Ambassador 11: The Forgotten War

by Patty Jansen

  Larrana opened the zip and took out a headband with two black ears and pencil set with a colouring book. His mouth formed the letter O and his eyes were wide. He carefully folded the ears back up and put the treasure in the satchel he wore around his waist.

  “The book is a puzzle,” Mariola explained, and I had to translate. Coldi understood puzzles. “And if you hand in the colouring page, you can win prizes.”

  I translated that, too, but I wasn’t sure that the meaning landed.

  Never mind.

  Ayshada was fascinated with the ears, and Mariola adjusted the headband so it fitted him. He ran to the bathroom to climb onto the cabinet so he could look in the mirror and then chased after Larrana while jumping and singing out of tune, very much like Larrana had done during most of the trip.

  The Pengali youngsters had also opened the satchel and discovered a piece of plastic like a spoon with a hole, one in each satchel. One was bright green, the other bright pink.

  Mariola showed them that the handle opened and contained similar “spoons” with multiple holes and also a fold-up plastic satchel of see-through material with a spout at the top to attach a tube.

  Pykka had already figured out how to put the thing together using the schematic instructions on the back of the satchel, but neither could work out what the contraption was for.

  Mariola said, “It’s for the bubble machine.”

  I had no idea what that was either, so I couldn’t translate for them.

  Emi did the only thing she knew what to do with unfamiliar things: she put the corner of the satchel in her mouth, but pulled a face at the hard feel of the zip on her tongue.

  I introduced Mariola to Thayu and to Nicha, Veyada and Mereeni, and she seemed to understand that the rest of the team were security and therefore faceless people. Even though I had instructed them that they were not to wear black, but had to wear holiday clothes. This was rather amusing because I had never seen Sheydu or any of her team in anything other than security uniforms. Their choices of outfits were interesting, to say the least. Sheydu wore a pair of purple trousers. Anyu had chosen a dress of fabric too thin to hide the fact that she wore her black outfit underneath. Reida and Deyu wore matching outfits that would look better on a pair of toddler twins, and Zyana looked only marginally less threatening than usual in khaki.

  All the monitoring equipment in the living room was shut down, the door of the apartment locked and double locked, and I was sure that people had various other devices that would warn them if someone was trying to get into the apartment, but all that security business was now finished and we were going to have a day of fun.

  Chapter Three

  It took us quite some time to make our way out of the accommodation. The lift was too small to fit everyone.

  There was a stairwell, but using it apparently set off an alarm in the office that the staff needed to reset and investigate. It was “For Emergencies Only”. It even said so on the door.

  So we took the lift down in three batches, because the lift advertised it held eight people at a time, but the weight of Coldi people, like Deyu and most in Sheydu’s team, reduced that to seven.

  When we finally made it into the foyer, it turned out that our guide had procured an electric trolley that was waiting under the awning outside the entrance.

  I protested that we could walk.

  “I know you can, but, take it from me, the children will get tired,” Mariola said. “And you’ll have a place to put your things, like your extra clothes when it gets warm. Many people use these trolleys.”

  Two similar vehicles waited under the awning, one of them being boarded by a group with an elderly man and a woman who walked with a stick.

  Well, yes, it was understandable for them. Many of the tourists I’d spotted in the hotel were not in good health or elderly, and clearly Mariola hadn’t experienced the boundless energy of the Pengali kids.

  Having sensed that the vehicle was intended for us, Ayshada had already climbed on the outward-facing seats and he patted the seat next to him for Nalya and Larrana to join him. The two Pengali youngsters sat perched in the middle where the backrests touched each other. Their tails waved excitedly in the air. They had dropped their satchels on the seat, but still carried the spoon-like contraptions. At some point, we would find out what they were for.

  I guessed we were stuck with yet another item on the ever-increasing space our party took up.

  Ileyu also climbed on the seats. Emi was too small to climb the first step into the vehicle, so she held her arms up and yelled.

  Thayu lifted her up. She sat primly like a princess, wearing her headband with the black ears, her dark eyes taking in everything around her.

  Larrana wanted to sit next to Nalya, but the step was too tall for his wheels to negotiate.

  “There is a ramp that slides out from the back.” Mariola rushed to show it, but Larrana snorted. Nalya and Ayshada hoisted him onto the seat, with Nalya pulling him up by his shoulders and Ayshada pushing him from behind.

  They were partners in mischief, those three.

  The vehicle came with a driver, a young man in the same service black-and-white striped uniform that Mariola wore. She said he went by the name Chickadee, but I suspected it was a nickname.

  “It’s a kind of bird, isn’t it?” I asked him.

  “That’s it. That’s my name.”

  Like many of the service staff, he was dark-skinned, had glossy black hair and spoke with a curious accent.

  While I’d been talking and watching the kids, Deyu had run into the hotel and now returned—panting—with the bulky backpack that contained the field transmitter hub. She’d done that very quickly. I suspected the hotel reception would have a thing or two to say to me about not using the stairs—again.

