Exolegacy, page 14
32 An Open Position
Als was left to his own devices as the two women and Xikse made their trip over the Tiras terrain to Ago-13 and Gin’s supposed ancient quarry. He tasked himself with becoming more familiar with the maps, culture, and customs of the Manisae people—what little was available to him as a human that is. The map was an easy distraction, over his years as a self-styled vagabond, he had learned how to read maps and follow an innate sense of direction. But that was back on Earth, where there were landmarks, either natural or man-made that were easy to read, and perhaps even a touch of a sense of the magnetic directions.
None of that was here on Tiras, at least for him. His ill-fated hiking trip was proof of his ineptitude when navigating around the alien planet. Lack of practical knowledge aside, he pored over the maps of the surrounding terrain and layout of Zelmas to learn the general lay of things. His estate was on the north-western edge of Zelmas, toward the three sisters and then further to Olympus Mons, just beyond the horizon of any of them. As he recalled his earlier hike, he plotted out where he must have gone on the map. If he had continued for another day—and had properly prepared—he could have reached the same gully his mother had found the original crystals in; the ‘Reliquary’ as Xikse had related the story to him. Unfortunately, Xikse had also informed him of the Arkeota’s move to cordon off the site and remove any of the artifacts therein.
It had been a couple of days since he sent his message to the Außenministerium requesting consideration for a position at the embassy here at Zelmas. Ideally, it would be a position with chances to move into a policy-making one between Tiras and Earth or at least one where he could affect some sort of influence. He had passed on the brief thought to ask Rez to introduce him to her administrator within the Balanta network. Its dubious political position, not to mention the bitterness left after Rez’s less-than-forthright disclosure of her own involvement with them, left him unsure of their use for him—or him for them. So in his mind, his two paths were as a diplomat, or an expat. He didn’t really consider returning to Earth; the thought of becoming a diplomat had a draw on him that was not keeping with the lifestyle he had chosen to follow until recently.
Als swiped the maps away, instead deciding to focus on the admittedly shallow cultural primers. They were the same that he had picked up on the shuttle, but re-reading them, he hoped to digest more of the information. At the least, he might be able to glean insight into the prejudices of the authors, if nothing else. A tone sounded in the corner of the display, indicating a new message. Thankful for the distraction, Als swiped it open.
It was a reply to his message to the Außenministerium and not just the rote form response he had expected. Apparently, his file had been reviewed by the StaatsSekretärin and was being pushed up the ladder. He should expect to be contacted soon with a more solid decision.
It wasn’t a rejection but still left him in the doldrums. He couldn’t move forward with contacting the Arkeota without official diplomatic credentials. Back to the primers; if Xikse were here, he would be able to grill him directly on culture and history.
Als didn’t have much time to get comfortable, not that his resources were so in-depth as to hold his attention for long. When his terminal toned again, he had just picked up the material supposedly covering manisae hospitality customs. Forgetting the primer, he swiped up the display at the desk. The sender was listed as ‘e.hernandez::am.ostgov_CN’, an obvious followup to his earlier message, the address indicated that it was from the Außenministerium, but the sender was ‘e.hernandez’. The only E. Hernandez he knew was his brother Ehrenfeld, but as far as Als knew, his brother worked for an entirely different department.
He expanded the message and read further.
Alsón,
I have discussed your application regarding the open position of Ambassador on Tiras with Sekretärin Chawla and we are considering your candidacy. You are the most qualified on location, it is true, but your lack of diplomatic training and political science degree would normally exclude you from the process outright. However, given your unique circumstance of having come into possession of certain ‘historical recordings’, which are available only to you. We believe that however unorthodox, you are experienced to a degree further than any other candidates. We hope you have spent your time at Zelmas familiarizing yourself with our assets in situ.
As a deciding factor for your consideration, we feel that if you were to broker a deal between the two conflicting parties of which we know you are aware, Balance may be restored as well as our confidence in you as Ambassador.
