Ambassadors

 

 

 

 

 

Part I:

 

 

They searched his small carry-on suitcase and each and every one of his pockets right before they would let him board the space shuttle. A shiver of anticipation and repressed fear ran down his spine when they passed him.

“You’re clear. You are free to board,” the short ‘Arrassian’ solider said to him. Alan merely nodded, reminding himself not to call them Martians—even though that was what they were.

The whole scene passed across his eyes as bizarre. Yet he was appointed to this job not long after the Martian queen sent her broadcast to the Earth that they’d accept ambassadors from the nations of the Earth. Of course, he wasn’t the ambassador. He was merely his assistant. Besides—the emissary from the U.S. was nothing more than a spy dressed to play the part. Alan was there to keep the project above board as well as to convince the Queen that the U.S. was not a hostile entity. He didn’t know how his presence would change her mind. He’d seen the FBI file on her, and the President of Arras, (the nation existing on Mars). When the two Martian leaders had been in hiding on Earth before their so-called Revolution, the FBI apparently had made their lives difficult. Clearly, those two Martians had no fond memories of the US government. Still, those who had appointed him figured Alan would make a good impression on the Queen and the President.

The real cause of his fear was that he was expendable. No one knew if the Arrassians were truly sincere, despite all their verbal assurances after the brief invasion and then quick pullout. Many still believed that they just pretended to be friendly to deceive the entire planet toward a complete takeover. People screamed Project Blue Beam—blaming governments of conspiracy with the aliens. But that truly was not the case. None of the world governments had known of life on Mars—except for that one intrepid FBI team which had been striving to prove it yet brushed off as lunatic. The Martians had genuinely deceived everyone. And all the hullabaloo about faces on Mars, Martian canals, and other conspiratorial evidence had actually been nonsense.

Thing was, Alan knew the governments had been aware of other aliens—just not this kind. There was plenty of evidence of alien species who had visited the Earth. Abduction stories were real—though these other aliens had been shot and hunted down by an unseen force, which he now realized had been the Martians. The weird aliens of Roswell, for example, had vanished from government hands. So, they had to perpetuate the story that it had been a weather balloon. The sighting of saucers and the like also had to be quashed, because every time they tried to investigate, the evidence vanished—and the government did not want the people to panic. After all, something powerful had infiltrated them, and they could not be found. Until now.

The other thing was, during the last conflict, no one was sure what had happened. Was Earth entirely conquered by these people? Or had the Earth truly been stuck between an internal Martian conflict as the Martians had claimed—between their Surface Patrol and the so-called People’s Military? Who were the true enemies? He didn’t know. They all looked alike to him—pale, short, and thin. They appeared human—but appearances are deceiving. And though the FBI got blood samples and other things which certainly made the Martians seem human, the very idea that humans lived on Mars made Alan’s skin crawl with skepticism. Fact was, there was no way the US could trust them for sure. So he had to be wary.

Alan stepped onto the clean open shuttle and peered at the rows of seats and luggage racks. He noticed the Canadian emissary with his aides sitting uncomfortably in their plush seats. Drawing a breath, he sat down in the chair in the front, farthest from the door. His carry-on suitcase had already been loaded by one of the small pale Martians. All he had to do was wait.

Alan glanced out the door where he spotted his traveling companion getting inspected. The ‘Arrassian’ military officers thoroughly searched that man’s suit. They seemed to be extra meticulous about it, as if they knew the man’s real intentions for this trip—proof they still had spies on Earth. One of them pulled a pack of cigarettes out from the ambassador’s coat pocket and grimaced. The Martian flippantly tossed the pack over his shoulder where they dumped confiscated items, and continued his search.

Alan smirked as he settled back into his seat. It might be a while.

After about five minutes, his superior climbed aboard. He was the last one on the shuttle before the Martians themselves stepped inside and closed the door. One Martian soldier marched straight to the pilot’s seat without a word and settled himself in. He adjusted nearly everything: his seat, the air conditioning, the lights, and his helmet.

A tremor ran through Alan’s bones again. This man wears a helmet when he flies? All the passengers had were seatbelts. How safe was that ship anyway?

Another man soon sat down in the seat next to the pilot and also pulled on a helmet. He muttered something in ‘Arrassian’ to the pilot and the remaining Martian crew. They all chuckled.

“Sor nas za’en ray instor’narr bandel[1],” a redheaded Martian remarked to one of the others in the front row just behind the pilot. The sound of the language had rolling R’s and an almost piratey tone. Alan didn’t like the sound of the language.

Both the pilot and co-pilot nodded. The Martians actually kept their remarks to a minimum. They didn’t waste any time while launching the ship. It took off like an airplane, gliding along the runway until it rose into the atmosphere. They just kept gaining altitude, and when the atmosphere was too thin and they had to escape the Earth’s gravity, they merely pressed a few buttons that gave them the extra boost they needed. Everyone started to feel the floating sensation of space once they were out of the atmosphere. The minor floating sensation vanished immediately when the pilot pressed another switch. Alan felt a pull to the floor that didn’t feel like natural gravity. It made his bones ache. But the pain died off after a few minutes, yet the feeling of dread did not leave.

This was it. The point of no return.

The U.S. ambassador started to unbuckle his belt once they began to glide into space.

“You’d better refasten your belt, sir,” one of the ship’s crew said to him.

The ambassador gave the small man a tired glance and continued to fiddle with his belt. “This trip is going to be a while, isn’t it?”

The co-pilot laughed. There was something mocking in his tone.

Alan kept silent, watching the Martians give the U.S. emissary pitying glances for his ignorance.

