The Second Wave Page 5

  John followed the cries of the seagulls and the swelling sounds of the city until he reached the opening in the shield. There were five of them. One each at the northern, eastern and western end of the city, and one in both harbors respectively. Not more than an archway in the sheer shield, broad enough to accommodate a large vehicle, but easy to miss, if one didn’t know what to look for. The gates were not guarded, people were free to come and go as they pleased as was the case in every other shielded city.

  The magnitude of Byzantium hit John like a storm front as soon as his steps took him inside. The noise he had grown accustomed to as he was nearing the city, although it did grow exponentially when he entered the town; but the stench made him gag now; it took him a few minutes to get so used to it that he was able to resume walking. He dimly noticed a little boy laughing at him, and a girl with huge eyes tugging on his robe, asking if he needed help. He waved them both away.

  It was not seven o’clock in the morning, and Byzantium was already buzzing with life like a busy beehive. Merchants were up and about, shooing their donkeys on to carry their goods to the market. Groups of people were walking together, shopping baskets in hand, chatting and laughing. Children were chasing chickens across the street. The little boy who had laughed at John was already back at his mother’s side. The girl with the huge eyes sat on a doorstep and chewed on a fig. She watched John with curiosity. It was impossible that her eyes could widen even more, but they did when John squatted down in front of her to ask for the way to the bazaar.

  He had to walk through almost the entire city and cross the canal to get to the ancient centre of the town. The bazaar was a huge marketplace that stretched over several streets, some of them canopied. If possible, it was even bigger than John remembered it. Several dozen merchants from all corners of the city, sometimes the world, were offering every imaginable item possible. The main alleys were located between blocks of flats. Because the merchants’ carts were lined up on either side of the streets, there was little space in between. The customers were plenty, though; they stood cramped but patiently, waiting for their turn or at least for the crowd to move so they could get on. Salespeople yelled at people to try this and that, customers haggled over the heads of the person before them in line, tourists got robbed, locals got threatened, and the one who yelled loudest was always in the right.

  John had actually missed spectacles like this one during his self-imposed exile in Africa. From the basket of a passer-by he stealthily swiped a bunch of grapes for breakfast. Not joining the mob, he sat down on the ground, a few metres away on the side of another street, and just watched. They were even doing business from the windows of the houses: Someone would holler their order, and promptly a basket got lowered down in which the customer could place his payment. Then the basket got hauled up again, and when it came down a second time, it contained whatever article had been requested. Sometimes it wasn’t the article the customer wanted, or less than they thought they had paid for, and then a verbal fight would ensue, in which other customers and merchants would join in. A commotion would rise, abuse was bellowed, fists were shaken, offspring was cursed; and in the end the missing objects, or the originally ordered items, would find their way to the buyer, after all. No foul done, no honor discredited—it was just the way grocery shopping was done in Byzantium.

  After a while John began scanning the faces for someone familiar, a way in. Someone he could approach to do his own business. But it had been years since he’d last been here, everyone looked a stranger to him now.

  He saw her only on second glance. His way in. An ancient woman, her face a much abused, crumpled-up map of the known world. She was sitting cross-legged on a window sill in the ground floor of a building, plucking a chicken. She did so very slowly, like she was merely biding time while she waited. No one bought anything from her, and once, when a young girl asked how much the chicken was, the woman shooed her away.

  If she wasn’t selling anything, she was most likely there for other business, John rightfully observed. He got up and let himself be carried towards the old woman by the current of customers.

  “Selam, o blossom of the orange tree,” John greeted her. The old woman didn’t interrupt her work, but did look up shortly to glare at him.

  “Don’t be alarmed. It is not my intention to buy this chicken from you, as it is all too apparent that you have no more, and will not have anything to do once you’ve given it away.”

  “What do you want, stranger?”

  “I have come a long way to see a man about a donkey.”

  “Then you have come to the wrong place. Nobody sells donkeys anymore, they are unreliable, ugly beasts.”

  Obviously the code had changed, which was unfortunate. John hoped his old contact was still available, or he’d have no way of getting his ticket to the black market.

  “That is just because next to you, even Aphrodite’s high priestesses pale in comparison, and the petals of the Lotus shrivel and hide in shame, for they can never match your beauty,” he offered smoothly. Then he changed his tone abruptly and demanded, “Tell Celem Yahya wants to see him. Go now.”

  Accustomed to the tone and commanding voice of someone who knew what they wanted, the woman vanished inside the house without another word.

  It was too cramped here to sit down, as in front of and around him the bazaar unfurled, and he was trapped between a cart with colorful fabrics, a man with a hawker’s tray who offered “all the spices of the Orient” for “very special prices” to “very special customers”, and shoppers who wanted to buy everything at once for as little payment as possible. So John leaned with his back against the wall of the building the old woman had disappeared into, and waited patiently, absentmindedly watching the goings-on of the market.

  So absentminded was he that he didn’t notice he was the object of observation himself. His return to Byzantium did not go unnoticed, because the last time John fled this city, he had left behind enemies.

