by Daniel Wilde
One theory among the professors of the Health and Population Ministry is that “some biological agent had infected the men, causing their death through some means wholly unknown to the human race.” Amused by their sophisticated language, I almost laughed out loud, covering my mouth and coughing into my hand.
I wasn’t in a position to disagree with them, and, regaining my composure, I assured them that we could solve this mystery; although I wasn’t sure that I was the person to do it. I didn’t tell them that though—they’re paying me a lot of money.
After two hours, I could still barely believe that the pictures I was looking at were not doctored in some way; and yet, I was excited. Sick, I know. I couldn’t wait to get started. I couldn’t wait to discover whether even a small part of what I’d been told, and had seen, was actually true. I didn’t have to wait long. I was excused as soon as the presentation was finished, and led by Dr. Chalthoum and an assistant of some kind, back out the way we had come in, past a McDonald’s. Ah, fries, not jasmine.
On our way back down to the concourse, Dr. Chalthoum informed me that she would be my “personal escort and assistant” as I travel west, past El-Alamein, and into the remote, sand-hilled desert on the northern edge of the African continent. Awesome! I’d rather have her as my guide than any one of those stuffy mobster-types I’d been with for the past couple of hours. I mean, seriously, if you saw these people, you’d understand why a trip into a barren desert with even just one of them was the last thing any sane person would want to do.
Dr. Chalthoum will stay with me, as the second and final member of the expedition team, until we’ve completed our investigation into whatever it is that caused the people in those photographs to look that way. Even though it’s a bit surprising that Dr. Chalthoum, rather than one of professors, is now my teammate, I’m not complaining. Plus, Dr. Chalthoum informs me that she is “quite educated in biology and medicine”, which may prove useful.
I was taken to the International Apion Hotel by a staff member of Minister Chalthoum’s team, Senbeb. I took advantage of the drive through the clean, palm tree-lined streets of Apion to gather information from Senbeb.
Apion, apparently, has been a hotbed for travel and tourism for several decades. The city of Apion, formerly Alexandria, is said to have been founded by Alexander the Great in 331 B.C., one of about 20 cities founded by the same. The name “Apion” was adopted in Egypt by popular vote in 2068 following the discovery of stone slabs containing ancient records under the ruins of the Citadel of Qaitbay.
Maritime archaeology in the Harbor of Apion (formerly the Harbor of Alexandria) began over 70 years prior, in 1994. The discoveries revealed details of the city of Alexandria both before the arrival of Alexander the Great, when a city named Rhacotis existed here, and during Alexander’s siege of the city in 331 B.C. Previously unknown, the stone slabs told of the existence of one Ptah Apion, a popular peasant leader around 331 B.C.
Ptah Apion held no government position, could not read, and had no wealth. But his vast popularity among the peasant population of northern Egypt provided him with ample numbers of men to rise up against Alexander. The evidence suggested that, under the informal leadership of Apion, the Egyptian peasants nearly overthrew Alexander the Great. But they finally suffered defeat after four months of fighting with Alexander’s armies. Ultimately, Apion and his peasant loyalists were defeated, allowing Alexander unfettered access to the city.
After the battles, Alexander changed the name from Rhacotis to Alexandria and established Greek rule over the city. When the citizens of this city learned of the heroics of Ptah Apion, nearly 25 years ago now, they changed the city’s name to “Apion”, a name reflective of the grandiose achievements of the Egyptian people. I don’t blame them.
During the decades following Alexander’s conquest of Rhacotis, Alexandria became an important center of the Hellenistic civilization. It remained the capital of Hellenistic and Roman-Byzantine Egypt for almost a thousand years until the Muslim conquest of Egypt in AD 641. At that time, a new capital was founded at Fustat (later absorbed into Cairo).
The port city of Alexandria—now Apion—occupies an advantageous location on the Mediterranean Sea. Its advantages originally included numerous trading opportunities and the provision of safe harbor for sea-going vessels seeking refuge and trading opportunities of their own. Subsequently, during World War II, on December 19, 1941, Italian torpedoes destroyed or disabled four war ships (three British and one Norwegian) sitting at dock in the Harbor of Alexandria. That event temporarily turned the tide of the war against the Allies. Senbeb would have shared other historical facts with me as well, but our time was cut short as we arrived at the massive, architecturally-inspiring International Apion Hotel.
