THE LOST COLONY Read online

  “I will, Illya.” The session went dark. Andra approached him. “This is agony,” he said. “And, every time I think about Laida I get a pain in my stomach.”

  “I don't know about you, but I find a hard day's work doing nothing exhausting.”

  “No argument there,” he replied. “What do you make of it? What does your ax'amfin intuition tell you?”

  “I'm baffled, Nyk. I can't figure out what Tomyka's game is. Perhaps it's because she's not an experienced diplomat. Maybe it's a power thing with her.”

  “Power?”

  “Yes -- she's determined to show Ogan who's boss.”

  “Then -- how do you read Ogan on this?”

  “I think he's a frustrated as we are.” She yawned. “I'm going to bed, Nyk. Are you coming, too?”

  “I'm going to do some work on this agreement, so we'll have clean copies for tomorrow's session. Then, let the dithering begin ... again.”

  “Good night, then...” She headed into the bedroom.

  Nyk sat at the media terminal and accessed the data store Ogan had created for the negotiations. He stared at the document, his elbows planted on the desk and his chin propped in his palms. His eye caught sight of the stack of scrip on the table.

  A check of the bedroom revealed Andra asleep. Nyk picked up the scrip and headed out the door. The Varadan yellow sun had set and the streetlamps were beginning to come on. He approached the livery callbox and pressed the panel.

  A cab pulled over and admitted him. “Quadrant two, sector fourteen.” The driver nodded and headed down the street.

  He paid the driver, stepped out of the cab, approached the row houses and pressed the bell. He pressed it again. The door was opened by a novonid boy in early adolescence. “Is Ms Ramina in?” he asked.

  The boy swung the door open and left Nyk sitting on the settee in the vestibule. He saw other pairs of orange eyes in young green faces peering from the stair railing.

  Ramina in a long robe approached him. “Mr Kyhana,” she said, “what brings you here at this time of night?”

  “Do you know of Laida's disappearance?”

  She nodded. “Of course. Have you any news?” He shook his head. “I'm distraught over it.”

  “So am I. Andra and I fear it's our fault -- that she was picked up by the authorities -- because we were being friendly with her.”

  Ramina shook her head. “No, Nykkyo. Neither you nor she did anything improper.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Of course. Cordial friendship between our kinds is not a crime. There are some in this society who would like to see it thus, but it is not. I have my own theories about her disappearance.”

  “Which are?”

  “I suspect foul play.”

  “To what end?”

  “Are attractive young women ever abducted on your world?”

  “On my homeworld -- almost never. On the world where I'm stationed for my assignment... Unfortunately, yes. You think it's something like that?”

  She held her forehead, then looked up. “I fear it is. Since the registry has been in existence, the so-called green market mostly has been put out of business.”

  “Green market?”

  “Traffic in stolen novonids. Nowadays, a ... misplaced one would soon be spotted and returned to the rightful owner. Of course, changing registry numbers is not unheard of. There are disreputable brokers out there. I have notified the BSS...”

  “In addition to everything else, the BSS maintains the registry?”

  “That's correct. They'll be watching the auctions and the termination committees. I've spent the past few days contacting all the clinics specializing in novonid medicine.” She pursed her lips. “And, I've notified the morgues.”

  “What about the authorities?”

  “The constabulary are not excited about missing ... pets.” She spat the word.

  “Knowing Laida as I do,” he said, “I would think she'd make every effort to return here, or contact you.”

  Ramina nodded. “It's been the cornerstone of my philosophy to teach them as much independence as they can handle. They know how to be polite, but I also teach them how to scrap if the need arises. The need, I'm afraid, arises more and more often these days.”

  “How so?”

  “Over the past hundred years or so, we've seen more and more of them used in the cities.”

  “No offense, Ramina, but don't you think an operation like your own contributes to the problem?”

  “Who said it was a problem? There are those who welcome novonids...”

  “Yes. I met a young woman in Ogan's office who believes her job was made possible by them.”

