NationStates Jolt Archive

High above the Pacific ocean, a dilapidated satellite moved endlessly in an almost aimless circle. Its battered solar panels, pock-marked with many months of impact marks, could barely provide enough energy to augment the machine’s huge, varied, and very old sensor arrays for use. The on-board nuclear reactor, built deliberately small to keep down costs and size in those heady, long-lost days when its builder’s space programme had been more than a few desultory launches per year, was getting old and not a little worn, its control mechanisms deteriorating slowly, its tiny fuel rods gradually depleting, leaks hissing silently from the heat-exchangers and condensing, then freezing in the unbelievable cold of its empty surroundings. The satellite bore the sunburst emblem, inscribed in delicate scarlet and yellow on its side; beneath them came the ominous letters “SRF”, painted once in Latin, once in Cyrillic, and once in an almost indecipherable pictographic tongue, unique to the builders’ land. Its name, placed in still smaller lettering, was Panopticon-22.

Today, Panopticon-22 was about to do something it shouldn’t have. It didn’t know that, of course; the satellite had no more knowledge of its destiny than the blazing, distant stars had of its minute form in far-away space. Its somewhat superannuated on-board computers were therefore rather surprised when a control valve in one of the satellite’s manoeuvring jets suddenly gave a crack, and even more so when the machine began making a lazy rotation about one axis. The computer calmly overcame its surprise, sealing off the manoeuvring jet by means of another valve, and Panopticon-22 drifted slowly to a halt as the computer then fired another jet to bring it onto an even keel, with the gigantic high-resolution radar set that formed the satellite’s main sensor pointing at a new and entirely unexpected point. It would have been natural, at that stage, for the machine to resume its original track; but, in a fit of uncommon wisdom, Panopticon-22’s makers had programmed the computer to alert them should anything untoward happen to their satellite. They tuned in and began working to solve the problem from their battered, run-down control station, paying little heed to the images it flashed up from its radar; they, after all, were not what concerned them. Happily, at this point fate intervened once more; a bored technician, lacking anything whatsoever else to do during her break, began studying the images from the satellite out of sheer boredom. It was only after a while that she realised that the shapes on that image, far from being Panopticon-22 having one of its moods, were in fact something of quite unbelievable historical significance.

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“This is a find of quite unbelievable historical significance! You simply have to let us go for it. It’s the first site of its kind we’ve ever seen!” The words, delivered from a short, balding, well-built man’s mouth, were backed by eyes that blazed immeasurable depths of green behind the severe black spectacles that perched on the very end of his nose, which could only charitably be described as “Romanesque”. He slammed his fist down, setting the large, polished cypress table shuddering slightly with each impact as he sought to hammer home his words. “This is the single most important” – thump thump thump – “find in a generation! And I’ll stake my reputation on it!” He rounded off with a final, hefty whack to the innocent table’s surface. “And the name of Aryen Wright, let me add, carries a lot of weight in my circles.”

Wright sat heavily in his creaking chair, extracting a hip-flask with difficulty from some recess of his somewhat threadbare jacket, and stared at the assembled company. Not the handsomest of men, with his mixed heritage having seemingly given him most of the least attractive features of his racial make-up, he made up for it by forcefulness; what he lacked in easy-going charm and good looks, he made up for with sheer brute strength of will and a gift for peroration unmatched in his faculty, and probably in his hemisphere. That he was an excellent historian in his field, and a fine archaeologist to boot, was not in dispute by anyone; the reason he found obtaining assistance and support so difficult was, perversely, the very ability to compel people that made him such a formidable character, abetted by his unfortunate habit of not giving a damn about anyone or anything if he was pursuing a goal. It was once said that it was only possible to succeed if one identified an overriding objective, and made all other ends bend towards its achievement; Aryen Wright was that philosophy personified, at least to the majority of those who met him. He had a softer side, a humbler and quieter side, of course; but the opportunity to see it was as rare as the discovery Panopticon-22 had inadvertently made two days before.