Vizeminister der Sekretärin, Außenministerium
Ehrenfeld Hernandez
It was from Ehrenfeld and copied alongside his own address was Sekretärin Chawla. Apparently, he was working directly for Aunt Hildy, whose employment at the Außenministerium was not news to Als. This must have been a sudden change of direction for Ehrenfeld. Good for him, he thought.
So he had been given a test, or rather a remote interview, as he assumed they would consider it. If he failed to bring both the Arkeota and Manaiar to a deal, he would probably be asked to relocate back to Earth.
One thing stood out to Als as he re-read Ehrenfeld’s message. Always the articulate and detail-oriented bureaucrat, Ehrenfeld never made a mistake in his writing, however informal. This was not an informal message, even if he had addressed it to Alsón informally, he had copied the Sekretärin. Still, his eyes fixated on the capitalized ‘Balance’ in the last sentence. Was it intentional? The context didn’t call for it… or did it? The fact that Ehrenfeld didn’t name the ‘two parties’, and included the Sekretärin, meant that she knew who he was talking about as well. His brother knew that he was working with Rez on a more grand scale and that she was a Balanta operator.
Ah, Balanta. Balanta means balance. If Ehrenfeld was indicating that Balanta was a part of this test, then the Sekretärin would surely be involved or at least would sanction the decisions that were made through them. He would need to confront, no, inquire as to the Sekretärin’s involvement when Rez returned with his sister and Xikse. His ego had been bruised by Rez’s ulterior motives coming to light, but it was healing quickly, and he recognized her position as an ally, if not something further.
Als noticed a digital package waiting at the foot of the message. It contained a proprietary software patch to his personal terminal, making it a secure device and granting him access and credentials equal to the position of Ambassador. In fact, the digital badge that he was meant to show when a proxy reader was unavailable showed his portrait and read “Vice Ambassador/Vizebotschafter”. Well, that was the access he needed. Als swept the uninformative and dated primers off the desk and into a drawer and set to working out a plan that he, and perhaps Rez, could implement.
33 The Kalas
Ehrenfeld fit into his new position at the Außenministerium as he expected to, which is to say, not at all. Years at the Handelsbehörde had dulled his sense of urgency and creativity. Both of these were obviously needed on a daily basis working under Sekretärin Chawla. The Außenministerium, or Foreign Ministry, didn’t only deal with Tiras. Earth was not one unified body under the Confederation, and Luna was neutral in all politics. Though the orbiting power obviously supported any decision favoring ISRO or the interests of India before any others. There were plenty of emergencies from day to day, but Ehrenfeld had been assigned the Tiras desk overseeing a small team of specialists. He had full administrative power over them, even though each of them had either been in an active position on Tiras, had become theoretical experts on the Manisae through years of study, or both. The only talent that Ehrenfeld brought to the department was a fresh mind, albeit one fresh out of the pit that was the Handelsbehörde.
Despite his new colleagues’ less-than-private opinions regarding his placement, he was eager to fit into the role that had been entrusted to him. The Sekretärin generally stood back and let her various departments work independently, and only stepped in for larger actions. He had been privately and more officially briefed on his role. The Sekretärin had informed him in the private meeting that he and she were the only Balanta operators at the Außenministerium currently, and he should be discouraged from involving more outside people than was strictly necessary for their more specific dealings with his brother. Mention of her involvement in Balanta was forbidden.
The official briefing was less nerve-wracking but more rote. The Sekretärin and the woman who had been acting Vizeminister sat across from him at an oversized boardroom table and briefed him on all the aspects of his position. He was encouraged to leave any assumptions at the door, and keep an open mind as he made the transition from the very bureaucratic Handelsbehörde to the more fluid Außenministerium. The meeting ended without much contribution from him, which was just as well. Ehrenfeld didn’t feel there was anything to say to a team that had already been working in unison effectively, and who likely considered his sudden placement at their head disruptive. The rest of the first day saw him sitting at his desk, accepting each of his team members in person to introduce themselves, and then proceed to go about their various tasks as if nothing new had happened.