  “... and those who don't. I'm a city girl, Mr Kyhana. This is my home. I wouldn't be happy out in the countryside, isolated on a farm. I do teach them ways to protect themselves.”

  “In an altercation wouldn't Varadan law be one-sided?”

  “You're perceptive... Yes. None of mine would ever start a fight. What I teach them is awareness, caution and escape.”

  “You teach them street smarts. Thank you, Ramina. If it's any consolation Andra and I are sick about it. We'll do whatever is in our powers -- which isn't much, I'm afraid.”

  “I appreciate it Mr Kyhana.”

  He walked to the corner and approached the livery box. An indicator was lit. It read, “No service.”

  He heard the whine of a turbine and saw a streetcar lumbering in his direction. Nyk stood at the stop. The bus came to a halt. He climbed aboard, inserted one of his scrip cards into the box and debited his fare. As the bus pulled back into traffic he worked his way to an empty bench in the back.

  The bus crept its way along its route. Nyk reconstructed the stops they took when Laida accompanied them from Ramina's the other day. The bus approached a stop and slowed. Through the rear window he saw a familiar-looking young novonid woman preparing to step from the platform to the street. Laida!

  Nyk dashed to the front of the coach, grabbing a transfer token on his way out. He saw her head to another stop across the street. A traffic light changed, leaving him stranded. He saw her bus held at another light. The light changed; it moved toward the stop and slowed.

  He dashed across the street, pushed the door open as it closed and dropped the transfer token into the farebox. The bus pulled into traffic and made a turn. The roadway grew darker as they drew away from the streetlamps.

  Nyk sat in the rear-most seat. He turned around and rapped on the glass to attract her attention. She turned her back to him.

  He rapped again. “Laida!” he called. The bus approached a stop and she hopped off.

  He sprinted to the front of the bus, but reached it too late. The driver stopped the bus at the next corner. Nyk jumped off and ran down the block. “Laida!” he shouted. He could see her ahead, clutching a fiber mesh sack.

  Her walking accelerated into a sprint. Nyk ran after her but she was pulling away. She dodged into an alley. He heard a crash and a clatter.

  She was lying on the pavement. The contents of her sack -- a half dozen cans -- were strewn around her.

  Nyk leaned over, rested his forearms on his thighs and panted to regain his breath. “You're fast,” he said. “It must the extra strength in your muscles.” He looked into her face. “I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Yes -- we all look alike to white eyes.”

  “No. The resemblance is strong ... you are probably a couple of years younger, though.” He observed she did not have a registry tattoo on her left shoulder. “You're not registered.”

  Her eyes darted and he could see terror in them. “Please,” she pleaded, “don't turn me in.”

  “I won't,” he replied. “I won't hurt you.”

  Her eyes kept shifting skyward. “The noise,” she said. “It'll attract attention.”

  Nyk's eyes followed her sightline and he saw what she had been regarding. Atop a pylon was a searchlight and what might've been a camera. “Hide be
hind those barrels,” she said. “I can't move -- I think my foot is broken.”

  He lifted and dragged her behind some barrels and debris cluttering the alley. The spotlight from the tower probed the darkness. She grabbed his collar, pulled him to the pavement and held her finger to his lips.

  The spotlight continued to sweep the alley. Nyk stood. “NO!” she gasped and reached for him.

  “They won't stop until they know what caused the noise...” He limped from behind the barrels, grabbed the fiber sack and began picking up cans.

  The beam caught him and he looked toward the pylon. “Are you all right?” came a voice from the tower.

  “I tripped and fell,” Nyk replied.

  “Please stand and face us...” The beam focused on him, illuminating his face and upper torso, dressed in a Varadan one-sleeved shirt. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “If you could...” Nyk pointed toward the pavement away from where the novonid girl lay. The beam followed his gesture and he picked up the remaining cans. “Thanks.”

  “Make sure you're off the street by curfew,” came the voice. He waved an acknowledgment and headed down the street, away from the alley. The searchlight switched off.

