Wish you were here inste.., p.6
Wish You Were Here (Instead of Me), page 6
When given a question he couldn’t answer, he’d send it to Greta or Sean, or sometimes straight to the ambassador himself. It was a strange job, and he definitely preferred being a bookseller, but this line of work had one clear advantage: it paid. He’d gone from working three shifts in a pub to break even to earning fifty thousand a year, plus a further fifty thousand twil, in advance. The notion of paying someone in arrears was baffling to the towani. If an employer didn’t trust an employee to turn up, why hire them in the first place?
He’d frittered away his first month’s pay on food and overdue bills. The rest, though, and for the next two years, would be carefully hoarded so he could put down a deposit on a bookshop of his own.
Linton came over with the next batch of forms. “This brings us up to date, so I’d say that’s lunchtime,” she said.
Dining options on the base were limited, and all came with the certainty of uncomfortable questions. Most of the base’s personnel treated him with wary suspicion. Visiting dignitaries were worse. So many refused to accept that he really was human that he assumed there must be a note in some official file. After the first week, he’d taken to eating sandwiches at his workstation. Turning one corner of the hangar into a cheery and distinctly un-martial break-room had been Linton’s idea. The installation of a food-printer had been a gift from Johann, another friendly gesture from the Valley. It used more electricity than the rest of the base combined, so after the second brownout, they’d limited its use to lunchtime. The only oversight was that the screen’s interface was entirely in Mid-Tow, the common tongue of the towani, which Harold had to translate using his glasses.
The printers required cartridges, and these were programmed back in the Valley. The menu was inspired by Earth dishes but tinkered with by chefs who had never left Towan III. The steak tasted like curry, while the curry was served inside a purple wrap. He punched in the code for the technicians’ orders one by one.
When he got to Air Specialist Hamza Demir, the airman held out a sealed plastic box filled with salad. “Can you test this?”
“Did you get that at the supermarket?” Linton asked.
“This all comes from my mother-in-law’s greenhouse. There’s some rocket, spinach, red peppers, radish, celery, and red cabbage. No dressing, and no croutons. Does anyone want to bet it doesn’t say it’s dangerous?”
This produced a thoughtful pause.
“Does she use pesticides or fertilisers?” Linton asked.
“Not a one,” Demir said.
“Any takers?” Harold asked.
“I’ll bite,” said Blake, an inveterate gambler who’d once tried to place a bet on the length of a rainbow.
“What are the stakes?” Demir asked.
“Whoever loses does clean-up for the winner at the end of the day,” Linton said.
Harold took the salad, transferred it to one of the printer-safe bowls, and opened the hatch at the machine’s side.
Only some of the worlds in the Valley, or the empire before, were so urbanised that printed food was the only option. There were many agricultural planets, but many more partially geo-engineered worlds where agriculture was a daily struggle. Greta, Gunther, and Johann had been exiled to one of those by the regents, and they were far from unique. Transportation and exile to a barren world was a favoured punishment of the old regime. On a dust-bowl planet, where a day’s farming might only grow blisters, hunting and foraging were often the difference between a meal and misery. To ensure that the exile’s punishment wasn’t brought to a premature end by food poisoning, the food printers could scan a sample, provide a complete chemical analysis, and identify whether it was deadly, dangerous, or edible.
“And the result is… dangerous,” Harold said. “I told you, the machines are built by corporations who profit from the sale of cartridges. It’s not in their interests for people to find an alternative food source.”
“Double or nothing on what your mother-in-law will say when you tell her,” Blake said.
“I’m going to tell her it came up edible, and maybe she’ll lay off asking when we’ll give her another grandkid.”
Harold finished printing the remaining orders. For himself, he selected his usual: macaroni and cheese. The pasta was sweet and star-shaped, while the purple sauce tasted like barbecued bacon. He loved it.
“That BBC Valley podcast is putting out a live episode in a few minutes,” Linton said. “Mind if I put it on?”
“Live? Has something happened?” Harold asked.
“A budget,” Linton said as she synced her phone to a set of small speakers.
“Welcome to a special edition of Towani-Cast,” the impossibly cheerful Welsh host began. “I’m Gracie Davies, in the studio with a very special guest. My father, Evan. Say Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Dad,” the father said.
“Longtime listeners will know that won’t be the last dad joke today, and you’ll also know he’s our resident economic expert. We recorded an episode this morning, which will be available to download later, where we spoke to the Vice Chancellor of Warwick University. They are pausing teaching in all physics classes until the curriculum can be updated. Other universities may follow suit, raising the question of what this means for students who are currently enrolled. In the second half of the episode, we talked with Ahmad Amjad and Parveen Iqbal, two filmmakers from Pakistan who were rescued from a rooftop during the floods by a towani ship and taken up to the peace platform where they filmed a documentary that will be released next week. It’s an amazing interview and an amazing documentary, so keep an eye on your podcast feed. The reason why you're not listening to it now, and why we’re live, is because, for the first time in two months, today’s big story is something that happened in Westminster, and to explain, I’m going to hand over to my father.”