The others at the table shifted uncomfortably, or fiddled with pens, or in some cases, where they wished simply to get things over with, stared resolutely at the polished slab’s mirror shine. None of them really wished to argue with Wright; most of them, at their heart, knew he was right. The ancient past of their islands was not well known; the little information that could be pieced together was fragmented, incomplete, obtained from a few choice and immensely lucky finds over the past two hundred years. Any opportunity to learn more was to be seized eagerly, each scrap of knowledge guarded jealously; they all knew that, and they had all dedicated their lives to the study of their country’s history. But Wright asked, as usual, for the nearly impossible; to put out a notice to any interested parties, wherever they might be, and to lead an expedition into the heart of the impenetrable jungles of Greater Island.

“Aryen, listen.” The Chairman of the National Historical Society piped up. “First, we don’t know what it is. Might just be the radar set on the blink. It might just be an unusual geological formation. It could be just about anything. Second—“ he was cut off by Wright’s waving arm.

“No! None of those pathetic excuses again, sir! This is a real find. I’ve spoken to the radar operators, and the satellite engineers; the satellite’s old, but it’s not that old! It doesn’t get short-sighted as it ages, Chairman! And those radar returns are real, as real as this table and this big stone building we’re sitting in now. These are men with years of experience, Chairman.” Wright looked around for support, but, finding none, pressed on before the Chairman could resume; the discussion had now been going on for the past hour and a half, and he was growing weary. “And just look at the circumstancial evidence. Look at the towns around there. None of them are more than two centuries old – except for Mount Temple. That city has existed for aeons, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t name that mountain for no good reason, either!”

“That is not proof, Wright, and you know it!” The Chairman fumed. “You’re asking us to finance a mission into the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from any civilisation whatsoever, on the off-chance that you’re right, a chance based on a town, a mountain, and a questionable return from a satellite nearly as old as you are! What possible reason could any of us have for supporting such an endeavour?” He refused to sit, preferring to stare Wright out, leading with palms flat on the table. Wright stared back, attempting unsuccessfully to seem unmoved.

“Because we are historians, Chairman. Because we seek the truth. That is our duty.”

The Chairman guffawed bitterly. “Tell that to the people who have to finance your trip!”

“Oh, I will.” Wright stared from behind his glasses, his eyes almost unblinking, boring into the Chairman like drills. Then, unexpectedly, he turned away with a weary sigh, to face the window. “I will, Chairman, because I’m an honest man. I know you’re an honest man too. And I know that what I’m asking seems unreasonable, not just to you.” He turned back, waving at the assembled six people. “It aseems unreasonable to all of you, I know. But this is an opportunity we’ll never get again. The conditions are right. The location has been documented. The weather’s going to be good for weeks. And the find is still there, which it won’t be much longer.”

The Chairman was caught off-balance; suddenly, six pairs of eyes were staring at him, while Wright simply gazed out of the window at the vista of Sun City below. “What do you mean, ‘it won’t be much longer’, Wright?” he asked, cautiously, smelling a trap.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Wright sneered slightly. “The mountain’s being excavated. For copper ore, apparently. Seems the site is located pretty well bang on top of the mother lode; the Imperial Copper Company’s looking to sink the shafts there and all around.” He turned back, his voice brightening a little. “Bring a lot of work to the area, you know. They’re going to create their own town out there. Twenty thousand people, apparently.” His shoulders shrugged momentarily. “I don’t suppose they’ll really have leisure to think about what they’re digging through, though.” Once more, Wright turned to the window. “It seems a shame, though, if you’re really set on not financing an expedition.” He gestured towards the window, and those who had encountered him before braced themselves for a speech.

“It seems a shame, for the sake of parsimony or a new office block, to squander the greatest opportunity we’ve ever been handed. It seems even more of a shame to throw away the chance to see our past like never before. It seems… still more of a shame, a tragedy, almost, when I look out there and see what we’ve built.” He backed away, pointing outside at the vista; the smoking factory chimneys, the great snaking masses of railway, the golden domes of temples; and rising above them all, towering masses of stone and marble, topped with heroic figures, laced with intricate carvings and sculptures.

