I’m saddened and walk in silence for several seconds. “One unfortunate and tragic event. We remind ourselves with posters like these across our world and... well...long ago twelve infants went missing.”
Something strange flashes in his eyes. I’m about to ask what’s happening when my mind goes blank and my legs turn to water. I stagger and almost fall but just as quickly strength returns. Perhaps the stress of campaigning has gotten to me.
In silence, I set off for the gold mine museum entrance.
He follows neither eager nor dragging his feet.
CHAPTER 14
Of Boycotts And Here-Born’s Vanished Beauty
Headed down the escalator, Peter notes an empty store with a Closed Down sign posted. “Yeah! Someone went out of business—on Here-Born? Oh, wow! Your Department for ensuring increased production sure as hell works. Right Once-Other?”
“Some history with those stores.”
“You don’t say. Go on, justify why all this increasing productivity, improving employees’ skills isn’t just pure one-hundred percent proof BS.”
“They provided what appeared to be one damn fine product,” I reply.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Terrible side effects came later,” I say.
“That all?” he says.
“Well...they mostly sold a skin cream...did an incredible job of keeping one’s skin smooth, soft, crack-free and glowing under this sun of ours but...”
“Sounds like a good product.”
“...red blemishes appeared some while after having applied it—and they stayed.”
“So what?” he says.
“Not pleasant,” I say and roll up a sleeve.
He peers across and examines my arm.
“They still itch,” I say.
“Yeah. Why would they close down? Your Government fixes everything. Right? Spare me the lies here.”
I release my tongue from the grip of teeth. “Nothing to do with improved sales or increasing revenues or profits. A quality issue for us buyers. A something we deal with harshly.”
He sneers.
“Peter! We can make a withdrawal from our wallets and surrender up cash for goods—or not. That places quality control in our hands, the buyers—one-hundred percent. On Here-Born We the People are the economy despite what those from EB may think and are educated in.”
“True everywhere. Buyers are—”
I cut him off. “Maybe so. Maybe not. Hear me out...news travels something rapid here. We wanted their cream...it was fantastic...my skin was so moist. But! For whatever reason, they were not able to fix the issue or would not. The decision to stop buying we make as an individual buyer personally. Took a while to happen but in the end no one was buying.”
“A long winded way of saying you boycotted them—something illegal on Earth. We hate boycotts...outright coercion—brutal force. That’s blackmailing others to do what you want or else!”
I smile my driest of dry smiles, anger flickers inside his eyes. I say, “Calm down now. Okay. Alright. Now listen up. You’ve just revealed the horrific liability of your education or Foundation as we’ve named it. So much of what EB tourists say is perverted and twisted to mean something else. You....”
“How dare you?” he demands.
I slap his protest aside with a sharp gesture. “I’m not talking nor even thinking boycott. A boycott most often comes about due to opposing groups forcing their views on others. In doing so they attempt to destroy a business for personal reasons…only!
“So boycotting is a form of punishment for failing to comply with a political agenda. Not done on Here-Born! People’s rights include the right to buy or not to buy. We are willing to try something new and equally capable of judging a product. That doesn’t mean we’ve called for a boycott.”
His mouth snaps open, his opposition so powerful I can almost see words dangling on the edge of his tongue. I ensure they dangle there a moment longer.
“No Peter! Listen to me! Others will still be buying. We do not demand they stop. EB’s Foundation is so drilled into you all you hear is boycott. How stupid is that?”
“Boycott!” he says, folds his arms and glares.
I sigh and say, “Not a boycott. It means that when I buy something for the first time...I am investing money and assessing a product. As does any investor with research well in hand.”
“Boycott!” he snarls.
I crease my brow. “About them...even after they opened a handful of additional stores hoping to clear their inventory not a single sale transpired. We’d closed our wallets from north to south and east to west. The only option was to cut their losses and head back to Rio-Tero.”
His eyes brighten as a child’s upon finding a longed for Christmas gift then he scowls. “An awful planet,” he says and glances about guiltily. “Tero II is more like Earth but better. I don’t understand why they choose to live in a desert on Tero as you do here.” He looks around once again. “Not that I’ve ever been there—so bang they go under!”
I note his attempt to downplay his knowledge and interest in Tero and Tero II. Why would he need to hide being interested in them? No answers come to the fore. Damn! Too many questions…unanswered.
Is this how Jiplee lost her skills?
And another unanswered question! Damn!
I continue. “They were paid not a single penny more. On Here-Born, We the People are the economy as I’ve said. Most governments of this Inter-Constellation Arena Thirty don’t know how economies work or worse...lie about it.”
He raises an eyebrow.
I sigh and stop for it is time to call his hand. A tick turns on at his temple. True, many EB’s are sensitive to changes in others or if someone fixes attention on them. Most are not.
And I test him. “Tell me Peter what’s going on here? What are you after? Me? Something else?”
The tick accelerates and he presses a finger to it. His sneer makes a dramatic appearance mid mouth; his eyes tighten focus. “You paranoid Once-Other?”
I spin away and head for a display window next to the Museum entrance which shows a dissected view of Here-Born’s geology.
