by Isaac Petrov
Gotthard takes a wrapped package that he was carrying in the bike’s front basket, and strides into the church. The scene’s point of view follows behind him.
The inside is lit by direct sunlight streaming in through tall windows, so all electric lamps, placed at intervals on the walls, are off at the moment. The space looks like a factory floor, humming with activity. Grease, sweat and poor ventilation produce an unsavory smell. Workers are busy attending tall, bulky machines placed in two parallel rows.
“Printing presses,” Mark whispers in Ximena’s ears.
She nods silently, eyes hypnotically fixed on the large cylinders as they rotate with the soft purr of electric power, pressing ink against paper, cutting pages and stacking them on neat piles that younger workers—recent adults not much older than ten—move swiftly away, returning with more ink, paper rolls and other supplies.
Gotthard, wrapped package in his right hand, walks with determined pace across the open space, ignoring the surrounding bustle.
“Man Kraker!” a youthful voice calls to the side, a short, chubby girl, sweating profusely. “Would you mind looking at this blade? The cut is dirty, I think there is a vibration or a—”
Gotthard ignores the girl. At the end of the room, he walks past a vaulted arc into a square area: the base of the tower. As Gotthard approaches a narrow passage of steps, another voice—authoritative this time—stops him. “Gotthard, wait!”
A man already in his mid-twenties approaches Gotthard with quick, short steps. He is carrying a large, elongated object and wears a colorful robe of fine fabric. Despite his skinny, pale face and receding hair, his confident gait produces an almost attractive impression.
“Colder van Althuis,” Gotthard says with a stiff smile. “Aws Blessings to you.”
The man laughs, glancing back at the main room, where the noise of production shields their voices. “We’re alone, young boy. Why so formal? You don’t even stop for a chat these days.” He shoots a wink. “Were you going up to your lair?”
“Sorry, Simon. Uh, yes. I want to get some work done before heading off to the Festival.”
“You too,” he sighs, and shakes his head in frustration. “The whole night shift is refusing work tonight.”
Gotthard chuckles. “And you are surprised?”
“I know.” Colder van Althuis waves a hand dismissively. “The event of the millennium and all that; but work needs to be done, Goah’s Mercy.”
Gotthard laughs. “This is not the event of the millennium, Simon. The Century Festival is the biggest thing ever to happen in Lunteren’s history, and you expect people to miss out? Be realistic. Is that for me?” He points at the bulky object that Colder van Althuis is carrying in his hands.
“That Speese woman left it for you.” Colder van Althuis hands it to Gotthard. “What is it?” He stares with curiosity at the long metallic pole and the thick flexible cable, made of the same metal, loosely wrapped around the pole.
“Ah, nothing… just an experiment I’m doing.” Gotthard shifts his weight to better carry both the cabled pole and the wrapped package in both hands. “If you will excuse me, I really must…” he staggers towards the stairs.
Colder van Althuis squints up. “You are not using the tower for anything… inappropriate, are you?”
“No! Of course not.”
“I’m taking a risk here, young man. Leasing it to you. I hope you don’t betray my trust.”
“Never, Simon. It’s just a private science lab, that’s all!”
Colder van Althuis smiles. “I know, I know.” He gestures at the working space behind him. “Listen, Gotthard. I know you’re not on duty today, but we could really use some help.”
“What’s happened?” Gotthard leaves the bulky equipment on the floor with utmost care.
“We are running behind schedule on the Wikipedia batch.”
“Let me guess, volume five thousand and sixty-one.”
“Yes, the machine assigned to that goahdamn volume is misaligned, I think. But sometimes only. It’s bizarre. Could you take a look?”
Gotthard shrugs. “Sorry, but as you can see, I’m very—”
“It’s urgent, Gotthard. These ten Wikipedia volumes are the most important commission of the year, and the merchants are expected to sail up the Rhine in three days’ time. And now the whole goahdamn night shift decides that they would rather go to the Festival. We are in trouble.”
Gotthard snorts. “We should have stuck to Lord of the Rings.”
