Solar Flare, page 26
Potential poacher interest included a modest amount of gold-panning in several eras in the past, “hobby panners” sifting gold flakes and tiny nuggets out, as well as an outcrop known for tourmaline, garnet, and mineral relatives. The no-mining rule applied, but you didn’t need something like Fred’s chains and Edna’s bounteous necklace frills to carry out gem-quality rough if you knew where to look and if your packs had hideaways, and don’t they all?
In the mix of maps were a couple of old parks—one related to the missing lake I’d overflown—but all the parks and public spaces, including the huge old avian refuge, were subsumed into the greater good of the Exclusion Zone.
Curiosity by now was warring with suspicion—I was suspicious that I was missing something right in front of my face. Why here in particular?
When we finished eating, I motioned to Bugle and we crossed the stream. Local bird noise was subdued by the talk and play of the scouts, who were teasing each other about an upcoming ceremony while flinging pop-up disks to each other. I saw no signs they were disturbing long-term habitat and if their leaders had from time to time signed for them to be quieter I don’t know that if that was for my good or for the good of their own quiet conversations.
I was waved into the senior group’s discussion, where we went over the facts, with Bugle walking a perimeter while the rest of the group did what they were doing, which seemed again to be a ThreeDee mesh of all the cameras. If they were looking for something special it was hard to tell since they seemed quite willing to stop looking this way and to look that way at the sound of a bird or having a tree or rock formation pointed out.
Researcher Joe, he was from the Reverend’s hometown and had met the guy when he got in trouble as a kid—Fred had him helped out when he was maybe on the way to being a runner for someone and pointed him toward fixing the world. In fact, Joe mentioned that all of the people in the group had a connection with the Reverend, or with Edna, who had roomed with the Reverend for awhile before her last gig working with game birds in East Asia.
“I did some studies in this area when I was working on my Masters,” she told me. “Some studies and some experiments across a couple years, when there was still a refuge. Then the exclusion rules tightened and I got work away, so haven’t been back. I’m so pleased that refuge is effectively still here, even if unmanaged. And Fred’s great with the maps. We’re a good team—he intervenes for people, and I—I sort of intervene for birds.”
As if on cue a three-some of biggish iridescent birds—my first thought was mourning doves—flew overhead, a chitter of red squirrel complaints following their progress. Edna watched them and said loudly, “Listen to all the nuthatches!”
It took me a moment to pick up the birdsong…might have been a nuthatch among it and a chickadee, and distantly the laugh of a pileated woodpecker, and that other.
I listened hard. For not having visited the area in depth, this was becoming a favorite spot!
The other adults attended the Reverend’s church, or had, and were all part of an on-going program of intervening in the cases of young people needing new starts. I guessed the scouts were here as part of that, as part of being saved.
Eventually, I looked the question straight on.
“Reverend Fred? Will you tell me what you’re doing here today? What brings your group here, and now? Is there a hidden burial ground we’ll need to take care of, a sacred rock or tree, maybe a…”
After a sigh and shrug of shoulders he looked into the trees as he spoke.
“What's here is what's here. The old community hasn’t been properly documented. Unique traditions…unique melding with the locale. The old ecosystems weren’t well documented, especially the avian refuge side, and parts were sacred to native Americans, birds and trees. That’s why we need a new survey—the old surveys were all spin-offs of tax work and the like. We need something more in depth, and the satellites can only go so far.
“This is part of an intervention, you see. Giving young people goals in line with the old community and the new. That’s spiritual by itself. I mean, what did you call Joe? City kid? To have city kids out here in the wilderness to see things they may never see again—unless they become converts to the work of rebuilding the world—it will bring them wonder for the rest of their lives.
“But tourism depletes—” I began.
“Look, ‘Travel is broadening’ they used to say a hundred fifty years ago. Did you know that before that most people rarely ever got more than two or three hundred kilometers from home, in their lives? So to save the world, we’re going back to that slow travel and low travel thing, except now we can share through all our networks. No need to get seasick or airsick to start to understand the ocean, the mountains, the monuments…all available over the networks. We’re rich!
“Still, some people aren’t good with sitting in one place. Hard to find a job elsewhere these days, and have the circums, like you do. Some of our grandfathers overdid it and now we’ve got to get back to people staying close to home. Let them get back to being filled with wonder anyway.
“My family was here for generations—that old lakebed has the remains of a family barn in it. Most of the folks traveling with me today, they’ve got heritage in this area just like I do, so call it good for their souls to visit, even if it is our last visit.
“The youngsters? Helping with a survey can inspire them to join the work bringing things back to balance—to redeeming the planet!—and it may convince them that remediation down to the root is required in some places, that the future we work for is real! And remediation means bringing back what we can of the wildlife and the majesty. Only some few can come out here now, but if we can bring the misfits who won’t thrive in the city and give them a shot…yes. It must be done. That’s my work, the same as saving this place for all of us is what you and Bugle do.”
