The Second Wave (2 page)

“Should we stop preparing the second wave?”
asked Dr. Annabella Guarini, senior psychologist and mentor of
morale, a cool, intellectual woman of forty. She was interrupted by
Smith, who shook his head.

“Too cost-intensive,” he said. “Stopping now
would mean losing a lot of resources, and by a lot I mean…” He
frantically began typing into his personal computer.

Before he could get in any sort of figure,
though, Fatique explained, “I don’t think stopping the second wave
now is a good option. After all, the wormhoop could reopen at any
moment.”

“Wormhole.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. Wormhole.”

“So for now we, what?, we just wait?” Simon
Jones, architect of the colonies, looked angry. “We have a building
filled with geniuses who should be able to deal with this! They
should work on this around the clock!”

“They
are
working around the clock,
Simon,” Doctor Guarini chided him softly. “But they’re not
ubermenschen. They’re at their wit’s end.”

Topher Pascale, the constantly pessimistic
head of the Energy Crisis Circle, tousled his hair. “This could
turn into a catastrophe. I knew it was too early to start with the
colonization. We know next to nothing of this world!”

“We know it’s uninhabited,” Burke butted in,
her voice sharp but low. “And we know we need an alternative energy
source, if we want the human race to keep on existing.”

She was right, as was mostly the case, even
if her demeanour often lacked empathy. The shields, which protected
important cities from the frequent atmospheric storms, drained the
already weak available power sources. It was only a matter of time
until it was necessary to shut them off, thus leaving the crowded
urban areas unprotected and vulnerable.

Alternearth was worth its risks, and
everybody at the oval table hoped it was still going to be an
option. Everybody hoped that all they had to do was wait.

* * * *

The horrible thing about darkness is it’s
dark. Not black. Or dim. Or even
not light
. It is pitch
dark, because as someone once rightfully explained: this way one
can imagine one’s fears with less distraction.

There are, of course, different kinds of
darkness. The cosy kind that comes right before dawn and tells you
it’s too early to have to get out of bed yet. The cold kind that
creeps up on you on your way home and that has eyes in it. The
comforting kind that mercifully hides your shadow to protect you
from enemies.

In
this
darkness lurked sounds. Some
of them strange. Some ever changing. Some of them old, like good
friends. Noises mostly and words. And whereas the noises were often
discomforting, it was the words that were scary. The words came
quick, always changing, thick with unspoken things, swollen with
connotations, hovering in the blackness. They were loud at times.
They were nothing more than breaths at others. They spoke of
danger, and home, and fear, and tears, and love, and so much more.
There was no escape. There was nowhere to go. Only sounds and
darkness all around.

And so the first Goddess lay down on the
ground of her temple, and listened forever.

* * * *

When the Alexandrian days became less hot,
when the first icy winds blew the smell of the sea through the
streets, John knew it was about time to leave. One more winter, he
assumed, but he had to be gone by spring. So he made preparations,
only took on quick and easy jobs, and only accepted payment he knew
would also be of value outside of Egypt.

He was on his way to meet a new client that
morning. The streets were mostly deserted, the first cold day made
the inhabitants stay indoors and prepare their homes for the
winter. The horse’s hoofbeats were quiet on the not yet frozen dirt
road.

Many decades ago, Alexandria had been a proud
city. Noble houses, beautiful temples, clean streets, and honorable
people. But things had happened, too hazy now in the collective
memory, something to do with an insurrection, perhaps even a war.
The honorable people fled, the beautiful temples were destroyed,
the noble houses were occupied by vagabonds. It was a sad shadow of
a once proud place that John rode through today.

He just turned a corner when he was
approached by a man who seemed determined to make him stop and
listen by stepping in front of John’s horse, forcing him to a
halt.

“As-salamu aleikum, Sharif.”

“Wa-aleikum es-salamu, old man. Kindly let me
through.”

