Dinner at the Meteor Lounge

            The Meteor Lounge was on the eastern edge of the city. Despite its large size, there was an air about Towatki that suggested it as somewhere on the outskirts, in the middle of the desert, with only the highways with their bright lights connecting it to the rest of the country. The white-blue light of the artificial streetlamps on those highways contrasted starkly with the incandescent yellows of the mysterious, naturally-occurring lamps of the desert.

            One of the local legends was the story of alien visitors who had come from the stars. The story went that long before the Rain Bird Eriziando came to grant his boon to the Arizradna people, Towatki was its own little city-state. The chieftains of the city claimed to be descended from beings who arrived in great metal spheres from the sky.

            For centuries, the academic consensus was that one of the Red Ships of Arashka had actually landed near Towatki, somehow separated from the others that would land in what was now known as the Redlands. Yet despite this attractive explanation, genetic testing had shown that there was very little Redlander DNA among the inhabitants, not to mention that the description of the flying spheres bore very little resemblance to the remains of the Red Ships, or, most damningly, the fact that the stories dated back farther than the actual arrival of the Red Ships.

            It was certainly not inconceivable that a third planet might have had human inhabitants, yet aside from these legends, no one had come across any evidence to support the notion.

            It was this mystery that the locals had latched on to. The enigma of these stellar visitors inspired a culture of wild imagination. Many pseudo-scientists had flocked to Towatki, but the place also attracted legitimate academics thanks to the presence of the Deep Field Observatory in the hills to the northeast.

            Space was big in Towatki.

            The Meteor Lounge itself was surprisingly fancy inside, given the kitschy bold neon lights and odd, sweeping architecture outside. Tessa had provided Milton with a nice suit, and she was dressed in a flattering dark-blue dress. “We have a reservation under Milton,” she told the host.

            They were seated in a booth just as a jazz trio began to play on the other side of the room. Tessa exhaled luxuriously. “I love this place.”

            Milton nodded. “It’s quite nice.”

            “I try to get here once a month if I can. A little date I make for myself.”

            Milton found his eyes drifting to an elderly couple a few tables over. They had finished their meal and were having coffee. The smell made his skin crawl. He attempted to ignore the sensation.

            “Are you all right, Jack?”

            “God damn it, yes” Milton snapped back at her. Tessa’s face froze, stunned. Milton rubbed his right temple as a pretense to block the elderly couple from view. “I’m sorry. I’m ok.”

            Tessa was quiet for a moment, then spoke again, this time quietly. “You must not draw attention to yourself like that, do you understand me?”

            Milton nodded. “Again, I’m sorry for raising my voice. I’ve had a very rough… it’s been difficult for me.”

            “I’m aware of that. And Jack,” she said as she reached across the table and touched his hand. “I understand. You’ve made it clear that joining us is not what you want to do. We cannot force someone to become an Agent. Do you know what my chief directive is right now?”

            “What?”

            “It’s making sure you are kept safe. Aragoth is not going to harm you while I’m around.”

            Milton snorted in laughter. Tessa recoiled in confusion.

            “What’s so funny?”

            Milton could see the old couple get up and leave, and slowly, the smell of coffee was fading. “I had nearly forgotten about him.”

            “Then what has you on edge so much?”

            “The faceless man.”

            “Ah.” Tessa smiled. “Well, my associates want you safe. I’m sure they have someone who knows what to do about that.”

            “But you know absolutely nothing about them.”

            Tessa reluctantly shook her head “I had never even heard they existed until you asked me about them.”

            “I was kind of hoping your bosses might give me an idea of who they were. Or, preferably, that they could tell me there was just one of them and I would never see it again.”

            “Well, I wish I could tell you, but I don’t think I know any more than you. Less, actually. You’ve seen them.”

            The night cooled quickly, and soon Towatki was an island of light, projecting its faint orange glow into the sky, reflecting off of desert dust, rather than clouds.

            A single iron streetlamp grew out of the ground a few miles away, past the observatory and deeper into the Jagged Hills. The streetlamp had grown in a twisted way, curling around and branching about six feet up. One of the branches was so twisted that the lamp was entirely upside-down, yet it still glowed just the same.