“Thanks, pet. At nine o’clock this morning, the chancellor began delivering the much-trailed mini-budget to deal with the changing circumstances. He finished speaking at a quarter to ten. By eleven o’clock, the stock market had fallen by ten percent and is still dropping.”
“And what did he say?” Gracie asked.
“It was a brief budget. There’ll be across-the-board tax cuts, funding to retrain the military, and a rebuilding fund for Oxfordshire.”
“Why did this trigger such market turmoil?”
“Firstly, because of what was missing. The NHS rescue plan, and the Education Reform Act, both of which received much press during the pandemic, are on pause at least until the spring, to give ministers more time to assess what impact Valley technology will have on health and education.”
“Okay, listeners, no one is allowed to get sick between now and then, promise?” Gracie said.
“To encourage us to stay at home, all road and rail infrastructure projects have been indefinitely paused,” Evan said. “To quote the chancellor, as the future of travel will be through the air, we don’t want to ruin any more beautiful countryside with tarmac and steel. He went on to say that the government was committing to phase out all road vehicles by 2040.”
“In favour of what?”
“He didn’t say, but this raises huge questions for those in the automotive industries, and it’s their shares which have fallen the most.”
“So is the pause in spending how he’s funding the tax cuts?”
“Not entirely. He’s proposed a pilgrimage tax targeting towani believers who wish to visit holy sites in the United Kingdom.”
“I think I can guess the answer, but is it legal to introduce a tax specifically targeting people of one particular faith?” Gracie asked.
“Every lawyer with a social media account has posted no. The only potentially workable solution would be to call it a tourism tax and target everyone.”
“Let’s say it was implemented. How much revenue would it generate?”
“He said an additional trillion pounds a year, but the real answer is that there’s no way to know. We asked the Valley embassy for comment, and they referred us to their previous statement on pilgrims visiting Earth. To summarise, while billions of believers would wish to visit their ancestral home, there is still concern over Covid, general safety, capacity, and potential damage to the holy sites. For a decade, or perhaps longer, visitors will be limited to clerics with archaeological training and the military personnel protecting our solar system. In economic terms, while we might one day expect more tourists than we can handle, it won’t be soon.”
“But in the long term, is it a viable plan? Are there many potential pilgrimage sites here in the UK?”
“That’s a great question.”
“I know, it’s almost as if we pre-planned me asking it.”
“The key word is potential. This is a religion about which we still know very little. We don’t know which places would be considered holy. There are three archaeological sites where Neanderthal remains have been found in the UK: Pontnewydd Cave, Swanscombe, and La Cotte de St Brelade in Jersey. There’s also Gibraltar, where, in addition to some remains, ten caves have been found that were once inhabited by Neanderthals. We’ve got a guest who can discuss the significance of these finds. Professor Alice Brunhelm from the University of Surrey is here to talk through the archaeological record of Neanderthals in Britain and beyond.”
“Sir, do you think we’ll all be zipping about in the skies in twenty years?” Linton asked.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll ask,” Harold said, tapping out a quick message before he resumed his lunch. He’d nearly finished when Sean O’Malley walked through the door with the answer.
“It’ll be at least fifty years before you need to pack a parachute for your commute to work,” Sean said. “Upgrading the planet’s power grid will take five to ten years. When that’s done, we can start building a space dock to use as a hub for mining the asteroid belt to get the materials needed to feed the factories. But none of that can happen until we have a legitimate international decision-making body that can decide who gets which asteroids and what the new rules for air travel will be. The first stage is that conference in Ireland.”
“How’s that going?” Linton asked.
“Imagine wrangling a pack of cats on a chicken farm. Harold, are you busy? I’d like a second set of eyes on something.”
Chapter 3 - A Waiting Watchdog
“How’s your aunt?” Sean asked as they left the hangar and headed for the car park.
“In imminent need of a dentist,” Harold said, buttoning his jacket. The brief rain shower had ceased, but had been replaced by a chill wind. “She’s signed up for another three chocolate-by-post subscriptions. We really appreciate you giving me this job, even if it’s a bit random at times. Do you know what they’re charging to go on my tours now? Two million.”
“I told them they were choosing short-term profit over long-term gain, but they didn’t want to listen. Politicians rarely do. The Valley’s decontamination team should arrive within the next two weeks to begin dismantling the battle-station and clearing out the hangars in Area-51. If we can resolve the issue of those sooval prisoners, we can reduce our presence here, and I can send you to Germany to help coordinate the resumption of archaeological digs.”
“Wow. Cool. But I don’t know anything about archaeology.”
“That’s why you’ll be working with archaeologists. It’s a liaison position between the bone brushers and the Valley priests. Any site where we find a Neanderthal’s remains is considered sacred, so the excavations will have to be conducted in accordance with the traditional rituals.”
“I don’t know anything about those, either.”
“But Tempest does. You’ll be working with them and Serene, assuming this conference in Ireland ever manages to pick a delegation. Too many countries are still playing politics, so it’s probably time to change the rules. Johann has recruited a few of the flood victims from Pakistan to act as guides to the peace platform. In a week or two, he will start offering tours.”
“How much will those tickets cost?”
