Phase Shift (25 page)

Most households had a variant of this
fodder, usually a closely guarded secret passed on through the
generations. The irony of it was that in some
prefectures
,
it was rumoured the birds and
animals ate better than the Infs responsible for growing the self
same berries, grains and seeds.

A gathering of animals lingered at Motar's
feet. "It feels as though we haven’t had a fraternal in a carp's
life." Motar spoke to the animals. Reyes had wished this meeting
remain as clandestine as possible. To the unsuspecting onlooker,
their meeting must appear as happenstance, two unrelated prefects
sharing a brief respite on the same bench, or at most, a chance
encounter between old friends.

The weather was unusually agreeable for the
time of year, mild, with a quiet chill. The grass remained a
delicious shade of green, unaffected by the first bite of frost
which had visited whilst everyone slept and had left by dawn
following, unbeknownst to the Prefecture populace. "I feel I must
apologize for that," said Reyes in low tones. "You and my father
were great friends once. Like brothers. I have neglected that
relationship since my father's expiration."

Motar chuckled briefly. "You speak as if you
bear sole responsibility for our estrangement. Surely Atlas is your
patron deity."
"Careful, Motar," Reyes warned, "or people might suspect you've
become a Relen."

"Bach," Motar said, waving Reyes off with
his hand. He rubbed the thumb of his waving hand over the pads of
his fingertips as if he were just now aware of how sticky the
animal feed had made them. Errant seeds took flight as he did. "My
point is it is I who owes you an apology, Reyes. I was the adult, I
allowed your father to ingratiate myself to you in avuncular
fashion. The responsibility to maintain the relationship rested
with me after your father expired."

Reyes reverted to proverbs in an attempt to
alleviate the old man's guilt. "There are enough broken eggs
between us to feed the Prefecture." Motar snorted once by way of a
laugh and tossed another handful of feed to the animals. A
T.
striatus
loitering at Motar's feet, no larger than a mouse,
undulated its tail as it masticated a cube of feed twice the size
of its head. Fascinating animals, those of the genera
Tamais
. Reyes watched as the animal first gnawed at the cube
with its teeth and then switched to hand-like paws to break it into
pieces small enough to transport to its burrow.

"You belonged to my father's terraforming
contingency. You were my father's confidant, his partner, his
brother." Reyes managed to stifle the impulse to look at Motar
square on as he spoke. It was hard to carry on a conversation with
the person sitting next to you in the absence of eye contact. "It
was the two of you who refined the terraforming process. It was
you, alongside my father, who discovered the damaging consequences
of the process on the environ. When my father writ and ratified The
Pact, you were his strongest and most vocal supporter—"

"Bach," Motar said, once more stirring the
air with a wave of his hand. "You make us out to be heroes. We were
at fault. We caused the problem. Your father and I are hailed—and
wrongly at that—as saviours of the planet for our work on The Pact,
when in fact we were just accepting responsibility, cleaning up the
mess we, ourselves, had made.

"Do not misunderstand, Reyes, in no way do I
mean to disparage your father. He was a great man, may he be
remembered fondly in this world—"

"And the next," Reyes responded by rote.

"The technology we developed:
terraforming...phase shifting..." he shook his head."All is one
error upon another to lead us here. The integrity of The Pact must
not, has not, been broken, yet, as the appearance of your Earth
friend suggests, Cataclysm is still impending."

"This is what I wish to speak with you of,
my friend. The integrity of The Pact is no longer sacrosanct."

At this disclosure, Motar could no longer
avert his gaze. He spoke his next words whilst gazing at Reyes
square on, in full view of passersby. "Blasphemy!" Motar paused
after his outburst and then, perhaps remembering his earlier jest
with Reyes about being mistaken for a Relen, chuckled.

"Suppose I told you I had evidence to the
contrary, evidence proving beyond doubt, deliberate phase shifts
continue as a matter of course?"

"No," Motar said, shaking his head, "you
must be mistaken."

"No mistake, Motar."

"But to what end? For what purpose?"

"Trade."

"With Earth?" Motar asked in disbelief.

