The discussion had been going on for well over two hours. Copolla sat and listened with a face showing outward concern as the two opposing sides debated which planets deserved assistance and which did not. Internally though, he struggled with the boredom of the moment.
Allowing himself some relief, he laughed inwardly. This is so perfect. Disagreement and indecisiveness much sooner than I ever expected. Perfect. I might even be able to speed up my timeline a little. Just perfect.
This controversy erupted over the last review of the status reports regarding the progress of several planets. Some of the reports were correct, but the majority of them had been written to cause the effects that Copolla wanted—division and cracks within the Council. He had accomplished this by having Journo replace members of the Council Planetary Monitoring Teams and altering their reports. This was necessary because it made things so much easier for the upcoming changes he planned.
Reports were coming in from numerous planets, announcing that their current situations were critical or reaching a point that required immediate action on the part of the Council. Unfortunately, the Council’s hands were tied on trying to make a decision on where to apply their quickly-depleting resources.
Copolla raised his hand to silence the vicious cycle of debate that had gotten out of hand over the past few moments. He spoke in his most conciliatory manner possible. "Members, please, we seem to be at an impasse. Perhaps we should adjourn until tomorrow so that tempers may calm down and we may look at these issues refreshed. Hopefully, we will be able to reach a mutually agreeable situation for all concerned."
The members looked at each other warily, the fatigue showing in their eyes. They appeared thankful to Copolla for calling an end to the grueling session. As they gathered their documents that were strewn about the table and stuffed them into their respective receptacles, the members prepared to depart. Copolla was waiting for just this moment to add to their controversy. He wanted them tired and irritated.
He held up his hand. "Before you depart, may I please offer some advice on what I have observed."
The members who had gotten up returned to their seats. Copolla rose and began to pace around the room, stopping behind each delegate. "There are many worlds that require our assistance. In the beginning, the decisions were easier, simpler. Now, they have become harder. And I ask myself why? Is it because of the vastly increasing number and our dwindling resources? Or is it because the issue is becoming more of a moral and ethical issue? Are we questioning our actions in what we do? Have we made the correct choices?"
He made eye contact in turn with each member. He wanted each word he said to be embedded in their minds like a screech worm burying into the sands. "What I want to leave you with today is a single question," he said, sending his last salvo. "Should we continue in the direction we have been going? Or is it time to re-evaluate our position in the grand scheme of the galaxy? Should we make changes in our entire organization?"
Silence. The members looked at each other, then back at him. He saw hidden anger in one, and that was okay; he expected that. But the others were nodding their heads, agreeing that they, too, had similar thoughts. But he could also see the fear in their eyes. This is very good, he thought. Fear and anger was just the combination he wanted.
Before anyone could answer or question what he had said, he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. They hurriedly scurried out of the room as if Copolla had released a disease into the air and they didn't want to be infected.
Minutes later, he sat alone in the conference room, leaning back in one of the large leather chairs. "Yes," he said, a pleased smile spreading across his face. "Things are going quite well." Things were going so well he predicted that, in a matter of months, he might have enough of the Council on his side to move ahead with his plans. He would need to have Journo move onto the next phase. He moved to his terminal and pressed the access code to summon Journo immediately.
As he waited for Journo to answer to his summons, he wondered to himself how his "good friend" Leumas was doing. He laughed. He and Leumas had never shared that relationship, and never would.
His terminal lit up and he slid his chair over to be in front so he could see Journo's image as he spoke to him. The expression on Copolla's face soured from his earlier humor as it now turned into one of anger. To his disbelief, the screen flashed the same message repeatedly, "Out of communication range."
He banged his fist on the terminal. Journo knew the rule; he was not to go outside of Zire's communication range or do anything without Copolla's express consent and permission. He began to chant aloud, "Where, oh where is Journo? Where could he be?" He did not feel comfortable with any of the possibilities that he saw. He always felt that Journo was a rogue of sorts, always hiding something within those black eyes.
Copolla tapped the console pads with his fingers and displayed two options: Communication message to another one of the agents in his employ, or termination of Journo. His large finger swayed back and forth.
* * * *
Greg was flipping through a magazine as he waited his turn for a haircut, the sound of the electric clippers humming in the background. He was studying the picture of a pretty woman in a cosmetic advertisement until a blaring car horn drew his eyes from the photograph. He looked up at the sound, but had to squint his eyes against the warm sun's glare that came through the large window.
It was Saturday, and the barbershop just outside of the French Quarter in New Orleans was very busy. The shop was full, already six people waiting for a haircut, and there were two more people ahead of him. As his gaze returned to the girl in the magazine, he realized that the item she was advertising, some brand name cologne or something, was really dated and already on the downswing of its short market life. He turned to the front page and checked the date; the magazine was nearly a year old. Disgusted, he put the magazine down, the pretty girl forgotten.
"You would think the least they could do is have a current magazine or something to read," he said to the old timer sitting next to him. The old man smiled and nodded.