“Nothing. They’ll be allocated at random. Locals need to know aliens are friendly, not face-sucking chest-bursters. Not all of them, anyway. Hopefully, that’ll light a fire beneath the diplomats at the conference.”
“If it doesn’t, you could send Serene a box of matches.”
“Don’t tempt me. I always knew first contact would be hectic, but I assumed I’d have the UNCA to lean on. Now that’s been disbanded because of Parker’s betrayal, understaffed doesn’t begin to describe the situation.”
“Have you caught any more conspirators?”
“We’ve found no one yet, but that’s not to say they don’t exist. I was expecting the U.N. to collapse when people learned it had failed in its original purpose of preparing the planet for first contact. Still, I thought the selection of a delegation to Towan III would swiftly provide us with the framework for its replacement. From there, we could quickly establish a military rapid-reaction force to whom I could have handed out the battle rifles, and they could have been sent on today’s little trip. Instead, it’ll be you and me.”
“Rifles?” Harold said, his heart sinking. “How dangerous is this trip?”
“Probably not at all,” Sean said. He stopped by his tank-like SUV. “Last night, the air marshal’s daughter was stargazing behind their house with a few friends. They spotted a drone. It probably belongs to some media organisation, or a creepier member of the civilian population, but the air marshal’s house is on the edge of the exclusion zone. She’s worried it might have been one of the drones used by the mercenaries and Voytay during the attack. If it is, whoever goes hunting for it must be armed with modern weapons. An armed Valley soldier traipsing around Berkshire will generate curious bystanders who could too easily become collateral damage. That leaves you and me. Fancy driving?”
“I still don’t have a licence.”
“I thought I gave you one.”
“I mean, I’ve not had any lessons. What kind of message would it send if I reversed into a helicopter? Most of the personnel on the base already think I’m a spy. I don’t want them to think I’m a saboteur, too.”
“Suit yourself,” Sean said and took the driver’s seat.
Harold took the passenger side. The car began to move without either pedal or button being pressed. Harold briefly closed his eyes but found it didn’t help. There were times he missed the reliable tedium of selling books.
“Really, though, how dangerous will this trip be?” Harold asked.
“Not at all,” Sean said. “If it wasn’t the air marshal who was asking, I’d have left it to the local police. But as it’s her, we’ll take a look to keep things friendly.”
“But it could be another attack,” Harold said. “Don’t those mercenaries never give up on a job once they accept it?”
“Broadly,” Sean said. “Now that we don’t need to hide our presence from Earth, we’ve launched a much more comprehensive monitoring grid. If a ship skips into the system, we’ll pick it up within minutes. No, if this is an imperial watchdog, it was left behind during the battle. But if that’s the case, why didn’t it attack the stargazers last night or anyone else during the previous two months? If this is anything, it is just as likely to be a ruse by the British military to lever a few of my rifles out of the stores.”
“You don’t want to give arms to Britain?”
“I don’t want to give them to Russia. But if we start issuing the rifles to the British, what reason would I have to tell Russia they couldn’t have some?”
“I can think of a few,” Harold said.
“And what’s to stop Moscow from asking the Voytay for arms? If Russia gets them first, we can step in and confiscate them. If other countries have them first, it becomes harder to intervene. Once we’ve rounded up any last associates of Parker’s, the risk will be reduced.”
“Until the Voytay send an agent disguised as a pilgrim or something,” Harold said.
“Oh, exactly. We’ll solve one problem but create a new one. Still, on balance, first contact is going far better than I expected.”
“Yeah, I was expecting civil wars. Or at least some religious wars.”
“So was I, and I think some might come, but not until people better understand, or misunderstand, the Valley.”
The air marshal’s home was ten miles north, in Great Haseley. Despite their flashing lights, navigating the heavy traffic displaced by the exclusion zone turned what should have been a twenty-minute drive into a frustrating fifty. Along the way, they saw some fields where farmers had erected signs, fences, and barbed wire to dissuade scrap hunters. Others were selling tickets.
The air marshal’s house, on Rectory Road, was detached, but far from the mansion Harold expected a senior military figure to have. Only the RAF Police officer outside marked it as anything but another semi-rural home.
Sean parked behind the RAF police car. As their identity was checked, the front door opened. A woman in her late teens, dressed in a linen suit covered in badges and buttons, dragged out a suitcase.
“Are you the alien cops?” she asked.
“I’m Sean O’Malley, and I’m very human. Are you Tabitha Melchett?”
“I am, and I can’t stop. I’ve got to get back to uni.”
“Oh? What are you studying?”
“Astrophysics. But it was business. I’ve just switched and have tonnes to catch up on.”
“Then we won’t keep you. Last night you saw a drone in your garden.”
She checked her phone. “You have me until my ride arrives. I’ll show you where.”
She led them to a side gate with a mechanical keypad and monitored by a discreet camera. “You’re really not an alien?”
“I’m just from Woking,” Harold said.
“Oh, sorry,” she said.
Beyond a tennis court whose fence had been removed and onto which a bright H had recently been painted, the garden gave way to an increasingly dense shrubbery before it ended in trees. “There,” she said. “It was above the laurel. It flew in, stopped, hung there just long enough for me to get a clip, and then flew away.”
