The Globe of the Red Ship

            Milton awoke and entered the suite’s kitchen. There was a strange, lingering smell, like rubbing alcohol, but strangely sweet. Thankfully, it was nothing like the “coffee” the Diplomat had given him in his cell, and he could already sense that the scent going away.

            The Diplomat had left the electric icebox loaded with food – some of it quite high quality. He had not yet decided what he thought of the man. He knew it would be naïve to trust everything the Diplomat had told him, but he doubted that the House meant him any harm. They had put in a great deal of effort in to keep him alive, after all, and he did not possess any damning secrets they would want concealed (as far as he knew.) He expected that an organization that was so secretive would prefer to use Milton’s own instinct for self-preservation to cover up whatever needed concealment.

            Milton bit into a block of sharp white cheese, followed by a spicy-sweet pepper that had been kept in olive oil, and then put bits of each onto a torn piece of crusty, light bread to eat as a whole. The food was heavenly. He had not eaten so well since he had been back home. He found himself devouring a little of every food in the icebox.

            When he was finally sated, he stepped into the bathroom and took a shower. The dirt and grime, and even a little dried blood from days earlier, all washed down the drain. He stood under the nozzle, letting the water sweep away the pain and exhaustion of his imprisonment. He exited the shower feeling reborn. The Diplomat had even left him clean clothes, including several light shirts and denim pants, as well as a wide-brimmed hat that actually felt more comfortable than the tricorner that was part of his uniform back home. These seemed far less constricting than the robe he had been wearing, and had the added advantage of being clean.

            He found Senjib down in the market a block away. On every corner, there was an artist, a dancer, a musician, or some other kind of performer showing off. The streets seemed designed for it – each performer had a circular stone platform, rising up from the sidewalk and ringed with flowers.

            Milton passed a juggler who was throwing green and blue balls of fire into the air. Each time he caught one, the ball would flare with a different color. On the same stage, a man who looked to be the juggler’s brother held up a mirror, but it appeared to be enchanted so that his reflection would act on its own. The man and his reflection performed a mime routine, delighting a group of children watching.

            “Good Morning, Jack Milton,” said Senjib. The djinni had changed into a flowing white robe. It was strange. In the desert, Senjib had seemed like a being from the past – somehow ancient and majestic. In his relatively conventional Arizradna robe, he looked positively modern. “Did you rest well?”

            Milton clapped Senjib on the back as he shook the djinni’s hand. “Very well. What have you been up to?”

            Senjib gestured toward the performers. “I am seeing the artists. I enjoy this mime show, but what I am looking for is a painting or sculpture I can bring home.”

            “Oh?”

            Senjib began to walk down the street. Milton followed. It was mildly odd to see that in the bright sunshine and high temperature, he did not have a single bead of sweat – but then, Milton supposed, that was just part of being a djinni. This was probably refreshing to him. “My daughter asked me to get her something the next time I was in town.”

            “You have a daughter?”

            Senjib smiled broadly. “Yes. She is twenty-two. She wishes to go to University in Parasha, and go to live among the humans, but it is difficult.”

            Milton nodded, but he was not sure why that should be. In Narcia, universities charged a modest tuition, but in the rare case that the student could not afford it, the government would provide the fee. He had always understood that in Arizradna, there was no tuition at all. “Is it because you are djinn?” That sounded equally absurd. He could not imagine that the Arizradna, of all people, would have any kind of discriminatory laws.

            Senjib flipped his hand over back and forth. “In a way. We live deep in the desert, and she would be very far from home. And there are many ways in which human lands are… inconvenient, for my people.”

            They came to another corner-stage. Nearby there was an ornately painted caravan, with dozens of portraits and dramatic landscapes hanging on nails hammered into the side.

            The artist, who Milton assumed to be a Retron, given the caravan, was at work on the stage. He wore only an open black vest and a pair of pants, and his curly blonde hair had been allowed to grow wildly. When he saw Milton walk up, he looked up from his work and spoke. “Paintings are fifteen tolls each, sculptures are twenty, though we welcome larger donations. No obligation though, browsing is encouraged.”

Next to him, a middle-aged Arizradna woman with her greying black hair tied back in a ponytail was hammering on a metal structure – an abstract spire that might have been a person reaching toward the sky. Her wares were laid out on an intricately patterned carpet. Senjib stepped around the stage and began to browse the sculptures.

            Eventually, he settled on one – a polished sphere with what appeared to be a map engraved on it. Around the sphere’s equator, there was an inch-wide band of cold iron, collecting only a faint fog in the dry air. Senjib lifted it, turning it over. It almost seemed like it could be some kind of navigational device, and various holes within the sphere held lenses and crystals.

            “This is beautiful,” said Senjib. “What is it meant to be?”

The sculptor stopped her hammering and turned around. “I call it ‘Globe of the Red Ship.’ It’s based on artifacts they found at a crash site.”

Senjib admired it some more. He touched the band of cold iron with his index finger, but then pulled back as soon as he felt the frigid metal. “I believe that my daughter will like this. Here,” he said, and held the required money out for the woman to take.

The sculptor frowned and stepped down from the platform. “Please, for you, take it as a gift.”

“No, no, no.” Senjib pushed the cash toward her. “I insist, good lady.”

            “And I insist that you take it. The glass within it was made from Sarona sand, so it is already yours.”

            Senjib laughed, but it was clear to Milton that he did not enjoy being treated with such reverence. “I will tell you this, then.” He beckoned Milton over. “Here,” and he put the money in Milton’s hand. “He will purchase the piece. Does that satisfy you?”

            Milton looked at the sculptor. The painter had stopped working and was watching the whole affair with an impish grin. “I would like to buy that sculpture,” said Milton.

            Reluctantly, the woman took the money. Milton and Senjib walked away. “Thank you, Jack Milton. The people here are kind to my brethren, but sometimes an excess of kindness can be insulting.”

            “I can imagine.”

            The reflection in the mirror watched them go. As was expected, the Prisoner had remained in Harisha. The next day, the word would be passed to Hollow. Hollow would inform Mr. Flow.

            In a day, five different Agents would all pass through Towatki, the next town over from Harisha. Not one of the five Agents would be able to recognize the other four.

            One of them placed a key underneath a large rock in a small garden. The next placed a locked briefcase on the roof of a building. The third made a reservation for two at the Meteor Lounge under the name Milton. The fourth installed a small camera at an ancient shrine. The fifth, who was known within the House as Dust, sat in the highest room of the Towatki’s astral observatory, lounging on a comfortable chair.

            Dust preferred to use her real name – well, not her original name, but the one that she thought of as the real one – which was Tessa Olanis. She was excited and a little terrified, anticipating the responsibility thrust upon her. The House had finally seen fit to grant her a subordinate. There would be a great deal of work to do, that was true, and she knew that the Prisoner had not yet accepted his role. But they would do great things together, that she could already tell.

Jack Milton was the Prisoner’s real name. She liked the ring of it. As she read through his dossier, noting his history and personality, she realized quite happily that they were about to become the very best of friends.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)