  Nyk returned to the girl's side. She looked up from the pavement. “Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you ... trust me.” He crouched beside her. “Let me feel your foot,” he said and palpitated her ankle. “Can you move your toes? ...I don't think it's broken -- just a nasty sprain. Are you hurt otherwise?”

  “Some bruises maybe...” She pressed her hand above her breast. “You SCARED me.”

  “I'm sure I did and I'm very sorry.” He handed her the sack of cans. “Here.”

  “I didn't steal them,” she said. “I'm not a thief. They were being discarded.”

  “That thought never crossed my mind.” She tried to stand but collapsed when she put her weight on her left foot. “How far are you going?” he asked. “I'll help you.”

  She pointed. “Over there is a gate. Through that and to the left about twenty-five metres. There's a doorway leading to a basement. In there.”

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded. “We must keep to the shadows.”

  “Okay, let's go.”

  He helped her stand and supported her. He could see, dimly, the gateway in the glow from a blue light above a callbox. She limped with him through the gate.

  “Now, where?” Nyk whispered.

  “Ahead about twenty-five metres and to the left. Do you see it?”

  “Yes... Let me carry you.” He crouched. “Hop onto my back...”

  He hooked his arms under her knees and clasped his hands together. She held onto him around his shoulders with one hand and clutched the sack with the other. Nyk stood and worked his way toward the doorway. A door opened across the way and he ducked behind the corner of a building.

  “That's all right,” she said, “just one of the neighbors.”

  He reached the doorway, set her down and pushed the door open. Before him, a flight of cracked concrete steps led down into a dimly-lit room. “I'll carry you in my arms this time,” he said and picked her up. He negotiated the stairs and stepped into the basement. The place had a dampness he found disagreeable.

  “Mother! Father!” the girl called. Nyk set her down and she limped to a bench.

  An older novonid couple stepped from behind an interior staircase. One of them held a makeshift lamp fabricated from a discarded can. Nyk noticed they both had registry numbers on their shoulders. They stopped short upon spotting him.

  “What is he doing here?” the man asked.

  “Your daughter sprained her ankle,” Nyk replied. “I was helping her get home.”

  “Don't hurt him, Father,” the girl said.

  “I won't -- but he can take his chances out there.”

  “No, please. He helped me. He could've pressed a panic button but he didn't. He distracted the constables and carried me home. I think he's with the BSS.”

  “Are you BSS?” the mother asked.

  “No -- but I'm sympathetic to them.”

  “How sympathetic?” the man asked.

  Nyk faced him. “I must apologize. I mistook your daughter for someone else. She was running from me when she tripped and fell. I take responsibility for her twisted ankle.”

  “They were using a security cam,” the girl continued. “I don't think they saw me.”

  The man regarded Nyk. “All right. You helped our daughter. We'll help you.”

  “My name is Nykkyo. Please tell me yours.”

  “I'm Rayla, the mother said. “My husband is Grott. My daughter's name is Lise.”

  “Lise...” Nyk turned to the girl. “You do resemble another girl I'm seeking. That's why I followed you. I'm very sorry I frightened you.”

  “I'll be all right...” Lise replied, “...now that I'm home, that is.”

  “Do you know of a ... one named Laida?”

  “We don't,” replied Grott.

  “Why are you looking for her?” Rayla asked.

  “She was an attendant at the guest house where I'm staying. She disappeared a few days ago.”

  “Good luck finding her,” Rayla replied. “You will need it.”

  “I contacted her owner -- Ms Ramina...”

  “Ramina.” Grott nodded. “One of the better ones.”

  “Better of a bad lot, you mean,” Rayla replied. “Guest house ... I didn't think you were a city native.”

  “I'm a member of the diplomatic mission from Floran.”

  “Yes,” Grott replied. “I've heard of the talks with the Florans. The rumor is you want some of us for your mines and fields.”

  Nyk shook his head. “Do you mean...”