Senbeb parked the hovercar and walked into the hotel with me. He insisted upon carrying my luggage—running around to the back of the hover and grabbing my suitcase before I even stepped onto the curb. When asked, Senbeb would not divulge whether this was by direction from the Minister, an Egyptian custom or an expression of his regard for me. In any event, I’m definitely not worthy of this kind of attention.
The lobby of the International Apion Hotel was beautiful! The floor was tiled in fine, gray marble that reflected the light fixtures and curved ceiling above. Several crystal chandeliers spread rainbow colors across the floors and walls of the luxurious entrance hall. Embroidered, silk seating surrounded a large, welcoming fireplace in the center of the room. The double set of twin doors leading from outside into the lobby was elegant with gray handles to match the tiled floor.
The reception desk, to which I slowly made my way as I gawked at my surroundings, followed by Senbeb and the luggage, was made of dark-colored mahogany and capped with a white-colored marble top. Exquisite paintings of various historical figures (few of which I could name) hung from the dark, red walls. Columns supporting the great weight of the ceiling high above were ornately engraved with various spirals and symbols appearing to belong to ancient Egyptian civilizations.
As we approached the counter, I was surprised by the clerk’s kind welcome. Not only did she speak flawless English, but she also knew my name. Senbeb explained that the hotel knew I was coming, and that they’d been given explicit orders, to “take care of” me. So, I got a suite on the top floor of the hotel. Thank you very much! After receiving the promise of a meal delivered to my room within the hour, I was escorted by two immaculately-dressed members of the hotel staff. As we walked away, Senbeb called out, “Dr. Chalthoum will be here to pick you up promptly at 9:00 AM! She has your number.”
I was then escorted out of the lobby, up a very fast elevator, and to my room.
The top floor of the International Apion Hotel is 88 stories in the air, with mesmerizing views to the north and northwest. From my windows, I have breathtaking views of both the sea and the vast city of over 14 million people. In the northwest, I can see the Citadel of Qaitbay, on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, with its massive stone walls now falling into the sea. The fabled Lighthouse of Pharos, one of the original “Seven Wonders of the World”, once sat in that same location. It was destroyed during an earthquake in the 14th century, but I understand why the location would be perfect.
In the Harbor of Apion, a few small sailing craft are wrestling with fairly large waves which can only be the result of wind rushing across the Sea from the north. The water craft are likely some of the last of a dying breed of independent fishing vessels; or, perhaps, they’re half-wits that get some kind of rush sailing in rough waters as night approaches.
As I sit here this evening, gazing over the fantastic scene below me, my mind keeps wandering back to the feelings of discomfort I had on my flight here this morning. I’m trying to connect those feelings of unease with the information I learned this afternoon on the outdoor airport terrace. I can’t get past those gruesome pictures. They keep popping up in my mind while I try to enjoy this beautiful place. Not even the four varieties of huge, juicy, delicious shrimp, pasta and Peps
i brought to me this evening for dinner can overcome my mind’s replaying of those images. Ugh.
Anyway, sleep will probably come slowly this evening. I guess I’ll go to bed; but when I leave tomorrow, I think it’ll be with a certain degree of trepidation.
January 3, 2093—Shift
If it’s even possible, Dr. Chalthoum looked even sexier this morning in her travel fatigues than she did yesterday. Sexy or not, though, she didn’t have much reason to be pleased with me this morning.
I was awakened at 9:05 A.M. by a call to my room from the reception desk. The agitated voice informed me that Dr. Chalthoum was waiting for me. Dude, what did she say to that poor guy to get him all worked up? More importantly, why can’t my MEHD, a multi-dimensional eyeglass holographic display, perform the simple function of beeping at a set time?
Sure, I overslept; but in my defense, I had had a long day. Plus, as expected, images of diseased, molting bodies swam through my dreams in lakes of boiling Mediterranean salt water.