He only found the time and opportunity to open a few of the files that his new position granted him access to once the last of the team had signed off for their shift. Mostly they were about the few manisae immigrants that had taken up residence within the Confederation. Each file had details pertaining to their business or placement within the diplomatic rings that made up their embassy there in Wien. Other details were less obvious and Ehrenfeld gradually realized that he didn’t know overmuch about manisae social or political structure so, refiling the various windows on his work terminal, he instead opened brief after brief regarding basic manisae culture.
After hours, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and decided that his crash course could wait until the following shift. He shut down the secure terminal in his office and began the unfamiliar walk home through the night air of Wien. The satellite office of the Außenministerium that his team worked out of was only a few hundred meters from the hidden garden and statue where he had met the Sekretärin only nights before, so he was familiar with the area, if only just. One of the things that he had always secretly been proud of was his innate sense of direction. Not that he had used it very often in his adult life. The buildings passed swiftly as he covered block after block in the damp fog that blanketed the city at night this time of year. The air was humid but cool, and he enjoyed the freshness in his lungs. When he arrived back at his apartment, Ehrenfeld was almost disappointed that the commute hadn’t been any longer, but it was longer than his previous one, and he knew that his legs would be a bit stiff in the morning.
The morning broke much earlier than Ehrenfeld would have preferred, but his tardiness to bed had been a conscious choice, so he had to live with the stiffness that accompanied it. Half awake, he stumbled through to the kitchen cabinets looking for the equipment that he needed to make coffee while the water boiled. Only to find that when the elements were assembled, and the kettle was in hand, there was no coffee. As if waking from a dream state, he put down the kettle and shook his head. He didn’t drink coffee. Never had. The various glassware now in front of him on the counter was surely left over from his father’s collection when he had lived there. Ehrenfeld could picture the motions that his father had gone through every morning of his life when they had lived together, and when he had awoken early enough to witness the ritual. He chuckled at the memories of the times that his father had let him put together the pieces, in a semblance of helping; ’place the filter here’, ‘pour the grounds out inside’, etc. He recognized in hindsight that it hadn’t helped at all, probably even served to delay the process. But his father smiled through the sleep in his eyes as he allowed the small desire to help kindled in his son.
Instead, Ehrenfeld reached into the tea cabinet and pulled a bag of black tea, and tossed it into the ready mug. It may not be coffee, but the warmth and caffeine would help lubricate the morning. As he sipped his tea, he recalled the memories of his father’s childhood. There must have been more though, hidden within and in between the various vignettes that he had experienced. For one, there were the times that his father’s grown hand would appear in the memories, writing cryptic words that were either meant to spark something in Ehrenfeld’s own psyche, or at least haunt him. The jury was still out on the former theory. Even his own actions in his state of semi-awareness this morning could have been a residual memory left over, or even intentionally placed within the crystal that still lay on the shelf in the study.
Ehrenfeld pulled himself back to the present and readied himself for a day of study and inquiry at his new office. When he had pulled on the last of his coat sleeves, he reached out to the activation panel on the door, but nothing happened. He must have missed the sensor, the door should have opened. Again he swiped his hand through the area in front of the panel that should swing the door ajar, but nothing. Not even a blinking light or a click. These doors were supposed to be fail-proof, or at least tamper-proof. He found himself cursing unnecessary tech and longed for a simple—if not antiquated—handle to twist.