The man was wrapped tightly into a thick
tunic to protect him from the wind and the cold. “Please. You are
Yuhanan, yes?”

When John looked closer, he noticed the man
wasn’t old, merely hunched and possibly arthritic. One of the
peasants who lived in the eastern part of town. “I might be. Why do
you ask?”

“I have written to you many times in the last
month. But you never came to visit me, Sharif.”

There had been a lot of letters in the pigeon
hole of the crypt during the last weeks. Mostly, people asking him
to smuggle firewood and cattle into town, so they could prepare for
the winter. When they paid well, John happily complied.

“What was your suggested payment?” he asked.
He rarely remembered their names, but he never forgot an offer.

The man looked ashamed. “I’m afraid we have
nothing to give you. We are poor, very poor. But my wife is with
child—she will not make it through the winter without proper
food.”

“I don’t work for free, neither does Tauret.
If you want something, you’ll have to pay for it.”

“We don’t so much want food as
need
it! Please, Sharif, I am desperate. What is there that I can do for
you to make you get food for my wife? Anything you ask, Sharif.
Anything!”

John looked down at the small man who was so
desperate to get his pregnant wife through the winter. It was a
tempting offer, but only if the man could deliver. John decided to
give it a try. “What is your profession, old man?”

“I am a cobbler. Alas, I haven’t had work in
many months.”

This could be useful indeed. John nodded
once. “Make me the best pair of boots you can. Sturdy. Warm in
winter, cool in summer. Dry when it rains, breezy when the sun
burns hot. If you can do that, I will see what kinds of food I can
find for your wife.”

It was a lot to ask of a destitute bootmaker;
even the best and richest would have trouble making boots with
those qualities. But the man’s face split into an almost toothless
grin of relief. “Certainly, Sharif. You will not be disappointed.
Blessed be the road you will travel with those boots, and may Ra
always smile on Yuhanan Ibn Sahra.”

The man was still bowing and muttering his
gratitude when John was too far away to hear him anymore. He made
his way to the waterfront, from where he took only the roads by the
coast to his destination. The sea brought in trade winds, the air
already smelled of snow. The wind whispered of frost.

There was not much to see in these parts of
Egypt. The strong coastal winds made it impossible for people to
permanently reside there, so the towns and cities were deserted and
mostly destroyed. Between Alexandria, which marked the beginning of
the outlawed zone, and Port Said, a shielded area of prosperity,
lay nothing but seemingly endless desert fields. No trees, not even
shrubberies could find ground on the barren lands. Occasionally, a
long forgotten road was visible underneath the dried up earth, and
sometimes the ruins of a temple protruded into the horizon. Apart
from that, the coastal area was nothing but a long, lonely stretch
of sand and sea.

With one exception: the temple of Wepwawet.
The temple stood in the middle of a desert. This particular stretch
of land was once a popular graveyard, before poverty drove people
to rob even the dead of what little possessions they had taken with
them to their graves. Although the graveyard was destroyed, the
temple itself was still intact and clean. It stood erect, walls
smooth from the abrasive winds, like a lone sentinel, like a
watchtower from a long forgotten time.

A secret passageway led from the inner
sanctum of the temple to a dead lake in Shamshirah further East,
and from there to a network of roads used primarily for smuggling
goods from Israel. Abdul-Wahid, a wiry man John’s age, was usually
overlooking these transfers.

John didn’t dismount; he rode up the stairs
and into the temple’s main chamber. Here, he stopped and got off
the horse, just when Abdul came towards him, his smile showing
considerably more teeth than the cobbler’s.

“As-salamu aleikum,” he greeted John good
naturedly. “Still riding that old mare of yours, I see.”

“She is not an old mare, Abdul. I forbid you
to call her that in her presence.”

“That’s because you attend to her well, so
the years look kindly upon her. I could still get you a young
stallion. Agile. Nubile. Fast as lightening. Just say the
word.”

“The word is no, although I appreciate your
offer. Have the goods arrived soundly?”