Dr. Chalthoum agreed to meet me in the hotel restaurant at 9:30. After showering—fast—and dressing in my travel clothes, I appeared in the restaurant 22 minutes later to find a very sexy Dr. Chalthoum finishing off a plate of whatever it was she ate for breakfast. I guess I would have known what she had eaten had I met her on time.
With more patience than I thought I deserved under the circumstances, she informed me that my meal was on its way. She obviously believed me when I said I’d be here at 9:30, despite my failure to be ready at 9:00. If I had failed for a second time, I would have eaten a cold breakfast.
After quickly eating greasy, undercooked bacon (just the way they like it here, I’m told), and some kind of delicious eggy-sausagey-cheesy casserole-type concoction, I was glad I didn’t have to eat it cold. Dr. Chalthoum tipped the server and we were off.
To my surprise, instead of a hovercar, we walked over to an old 4-wheel-drive pickup truck, probably built between 2015 and 2020, and likely powered by gasoline. That stuff is a little hard to get a hold of these days, but I guess we’re close to those old oil wells and refineries of the Middle East. Dr. Chalthoum took my suitcase and tossed it into the bed of the truck. I held tightly to my briefcase. I didn’t think my electronic equipment would fare as well as my clothing after a toss like that through the air into the metal bed of a rusty pickup truck.
Dr. Chalthoum (or “Anta” as she soon asked me to call her) started the truck’s engine. She simply twisted a metal key stuck into an opening on the steering column just to the right side of the steering wheel. Using a shifting mechanism connected just above the ignition, she shifted the automatic gears of the vehicle into “drive”. As Anta slowly accelerated away from the hotel, my previous feelings of unease returned.
Realizing that this woman was to be my companion for this journey, however long it took, I felt like opening up to her, and sharing my feelings. But I was too manly for that. Instead, we discussed Egyptian history, including a history of El-Alamein. I thought, based upon my education and career, that I probably had a superior knowledge of the history of all of Northern Egypt, but I quickly learned that I didn’t. Anta was one smart girl! I soon felt pretty stupid and gave up trying to appear otherwise. She smiled.
First things first: I wanted to know why we were traveling in this truck instead of a hovercar, or “hover” as they’re popularly known. I’m used to traveling in hovercars, floating several inches off the ground. The bumps and rough turns of the pickup truck, on the other hand, rolling along a paved, but cracked road, was foreign and quite nauseating.
I’ve always been fascinated by human transportation. I visited a museum in Las Vegas a few years ago where I spent a ridiculous amount of money for the opportunity to drive old cars. The place was amazing and had automobiles dating as far back as the “Model A” built by the Ford Motor Company in 1903 to the eventual demise of automobiles as the go-to mode of transportation in the 2050s. Of course I paid the money. When would I ever get a chance like that again? And I had a blast! I drove the Model T, a 1967 Chevrolet Camaro, and a few other classics. While automobiles are not, by any means, ancient relics now, they are considered a substandard and slow mode of transportation. They’re uncomfortable, to which I can now attest. And, they use far too much of our world’s scarce fossil fuels.
The highway between Apion and El-Alamein got progressively worse as we traveled west. It was littered with potholes, cracks, debris, and in some places, weeds and other plant growth right in the pavement. Unlike many other countries, Egypt seems to have decided that the maintenance of automotive travel infrastructure is a waste of money. We arrived in El-Alamein 90 minutes after we left the hotel in Apion. During that time, we saw only a couple automobiles traveling in either direction.
In that same time span, we were passed by hundreds of hovercraft—the predominant mode of travel since the 2050s—likely traveling in excess of 90 miles per hour. The pilots of nearly every craft glared at us as they passed by. It was clear what they thought of this lesser form of travel; and of their attitudes toward those who used it. We were in the way. We didn’t get the bird, but I still felt like hunkering down in my seat to hide after the first few passed us by. Anta didn’t appear bothered, so I figured I didn’t need to worry about being gunned down in the street.