Suddenly, and without any action on his part to cause it to, the door swung inward, forcing Ehrenfeld to step back to avoid being pushed into the wall. He tensed his legs to move through the opening but stopped himself short. Where there should have been an empty door frame and hallway opposite, there was a rather severe-looking woman. She did not speak to him in greeting, nor indicated that she wanted to enter the flat, but by the set expression on her face, and her posture, he didn’t even think to invite her in. In fact, the same unwelcoming, unfamiliarity of the smartly dressed woman had the same effect on Ehrenfeld as the unrelenting door had a moment earlier. He just stood there, about a meter from the stranger, and stared back. When he finally decided to ask her to move, he had only just raised his hand and opened his mouth before she cut him off. “Please have a seat, sir, they won’t be more than a moment.” Her countenance again didn’t invite questions, though they swirled in his mind nonetheless; ‘They? Was he to have visitors? This woman is clearly security of some sort but wears no insignia or colors indicating employment or allegiance.’
He retreated to the sitting room and resolved to wait for his uninvited guest or guests. As he sat, a low rumbling began to register at the limit of his hearing. It increased in volume until his curiosity took him to the window to look for the source of the sound. There was nothing in the air above the park, no personal craft or drone could be seen, and those were designed to be silent running. This was the Landstrasse Section, while not strictly prohibited, personal transportation crafts were largely frowned upon, especially this close to the Innere Stadt, where they were verboten. But the sound wasn’t coming from the air. Movement below caught Ehrenfeld’s eye and he saw, for the first time in many years, an antique auto. The noise alone—if not the obviously dated design—indicated an internal combustion engine. If he were being held in his own home for a pending visit from someone, and this person had a waiver for a seriously illegal vehicle, he’d better wait. Even the Sekretärin didn’t have that kind of sway with the city.
As he watched through the window, the vehicle slowed and the engine cut just as it stopped on the center line of the street below. The driver exited the vehicle and walked around to open the door for his passengers. However, the person that stepped out was the last thing that Ehrenfeld would have expected. The hunched frame and light grey color could easily have been an old woman in a shawl from this height. The tail though gave it away. The passenger was a Manis and an old one at that. From his research the night before, he recalled that younger members—and that was a relative term in and of itself—had clearly defined and dark plates covering their backs and tails. Only the oldest of their race, which usually indicated their ‘third’ non-gender, would have such light and fringed plates.
The Manis had entered the building. Ehrenfeld had no other choice but to wait patiently in his chair for his unusual guest to arrive. It didn’t take more than a minute for the mag lift to carry it to his level, and when the woman in the door stepped aside, Ehrenfeld stood in greeting. In shambled—and the movement couldn’t be described any other way—a weathered and aged Manis, an ejd Ehrenfeld gathered. It moved slowly but purposefully through the flat to take up the chair opposite Ehrenfeld. Only when it had arranged itself into the antique Chesterton, did it bother to raise its head and look around, then directly at Ehrenfeld.
“This is nice.” It managed with a hollow and wheezy voice. “I haven’t been here for many revolutions. Not very much has changed. I do appreciate history, as I’m sure you noticed from my mode of transportation. I don’t allow myself many luxuries, but I do find your auto history fascinating. The trouble is finding the fuel you see…”
Ehrenfeld held up a hand to interrupt, “excuse me, but I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here. Do you think that we could start with that? I do have to be at my job at some point today.”
“Ah, sarcasm. Most of us are lost when it comes to the intricacies of your languages, but your father taught me that one. You are quite similar to him, you know.” The visitor noted Ehrenfeld’s less-than-amused expression and continued, “I am the Kalas.”
At the mention of the visitor’s title, or name, Ehrenfeld couldn’t help but straighten his posture. The Kalas was the ranking member of the Manisae on Earth. Their ambassador for all intents and purposes. That would explain the special permissions for the auto, and the overriding of his personal flat’s security system. “Sir, it is an honor to receive a visit from you…” Now it was Ehrenfeld’s turn to be interrupted.
“Not ‘sir’, I no longer possess a gender and haven’t for longer than you’ve been alive. Though before I was appointed as Kalas, I did have a different name, but that’s not important. I knew your father then, actually, we met on Luna.” They cocked their head as if trying to indicate a connection in Ehrenfeld’s mind.