  * * * *

  The building of the new settlement was coming along without further setbacks. After the workmen’s temporary barracks were set up, a steady flow of building material and resources ensured a smooth erection of the colony’s basic structure. Soon the hospital and the first houses stood. Captain Eleven and her team were now permanently residing on the new planet, as was Simon Jones, who was overlooking the construction site; although what he mostly did was yell at the workers to either move more quickly, or be more careful.

  All in all, the progress exceeded all expectations. General Fatique was more than satisfied. The tickets were activated, and in less than three weeks the new settlers would arrive to start a new life; not just for themselves, but for everyone. The second wavers got provided with jobs and homes, so they could start setting up the next settlement and the first infrastructures. Another year, Fatique mused as he strolled to the conference room to meet the new mayor, perhaps fifteen months. Then Alternearth was ready for a full colonization; and not a moment too soon.

  Fatique met with Heathcliff Rochester alone today, without the assistance of Elizabeth Burke. The two men had become friends over the last months, Fatique wanted to use this last opportunity for a nice chat, before he sent Rochester to Alternearth for good.

  “All in all, my dear Heath, you’ll be responsible for a total of two hundred forty-two people, including children,” Fatique told him later, when he and Rochester had gone through the plans together. The table in the conference room was buried under layouts and maps and printed out lists of almost everything, including the first timid weather forecasts.

  Heath Rochester was a round, intelligent man of fifty-two. He had pulled not a few strings to be appointed mayor of the second wave. A primary school teacher by profession, he had worked as headmaster for the last years; and although the step from headmaster to mayor was a huge one and didn’t come naturally, what qualified him the most was his motivation. He was willing to do his best, to sacrifice everything for this job, and, may
be even more important, he knew about the questionable vanishing of the first wave settlers, and would not give up searching for them. His daughter and her family had been among them. Rochester had sworn to find them, if it killed him. General Fatique was content to know he had an ally in the other reality—someone who was just as anxious to find out what happened than he was. He had the feeling, and righteously so, that apart from Captain Eleven and himself, his staff was more or less indifferent to the fate of the first wave settlers. So long as everything worked out this time, and so long as no more money was wasted, they didn’t particularly care about collateral damage.

  “You really managed,” Rochester rifled through the maps in awe, “to build a complete village from scratch in a little over a month!”

  “Not a complete village. But the basic structure stands.” Most of the individual houses stood, as did the school, the labs, the hospital and parts of the canteen.

  “The colonists will have to do the rest, I’m afraid,” Fatique admitted. “But that’s what the workmen will be there for. They’ll stay on location to help with that.” The workpeople had barracks of their own. They were on a rotating schedule, hired to stay for a season, then they would be relieved by a new team.

  “And no computers,” Rochester stated, although it sounded more like a question than a statement.

  Fatique shook his head, an apologetic expression on his face, “Sorry, Heath. We just don’t have the power, yet. I’m glad we got the basic electricity covered by a couple of water generals. They’re here, by the way.”

  From the chaotic clutter of paper, Fatique fished what looked like a hastily drawn map of the compounds, and pointed at a river not far from the colony. Rochester didn’t correct him that it was water generators, not water generals. Fatique suffered from Thripshaw’s disease, a rare genetic defect. He didn’t notice it when he mixed up words, and usually his point came across, so Rochester didn’t want to make his friend feel bad for something he could do nothing about anyway.

  “Don’t worry about them,” he added when he saw Rochester’s doubtful look. “Simon Jones is an expert in that kind of stuff. He handles all power issues, you can trust him.”

  “What about the survivor you found? Did you find out anything about her?”

  Fatique gestured to one of the chairs, “You might want to sit down for this one.”

  Among the documents, he found a copy of Eugenia Gust’s file. He handed it to Rochester, who began scanning the report while he listened to the General.

  “Eugenia is one of the original first wavers, or so it appears. She doesn’t talk, but she eats solid food on her own now and is allowed to move freely inside her hospital room. You’ll have to ask Dr. Paige for the details, but it is clear that she’s been on her own for a while before we found her. Maybe she knows what happened, but for now at least she doesn’t share it with us.”

  “We should give her time. Whatever happened must have been pretty traumatic.”

  “And, for lack of a more eloquent exploration, weird.”

  Rochester raised an eyebrow and Fatique explained what wasn’t in the file, “It appears that over a period of four months, Eugenia aged twenty years.”

  “Great Jupiter!”

  “You can say that again. I’m strongly relying on you to lift the girl’s secret, Heath.” As an afterthought he added, “Don’t let Captain Eleven make you nervous, by the way. As chief protector, it is her job to view Eugenia as a potential threat.”

  Rochester chuckled. He liked Emily, she was a pleasant person; but she tended to overreact occasionally.

  * * * *

  Chapter 12: The New Bling

  Celem, the man John waited for in the brouhaha of the bazaar, already knew of John’s presence before the old woman, a messenger with many contacts, came to him. Celem had eyes all over the city these days. A necessary luxury, seeing that he had none anymore; eyes, that was.