“This trip is but only be a bit of minutes,” the co-pilot explained with a thick accent. His words felt awkward. He obviously struggled with English and didn’t know it nearly as well as his companions. He sounded almost Irish, except stupid at it.

The U.S. emissary laughed at the man’s language butchery, immediately standing up to stretch.

“Sit in your seat,” the pilot sharply ordered, turning to look at him. “We will not fly any farther until you comply.”

The ambassador scowled, but he sat back down.

“Buckle your belt and remain in your seat until the flight is over.” The pilot turned around as soon as he saw the U.S. ambassador complying. He said to his co-pilot. “Shea za nooj’ra.”[2]

Alan could only guess what that meant. His traveling companion ground his teeth in disgust, but he wouldn’t cross the pilot. That Martian came across as a hard-nosed character, the type who would exact justice with his fists.

They flew in silence for nearly ten minutes before the co-pilot opened a channel on his communications system. “Em men’om sha knap’lakee. Cherg’narr trii udrren’en.”[3]

Chills ran through Alan again. Goosebumps shivered down his arms, only now he realized it was because the cabin really was chilly. He could see his breath. Even the pilots were adjusting their collars against the cold.

He watched as the pilot punched several new buttons. As they flickered with light, the most peculiar sensation ran through Alan’s body. It felt as if he was being pressed into a tight hole in one immediate jerk, and he was halfway stuck. Suspended and breathless, this sensation lasted for nearly two seconds. Immediately after, he felt as if he was being jerked out of that hole, yanked the rest of the way and shoved face down into a sauna. Everyone around him was sweating, even the Martians who were now unfastening their collars. Just as he was about to say something, he looked up. There in the view window was Mars floating like it had just appeared there.

“Zeta thirteen, Loshan, receiving me. This is Zeta twenty requesting to approach the planet,” the pilot called into the communications receiver.

The other side buzzed for a second then replied with an incredibly strong accent, << Input the codes, Zeta twenty. >>

The co-pilot punched in a code as he glanced over at the passengers. He stopped on Alan’s gaze and smirked. The pilot punched in a few more switches then waited. By that time, it was apparent to Alan that the shuttle was just floating in space not far from an asteroid lump that orbited the planet.

“Mars has two moons,” a passenger muttered behind them. “This must be Phobos.”

<< Permission granted. Please escort the ambassadors to the communal docking bay in section seven. >>

The pilot smiled. “Thank you, Zeta thirteen.”

The shuttle dipped towards the planet’s atmosphere. The pilot again adjusted the temperature so that the ship cabin was chilly. The co-pilot smirked and muttered under his breath to his partner. “Nee del’rein rel trii koshmar’en ne’eme.”[4]

This private conversation felt like a prelude to torture. Alan half expected them to grow tentacles then get up to eat them, or at least tie them up for food storage like that old 80’s TV series, V.

The shuttle rushed down through the atmosphere as the temperature raised back to a less chilly level. They zipped over open dead plains and rocky terrain for several minutes. Ahead, they could see clear pinkish blue sky. Not until they dropped into the canyon did they actually see any dust storms. Alan felt the bottom of his seat fall out from under him along with his stomach as the drop came rather sudden.  

The pilot laughed to himself. This time the co-pilot gave him a dirty look.

“Yiin’kai. Nee nas an’stra’om ne’eme thof,” he said with a growl. “Sha Thal’a nas’op rein shar’or sa.”[5]

“Same here,” Alan found himself muttering.

The co-pilot turned around with a look at Alan, possibly wondering if he understood their Arrassian.

The pilot merely chuckled. “O’re del’rein oomalch’or neem, Aver Mersesk.”[6]

The co-pilot nodded, but still eyed Alan as if he were an unusual specimen.

The shuttle soon left the narrow canyons and dived in the wide-open canyon, flying straight for the canyon wall. An incredible chill of fear rushed back over Alan again as he realized that they were not slowing down. In fact, the pilot seemed to have no intention of veering away from the wall. They just flew at it, closer and closer as if their final destination was impact with the wall itself. It was crazy. Why bother with the nice ship if they were going to crash it? Why were the pilots so laid back if this was the end? It had to be some mistake. Was the pilot a lunatic who wanted them all killed?

Just as he was sure the question would be answered with the deafening crash of the ship into infinity, the stone face slipped aside and four gaping doors pulled open, leaving a huge hole in the cavern wall. They flew right inside then stopped with a degree of whiplash.

“Al’ en’op rel del’el d’ein sha hasal’d-hang,”[7] the co-pilot complained.

The pilot, however, was laughing hysterically. “Del’el nee veed’om sha serree da ne’emes zherrahee? En rel nichkak!”[8]

“Spasp’kai!” one of the Martians in the back made a noise like a complaint also. “En rein el feesali’ova. Al’s them’emn rel urrkas’narr. En rel prav gep ne’em kroi’el sha borr’danee van fena.”[9]

“Al rel lakov vl’narr ray Alea Zormna, almoyee. An’e del’or en hal sha fena,”[10] the pilot remarked with a casual air, already undoing his safety belts.

“Rein d’ yiinriidee,”[11] the man in back retorted with a huff.

This conversation wasn’t completely lost on the passengers. They could all see that the pilot thought his landing was the perfect joke, and no one else found it funny. The pilot still smirked as he turned to the passengers, removing his helmet. “You may debark.”

Without another second, he punched the door button, opening it, and stepped off the shuttle into the bay. The entire crew followed him, though still grumbling among themselves.

Alan turned to check in with his superior. The American ambassador, in turn, shrugged and pulled at his seat belt again. They had arrived. They quickly climbed out of their seats and off the ship, dragging their luggage as they stepped down.

