—the event.”

  Finally, Jake thought, something is going to happen. And whatever it is, they still don’t trust us to understand.

  He and Mom had decided to wear their swim suits under their clothes just in case they had to swim to the surface. The lack of trust worked both ways.

  They followed the soldier as he wound through a confusing array of hallways until they came to a large room with a sign that read, “Observation Room.” Inside, one wall held a podium in front of a bank of curtains. Rows of chairs were set up in a semi-circle around the podium. It wasn’t a large number of chairs, perhaps 30-40. Whatever was about to happen, it was for a small audience.

  Their escort indicated a couple chairs in the corner. “As a courtesy, you’re allowed to observe, but do not participate or you’ll be removed.” His voice came out in a high-pitched squeak.

  Mom’s eyebrow raised, but simultaneously they both realized what this meant; this room was using the Tri-Mix air, which meant that humans were coming. The lighting highlighted the podium and left them in shadows. They’d be inconspicuous.

  Jake motioned to the bigger wing-chair and said, “You take that one.”

  Mom had that worried expression which made her nose wrinkle.

  Jake shivered. Curiosity was killing him, as the American expression went. But even deeper, an unreasonable fear struck at his gut: whatever was going to happen, it wouldn’t be good for Rison.

  To stop the worry, he counted chairs. There were their two wing-chairs and five rows of folding chairs. Ten chairs in the back row--

  A door near the curtains opened and a stream of people marched in. They all wore navy shirts and khaki slacks, a mix of men and women and from a variety of ages. Looking closer, Jake saw that the navy shirts had an AH for Aberforth Hills, small and decorous, embroidered on the shirt’s pocket. On the right side of the podium stood eight women and four men—

  The double doors at the rear of the conference room flung open and a flood of people crowded in, chattering and looking around. Some headed for the curtains, but the Phoke staff turned them back to the chairs. Roughly half the group was dressed formally, in jacket and ties or in dresses and heels. The other half wore jeans and sweatshirts and carried large video cameras on their shoulders. New crews! Too many to count quickly.

  This was a press conference. Jake recognized half a dozen of the news anchors as the bigwigs of each major station. Now that he looked, he recognized logos on the cameras. There were crews from CNN, Fox, ABC, CBS, NBC, BBC, Al-Jazeera, Euro News, Deutsche Welle, and others that he didn’t know but assumed were European, African or Asian news crews. This wasn’t a small local press conference. These were hand-picked international stars. This was a major press conference.

  Fear struck at Jake’s gut. Instinctively, he grabbed at Mom’s hand.

  She gripped him tightly, too. “Just watch,” she murmured. “Nothing else we can do right now.”

  Reassured that inaction was the best action, Jake released her hand and shrank back into the shadows of his wing chair.

  Jake started mentally sorting people. The news anchors were formally dressed, while the casual dress was for the cameramen. The BBC lady wore a startlingly blue cashmere sweater, black skirt and not-made-for-walking-heels. Her cameraman had a walrus mustache, dark glasses, heavy boots and thick coat. The Fox News man wore a suit, and his dark hair had greying sideburns. Conservative in dress, at his neck was a red perfectly-knotted silk tie. His voice was smooth, but oily and loud. His camerawoman was a chubby woman wearing jean
s and sweatshirt, tennis shoes, and a New York Yankees baseball cap over short hair.

  The light over the podium suddenly grew brighter.

  A Phoke official stepped to a microphone and called, “Ladies and gentlemen. First, let me apologize for your squeaky voices.”

  A high-pitched titter rippled across the room.

  The official continued, “You are currently 90 meters, or 270 feet, deep in the ocean. At this depth, you need a different air or your body will collect gas in your muscles and you’ll get the dreaded bends, or decompression sickness. We are just making sure you stay healthy.”

  Fox News Suit immediately signaled his cameraman and started narrating, “We are deep under the ocean.” He was probably a deep bass, but his voice was a strange soprano. “I sound like a teenager because we’re breathing a strange mix of air.” He paused and ran a finger across his neck, a sign to the cameraman to stop recording.

  “What’s this air called?” he asked in a loud squeak.