  John was mildly astonished but not shocked to find the once great pick-pocket in a narrow house at the end of a dodgy road. The man, once even taller than John, sat on a shabby rug on the floor, a glass of tea in his hand, a samovar in reach. A dirty cloth protected others from seeing the maimed holes where his eyes used to be.

  “Yahya,” he rasped fondly. “Found your way back to the great metropolis, have you? Sit down, sit down.”

  “I’d reply that it was good to see you, Celem, but I’d just be lying to a cripple; and that’s bad taste, even for someone like me.”

  Celem laughed heartily. “It is you, then, indeed. I was told you had returned, but one can never be certain, can one? Tea, Yahya, I insist.”

  John found a glass and poured both of them from the thick, black liquid. He drank all of it, then washed down the bitter aftertaste with a piece of candied ginger from a jar.

  “I heard you were looking for a man about a donkey.” Celem sounded honestly amused. “You have been out of the loop for a long time, hm?”

  “What is it now?”

  “You don’t ask to see a man about a donkey anymore, the police know all about it; now you ask to see a grandmother about a chicken.”

  “How very low key.”

  Celem either didn’t hear the sarcasm in John’s voice, or ignored it. “Yes. We must be careful. Now, Yahya, what brings you here, if not the pleasure of seeing the one man who stole less from you than other people and is therefore, by definition, your bosom friend?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Celem,” John muttered. The ginger tasted good, more than that—the spicy, syrupy tang brought back fond memories of afternoons spent in tea houses, a water-pipe on the table, a temple dancer in his lap. In this moment, however short, he realized he missed it, had missed it for quite some time. Which in turn made him wonder what else from his past lives he missed. He was about to break his very own first rule, to never dwell on the things left behind, and thus was grateful he was not alone, but in a business meeting of sorts.

  He pressed the ticket, a tiny green diode indicated it was active, into Celem’s hand. “I need a buyer for this. It’s a ticket for the second wave program.”

  Celem gave a wolf whistle. “You are not kidding? Has it been activated?”

  His fingers flew effortlessly over the small gadget, feeling for every nook and bump. John had no doubt that after this thorough inspection, the other man knew the ticket better than he did.

  “It has been indeed,” he confirmed. “I need a client quickly; I think the ticket expires in a few weeks.”

  With a resolute shake of the head, Celem shoved it away from him.

  “What?” John demanded, more than a little annoyed. Coming here for nothing had not been his plan.

  “Impossible. Not in a few weeks. It’ll never be ready.”

  Confused, John inspected the ticket for what felt like the hundredth time since it had come into his possession. What possibly needed to be done with it that would take up a lot of time?

  “Why?” he wanted to know.

  “Are you stupid?”

  “Celem!”

  “Okay!” Celem gave the world-weary sigh of someone who wanted to make more profit. “Has it at least been hacked already?”

  “Why would it need to be hacked?”

  “You are stupid, then.”

  “Tell me I’m stupid one more time, Celem, and I’ll shoot you. Don’t strain my patience.”

  Celem, knowing John never made empty threats, immediately got a grip. He stopped laughing and sat up straight, or at least what he thought was straight. Every ticket was personalized, issued to a certain individual who was rendered useful to the colony. If one wanted to use another person’s ticket, it had to be hacked by someone with advanced technical skills and a good personal computerHa, to alter the information it contained. It was like faking an ID, only in reverse.

  “Basically, you have to convince the computer that the person the ticket was originally issued to is now someone else, and I know of no one skilled enough to do that.”

  A
h, at least that was familiar territory. John poured them another glass of tea. “And how much bling will it take for you to remember that you do know someone?”

  “Yahya, you insult me in my own house. Me, a poor, blind man! Shame on you and on your offspring; may they be numerous and carry on your shame for many generations. I don’t trade in bling anymore. Nobody does now.”

  “Then what do you trade in, poor, blind man?”

  “Stories are the new bling. They have high market value these days. Can’t get arrested for possessing too many stories.” He leaned forwards, voice lowered conspiratorially. “Tell me a tale I haven’t heard before, and I may remember the name of a very skilled computer genius, who happens to live in this wonderful city.”

  It was an odd request, but one John could, as it happened, fulfill. And so, to get the name of a computer hacker, he told Celem a story he had heard many years ago in Tianjin, about Meng Jiang Nu, the woman whose tears brought down the Great Wall of China.

  * * * *

  Embolimon: The Legend of Meng Jiang Nu

  Once upon a time in China, there lived two married couples next to each other: The couple Meng and the couple Jiang. They were all four of them very old and had never been blessed with the gift of children, so all they had was each other.

  In the Mengs' garden grew beautiful gourd vines. One summer, one of the plants spread its vines right over into the garden of the Jiangs, where it bore one large gourd. The rest of the vines stayed barren, so the two families decided to split the gourd in half, as it was big enough for all of them to eat from its meat.

  They gathered around the table, but when old man Meng cut the rind, they were surprised to find a baby girl inside the vegetable. And since both couples wanted nothing more than a child, they decided to raise her together.