Flower-of-Sands_The Extraordinary Adventures of a Female Astronaut

by Grahame R. Smith

  When he had finished, there was a long silence followed by rapturous applause, but Jalaal needed to discuss various aspects of the performance with the orchestra. Whilst he was doing this, people began to move about in the auditorium. When Rashida returned from her practice, Leila looked up and grinned capriciously as she unfastened her smart-lute from its case in preparation for her own rehearsal, her hands running sensually over the smooth fingerboard, her lips pouting prettily as she blew over the strings.

  Jalaal, having finished with the orchestra, made his way back to his instrument case, waving to Rashida, trying to ignore Leila, who was executing a parody of admiration as she casually tuned her instrument, her eyes sly and ironic. ‘C'était superbe. Tu as un grand talent. Je t’adore’

  ‘Holy Sands, I hate her!’ Rashida said a few minutes later as she and Jalaal sat down to coffee in the cafeteria.

  ‘When is your rehearsal?’ Jalaal said, trying to steer her thoughts away from Leila.

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’ Rashida stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry! I’m in a state. I am on this afternoon.’ But she was unable to pull her thoughts away from Leila. ‘And you encourage her by saying nothing. Why don’t you tell her to piss off?’

  ‘But why? It would only make things worse, and she is a friend, only a friend. After all, it’s just a competition. Anyway, I thought you and she were friends.’

  ‘That’s weak, Jal, honestly.’

  ‘Not so. You are friends, surely, best friends in fact. I’ve seen you shopping together, arm in arm, laughing and joking.’

  ‘Well, we are friends, or were, and will be – once the competition is over. You know how it is.’

  ‘I wonder if I do, sometimes I really wonder. You girls are just - impossible.’

  ‘Jalaal, that is so patronizing.’

  The floor seemed to move, and for a few moments a feeling of unreality pervaded, as if time had stopped. Rashida felt like her world had become an exhibit in stasis. Jalaal stared at the table on which he had placed his mug of coffee, hypnotized by its presence – everything seemed remote, far away. He felt as if the Earth had ceased spinning and would throw everyone into space. Then it stopped. But Jalaal and Rashida stayed silent for a full minute.

  ‘What was that?’ Rashida asked eventually into the air about her. People seated at other tables looked about, murmuring, questioning. Everyone was baffled.

  ‘Could be a tremor?’ someone asked casually.

  ‘It felt weird, not like the usual tremor,’ Rashida said.

  ‘Tremors can make you feel strange, can have unpredictable effects,’ someone else said.

  Rashida looked questioning at Jalaal, who shrugged. ‘I don’t know what it was. It could have been a seismic shift of some sort, maybe an experiment from the science department at the university. They are always up to something.’ People nearby laughed.

  ‘It was Weather Control,’ spoke an all-knowing young man, who was also a competitor. After which he made several jokes to the girls accompanying him. All at his table burst into laughter, obviously not taking the matter seriously.

  Jalaal leant towards Rashida and took her hand, his eyes full of promise, something she loved and wished would happen more often.

  ‘When the competition is over, whatever the result, we go to Mars, to the Hanging Gardens, to Mount Olympus and the hotel with the view - and more, just you and me.’

  Although exhilarated by his offer, Rashida adopted a practical, almost severe persona. ‘You, Jalaal, need to focus on the competition. Tomorrow you will prove your greatness to the world. Then we can party.’

  Jalaal smiled knowingly into her face that spoke a different story to the apparent solemnity of her words.

  ‘Provided I approve of your performance,’ she added.

  One of the doorways leading to and from the auditorium slid open and Leila emerged, looking wild, her dark eyes flashing panic and anger. When she saw Jalaal and Rashida, she ran towards them, her expression menacing, her hands clenched into fists.

  ‘You did it!’ she yelled at Rashida. ‘It was you.’

  Rashida was aghast. ‘Me? What did I do?’

  ‘Don’t play innocent with me, you scumbag. It could only have been you.’ Leila grabbed an empty chair and threw it crashing onto the floor.

  ‘What did she do?’ Jalaal stood protectively in front of Rashida ‘What are you accusing her of?’