  She shoved the pack in between the seats, with the bags of spare clothing, extra food in case we couldn’t find any that was certified not to contain artificial sugar, because it did unpleasant things to the digestive tract of Coldi kids.

  Deyu glanced at me, giving a small nod.

  Yes, that was good thinking on her part. We could now have a fully operational local hub. We hadn’t planned on taking the equipment, because it was heavy and would cause raised eyebrows.

  And we were on a holiday, right?

  But this vehicle was too good an opportunity not to take it.

  Then, finally, with squeals from the kids, we were off.

  The trolley had broad wheels and travelled at walking speed.

  It went first. We followed behind, walking along the lush green street with tall trees and tropical flowers. Drops of water glittered on the bushes. I’d heard the sprinklers come on in the morning, a cacophony of hissing reflected by the canopy that enclosed the street like a glasshouse.

  The air was pleasantly cool, a difference from the fierce dry heat on the balcony of our accommodation.

  From what I’d seen coming into the precinct, most of the streets which housed accommodation or attractions were at least partially covered. Mariola explained that during the fierce heat of summer, the roof of the canopy could be changed so that it didn’t let through as much sunlight. We also passed a giant cooler on a street corner, blowing cool air into the intersection where people and electric trolleys were all going in the same direction, like a trail of ants to their nest.

  A garishly colourful statue of a yellow dinosaur stood outside the park entrance. It carried a bunch of flowers and a chicken sat on its head. That explained this morning’s performance outside our hotel.

  Larrana wanted off the trolley, and zoomed around on his wheels, recording the thing from all angles. Nalya had to take a picture of him standing next to it, and wanted to send pictures to his friends on Asto.

  “Come on, we haven’t even gotten in yet,” Mariola said.

  A decent line of people was waiting to get into the park.

  Larrana
joined us, bouncing on his wheels.

  “That really is an amazing wheelchair,” Mariola said, looking at me. “I mean—it is a wheelchair, right?”

  “Yes, he had an accident when he was little.”

  Coldi didn’t always treat people with disabilities very well. Most of these kids were ignored and forced to do dumb jobs, unless they were from a rich family. Larrana was from a rich family. I still didn’t think they treated him as fully equal.

  We waited in the line.

  I told Mariola about Larrana’s collection of figurines. She seemed surprised.

  “You mean, he collects these things all the way on Asto?”

  “Yes, it’s big over there. Coldi like displaying items in their hallway that reflect the mood of the house’s occupant to visitors. Often these items arouse curiosity and are a starting point for discussions. I think this is how those collections started. There are extensive catalogues of collectible items and some are worth a lot of money, especially the original figurines from the twentieth century.”

  “That’s amazing! I didn’t know that.”

  “Most of the collectors are older, but Larrana is not your normal kid.”

  “I can see that.”

  “He’s also from an influential family. This trip is part of my promise to that family in return for things they have done for us.”

  Not quite, but there was no point in spending more time explaining it.

  Mariola wanted to know more about where we came from, and what those “little monkeys” were. I warned her to never assume that Pengali were animals, although she’d probably have learned that by the end of the day. I would have added that I disliked it when people called them monkeys, but I was the only one who cared about that.

  “And you, what are you, really. Your name is very... normal, but you look like...” She shrugged.

  Questions like these irritated me, but to be frank, we were in a very backward place and her interest probably came from genuine curiosity. Did they ever see gamra people here?

  So while we waited, I told her of my varied and tangled work history and allegiances in a nutshell.

  Her eyes were wide. “Wow. I’ve never left this area. We don’t have the money to travel, and I can’t take that much time off, anyway.”

  She told me that her family lived in the streets around the precinct. Her mother had come from Mexico City in search of better opportunities. Her father had been a refugee from America Free State who proudly identified as a native American. He managed to get out of the country as a young man. He’d met her mother while working as domestic staff for the park’s managers. He used to look after their dogs, but he’d retired a few years ago. Now, he made little souvenir trinkets to sell in the shops on the kitchen table of their home.

  “Did there used to be much traffic across the border in those days when your father came?” I asked.

  “There are still people who go across. The people in America Free State need to buy stuff from us. They say it’s not always easy, and sometimes they need to give the border guards money, if they strike a bad one. I don’t know, you come from a rich place and probably think our lives are crap. That’s nothing compared to their lives. If you try to cross and get the wrong guards on the other side of the border, they will ask for money, because they have none and it’s worth a lot to them. It means they can buy stuff we sell to them, like medicines.”

  “Do you still have relatives there?” I asked.

  “Some.”

  “Do you get to see them?”

  She glanced aside. I swore she was looking to see if the people behind us were listening.

  I didn’t think they were. They were a group of elderly women, all of them wearing bright pink hats, and all of them giggling like they’d had too much to drink already.

  “Sometimes,” Mariola said, in a low voice.

  “Can they come here?”

