THE FOREVER GENE (THE SCIONS OF EARTH Book 1)

by Dean, Warren

  She and her crew had been asked to wait for the press conference which would be hosted shortly by President Ganzorig. He had arrived at the hospital an hour ago; the police cordon opening briefly to let his short motorcade through. He did not want the conference to degenerate into a potentially embarrassing melee and had decreed that no other Personet crews would be permitted through the cordon. This meant that Qara's broadcast would be an exclusive and would be carried by just about every channel on the Personet. Billions of viewers around the world would see her face and hear her voice.

  Ulan Bator was not a large city, by most standards, and the pace of life there was relatively sedate and relaxed. Although diligent and industrious, its inhabitants appreciated the value of taking the time to observe traditions and enjoy the rewards of their endeavours. Business was certainly conducted, but not at the cost in stress and fatigue paid for commercial success almost everywhere else on the planet.

  Growing up in the city, its placid way of life had exasperated Qara for as long as she could remember. During her childhood and teenage years, all she had ever wanted was to go somewhere else, somewhere vibrant where exciting things happened and ambitious people led eventful lives. Early on she identified the Personet as her best means of escape and every day she watched the entertainment channels, full of stories of romance, mystery and adventure. As she grew older she found the news channels more compelling and imagined herself as a courageous reporter broadcasting breaking news from some perilous hotspot.

  By the time she left school she was already fluent in English, the dominant language of the Personet, and her excellent academic results gained her acceptance at Oxford University's Lady Margaret Hall. She spent four years obtaining her degree, majoring in communications and journalism. That was the easy part. Much harder was breaking into the industry. Although there were thousands of channels on the Personet, they were able to cherry-pick the best candidates from the hordes of hopefuls attracted by the apparently glamorous lifestyle offered by the global network.

  She had identified Oxford as the best place to study, not only because of its status as one of the best universities in the world, but also because of its proximity to London, the western hub of the Personet. She thought that this would give her a better opportunity to find a channel prepared to take her on, but she soon found that the one thing she had little control over, her accent, stood in her way at every turn. She lost count of the number of interviewers who told her sympathetically that she was an excellent candidate and, as soon as her accent 'improved', she should re-apply.

  For two frustrating years she sustained herself with part-time work as a waitress in restaurants, where a foreign accent was the rule rather than the exception, and as an usher in various museums. One day, standing at a traffic light in Charing Cross Road on her way to work at the National Portrait Gallery, she felt a powerful urge to go home. Suddenly the crowds, noise, bustle and traffic of Trafalgar Square felt oppressive, a feeling that surprised her. She found herself longing suddenly for the dusty open spaces in and around Ulan Bator, where as a child she often participated in the ubiquitous horse-riding competitions, holding her own against the boys as a rider. She had even earned a reputation as a sure shot with a bow, once winning a ribbon at the Naadam festival when she was fourteen.

  By then, it felt like she had been rejected by every Personet channel in London, and she decided to go back to Ulan Bator. Before she left for Oxford, she had been offered a scholarship by her hometown university's School of Mongolian Studies. She had rejected it with contempt then but, six sobering years later, she was happy to sign up for an honours degree in Mongolian Literature.

  Needless to say, she gave up on her dream of becoming a reporter and it came as a complete surprise when, towards the end of the first year of her degree, a producer from Mongolia Today contacted her to ask whether she would be interested in a position answering calls and responding to p-mails for the channel. Towards the end of her time in London she had sent applications to Mongolia Today and UB Post, the only two Personet channels based in Ulan Bator, but had heard nothing from either of them and had been too dispirited by then to follow up.

  At the interview she was told that the channel needed someone who spoke English fluently and that the recorded clip she had sent with her application had impressed the news director. For once, her accent was not a problem. After her experiences in London, her expectations had been lowered to the point where she was more than happy to start at the bottom.

  She accepted the position, continuing her studies part-time, and by the end of the following year she was doing English voice-overs on many of the channel's broadcasts. She impressed the news director sufficiently to earn a screen test, which she passed with flying colours. She soon became the channel's first choice reporter for any story broadcast in English.

  She completed her honours degree and was surprised to discover that she was content with life. Her youthful impatience with Ulan Bator had dissipated, cured by her discovery that the grass was not necessarily greener elsewhere. She bought a small but comfortable house on the outskirts of the city and kept a few horses, which she enjoyed riding regularly. She even began entering riding competitions again and found that she had lost very little of her skill.

  Her studies gave her a new appreciation of her nation's prominence in world history and she no longer thought of it as somehow inferior to the more glamorous countries she had once dreamed of escaping to. Having come full circle, and having made peace with herself and her birthplace, it was more than ironic that she found herself in the centre of one of the most startling global events in history. She could imagine the frustration of the big international channels, none of which had Personet crews stationed permanently in Mongolia. Nothing ever happened there after all, and the vast distances of central Asia meant that even the channels with their own airbuses would take the best part of half a day to reach Ulan Bator.