Als was left to his own devices as the two women and Xikse made their trip over the Tiras terrain to Ago-13 and Gin’s supposed ancient quarry. He tasked himself with becoming more familiar with the maps, culture, and customs of the Manisae people—what little was available to him as a human that is. The map was an easy distraction, over his years as a self-styled vagabond, he had learned how to read maps and follow an innate sense of direction. But that was back on Earth, where there were landmarks, either natural or man-made that were easy to read, and perhaps even a touch of a sense of the magnetic directions.
None of that was here on Tiras, at least for him. His ill-fated hiking trip was proof of his ineptitude when navigating around the alien planet. Lack of practical knowledge aside, he pored over the maps of the surrounding terrain and layout of Zelmas to learn the general lay of things. His estate was on the north-western edge of Zelmas, toward the three sisters and then further to Olympus Mons, just beyond the horizon of any of them. As he recalled his earlier hike, he plotted out where he must have gone on the map. If he had continued for another day—and had properly prepared—he could have reached the same gully his mother had found the original crystals in; the ‘Reliquary’ as Xikse had related the story to him. Unfortunately, Xikse had also informed him of the Arkeota’s move to cordon off the site and remove any of the artifacts therein.
It had been a couple of days since he sent his message to the Außenministerium requesting consideration for a position at the embassy here at Zelmas. Ideally, it would be a position with chances to move into a policy-making one between Tiras and Earth or at least one where he could affect some sort of influence. He had passed on the brief thought to ask Rez to introduce him to her administrator within the Balanta network. Its dubious political position, not to mention the bitterness left after Rez’s less-than-forthright disclosure of her own involvement with them, left him unsure of their use for him—or him for them. So in his mind, his two paths were as a diplomat, or an expat. He didn’t really consider returning to Earth; the thought of becoming a diplomat had a draw on him that was not keeping with the lifestyle he had chosen to follow until recently.
Als swiped the maps away, instead deciding to focus on the admittedly shallow cultural primers. They were the same that he had picked up on the shuttle, but re-reading them, he hoped to digest more of the information. At the least, he might be able to glean insight into the prejudices of the authors, if nothing else. A tone sounded in the corner of the display, indicating a new message. Thankful for the distraction, Als swiped it open.
It was a reply to his message to the Außenministerium and not just the rote form response he had expected. Apparently, his file had been reviewed by the StaatsSekretärin and was being pushed up the ladder. He should expect to be contacted soon with a more solid decision.
It wasn’t a rejection but still left him in the doldrums. He couldn’t move forward with contacting the Arkeota without official diplomatic credentials. Back to the primers; if Xikse were here, he would be able to grill him directly on culture and history.
Als didn’t have much time to get comfortable, not that his resources were so in-depth as to hold his attention for long. When his terminal toned again, he had just picked up the material supposedly covering manisae hospitality customs. Forgetting the primer, he swiped up the display at the desk. The sender was listed as ‘e.hernandez::am.ostgov_CN’, an obvious followup to his earlier message, the address indicated that it was from the Außenministerium, but the sender was ‘e.hernandez’. The only E. Hernandez he knew was his brother Ehrenfeld, but as far as Als knew, his brother worked for an entirely different department.
He expanded the message and read further.
Alsón,
I have discussed your application regarding the open position of Ambassador on Tiras with Sekretärin Chawla and we are considering your candidacy. You are the most qualified on location, it is true, but your lack of diplomatic training and political science degree would normally exclude you from the process outright. However, given your unique circumstance of having come into possession of certain ‘historical recordings’, which are available only to you. We believe that however unorthodox, you are experienced to a degree further than any other candidates. We hope you have spent your time at Zelmas familiarizing yourself with our assets in situ.
As a deciding factor for your consideration, we feel that if you were to broker a deal between the two conflicting parties of which we know you are aware, Balance may be restored as well as our confidence in you as Ambassador.
