by Geoff Wolak
‘And the space programme on Baldy’s world?’
‘Alive and well, since the portal will need a fallback position, and I have them interested in deep space missions launched from the Moon. So … liquid rockets will still be built. Mankind … is gong back to the Moon. And it’s giving people the kind of focus they need. Once you solve all of the problems … you need more, or people get bored. Oh, seen the report from New Kinshasa on Wonder Plastic?’
‘Wonder Plastic?’
‘The volunteers have developed a type of plastic that’s perfect for prefabricated habitats on the Moon. It’s soft, and contains silica, and when the cold vacuum of space hits it the silica comes out and hardens into a shell, and … it’s good for keeping out the Sun’s radiation.’
‘They’ll bury the habitats?’ I asked.
Jimmy nodded. ‘But some will be above ground. And a probe will be launched to the Moon soon, a college project that the military grabbed; it’ll test for frozen water particles in the dust. And they’re planning on grabbing a meteor made up from ice, busting it up, and slamming bits into the Moon. Water would then be available.’
‘My smart guys reckon they can open a portal above the Moon and send water.’
‘At two minutes a go!’ Jimmy cautioned. ‘With a hell of a power drain. To reach Mars it would use up all of the energy on the planet.’
‘No good as a tool for planet hopping then?’ I said with a sigh.
‘They don’t think so.’
The Preether
Two weeks later I received word - that our embassy had received word, and that the Preethan Ambassador may soon return. Hopefully. I was beside myself with joy at the prospect, and set off with my case.
On Seether, the local police arranged a vehicle and an escort, and I set-off south with my bodyguards, soon back at the embassy and reclaiming my Spartan magnolia room.
In the morning, I noticed that the garden had been transformed, the ambassador and the head gardener having been busy little bees. Well, there was little else to do for either of them. I caught up with Pleb, who asked if we could buy a car or two. That was good thinking, for him, and we retained gold coins for just such an eventually.
Pleb went out and bought a car, and arrived back with a policeman at the wheel, and a smashed headlight. Yes, driving was more difficult than it appeared, and Pleb would have to have lessons. The police officer raised his voice, waved his arms, and threatened Pleb with all sorts. Pleb had driven the wrong way down a main road, and caused many cars to swerve.
We apologised to the policeman, who accept a few gold coins. Seems that traffic police throughout the universe all have a similar attitude. I told Pleb not to drive till he had lessons, and then arranged for the guards to teach Pleb, but just round and round the embassy. The cars here were dated, but straight forwards enough, the guards getting to grips with the antiques after half an hour.
Thinking laterally, as Jimmy always encouraged me to do, we bought another two cars, and drove them with escorts back to the portal, where the Seethan police watched them disappear up the aluminium sheep ramp. A day later two cars returned, not looking so different. The police escorts from the town fell into convoy, but our drivers put their foot down and topped a hundred miles per hour down to the capital, arriving at the embassy without their escorts.
I had seen vintage cars advertised on our world – where only the body shape and seats were vintage, the car’s inner workings modern, the vehicles usually electric. Plastic moulds had quickly been made to resemble the original cars, and were attached to the “modern” electric vehicles. The glass was now a bullet-proof plastic, the engine electric but with suitable sound effects.
The police escorts arrived an hour later, much shouting and waving of arms. We gave them a few gold coins and suggested they get faster cars, ignoring their complaints. Back on my world, teams were now examining the real vintage cars to see how they had been put together, and how the Seethan engineering mind worked. We hoped that some clues might emerge as to their adoption of human technology.
That night’s film was Alien, the original vintage space-horror movie, and our Seethan staff were soon scared rigid, after which the ambassador complained to me, gently, and in polite diplomat terms. Our Seethan staff now checked under their beds and in wardrobes, fearful of what might be lurking out there. I reluctantly agreed to stop scaring them, and switched tactic to keep the ambassador happy, and stuck to documentaries. Fish farming was popular.
