The Second Wave (6 page)

“I don’t know, I didn’t look. General Fatique
told me to give it to you. Why? What does it say?”

“Well,” Paige began, not sure if reality made
sense anymore. “It says here that this young woman is one of the
first wave settlers.”

“That should be good news.”

“I’m not exactly sure what kind of news it
is.”

Because according to this, the woman’s name
was Eugenia Gust, and when she left for Alternearth not eleven
months ago, she had been three years old.

* * * *

It took John more than two nights to reach
the island of Cyprus, and from there nearly another week to cross
Turkey, where the largest black market of the Orient, perhaps of
the whole planet, was at: the Byzantium Bazaar.

Byzantium was a protected city, one of the
largest and the most crowded, which meant police was abundant all
around. Contrary to Alexandria, Byzantium was a place full of life,
bursting at the seams with people, animals, noises, smells and
colors it could hardly hold in anymore.

The first thing a weary traveller noticed
about Byzantium was its silhouette against the sky under the
invisible force shield. The mud brick buildings were merely two
storeys, sometimes three, high, but there were innumerable houses,
squeezed in every corner, lining the streets and alleys, standing
in bizarre angles to one another. Most of them had flat roofs upon
which yurts stood to house more families, or where resourceful
citizens grew their own spices. The temples had round, shapely,
imperial roofs, painted in all colors, ornamented with tiny glass
mosaics so they glistened in the daylight.

The noise could be heard far outside the city
walls—the sea gulls’ cawing the wind carried in from the coast, the
annoyed neighing of a donkey who wouldn’t move, and the yells of
its owner, urging it ever onwards. Live stock, herded through the
streets, their hoofs clicking on the cobbled ground. Chicken,
running around freely, constantly cackling, like bickering, old
women. Then, nearer to the bazaar, a never ending verbal cascade of
haggling, arguing and advertising.

Yet the noise was nothing compared to the
smell. Byzantium smelled of everything at once—of thyme and honey,
of garlic and cinnamon, of mustard and cardamom. Every few steps
there were marketers selling pistachio bread, fruitcakes, dried
vegetables, raw meat and, of course, always candy in all sizes and
flavors. Old men sat on doorsteps, smoking hookahs, passing goat
cheese around. The heat preserved every nuance of the smells, never
allowing it to leave, because it was a part of the city. Those who
were permanently living here, didn’t notice the smell anymore; they
didn’t notice the reeking of the animal excrements, which mixed
with the sweet fragrance of carefully perfumed oil that could be
bought at every corner. Their noses were accustomed to the
unbearable stench of sweat and stuffy caftans that intermingled
with the scent of sheep wool and the always present smell of the
sea.

The colors outshone everything, though, not
just because the eyes are the most observant and most relied upon
sense in human beings. Not even the constantly gray skies could
dampen the beauty of Turkey’s colors; and they were all here, in
Byzantium. Whether it was a curtain on a door, a horse’s saddle, a
painting one of the street artists drew with chalk on a house wall,
a set of bracelets, or a softly tinted, almost sheer veil on a
woman’s face; every single thing caused a small explosion in the
beholder’s eyes. Not in any other place on Earth could there be
found a blue so deep, a yellow so saturated, or a red so rich. It
wasn’t just people and buildings, the food was colorful, too. From
the whitest cheese to dried, red saffron threads, every dish seen
seemed to proudly announce itself by its colors. Even the earthen
tones of the buildings were thick with hue. Everything competed
with one another in every shade possible.

And it all came together in one gigantic,
mind swamping, cacophonous opera called ‘Byzantium Bazaar’. It was
here John were headed to see just how priceless this ticket really
was. But getting to the bazaar was one thing, quite easy, as the
market was open for anyone; finding the right buyer was more
difficult a task, which required knowledge of the scene and knowing
who to trust. Many of the shady figures that lingered around less
frequented back streets were stool pigeons, or worse, con men like
himself.

Next to Byzantium, Alternearth paled in the
comparison. Everything on the alien planet was light, natural, and
understated. The flowers emitted just the barest hint of fragrance;
the grass and trees seemed almost bashful to show the green of
their leaves; and the only sounds that could be heard were those of
the people who walked its earth, or sometimes a gust of wind that
brushed across a bundle of dry leaves.

In the medical emergency tent, far away from
any thought regarding Alternearth’s smell, color or sound, Captain
Eleven shook her head decisively.

“It’s not going to happen,” she told Dr.
Paige, who was currently with her back to Eugenia.

“She’s one of the original settlers, her
blood tests came back clean—as her doctor I declare her fit to
return to Earth.” Where Summer Paige had a whole hospital and
instruments and better treatment for her patient.

“No. We don’t know what happened to her. And
as the one responsible for the safety of two planets right now, I
say she’s still a threat.”

The doctor gave a frustrated sigh, but there
was nothing she could do. The protector was in charge, her word
went.

“Look at her, Emily.” She softly pointed at
Eugenia. “She is not a danger to anybody.”

“She remains here in your care, Summer.”

“At least let me untie her. Even if she
wanted to be a threat, she isn’t in the condition to even get up at
the moment.”

Eleven shook her head once more. No untying,
at least not until the colony’s hospital wing was ready, and the
patient was behind locked doors. With those last words she left
patient and doctor to themselves.

Paige sat down on her chair again. “Look at
you, Eugenia.” She patted the woman’s hand reassuringly. “You’re no
threat at all. Emily’s a bit tense today, she’ll come around.
You’ll be allowed up and about in no time, don’t worry.”

In the meantime, she would stay with her,
mainly because she was the only doctor on this planet, and Eugenia
was her only patient.

“You and protector Niman,” she corrected
herself. “He fell into a river and sprained his ankle, you know.
Very low pain threshold for a protector.”

By way of a reaction, Eugenia gave a low moan
and threw up. Summer considered that progress.

* * * *

The atmospheric shield around Byzantium
glistened dimly in the scarce sunlight that fell through the clouds
on this gray morning. The area around the city was uninhabited, but
as John walked through vacant villages, he noticed a distinct
difference to the deserted villages of northern Egypt. The houses
there were forsaken, the buildings here were simply unoccupied, as
if their owners were just out on business, due to return
anytime.

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.