by Patty Jansen
I tilted my head sideways to read the small print on the map . . . the models predicted an increase in rainfall, and not just a little bit, either. Nasty stuff. Rain on Asto was high in acids, in hydrofluoric acid to be precise, stuff that ate its way even through glass.
But what about all this was so important to Sirkonen?
The guard tapped me on the arm, gesturing at the reader. “Does the Delegate want me to take that? We’re about to land.”
I hated going through the security checks at the airport in Athens at the best of times. Black-clad Nations of Earth personnel scanned all our luggage while surly Greek border guards with guns formed a lethal line keeping queued-up and impatient passengers in check. There were still people who didn’t understand why, when passports and visas had been scanned and approved and luggage collected, there was yet another, far more intrusive, border check by Greek and Nations of Earth military.
Yet, failing any form of agreement between Nations of Earth and gamra, these guards were the only line of defence against criminal elements from other worlds; Athens was a tightly-guarded exclusion zone. Getting out was even harder than getting in.
Did I have any forbidden items, such as weapons, spyware, electronics that could be turned into spyware—there was a long list.
I showed my reader and infusor. More guards were called, while the items went from hand to hand. I was flagged as an interplanetary passenger and Person Of Interest. They searched my bag, every item laid out on the table. Eyebrows rose at the sight of my bloodied shirt.
“Had an accident,” I explained, and showed them my bandaged hands. My heart thudded, because I was certainly the very type of person these guards were here to stop leaving, but Amarru’s promise held, and I walked into the terminal hall onto the only piece of land on Earth where gamra people could come without Earth-based ID or visa.
A car with driver waited outside the building, the small gamra symbol inconspicuously on the front passenger window. I knew the young man behind the wheel; he was a local who earned a bit of money while he studied law at University. It was comforting to see a familiar face.
He took my luggage while I slipped into the back seat, the guards in their usual positions.
Then we were off and the car slotted into the steady stream of buses and taxis.
There was no denying that the presence of the Exchange was beneficial to Athens. Although the ridiculous border control had done a pretty good job at killing tourism to the area, gamra brought much business to the city, with riches that more often than not didn’t originate on Earth. The entire streetscape reflected it in subtle ways: in the mixture of building styles; in the neat Coldi text on the walls of apartments, advertising, Coldi-style, who lived within; in the thick growths of oleanders planted in strict symmetrical patterns; in the kids whizzing down the footpath on board-scooters; in the maroon curtains and sheets flapping on washing lines.
Even in the way people on the street moved in groups of two, or four, or eight.
“You’re very quiet today, Mr Wilson,” the driver said.
I jolted upright.
We had left the traffic behind and now followed an oleander-lined road between six-storey blocks of concrete flats. “I’m tired.”
“Late night?”
“Yeah.” He could certainly say that again, and I wondered if he hadn’t heard what had happened, but had no desire or energy to inform him. I was looking forward to a room in the short-term accommodation at the Exchange: a bath, clean clothes, and a good nap. The Exchange wouldn’t open until after dark, a rule lingering from the time of hiding and secrecy, and kept that way because it suited arrangements with local air traffic control.
Stately houses behind high walls replaced the apartment blocks. Spreading pine trees provided dappled shade. The road wound lazily up a hill.
Almost there.
A man walked a dog past the cream-coloured wall that surrounded the Exchange complex. He gave our car no more than a cursory glance when we turned into the driveway.
The gates were closed, a solid wall of metal. I did a mental double-take. I’d first come here twelve years ago, and this had been my home for eight years. I had never seen the gates closed.
“Has there been trouble here, too?” A chill crept over my back; my lazy feeling of safety vanished.
“Not yet, but things are tense in some parts of the city. Nations of Earth sent an aircraft carrier into Piraeus late last night. Some people didn’t like this and have been keeping the police busy.” Coldi protesters, no doubt. And police would be aided by Nations of Earth servicemen; I had no doubt about that, either. Anything to keep the Coldi faction under control. No, Nations of Earth didn’t like this little enclave of alien-ness, at all.
The sticker on the windscreen let out a tiny flash of light. The gates clicked open and moved inward, revealing the driveway lined with majestic date palms leading up to the building. Ten storeys, white, and looking very much like the private hospital it had once been.
Home.
Without Nicha.
As the car crawled up the driveway I glanced at the furthest wing which disappeared into the hillside. That part of the building was a recent addition. It spilled over with equipment to run the generator which powered the peripheral equipment of the Exchange. In the old days—and the original Exchange node had been built in 1968—the power-hungry devices frequently blacked out the entire city. Another reason why running at night made sense.
On old photographs, the hill was covered with pine trees, hiding the opening to the docks, a concrete maw which used to be a lot smaller than the present one. Now it was free of surrounding vegetation and . . . its metal shutter open?
What the . . .
The car stopped under the shady awning. I let myself out, and while I walked around the car to get my luggage, became aware of the buzzing of many voices. A sea of people crammed in the foyer of the building, a huge hall, normally almost empty.