The Preethan Ambassador eventually turned up, but was obviously busted-up quite badly, and looked unwell. It begged the question as to why he was still at work, and not off sick, but we didn’t pry. I asked if he wished us to make him well, and he readily agreed, the poor fella hardly able to walk. We injected him with a maximum strength dose, gave him a room, and started a high-energy food regime, telling him to eat, sleep, and then eat some more. His aides and staff were sent back to their embassy, and we left the poor fella alone for three days.
He emerged on the fourth day, feeling much better, and now walking much better. His staff had returned each day, checking that he was alive and fearing that we had kidnapped the man, but had admitted that without him they didn’t have a clue as to what they should be doing. We fed them well and showed them documentaries, the stiffs starting to melt the icy façade and warm to us. All it needed to take the first step on the path to good international relations was a little tuna, and some hot chocolate.
When the Preethan Ambassador finally suggested that he should leave, and earn his keep, we held a meeting and asked for an embassy. Yes, he said, that had been agreed weeks ago, and he had sent a letter. We eventually found the letter in Pleb’s jacket pocket – a pungent aroma to it, and vowed to keep Pleb away from sharp objects, and cars that went more than five miles per hour.
I sent a signal, and a portal opened at the same spot in Denver. A hundred pigs ran out, a hundred sheep, lambs, and whilst the locals were pleasantly distracted three “vintage” electric cars drove out with our new ambassador to Preether, his staff and his guards. They found the right building eventually, and they were even expected. The building was again set in its own grounds and isolated from the general population, soldiers at the gate, but it was a nice two-storey wooden mansion in a pleasant setting.
Our ambassador to Preether, a Swiss diplomat, had taken the time and trouble to learn as much of the Preethan language as he could, and he had been chosen for his linguistic skills as much as anything else. The delay had given him more time, and he had diligently practised by watching Preethan state-run television for twelve hours a day, every day, a mind-numbing task.
He duly greeted his Preethan minders in their own tongue, but got no thanks for his efforts. Settled in, he sent word that he wished an audience with their version of an agriculture minister. That individual turned up two days later, and sat listening as our guy offered technical help and advice on farming, as well as more sheep and pigs. The help was accepted without thanks.
Additional animals were sent through, enough for the population to eat well during the winter. The second part of the agreement, the very one-sided agreement, was that Preethan farm managers would turn up at the embassy, and would sit watching documentaries on farming, the commentary computer-dubbed into the Preethan language. That language was very similar to Seethan, but with different noun endings and shorter verbs. If anything, it was a dialect with an accent. I had already learned a thing or two about our hosts, and made sure that the farm managers received hot chocolate to drink as they watched the films, and tuna to eat, plenty of tinned tuna.
Within a week, the number of farm managers turning up at our embassy in Preether had doubled, classes now numbering around thirty people a day, the audience all munching away as they watched the documentaries. That led to our man asking for a hall, in which to show the films to more people. The Preether agreed, a nearby hall appropriated, and soon a hundred local bachelors sat watching the films of a wet afternoon, extra supplies
brought in by portal.
Pinching the idea, we asked the Seether for a hall, and were soon dishing out food and drink to sixty bachelors, hopefully all farm managers and workers. I asked the Seethan Agriculture Minister to make sure that the people were indeed farmers, and that they would go away after watching six films in sequence. He agreed. After all, we both wanted agricultural produce up.
The classes gave me hope, and were in their own way a small breakthrough, but the presidents of both nations did not pop-down to visit and to chat. And one day I received some news that disheartened me a little. Drones were monitoring a build-up of Preethan forces in the west of their territory, an attack imminent. I linked through to Jimmy, and he suggested that I make use of the drones, but without anyone noticing.