A triumphant smile beaming, he follows strolling casually. At the window he gasps, goes to one knee and stares his fingers snaking across the glass front. “This is different,” he whispers.
“Let’s move on,” I say.
He waves me back. “No. No. Wait. A solid inner core surrounded by an enormous molten outer one but the rest of Here-Born is...different.”
“You’re right. Come, let’s go. You’re not the first tourist to figure on how much gold and oil is in all that rock.”
He waves me back from the few paces I had moved off.
I return—interested in his interest.
“Take a moment would you,” he says. “Look! That solid inner core...huge! Surrounding your molten outer core here...a solid rock formation...it’s a massive interior mountain almost the size of this planet and...over here...a towering mountain ridge rising above the surface...the sand.”
“Iron Ridge Mountains,” I explain.
“Look here,” he says, pointing to one of many large sections of blue, “there are oceans of water buried inside this underground mountain...and these water-veins? See how they spider-web up through the rock but never quite reach the surface except as geysers—and twenty active volcanoes?”
“The black cavities are oil. Let’s move on....”
“One moment Once-Other! This encased water is close to your outer core. I can imagine it’s boiling and being pushed up these veins.”
“Especially across the Rocklands,” I add. “You got it. Come on.”
“Would you wait? Here where the narrowest water veins reach upwards they appear to end between say...fifty to two-hundred feet down and this chocolate covering...all Rocklands?”
“Right you are. Well okay. An oil surrounds all under-sand water. Let’s go inside.”
“No-no. Tell me more.”
/> “Peter...ah...we’re not talking oil like what we drill to export. Heated this oil solidifies into a waxy wall or cover.”
“What kind of oil—never mind. Nothing like this on Earth. Quite unique—some planet.”
Surprise! Campaign Step One done and early at that.
Yes. On Here-born things are different.
I march my campaign onwards pleased at the unexpected result. “So. Near the outer core the water is naturally heated. It rises up the fissures into sand and the waxy-oil forms a pipe up which the water moves. Wax pods dome at the top when pressure no longer exerts from below and holds the water in place under steady pressure.”
“Unbelievable...incredible,” he whispers.
“Yes...,” I catch a glimpse of someone from the corner of my eye.
Madsen comes hurrying out the Museum wiping at chocolate cookie crumbs on his loose fitting Hawaiian shirt. I glance at his baggy white pants flapping as he walks and meeting his eyes note how the worry reflected there hardens.
“Once-Other!” he barks at me. “We can round-n-about find no records of a Peter Wernt. He ain’t existing except in the Departure Records at LAX-EB, Arrivals at Port-SLF an’ in the Here-Born Residentia’s register. Damn unusual an’ damn worrying.”
“Thanks Madsen but I’m good with him—just had a breakthrough. Probably a computer glitch.”
He glowers. “Perhaps. Stay alert an’ all. You round-n-about get me?”
I ignore his last, take Peter by the arm and head through the Museum’s main entrance. Madsen strides rapidly off soles squeaking across the floor tiles. He jolts to a sudden halt.
“You been eating cookies-n-all?” His wife Victoria snaps as she marches into the foyer.
“Now Vicki dear,” Madsen says. “Nothing really. Just a tiny one. Very.”
“I’m supposed to believe this?” Victoria growls.
He opens his arms and walks towards her.
She waits for him with hands on hips, feet spread apart and a thick scowl pasted across her face. Her black shirt and red pants hang loose about her and black boots crease more than her brow as she rocks back-n-forth.
Madsen reaches for her hand but she snaps it from out his grasp and says, “You been seeing yourself in the mirror come mornings or you close your eyes an’ all?” And she turns and walks off. He trails along wiping his brow, head bowed.
I grin, take Peter’s elbow and we enter the museum where he notes a sign and says, “Let’s do a self-guided tour Once-Other.”
I nod agreement and we stride off towards the cage but he stops, points and says, “A large diameter pipe next to the cage? Shouldn’t we see one or two skips?”
I’m enthused by his knowledge and I now understand his disappointment at not seeing the mineshaft rigging above the Mall roof.
With pride evident in my voice I reply, “Well Peter, we’re looking at a collect-n-grind mechanism which avoids hauling ore from below sand in skips. Inside the pipe crusher screws grind and haul ore to the surface in one action.”
“Hmmm. Interesting. But pointless—unnecessary.”
I hold stillborn a nasty response as the Museum Curator stops next to us. And as always, I’m saddened by tragic history.
We’ve crossed sand trails many times over the years spanning childhood to adults and married-n-all. He’s always been polite and very scholarly.
Once when he was shopping on a day off he had his wife with him. She reminded me of others I had worked with back when I was a teacher. By appearance, she suited him well. Yet despite our frequent hellos, our relationship never progressed beyond cordial.
Some while ago his wife went missing out in the wild desert. We tracked the homing device only to find her SandRider lay beneath three-hundred sand-paces of quicksand.
It was never recovered nor were her remains.
He appeared a broken man for many years barely greeting others let alone making conversation. He has never truly come out of it and I fear he is now married to the museum.