Colder van Althuis smiles dryly, and sighs. “All right, I’ll pay you double tariff. But please don’t fail me. This is important for Lunteren.”
“Oh, and now you are using the Lunteren in danger card. Is this the Colony Elder speaking?” Gotthard asks with a faint smile. “Or the man?”
Colder van Althuis laughs warmly. “For you, my dear boy,” he reaches out and places his hand on Gotthard’s cheek, “it’s always the man.”
Gotthard takes a slow step forward until their bodies touch. He leans his head toward Simon’s ear to whisper, “I could really use the karma.”
Colder van Althuis laughs. “Always the romantic.”
“But not now,” Gotthard separates from Simon and gives the equipment on the floor an eager glance. “Tomorrow I’ll do a double shift, okay?”
“Fine.” Colder van Althuis seems pleased. “And you can tell that Siever friend of yours that he’s welcome as well, since he’s always visiting you up there,” he looks up at the tower.
Gotthard laughs. “Perhaps he will. You’re not jealous, are you? He’s helping me with…” He gives a vague wave of his hand.
Colder van Althuis smiles at him for a few seconds before replying, “My young boy, I don’t care what you do, or with whom, as long as I have your full attention when I want your full attention.”
Gotthard smiles dryly. “Always the romantic.”
The tower room is dark, cold and moist. Ximena folds her arms with a chill while her eyes adjust. A lit electric lamp tries to drive the darkness into the corners, not quite succeeding. The inside of the tower is spacious, especially upwards. A steep, wooden staircase by the bricked wall leads to a higher floor—presumably to where the bells used to call the faithful in pre-Goahn times. The ceiling is but a thin separation made of raw, fragile wooden boards with dim sunlight filtering between them.
Gotthard is leaning over a work bench that extends along the entire wall, soldering a metallic object to an electric circuit. Ximena wrinkles her nose at the sharp solder smell. The room looks like the hobby garage of an electrical engineer with little social life. Machines and components of an electrical nature litter the space.
A knock on the door startles Gotthard. “Gotts!” a muted voice calls from behind the thick door. “It’s me!”
“Greetings, Rutger,” Gotthard says. “One second.”
Many seconds pass while Gotthard keeps working on the circuit.
“Come on!” Rutger knocks again, impatiently. “If Colder van Althuis sees me, he’ll try to recruit me.”
Gotthard leaves the solder on the bench with a bad-tempered sigh, walks to the door and turns the key.
“Finally!” Rutger says, entering the room. His cream-colored tunic is simple, but made of a fine, silk-like fabric. A gomen—the wide, black, ornate belt of the redeemed—surrounds his narrow waist. “I brought you the battery,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose, as Gotthard locks the door.
Gotthard takes the heavy metallic box from Rutger, and turns it around in his hands, inspecting it carefully. “About time!”
“You’re welcome.” Rutger rolls his eyes. “We should head off. The streets are already packed, and you should see the Forum, mensa. It’s like the whole Geldershire is there. If we don’t hurry, we’ll not even fit.”
Gotthard nods, absentmindedly. “Hmm, yes. This should kick enough power.” He walks to the bench and carefully places the battery box on the surface.
“I really hope so, because th
at thing wasn’t cheap.”
“Nor are the gadgets supplied by Speese,” Gotthard says, pointing at the long metallic pole-and-cable that Colder Simon had handed to him, which was lying on the floor. “Good that your Elders were so receptive to our suggestion to make a generous contribution to science.”
Rutger scoffs. “I still can’t believe that worked. They’re more easy-going in dreams, I can tell you that.” He stares at the mingled electrical equipment, most with their guts wide open, cables poking out and connecting to neighboring devices. “If they knew what we are really doing here…”
“They know,” Gotthard says. “A radio telescope.”
Rutger chuckles. “To communicate with a colony lost in space centuries ago.”
“Hey,” Gotthard says with a shrug. “We’ll aim our telescope to the heavens and see what we discover. If it happens to be the Lost Colony, and they reveal that a killer asteroid is on its way, then…” He spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “That’s how science works, mensa. Research. Publish. And change history.”