“Look out there, at what we have wrought! Universities, offices, places of government and law, of labour and commerce, of learning and enlightenment! Great teeming throngs of people crowd every part of them, my friends. All of them different, but many of them proud of this country, of its strength, its dignity, its heritage. And one day, yes, it will all be gone; sic transit gloriae mundi, and all that. But will our descendants hesitate to try to learn, given the opportunity, what those great towers, those gaunt chimneys, those… gleaming marble blocks did, and what the people in them did? Of course they won’t! They’ll be proud too, you see. They’ll want to learn, to see what we made for them to build upon – at least, if we’re doing our jobs right they will. And I would hope that none of us have lost the spark that will inspire them, and has inspired us and generations past; but it seems I hope in vain."

He turned, looking back at them, his eyes shining faintly. “I never thought I’d see the day, when a group of dedicated, hard-working, intelligent, independent people would dismiss the one opportunity of their lifetime to make a real, major contribution to the great sum total of human knowledge. But evidently…” he paused, struggling for words. “Evidently, I was wrong.” And with that, he sat back down tiredly, and took another swig from his hip-flask. “And for that, I’m sorry”, he concluded, and gazed down at the table.

It was an altogether magnificent performance; all that was missing, in fact, was the strident, yet soft, brass, perhaps a bit of Elgar. “Noblimente e semplice” was the perfect description of what he was attempting to achieve; and, as Wright looked up, he could see he had achieved it, just about. Even the Chairman was lost for words, licking his lips thoughtfully. He finally spoke up.

“Well, Aryen, I can see you’ve not lost your way with words since last we crossed swords.” He sighed. “All right, all right. Two hours is enough for us to make our minds. I suggest we put it to the vote. If you achieve a majority, the Society will send out notices and begin organising things. And if not, I’m sorry.” Wright looked up, and saw that, for all his protestations, the Chairman meant it; he was, in the end, an historian, just like Wright.

“Vote.” The Chairman looked down the table. “All those in favour, please raise their hands.” He looked again, making a quick note: five. “Well, I think that settles it. Since there is nothing more to say, I declare this meeting adjourned; Mr. Wright, I will see you before long with regard to arrangements, I imagine. Adieu, everyone. Let us hope that Mr. Wright is not wrong.”

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The Society was nothing if not quick to act upon decisions. Within a mere three days, advertisements had been posted in the major journals of the world and scattered around the internet, bulletins brought out on television and radio. The Imperial Historical Society was, they all said, seeking archaeologists, historians and any other interested parties for an expedition to unearth “possibly the most significant find in the Pacific region for a generation”. The information was clear enough; all that could be done now was to wait.

The keys hammered out on the bakelite keypad. The laptop was sat on the wooden table on the wooden decking of the paddle-propeller steamer which hissed and eeked and chuffed and groaned as it crossed the ocean.

The woman adjusted her glasses and looked up in thought. The maker’s plaque caught her eye and caused her to smile. It stated:

Brothsens and Son Steam-Tech Prop-Paddle No 1703. Proudly built in Navarre Shipyards, Dominion of Mainland, 1843.

She shook her head and returned to her typing.

The swarthy elderly man rounded the corner, straightening his tweed jacket and adjusting his monacle as he did so.

“Everything alright, Tessa?” he asked, sitting his bulk down onto a deck chair which groaned worryingly.

“Yes, fine. I was just writing up about this vessel.” she commented as her fingers hammered out another paragraph at an incredible rate. “Did you manage to find the plans for it and the technical details Arthur?”