The docking bay was something else. It could have been a CGI green screen set for all they knew, because it was that fantastic and seemed to stretch for quite a distance. It had an open ceiling that was stadiums high, and above their heads they could see several catwalks and ships hanging, suspended like airplanes in an aerospace museum. Wide as the length of an aircraft carrier, if not more so, the hall itself was filled with spacecraft of all sorts. Most were shuttles but some were long sleek fighter planes that Alan knew to be the first set that had invaded the Earth. The rest of the ships were smaller tank sized warships that he knew were flown to the Earth in the first takeover. That sickening feeling that they had been duped filled his stomach all over again. Where were the other fighters that supposedly fought against these ships?

“Come this way,” a new voice called to them from across the hall.

They all turned to look for the source, especially since the voice had no menace in it at all.

Alan shifted his gaze from the ceiling to inspect the speaker. What he saw disarmed him even further. It was a boy. Technically speaking, it was a young man in his late teens though possibly early twenties, but most positively he gave the impression of still being a boy. Pasty white like all the rest of the Arrassians, the boy’s hair was the unusual shade of dark red black Alan had only ever seen from hair-dye bottles and on Martians, brushed slick to the side of his head. His eyes were a pale blue, and his smile was sheepish as if he had been caught being late. The boy also wore a different colored uniform than that of the other officers Alan had seen so far, his silver and green.

“I not your directing man. I just here to help. Follow me,” the soldier said in his broken English, waving them all from the ship.

With a sidelong glance at the solder, Alan decided to go along with it. There were, so far, no real signs that the Arrassians were hostile—excluding the obvious prankish behavior from the pilot earlier. It was very easy to believe that there was no harm in these folk with such an innocent young man as a tour guide. Of course, it was quite possible he had been purposely chosen for his looks.

“I is friend of Queen. She ask me help you be com… com… what is word?” The young man dug into his brain for it.

“Comfortable?” Alan blurted out.

His American compatriot glanced at him as if he were giving away private information. The Arrassian boy’s face, however, burst into a grateful, wide smile.

“I sorry. My English not good. I study French, but no good too.” The boy soldier grinned as if that settled everything. “I’s name is Aver Dzhon Niizek. We go this way. Follow me.”

Alan smiled, despite himself. Somehow, he could tell that this boy really was no threat. Alan’s cold nervousness ran out of him.

They walked down numerous corridors, occasionally stopping whenever their guide ran into a superior officer. It seemed as though this soldier was handling more than they had first assumed. In fact, several of his inferior officers saluted him in their fashion as he passed, and he likewise gave them similar regard—but he never initiated it. It made Alan curious. So, he decided to break the barrier of silence as they walked. He quickened his pace so he could to get alongside the young soldier to catch his attention. “Uh, Aver John, um, how exactly do you know the Queen?”

All the others in the group perked up to hear, though some squirmed as if they thought Alan was being too bold.

“Yes, Aver Dzhon is me. How I know the Queen? Oh, that easy to say. She train me,” the soldier said.

The entire group stopped.

“Trained you?” one of the other ambassadors repeated in a loud voice.

Aver Dzhon halted, realizing he had lost them. He walked back to the group. “Yes, she once not queen. No, it destiny she be queen, but then she no queen. Then she be in Alpha district with Alea Arden. She train me when she only Anzer. She best pilot. She lead Zeta district. She one good Surface Patrol officer.”

“Surface Patrol?” Alan asked, recalling the military name. “What exactly is that?”

He could see Aver Dzhon was getting antsy with the desire to reach their destination soon, but he attempted to explain as best as he could in his broken English, beckoning them to walk with him. “Surface Patrol is one military. We protect Arras. Not like Ta’ren’s Kalregg[12] who no like you and no like me and no like Alea Zormna.”

“Alea Zormna?” Alan said, mostly to himself. He had never heard her called that until then.

Their guide blushed. “I forget. Say wrong. She now Queen Zormna.”

Aver Dzhon took in the many puzzled expressions on the faces of the group and attempted to explain further, glancing occasionally down the corridor with the urgent desire to continue the trip. “Arras has before war two military. One fight you first, remember?”

The crowd dimly nodded.

“We number two military. We fight them,” Aver Dzhon concluded.

“Why would you have two separate militaries?” another emissary asked. Alan agreed that this was highly improbable unless they were branches of the same military, like a navy and an air force. But it was the question that could perhaps answer the ultimate question—were they friends or foes?

Dzhon struggled with this question. “We no want two. We want only one, no—have two.”

“What?” escaped Alan again.

“He’s saying that we once had two militaries, one of which we never really wanted. Aver Dzhon can only say so much with his limited vocabulary,” a voice broke in from another hall.

All heads turned. A pale young man with red hair styled in a peculiar mullet approached. He was a similar age to Aver Dzhon but wearing the familiar Alea’s uniform.

“I must apologize. Aver Dzhon was all we could manage at the time of your arrival. And I was occupied myself, so I could not greet you,” he said.

“Who are you?” the US ambassador asked, not without much annoyance.

Alan could tell the red-haired Alea diplomatically ignored the ambassador’s tone, which everyone clearly understood as contempt, as he proceeded to explain with a polite bow to them all. “I am Alea Salvar Dezbah, head of the Zeta district and in charge of all interspace flight. I am also the son of the Kevin who is the head of the Surface Patrol. I can answer any question you have.”

Aver Dzhon stepped back with a glance of… not disdain, but borderline personal annoyance, which could have been contrived as disdain by someone who could not read a person well. But Alan could. Aver Dzhon mostly seemed sad that he had lost the spotlight as well as the pleasure of guiding them.

