Paw-Prints Of The Gods (18 page)

The British
Broadcasting Corporation’s office was in Digbeth, the south-east
quadrant, on the south side of Curzon Street near where it
intersected Paradise Circus. The streets were surprisingly busy
given it was supposed to be nearly one o’clock in the morning, but
Fornax guessed that those who lived with the lengthy Ascension days
and nights had long decided to ignore what time it was supposed to
be, or else gone mad. For this reason, she hoped to find someone at
the BBC despite it technically being the middle of the night.

The buildings were a
lot smarter on Curzon Street. The concrete apartment blocks were
painted in elegant pastels, many with colourful floral hanging
baskets alongside the numerous ultra-violet street lamps installed
to boost the sun’s weak rays. Most of the shops at street level
were open for business, the road looked freshly-swept and there was
even the occasional anachronistic wrought-iron bench waiting to
provide the weary with somewhere to rest. The people walking the
street looked slightly less stressed than Fornax had seen at the
spaceport and elsewhere, but she was struck by how no one looked
truly content. There was a sign: ‘SORRY, NO CHOCOLATE’ in a nearby
store window, which she considered a good enough reason for
Newbrum’s malaise.

The BBC office was
above a shipping insurance broker. The window of the latter was
dominated by a large holovid screen and Fornax paused to watch a
surreal sales pitch aimed at those importing sheep to the
high-gravity world of Taotie, Epsilon Eridani. A noise behind made
her turn and she was startled by the appearance of a bizarre and
ancient-looking wheeled robot, somewhat reminiscent of a laboratory
bench on wheels, trundling up the road with its camera mast
pitifully outstretched. She watched as the robot stopped outside
the shop opposite and cautiously extended a probe to knock upon the
closed door. Fornax jumped as the robot suddenly spoke in coarse
metallic tones.

“Photographs!” the
robot warbled. “Please print my photographs!”

“Weird,” muttered
Fornax.

She turned to continue
her own mission and accidentally stepped into the path of a young
Chinese woman bustling towards the BBC office ahead.

“Whoops!” said Fornax.
“Sorry about that, kid.”

“I should watch where
I am going!” apologised the woman. “Clumsy me!”

“Hey, no problem,”
said Fornax. She nodded towards the robot. “What’s with that hunk
of junk?”

The woman smiled. “A
friend told me it’s an old rover some jokers lifted from Mars a few
years ago. They fixed it up and programmed it to roam the city
taking photographs.” She gave an apologetic grin and stepped away,
then hesitantly followed Fornax to the door of the BBC office. “Are
you a reporter? I mean, do you work here?”

“Yes and no,” Fornax
replied. She held out her hand. “Felicity Fornax, from
Weird
Universe
. You may have seen me on the hit holovid show
Cosmic Cooking
?”

“Err... no,” the woman
admitted. “I’m Ostara Lee, private investigator.”

Fornax raised a
surprised eyebrow, then gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”

Ostara was blocking
the doorway. With a nervous smile, she pushed it open and held it
for Fornax, before following the reporter up the stairs beyond. At
the top was another door, upon which a simple sign read: ‘BBC
ASCENSION’.

The first thing Fornax
saw when they entered the office was the holovid screen. An entire
wall was covered by a single expanse of illuminated glass, dwarfing
the man who stood before it with his back to the door. The screen
displayed a variety of moving images, text documents and
photographs, which the man was scrutinising and rearranging by
waving his hands in front of the motion-sensitive screen. The tiny
room was otherwise furnished with a desk by the window and a couple
of easy chairs that left little space to stand. Fornax tried not to
look too disappointed when the man turned to greet them, but there
was no denying she had expected the BBC’s only outpost in the
Barnard’s Star system to be a tad more impressive. The reaction of
her companion took her by surprise.

“Wow!” exclaimed
Ostara. “The BBC newsroom! How exciting!”

“Can I help you?”
asked the man. He was a twitchy, pale-skinned figure with thinning
dark hair, who stood short of both Fornax and Ostara. He wore an
uninspiring brown suit that did not quite fit. “Are you here to fix
the molecularisor?”

“Do I look like an
engineer?” Fornax remarked sarcastically. “I’m a journalist.”

“What’s up with the
’risor?” asked Ostara. A faint mechanical voice, warbling ‘Reboot
me!’ over and over again, drifted through a nearby open door.