Reyes nodded.

"Bach," Motar said as he gestured. "Your
father spoke of Earth—of the people, their economy, their
indulgence in spite of the consequences—with disdain. He fought to
sever all relations with the planet decades ago."

"I know this to be true. Yet if you could
see Earth—their system of global communication, their futile,
feeble attempts at repairing the environment, their experimentation
with fuel sources other than the norm—you, too would be
convinced."

"Your father fought against contact," Motar
repeated, quietly, and then on a bolder tact, "I fought alongside
your father, fought for the indoctrination of The Pact into every
citizen."

"My father gave his life for The Pact."

"Sometimes it seems as though I have as
well..."

The men sat in silence. A choir of
L.
melanocephalus
cawed, hoping to prompt Motar's feeding hand
back to motion. Tiny
T. striatus
looked up expectantly
hopeful, chirping in anticipation.

"Motar," Reyes said, about to test the
waters, "what if I told you there were a small faction of prefects
involved in secretive trade with Earth? What if I told you I had
been approached by these prefects—in confidence—to join them in the
betrayal of my Gaian brethren, to join them in spoiling the
livelihood of my lineage and their survival?"

After a moment's pause, Motar said, "I would
respond in sorrow, but not in surprise."

"Respond with honesty, Motar: are you a
member of this secretive faction?"

"If you mean to ask if I am involved in
active trade with Earth, the answer is no. If you mean to ask if I
am aware of the existence of this trade, then I must answer in the
affirmative."

"How long have you known? Why have you not
done something about this?"

"I have not known, not for certain, not
until today, but I have had my suspicions for kalend cycles, almost
as numerous as your life is long, Reyes. As for why I have not done
anything about it? I am old, Reyes. Social upheaval is an
appointment for the young."

"But you were once as young as I am
now."

"And we fought, your father and I, fought,
it seemed, with each and every breath. When you are young, you can
afford to wear proud incredulity like a new, expertly woven frock.
Then one day, dawn beaks and you realize you have spent more time
on this planet than you are likely to have left. The incredulity
wears off and the frock seems more of an underdoublet. It remains
close to your heart, but hidden, not the primary garment you show
to the world."

"I have been approached by this secret
faction. They bade me to join them."

"Then you have a choice to make, my friend,
as once had I. You must join them, enjoy the fruits of their
clandestine, but lucrative labours, or you must let life go on as
it always has, convince yourself of the sanctity of The Pact and
live as though the doctrine is, in fact, upheld as sacrosanct by
those around you."

Reyes considered Motar's advice. "The
renegade prefects are led by Goren Prefect."

"A formidable opponent." Motar nodded. "Are
you up for the task? A Second Prefect's word against that of a
First? If you choose the path of resistance, it will not be
easy."

"This is why I ask you to join me in my
battle, Motar. You are a First Prefect. Assist me as you assisted
my father. Help me stop Goren and his cohort."

Motar shook his head and chuckled once more.
"As I said before, Reyes, I am an old man. I am not long to join
your father in the next world." Motar cleared his throat. He
upturned his feed satchel. The animals between his feet rushed at
the crumbs as they fell. "I support you, whole-heartedly, but I
cannot join you. You might approach some of the younger First
Prefects in the Prefecture for support. Sholan, or perhaps Komar."
The old man stood. "I have enjoyed our talk, Reyes. Let us not wait
a carp's life to do this again, eh? Perhaps next time we might meet
indoors, over brewed chicory in the refectory? Or for a game of
King's Court, perhaps? I will bring the cards." He took a step and
then turned. "I wish you well in your endeavour, Reyes." He
continued a deliberate retreat to the building in the distance.

I come out of the en suite and turn the
television on, find the eleven o'clock news and toss the remote on
the bed. I go back into the bathroom for a moment, massaging lotion
into my hands, and sit on the edge of the bed to watch the news.
Palmer moves toward me, straddling me from behind.

He kisses the nape of my neck.

I didn’t think I was in the mood, but I moan
in spite of myself and toss my head back so it's resting on his
chest, just below his shoulder.