“Ah yes!” he said remembering, patting his coat a couple of times before pulling out a folded up piece of paper which was brown with age. “From the ship’s log oddly enough. The Captain didn’t mind me rummaging through it. Seems this vessel did the quick runs between the Mainland Dominion and the Midlonian Islands Dominion. Don’t really know why. It seems like an unnecessary expense…”

“Holiday homes. Some of the rich up and ups had estates out here as well as their jobs and businesses out in the Mainland Dominion. However this ship found its way here by the end of the war as a hospital ship before doing runs between the islands here. Then in the 80’s when the disastrous Reclamation War was held it was holed and sank into the fairly shallow bay at Brackbridge. Eventually she was lifted and put back into use by one of the shoe-string budget transportation companies that were forced to be set up here to capitalize on the gain made. It’s why it has so many windows yet carries cargo, cheap refit.” Tessa remarked as she continued typing it up and feeding the schematics through a port in the side of the laptop.

“Hrm.” Arthur replied. “So, what is it we’re going to see again?” He coughed and then took out a long clay pipe, snapping a bit of the mouth piece off and placing it gently in-between his lips.

“Ruins apparently.” Tessa commented as she flicked her brown hair from her face. “I’ve brought the cameras along also to document it all as fully as possible. Seems to be a big political hoo har over it due to their big mining company deciding it’s found its mother load that could save the company. Would mean we’d be able to buy cheap copper for years too.”

“Ah, so best to be brisk about it I see, I see.”

The Steamer whooped several times and began to draw to a stop, the paddles still turning over and splashing before ceasing also.

They were joined by a second young man, blonde, short and thin he frowned. “Why have we stopped?” he asked irritably, crinkling his nose at Arthur’s smoking pipe.

“These things aren’t even remotely as manoeuvrable as the newer vessels David.” Tessa replied as she snapped shut the laptop with a thunk. “We’re waiting for a pair of Pilots to haul us in and dock us.”

“Ruddy nonsense…” he muttered as he threw himself into a deckchair, which promptly broke. “Oh for God’s sake!”

A pair of high toned toots hailed the arrival of the tugs, heavy tar-covered ropes thundered up onto the deck, which were secured by Gruthorp-Personnel in their crisp blue naval suits. All three vessels belched smoke and steam high into the air as it began to drag the ancient Winter Belle into port.

The checkered-tie man snapped another photo, and another, the images clearly reproduced on the camera's little screen. It was an unusually heavy model, evidently custom-built, and lacking a company name; what labels occupied its underside seemed to consist mainly of strange symbols, an unintelligible combination of stick figure representations and logos. When the checkered-tie man stopped, the tourist walked (not ran) back towards him.

"Thanks so much!" she said, her face continually set with the same carefree and happy expression that graced it throughout photo sessions. Reclaiming the camera, she paused for a moment to stare for a moment longer across the plaza at the Torre Blanco and the ornate fountain in the foreground.

They were good shots. And while she normally preferred to take the pictures herself, sometimes it just wasn't practical to set up a tripod; certainly not here, in the middle of traffic. She ordinarily suffered from quite good luck, but that would be pushing it.

With scarcely a farewell to the man with the checkered tie the tourist departed. She looked for a bus stop. It was less than a block away; and waiting at the traffic light before it there was already a bus. The tourist crossed the avenue and stationed herself a distance from the enclosed area; with the changing of the light, the bus sloughed to the curb, knelt, and opened its doors but a meter from the tourist.

She entered and paid her fare. The bus was nearly full, but there was a comfortable and uncrowded seat for her near the front; she sat gratefully, the camera still hung about her neck on a strap the shopkeeper had told her was practically indestructible, which formed a sort of interior circle to the exterior circle of her denim jacket. On the seat beside her a newspaper was folded. The tourist took it, opened it, began reading.

She read through the news stories first. Very little of the current events interested her; the arts and leisure section, dealing with a world alien to her, were scarcely comprehensible; and before long she found herself reading through the advertisements. At length her eyes narrowed and she focused on something, her lips forming a few words: "archaeologists, historians... interested parties.... most significant find...."

When she had examined the advertisement, she looked up and said (to herself, but to us readers it is audible as the first post's Elgar): "An archaeological site, before it becomes a tourist trap. That would look excellent between my White Canyon pics and the trip to Kyongsae."