Alea Salvar, however, took no notice of the lower ranking soldier as he proceeded to explain about the two militaries as if the conversation has been his entirely from the start. “We had two militaries to keep a balance of power when the High Class ruled. But Queen Zormna banished the High Class just after the war, which officially dissolved the People’s Military. And now we have only the one.”

Alan still didn’t understand what this soldier was implying. Alea Salvar said the same thing that Aver Dzhon had said, except with bigger words and more complete sentences.

Aver Dzhon himself noticed that Alan still didn’t get it. He leaned over and whispered into Alan’s ear. “Taren’s Kalregg—People’s Military. They bad. They no like we. They kill many. Kill Queen’s momma and da. We no like TG. Queen no like kill, so she say go bad haughty people. Go TG. Go live on different planet.”

A chill ran through Alan as he looked at the young man. This was part of the rhetoric that had been told during the second half of the war, the truly questionable one.

“I know. I friend too President. TG kill he’s momma and da too. He no like TG. TG no like he. No, he no kill only because Queen no like to kill.” Aver Dzhon met his gaze with sincerity when he said this.

“You know the President?” Alan whispered back. Alea Salvar was already leading the others onward as no one else had a question.  

Aver Dzhon smiled. “We friend. When we little, we friend. I know he before I know she.”

Alan wondered if this guy was pulling a fast one on him. It seemed that the soldier was too eager to make friends with them, though he still seemed harmless. Alan couldn’t tell if it was the case.

Alea Salvar led the group out to take them to their temporary apartments. As he guided them, he rambled on about numerous things in his perfect English, telling them many details about the buildings, describing the age of the walls, the size of the underground city, and the population that inhabited the city. He seemed to love to hear himself speak English, actually. In fact, Alan noticed that Aver Dzhon (who still stuck with them even though his superior had taken charge of the group) had a tired, if not insubordinate, look on his face that said he thought his superior was showing off.

When they stepped out of the military compound, they came into an open cavern area which was brightly lit as if it were by the sun outside on Earth. It wasn’t quite like sunlight, but almost. The Alea called the place the Uppercity and pointed to the false sky above. Cloud patterns shifted across the high panels that faked the heavenly expanse with a semblance of white and blue, but every ambassador could all tell that it was just a ceiling. As the tops of the cavern structures were all level, and there really wasn’t any depth to the sky, they felt more like they were in a box. Still, it was a pretty good mock-up, and it did make them feel less like they were underground.

Led on foot down the open street, the ambassadors dragging their heavy luggage behind them. Not a drip of help had been offered, and the bags felt heaver and heaver the further they walked. Alan heard grumbles under breaths from nearly each and very ambassador, disgusted with their guide. It would have been customary in their home nations to have at least offered a trolly like one had in an airport. That Alea Salvar didn’t seem to notice the exhaustion of the group. And even Aver Dzhon (as innocent as he appeared) didn’t lend a hand. He merely smiled as he walked alongside the ambassadors, occasionally running his fingers across the bark of the trees which he passed, shaking his head in private amusement—but not at them. At the trees. After a few minutes of this, Alea Salvar halted in front of a broad box-like building with the bottom floor front entirely glass which showed a lobby of what looked like four star a hotel, a broad emblem etched in the class near the doors—the shape of the mark of the world of Arras. Alan stared at it, taking in the familiar collection of circles within circles which connected at one point at the top, garnished with grain and bars of color in the glass. It was on every ship they had seen come from Mars. Their national symbol.

Alea Salvar pointed the way in, just as the glass doors slip apart. “This is the government housing building. You’ll be staying here.”

Alea Salvar then turned from the building and them, immediately walking from them back the way they had come from.

Each one of the ambassadors stared after him.

“Appalling,” said one ambassador.

“Brusco,” said another.

Alan was utterly appalled at this abrupt behavior. No niceties. No ceremony. Not even a wish for a good night.

Aver Dzhon sighed and backed away. “I must go too. They help you here.”

Alan shook his head at the teen-soldier, keeping his thoughts to himself. Perhaps it was just the Arrassian culture. It occurred to him that they only had one city that they knew of. No one on this world traveled long distances regularly. They might not even have a hospitality culture.

 Heaving up his bag, with a sigh, Alan walked right through the open doors into the lobby.

Within an instant, several pale attendants inside scrambled with wide smiles and reached for his luggage.

“Nee dav’or al’m nee’s chiir,”[13] One politely bobbed his head in a bow. None of them could speak English. They simply took the ambassadors’ luggage and led them to their rooms—this time hospitality done the right way.

Shaking his head, Alan felt upended. These Martians had a funny way of handling things.

Alan and the U.S ambassador’s apartment was nicely furnished with wide walls and warm plush carpets—but it was rather Spartan in décor. No paintings. No flowers. No knickknacks. Just utilitarian. But at this point neither man cared. The setup was still rather convenient, plus comfortable. They had separate rooms, much to their relief, with an adjoining room in the center. Their own beds were fairly wide, much like a hotel, only Alan began to get the impression that this place used to be someone’s home. He could see marks on shelves where things had been removed—signs of possible personal items which would have made it friendlier. The chills set in again, chills that made him feel like he was walking in a graveyard. It was a difficult impression to fight.

After he located a set of drawers built inside the wall, Alan decided to unpack. After, he would do some exploring if it was possible. They had been promised a guided tour of the city, but considering how the morning had gone, he wasn’t so sure that was going to happen.

As soon as he was unpacked, Alan walked downstairs and into the lobby, gazing across the space as he went. There, several of the ambassadors were gathered, talking together. The Canadian ambassador smiled when he saw Alan and motioned for him to come over. “He’s here. We can go now.”