  ‘Damaging my lute, breaking the strings, sabotaging my chances. It will never be ready for the competition now, you horrible person; I must borrow another instrument. I can’t rehearse or anything.’ She glared at Rashida. ‘Jealous bitch!’

  People at neighbouring tables were stunned. This was behaviour unbecoming of Academy students and was unprecedented in the history of the music competition.

  ‘How could you think I would do such a thing, Leila,’ Rashida stammered. ‘There must be another explanation.’

  ‘How can there be,’ Leila spat.

  Rashida gained some degree of composure, and then she became angry. ‘This is the sort of behaviour I would expect from you, Leila. Accusing me? I would not be surprised if you did it deliberately so you could blame me.’

  Leila’s usually lovely face contorted with fury. Fists clenched, she moved nearer to Rashida, preparing to strike her.

  Once again, Jalaal blocked her way. ‘As Rashida said, there must be another explanation. Rashida would never do such a thing, however provoked.’

  Leila bursts into tears. ‘Provoked? I’m surprised at you, Jalaal, taking her side. Am I such a threat?’

  Rashida ventured forward, almost tripping Jalaal over and bringing herself dangerously close to Leila. ‘Leila, please believe me, I would never, ever do such a thing.’

  Leila spun around to get past Jalaal and strike Rashida, but a commotion around the multiple entrances to the auditorium took her attention as it did everyone else’s in the café area.

  A group of students ran towards Leila, their faces ignited with apprehension and disbelief.

  ‘Leila,’ one of the girls shouted. ‘It’s not just you, it’s everybody. All the instruments are broken, some worse than yours. Other things are broken too. The auditorium AI has stopped functioning.’

  ‘It’s chaos,’ a boy shouted. ‘The elevators are not working either. There is no access to the upper chambers. We are cut off.’

  Dumbfounded, Leila made as if to apologize, but Rashida had already rushed past her and was making out of the café towards the practice room where she had left her lute. Leila turned towards Jalaal and the other students who were gathering around her, trying to make sense of what was going on.

  As the confusion grew, Jalaal dragged himself free of the students and made towards the auditorium. His delicate and technologically sophisticated instrument would be as vulnerable as all the others would be.

  As he reached an entrance to the auditorium, something caught his eye – a flicker, a fleeting shadow, something ghostlike. He turned and for a split second beheld a dark narrow tunnel surrounded by rotating green.

  Then it was gone, but a sense of it stayed with him.

  He rushed into the auditorium, feeling the tunnel following him. Reaching his instrument, he opened the case. Everything seemed in order. But something touched his shoulder. He turned and the auditorium was gone. He was moving along an infinite passageway. He must have eaten something, he thought, something that was making him hallucinate.

  Rashida returned to the auditorium café where Leila and the other students were still in a state of shock. The situation was unparalleled. Unusual things were common at the approach of the competition, which happened yearly; there were always rivalries and the stretching of boundaries; the teachers allowed it. Everywhere on Earth, rivalries between competitors in music and games were challenging but fundamentally harmless. Somehow, this was different.

  Rashida surveyed her lute, her expression apprehensive. All the strings were broken, and there were scratches on the i
nstrument’s body. But her bows were unharmed, which was a blessing. Wiping away tears, she realized the harm was superficial. With a little work, her robotic maintenance kit would restore her lute to its original condition.

  She went back to the auditorium and found Leila looking at her instrument. ‘It’s not too bad actually,’ Leila said solemnly. ‘It’s just the strings, mostly. It must have been an atmospheric freak or something.’ She looked pensive and then hugged Rashida. ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’

  ‘That’s okay Leila. It must have been a terrible moment, to find your instrument in that state, especially just before a rehearsal. But look, let’s see what Jalaal’s damage was.’

  They looked over to where Jalaal had parked his rubab but could not see him. The rubab’s outer case was there, but there was no Jalaal or actual rubab.

  ‘Where is he?’ Rashida asked as she surveyed the auditorium. ‘I can’t see him anywhere.’