John followed Abdul into a small chamber,
where the two men were greeted by the annoyed baaing of a dozen
goats and sheep. A quick look-over showed no signs of malnutrition,
disease, or old age. John was satisfied. He handed Abdul a bag with
his share of the payment, not as much as usual, but people had even
less in the winter.

It was difficult to tie the cattle together,
even for two men. The sheep were confused from the long march
through the tunnel, and the goats were petulant by nature. But
cajoling and the occasional smack on the behind did the trick. In
the end, John led the animals in single file back into the main
hall. The rope with which they were bound together he tied to the
side of his saddle.

“One more thing, Yuhanan,” said Abdul.
“There’s someone who wants to speak with you.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He shot his business
partner a warning look. “Here? In the temple?” No one was allowed
in here; it was the most important rule of their operation.

“No, of course not. She is staying in Idku
for now. She wants you to smuggle someone.”

John shook his head. “Not a chance, Abdul,
you know that.”

Smuggling was a risky business at best, but
during the cold winter months it was almost impossible. Half of the
people froze to death on the long boat journey, leaving John to
dispose of the bodies so the police wouldn’t find them. It was more
hassle than he got payment for. And besides all that, John had to
lie low for the next months. No more smuggling of humans.

But Abdul insisted, “You should listen to
her, she can pay exceptionally well.” His hand fluttered up to his
turban, from where he fumbled a small electronic device, much like
a miniature personal computer. It was only the casing, though.

“You must be joking. This is worthless,”
replied John after a look at it.

“It’s just the casing to show you. She has
the rest with her. Believe me, I’ve seen it.”

“And what is it?”

“It’s a personalized ticket for the
colonization program. It’s not activated, yet, but it is
genuine.”

John had heard about the colonization
program, albeit not much. It seemed the government was establishing
villages somewhere and was recruiting people to start new lives
there. Such a ticket might be worth a lot on the black market. It
might mean no other jobs during the winter, because this had the
potential to be worth more than all the rest of his payments
together. An alluring thought.

“Tell this client to meet me at the
lighthouse tomorrow,” he decided. It was where John met customers
he didn’t trust.

Abdul-Wahid didn’t know a name, so John
didn’t know what or whom to expect when he waited for her at the
lighthouse the next evening. But even so, the old businesswoman was
a surprise. Her skin was light und un-tanned, giving rise to the
assumption that she wasn’t originally from the South. Her body was
round enough to suggest a healthy diet, her soft hands suggested
she was wealthy enough not to do manual labour, something her
expensive outfit confirmed. John let her walk up to him.

“I assume you are she who needs my help,” he
said without exchanging greetings.

“I am. May we speak somewhere—” She glanced
around. “Less open?”

John shook his head. “This will not take
long. You want me to get your son into the country?”

“You got half of it right, young man. I want
you to smuggle him out of this country.”

“And what is your offer of payment?”

“The payment will be generous. You have seen
the ticket. Offered to the right person on the free market it is
almost priceless. You must move quickly, though. The second wave is
supposed to leave six months from now. After that, the ticket is
worthless.”

“I have never had to smuggle someone
out
of the outlawed zone.” People normally came here to get
away from the police or the government. They were free here. If
someone needed to get away from here, there were very few places
they could run to.

The woman seemed reluctant to speak for a
moment. Then she admitted, “He is being held hostage by the
worshippers of Inher-Shu. They want money, of course, which I am
not willing to give them. I’d rather send you.”

John gave a short, humorless bark of a laugh.
“Your son is probably already dead, either way. You are wasting
your time and, as much as I am reluctant to admit, your resources.
I doubt I can help you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You are perhaps
the best con man in the world. If anyone can get my son out of
there, I believe it is you.”

“I tell you, woman, the Inher-Shu don’t take
live prisoners. Your son is dead, or at least as good as dead. And
in going in after him, I am risking my life as well.”