I stopped, turning to the guards, another chill creeping up my spine. “Mashara, what is going on?”
“People are scared. They are trying to leave. Gamra have authorised emergency daytime departures.”
The chill increased. Riots against Coldi shops and houses, the emergency council sanctioning military intervention, warships in port . . .
“Don’t worry, Delegate. We have authorisation for preference. Let’s go.”
They rushed to the building, leaving no time or breath for questions.
Once the automatic doors opened, noise and heat washed over me. The hum of voices like angry bees. The guards cleared a way into the crowd. Their tall forms towered over the sea of Coldi heads, glistening like the inside of an abalone shell. I also spotted the diminutive forms of two Kedrasi with their distinctive fox-red hair and mottled skin, but those, and myself, were the only non-Coldi people. Haggard-looking families, surrounded by bags and boxes and suitcases and crying children, formed huge snaking lines before the counter against the far wall.
“Wait here, Delegate.”
The guard with the sunglasses wrestled his way to the counter while the other remained with me.
In the far corner of the hall, people crammed before a wallscreen.
On the screen, a man stood behind a dais bearing the Nations of Earth symbol. His skin looked sallow and lights made sweat on his forehead glisten.
“. . . a projectile, which pierced part of his lung and intestine. He was rushed into the hospital immediately, suffering internal bleeding. Doctors have been working since then to repair the damage and save his life. . . .” The man wiped his face. Silence hung heavy in the non-Earthly audience. “Unfortunately, the fight was lost about half an hour ago.”
My heart skipped a beat. And another one. Sirkonen had died?
People stirred. A young Coldi boy standing on tiptoes in front of me asked the adult with him, “What is he saying?” He used the accusatory-he pronoun form.
“He says that the president has died.”
&n
bsp; Through the roaring of blood in my ears, the voice of the Nations of Earth spokesman went on, “. . . I now pass the microphone to Acting President Sigobert Danziger, who will make a statement on behalf of the Nations of Earth executive committee and the emergency council.”
Danziger came up to the microphone, a stunned, emaciated toad. He’d probably had less sleep than me.
He opened his mouth, but an announcement in the hall blurred his first words.
“. . . will be assuming the presidency as of now. I will work with the committee appointed by President Sirkonen to hold new elections. Meanwhile, let it be known that no expense will be spared to uncover those guilty of this attack and bring them to trial. . . .”
A man next to me mumbled, “They say we are responsible for the president’s death.” Also using the accusatory pronoun.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Delegate?” The guard gestured towards the counter. “The Delegate mustn’t linger.”
“This news is important, mashara.”
“It is more important that the Delegate move to the counter.” He held out his hand, showing a dark-skinned palm. “Delegate, please? The Delegate’s documents.”
I rummaged in my pocket and found my citizenship pass, which he gave to the woman behind the counter. The people in the queue shot me strange looks.
I subtly shifted the sides of my jacket, showing my shirt in gamra blue. That earned me some respectful nods. Lips murmured, Delegate. I hated myself, drawing on status to jump the queue when all these people had much more pressing reasons to get out.
The female receptionist had my information up on the screen, in curly Coldi script. She took the black citizenship pass out of the reader and handed it back to me. “If the Delegate is so kind to follow mashara to the departure hall, but please do not linger.” Her voice was barely audible over the noise.
I followed the guards through the crowd, out the hall. We ran through the corridors, one guard in front, one behind. The guards’ legs were much longer than mine, and they only had to jog to keep up with me, while I was going flat out, sweltering in the increasing temperature.
Nor were we the only people in a hurry. Families lugged big bags, their faces grim. Children cried; their parents shouted. Others tried to push past them. People massed at the doors where everyone needed to scan their citizenship cards.
Small trolleys ran along rails on the walls, quietly going about their business of deliveries, oblivious to the crowd.
A sea of people waited at the lifts; the guards urged me into the staircase, which was also full of people. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Some people just couldn’t. There was a woman carrying twin toddlers while struggling with luggage. An old man needed to take the steps one by one, holding up the flow. The lift zoomed past, faces pressed against the cubicle’s glass walls.
About fifteen sweaty minutes later, I burst into the light, heat and noise of the departure hall. At this time of day, it should have been dark and empty of life, but all lights blazed overhead. Aircraft occupied every bit of space of the ten levels of balconies around the huge hall’s perimeter. People crowded around ground-hugging shapes with spreading wings. Cargo doors gaped. Shuttles for passengers, heavier craft for freight, even the smaller Trader craft with powerful engines, every single craft had opened its doors to the tide of Coldi refugees.
Engines fired up, whined. Lights flicked on and off. Doors thudded shut. The air hummed with communication, so much that crackles of charge zapped blue in midair where too many signals collided. I’d heard this could happen, but I had never seen it.
The guards urged me along the gallery, where a crowd was cramming up the stairs into a public shuttle, the same craft on which I had travelled on my earlier visits to Barresh, a sleek form, about the size of a medium-sized airliner, which made it large for gamra transport. Ceiling lights reflected in its gleaming purple-tinted metal. Flashing pinpricks of red light lined the wings.