  ‘He has probably gone to the men’s room, or gone off to practise somewhere,’ Leila said. ‘Let’s check the practice rooms.’

  ‘Could be, but I don’t sense him. Strange.’

  ‘You can sense him, can you?’ Leila asked suspiciously.

  ‘Well, yes. If I want to – not all the time, only when needed.’

  ‘Then you should have sensed that my flirting had negligible effect on him, instead of being so jealous and pouting like a spoilt fourteen-year-old.’

  ‘Do you expect me to behave rationally before a competition, Leila. You should know better than that. Let’s go and look for him.’

  Leila shrugged and then smiled. ‘Okay,’ she whispered, graciously conceding the point to Rashida.

  After surveying the auditorium again, they began searching the surrounding passageways, offices, and practice rooms. Still no sign of Jalaal.

  After half an hour, they retired to the café, which was now heaving with people in urgent need of refreshment following the ordeal of the damaged instruments. The girls considered their options.

  ‘He has vanished and I can’t sense him,’ Rashida said, her face screwed up with worry. ‘It’s very odd.’

  ‘I must admit I agree. Why would he vanish like this, without saying anything?’

  ‘Let’s go and ask the orchestra,’ Rashida said. ‘Maybe he has gone to them for some reason.’

  ‘But you don’t “sense” him, do you? What’s the point?’

  ‘Maybe my sensing is distorted. Perhaps he has switched off in some way.’ Rashida took Leila’s arm; after all, they were best friends. ‘I don’t know, actually Leila. I wish I did. I am worried. Something is wrong.’

  ‘And that is something you do sense?’ Leila enquired, without irony.

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ***

  The cliff edge overlooked a chasm that once had been part of the road between Kabul and Jalalabad. All differences between the two women had been cast aside. They were friends, united in a single, pressing concern. The clear, early morning air was doing nothing to subdue their growing anxiety. Jalaal was missing, and had been so since yesterday. Not only was this unprecedented for Jalaal, it was unique for the whole of Afghanistan, the whole of South Asia, indeed, the entire world. People did not disappear. Disappearances belonged to ancient times, were shadows of a distant past, the stuff of history and legend. Earth society was peaceful. War and crime were but memories.

  ‘He always was something of a legend,’ Rashida whispered to herself.

  ‘Now he certainly is,’ Leila retorted

  Desperation had brought them here because Jalaal had often said it was a favourite place for him, a place of solitude and contemplation where he could relax after practising.

  ‘Could it be the Sands?’ Rashida’s words sounded remote in the still air.

  ‘Honestly, Rad, the Sands are a myth, a superstition.’

  ‘There are many stories of the Sands appearing and luring the most beautiful, the most talented away.’ Rashida gazed across the mountains as if somehow the Sands would reveal themselves.

  ‘Every culture has myths of that nature. It’s just a fairy story,’ Leila said.

  ‘I guess you are right. It’s is strange, though, you must agree.’

  ‘I do, definitely.’

  Disappointed, they climbed into a small airboat, and Leila set the controls for the Jalalabad concert auditorium. She was a reckless driver, and Rashida held onto her seat. Within minutes, they were seated in the main auditorium of the concert hall where many had gathered to hear a personal address from the revered Mullah Nasr Eddin, said to be a distant descendent of a legendary folk figure.

  Like the other women and girls, Leila and Rashida were dressed formally in Hijabs and long, subdued dresses; they stood when the Mullah entered the hall.

  Instead of speaking Pashto, he surprised everyone by speaking English.

  ‘This is a universal address and is being relayed across the world and solar system, which is why I am speaking English. I will get straight to the point. Afghanistan’s most promising music student, Jalaal Saleh, has disappeared. The authorities have declared him officially missing. At first, we thought he had had some sort of accident, or maybe a prank. That is not so. There is no electronic trace of him. There is no sign of him, here, on the moon, on Mars, or anywhere in the solar system. This has never happened before, and it is a matter of serious concern. Not only are we afraid for the welfare of Jalaal, but also apprehensive that this incident heralds a return of crime, something absent from our world, indeed this solar system, for the best part of a millennium. Jalaal has vanished without a trace.’