Vizeminister der Sekretärin, Außenministerium
Ehrenfeld Hernandez
It was from Ehrenfeld and copied alongside his own address was Sekretärin Chawla. Apparently, he was working directly for Aunt Hildy, whose employment at the Außenministerium was not news to Als. This must have been a sudden change of direction for Ehrenfeld. Good for him, he thought.
So he had been given a test, or rather a remote interview, as he assumed they would consider it. If he failed to bring both the Arkeota and Manaiar to a deal, he would probably be asked to relocate back to Earth.
One thing stood out to Als as he re-read Ehrenfeld’s message. Always the articulate and detail-oriented bureaucrat, Ehrenfeld never made a mistake in his writing, however informal. This was not an informal message, even if he had addressed it to Alsón informally, he had copied the Sekretärin. Still, his eyes fixated on the capitalized ‘Balance’ in the last sentence. Was it intentional? The context didn’t call for it… or did it? The fact that Ehrenfeld didn’t name the ‘two parties’, and included the Sekretärin, meant that she knew who he was talking about as well. His brother knew that he was working with Rez on a more grand scale and that she was a Balanta operator.
Ah, Balanta. Balanta means balance. If Ehrenfeld was indicating that Balanta was a part of this test, then the Sekretärin would surely be involved or at least would sanction the decisions that were made through them. He would need to confront, no, inquire as to the Sekretärin’s involvement when Rez returned with his sister and Xikse. His ego had been bruised by Rez’s ulterior motives coming to light, but it was healing quickly, and he recognized her position as an ally, if not something further.
Als noticed a digital package waiting at the foot of the message. It contained a proprietary software patch to his personal terminal, making it a secure device and granting him access and credentials equal to the position of Ambassador. In fact, the digital badge that he was meant to show when a proxy reader was unavailable showed his portrait and read “Vice Ambassador/Vizebotschafter”. Well, that was the access he needed. Als swept the uninformative and dated primers off the desk and into a drawer and set to working out a plan that he, and perhaps Rez, could implement.
33 The Kalas
Ehrenfeld fit into his new position at the Außenministerium as he expected to, which is to say, not at all. Years at the Handelsbehörde had dulled his sense of urgency and creativity. Both of these were obviously needed on a daily basis working under Sekretärin Chawla. The Außenministerium, or Foreign Ministry, didn’t only deal with Tiras. Earth was not one unified body under the Confederation, and Luna was neutral in all politics. Though the orbiting power obviously supported any decision favoring ISRO or the interests of India before any others. There were plenty of emergencies from day to day, but Ehrenfeld had been assigned the Tiras desk overseeing a small team of specialists. He had full administrative power over them, even though each of them had either been in an active position on Tiras, had become theoretical experts on the Manisae through years of study, or both. The only talent that Ehrenfeld brought to the department was a fresh mind, albeit one fresh out of the pit that was the Handelsbehörde.
Despite his new colleagues’ less-than-private opinions regarding his placement, he was eager to fit into the role that had been entrusted to him. The Sekretärin generally stood back and let her various departments work independently, and only stepped in for larger actions. He had been privately and more officially briefed on his role. The Sekretärin had informed him in the private meeting that he and she were the only Balanta operators at the Außenministerium currently, and he should be discouraged from involving more outside people than was strictly necessary for their more specific dealings with his brother. Mention of her involvement in Balanta was forbidden.
The official briefing was less nerve-wracking but more rote. The Sekretärin and the woman who had been acting Vizeminister sat across from him at an oversized boardroom table and briefed him on all the aspects of his position. He was encouraged to leave any assumptions at the door, and keep an open mind as he made the transition from the very bureaucratic Handelsbehörde to the more fluid Außenministerium. The meeting ended without much contribution from him, which was just as well. Ehrenfeld didn’t feel there was anything to say to a team that had already been working in unison effectively, and who likely considered his sudden placement at their head disruptive. The rest of the first day saw him sitting at his desk, accepting each of his team members in person to introduce themselves, and then proceed to go about their various tasks as if nothing new had happened.