The hum of the clippers continued to drone on as he looked out of the barbershop's window where the passing traffic offered no interest. He sighed in boredom, wishing he had picked up a newspaper on the way over to read while he waited. As if his mentioning the newspaper had conjured up its appearance, he saw that another guy, three seats down on his left, was reading today's newspaper.
Greg could make out some of the headlines in the reflection of the mirrors in front of him. If he turned his head just right, he could almost read it. It was reversed in the reflection and took some effort to un-reverse the letters to understand the words. He might look a little strange, but what the heck, it passed the time.
He had been passing time quite a bit by reading the newspaper ever since he had had his brush with notoriety. It had been a couple of months since his "return from the grave," as the papers called it. His friends had called it a miracle, and yes, he had made quite a few new friends since the accident. He smiled as he thought about how some of the ladies were calling him their good luck charm now. They figured he must be good luck because he had survived a meeting with death itself.
An orderly had brushed past Greg's body accidentally in the morgue of the hospital where he had been brought after being pronounced dead on the scene. The orderly said what attracted his attention was that the body still possessed a flesh tone color, so he checked and found a weak pulse. Finding him alive caused quite a stir in the hospital.
He supposed they were worried about him filing a lawsuit or something. Anyway, he decided to settle for their offer of lifetime medical care instead. It seemed the sensible choice, although it had surprised even him that he had not attempted to sue them for everything they had. He just felt that he had changed somehow because of the incident; his outlook on life was different now in some way.
He returned to the game of trying to read the newspaper backwards in the mirror, squinting to make
out the smaller print. Before he could continue, however, the process was momentarily interrupted as the barber finished up his current customer. The man had gotten up from the chair, and was reaching for his wallet, blocking Greg's view of the newspaper's reflection.
"Next." The barber groaned as if in pain, as he waited for his previous customer to pay. The guy sitting next to him got up from the waiting chairs and moved into the barber chair.
"How would you like it?" the barber asked, his voice containing hope that maybe this person would respond with something unusual.
"How about a little off the top, and trim the sides," the customer said, using his hands to indicate how he wanted his hair to be cut.
"Sure thing, friend," the barber responded, sighing.
"Going to be a hot summer. Can feel it in my bones. Ain't I lucky?"
"Well you know what they say…"
Greg focused again on reading the newspaper in the mirror reflection. It took some getting used to, but it became easier the more he tried and it helped to break the monotony of waiting for his turn. The guy with the paper was reading the sports section at the moment. Greg didn't much care for sports. He wanted to see the front page, the big news.
The newspapers had been concentrating heavily on the upcoming presidential elections. He found himself unusually curious about what this third party candidate fella was talking about now. Samuel was his name. Edward Samuel. Greg wasn't too keen on politics either, but everyone at work was talking about this guy, and current events sometimes impressed the girls. Samuel was "a man of the people, someone you can trust," they were all saying.
This new third political party had named itself "The Future of the Earth Party," and had risen out of the humiliation and blatant distrust of the two major parties. The newspapers had blown the whole thing wide open when they came upon certain evidence that supported the accusations that the two major parties had actually started agreeing on certain issues and were said to be conducting secret conferences together. Many things had come to light over these past couple of months that held too many unanswered questions and behind-the-scenes secret bipartisan stuff. People felt deceived. Couldn't trust the old party system anymore. In a way, Greg found it amusing how it couldn't have picked a worse time to surface with this being an election year and all. The irony was almost too much.
Finally the person with the newspaper turned so that the front page was reflected in the mirror. He corrected for the backward reflection by imagining the letters in his mind and reshaping them. Headline: DRIHT equals THIRD. Next word: YTRAP spells PARTY. Next word; SI equals IS. Next word: NI equals IN. Next word: LEUMAS equals SAMUEL…
Greg stopped on that last word. The letters in the image of that word turned and moved on their own. They settled into an organized line and inverted themselves into a new word. This new word flashed in his mind, LEUMAS—LEUMAS—LEUMAS.
He looked away from the reflection, but the letters felt as if they were burning themselves into his mind as they reverberated in his thoughts over and over again. Suddenly, he felt lightheaded, almost faint, as images raced before him so fast they were a blur. As they slowed and became stationary, there were images of people he didn't know, but felt he should for some reason.
Sarah, and… Leumas…an alien? Lots of aliens? UCDW, United Council for Developing Worlds…Copolla…Leumas…Leumas…
Greg shook his head to try and clear the barrage of information he had been assaulted with. When his normal sight returned, he looked directly at the newspaper the man held out in front of him as he read. Everything was the same and, as he looked further down the page, he noticed a picture of Edward Samuel with another figure. Greg's eyes suddenly grew wide as he recognized the man next to Edward Samuel! It was the alien called…Leumas!
He stood up and walked out of the barbershop in a daze to the strange stares of those who were waiting for their turn. He looked down the street, his eyes searching frantically. Finally, he saw what he was searching for—a pay phone across the street. He stumbled toward it, still feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed by the images that were now becoming clearer with his understanding of what it all meant. He was almost hit by one of the many horse-and-buggy tours of the French Quarter. A horse moaned in protest as the driver pulled up on the reins.