  The Mullah continued with his speech, giving details of the search and ongoing investigation. After a considerable time, he announced that the music competition would be postponed for two weeks, after which he hoped Jalaal would be found. He then allowed the audience to ask questions.

  Rashida raised a hand and the Mullah indicated that she should speak.

  ‘Mullah, is it possible that Jalaal has gone into the Sands? There has been talk of the Sands appearing recently. Could the Sands have taken him?’

  The Mullah smiled supportively with a hint of scepticism against a background of subdued mutterings.

  ‘My dear, I know that Jalaal was dear to you and Leila, but there is no evidence that the Sands exist or ever existed.’

  ‘There has been talk. Some say they have seen the Sands,’ someone spoke from nearby Leila and Rashida.

  ‘It is a superstition. Listen, we are looking for rational explanations,’ the Mullah said. ‘Our best scientists, conversant with the Field, the knowledge of which was bequeathed to Earth by scientists from the great Galactic Confederacy of Liberated Worlds, are working full out to solve this mystery. That is our way forward, not superstitions that have no basis.’

  ‘What basis and whose?’ Rashida whispered veering close to disrespect. Leila threw her a warning glance.

  Jalaal’s mother, who was sitting a few rows in front of Rashida and Leila, turned and looked enigmatically at the girls. It was a trying time for them all.

  After the Mullah’s address, people gathered in the foyer and the open spaces surrounding the auditorium. Rashida and Leila exchanged words of mutual sympathy with Jalaal’s family. They conversed at length, trying to make sense of Jalaal’s extraordinary disappearance. Everybody found the situation difficult, if not impossible to accept in this golden age, where cultures retained their identity, yet where peace reigned. Simply, people did not disappear.

  ***

  Mullah Nasr Eddin walked into the conference hall of the Paris United Nations Assembly where scientists and political representatives of many countries across the world had gathered. He took his place among delegates of South Asia, and nodded casually to friends and associates, whom he recognized from previous meetings.

  Carefully placed screens appeared, enabling all a clear view of graphs and pictures that illustrated an address by a representative of the Boston Academy of Scientific Research, Prof
essor Louis Proctor, who spoke at length concerning Jalaal’s disappearance. Colleagues, who from time to time took over, sat on either side of him.

  ‘In conclusion,’ Proctor finally said, ‘using an aspect of the Field, we were able to pinpoint an aberration at a specific point in Afghanistan.’ He then lurched into series of explanations that few could follow. ‘In conclusion,’ he said for the eighth time, ‘a transmission occurred from this position in Afghanistan, away from Earth and the Solar System into interstellar space from where we have measured its ‘flight path’ out of the galaxy into intergalactic space.’

  Here another scientist, a woman with fair hair and a determined expression, cleared her throat. ‘I’ll keep it short.’ A wave of resignation passed through the hall. ‘Using precise measurements made possible through the Field (here she presented a lengthy exposition on the nature of the Field) we have ascertained that the energetic pathway is headed for the M33, Triangulum galaxy, known by many as the Pinwheel galaxy.’

  There was a long potent silence before the main scientist speaker resumed. ‘To conclude our conclusion,’ he said in a weak attempt at humour lost on everyone except the fair-haired woman, who was clearly his admirer, ‘someone, or rather something, has abducted our friend Jalaal and has taken him to the M33 galaxy. How and why we have no idea.’

  There was a long hush before the conference hall erupted into animated discourse.

  Chapter 3

  European Space Station. Year 2836

  Venetia Woods climbed out of the mini space shuttle feeling nothing short of ecstatic. They had arrived – six scholarship pupils – after soaring across the upper atmosphere in an eight-seater space shuttle, a silver sleek affair lurching into orbit along a trajectory aimed at the heart of Space Station Ithaca, humanity’s largest space construction and gateway to the solar system and the stars.

  Feeling wobbly as she adjusted to the artificial gravity, she reached out and grabbed an arm.

  ‘Typical! Artificial gravity continues to be unreliable,’ a young man called Houssay, on whose arm she was leaning, whispered audibly.