He stands silent a moment, pats the sleeve of his light brown suit which is a shade darker than his hair and says, “Good morning Once-Other. On a solo tour? Not joining a Group?” He stretches to his full height and towers as tall as Wernt but twice as broad in shoulder, more-or-less.
“I prefer personal service,” Peter says.
“Right you are Sir. And—oh? Once-Other is one of the few not on staff who can do the complete tour. Enjoy. Hope you like being underground.”
CHAPTER 15
Of Fraggers And Reflexes
The focused industry and capabilities of Man penetrated her defenses. Steel drills, bit ends armed with cutting diamonds bored inwards exposing her treasures to plunder.
She sighed, as pieces of her old outer beauty were taken captive. Yet she had an urge to service those scurrying about sand and rock where once her perfume ruled. Her urge awakened by old memories of a sun grown merciless.
Though saddened by the plundering, she still on occasion smiled her old smile, for once again upon the wind sailed the scent of growing plants and other living things.
How much she had missed them.
***
Every time the Walmer siren announces our downward progress, Peter touches the bulge under his arm. At the third Walmer alert, I decide his armpit hides a good luck charm or a memento and dismiss it.
Five and a half minutes later, we arrive.
“Welcome to Station One, Level One,” I announce.
Without warning cage-fear grips him with fangs real as Crier’s teeth. He presses himself against the cage wall his glazed eyes darting in search of danger. I watch him carefully expecting an attack. He backs into a corner.
I point to the doors as they hiss releasing the locks.
He remains rigid, unmoving.
The doors slide open to reveal pitch black save for the rectangle of light cast out the cage. The thick smell of wet rock tumbles in and washes over us. The silence is eerie filled only with the creak and groan of stressed support beams.
Peter stares at the dark hole awaiting us. I wave him on, he shrinks further back and cowers, a terrified gazelle unable to spot the predator but fully cognizant of a threatening presence.
“Peter?” I ask, coming up onto the balls of my feet ready to move suddenly and quickly.
After three shuddering breaths, he calms a little, spots the collect-n-grind intake and takes a deep breath. He shuffles closer to the doors and inspects what is visible of the crusher-screws. Instead of being more afraid as most are, he relaxes and Peter the Confident reasserts.
“Hmm, yeah, impressive,” he says and leans outwards.
I let out a breath, reach around the door, grasp the rough steel lever and throw the power switch. The main lights flicker. A loud electrical thud and they turn on hard to light up the Level walls.
At first glance it appears one is viewing the sides of a building. Arched balconies stacked five floors high recede into the distance, alien condominiums on a moonlit boulevard.
Sparing me a glare to which I remain stoic, Peter slow walks scanning the walls and ceiling as he goes. After a half dozen paces he halts and gasps at the sight of a day-glow yellow six-wheeled carriage supporting a mounted Fragger Unit.
We head over, my hand at his elbow steadying him. He stops abruptly and stares wide-eyed at the high-frequency guns protruding from the center of a three sand-paces diameter dish.
I let go of his arm and wait. He moves closer to the unit.
“Looks like an old Gatling but massively so,” he mutters as he examines the low-frequency guns that surround the high-frequency ones. He glances my way.
I remain stoic, move across and stand close to him.
He turns away and runs his hand along the smooth four finger caliber barrels. He takes a deep breath reaches over and scratches at the matte black finish, the painful screech of fingernail on metal. He inspects his fingers tips squinting in the low light and looking up says, “Photos did not do this justice.�
�
He steps closer, shudders and strokes the edge of a low-frequency unit a little too fondly for comfort. He glances at me, giggles and caresses the high-frequency unit with yet more passion. “This a weapon?” he asks in a husky voice.
To his surprise, I face him head-on and lock eyes.
With Here-born speed, I step to his side. He remains focused on the point I just vacated. I tap his spine with a knuckle and zip back in front of him. Only now does his focus switch to where I touched him.
Step two, confirmation test done.
I have the edge in reaction speed should he go screwball snorting. Furthermore, he has no idea of how to survive alone in the desert. To get water requires stealing it from a Water Crier. Without superb reactions, survival is unlikely so I would need to be there for him.
I drive my campaign onwards. “It’s time to drop a small, though retrievable deposit back there in the cage.”
His eyes roll over white. His mouth pops open and his nose twitches...well more-or-less. Whatever he suffers from is getting worse.
“Calm yourself,” I implore as the whites recede.
“You are violating my Rights, Once-Other.”
“Oh? No. We have some damn odd traditions out here Peter but not that strange. Now. Moving on. After negotiations to export gold concluded everything happened fast.”
He brightens and waves their flag in my face.
“Yeah. Processed. Shipped. Sold. Yay. Earth.”
“Too right and very EB. There’s more to this...we’ve been aware of gold for as long as oil.”
“Yeah?” he says incredulous disbelief sliding across his face.
“We had no technology to mine with—that was acceptable to us. Your Nice Blast & Munitions Company of Denver-EB wanted us to use their product for blasting and negotiated with us every day once we discovered gold.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” he growls.
“More-or-less. Possibly not on weekends. All came to naught because we were and are still not willing to go around setting off explosions designed to rip holes in our planet in a random and senseless manner.”
“Yeah. You used whatever and never announced whatever.”
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