I sat with the human staff, our Preethan team linked in, and made a few plans. On the day that the Preethan soldiers started to move forwards, three strategic bridges - all of a dated wooden design, caught fire. Fuel trucks ignited and blew, and the advance was all over before it got started. We observed aerial views of the soldiers being bussed back to barracks, and we sighed with relief.
The weather turned poor, and most of the sporadic military engagements faded away, the locals not that keen on fighting in the cold rain. I feared that spring would see fresh offensives, and gave myself the winter in which to try and start peace talks.
A week of rain falling from grey skies was broken only by a small piece of good news. The Seether would allow us to organise more films in more halls. I sent word back to my world, and twenty farming experts arrived with projectors and spare batteries. The Seether found rooms for our new arrivals at a tatty hotel not far from the embassy, the usual occupants kicked out, minders and vehicles provided.
Within a few days of the arrival of the educational teams the first films were being shown in nearby towns, hot chocolate given out, tinned tuna issued, now a steady stream of supplies coming through the Manson portal, the locals there getting used to us.
A smart group on Baldy’s world then sent me a dozen data-pads that would do nothing other than show a series of twenty documentaries over and over. The instructions were in Seethan, and even Pleb could understand them. We risked sending Pleb out – on foot, and he delivered the pads to the government with instructions; point towards a white wall, select film number, press start or end. Pleb reported that they would be sent to towns further away, and I was starting to feel like we were getting somewhere, if only in advancing agriculture a little.
That evening, Henry had a word with Pleb, and – failing to get his point across – had a word with me. ‘Paul, Pleb grew up on a farm, and … as such … knew that urinating on his vegetables … enhanced their growth rate. He also knew, like every farmer does, that manure helps the plants.’
‘Yeah…?’ I puzzled.
Henry raised a dangerous pointed finger. ‘If he doesn’t stop shitting on my roses I shall not be held responsible for what I do to him!’
Grinning, I went and found Pleb, explaining his mistake. When Pleb failed to understand, since he was being helpful, I explained that Henry shat on his own roses. It did the trick.
I returned to my own world and caught up with Sandra and Jesus, Sandra getting big again, before flying over to New Kinshasa with Susan and our two Seethan adoptees. Arriving, I threw our two into the pool, and they swam around happily for hours with Selemba, chasing each other.
Jimmy joined us a few days later, and soon eased into the pool with the kids. When he took to throwing Selemba across the pool, she loved it and came back for more. And our two Piscean babies, as yet unnamed, bit Jimmy on the legs, which pleased me no end. When the subject of names came up, I suggested Klok and Chime, since they were Seethan names. Klok was male, Chime was used by males and females, and everyone thought the idea amusing.
Our pool boy used a large net to fish out Klok and Chime, the kids never wanting to leave and always crying when forcibly removed. Food shut them up quickly and, like all Holton offspring, a table with food meant quiet reverence. Our adopted Seethan kids tended to fall fast asleep after feeding, which was an odd biological reaction, since in the wild they would be vulnerable – as fish. We figured it a human trait.
That day, feeding Selemba, I could see a slight change to the corners of her eyes, and it saddened me. I knew what lay ahead, but I was still her father, and I worried for her as any father would.
‘Her eyes are starting to change,’ I told everyone at the table.
Helen simply nodded.
‘It’s for the best,’ Jimmy suggested, Helen not commenting. ‘And … an announcement is needed before the household staff start asking awkward questions.’
‘Could you … make that announcement,’ Helen asked Jimmy.
‘Of course,’ Jimmy responded after a moment, a look exchanged with me.
That afternoon, Jimmy travelled around to our TV studios, still technically under our control, and made a statement. ‘People of the united Earths. I have been to a certain future date, and met advanced Seethan peoples, the detail of which will remain secret to prevent a paradox. When the child of Paul and Helen Holton, named Selemba, was born, a portal opened and a necklace fell through. That necklace was placed around the neck of Selemba, and it infected her with a new blood product. Peoples of Earth, that blood product is re-writing her DNA, and when she matures she will be part human … and part Seethan.