  By the time President Ganzorig's press conference was ready to start, no more than a handful of Personet crews had arrived in the city. Unfortunately for them, they promptly found themselves on the wrong side of the president's police cordon.

  Her producer's voice cut in brusquely over her 'mote. "Any word on when the conference is going to start?" Tolui had been silent for some time and he sounded more apprehensive than she had ever heard him before. Mongolia Today had permanent syndication feeds to most of the big international channels but there were numerous smaller channels which were not tied in to those syndicates. Her channel was being inundated by requests to carry the broadcast. She could imagine the chaotic state of the newsroom as the staff tried to accommodate all of the requests in the limited time available and she understood why Tol was so anxious. He liked to give his full attention to the production at hand and hated distractions of any kind.

  "Not yet, we are still waiting in reception. The conference is going to be held in the hospital cafeteria, where a podium is being set up. I hope the whole thing is not going to look embarrassingly shabby." The waiting had been shredding her nerves and she suddenly felt completely inadequate. "Tol, are you sure that I am the right person for this? Shouldn't you send Yeke or Mongke here? They have far more experience than me. I have only been doing this for a year."

  Tol reverted to his usual smooth, encouraging tone. "No Qara, this is your big chance. You deserve it for all of your patience and hard work. Besides, the press conference is going to be in English and your English is better than any of the others. Don't worry, I will be with you and the questions to ask are really quite simple. Who are they? Where are they from? Why are they here? How did they learn to speak English? Start with those and we'll see what answers we get. Then you can ask some more incisive questions. How did they get here? Why did they choose Mongolia as the place to reveal themselves? How long do they intend to stay? I can come up with questions all day, so you won't run out of things to say."

  Her sense of panic began to subside. Tol had been in her corner ever sinc
e she had interviewed for her first position at the channel. It turned out that he had been the one to pick her application out of the pile on the channel director's desk and realise that she had the attributes and potential the channel needed.

  He firmly believed that, in order to establish a higher profile on the Personet, Mongolia Today had to increase its production of English language broadcasts. He had persuaded the director to allow her to take a screen test and, when she passed it, had volunteered to be her producer. They spoke to each other only in English during broadcasts so that she would not have to mentally translate questions while reporting. This made her reports sound more natural and even the big channels carried them without voice-overs. Now, by sheer chance, she and her crew were in the right place at the right time and Tol's foresight was about to pay off beyond his wildest dreams.

  A young man in a dark suit walked into the reception area and headed towards her. "Ma'am", he said in a tone which was somehow polite and authoritative at the same time, "President Ganzorig will see you now, please come with me."

  Qara stared at him, astonished. No-one had said anything to her about talking to president. Of course, she expected him to be at the conference, but that was nothing new. She had attended his conferences before and had even asked him a few questions. But there had always been scores of people present and she was just a face in the crowd. Now he wanted to see her personally.

  "Tol," she hissed urgently into her 'mote, "The president wants to see me. What should I do?"

  "Don't keep him waiting," was the laconic reply.

  She sprang to her feet, ignoring the small smile on the young aide's face. It was obvious that the president would want to speak to her before the conference began. He wouldn't want to be embarrassed in front of a global audience by the ill-considered and impudent questions of a brash young Personet reporter. She signalled Batu and Oyugun to accompany her and followed the aide up the stairs and onto the first floor. They walked down a different passage to the one that she had taken to the conference room earlier and went through a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.

  The cafeteria was a large, airy room with an open-plan kitchen at the far end and a bank of windows in the wall to the left of the doorway. The colour scheme of the room was mercifully understated, a far cry from that of the garish conference room, and the view from the windows was of the carefully manicured gardens in front of the hospital. Most of the tables and chairs, all chrome and plastic, had been moved to the other side of the room. The podium, which had been set up in front of the mercifully clean windows, was one which had been brought from the president's office.

  "Maybe this won't be as shabby as I thought," she whispered to Batu. "Make sure you don't get the kitchen or that pile of tables and chairs in the shot."

  Batu nodded. He was a talented camera-man and didn't need to be given such obvious instructions. Broad-shouldered and taciturn, his weakness was an unfortunate penchant for cheap Vodka, developed during a stint in the armed forces. By the time Qara earned her shot at reporting he had been bailed out of the police cells on three occasions for brawling and damaging property and none of the other reporters or their producers were prepared to work with him.

  So, much to Tol's disgust, he had been paired with Qara. Much to Tol's surprise, the apparent mismatch worked extremely well, particularly after Batu discovered Qara's love of horses and her riding ability. He was a horseman of some repute, having won the thirty kilometre race at the Naadam festival two years running at age twelve and again at age thirteen. After that he grew into a powerful wrestler, winning a number of national competitions.

  His loyalty to Qara was cemented about three months after they began working together. She was on hand to witness his demolition of the Pink Pony, a back-street bar where they had gone for a quiet drink, in a brawl with five or six of its patrons. For a wrestler, he was perfectly proportioned, short, but powerfully built. With a forearm he brushed aside a wooden stool which had been hurled at him and took a number of heavy blows without flinching. He had long arms which he used to deftly fling his opponents into the nearby furniture with great force and accuracy.