  Again she looked around.

  “No. We go there. We bring them canned food and stuff like that. We’re not supposed to, because there is a boycott. But every time someone visits, we take stuff. You just have to hide it well.”

  “Is it possible to visit? I thought you couldn’t cross the border, not even to see family.” The stories of the separated families were one of the few things I’d learned about this region at school. It had shocked me as a young kid growing up in New Zealand, that people could do things like that to each other.

  My teachers held it up as an example of how people were mistreated, but I didn’t think it was that simplistic.

  Mariola said, “You can’t visit without an acceptable reason. My cousin operates a business. He can travel. America Free State likes the money he brings in.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “He takes rich people out for scenic flights.”

  “You mean to see the Grand Canyon?”

  “Anywhere they want.”

  “Anywhere? I’ve been trying to find a way across the border, but all the tour drivers said they couldn’t do it.”

  “No, you can’t hire a driver. There is a very strict no passenger rule and none want to lose their licence. We still supply America Free State with fresh food, so they need the trucks to come in, but they’ll shoot any stray passengers on the spot.”

  “But passengers in a plane are fine?”

  “These are rich people, understand. It’s kept quiet. All my cousin does is take them to these spots. Most of them are remote and have been deserted since the start of the war. My cousin owns a plane and some gyrocopters. He owns places where people can stay and hunt.”

  “Hunt?”

  This reminded me horribly of Minke Kluysters and his vast property in South Africa where rich people came to hunt.

  “Anything they can shoot. Dogs, in that area, mostly. Not much else left. And the dogs are pests. They come into town and raid people’s houses.”

  I nodded and understanding passed between us. If it was hot and dry in this dust bowl, it was nothing compared to the situation further inland.

  But my mind was whirling. We’d been looking for a way to cross the border. This might be a better option than all the other avenues we were trying.

  I guess we qualified as “rich people” in Mariola’s eyes.

  The line shuffled forward, and we followed the trolley. The driver stared into the distance, doing his best to ignore our conversation. He worked for Mariola, I guessed.

  “The Chickadee is a bird, right?” I asked her.

  She nodded.

  “Now extinct?”

  She nodded again.

  “And Mariola is also a bird?”

  “It’s a plant. They’re a bit tougher than birds. Still hanging on.”

  We arrived at the front of the line and had to stop talking. But this talk was proving to be more interesting than I’d expected.

  Mariola had contacts, she was a local but not someone from the Coldi register. She and her co-worker were named after a plant and an extinct bird. That had to mean something, right?

  I wasn’t terribly rich and maybe the places we wanted to go were truly off-limits, but the seeds of a plan grew.

  Better still, she was spending the entire day with us and I could ask her more questions without arousing suspicion.

  Chapter Four

  When we got closer to the end of the line, Mariola went to speak to the entrance guards and arranged for us to bypass the ticket and bag checks. She told me she had a special relationship with the park employees because she brought in so many tourists.

  The guards asked other visitors in the queue to unpack bags, hand in bottles of fluid—because apparently it could contain dangerous poison instead of water—and explain their need for items that could be used as weapons. At least I guessed the latter, because I had no idea why else anyone would have a loud argument in Spanish about a bright blue umbrella.

  I
remembered these types of bag checks at Nations of Earth when I was little, but these days, most building entrances had sophisticated scanning and detection equipment that analysed people while they walked past.

  At gamra, this even included a person’s ID.

  I also wondered, as we were ushered past the checkpoint and guards opened a gate for the trolley to get through, why Mariola had said nothing about Deyu’s backpack because surely she would have seen that Deyu had added the bag, and that it looked black, heavy and menacing.

  I was confident that it would pass security, because on the flight here, Nations of Earth guards had checked and unpacked the transmitter several times. They’d asked questions and made Deyu walk through special scanners with it and had allowed it through. But wouldn’t these guards want to know what it was?

  Or was Mariola one of the people keeping an eye on us? Because there were those people, Thayu had said, and she had let it shine through that my team were uncertain about their identity.

  And while people always spied on us, and most of the time, we didn’t know who they were, or ever came into contact with them or their bosses, it was of greater concern to me here, in this place, where we were out of our comfort zone. Moreover, if we needed to do something about those people who followed us, it would raise a forest of eyebrows within Nations of Earth—which I could explain if only they agreed to talk to me.

  Suspecting Mariola to be part of a spying ring was not helpful because most likely, one, she wasn’t, and two, I’d contacted the park and asked for a guide, they had provided one and hadn’t swapped her on me, or had displayed any of the runaround trickery that would normally go with inserting a spy in a group.

  Anyway, I appreciated that we didn’t have to wait, because Larrana had spied some images of his favourite characters and had gotten the other kids excited, and as soon as we were inside, they raced off looking at this thing or that thing.

  We were in a quaint, old-fashioned street with shops along the sides that sold sweets and souvenir items like shirts and posters and mugs. So many mugs.