  “Novonids,” said Rayla, tapping herself above her breast. “Us. It's a Varadan way of dealing with ... the problem.”

  “The rumor is false,” Nyk protested. “We are in the earliest stages of discussions with Prefect Ogan's office Believe me, there has been no mention of ... you ... from either side. I can say that with authority since I am the translator. Now, if you'll excuse me -- I must find my way back to the guest house.”

  Grott shook his head. “It is too close to curfew. The streetcars will have stopped running by now.” The wail of a siren welled up in the distance. “There it is -- curfew. You will have to stay here tonight. One of us will help you find your way home tomorrow.”

  “Here?” He looked around the basement. Old bedclothes had been hung to partition the area into rooms.

  Rayla took two of the cans from the sack Lise had been carrying and opened them with a hand opener. She divided the contents among three bowls. Nyk recognized it as the nutrient paste he had seen Laida eating.

  “I'm sorry we have nothing to offer you,” Rayla said.

  “It's all right. I'm not hungry... Grott -- I see your daughter is unregistered.”

  The man's eyes narrowed. “I have little I can give you.”

  Nyk tried to reconcile her father's response to his own remark.

  “He said he's sympathetic to the BSS,” Rayla added. She turned to Nyk. “You won't turn her in ... will you?”

  “Of course not,” he replied. “I knew her likely fate if I left her there. I felt helping her home was the least I could do -- considering my responsibility for her injury.”

  “Do you see, Father?” Lise asked.

  Grott glanced toward Rayla. She nodded. “Pull up a stool and sit with us,” Grott said.

  Lise and her parents sat on benches, holding the bowls of nutrient paste on their laps. Nyk found a stool and sat on it. “Grott,” he said, “I was curious why Lise isn't registered.”

  “You're right,” Grott replied. “She's of age -- she should be registered. No one wants her. She's a oneshot ... like her mother.”

  Nyk glanced toward Rayla, who looked at the floor. “What does that mean?”

  “It's a genetic defect -- a mutation that has found its way into some of ours,” Rayla replied.
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br />   “When Rayla gave birth to Lise, she was damaged.”

  “The womb tears,” Rayla explained, “splits in two. As a result, I cannot carry another child. The word they use is oneshot. Undoubtedly Lise has the same defect.”

  “Rayla nearly died.”

  “She obviously recovered.”

  “A kind surgeon on the farm took it upon himself to save me. An infertile female is of no value on a pomma farm,” Rayla continued. “A male is worth one, a female ten...”

  “I've heard that saying,” Nyk interrupted.

  “... but a oneshot is worth nothing. I was sold, along with my child, to the same broker who bought Grott from another farm. He paired us.”

  “So -- Grott is not Lise's father.”

  “I'm not -- but I love her as if she were mine.”

  “The broker leases me to a towel and uniform laundry. I might very well have washed the sheets in your guest room. Grott works as a construction laborer. It's hard work.”

  “Pomma farming is hard work,” Nyk replied.

  “No -- pomma farming is easy. What's easier than standing in the sun all day? As a laborer I must lift and carry. Life is good on the farms, with comfortable quarters and regular meals.” He held out his palms. “These are the quarters our owner provides. He's banking our wages for us. When we have accumulated enough for the fee, he will register Lise, and find work for her.”

  “So he says,” retorted Rayla. “I think he spends our wages on pomma beer and potteen. He holds Lise over us to keep us from bolting. There's not much work to be found for the likes of us. Pushing out baby after baby is what's considered a female's work.”

  “If he doesn't register her by a year from now,” Grott said, “we will take her to the BSS and have them register her. We'll be punished for sure, and we'll probably lose her, but she can't be impounded if she has one of these.” He tapped his registration tattoo.

  “The BSS,” Nyk remarked. “They do much to help you.”

  “No they don't,” Rayla retorted. “They're a bunch of soft-hearted do-gooders.”

  “They pass laws like the Termination Act.”

  “They don't like to see us hunted and killed.”

  “I can't imagine YOU like to see it.”