Omphalos

by Harper J. Cole

  But she needed Mokubarij to co-operate, or they’d never complete the assembly of Vitana’s artefact. Soon she would get her chance, in the form of an audience with the president.

  The result would be either a small step forward or a giant leap back to square one.

  * * *

  While embarrassed by how it had come about, Annie was glad to have been excused from diplomatic duty. It seemed to involve a lot of sitting about doing nothing, which would never be her specialty. Every waking second is a precious currency – spend it wisely, she thought to herself.

  Hey, great line. That’s going straight in the novel.

  Twego, her guide, led her through a broad underground passage, running below the boulevard which was hosting the parade. The thumping of boots and drums boomed and echoed all about the two of them as they walked. Man, Gypsy would hate this. Too loud even for me. Just this once, I’d say she made the right call, staying on the ship.

  Annie didn’t speak much with Twego, other than exchanging names. Her grasp of Matan was still lousy, and the Kerinian dialect was noticeably different to any other. Still, she didn’t mind his presence – quite a relaxed type, as bodyguards went. The fact that there was absolutely no-one else about probably helped put him at ease – the national park, when they emerged into it, was similarly deserted. They were getting VIP treatment, and anyone approaching them unannounced would face a considerable time in jail, while the penalty for attacking a human was death, by the president’s own decree.

  The park was beautiful by the standard of any species. Carefully maintained pine-like trees gave it a strong sense of order, while purple rodents like fluffy chipmunks danced among the branches and provided a much-needed dash of chaos. Birdsong was abundant, though currently rendered near-inaudible by the parade. The statues of Sheko and Chivu loomed majestically over everything.

  They presently arrived at the Roko, a luxury hotel which had been cleared of local occupants for the duration of their stay (not, of course, at their request). The Kerinian desire to show that no expense was being spared had even extended to the creation of a ground floor hangar for the Bona Dea, permitting the crew to sleep in their familiar quarters if they so desired.

  Annie thanked Twego, and he surprised her by responding, “Have the good rest!” in choppy but comprehensible English. Their presence in this neck of the woods was causing ripples. On then to the hangar. She’d tried out a hotel room last night; the beds were soft and luxurious, but too different to what she was used to, contributing to her failure to get a satisfactory amount of sleep. No such problems today – once Annie had cleared decon, she crashed out on top of the bedsheets and was snoring within a minute.

  * * *

  When she awoke, all was quiet. The distant thrum of the parade had faded. A glance at her clock showed that four hours had passed.

  What now? Back outside, methinks. I’ll explore the park and think about nothing for a while. I mean, they’ve cleared the place for us, it’s only polite to use it.

  She was back in Medical in short order, where she found Dr. Little presiding.

  “Annie, off out again. What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “Umbrella!” She brandished the implement. “Our minders told us it’s forecast to rain roundabout now. Gonna make history … first umbrella user outside of Earth.”

  The doctor frowned. “I hate to break it to you, but there are lots of terraformed planets with rain these days. I used one myself on Gliese 832.”

  “Oh.” Annie was briefly deflated. “Well, I’m gonna do it anyway.”

  “While you’re out and about, perhaps you can check on Gypsy.”

  “What? She’s left the ship?”

  “About half an hour ago. I told her I wouldn’t look at her on the screens when she comes back through decon.”

  “Where is she?”

  Little glanced over at the monitors. “About two hundred yards above us, by the look of things. Up on the roof.”

  * * *

  It’s peaceful up here, thought Gypsy, smoothing down her green dress. It was one of her less-worn outfits, and the cotton felt thick and soft. Peace without, peace within? Not really, but about as close as I get, I suppose. Sometimes you’ve just got to settle for less.

  She was over fifty stories up, but others rose higher; the Roko was set almost directly between the twin goliaths who dominated the national park. Sheko, kneeling though he was, loomed large before her, his thoughtful stone features set against a cloudy sky. If Gypsy turned on her bench, she would see Chivu standing erect at three times the height of her perch. Spectacular, if a little intimidating.

  Gypsy preferred to concentrate on the trees, pleasingly uniform in height, and the distant streets where Kerinians were now going about their normal business, the parade having finally concluded some two hours ago. There were no cars in evidence, nor buses nor trains. Those who preferred not to walk moved about on little circular hover-platforms, which bobbed and weaved gently around both pedestrians and each other, with never a collision as far as Gypsy could see. Computer-guided, probably.

  What will Annie be doing now? There was a banquet on the agenda for the afternoon – probably started already. She’ll be there in some great hall, dazzling everyone with her wit, her beauty, but they’ll never appreciate her like I do…

  She sighed. Yes. Sometimes you’ve just got to settle for less.

  Gypsy had allowed herself to dream, in those hours after Annie had rescued her from the prison of her bedroom, that her feelings were reciprocated. It seemed only fair that the universe, having stolen her mother away, would gift her a lover in compensation. But no such cosmic balance existed. Fate had no memory, and could decide against the same woman a hundred times out of a hundred, if the dice fell that way.

  Why would she want me, when she can have Iris? Or anyone she wants on the whole Earth, once we get home. She’s going to be famous.

