The Second Wave by Leska Beikircher

here,
everyone looked a stranger to him now.
    He saw her only on second glance. His way in.
An ancient woman, her face a much abused, crumpled-up map of the
known world. She was sitting cross-legged on a window sill in the
ground floor of a building, plucking a chicken. She did so very
slowly, like she was merely biding time while she waited. No one
bought anything from her, and once, when a young girl asked how
much the chicken was, the woman shooed her away.
    If she wasn’t selling anything, she was most
likely there for other business, John rightfully observed. He got
up and let himself be carried towards the old woman by the current
of customers.
    “Selam, o blossom of the orange tree,” John
greeted her. The old woman didn’t interrupt her work, but did look
up shortly to glare at him.
    “Don’t be alarmed. It is not my intention to
buy this chicken from you, as it is all too apparent that you have
no more, and will not have anything to do once you’ve given it
away.”
    “What do you want, stranger?”
    “I have come a long way to see a man about a
donkey.”
    “Then you have come to the wrong place.
Nobody sells donkeys anymore, they are unreliable, ugly
beasts.”
    Obviously the code had changed, which was
unfortunate. John hoped his old contact was still available, or
he’d have no way of getting his ticket to the black market.
    “That is just because next to you, even
Aphrodite’s high priestesses pale in comparison, and the petals of
the Lotus shrivel and hide in shame, for they can never match your
beauty,” he offered smoothly. Then he changed his tone abruptly and
demanded, “Tell Celem Yahya wants to see him. Go now.”
    Accustomed to the tone and commanding voice
of someone who knew what they wanted, the woman vanished inside the
house without another word.
    It was too cramped here to sit down, as in
front of and around him the bazaar unfurled, and he was trapped
between a cart with colorful fabrics, a man with a hawker’s tray
who offered “all the spices of the Orient” for “very special
prices” to “very special customers”, and shoppers who wanted to buy
everything at once for as little payment as possible. So John
leaned with his back against the wall of the building the old woman
had disappeared into, and waited patiently, absentmindedly watching
the goings-on of the market.
    So absentminded was he that he didn’t notice
he was the object of observation himself. His return to Byzantium
did not go unnoticed, because the last time John fled this city, he
had left behind enemies.
    * * * *
    The building of the new settlement was coming
along without further setbacks. After the workmen’s temporary
barracks were set up, a steady flow of building material and
resources ensured a smooth erection of the colony’s basic
structure. Soon the hospital and the first houses stood. Captain
Eleven and her team were now permanently residing on the new
planet, as was Simon Jones, who was overlooking the construction
site; although what he mostly did was yell at the workers to either
move more quickly, or be more careful.
    All in all, the progress exceeded all
expectations. General Fatique was more than satisfied. The tickets
were activated, and in less than three weeks the new settlers would
arrive to start a new life; not just for themselves, but for
everyone. The second wavers got provided with jobs and homes, so
they could start setting up the next settlement and the first
infrastructures. Another year, Fatique mused as he strolled to the
conference room to meet the new mayor, perhaps fifteen months. Then
Alternearth was ready for a full colonization; and not a moment too
soon.
    Fatique met with Heathcliff Rochester alone
today, without the assistance of Elizabeth Burke. The two men had
become friends over the last months, Fatique wanted to use this
last opportunity for a nice chat, before he sent Rochester to
Alternearth for good.
    “All in all, my dear Heath, you’ll be
responsible for a