hadn’t been a chevron of aliens—aliens!—standing on the slab of the Roana Temple encased in what might be impenetrable spacesuits. What if he was wrong? What if the barricades parted and the aliens unleashed some sort of weapon? What if this was just a ploy to lower the barricades and begin an assault that couldn’t be stopped? What if he, Loul Pell, went down in the last days of Didet history as the man who suggested the very actions that enslaved the human race?
Then the strangest thing happened. Considering he was standing in the midst of a makeshift military compound at the edge of the Ketter Sea hidden behind media-blocking webbing and staring at aliens who had just disembarked from a spaceship parked on the ruins of the Roana Temple, his parameters for strange had broadened greatly in the past day. And this was still strange. The leader of the alien band, the tallest of the tall creatures before them, slowly lifted its long arms, twisting them so that one hand wrapped around the other wrist. Then, with no other motion, voices could be heard. Three distinct sentences:
“What can I do to assist you?”
“Hi! Welcome back!”
“What did I tell you about that pie?”
That third one made barriers drop and radios fall silent. All around the barricade, people rose up, leaning over each other for a better look, an unfiltered and unprotected look at the assembly before them. Then the voices repeated themselves.
“What can I do to assist you?”
“Hi! Welcome back!”
“What did I tell you about that pie?”
Loul heard someone behind him mutter something about killing someone if this turned out to be a prank. A cluster of people whispered behind the ranking trio who, Loul had to give them credit, kept up a solid noncommittal front. All around him, he could hear the name “Baga” being whispered, followed quickly by “stunt” and “gone too far.”
Everyone on the continent recognized that stupid pie phrase from Baga Baga, the trickster radio host who was always pranking people into admitting cheating on their wives or stealing from their bosses. He had two catch phrases: “Dig a hole” and “What did I tell you about that pie?” His show played everywhere, and every kid above the age of six hung on his every move. His last stunt, spray-painting the dome of the Eastern Bank to look like a nipple, had gotten him house arrest and an enormous fine. It had also boosted his ratings and made him an even bigger star among his fans. But this? Staging a stunt this big? Did Baga have that much clout?
A weapons carousel wheeled closer to the right of the generals, and a line of military police stepped together in tight formation waiting for orders. The generals conferred, talking over their shoulders with their counselors behind them, but Loul didn’t try to hear what they said. Instead, he ran over and over the words he’d heard. That stupid pie comment—that had been Baga’s voice, no doubt about it. But that first phrase—“What can I do to assist you?”—wasn’t Baga, but it was just as familiar. That was the voice of the automated service of Eastern Bank. Loul knew that voice as well as his own from the dozens of times he’d started to call Reno Dado to ask her out, only to chicken out, hang up, and try again.
Three different voices. Three different sentences. The first one a recorded voice, the second female, the third a famous broadcaster. All of them in perfect Cartar dialect. The second one even had a lower-county accent.
“This is General Ada of the Cartar Military Assembly.” The voice boomed out from a bullhorn pressed to the general’s lips. Loul could see a heavy flush of rage on the man’s throat as he barked out his orders. “You are under arrest for violating a protected archaeological site and for inciting public panic. Stand down immediately.”
The group of five didn’t move, and Loul found himself drifting closer to the front of the lowered barricade, transfixed on their
Then the strangest thing happened. Considering he was standing in the midst of a makeshift military compound at the edge of the Ketter Sea hidden behind media-blocking webbing and staring at aliens who had just disembarked from a spaceship parked on the ruins of the Roana Temple, his parameters for strange had broadened greatly in the past day. And this was still strange. The leader of the alien band, the tallest of the tall creatures before them, slowly lifted its long arms, twisting them so that one hand wrapped around the other wrist. Then, with no other motion, voices could be heard. Three distinct sentences:
“What can I do to assist you?”
“Hi! Welcome back!”
“What did I tell you about that pie?”
That third one made barriers drop and radios fall silent. All around the barricade, people rose up, leaning over each other for a better look, an unfiltered and unprotected look at the assembly before them. Then the voices repeated themselves.
“What can I do to assist you?”
“Hi! Welcome back!”
“What did I tell you about that pie?”
Loul heard someone behind him mutter something about killing someone if this turned out to be a prank. A cluster of people whispered behind the ranking trio who, Loul had to give them credit, kept up a solid noncommittal front. All around him, he could hear the name “Baga” being whispered, followed quickly by “stunt” and “gone too far.”
Everyone on the continent recognized that stupid pie phrase from Baga Baga, the trickster radio host who was always pranking people into admitting cheating on their wives or stealing from their bosses. He had two catch phrases: “Dig a hole” and “What did I tell you about that pie?” His show played everywhere, and every kid above the age of six hung on his every move. His last stunt, spray-painting the dome of the Eastern Bank to look like a nipple, had gotten him house arrest and an enormous fine. It had also boosted his ratings and made him an even bigger star among his fans. But this? Staging a stunt this big? Did Baga have that much clout?
A weapons carousel wheeled closer to the right of the generals, and a line of military police stepped together in tight formation waiting for orders. The generals conferred, talking over their shoulders with their counselors behind them, but Loul didn’t try to hear what they said. Instead, he ran over and over the words he’d heard. That stupid pie comment—that had been Baga’s voice, no doubt about it. But that first phrase—“What can I do to assist you?”—wasn’t Baga, but it was just as familiar. That was the voice of the automated service of Eastern Bank. Loul knew that voice as well as his own from the dozens of times he’d started to call Reno Dado to ask her out, only to chicken out, hang up, and try again.
Three different voices. Three different sentences. The first one a recorded voice, the second female, the third a famous broadcaster. All of them in perfect Cartar dialect. The second one even had a lower-county accent.
“This is General Ada of the Cartar Military Assembly.” The voice boomed out from a bullhorn pressed to the general’s lips. Loul could see a heavy flush of rage on the man’s throat as he barked out his orders. “You are under arrest for violating a protected archaeological site and for inciting public panic. Stand down immediately.”
The group of five didn’t move, and Loul found himself drifting closer to the front of the lowered barricade, transfixed on their
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