Anastasia Razlina studied her notes as her chartered chauffeur drove her to the office. Outside the DPUO landscape rolled by her. One long wasteland of toxic smoke, sludge, and breaking of the laws of physics. "This had better be worth it." She muttered, flipping through her book once more before she tosse them back into the bag. "How much longer?"

"We'll be there quick as a wink, your ladyship!" The driver called behind him.

(Placeholder, post to be expanded)

"...which then brings me to the markings on the base of the wall, which point heavily to repair and expansion from the mid to late 3rd century. Moving now to the recovered artifacts from Mound A..."

Yångmö Tån was beginning to drift away from the topic of the seminar and into his own little world, a habit the scholar had picked up at some point during his education. It wasn't that Yångmö was a bad listener, it was more that Arsaþæ Tuan was one of the most boring and incessantly uninteresting lecturers in the entirety of Snefaldia. The only reason Yångmö attended the seminars of the octogenarian archaeologist was because the food was quite good. Yångmö wasn't an unintelligent, and as a well-regarded archaeologist and historian in Aatem Nal- he had achieved Loremaster Grade 8 just last year- he was one of the brightest and most influential scholars in the nation. He just didn't have the heart to tell old Tuan he was dryer than Oscar Wilde.

Really, though... he thought to himself, There's nothing that interesting about the settlements at Nä Mødin anyway...

He popped a candied pear into his mouth, and tried to look interested in the abstract from Tuan's dig- and much like the man's speeches, it was so boring, unineteresting, and filled with minutiae he felt his eyes begin to cross, so he carefully opened a copy of the Taxilha Today, a daily specializing in international news. He enjoyed the paper because it was mostly a sensationalistic rag with some whiffs of intelligent dialogue, and he felt it was good practice to sift through the bullshit to get to the important information.

His eye was caught by an advertisement paid by a foreign group- the Imperial Historical Society, which Yångmö had unfortunately never heard of. He kept reading, and his eyes widened with interest. He'd always had an impetuous and curious streak, and it was of no surprise to anyone when four hours later he was on a plane to a foreign country with a bag of clothes, his reference books, and an archaeologists kit in his overhead compartment, happily humming as he read the Taxilha Today.

The Winter Belle slipped against her berth without a fuss, guided adroitly by the patient masters of her two powerful tugs. The old ship was a familiar sight, pottering gamely between the ranks of other ships; great liners, plying the luxury trade between the islands and the world; small coasters, laden with cargo, their crews as often as not lounging against rails in the afternoon sunshine or swatting away flies with the restfulness of cows; freighters of all shapes and sizes, laden with the wealth of the world and the nation, bustling back and forth in and out of the deep harbour with tugs at their heads; motor boats and police launches splashing through the gently slopping waves. The entire place smelling of coal smoke, hot oil, sweat and the pungent, varied aromas of cargoes galore that crowded the quays in a long jumble, patrolled by the stalking, stick-legged forms of overhead cranes.

It was impossible not to be captivated by the sight, for all ports are places of meeting and departure and commerce, rolled into one, and through the midst of the mixture of aromas, the great creaking masses of steel, the little locomotives buzzing along the wharves, rolled the strident voices of people; porters manning the gangways of the great Aralonia Line ships, resplendent in their gleaming white uniforms, bidding every passenger a good day and a pleasant journey, tars conversing in shouts above the roar of steam and the mellow bellowing of sirens, cranemen listening out with perplexity for shouted instructions from someone far below who didn’t like the idea of radio. A thousand and one little stories, stretching along mile upon mile of waterfront.

“Steady there!” came a bellowed voice from the quay. Tessa looked down, to see a group of men standing ready to catch the Belle’s mooring lines, sweating in the sunlight. A final shove from the tugs, the thick wet slap of oily, sodden coils hitting the concrete, and the Belle was moored and secure, her port anchor running down into the shallow water to complete her steadying. The gangways were quickly run out, and within a few moments Tessa, Arthur and David found themselves in the presence of a uniformed steward.