“You know I hear you, Gotts, I really do. But I think you put too much faith in humanity. Whatever we find up there,” he points a finger at the ceiling, “I don’t think anybody will listen. Certainly not aws Head. And I even have my doubts about the scientists.”
“Scientists will listen to the truth, no matter how inconvenient, because we can only survive by dealing with the truth. Oh,” Gotthard’s face brightens, “and in the process we will win the marai trial. After all, there’s nothing more beneficial to humankind than, well, not dying.”
“Speaking of the marai, maybe Qoh and the others can help us with the asteroid.”
“Maybe. And maybe not.”
“Why wouldn’t they? The marai always say that they want us to thrive.”
“I don’t know, mensa,” Gotthard says, shaking his head slowly and looking at an empty space on the wall. “We don’t really know their truth, do we? I’d rather win the trial, learn their secret shadow tricks, and fend for ourselves.”
“You really think we can win?”
“Of course, mensa. If we communicate with the Lost Colony before the deadline, the prize is ours.”
“I would sure as Dem be more optimistic if we grab that Path in the Shadow by the balls. Then we could persuade the Pontifex herself to listen to us.”
“It’s happening, mensa,” Gotthard says with a wink. “Have faith in science. Now, make yourself useful and take that upstairs,” he says, pointing at the metallic pole-and-cable on the floor. “Screw it to the rest of the antenna. I’ll test the oscillator in the meantime. The sooner we are done here, the earlier we can head to the Forum.” He turns his attention to a thick, open book resting on the bench, covered with diagrams.
“Ah, sweet!” Rutger leans down and takes the device in his hands. “For a minute I thought you didn’t want to go to the Festival.”
Gotthard gapes at his friend. “Are you serious? I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” He chuckles as he lets his eyes fall back on the book. “I bet my ass that whatever Edda and Speese have up their sleeves is happening tonight.”
Twenty-Seven
New Year’s Eve 2399
The auditorium seems to dissolve in a chaotic mix of loud dance music and the tantalizing mingling of smells—sweet cottons, fried corns, toasted breads, thick syrups, hearty sausages. A bird’s eye view of the colony at night sparkles across the amphitheater, gliding gently over the packed streets and squares. Ximena gapes at the sheer overkill of electric light, and at the bright dynamism of colorful hats and tunics; most dancing, many laughing, some singing. Everybody—absolutely everybody—is out on the streets tonight.
Lunteren is celebrating like it is the last day on Earth.
The heart of the celebration, where the swarms of light and color seem to converge with the leisurely but sure way of rivers winding into the sea, is the largest public open space in the colony.
“The Forum of Lunteren,” Miyagi says. “Following the classical Goah’s Gift tradition for colony fora: an extensive public area on the colony edge, in direct connection to nature or wilderness. In Lunteren the Forum extends almost five hundred yards across and, as you can see,” he gestures with a finger at the long line of trees where a pitch-black forest begins, “more than half of it directly borders the Veluwa woods.”
The music, singing and shouting grow louder as the scene glides down over the Forum. It is a flat red-bricked extension able to comfortably host thousands of people, which tonight have claimed the space with bustling enthusiasm. On the far eastern side, next to the Veluwa woods, a large, oval building towers over the Forum like a castle over a medieval town.
“That is the Eye of Goah,” Miyagi points at the dominant structure, “the heart of the Forum, and aws Head’s administrative presence in the colony. See all those annexed rooms and low buildings around the main body? Offices, residences, barracks, archives, storage—you name it. You know how the raw power of the Pontifex flows out of Townsend and spreads throughout the rest of the world? Well, an itsy-bitsy piece of it,” he brings his index and thumb together, “ends right here.”
The scene is already floating close over the heads of celebrating colonists, and Ximena can make out the individuals as they shout and laugh with exuberant joy. Most dance, and jump, and yell like spasmodic maniacs to the thumping, live music.