Maybe, then, they were legit. No rock-hounding, no metal theft, no illegal hunting…
I still hadn’t decided if I should individually interview the scouts when I heard a repeat of the avian “tret, tret,tret” call and saw an iridescent flash as a trio of birds zoomed past the scouts. The birds set off others, somewhere, and suddenly there were several dozens of the things flying about and one of the scouts ran, pointing—
“Roost zone!”
Alas, the wilderness was not entirely wilderness, and their leader stumbled over a decrepit wall in their haste, the other scouts tripping over and all of them down at once to cries of surprise and a larger round of “Tret, tret, tret!” from the dense cloud of dozens of birds who zoomed off, eliciting complaints from ravens and squirrels and cries of wonder from the survey team.
We rushed to their aid; I saw and jumped a rock wall, Bugle at my side, but the other side was a lower wall and that rock slid when I landed and an arm came up to guard my face.
Then I heard someone say what sounded like “Octopus! Migraine Octopus!”
* * *
Between us we had enough first-aid experience to staunch the scratches, and to calm the scouts. One of them, though, had a sprained ankle and another a broken arm; in short order I joined the somewhat somber group dismantling the camp and packing things into the vehicles, with the scouts whispering to each other.
“Yes, we have to go now. Breaks and sprains aren’t cured with field dressings!”
Reverend Fred spoke firmly to all of them, and I heard the one with the sprained ankle raise a voice as the Reverend said a little louder, “And please, yes, keep this among yourselves. What would people say if they think I took you to a street riot!”
There was some laughter then, but a bright voice spoke out, “But I saw the Octopus first, right? It was Edna’s experiment you talked about!”
“Save your breath! We need to fit you into the front here…”
That was Joe who took over as the Pastor came to reassure himself that I was fine, and to thank me for my time.
“Octopus?” I couldn’t help but ask.
He laughed.
“Only Latin, my friend, only Latin. But let me ask—you’ll not give us a bad report for this accident, will you? We’d like to schedule a return visit—and to get to our survey—as soon as possible. So go easy on us. Can you arrange that?”
I spread my hands. “The injuries were accidental and are under control. I may have to refer to them, but I’ll do it gently.”
He nodded, smiled, bowed, winked.
“Maybe there’s some stuff you can leave out. Here, I have something for you.”
He took a pencil out of a pocket, made a quick note on a slash of white in his hand, and dealt it over to me.
In my hand was a creamy paper card with no electronics built-in and without a scan code. It was not, as I’d feared briefly, a bribe.
Fred Novulo, Pastor, First Appalachian Church of Interventions
His blue pencil’s printing was quite clear on the back of the card:
Ectopistes migratorius
So, not octopus, then, nor migraines.
Having no Latin, I had my phone look it up. There were articles, sketches, and gray tone photos.
Ectopistes migratorius.
Passenger pigeon, they said. Extinct.
Then I went to the camera files from Fizzy One and Fizzy two.
Passenger pigeons. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Here.
I checked the definition of extinct and then zoomed in on one of Fizzy One’s best close-ups.
“Ah, I see,” I said to Bugle. “Maybe there is stuff I can leave out.”
THE REPAIRER OF LOST AND BROKEN THINGS
by Kristine Smith
Leoni Carten surveyed the crowd that had gathered in front of the entry to the settlement’s meeting hall. It proved smaller than those she had addressed on other worlds, the expressions on the scattered faces free of tension or any hint of concern. Not the usual reaction when Snelling-Lau’s corporate licensing investigators came to call, but then, she had been warned. New Earthers are different. That had always been the gist of any discussion about those who had chosen to rehabilitate and repopulate the mother world. They’re not like us. The descendants of those who had left Earth generations before to explore and terraform, inhabit and exploit, regarded her and those who had returned to her as they would an aging relative with embarrassing habits. Keep at arm’s length. Interact only when necessary.
But when the time came, do what needed to be done.
Leoni took a deep breath, then touched her microphone controls and once again checked her translation settings. They spoke Outpost V English in this settlement, a patois shaded with words and meanings from Uxolo and other Sol 2 sector worlds. This job could prove difficult enough. Best to avoid adding botched conversation to the mix.
Behind her, one of her staffers cleared their throat. Artur, judging from the rough depth of the sound, impatient and eager to get on with it so he could make his mark.
“We are looking for a man named Broderick Osai.” Leoni half-turned towards the image that filled the portable display set behind the makeshift podium. A young man, slim and slight of build, straight black hair bound in a short ponytail, his name etched on the breast pocket of his company coverall. “His family is trying to reach him. They have not heard from him for several months and have requested our help in finding him. Indications are that he entered this sector sometime in the last few weeks and arrived on Earth a few days later. If you believe you have seen him, or if you have heard of someone fitting his description, we would appreciate the chance to speak with you.”
Now she studied the faces more closely, alert for widening eyes, frowning, other signs that Osai may have been recognized. The usual mass scanning could have also pinpointed elevated heartbeat, sudden perspiring, and other evidence of stress that could indicate someone’s memory had been jogged, but she had decided against its use. Too many false positives, as the mere presence of an investigative team was usually enough to trigger such signs of alarm.