“Good afternoon, sirs and ma’am. We’re now in the port of Kavui Bay; I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to disembark.” The steward threw them his best smile, but it didn’t manage to get to his eyes; he rounded them and their gear from the deck and down companionways and corridors like sheep, wished them a pleasant day and thanked them for travelling with the company; and then, Tessa suspected, went into a discreet place and had a large measure of gin. She sighed as her two colleagues caught up to her and joined the long, winding and slow-moving queue for customs. Arthur cocked his head quizzically, which Tessa always thought made him look faintly reminiscent of a puzzled collie.

“Problems?”

“Oh no, no,” Tessa replied with sardonic joviality. “Just wondering if David should’ve brought one of the deckchairs with him.” She looked up at the clear blue sky. It had taken hours to cross the narrow channel separating Greater Island from the smaller prominence that contained the Midlonian colony of Brackbridge, the sole leftover of the Empire’s once total domination of the islands. Hours upon hours, to come here and wait in line for customs – and they were still about a thousand bloody miles from their actual destination! David might complain a bit, but he was useful for leg-work; he had organised the travel arrangements and informed the IHS of their intentions, so at least they would be able to get the quickest route possible to the capital, romantically known as the City of the Sun – or, inevitably, Sun City, which made it sound more like something from a 1950s holiday brochure. But for all that, it would still take another two days. The trio settled down to idle conversation as the line gradually advanced, looking forward, if nothing else, to the novel experience of a three-course meal served at more than a hundred miles per hour before they had to board another ferry.

”Why the hell couldn’t we have gotten a bloody plane? asked David, exasperated at the slow pace of the queue.

Arthur looked at him with the air of a kindly grandfather addressing a mildly retarded, but still much-loved child. “Because, David, my dear boy, it would have cost us about as much as it cost you to repair that other chair you broke.” David went red-faced and stared at the ground, fuming slightly.

“Look, it wasn’t my fault! The damn thing had woodworm!” he exclaimed angrily. “Just bad luck, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed amiably. “Especially for an irreplaceable object that had survived four centuries of wars, strife and general messiness. Do promise me you won’t have any more of that bad luck on this trip, won’t you?”

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Anastasia Razlina's limousine was an unusual beast; unusual insofar as it was rare to see any cars not powered by highly efficient or non-oil-fired engines, but more so in that it was very unusual for such “conventional” cars as existed in the country to be so unbelievably ugly. The square-cornered, blocky vehicle’s wide, unsmiling grille, uncompromisingly rectangular headlamps and generally unrelenting polygonal appearance marked it out as one of the old official limousines, a leftover from the early 1990s; a relic, out of place in the landscape of smoke, steam and stone around it. It was somehow fitting, really, that the machine’s overt, blaring modernity should make it seem old-fashioned. It drew to a squealing halt outside the grand Graeco-Romanesque portico of the Imperial Historical Society’s headquarters, the doormen making no move to assist the chauffeur as he opened Razlina’s door, lest their immaculate white uniforms be dirtied by the large steam wagon ambling past in the opposite direction. And anyway, their job was merely to be white and smiling door-openers, nothing more. They smiled whitely as Razlina drew past them, seeming not to notice their forms, nor the left doorman’s polite “good day, ma’am”, and went back to staring at the view outside until the door had swung shut.

“Snooty cow”, the speaker muttered, still staring at the view, his face perfectly composed.

“Yeah, but what else can you expect from the sort of rich bitch who arrives in one of those?” replied his companion, causing them both to snigger.
Razlina, blissfully unaware of their thoughts, cruised upwards in one of the building’s creaking but magnificently appointed lifts, heading for an upper floor on which resided Wright’s office.