"Hey, man, what you trying to do?" the carriage driver yelled angrily in a thick Creole accent.
Greg ignored the man as he fumbled through his wallet and removed his telephone credit card. He dialed the number for information. As he waited for the operator, the images fell into perfect sync: Copolla, the huge evil alien and leader of the Council, Leumas the slippery alien initial contact agent that had arranged their deaths and sudden rebirths. Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. The puzzle was coming together perfectly, and he now had total recall of everything.
"Information, what city?" the emotionless female voice asked.
Without hesitation, he answered, "New York City, Sarah McClendon."
* * * *
Sarah's alarm beeped her into awareness as she rolled over to silence it. Its glowing red letters indicated the time, 5:00 AM, like a bright neon sign in the night. She slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
While she fumbled through her early morning grogginess, she turned on the shower water as she brushed her teeth. Her workday did not begin until 8:30, but she liked to rise early so she could plan her day. "The most efficient use of time," one of the management courses had touted.
She stepped under the soothing hot water as it gently caressed her skin with warmth, one of the things she had learned to appreciate after her brush with death. The thought of not being around to appreciate the simple things in life had heightened her awareness of these simple pleasures, and was reinforced when the hospital had told her that there was no way she should have been able to live after receiving such a large jolt of current through her body.
"Yet I did," she said aloud, turning the hot water up a notch. The wrinkle remover that zapped her was not faulty, and no explanation could be given as to why they thought she was dead. The best they could do was say the electricity caused some kind of overload that had placed her in some kind of suspended animation. She had been declared legally dead by the on-site paramedics who swore that there had been no vital signs whatsoever. However, by a freak chance, while performing an inventory of the bodies the next day, the morgue orderly swore he saw what he first perceived as a reflexive flinch from the body. Thinking it was uncommon with corpses this many hours old to have any reflexes, he called a buddy over to examine her. They stood over the body, shrugged, and were about to call it just a case of morgue jitters when suddenly Sarah gasped for air. The attendants ran for the doctor immediately. The doctor confirmed that she was indeed alive and transferred her to intensive care. "A miracle," he had called it.
Sarah groped for the towel as she turned the water off. She dried herself off and began to put the clothes on that she had picked out last night. The whole series of events around her supposed death had left her with a feeling of renewed energy. She didn't quite know how to put it into words. She was glad to get back to her office and delve into her work, but couldn't help but feel that something was missing. Also her work didn't satisfy her as much as it used to.
Now dressed, all that remained was for Sarah to dry and style her hair, and apply a little makeup. Before she entered this phase of her morning ritual, she walked into the kitchen and turned the coffeepot on. While it brewed, she retrieved the morning paper that had been placed at her doorway of her apartment.
She would peruse through the main headlines and the business section while she finished her hair and makeup. She liked to be well informed on matters because her work relied on that. Marketing analysis in any form was based on current trends and the economy.
As the two-cup coffee pot hissed to its completed dripping cycle, Sarah poured the brew into her cup and added her two precise teaspoons of sugar substitute, along with a dash of low fat cream. Taking a fast sip, she
headed back to the bathroom with the cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, just as she would juggle the rest of the process of makeup, hair and reading the paper at the same time.
Another touted ethic she remembered: use your time wisely; the person who does one thing at a time is single-minded. She chuckled at the statement. Instead of single-minded, she always wanted to substitute "simple" minded. It had been her own private little joke, made up while she was attending one of the management seminars for the third time in a row.
She now faced herself in the mirror as she picked up the blow dryer. She looked at it twice, as she had also developed a bit of a phobia about electrical devices, and went to work drying her long hair. The newspaper still lay folded in thirds on the counter, teasing that little voice to come back with another reminder. Once her hair was dry, she took a large swig of her coffee and started to digest the information from the newspaper.
The newspapers had been full of political uproar since information about the two parties working together had created such a stir, a loud stir heard around the world. Today, the headline indicated that the new third party had enough backing now to be a serious contender in the upcoming election.
"THIRD PARTY IS IN! SAMUEL AT THE HELM!" the large black letters blazoned across the paper.
"Well, it's about time," she said out loud. "Maybe we'll get some long overdue changes around here." She casually flipped the paper over and looked at the bottom half. Nothing caught her eye of any significance but, before putting the paper down, she glanced at herself to decide on whether or not to curl her long hair or let it hang straight down today. Something caught her eye. The newspaper headline was reflected in the mirror, backward but readable. One word flashed out to her.
"SAMUEL." But, in the mirror, it appeared as "LEUMAS." The letters danced in her thoughts as they rearranged themselves and formed the word: LEUMAS. Suddenly, she felt weak, and her vision blurred as images began to flash in front of her eyes. Images of strange people passed with such speed she couldn't focus on any one of them. Her stomach became nauseous. She gripped the bathroom counter with both hands as the paper dropped to the floor. She closed her eyes and tried to will her stomach back into this world. She concentrated on the barrage of blurred images to stop. They finally slowed and came into focus.
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