That’s when Alan noticed that there was one man heading the group—another redheaded Martian, this one in a crisp two-piece outfit that seemed to be that culture’s equivalent to a suit. By his side, stood two other men in minor, yet similar, uniforms like that of Aver Dzhon.

“We are ready then?” the leader asked.

Everyone nodded.

Alan peeked toward the American ambassador, wondering how long that man would stick with the tour group before he’d skip out on his own to look at things for himself. It appeared as if he intended to stay the entire trip. It made Alan sigh. It was going to be an ‘interesting’ experience.

“To introduce myself: my name is Kriisk Melzdar. I am a Middlecity Guard Class man. I have a family of three children. And my newly appointed job is chief liaison with Earth. I make sure you have all your needs met. I am sorry we had the Surface Patrol meet you at the bay, but I think Queen Zormna wanted a friend with you to make sure you made it here safely.”

A murmur ran through the crowd of Earthlings.

“What do you mean make it here safely?” the ambassador of Australia asked.

The Martian sadly smiled. “I’m afraid that we still haven’t found all the People’s Military officers—our enemies and your enemies from the war. If any one of them knew you were here and that relations might grow friendly between Queen Zormna and your countries, they’d try anything to stop it… even if it meant killing any one of you.” Then he shook his head. “Besides, our city is not one of the safest places to be. We have gangs here, violent gangs that we are still struggling to clear out. With the opening of the Uppercity to regular folk, they have also spread. So, our police have their work cut out for them.” He then smiled. “It really isn’t as bad as all that. But that was the explanation that Queen Zormna gave me. You see, she is extra anxious about relations with the Earth. But you should be free to roam the Uppercity, the Middlecity, and the Surface Gate without any harm.”

A murmur went among the crowd.

Alan had to speak up. “Excuse me, but she was the one who arranged those two guides?”

The man nodded, smiling. “Her personal friends. Surface Patrol mind you. Not very hospitable, but well-intended. She wanted the best for you. You should feel honored.”

Alan nodded and continued. “Will we get to meet with the Queen and President any time on this trip?”

Kriisk Melzdar grinned as he gazed more intently on Alan. “Yes, the Queen plans to meet you. There will be a banquet in your honor after today at around nine o’clock—according to your system. You should adjust your watches.”

The group murmured pleasantly at that news and felt more settled for the trip.

“Very well. We will begin to board.” But then the man stopped and blushed shyly. “I am sorry,” pointing to the men beside him, he said. “These are my French and Spanish translators. I was told that this group would be only those languages. Is there one I don’t have?”

The group glanced around at each other. It seemed right. The Arrassian guide smiled.

“Good.” Then pointing to each man at his side, he said, “This is Aver Hlen Karmas. He is the French translator.”

Hlen bowed politely then gazed at the other translator.

“And this is Aver Kells Prensk. He will translate Spanish for us today,” pointing to the other man.

Aver Kells smiled immediately and waved. “Buenos dias!”

The crowd chuckled.

They walked out of the building into the Uppercity street. Parked along the side the street was a long box-like bus. It didn’t look half as nice as the space shuttle they took, but it was full of windows to look out. Clearly it was not a hands-on walking tour. It was as much as they had expected.

Without further ado, the entire group climbed aboard the box shuttle attempting to get a good window seat. The Spanish guide had the Spanish speakers move to the back so he could translate to them as a group. The French speakers moved to the right side of the bus, and the English speakers took the left.

Their head guide was rather cheerful as he talked. Playful almost. He rambled on about nearly everything that he could. He and the other guides each held an itinerary with a list of things to talk about, so the translation and tour was actually not equal all around. The Spanish translator in back kept cracking jokes, and the entire back of the bus was laughing most of the time. The French translator continually shot him dirty looks as he attempted to translate with dignity, and somewhat boring the French speakers in the process.

The English tour, to Alan, was enlightening. They traveled through the Uppercity as the guide pointed out the capital buildings, the old prison (VOIC as he called it in Arrassian), the museum, the restaurants, the university, and the sports centers. They flew from there to the Surface Gate where they toured the many levels of what looked like the hugest mall in existence. It extended for miles to the right and left, and rose upwards for several stories. The Surface Gate was packed full of people shopping as they would in an American style mall, happy people that didn’t even seem slightly oppressed as Alan had been told they were.

The guide pointed out the many entrances leading to the Surface Patrol compounds. He explained to them that when their group had arrived, they didn’t go through the Surface Patrol compound. “You came though the old People’s Military gate. We are using it for commercial flights, as it is more direct to the Uppercity.” He then added, “You will, however, be able to tour the Surface Patrol tomorrow. If you thought the People’s Military bay was interesting, then you have seen nothing compared to the Surface Patrol. Their docking bays are larger, and state of the art. And… well, a protected military secret.”

Alan wondered on that, thinking about protected military secrets.

After they toured the Surface Gate, their traveling van took one of the transit tunnels which headed downward. They flew down and down a deep and dark tunnel which were only lit by strips of lights above in the ceiling. Below, they could hear subway trains rumbling along tracks. Beside them, they could see other car-like vehicles whipping by alongside what looked like jet skis… flying jet skis, which the man called scooters. Nearly all scooter pilots were helmeted, and all were flying in the same direction. Only occasionally did they hit a place with cross traffic, which mostly had merge lanes and exit lanes rather than actual intersections. This was their freeway. Most of the traffic flew low and away from the ceiling, avoiding the hanging traffic lights and signs. All the signs were backlit so the letters showed up dark against green-colored grids. The writing itself was amazingly vertical. It looked like techno-hieroglyphs with no regularity. Some were stumpy and other were long and jagged looking. Alan didn’t have time enough to examine the letters of each sign to see a pattern. And as the tunnels were becoming extremely dark as they went farther down, he gave it up from the eyestrain.