We kiss. His teeth and tongue taste of
mint.

Our lips part company and I lean forward,
allowing him easy access to the back of my neck. He kisses it, then
works his way across the clavicle and then down toward my
breast.

Something on the television catches my
attention. I look up. "Oh my God," I say. Palmer looks off guard.
It's neither the tone nor the expression I think one would expect
at this point in the love making. "I know that girl," I say. I
reach over for the remote and turn up the volume.

"...three year old Cecelia Mubari case..."
says the news anchor.

"What do you mean, you know her?"

"I've seen her before. Recently." I can’t
quite place my finger on where. Think, Molly, think. It’ll come to
me, I know, it’s on the tip of my tongue.

The girl's photograph is replaced with an
age-enhanced composite. "...Cecilia has brown hair and brown eyes
and was last seen wearing a blue gingham dress..."

"Molly, that's one of my composites," Palmer
says. It's something the police get him to do, create age-enhanced
composite drawings for cold cases, especially where missing
children are concerned. He takes an original photograph, plunks
landmark measurements into the computer and the software ages the
photograph. "You probably saw the sketch on my computer when I was
working on it."

"...call 222-TIPS. Calls are anonymous..."
the anchor continues.

Story over, Palmer returns to his neck
nibbling, and it hits me. Where I’ve seen her before. "Do you know
where the digital camera is?" I ask, shooting off the bed and out
the door. A moment or two later and Palmer joins me in the office.
When he gets there, I’m standing on a chair and using the camera's
zoom to focus on an object on the desk in front of me. I snap a few
times and then climb down from the chair.

"Molly?" he says as if he’s unable to fathom
what in the world I’m up to now. He almost sounds like Ricky about
to launch a tirade after Lucy's dispatched another of her
hair-brained schemes.

"Can you do that aging thing in reverse?" I
ask, connecting the camera to the computer. "How good does the
quality have to be?"

"I don't know. Good enough to be able to
complete a set of measurements." He sits in a chair in front of my
desk looking bewildered. When he realizes I’ve been taking pictures
of my Geo-link handset, he looks more curious than confused.

"How's this one?" I turn the computer
monitor so he can see the display. The graphic is poor quality,
dark and slightly out of focus.

"It's do-able," he says, "but only if you
tell me what this is about."

I flash him a look of frustration.

"Who is he?" Palmer asks.

"Samkin Tailor," I say. "Remember? The guy I
met at The Antiquary? The guy who took me to Sanctuary?"

"Okay," he says. "Why did you take a picture
of him?"

"I was testing to see if I could capture
graphics with the handset."

"Why do you want me to regress his photo,
Moll? Why him"

"Something Sam and that woman prefect said
to me that's been bothering me." I swivel my chair until I’m facing
him. "Sam said he was drawn to me because of the EM broadcast of my
modulator. He also said every Relen broadcasts the same frequency
as my modulator."

"But Gaians broadcast at the Gaian
frequency," Palmer says.

"But not the Relens. They broadcast on a
slightly altered frequency that's the same as the modulator."

"Maybe it's a congenital defect," he
suggests. “There are myriad parallels on Earth, people born with a
congenital genetic anomaly like Albinism or Hermaphroditism. Both
conditions mark the inflicted as perennially different, while
allowing them to live long and healthy lives. Maybe some Gaians are
born with a slightly altered phase resonance."

"Assuming those with the altered phase
resonance were born on Gaia." The suggestion takes him by surprise.
Me too. I hadn’t thought of it until this very minute.

"Of course they were born on Gaia. Why
wouldn't they be?"

I shake my head and lean back in my chair.
"I don't know, Palmer. I mean, think about it: an altered frequency
isn't the only thing all Relens have in common."

"The scar," Palmer realizes.

I smile and nod. "The scar. Always the same
shape and always near a major artery.

"I know you don't like to indulge in the
pseudo-science stuff, but alien abductees frequently complain of
strange triangular or scoop-like scars on their bodies that are
commonly taken to be evidence of implantation of some kind of
device."