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Tourists the world over all look and sound much the same, and this tourist was no exception. She was perhaps slightly more purposeful than the ordinary tourist, more certain of her goal if no more certain of how to reach it, but otherwise she was indistinct, her camera and backpack mingling her with many others of her kind, in a giant herd that descended upon the airport security checks and stood, bleating amiably to itself as it pressed slowly forward through the line of uniformed, stony-featured guards, humming machines and omnipresent information kiosks. The tourist accepted the inconvenience with good cheer; she was polite and courteous as her bag was searched, X-rayed, searched again and briefly perused by a slobbering Alsatian, pausing only to attempt to scratch the enthusiastic young animal behind the ears and have it yanked away, not unreasonably, by a Customs officer who didn’t overly fancy having to explain to his superiors how a tourist had come in with two hands and left with one. Having suffered the indignities and hassles with good grace, she presented herself at an information window before a bored, middle-aged woman whose cigarette drooped from her mouth as though in a bid to escape her rapidly slackening lips.

“Excuse me, do you know whether there’s a branch of…” she checked the advertisement. “The Imperial Historical Society here, please?” The tourist backed the question up with a dazzling smile and an expression of ever so slight helplessness, which was of no use whatsoever since the woman behind the desk didn’t even look up.

“Never heard of one darlin’”, she replied shortly, concentrating on picking the numbers for her weekly lottery draw. She had a good feeling about thirty-six and ninety this week. If only that damn girl would go away; now she was waving an advert in her face. The woman sighed and roller her eyes upwards, the effort seeming to exasperate every inch of her gradually sagging frame.

“Try the University up on King Street. They can probably tell you where to find this society of yours. ‘fraid I can’t help ya any more than that.” And, having concluded the conversation, she rolled her heavy-lidded eyes back downwards and went back to her ticket.

“Thank you!” the tourist beamed, and turned to make her faltering way through Croncester’s sprawling public transport system to her destination. The woman behind the counter was not to know it – her attention was now being distracted by a man carrying a newspaper written in an obscure tongue with far too many umlauts and circumflexes –but she had, inadvertently, put the tourist on the right track; and by the evening, both she and the strangely-named young foreigner were bound for the City of the Sun aboard the high-speed sleeper service, neither aware of the other, yet neither more than ten feet apart, listening to the howl of wind and shriek of whistle and the occasional, far off bellow of unknown creatures deep within the trees.

The camera had come through security all right; that was one of the tourist's main concerns, as it was perhaps her most prized possession. Indeed, along with the clothes she wore (seemingly always clean) and the contents of the backpack and small suitcase, it was among her only possessions in these foreign parts. As was her custom, she had brought it with her upon the aircraft; perhaps the regulations were simply stricter, or perhaps the airline personnel had never seen a camera before, but it seemed to take longer for her to get through security on the way over than customary. She set it down to more stringent regulations.

"Airline security!" she murmured to herself as she settled in for a nightlong ride, staring wide-eyed out the window, a little like a child, as the iron horse galloped across the unique landscape of yet another nation. She was partly looking for photo opportunities (her custom-made model could take crystal-clear shots at 1/60th of a second, and with the latest filters she'd installed....), but like all tourists, her primary interest was simply in seeing and experiencing as much as possible.

If you were seated across from the tourist, your first impression: Is she a real person? She looks the picture of carefree optimism and tolerance, as though capable of withstanding anything; she also doesn't look like she's ever felt an emotion, or thought about anything of substance.

Then you'd look again. And you might wonder.

Where did she come from? What's she doing on vacation at this time of year? And what does she do for a living, anyway? -- she doesn't look like a representative of any profession you've ever seen. Why is she so enthusiastic?

Why doesn't she have a cell phone?

And perhaps you grow more curious. Perhaps you grow uninterested, return to your newspaper, your laptop, your MP3 player. In the average train, most will hardly stop to look at another passenger, let alone ponder their origin and their fate. Those of philosophic bent, most definitely; students of any discipline, perhaps; others, quite definitely not.

She didn't go to the dining car to eat, and you weren't paying attention for long enough to see if she slept.

