by Samuel Fort
Chapter 14 - The Morning Pudding
Fiela was gone when Ben woke the next morning. Sunlight was streaming through the suite’s window and when he checked his phone he saw it was almost ten o’clock.
There was a knock at the door. Ben rose, put on a robe he found in the wardrobe, and said, “Come in.”
Two servants appeared, an elderly man and a middle-aged woman, both in immaculate domestic uniforms. Each carried a tray.
“Breakfast, sir?” asked the man.
“Oh - yes, thank you,” Ben said.
The man motioned the woman to follow him to a table positioned beneath the large window that framed the mountains outside. The servants placed on the table a pot of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice, and a plate fried eggs and toast. They also provided six morning newspapers, local, national, and international.
“Ah,” said Ben, trying to conceal his disappointment. “Eggs and toast.” He’d imagined being treated to thick slabs of bacon, a hill of pancakes, and maybe the giant pastries of the wealthy.
“Yes, sir,” said the servant. “Miss Fiela indicated you preferred eggs and toast for breakfast. She prepared this meal herself. She said it would be a surprise.”
“Definitely,” the other man mumbled, observing the leathery brown texture of the eggs. As the servants arranged the silverware, Ben ventured, “Mr. Fetch?”
“Yes sir?”
Score. “Is Miss Stratton awake?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Fetch. “She was downstairs with Miss Fiela earlier.”
“Any calls for me? Visits by people who wear uniforms and carry guns? Men with greased back hair wearing power ties and carrying briefcases?”
Chuckling, Mr. Fetch replied, “No, no one by that description, sir.”
“Well, when they get here, you know where to find me.”
“If you say so, sir. Do you require anything else?”
“That should be it - no, wait. The script,” said Ben. “Where is it?”
“Script, sir?”
“It’s an envelope with a red wax seal. I remember putting it on the nightstand last evening but I don’t see it now.”
“Oh, yes. Miss Fiela told me to tell you that it’s in the safe, there.” Mr. Fetch nodded toward a black porcelain panel embedded at shoulder level in the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. It was the same kind of panel Ridley had used the day before to open the tablet vault.
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Fetch, who, the woman in tow, left the room.
Ben sat down at the table and unfolded one of the newspapers. Taking a sip of coffee, he saw an article with the header, Explosion and Fire Aboard U.S. Carrier. It read:
U.S. military officials have acknowledged an explosion and fire in an engine room aboard the American nuclear carrier, USS George Washington, during training maneuvers in the South China Sea. One serviceperson is confirmed dead and an unstated number are injured. There is concern that the damage may be significant enough to require the carrier to return to its homeport of Yokosuka, Japan, for repairs. The departure of the carrier would be a setback for the United States and its allies in the region, as its presence is considered necessary to check Chinese naval expansion toward the contested Spratly island group.
Ben felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience. A fire aboard the Washington?
Dropping the newspaper, he jumped up, cursed as the knee Fiela had struck almost failed him, and limped to the safe. Unsure what to do, he slapped it with the palm of his hand. There was a whir and the door opened. Nothing but the envelope was inside. He took it and went back to his seat, pulled out the envelope’s contents, and started comparing the translations to articles in the newspapers.
The paragraph in the script beneath the one referring to a fire aboard the Washington read:
[FORGER FORGER FORGER T115] 3K PKK attack BTC pipeline @ VIC454n.9j51. +/- 13HR [CB44] AZ troops to POA [CB56] Georgia troops to POA +10Z [CB667] Turkish response +35Z. [REFERENCE QQ6/QQ7/QQ14 - SCENARIO RUNTIME 1,034 HRS] REGIONAL [QQ6].
While Ben didn’t understand the complete message, it did not take him long to find a match in one of the London-based newspapers:
A strategic pipeline that transports oil from the Azerbaijan to the Mediterranean Sea has been severely damaged, according to Turkish officials. Authorities have acknowledged that the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline appears to have been attacked by the PKK, or ‘the Kurdish Workers Party’ in retaliation for the purported abduction of a PKK leader near the Georgian border. A similar attack occurred in August 2008, but early indications are that the damage in the most recent attack is far more severe and could prevent the flow of oil for several months.
Next in the script was a paragraph that apparently alluded to articles he found regarding the disappearance of a BBC film crew in a tribal area of Southwest Asia, a labor strike turned violent in Hungary, and anti-globalization protests in Paris.
[REFERENCE QQ6/QQ7/QQ14 - SCENARIO RUNTIME 2,580 HRS] 3K RIP T.W.G.(BBC) v RSB @ PANTAKI SWASIA [2K DIRECTIVE, REF PINHOLE SCENARIO w SOKUSCRIPT 988 - IN PRGS] 4K LABOR STRIKES BUDAPEST, UKRAINE, PARIS. ANTI-GLOB/ANARCH. 3 RIP MIN. 2K PINHOLE 1,044 HRS REMAINING. EXTERNAL COORDINATION 3K. [QQ7-8-9]
He wondered why these three events were contained in one paragraph. Did that indicate they were somehow related to each other? But what did a BBC film crew’s disappearance - and apparent murder (RIP?) - in Southwest Asia have to do with anti-globalization protests in France?