  The door to the stairwell burst open behind Gypsy. Startled, she turned to look, expecting Dr. Little or a member of the Roko’s staff.

  It was Annie. The redhead waved and trotted over. She was wheezing heavily, gasping for breath.

  “Annie, is something, erm, are you okay?”

  “Aha … yup,” the technician slumped onto the bench beside Gypsy. “Just took the stairs, thought they’d be quicker. Reckon I got that wrong. Boy, that was a lotta steps.”

  “But why were you in a hurry?”

  Annie looked blank for a moment, then hoisted aloft a multi-coloured umbrella. “Doc said you’re on the roof. There’s rain coming, so I thought you might need this.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Was that a lie? Why would she come charging up here for something so minor? She burst out of that door like she thought I might be in danger. Worried I was going to fall off the roof?

  Or … worried that I might jump off?

  The idea shocked Gypsy, but perhaps it made sense. She hadn’t been in the best place psychologically lately – or ever, come to think of it. Up here, there were no railings to stop someone from taking the plunge.

  But I wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t, actually. Gypsy had noticed distant specks walking up and down the skyscrapers of the capital – Kerinians, with their artificial gravity, could stroll up the outsides of their buildings on their way to work, just as easily as they might take the stairs or a lift. The Roko was surely no different, or there would be a protective wall or rail around the edge, barely five feet in front of her.

  An unpleasant thought struck Gypsy. It was quite reasonable to assume that she was in no danger of falling, but she was not a reasonable person. Usually she was extremely paranoid about even the most farfetched threat to her person. She thought of all the time she’d spent filing away at the frame of her bed to soften the edges, afraid that she might somehow fall onto it and break her neck, how she’d double- and triple-check that the gas on the cooker was switched off back home. Septuple-check, more often than not, the procedure taking so long that she used to dread
going into the kitchen.

  Yet she’d seated herself a few steps from a potential killing drop with hardly a thought.

  Do I not care anymore? Is that the truth of it? Or worse, do I hope to die now, and put an end to the fight?

  The idea troubled Gypsy. She knew full well that ending her life would be an insult to her mother’s sacrifice, but suddenly felt that she couldn’t trust herself not to do that very thing.

  I’ve been so up and down lately. How low might I go?

  She glanced over at Annie, managing to maintain eye-contact for an electrifying second before having to look away.

  Yes. That was the answer. Annie.

  “Erm … I’d like to promise you something, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” Annie sounded surprised. “But, don’t you mean you want me to promise you something?”

  “No, no it’s this way round … you have to be the holder of my promise. That way I know I won’t break it.”

  “So, I’m a sort of vow container? Gotcha. What’s the promise?”

  “I won’t give up.”

  Gypsy could see the technician’s ginger locks swaying as she nodded. “Good,” she answered at length. “I’ll hold you to that, and I’m gonna promise you the same. No quit here.”

  The rain started then, warm but steady. Annie declared that it was umbrella time, popping hers to full size and edging closer to Gypsy so that she could hold it over both of them. It proved to be composed of six sections, each a different colour; Gypsy opened her mouth to ask that the green area be placed above her to match her dress, but found Annie already spinning the umbrella to accomplish just that.

  She’s my friend. Isn’t that enough?

  The rain strengthened, and Gypsy had to pull her feet up and sit cross-legged to avoid getting her slippers wet. All about them, the world changed, distant skyscrapers taking on a moist sheen while the surrounding trees began to emit an earthy, refreshing odour. Rainwater ran down Sheko’s sloping brow, collecting in pools upon the folds of his robes, then overflowing and running down his body in a series of little fountains.

  Gypsy and Annie watched in silence, tiny ants in a world of giants.

  V

  Courtesy is only a thin veneer on the general selfishness.

  - Honoré de Balzac

  Three days later, the banquets, interviews, public appearances and cultural tours were at an end. Miriam Hunter stood before Pashamin, the Tower of Government, ready to meet with the president.

  Most of the crew were back at the hotel now; Daniella Winters was still being flown about the planet, using her 3D Imager to capture wonders both natural and man-made. Alas, she hadn’t been allowed to accompany the captain – filming in the government complex was strictly forbidden, even by honoured guests. Aside from a quartet of guides, Hunter was alone here.

  The complex lay a few miles beyond the outskirts of Kodimon. It was nearly a city in its own right, with the living quarters of thousands of politicians and civil servants spread about the central tower.

  Pashamin itself was vast – absurdly, obscenely vast. A gold-plated cylinder, its crown was wreathed in clouds, but Hunter knew that it stood close to two miles in height. Its base had a diameter of some three hundred yards – a great distance by normal standards, but it should not have been enough to support the many tonnes of concrete and steel above. She guessed that Matan anti-gravity was the only thing making the tower possible, and wondered what might happen if the technology failed. Expensive and impractical. That shouldn’t surprise me at this point.

  “Captain Hunter. Pashamin impresses you, I see.”