He only found the time and opportunity to open a few of the files that his new position granted him access to once the last of the team had signed off for their shift. Mostly they were about the few manisae immigrants that had taken up residence within the Confederation. Each file had details pertaining to their business or placement within the diplomatic rings that made up their embassy there in Wien. Other details were less obvious and Ehrenfeld gradually realized that he didn’t know overmuch about manisae social or political structure so, refiling the various windows on his work terminal, he instead opened brief after brief regarding basic manisae culture.
After hours, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and decided that his crash course could wait until the following shift. He shut down the secure terminal in his office and began the unfamiliar walk home through the night air of Wien. The satellite office of the Außenministerium that his team worked out of was only a few hundred meters from the hidden garden and statue where he had met the Sekretärin only nights before, so he was familiar with the area, if only just. One of the things that he had always secretly been proud of was his innate sense of direction. Not that he had used it very often in his adult life. The buildings passed swiftly as he covered block after block in the damp fog that blanketed the city at night this time of year. The air was humid but cool, and he enjoyed the freshness in his lungs. When he arrived back at his apartment, Ehrenfeld was almost disappointed that the commute hadn’t been any longer, but it was longer than his previous one, and he knew that his legs would be a bit stiff in the morning.
The morning broke much earlier than Ehrenfeld would have preferred, but his tardiness to bed had been a conscious choice, so he had to live with the stiffness that accompanied it. Half awake, he stumbled through to the kitchen cabinets looking for the equipment that he needed to make coffee while the water boiled. Only to find that when the elements were assembled, and the kettle was in hand, there was no coffee. As if waking from a dream state, he put down the kettle and shook his head. He didn’t drink coffee. Never had. The various glassware now in front of him on the counter was surely left over from his father’s collection when he had lived there. Ehrenfeld could picture the motions that his father had gone through every morning of his life when they had lived together, and when he had awoken early enough to witness the ritual. He chuckled at the memories of the times that his father had let him put together the pieces, in a semblance of helping; ’place the filter here’, ‘pour the grounds out inside’, etc. He recognized in hindsight that it hadn’t helped at all, probably even served to delay the process. But his father smiled through the sleep in his eyes as he allowed the small desire to help kindled in his son.
Instead, Ehrenfeld reached into the tea cabinet and pulled a bag of black tea, and tossed it into the ready mug. It may not be coffee, but the warmth and caffeine would help lubricate the morning. As he sipped his tea, he recalled the memories of his father’s childhood. There must have been more though, hidden within and in between the various vignettes that he had experienced. For one, there were the times that his father’s grown hand would appear in the memories, writing cryptic words that were either meant to spark something in Ehrenfeld’s own psyche, or at least haunt him. The jury was still out on the former theory. Even his own actions in his state of semi-awareness this morning could have been a residual memory left over, or even intentionally placed within the crystal that still lay on the shelf in the study.
Ehrenfeld pulled himself back to the present and readied himself for a day of study and inquiry at his new office. When he had pulled on the last of his coat sleeves, he reached out to the activation panel on the door, but nothing happened. He must have missed the sensor, the door should have opened. Again he swiped his hand through the area in front of the panel that should swing the door ajar, but nothing. Not even a blinking light or a click. These doors were supposed to be fail-proof, or at least tamper-proof. He found himself cursing unnecessary tech and longed for a simple—if not antiquated—handle to twist.