“Does it matter?”
Fornax said, irritated. Her days on
Cosmic Cooking
had
instilled in her a hatred of food molecularisors, which were able
to produce a wide variety of food and drink almost instantly. In
her mind they were to blame for the unimpressive ratings for her
so-called ‘hit’ show, for she never really believed her producer’s
assurance that there was a big difference between wanting to watch
cookery programmes and actually wanting to cook.

“It won’t make hot
beverages,” the man said sadly. “I really miss a nice cup of
tea.”

“You don’t need a
’risor for tea!” chirped Ostara. “Allow me!”

She stepped gaily
through the open doorway and moments later the sound of running
water and rattling crockery filled the office as she got to work
with the materials on hand. The man’s look of bemusement became one
of curiosity.

“A journalist?” he
asked Fornax. “With
Five Systems News
?”

“No, I’m not,” Fornax
confessed. “I’m a roving reporter for
Weird Universe
, here
to do a piece on the Bradbury Heights archaeology department.”

Ostara returned to the
kitchenette door. “She’s a proper holovid star!” she exclaimed.

The man rolled his
eyes. “And you are?”

“Ostara,” she replied.
“Are you Teiresias? I sent you a message, asking to speak with you
about the Dhusarian Church. We arranged to meet for lunch?”

“One o’clock tomorrow
afternoon,” the man pointed out. “You’re twelve hours early.”

Ostara glanced at her
wristpad, tapped the screen and sighed. Fornax gave her a look
reserved for idiots. Teiresias appeared more amused than
annoyed.

“I still haven’t got
used to the long days and nights,” Ostara confessed. “Do you take
milk and sugar?”

“Yes please,” the man
replied. “But you won’t find any tea in there.”

“I always have a few
sachets of Yuanshi blend in my bag!”

“Yuanshi tea?”
Teiresias smiled at the sound of a clinking teaspoon from the
kitchen, earning him a puzzled look from Fornax. “We ran a story
last month about how some of that stuff was found to be tainted
with egg. Do you think I should tell her?”

“The mood drug?” she
asked. “If it gets me through the day, I won’t complain.”

Ostara emerged from
the kitchenette, carrying a tray upon which were three mugs of
steaming tea and a small plate of biscuits. Fornax caught
Teiresias’ frown at the sight of the packet of ginger creams and
guessed he had not planned to share them with guests.

“Are you not local?”
Fornax asked Ostara, taking the offered mug.

“I’m from the hollow
moon,” she replied. Fornax responded with a blank look. “The
Dandridge Cole
? It’s an old asteroid colony ship, where we
have proper days and nights. Well, not any more. Not since we
crashed the
Platypus
into the sun.”

“A moon? Which planet
does it orbit?”

“It orbits Barnard’s
Star,” Ostara told her.

“Hardly a moon,
kid.”

“Poetic licence!”
snapped Ostara.

“And now she’s just
one of the hundreds of refuges who have poured into Newbrum begging
for food and shelter,” added Teiresias, taking a mug and a couple
of biscuits for himself. “They had to abandon their asteroid, you
see. It turns out that living inside a small rock is no better than
squatting beneath a dome on the big bad rock that is
Ascension.”

“I am not begging!”
Ostara retorted. “I have my own business!”

“Yes indeed. What did
your message say? Newbrum’s premier detective agency.”

“Are there any
others?” asked Fornax.

Teiresias smiled and
shook his head.

“You’re both being
horrible,” complained Ostara. “I made you tea and neither of you
said thank you. I’m here in good faith, trying to find out
something about the Dhusarians for a friend of mine, who is worried
his sister may be involved in something not quite right. Perhaps I
was expecting too much when I came here for help.”

Teiresias pursed his
lips and frowned. Fornax wandered to the holovid wall display,
bemused that the man seemed moved by the trace of a tear in
Ostara’s eye. Fornax imagined Teiresias was more used to dealing
with journalists, holovid crews and other hard-headed broadcast
professionals who had cashed in their morals long ago.

“I’m sorry, my dear,”
he said. “The tea is rather good, thank you. You are welcome to
what little information I have on the Dhusarian Church. As I
recall, there was a lot of interest around the time of the peace
conference on Daode. A colleague of mine started to put together a
report on the
Dandridge Cole
and your altercation with that
Yuanshi priest, but the network controllers did not want to run any
upbeat news stories about you refugees. They err... only wanted the
bad stuff. What she did is still on file though.”