  “Tri-Mix. It’s a mixture of helium, nitrogen and oxygen.”

  With the new information, Suit started his intro again.

  The announcer, though, called for attention and assigned each news crew a guide. The Phoke guides moved to stand beside their assigned crew, introduced themselves and chatted. For now, though, they refused to answer any questions.

  The BBC Blue Lady demanded, “Why are we here? Why all this cloak and dagger?”

  “We’re waiting for the official announcement,” her guide said. “After that, we’re encouraged to answer all of your questions. Be patient a few more minutes.”

  The conference room was noisy with expectation. The reporters and camera operators were nervous, unsure of what would happen. One camerawoman searched along the wall for a plug-in. The Al-Jazeera reporter started recording an introduction, but stepped backward and stumbled on a chair. Everyone turned to stare at the clatter. One skinny cameraman stretched and yawned, then slumped into a chair, pulled his cap over his eyes and tried to sleep.

  At precisely 9 a.m. Greenwich time, a man and woman marched into the room, along with several other officials at their back. No one could’ve looked less like Mer folk than these two professionals in their business suits. The first was Dr. Mangot, who had treated Jake at the Edinburgh Hospital. Thinking about it, Jake wasn’t surprised that she was Phoke, the way she tended that aquarium in the hospital’s lobby. It wasn’t a menial task for her, but a labor of love. Now he saw that it was a way for her to quietly say that she was a mermaid without actually saying it.

  The other person shocked Jake: it was Dr. Bari, Em’s doctor from Seattle. Gripping the arms of his chair, Jake wanted to scream questions: How did you get here? You a Phoke? What did that mean for Em and her illness?

  Jake vowed to corner Dr. Bari as soon as possible and find out if Em was here somewhere. A sudden hope sprung up, and he leaned forward to the edge of his seat.

  Em was here!

  Dr. Mangot began, “Ladies and gentlemen, as representatives of the world, we welcome you to Aberforth Hills.”

  Dr. Bari took over and read from a prepared statement that they were standing in the ancestral home of the Mer folk, mermaids and mermen.

  The audience was silent, stunned.

  Dr. Bari gave a quick rundown of the history of Aberforth Hills and concluded, “We now call ourselves the Phoke.”

  BBC’s Blue Lady threw up her hands and swore. “What a hoax!”

  “Waste of time!” the Fox News Suit agreed.

  Dr. Mangot took the microphone and said, “Wait.” She hesitated, and then made a decision. “I have a presentation—”

  The news crews groaned in falsetto unison.

  “—but I think your cameras will do more than I could. There’s time for questions and explanations later. But first, let me extend an invitation. Please meet us back here at 7 p.m. tonight. We’ll have cocktails, and you can ask any questions you like. We’ll answer anything.”

  Dr. Bari and Dr. Mangot nodded to each other. “Ladies and gentlemen, we invite you to tour Aberforth Hills for yourself. You’ll be restricted to only those areas where we’ve pumped Tri-Mix air, or your health will be in danger. Please follow your guide’s lead on staying to safe areas. Otherwise, we have nothing to hide.”

  The two Phoke doctors stepped aside, and the curtain behind them slid sideways.

  At first, there was a blur of light. Then, structures started to take shape. This was much bigger than the Seastead in Puget Sound beside Seattle. Swimming in, they’d seen the glow of light from the city. But this view from above revealed the breadth of the entire city below them, and it was much bigger than Jake had realized.

  With a flourish, Dr. Bari waved at the window and said, “This is Aberforth Hills.”

  Sharks, or something equally large, swam past the windows, probably drawn by the light. As one, the crowd swarmed the window, jostling for the best viewing position; their guides stayed close behind, ready for questions. Other Phoke walked through the news crews handing out maps with landmarks clearly marked. In the midst of the crowd, Jake lost sight of Dr. Bari and Dr. Mangot.

  BBC’s Blue Lady pressed one hand on the window and stared with wide eyes. “That. Sticking up there. What is it?”

  Her Phoke guide said, “That’s the Gunby Clock. It sits next to the Aberforth Elementary School, and it chimes the hour, which tells the classes when to change.”