Suddenly, and without any action on his part to cause it to, the door swung inward, forcing Ehrenfeld to step back to avoid being pushed into the wall. He tensed his legs to move through the opening but stopped himself short. Where there should have been an empty door frame and hallway opposite, there was a rather severe-looking woman. She did not speak to him in greeting, nor indicated that she wanted to enter the flat, but by the set expression on her face, and her posture, he didn’t even think to invite her in. In fact, the same unwelcoming, unfamiliarity of the smartly dressed woman had the same effect on Ehrenfeld as the unrelenting door had a moment earlier. He just stood there, about a meter from the stranger, and stared back. When he finally decided to ask her to move, he had only just raised his hand and opened his mouth before she cut him off. “Please have a seat, sir, they won’t be more than a moment.” Her countenance again didn’t invite questions, though they swirled in his mind nonetheless; ‘They? Was he to have visitors? This woman is clearly security of some sort but wears no insignia or colors indicating employment or allegiance.’
He retreated to the sitting room and resolved to wait for his uninvited guest or guests. As he sat, a low rumbling began to register at the limit of his hearing. It increased in volume until his curiosity took him to the window to look for the source of the sound. There was nothing in the air above the park, no personal craft or drone could be seen, and those were designed to be silent running. This was the Landstrasse Section, while not strictly prohibited, personal transportation crafts were largely frowned upon, especially this close to the Innere Stadt, where they were verboten. But the sound wasn’t coming from the air. Movement below caught Ehrenfeld’s eye and he saw, for the first time in many years, an antique auto. The noise alone—if not the obviously dated design—indicated an internal combustion engine. If he were being held in his own home for a pending visit from someone, and this person had a waiver for a seriously illegal vehicle, he’d better wait. Even the Sekretärin didn’t have that kind of sway with the city.
As he watched through the window, the vehicle slowed and the engine cut just as it stopped on the center line of the street below. The driver exited the vehicle and walked around to open the door for his passengers. However, the person that stepped out was the last thing that Ehrenfeld would have expected. The hunched frame and light grey color could easily have been an old woman in a shawl from this height. The tail though gave it away. The passenger was a Manis and an old one at that. From his research the night before, he recalled that younger members—and that was a relative term in and of itself—had clearly defined and dark plates covering their backs and tails. Only the oldest of their race, which usually indicated their ‘third’ non-gender, would have such light and fringed plates.
The Manis had entered the building. Ehrenfeld had no other choice but to wait patiently in his chair for his unusual guest to arrive. It didn’t take more than a minute for the mag lift to carry it to his level, and when the woman in the door stepped aside, Ehrenfeld stood in greeting. In shambled—and the movement couldn’t be described any other way—a weathered and aged Manis, an ejd Ehrenfeld gathered. It moved slowly but purposefully through the flat to take up the chair opposite Ehrenfeld. Only when it had arranged itself into the antique Chesterton, did it bother to raise its head and look around, then directly at Ehrenfeld.
“This is nice.” It managed with a hollow and wheezy voice. “I haven’t been here for many revolutions. Not very much has changed. I do appreciate history, as I’m sure you noticed from my mode of transportation. I don’t allow myself many luxuries, but I do find your auto history fascinating. The trouble is finding the fuel you see…”
Ehrenfeld held up a hand to interrupt, “excuse me, but I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here. Do you think that we could start with that? I do have to be at my job at some point today.”
“Ah, sarcasm. Most of us are lost when it comes to the intricacies of your languages, but your father taught me that one. You are quite similar to him, you know.” The visitor noted Ehrenfeld’s less-than-amused expression and continued, “I am the Kalas.”
At the mention of the visitor’s title, or name, Ehrenfeld couldn’t help but straighten his posture. The Kalas was the ranking member of the Manisae on Earth. Their ambassador for all intents and purposes. That would explain the special permissions for the auto, and the overriding of his personal flat’s security system. “Sir, it is an honor to receive a visit from you…” Now it was Ehrenfeld’s turn to be interrupted.
“Not ‘sir’, I no longer possess a gender and haven’t for longer than you’ve been alive. Though before I was appointed as Kalas, I did have a different name, but that’s not important. I knew your father then, actually, we met on Luna.” They cocked their head as if trying to indicate a connection in Ehrenfeld’s mind.