A woman in a temperature-protection suit called out, “1876-336 for Barresh?”
I recognised the code that identified me with the Exchange.
“Positive,” one of the guards called. He didn’t even breathe heavily after the run. “Go in, Delegate.”
A siren hooted. From a level somewhere below, an explosive roar made the air vibrate. A silver shape shot across the hall. It flew into the tunnel, while a warning siren honked and the lower gallery jolted into movement, rotating slowly to position the next craft opposite the tunnel exit.
“Come, Delegate.”
One guard on each side, I climbed the steps, to be greeted by the two staff.
“Delegate, mashara.”
The air inside the cabin prickled my nose with that familiar metallic scent that characterised gamra technology.
A hush accompanied me down the aisle. Turning heads, raised eyebrows, curious glances.
By far the majority of passengers were Coldi. Some had dyed their peacock hair black, but most had not. About two hundred, I guessed, in neat rows of seats, four to each side.
There was a row of three empty seats about halfway down. I sank down between my guards, sweating and puffing. Various items of clothing spilled out the luggage compartment under the seat, so I stacked my bag and reader at my feet. Staff rushed to take the items and secure them in the nets above.
Someone thudded the door shut. Air cyclers hissed humidity out of vents in the walls and ceiling, making my ears pop.
Two flight personnel strode to the front of the passenger compartment and clipped retractable metal wires to each other’s harnesses. Both wore dark Pilot’s Guild suits.
The engines started up, making the floor hum.
A light flashed on the far side of the departure hall. I peered at the window, but the reflection of the inside of the cabin stopped me from seeing much.
The pitch of the floor hum increased.
The lights inside the cabin went off. A child wailed.
Now I could see a door open and a group of five or six figures burst out onto the gallery outside. One of them stopped to speak into an earpiece, while the others ran forward, shouting, at us, it seemed. I craned my neck, trying to see what went on. An attendant tried to wave them away; one of the men was pointing. Agitated talk, with lots of hand signals.
The other passengers had seen them, too, and were gaping out the window.
A warning siren trumpeted sharp blasts of sound.
Then, with a sudden jump, the shuttle jerked into action. The lights in the hall flashed by. Several passengers had undone their seat belts and fell on top of one another. Shouts, scrambling. A child crying for its mother.
I was pressed in my seat.
Darkness, then bright daylight. The backrest of the chair became the floor. Wall panels vibrated with power.
I concentrated only on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. With this pressure on my chest, it was easy to forget.
One of the crew abseiled down from the front of the aisle to help stranded people back into their seats. Admonishing words were spoken. Passengers were to keep their seatbelts on at all times.
“But those men . . .” a woman protested.
“Nothing to do with us,” the crewmember said, his face impassive. He handed the child back to its mother, then let himself down further towards the back of the craft, checking seat belts and luggage. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.
The departure had been sudden, even for them. Almost as if the pilot got an order to get out immediately.
Next to me, the guard fiddled with the receiver on his belt. I tried to catch his attention, but he seemed absorbed in whatever he was hearing.
Gradually, the craft levelled out, while remaining in a steady climb. I could lift my head now and risked a glance out the window. The tapestry of Mediterranean islands stretched out below in patterns of blue, ochre and green. The horizon didn’t curve. Yet.
To the right and slightly above us, I spotted the slight wave of air that indicated that another cr
aft flew there. Below us was yet another. But below that, a few dark spots moved over the tapestry of hills, bays and islands.
I squinted, and the more I looked, the more black spots I discovered. At least fifty of them, flying in neat formation. “Mashara, am I mistaken or are those aircraft?”
“They are, Delegate.” The guard lowered his earpiece, and met my eyes. “Nations of Earth. Military hoverjets.”
8
HOVERJETS—FROM the aircraft carrier that had come into the harbour last night. I could hear Amarru’s voice by all available means . . .
A military blockade. I breathed in and out deeply, trying not to think of Nicha and all those others, trapped down there.
And yet I didn’t understand. Yesterday, Danziger had wished me luck, reluctantly, but he had done it. A few hours later, he had authorised nothing less than war. Based on what?
I took my reader on my lap, but besides what I already knew, none of the news services offered answers. All had large headlines on Sirkonen’s death, with pictures and obituaries. Few elaborated on the police investigation.
Danziger couldn’t gag the media unless Nations of Earth declared a true state of emergency. Had they done that? A cold feeling crept over my skin while below me the planet that was my home receded. A feeling that the gates had closed, with me on the wrong side of the fence.
A wave of panic. I wanted to scream, wait, and Eva. I wanted to be down there, to at least bash some sense into Danziger’s dim-witted brain. What in hell’s name did the man think he was doing?
Breathe in, breathe out.
There was nothing I could do.
And meanwhile, around me, life went on incredibly normal. There were relieved voices, some laughter even. I imagined people clapping each other on the shoulder. Hey Dad, good that we moved when you said we should. We got out. We’re going home.