Leoni waited as the silence stretched. So tired of this. The words dropped into her head unbidden, yet so clear that she thought for one icy moment that she had spoken them aloud. She took another long, slow breath, and played another card from her well-worn deck. “As thanks for any assistance you may provide, a twenty-five percent license credit will be applied to all your quarterly accounts.” Offers of license credits drew applause on other worlds—the fees for utilities and communications for an average household could easily consume half the base allotment of the average worker. The hitch in that approach was that according to the records she had been provided, New Earthers didn’t subscribe to as many services as the other settled worlds. Even most outpost colonies used more, which compelled one to wonder how exactly they managed to function.
The corporations that provided those services certainly wondered. One in particular, Pang-Jepson, wondered to such a degree that it had hired Leoni’s employer to find out exactly what the hell was going on and whether one of their former employees, a sharp young process engineer named Broderick Osai, was involved. The former part of his status was assumed since several months previously he had vanished, leaving behind a fully-furnished flat, a brand-new two-seater, and an unclaimed salary account that could have supported the average family unit for a lifetime.
Leoni looked out at the crowd, in search of any sign of fear, greed, or even mild curiosity.
Nothing.
New Earthers are different.
“We will be present in this sector for the remainder of this week.” She forced a smile. “If you recall anything, Broderick’s family would be most appreciative.” As she stepped back, her hand brushed an edge of one of the podium’s rough-hewn boards, and black char formed by the laser saw coated her fingertips.
She rubbed the ash between forefinger and thumb, held her hand to her nose, caught a hint of a harsh, eye-watering smell. Burnt wood. She had never smelled it before.
She finally sensed the silence, looked out towards the crowd to find they had dispersed, then back at her aides to find them frowning at her.
All except Artur, who regarded her with the cool half-smile of an office shark sensing blood.
* * *
“That’s not really procedure though, is it?”
Leoni spun her chair around to face her questioning staffer. Xenia, the one person on her team who seemed to see her as a human being instead of someone to be feared or, in Artur’s case, stepped over. “We need to take a different approach with this case. Given their backgrounds, folks here have heard of and likely dealt with corporate investigators of one type or another. Their guard will be up. We need to convince them our main drivers are family concerned for Osai’s welfare.” Though judging from the morning’s reception, that didn’t appear to have worked. Reverse. Alter course. Try again.
“You going out on your own…it may not be safe.” Xenia lowered her voice. “I mean, if they’re hiding him, they could threaten you. Or lie about where he is and trap you in an old building or a mine shaft or—”
“You watch too many suspense vids. Corporate support is the best protection you can have in the United Worlds short of an oligarch’s patronage. I’ll be fine.” Leoni handed Xenia a packet of data wafers and other background materials. “Divvy these up and start digging. This settlement is the last place he was seen, but a week has passed since then. Has he moved to another site? Is he even still on Earth? We’ll go over what you’ve found when I get back.” She fielded yet another worried look. “I will have open two-way and I will confine myself to the settlement, which is right on the other side of the ridge or hill or whatever it is we landed on.”
“Leo?” Another of her assistants stuck her head through the passage between the staff bullpen and her private office. “It’s him.”
Leoni’s heart stuttered. That seemingly innocent pronoun meant only one person. “How much lag time do I have?”
“Two-three second delay only.” The young woman winced. “I think he must be on Luna.”
So the CEO of Pang-Jepson had followed them to Earth? Lovely. “Give me a minute, Sharique. Then put him through.” Leoni dug into her desk drawer for the bottle of analgesic tabs, popped one, then another, and washed them down with the cold remnants of her breakfast coffee. She closed her eyes, took three ribcage-expanding breaths, then opened the com connection. “Good morning, sir.”
Evert Harrell, gray-haired and business-suited in somber black, regarded her with a deceptive half-smile. Benign, in the way an apex predator gazes at potential prey when they’re still too full from the last victim to bother. “I expected a report awaiting me when my assistant checked the morning mail, Ms. Carten.”
“We’ve only just arrived, sir.”
“We provided you enough information. You should have preliminary conclusions.” The time lag between Earth and Luna combined with the vagaries of interplanetary communication rendered the man’s movements slightly jerky, as though he were a robot with faulty connections.
Leoni pressed her back against her chair pad and shoved her hands under her thighs to squelch her sudden urge to twitch in reply. “Speculation at best, sir. Better to have facts.”
“Are you doubting the quality of our assessments?”
“No, sir.” They’re biased as hell, just as I expected.
“I want a detailed update in my hands by sunset your time. Your superiors spoke most highly of your skills, Ms. Carten.” This time, Harrell’s smile showed teeth and conveyed all the warmth of a skull. “I’m counting on you.”
Leoni nodded thanks. “Sir.”
“They assured me you are the best.”
First, the carrot—
“Don’t let me down.”
—then the tap of the stick, a reminder of who held the power. And who didn’t.
Leoni nodded once again, then kept her half-smile fixed in place until Harrell’s face vanished and the display blanked.
“That sounded ominous.”
Leoni turned to find Artur standing in the doorway. Eavesdropping again. Not a crime in and of itself—she had done her own share of accidental overhearing over the years. They were investigators after all. Nosiness was a prerequisite for the job. It’s just simple loathing.