It wasn’t long before they reached the Undercity. To all the travelers’ darkest imagination, the Undercity was indeed cold and dismal. The false sky was obviously in bad repair. They could not even pretend it was sky. It was more like an abandoned, damaged disco-tech floor on the ceiling. Chunks were missing from it, like chipped teeth. The guides all spoke soberly as they explained the conditions of the Undercity and the lives of those who lived there.

“It is mostly because of neglect that the Undercity is in this condition. The High Class neglected the people who lived here as they were of the caste without class. And in the eyes of our governing elite, that meant they were worthless. Not quite ‘useless eaters’, but nearly. It is a concept that has also been hard to kill, even now. Most people, even now, consider the people of the Undercity as worth less than those that were raised in the Middlecity. Your first guide, Aver Dzhon is from the Undercity. This neighborhood, in fact,” the guide explained.

Aver Dzhon’s neighborhood? Alan looked around at the filthy ramshackle condition of the area. He felt chills of a different sort run through them. They were shivers of pity on top of sympathetic remorse. Alan started to wonder how this place could exist—and yet the place fulfilled his expectations of what he had heard of the Martians. He had expected to see cold abuse. At last he saw it. But in contrast with the Uppercity and the Surface Gate, he began to wonder if maybe it wasn’t entirely the fault of all Martians he had met. Maybe the story they were being told was true.

The guide continued. “President Jafarr has made it his special project to repair the Undercity so that it is made it up-to-date with the rest of Arras. If you look closely to the far end of the cavern, you will see the repair crews working. They are going building by building. That’s how meticulous his plan is.”

Alan raised his hand.

The English-speaking guide smiled at the schoolboy gesture and pointed. “Yes?”

“I was wondering, you said that our soldier guide is from here,” Alan straightened up with hope for some truth. “He said that the President was a friend of his when they were kids. Is that true?”

The guide grinned, pleased. “It is true. This is the President’s city level also. I suppose that is why he wanted to start here first.”

A murmur spread throughout the shuttle.

“Then he’s of that lowest caste isn’t he?” the Canadian ambassador asked.

The guide nodded gravely. “Yes, he is.”

The group murmured again, wondering what effect that had on politics. Their English guide seemed behave as if it was an embarrassing shame.

“Many people are not pleased with their President being a classless man,” he said. “Yet the majority, nearly eighty-nine percent, elected him because Orrlar Aflov, one of the formidable leaders of the rebellion, didn’t want to be President. He felt that Jafarr Zeldar would be a better one—mostly because Jafarr Zeldar was the leader of the rebellion, and lastly because no one but Jafarr Zeldar has ever equaled the Queen in capability and temperament. He is nearly genius and of a unique family history. Most people give him a class of his own simply because he is the remaining descendant of Zeldar Tarrn, the second cousin of the ancient Queen Zormna, and therefore nearly royalty himself.”

Alan stood up then, a little confused. “Hold it. You’re saying this guy is ten-thousand years back related to Queen Zormna’s ancestor, and that is what makes people not completely reject him as President?”

The guide nodded, still exhibiting shame. “That, and he can reason with the Queen to get what the people want. She can be a degree hardheaded.”

Alan laughed with a look out the window at the wretched scenery. “So he’s President only because she is testy and needs a babysitter?”

The ambassadors in the ship muttered to each other at how impertinent the American was being. They were sure he was offending their guide with his remarks.

The guide, however, blushed more. “Yes, as shamefully as it is, it is just that.”

Hearing him, they all burst out laughing.

The guide attempted to explain, fighting the blush in his face. “You must understand. Our queen is young. She the last of her lineage. She is extremely unique. Brilliant-minded. And, of course, the most beautiful woman for generations. But, Queen Zormna, in the truest sense, actually doesn’t want to be Queen.”

“What?” they all exclaimed together. Everyone from Earth gaped in astonishment. Alan was floored.

Their guide nodded again, his face nearly all red from discomfort. “She’d rather go back to the Surface Patrol and command the Zeta district again. She’s a pilot and a solider, not a diplomat.”

Alan couldn’t contain himself. “You mean to tell us that if she had her option, she’d ditch it all? Abdicate?”

The guide nodded again.

“That’s crazy.” Alan leaned back in his seat. “Have you no leadership at all?”

Cringing, eying Alan hard their English guide shook his head at him. “Oh… she leads. Don’t doubt that. And she’s excellent at leading the nation, which is why we want her. It is just that it wasn’t her intention to stay in the role of Queen. She just wanted to win the war then go back to her former life. She had instituted the position of President so she wouldn’t have to be the Queen. It was the people who insisted that she remain Queen. She is only complying due to Jafarr Zeldar’s influence, whom she has the utmost respect for.”

“That makes no sense to me…” Alan murmured.

The entire busload of ambassadors and aides nodded, as they had never heard of a person who didn’t want to rule.

“On to the agricultural sector?” their guide asked them all.

The group nodded, not knowing what else was on the agenda.

 

They toured the underground farms. They actually stepped out from the shuttle and met the farmers who raised the food for the underground city. The ambassadors were amazed at how these people were the only people who had not cared for the change. In fact, they were worried about Earth foods being introduced into the planet, for fear that their livelihood would drop out. That part of the tour lasted only a few minutes.

The ambassadors soon returned to their shuttle, and they all flew out of the Undercity, back into the transit tunnels. Along the way, they flew through a section of the Middlecity, just to get a taste of it.