  “You have an elementary school?” Blue Lady squeaked incredulously.

  “And a high school. I graduated from there six years ago before attending Oxford.” The British accent was unmistakable, even with the squeaky voices.

  The good camera operators started filming immediately. And when the on-screen personalities realized what was happening, they started talking, too, a stream of consciousness report of what they were seeing.

  Their skepticism. Their awe and wonder. Their skepticism.

  Their awe.

  Sometimes, they trailed off in wonder.

  The smartest of them remembered the offer to look around the city. They took off with their Phoke guide to look around. The first tourists to Aberforth Hills. As long as they stayed in designated areas that had Tri-Mix gas, they were the first to see a new Wonder of the World.

  Mom and Jake had stayed back, in the corner, until most of the news crews wandered off to explore and almost all the Phoke staff—including Dr. Bari and Dr. Mangot—had left. Only then did they walk to the window and gaze on the fabulous city.

  Mom laid a hand on Jake’s arm. “Tell me what you saw at the press conference.” She often did this in political situations to point out the need for sharp observation.

  Jake’s voice trembled. “The Phoke are taking advantage of this as best they can. Putting on an amazing show.”

  Mom nodded, “Yes, indeed.” She shook her head as if impressed by the Phoke’s Contingency Plan.

  “That was a brilliant press conference,” Jake said. “By the end of the day, everyone on Earth will know that mermen and mermaids are real.” A sadness gripped him, and he had to put his hands on the window to balance. This was awful, his worst nightmare.

  Mom’s whole argument for Risonian refuge on Earth was based on the fact that 70% of the planet was covered with water, and it was empty. They weren’t asking Earth to share any land, just the empty oceans. The presence of the Mer crushed that argument.

  It meant renegotiating everything.

  It wasn’t the impossibility of the task that made Jake’s blood run cold. Instead, it was the time lost that was crucial. Rison’s core plainly had only days left before it imploded. Not decades, not years, not months. Scientist’s predictions varied widely, of course, and no one knew exactly when it would happen. Maybe they did have another year. Maybe not. They only knew it was soon. Staring out at the city, he shook his head, trying to deny that it was there. A Phoke city would ruin everything.

  Time was a luxury they didn’t have. The revelation of the Mer society couldn’t have c
ome at a worse time.

  Jake sank to the floor, crossing his legs and leaning his forehead against the glass, fighting back nausea. Mer folk were real and had been here in Aberforth Hills for over 100 years. His mother’s mission had been doomed before it started.

  Doomed.

  They just hadn’t known it.

  Above him, Mom was shaking her head, and he could see that she was running through the same barrage of emotions.

  Denial: Surely this wasn’t true.

  Rejection of the truth: No, no, it was impossible. These weren’t really Mer, but a bad dream.

  Negotiation: Well, surely there was a way around the Mer, and they could still find refuge here on Earth.

  Acceptance: Earth was never a real possibility for their people.

  How could they move forward now?

  Risonians were condemned to die by their own foolishness in trying to manipulate nature and by the lack of appropriate water planets for evacuation. Jake’s gaze roamed over the city of Aberforth Hills, and his eyes blurred with tears.

  Instead of the city in front of him, he saw the underwater cities of Rison. The Quad-de family estate near Tizzalura, with their house that extended from land into the seas. There was his grandparent’s house in the Holla sea, where he had spent vacations. Underwater cities were supposed to be Risonian only.

  Earthlings lived on land, not in the sea.

  Not in the sea.

  But Mer were Earthlings, too. The truth stared back at him and struck to his depths: Risonians were doomed.

  Behind them, someone said in a squeaky voice, “Excuse me.”

  When they turned, a Phoke staff person, a slim man in the navy and khaki uniform, said, “Dr. Mangot would like to speak with you. Do you have time now?”

  20

  Old Friends

  December 25

  The Phoke staff member led Mom and Jake to an elevator and pushed the button for the sixth floor, the top floor. When the elevator doors opened, he led them down a white hallway, and opened a nondescript white door and motioned for them to enter.