  Afterwards, she lied blatantly to save him another trip to the police cells. She laid all of the blame for the fracas on the other patrons, none of whom were in any condition to contradict her. What triggered the outburst was never clear, but at five o'clock the next morning she pounded on the door of Batu's third-floor flat until he opened it, blinking groggily in surprise. She told him that, if he ever did anything like that again, she would never work with him again. Her lecture was punctuated with the best English profanities in her repertoire, which was prolific given the considerable expertise of her fellow Oxford University students in the subject.

  Her approach had the desired effect and even the channel director was impressed at the improvement in Batu's conduct, if not in his consistently reticent demeanour.

  Without fanfare the president of Mongolia walked into the cafeteria, accompanied by a knot of aides and trailed by a detail of security agents. All of them, except the president, were engaged in animated 'mote conversations and she could imagine the diplomatic frenzy as other world leaders tried to find out whether the strangers represented a threat they should be concerned about or an opportunity they could exploit. The president was a vigorous, relatively tall man in his late forties and she watched him gauge the readiness of the room over the heads of his aides.

  "The press conference will begin in ten minutes," he boomed and then, catching sight of Qara, he gestured to her to join him. He turned and strode into the empty kitchen, leaving his aides behind.

  "Ten minutes," she hissed into her 'mote and left Batu and Oyugun to conduct their checks. She lifted her head in a show of confidence, strode into the kitchen, knocked a large metal colander to the floor with a loud crash, picked it up and replaced it on its hook, and waited for the president to dismiss her in disgust.

  He pretended not to notice and pulled a sheaf of papers from a leather folder he was carrying.

  "Miss Qara-Chinua? We have met before haven't we?"

  "Yes, sir, sorry about the..."

  "I am not going to tell you what questions to ask. I don't want anyone to think that there is no freedom of the press in Mongolia. Your channel director has told me that you are one of his most sensible reporters and that I can trust you not to ask anything which will cause embarrassment, either to us or to the strangers. However, at the insistence of my advisers, I am going to give you a list of questions to avoid. I am sure you understand that this is an unprecedented diplomatic situation and that there is a great deal of potential for misunderstanding."

  He handed over the sheaf of papers, which contained a very long list of questions.

  "This list has been drawn up by my public relations people at very short notice, so it is by no means complete. I am sorry that you do not have much time to study it, but I have only just received it myself."

  She cast an eye over the first page of questions. Nothing of a political nature, nothing confrontational, nothing inflammatory. No attempts to be humorous either; in other words, don't spark an inter-species incident with a joke that might be taken as an insult.

  The president softened his tone and placed an avuncular hand on her shoulder. "Qara, in the press conferences of mine you have attended you have gone almost unnoticed. I regard that as a good sign. It means that you don't say stupid things and that you listen more than you speak. If you apply those principles today, I will be more than happy."

  He indicated a young security agent hovering in the doorway. "Tegus will keep you updated. Let him know when you and your crew are ready."

  "Thank you, sir, I will do my best." She turned and walked out of the kitchen, carefully ignoring the still swinging colander. Somehow, with just a few words, he had banished her anxiety and replaced it with determination. All she wanted now was to prove that his confidence in her was not misplaced.

  She had once heard her fa
ther say that President Ganzorig was a great motivator, someone who could inspire you with a few well-chosen words. She now knew what he meant.

  She spent the next ten minutes scanning through the list of questions in an attempt to drum as many of them into her head as possible. She couldn't memorise them all in the time available and concentrated on getting a sense of the type of question to be avoided. She was so engrossed in her preparation that she didn't notice the room steadily filling with people.

  When the buzz of conversation eventually caught her attention, she looked up and saw that Tegus had arranged for rows of chairs to be set up in front of the podium. The hospital's senior staff members had already taken up a number of the seats and some of the president's aides joined them. Some forty or fifty people, mostly hospital staff, had been allowed into the room and were standing in a loose semi-circle around the back of the seating. The effect was to transform the atmosphere in the cafeteria from drab and hollow to colourful and vibrant, and her respect for the president's dramatic instincts went up a notch.

  By then, Oyugun was happy with his sound levels and Batu had set up a tripod to ensure that the camera shot of the podium would be completely steady. He held a second camera, which he would use to pan across onlookers to capture their reactions. Tegus showed Qara to a front-row seat at the end opposite Batu's camera position. He would have a good angle of her when she asked her questions. She kept Tol informed with a running commentary of events and, as soon as the channel was ready to broadcast, signalled Tegus, who gave the president a nod.

  With a refreshing lack of ceremony, Ganzorig stepped onto the podium and looked directly into the camera. He paused for effect.

  "Greetings to you, wherever you may be watching around the world," he began. "Today, my humble country has received some unexpected visitors and it is my pleasure to introduce them to you. But before I do that, I will share with you what I know so far. The strangers have informed me that they are from an extra-terrestrial civilisation which is far more advanced than ours. This is perhaps evident from the fact that they have been able to travel to Earth and land here without being detected."