The Middlecity was similar to the Uppercity in brightness. But in lack of perfect repair, it reminded them of the mess in the Undercity. Their guide told them that most of the Middlecity was a maze of corridors and tunnels, and only Middlecity residents knew them well. Most of the Middlecity corridors were marked with maps for travelers. Their peek wasn’t enough to satisfy curiosity, but it was enough to get an idea of what the place was like. Soon they found themselves back in the Uppercity, parked in front of the housing building once more.

Their guides handed their groups their last bits of parting advice before leaving. The English guide summed it all up with a well-practiced speech to welcome them. “So, feel free to explore the Uppercity, Middlecity, and Surface Gate. I wouldn’t advise going down into the Undercity without a Surface Patrol escort—and even then I wouldn’t go down there. You have three hours of free time before the banquet. Thank you for coming, once again. Please make yourself comfortable in our home.”

With that speech, the lobby workers clapped, and even the other two guides clapped, all expecting the ambassadors to do the same. The emissaries politely clapped as they exchanged looks. A few shook their guides’ hands as they said their good-byes. Alan could see that that reaction wasn’t quite what the head guide had expected, but the Martian shook his head a briefly and shrugged his shoulders, getting over it.

Alan chuckled to himself as he headed back to his room to rest.

Upon entering the apartment, Alan looked up to see his superior already packing his small bag to go out. It was obvious that the man intended to do some spying that night before the banquet.

Alan drew in a breath and walked to his room without making a comment. They both had their jobs to do. He had his, and the spy his. Alan knew that it was only a matter of time before they parted company anyway.

Sitting on his bed, Alan rested for a few minutes, listening for the door to open and close. It did after five. He waited two more minutes before he walked back into the main room to look for something to do. The vacant sterility of the room made him nervous.

Not waiting, Alan walked back out into the hall, closing his door behind him then pocketing the door key. He just let his feet take him where they willed, as the oppressive cabin fever bother him so much that he just had to walk. His feet took him ‘outside’, down the street, past all the large stone tiled buildings to the metro station. There, he looked around. As a New Yorker, he knew the subway could take him anywhere he needed.

The metro station had an opening wide enough for three cars to exit side by side. It opened into a hall filled with people milling about in front of little shops, kiosks really, selling random things to the travelers such as music disks, jewelry and electrical do-dads. Many people stared at him as he wandered inside, but most kept to their business. None spoke English, and all Alan could do was look and gesture at the things in the shops. After nearly twenty minutes in this small shopping hall, he decided to take the metro, maybe to see the Surface Gate or the Middlecity.

It took him a while to figure out how to enter the metro station. The identification card they had given him on the tour, he figured, was also a free pass for the public transportation. He watched the natives using similar cards to pass through the gates into the main metro cavern. Taking out his card, he ran it across the scanner. Like any typical metro or subway station, the turnstile clicked, allowing him to walk through. Passing by the guard station, Alan strolled inside to where he reached the loading zone. The setup was so familiar, he could have been in any city on Earth with a subway. This one was only different due to the flight traffic going over his head to merge and exit the tunnels above the trains. It was one of those intersections that their tour group had passed through when they flew down to the Undercity. It unsettled him how close these ships flew over his head—not even five feet away, though clearly within a marked zone for travel. But it was even more unnerving to watch how used-to the overhead traffic the local people were. They hardly even noticed it. But Alan was incapable of ignoring the possibility of an out-of-control ship crashing down on their heads. It filled him with a great sense of insecurity—so much that Alan quickly walked to the curb and stood near a pillar for protection.

A train pulled into the station. It occurred to him then that he didn’t know where this specific train would take him. He hesitated stepping on—but the crowd from behind pushed, and he was soon on the car traveling to who-knows-where alongside Martians. The metro car itself wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t comfortable enough for him to sit down either. Alan waited until the car stopped into another station where he quickly stepped off with the crowd.

Drawing a breath, Alan watched the metro zip onward in the tunnel from the station. His ears took in the rushing of the car, much like humming and the brass section of an orchestra mixed. The crowd along the metro lines gazed at him with curiosity, yet said nothing. It occurred to him that much like in the US, most people only knew their native language. Alan wondered with another breath, which car would take him up to the Surface Gate from there.

“You lost?” a voice in perfect English asked from over his shoulder.

Alan turned around. A young, rather tall for a Martian, man smiled at him. The young man looked like he could have come from Norway rather than Mars with his fair skin, blond hair, and pale blue eyes. He had a smirk that said that this guy knew Alan was lost, and his query was made more or less to lay the question out so he could help him.

“I could use some direction to the Surface Gate,” Alan said, peering down the tunnels at the empty tracks.

The blond laughed with harmless amusement then nodded. “Sorry to say, you took the wrong train to go to the Surface Gate. You need to go back to the Uppercity and take the red train to the crossroads, and then take the long train to the Surface Gate transit center.”

Alan nodded, but he didn’t quite catch that. “And I should be able to find the Surface Gate from there?”

The man nodded, though still chuckling to himself at the situation Alan was in.

Of course, Alan was feeling severely embarrassed. Blushing to his ears and ducking his head, he merely nodded to the man then crossed the hall to the other metro line, which he guessed would lead him the way he had come.

“Hey!” the man called to him, but Alan ignored it, still overwhelmed with embarrassment. Just as he stepped up to the edge of the tracks the train pulled into the station. The doors opened quickly. Alan stepped on. It wasn’t as full as the other train.

“Hey!” the man called again. “Wait a minute!”

Alan sat down at the nearest seat. And just as he was sure he was back on track, he saw out the window the same guy who had been talking to him had run up to the train.

“You are on the wrong train!”