‘I have an idea about who sent that necklace, and they are to be praised and honoured for what they did. Selemba has a destiny, a very important destiny, and she will act as an ambassador to the Seethan world in the future. Paul and Helen were chosen because they could be trusted to do what was right, and to raise the child with love – however she looks.
‘In the months and years ahead the baby will alter till she looks like the Seether that you have already seen on your TV screens. But she will grow up here, loved and nurtured, taught our ways, but – more importantly – she will be taught our values, the values of Paul and Helen, and she will take those values with her wherever she may travel in the future. And what better place for a future ambassador to grow up … than here in New Kinshasa, where skin colour, race or religion, are not used to separate people.
‘There was a time … when the white people of this world looked down on those of a different skin colour. We showed you a better way. Now I ask that anyone who believes in me, and believes in my work, does not look down on someone who looks a little like a fish. We, here in New Kinshasa, taught the world how to look into the heart, and not at the skin colour. We, here in New Kinshasa, will teach the world how to look into the heart of the Seether, and beyond their skin. Africa, will lead the way again. Thank you.’
I smiled contentedly as I watched the broadcast from the mansion, and knew that few would dare show any prejudice, and that around here few would wish to anyway. Later, I lifted up Selemba and took her for walk, my chubby lump growing very quickly. In the garden, I showed her to a guard, and she gripped his little finger, causing a big toothy grin.
‘She be the chosen one, boss?’
‘She be the chosen one,’ I confirmed.
He mock saluted my chubby lump.
In the days that followed, someone created Seethan dolls and started to give them out to children, and a cartoon character appeared on a children’s show. The computer generated Seethan child sometimes saved the day by swimming well or rescuing someone from a raging river. One cartoon had the Seethan consoling a black boy being bullied, and persuaded the boy to tell his father, a Rifles soldier. The bully got thrown in prison by a large soldier.
When Sandra was due she flew over, literally holding them in till she landed. She was whisked straight around to us, the local police treating her like visiting royalty, and she made it to the paddling pool just in time, a gush of liquid and babies hitting the water the second she knelt down. Five minutes later and twenty babies were swimming around, sacks being chewed open, or broken open by us.
This time I c
alled in a TV crew, but they waited in the next room. With a little shrieking wriggler in my hand, wrapped in a towel, I stepped next door to the TV crew and let them film the Seether. I was handed tuna by a maid, and I fed the boy, making sure that the TV crew got plenty of good coverage. It made every news outlet that evening. What also made the news … was that all twenty were up for adoption to suitable citizens of New Kinshasa.
Some eight thousand couples applied straight away, emails sent to the main adoption agency. Anna flew in and pinched one, whether we liked that or not.
Sandra and Jesus bowed to Anna. ‘Anna of Ebede, honoured mother of the ancestors.’
I was surprised; Anna was in their history. ‘Anna … is in your history?’
‘Known as the mother of the ancestors, ancestors who served Queen Selemba.’
‘Queen?’ Anna queried.
‘That’s secret,’ I quickly got out. ‘Don’t repeat it. And Sandra, don’t use that word again.’
‘Sorry,’ Sandra offered, bowing.
‘Political queen or … insect hive queen?’ Anna nudged.
I exchanged a look with Helen. ‘Both. This pair -’ I motioned towards Sandra and Jesus. ‘- are direct descendants.’
‘My God,’ Anna let out. She offered them, ‘I will look after your child.’
‘It is a very great honour for us,’ Jesus offered Anna.
Cosy stepped in and took in the pool. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Thought you’d be used to large numbers of kids by now,’ I quipped.
‘I’m used to seeing babies born one at a time, and that’s a stress.’ Anna showed Cosy their new addition to the family. ‘Is there a user manual?’
‘They’re just like human children,’ I told him. ‘Feed, sleep, crap. Oh, and they love tuna.’