In any event, Anta explained that many people still use cars and trucks in the Sahara Desert because the shifting sands cover the pulsar energy modules imbedded into the pavement of the major roadways. Plus, many of the back roads aren’t even modified to hold the modules in the first place. I guess that makes sense.
So, there we were, bumping and lurching along a pot-holed and sand-covered road, on our way to El-Alamein. All the while, Anta’s broad knowledge of each subject we discussed made me wonder whether I should actually be a professor. Obviously, I didn’t think I would know everything she knows about this place, since she’s a local. I shouldn’t have felt stupid, but I’m the professor, and every time she said something I didn’t know, she smiled. And that smile—wow—I’ve got to either stop talking to her or be more selective about the topics I bring up. When I got up the nerve to ask her, much later, how she knew so much on so many topics, she smiled and told me she didn’t really have to know that much, she just had to know more than me. Then she winked.
“I don’t know why,” I finally said as we neared our destination, “and I can’t understand it, but I have a feeling that whatever it is that caused the bodies in those pictures to look that way is a very bad thing. In all my studies, research and travels, I’ve never seen anything like that—not even in the old days before the vaccines.”
“I have the same bad feeling,” Anta replied. “I hadn’t seen those photographs until a couple of hours before you did and they grossed me out.”
Yeah, she said “gross”—how cute. And here was my chance to regain the upper hand. Call me a chauvinist, I don’t care. I explained that humans today were living longer and healthier lives than ever before in recorded history, with an average life span of 109 years for women and 111 years for men. Just 60 years ago, people rarely lived into their 100s. This advancement is partially the result of fewer wars and significant advancements in prosthesis and cloning. But fewer mortal illnesses within the human population are also a significant factor. During the advanced stages of life, now, humans aren’t riddled with dementia and the crippling diseases and accompaniments of old age previously known to the race. Thus, the average human, barring some fatal accident or the inability of his body to properly deal with some rare, but not altogether-unknown infectious disease, can expect to live more than 110 or even 120 years in relative good health.
She said she already knew that.
A little more timidly, I continued to explain the interesting part—that biologic and manmade diseases, along with other mortal medical conditions, are significantly rarer today than in previous generations. This is due to tremendous advancements in science and medicine, of course. Numerous diseases and other h
uman conditions that previously plagued the Earth, like the flu, chicken pox and malaria have been largely eradicated. Other conditions, like heart disease, tuberculosis, cancer, and lung disease are now no more serious or life-threatening than the common cold due to advancements in simple, cheap, over-the-counter medications. Biological diseases, like Anthrax and Smallpox, while profoundly feared at various times in the history of the world, haven’t been a cause for concern since the early 2050s.
She knew that too. Cripes.
Our discussion ended as we drove into El-Alamein. I concluded my thoughts by remarking that my unease is probably because the bodies in the pictures looked to have succumbed to some crippling infectious disease, which we haven’t dealt with as a race for nearly 40 years. Anta agreed aloud. Secretly, however, I doubted it. In any event, she must have appreciated my knowledge in this area because she didn’t even attempt to get the last word in. Yes! Nailed it!
I fully expected to learn that the desert bodies’ deaths were caused by some war between rival nomadic families. And then maybe some punk kid thought it would be funny or cool to desecrate the bodies and show his friends on the Net. I knew a few kids like that.
Entering the city, Anta headed directly to the office of Mr. Riyad Shafik, the local tour guide who is believed to have taken those gruesome pictures. Anta hoped that he would know where the bodies are and would be able to take us there. Mr. Shafik wasn’t at his office. A young, homely woman, with dull, mud-brown hair and vacant eyes—Shafik’s bored and underpaid secretary probably—informed us that he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning.
What could we do?
We did what any traveler would do under the circumstances—we ate. Although it was relatively early in the day, we had dinner at a small, tastefully-decorated, Greek café on the coast—an obvious tourist trap. I ordered stuffed swordfish and a Pepsi. The fish was awesome, and our server gave me only a slightly condescending look as she noted my choice of drink, then spit out the word “Pepsi” when repeating my order. Anta had tomato and feta shrimp with a “Louisa” (some kind of lemon herbal tea) to drink. The server showed no animosity toward that beverage choice.