Over the next hour he found that approximately half of the scenarios called for in the script Lilian had given him the previous evening had become reality. Others had too, he assumed, but were not newsworthy, while others may have been reported in other news sources not available to him.
At last, Ben put the papers aside and contemplated what to make of it all. It was essential that he come up with a reasonable explanation of how, exactly, the script he had had viewed last night predicted dozens of international events before they had even happened.
Option one was that they were spectacularly lucky guesses. No good.
Option two was that the newspapers were forgeries. Better, but no, that would be a stupid ploy since he could easily verify all the news events elsewhere, later.
Option three was that Lilian was psychic. Wacky talk.
Option four was that Lilian was a member of a secret organization that controlled world events. New and improved wacky talk. But what were his other options?
He spent the next fifteen minutes looking at the sky outside the window until something deep inside him clicked and his mind slowly disassembled the fiction he had called reality - the fiction of a chaotic and uncontrolled world. In that void, his mind began laying the psychological foundation for his acceptance of an antithetical world.
The world of the Nisirtu.
“I see you’ve finally done your research,”
Ben turned. Lilian was leaning against the doorframe of the room. She was wearing sleeveless black turtleneck and blue jeans. Large diamond studs on the lobes of her ears sparkled in the morning sun.
“I have.”
“Can you accept the reality of the Nisirtu, now?”
Ben fingered the newspapers and script. Weighing his words, he said, “Accept? No. But consider my disbelief suspended until I develop a workable alternative.”
“That’s progress.”
“Why newspapers, though? The same information is available on the internet.”
“Newspapers - the paper variety - can’t be hacked,” she said as she approached the table. She picked up a piece of toast from his plate and nibbled on it. “You should never trust the internet, Ben. It is there not to inform you but to control you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Pointing her toward the chair opposite him, he said, “So, what’s on the agenda today? I’d like to start my inspection of the tablets.”
“The marriage contract.”
“The not-legally-bin
ding marriage contract, you mean.”
She sat down. “I mean the marriage contract not legally binding in the Ardoon world.”
“Good enough,” said Ben, “since that’s where I happen to live in.”
“In an hour, if that’s okay?”
“The sooner the better.”
“After that, I thought you, Fiela and I could go to a small park a few miles up the road and have picnic lunch. Then I’ll bring you back and you can examine the tablets.”
At that moment Fiela walked into the room. She wore a pair of denim shorts, a tank top and no shoes. Her hair was red and tied into a ponytail.
“Good morning, Mutu,” she said, striding over to Ben and hugging him. “Did you sleep well?”
“Fiela, you can drop the pretense,” said Lilian, “I know you were here last night.”
“Oh.”
“Nothing happened,” Ben offered lamely. “I mean, we just slept together.”
“I’m sure.”
“It’s true,” said Fiela, grabbing the other piece of toast from his plate. Ben sighed and threw his napkin on the table. The girl continued, “But he did have a raging erection all night. It was like sleeping with a baseball bat taped to my ass.”
“Fiela!” said the other woman sternly, and Ben felt the girl recoil against his shoulder. “You forget yourself. You are my sister yet you have attempted to deceive me, you have belittled my husband, and you could have jeopardized the entire marriage. You are behaving like a child.”
The Peth moved behind the man. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am just, you know, excited. Happy.”
Lilian said, “Fiela, I do not wish you otherwise. But you must remember your station. Would you like to see my marriage dissolved because of your indiscretions?”
“No,” said the girl with bowed head.
“I would think not.” Lilian glanced at Ben’s expression, and then Fiela’s, and her demeanor softened. In a less formal tone, she said, “Now, go and tell the fetches to prepare a picnic lunch for us. We’re going to the park.”
“A picnic?” the Peth said, sounding a little less chastised. “I should like that.”
“Then get to it.”
“Yes, Sister.” Fiela kissed Ben and moved hurriedly out of the room.
“A bit hard on her, weren’t you?” asked Ben. “She is an adult.”
“She must learn how to behave. She has been alone in the wild for many years, Mutu. She has never been to any court. I don’t want to be harsh but she is Peth and she responds best to a firm hand.”
Ben thought that rather draconian but was not interested in getting into family politics, so he shrugged and with some effort cut off a sliver of egg. When he lifted his fork he saw that Lilian had covered her mouth with one hand. Though she was trying to remain stoic, her eyes were dancing.
“What?” he asked.
Unable to contain it, the woman burst out in laughter. When she finally caught her breath, she managed, “A baseball bat, Ben? Really? Do tell!”
He smiled bashfully. “If you think that’s belittling, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