“How fascinating,”
said Fornax, with a mock yawn. “I’m not here to discuss old news.
I’ve heard a rumour about alien artefacts from the Falsafah dig,
turning up on the local black market. What have you got on
that?”

“Hoping for a scoop,
are you?” teased Teiresias. “Looking for the big exposé that will
finally make the holovid world sit up and take notice? I’m sorry to
be the bearer of bad news, but Ascension is where journalism
careers come to die.”

“Yours maybe,”
muttered Fornax.

Ostara looked at the
wall screen, which Fornax had already noted showed various
holovids, pictures and other items about
Sky Cleaver
and the
fate of its crew. Some of the clips were of Teiresias standing in
the departure lounge of Newbrum spaceport, talking to the camera as
mystified travellers passed by. Ostara lingered at a clip that in
the background had two men and a boy pointing into the hangar and
laughing about something.

“Are they dead?”
Ostara asked. “Those poor people out at Thunor?”

Teiresias paused.
“That report is embargoed,” he said cautiously.

“A scoop of your own?”
sneered Fornax. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal it.”

“There’s not much to
tell. The police are on their way to investigate and Verdandi has
asked us not to run the story until she knows more,” he replied.
“It’s a shame, really.”

Ostara nodded
solemnly. “Those poor mine workers.”

“I meant it’s a shame
my report has been put on hold,” snapped Teiresias. “I’ve put a lot
of work into it! I’m trying to convince the head of the network
back in London to commission a regular current affairs show for the
Barnard’s Star system.”

“Are you hosting it?
You could call it
The Daily Prophet
,” quipped Fornax. “What
with you having a name like Teiresias.”

“Why would a prophet
need news?” he retorted. The reference to his name was lost on
Ostara, who gave them both blank looks. “That’s a ridiculous
idea!”

“To see if prophecies
came true?”

“I don’t understand,”
Ostara said weakly.

“And I haven’t got
time for this!” snapped Teiresias. “Ostara, my dear, I will send
you the report on the Dhusarian Church. Miss Fornax, you can do
your own journalism and keep out of my way. Alien artefacts indeed!
Is that really the level you aspire to on
Weird
Universe
?”

Fornax gave him a hurt
look. In her world journalists stuck together and were not renowned
for helping private investigators or the police. When she realised
Teiresias was not joking, she stepped towards the door and faced
him with a glare.

“I don’t need your
help!” she declared. “I’ll get my scoop! I have more journalistic
instincts in my little finger than you have in your entire body.
That goes for you too,” she added, seeing Ostara’s baffled
expression. “A private detective from a hollow asteroid? Don’t make
me laugh! This planet is a madhouse!”

With that, roving
reporter Felicity Fornax pulled open the door and stormed noisily
down the stairs and back onto the street.

“Crazy dome,” she
muttered. “There’s a story here somewhere. I can smell it!”

* * *

Many millions of
kilometres away, Momus, Quirinus and Wak were in the main airlock
of the
Dandridge Cole
, each clutching the wall rail to stop
themselves drifting away. Momus had reluctantly accepted Wak’s
arguments for not sending the
Indra
on automatic pilot,
though suspected it was really because Quirinus wanted rid of him
for a day or so.

“Crappy pile of space
junk,” he declared. “Why do I have to do the refuelling run? The
frigging thing is as old as my granny.”

“Then you’ll know how
to handle an old girl like the
Indra
,” Quirinus replied
wearily.

“I’m not a pilot,” Wak
pointed out. “And Quirinus has things to do here.”

The tanker before them
swayed upon its moorings, sending faint knocking sounds echoing
around the airlock. The asteroid spun upon its long axis once every
minute, which was enough to create a centrifugal force equivalent
to Ascension gravity upon the inner surface of the cavern. The main
airlock was supposed to be at the zero-gravity point, but the
Dandridge Cole
had developed a slight eccentricity in its
rotation and the axis of the hollow moon had become askew, leading
Momus to curse more than usual when he earlier brought the
Indra
down the kilometre-long tunnel through the nose of the
asteroid and into dock.