The Eye of Goah building is surrounded by an elevated terrace, extensive and bordered by elegant columns. A large stage—flooded with blinding, blinking spotlights—dominates the central section of the terrace, beside a diverse assortment of electric equipment: microphones, colossal loudspeakers, radio emitters, knob-covered devices. To the right, a band plays hypnotic music. To the left, shaded from the spotlights, groups of finely dressed colonists with impressive hats walk and mix leisurely in sight of the masses below.
“Those up there,” Miyagi points at the elegant figures, “are the crème de la crème: aws Head’s top bureaucracy, the Colony Elders, industrial families—even Gotthard’s family is there. But the real action,” Miyagi pauses for effect, “is down here, with the commoners.”
With a theatrical wave of his hand, the scene lands right in the middle of the Forum, in the heart of the crowd.
“Here they are, the whole Van Dolah lot.” Miyagi points at Edda, dressed in a bright white-and-black-striped tunic framing her dark skin in attractive contrast. Beside her, Willem, wearing a white flat side hat, is talking to Bram, who is carrying little Hans on his chest, comfortably secured in warm cloths.
Edda is keeping to herself, a few steps away from the rest of her family, but her eyes shine with excitement. She throws anxious glances at the people around her and at the still-empty central stage.
“Edda, come over here, girl!” Willem shouts at her.
Without turning, Edda gives him a sidelong glance and says nothing.
“Edda, why are you being such a bitch to Dad?” Bram shouts over the crowd. “This is his last New Year’s Eve, Goah’s Mercy!”
Edda turns her head, a scowl on her face. “That’s precisely why!” she shouts back.
“Ah, here you are!” Quaestor Marjolein Mathus, parting the crowd with a wide smile, walks towards Willem. She is wearing the ceremonial aws Head’s purple toga, long and formal, and yet incapable of hiding the exuberance of her petite body. Her long hair falls in elaborate, golden braids to the middle of her back. She usually looks impeccable, Ximena admits, but she has outdone herself tonight.
“Uh, aws Blessings to you, Quaestor Mathus,” Willem says, his eyes locked on her. On all of her. He blushes.
She laughs, stands on her toes, and kisses him on the cheek. “Oh, come on, Will. I am not exercising office. Not with you.”
“How are you, Marjo?” he says. “You must be nervous.”
“I am!” She exhales a long breath. “I might not look it, but I’m terrified. Incredibly busy, you cannot imagine how many… tiny details still need my approval, eve
n tonight.” She turns. “Aws Blessings to you, Bram, Edda.”
“Aws Blessings to you, Quaestor.” Bram bows politely, holding the toddler with his right hand. Edda stays silent, her attention elsewhere.
A trace of irritation crosses Marjolein’s face. “Aws Blessings to you, Edda!” she shouts louder, walking to her.
Edda turns and stares at her.
In silence.
Willem hurriedly places a hand on Marjolein’s shoulder. “Don’t mind her. She is giving me the silent treatment.”
“Seriously? That is not very pious of you, Edda.”
Edda remains silent, facing away.
“Please, let her be,” Willem says to Marjolein. “It’s nothing.”
She purses her lips. “It is most certainly not nothing!” Her eyes glare at Edda with rising indignation. “Two mere months to your Joyousday, and this is the family life you must put up with? It’s heartless! It should be a time of love, remembrance and family.”
Edda turns with sudden fury in her eyes. “What do you know of family?!” Edda shouts in Marjolein’s face. “You never had parents!”
Marjolein takes a hesitant step back, blinking, eyes wide in disbelief.
“E- Edda!” Willem is horrified.
“You kill our parents!” Edda shouts, tiny drops of spit falling on Marjolein’s toga.
“Edda!” Willem’s furious lashing shout freezes Edda and makes Bram and many colonists in the immediate vicinity startle. “Shut up this instant!” With bloodshot eyes and a brow distorted with rage, his face is almost unrecognizable, as if a demon had taken possession of the always placid Meester.
The toddler in Bram’s hold begins to cry like he has just seen a monster leaping out of nowhere, which in a way it has. A large circle of colonists gawk at him.
“I’m so sorry, Marjo,” Willem says, voice trembling with emotion. “Edda is just upset. She doesn’t mean it.”