Alan jumped up to the doors, but they slid shut before he could get to them.

The blond stared back at him as Alan stared out. The Arrassian looked like he just set his house on fire, and there was nothing he could do. They watched each other vanish out of sight as the metro moved. In shock, Alan stared at the dark walls of the tunnel and shook his head, leaning his head against the glass.

He traveled for what seemed like forever. The train didn’t stop for quite a while. It didn’t hit any junctions, no stops, nothing. It was as if it was the bullet train to the darkest part of the Undercity, because by the time it stopped that was where he ended up. When Alan walked off the metro car, he wished he were back on it. The metro stop was dark and dingy. The transit hall had half the lights working, and the other half looked like someone had broken them on purpose. Graffiti spread over most of the walls in that foreign language and what he guessed were gang signs. Tiles in the walls were missing. The worst part, the locals inside the halls looked like they created most of it.

Stale air blew in from dank holes, the light above flickering almost in spasmodic fits, barely lighting corners of the hall. Alan crossed the hall quickly so that he stood at the other tracks, hoping it wouldn’t take him deeper into the Undercity.  

Alan stood at the stop for nearly ten minutes before the train drove up. Alan stepped on immediately and sat down, trying to catch his breath. Once he gathered his bearings he realized that the train wasn’t going up, it was moving horizontally. His stomach tightened. Those chills of dread came back.

“Partha lak, nee ola?”[14] A voice spoke from his right.

His stomach sank into his shoes. Alan looked up, but what he saw was the last thing he needed to see. Five men, all of them scary-looking for a pale small race—like rats—stood near the door, grinning, with their dark gazes peering over him and his suit. Alan knew enough to know that he was in deep trouble.

“Excuse me,” he said, standing up then backing out and away from that seat.

Instead of taking the seat, they followed him, laughing amongst themselves while fingering his clothes. One of them jerked at his lapel, flipping it with a cackle. Another grabbed his tie, yanking on it like it was a leash. Others ran through Alan’s pockets, grabbing his wallet and the ID card that was issued to him in the Uppercity.

“Serr’kai sep Or’es tregg pres,”[15] one said, still yanking at Alan’s tie.

“Please,” Alan protested, “just let me go.”

They snickered.

“Shea nas em del’en d sor zhmeka sru ray nooj’ra? Chang’en or’em da sha thiinee?”[16] one of the punks said, shaking Alan by his collar.

They snorted again. Whatever the leader said, it sent tremors into the young US ambassador’s aide. It was apparent that they were plotting something Alan knew he wouldn’t like.

The metro stopped. Immediately the group dragged Alan out into the station. Reveling in their plans and talking like they were escorting a friend, they took him right to the edge of the tracks in front of the standing metro.

“Prav tenng’ever Parthara!”[17] the leader yelled with a cackle. With one forceful thrust, the Martian threw the U.S. aide into the rail trench.

Alan dropped down hard, landing on the tracks with a painful thud. He tried to stand up, but his legs ached, considerably bruised. Nothing was broken, so he forced himself onto his feet.

The trench he was in was over his head. He could only reach the top with his hands. The gang of Martians had their fun on the edge as they watched him struggle to get out. And when he attempted to pull himself up, they deliberately stepped on his fingers.

Alan could hear the metro start up. The driver gazed over him, unable to see that he was there. Looking around himself, he could see no space on the sides for him to duck into to keep from being run over. He was dead.

“Hey! Shea za nee nooj’raee del’narr?”[18] A voice called over the din of the metro hall.

Alan tried again to pull himself up again, but the gang leader stomped hard on his hands with his foot, turning to face the voice.

“Aaaargh!” Alan fell back, clenching his fingers. He stared up at the metro car. It started to roll forward. His chest heaving in fear, he ran forward, looking for an exit. He was going to be crushed.

“Help! Help!” he shouted out now, running toward the dark part of tunnel to get away from the train. There had to be some way he’d get out of there. Just as he ran, he looked back briefly to see if the metro was coming. As he did, he saw someone pushing to get through the crowd of punks. A black-haired young man scattered the group and stared after Alan on the tracks. Immediately, the dark-haired Martian jumped down on to the tracks, yelling something. Alan could barely catch it with the sound of the metro rumbling as it approached.

The guy ran closer, yelling, “Run! Run!”

Alan did run. He ran as fast as he could, hoping that somehow this wasn’t the end of him. The Martian who had jumped into the trench caught up with him and grabbed Allen’s arm, jerking him straight to the right side of the trench. They both ran to the wall, where, much to his relief, was a slope with a built-in ladder which climbed up to the ceiling. The Martian pushed the U.S. ambassador’s aide up the ladder first then climbed up after him. Two seconds after, the metro rumbled behind them, feeling like it was just inches from their backs. As it roared behind him, the wind whipping, his clothes flapping, Alan clung to the rungs of the ladder with all the strength he could muster. It seemed forever until the train passed.

Then it was gone.

Shaking, Alan did not let go of the ladder.

“What in the world are you doing in the Undercity?” came the irritated voice of his Martian savior in perfect American English. The man below climbed down the ladder and settled on a side walkway above the trench.

Alan looked down and took his breath. He carefully descended, his hands still shaking. “I… I… was trying to find the Surface Gate but… but I got… got lost.”

The Martian shook his head at him with a sigh. “I’ll try to believe you.”

After a few moment, possibly to catch his own breath, the Martian man motioned for him to follow. Alan did nervously, having no choice. He didn’t know where he was or how to get home. He just knew that this one man was his only hope.

“Didn’t they give you a map in the Uppercity? They

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.03.2023
ISBN: 978-3-7554-7923-9

Alle Rechte vorbehalten