  Hunter, who had been scanning the vaulting walls, trying and failing to spot any imperfections in the smooth surface, returned her gaze to ground level. A door had slid soundlessly aside to reveal the vice president, accompanied now by two young males with the watchful look of bodyguards about them.

  “I’ve seen nothing like it,” she responded, keeping her reservations about the structure to herself. “It is an honour to meet with you again, Chapashazon.”

  “A greater one awaits you. Follow me. Your guides will wait here until you return.” He turned sharply and entered the building, causing Hunter to break into a trot to catch up.

  They passed through an entrance hall with a large reception desk and numerous guards, all of whom Chapashazon ignored. Next came a recreation room, replete with plantlife, and then…

  Hunter gasped as she found herself entering the core of the building. She stood in a hollow tube, over a hundred feet across, that appeared to stretch all the way to the distant roof. Up and up rose the walls above her, dotted with openings to various rooms of state. A myriad of coloured globes lined the walls in various shades and hues – probably meant as a navigation guide, as no written signs were visible.

  Stairs and elevators were also missing – one got about by walking on the walls, and Hunter could see dozens of Kerinians moving up and down, assisted only by conveyer belts. There was a constant hubbub of noise about her, conversations echoing up and down the shaft.

  The captain had become almost used to the wonders of Matan technology these past few months, but this was something beyond even the Gataran space station. So intent was she on ogling the expanses above that she stumbled over something at her feet. Chapashazon showed his robotic reflexes in shooting out a hand to steady her, and she looked down to examine the object that had almost tripped her.

  It was a broad stone plaque, raised a few inches from the floor. Words were carved in it. She read:

  In memoriam

  Nonicharaj

  He fell for love of his people

  Below this message was the stern visage of a Matan, presumably the deceased Nonicharaj.

  “A previous president,” said Chapashazon, “from four generations past. A political fanatic was able to sabotage the artificial gravity of Pashamin. The president plunged to his death; his body landed here. A tragedy that still haunts us today. Thirty-seven others shared his fate.”

  This last was added as an afterthought. Hunter couldn’t resist a pointed question. “Where are their plaques?”

  Chapashazon regarded her coolly. His vice-presidential aura was very much back in place. “There are not enough pages in our history books to record every life well lived. Perhaps on Earth things are different? Kerin is a planet drowning in heroes.”

  “No disrespect was intended.”

  “Good. Now, I must take my leave of you. By tradition, those granted an audience with the President climb to her Office of State alone.”

  “Which room is hers?”

  The vice president pointed straight upwards. “The top one.”

  * * *

  The trip up the inside of Pashamin took several minutes. Hunter was happy to take her time, resting as the patient conveyer belts bore her towards her destination. She had the opportunity to glance into several rooms as she passed, but saw only the usual workings of a political machine: meeting rooms, offices, computer screens everywhere. The outer wall of the building appeared somewhat translucent from the inside, and golden light flooded much of the interior.

  The rooms were all correctly oriented, such that their occupants stood with their feet pointing towards the earth – all rather disconcerting for Hunter, who glanced back over her shoulder at the receding ground floor and tried not to think about Nonicharaj plummeting to his death.

  Did Chapashazon tell me that story just to play with my mind? Unlike him to volunteer an explanation without being asked. I haven’t much cared for either of his personas, public or personal. I suppose the feeling might be mutual.

  As her strange journey continued, Hunter’s focus switched to the presidential office, looming ever larger before her. Her weak eyesight made it little more than a speck in the distance at first, then a smudge of colour – then, at last, details began to make themselves known. A colossal circular tapestry showed a tree spreading its branches across the cosmos, vermillion leaves outshining the stars; around i
t, individual portraits were laid in a growing arc – twenty faces, with room for many more; green and blue banners hung here, there and everywhere, bells hanging from their tassels. And straight before Hunter stood a raised desk, behind which President Mokubarij sat on a chair that was golden and studded with emeralds, resembling a medieval throne. Unlike the other rooms she’d seen here, this one was oriented perpendicularly to the planet; the president faced downwards, her gaze encompassing the whole of the great cylinder below her.

  As Hunter grew nearer, she perceived that a meeting was currently taking place. A number of Kerinians stood before the president, heads bowed respectfully.

  Ministers, perhaps? Or supplicants…

  Guards were spread at regular intervals about the threshold to Mokubarij’s domain, their uniforms grey and practical, their guns gleaming conspicuously. One of them stepped forward to greet Hunter when she reached the top.

  “You are expected,” he said. “Come.” He turned and crossed the threshold, which was marked by a switch from cool stone to plush carpeting. Hunter felt her ears pop slightly as she followed the guard, and abruptly became aware of soft chimes and softer conversation. Sound-proofing, she realised. Invisible and intangible. Impressive tech, again.

  “Hunter of Rerutha,” intoned the guard solemnly.

  The president’s gaze alighted on Hunter. “All leave,” she said, and those in attendance did so without complaint – all save one. A young male lounged in a seat to the left of the president (and somewhat above, due to the curvature of the floor). He had short yellow hairs over his bare torso, and his face was painted a garish pink; he was reading a book and did not glance up at the human visitor.