Arthur cut into the large sausage and dipped a chunk into the an egg yolk while simultaneously stuffing his face with a piece of fried bread. He chewed noisily and smacked his lips in satisfaction at the full Midlonian breakfast in front of him. It was nick named “Ode to a heart attack” on the menu and consisted of, two rashers of bacon, a large thick coiled and skewered Cumberland Sausage, fried bread, fried eggs fried mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans and a “hash brown” which was a sort of compressed potato with bread crumbs sprinkled on it, oh, not to mention a couple of rounds of fried bread. It was an unusual meal to have for a main course, but then again, he was rather hungry.

Tessa merely sighed as she cut into the thick slab of steak, well done. She herself had herself a much healthier mixed grill. It consisted of a 6 ounce steak, diced kidney meat, a liver paté, chips, and assorted roast vegetables with some boiled peas. She flickered her eyes up out the window as another country station thundered past, packed with people waiting for the next slow and plodding local. Before she spotted a set of cameramen on an embankment as the locomotive whistled loudly, some were pale and wearing pith helmets, she smiled. “Gricers seem to really enjoy this train, that’s the third lot I’ve seen in as many minutes.”

David merely chewed on a small piece of the large “Quarter of an adult Cod” he had ordered. With it came a small mountain of chips and mushed, slightly watery peas. He was only half way through the massive slab of fresh fish and seemed to be regretting it slightly. Still, tasted delicious.

“Yeah, seems a number of nuts come from Midlonia to here to see the last “true” steam-run country.” He nodded. “There’s stuff still plonking around here from when we used to run the whole place, it’s like a giant living museum.”

It was true, in recent years the “big four” railway companies and numerous other smaller lines had begun to modernize very, very slowly.

This largely consisted of nuclear-powered steam trains, electrics, diesel-electrics for the military traffic and in some cases, the novel idea of double-ended engines to reduce turn around time on the smaller lines. This was slowly driving some “gricers” or Train spotters onto expensive trips to places such as the Freethinker Commonwealth and the DPUO island chain, both ex-Midlonian Colonies, both a triumph to Midlonian Civil engineering, both using some museum pieces that were long since consigned to the secondary lines, or the dustbin, on their main services.

“Still, what fascinates me are these coaches.” Arthur said, looking up from the remains of his meal as the plate was swept away by a passing waiter, his drink of a pint of Ale being replenished at the same time.
“They strike me as quite old, certainly back from before the Fifties…”

“They are.” Tessa said nodding. “Look, there’s the old gas-fittings with the Derby Wagon and Carriage works stamped on them, this carriage must date from the late 30’s when they started running these luxury trains as a bit of a novelty.”

“Ah yes!” Arthur nodded. “Must be from the era of high-flying travel..” He took a sip from his drink.

The train began to slow as they entered the edge of a city. “Seems we’re near the end of the trip also.”

“Finally!” David said with a sigh.

After alighting from their train, and going through the customs palava again the Trio boarded the next ferry, a slightly more modern example from the Post-Imperial days of the Islands, and headed for Sun City.

Wright examined the letters on his desk with a scowl, a distracted air about his studious person. He had hardly said a word to anyone all morning; he was far too busy brooding over whether or not he'd made a mistake in thinking he could attract the interest of outsiders as well as the domestic academic community. A mere six visitors; it seemed too few. They were sitting in the hotel across the way, he knew, probably enjoying the food (if it were edible), the sights (those not rapidly disappearing under black soot or covered in scaffolding) or the information they had been given by the IHS (if it was interesting, or correct, or in fact there at all). Yet still he worried. If they found something significant, all was well. If not, he would have to explain how and why he had wasted so much time and money for nought.

And finding the site was still a headache. Hundreds of miles of essentially uncharted, dangerous jungles to move through before they got within sight of it. If they carried too many supplies they might never actually get there; not enough and they'd starve. If the weather turned foul, then they might as well not waste their energy; he knew from experience that one could be ten feet away from a building and walk past it in the torrential rains that the islands experienced. If - God forbid it! an injury, they would have to call the entire thing off... and if the satellite was wrong, or he was wrong, what then? If, if, if...