            Mr. Flow lit a cigarette. There weren’t a lot of them in this world – for whatever reason, tobacco had not appeared here on its own. There were other plants that people smoked, but tobacco was a rare commodity indeed. Thankfully, as a Djinni, the effects of the smoke itself were not harmful to Mr. Flow’s lungs, though he was aware that a lot of the added chemicals would one day exact their toll.

            It helped with the waiting though. It calmed his nerves and gave him something to do.

            Mr. Flow was not accustomed to waiting. He had twelve different subordinates, and each of them had no less than five, and so on. All together, Mr. Flow had over a thousand Agents under his control. His superior used a light touch, which was fine by him. In the past year alone, he’d managed to prevent a war in the Redlands, start one in Hanzhou, prevented a potentially disastrous Akozona candidate from entering the race, and had nearly twenty Lost Ones captured or killed. To be out here, in the desert, waiting for the Illuminator to arrive, well, it made him feel like a fresh Agent in his twenties.

            He took another drag – the cigarette had already burned itself halfway out – when the streetlamp flickered. Mr. Flow looked up at it. He wondered for a moment if he had blinked without realizing it. The streetlamps of the Sarona were not, of course, normal streetlamps. They did not flicker. They did not ever go out. He had nearly convinced himself that he had only imagined it when the light flickered again.

            And then, there was a sound like someone exhaling loudly into his ear. Mr. Flow spun around. Standing there was a wisp of a man – extremely thin, so much so that it seemed he should not be able to live. When he spoke, Mr. Flow expected to hear a high, tinny voice, yet what he heard was tremendously low, and it seemed the ground shook with each word.

            “Mr. Flow,” said the emaciated man.

            “Who the hell are you?” asked Mr. Flow. Almost imperceptibly, the air grew hazy, and a strange sweet smell surrounded him.

            He’s the fog, not the man, realized Mr. Flow. He stopped looking at the emaciated man – whether the thing was a ghoul or an illusion, or some kind of projection, Mr. Flow was certain that the figure was meant as misdirection.

            “I’m here to give you new orders, Mr. Flow. There has been a bit of a shake-up, you see. I know that you’ll understand. You’re a brilliant Agent. One of the finest.”

            Mr. Flow could taste the insincerity wafting in the air. Still, he decided to play along. “What do I call you?”

            “That is unimportant, Mr. Flow. I have a directive for you.”

            “Oh yeah?” Mr. Flow let his cigarette fall to the ground and stamped it out before pulling out another and lighting it. “What is it?”

            “Just one. And it’s a simple one. The Prisoner is to be eliminated. Likewise the Flatfoot, Tall Man, the Juggler, Dust, Red Tail, Ms. Whiskey, and the Hanged Man. The Prisoner is priority one. The rest you may deal with at your leisure.”

            “Uh huh. Can you tell me what happened to the Illuminator?”

            “He’s dead.” The emaciated man never blinked, never seemed to breath, and never changed his expression. He was like a ventriloquist’s doll – he seemed to lip-synch rather than speak.

            “You didn’t have me break the chain?”

            “We knew you were very busy.”

            Mr. Flow leaned against the streetlamp, the cold metal was nearly painful to touch, but he hardly noticed, his mind racing. “This is hardly proper procedure. If you weren’t cutting me loose, you should have come to me first, and you sure as hell should be giving me a name.”

            The emaciated man slowly began to fade – Mr. Flow had made it clear he was not fooled. “I am Templar One. The Illuminator was willfully interfering with orders and subverting the will of the House.”

            “Templar One? That’s an unusual codename.”

            “I’m an unusual Agent. Do I have your cooperation, Mr. Flow?”

            “Absolutely. I am an Agent of the House, nothing more.”

            In an instant, the fog blew away, and the light coming from the streetlamp suddenly seemed intensely bright.

            Templar One, eh? thought Mr. Flow. He doubted the Illuminator was still alive, but he would check in on him nonetheless. It seemed the rumors coming from his Agents in Narcia were proving true after all. Mr. Flow hoped that he was considered an important enough Agent that the two sides would try to woo him, but he was faced with the grim conclusion that they were just as likely to both want him dead.

            And if the Prisoner was priority one for Templar One, that meant he’d have to make a decision fast, and live with the consequences.

            “You’re very quiet, Jack.” Tessa said.

            “I’m sorry.” Milton pushed a clump of potato around on his plate.

            “You still view me as an unknown. A random factor in a very unpredictable series of events. I am here for you, Jack. I know that trust takes time, but I’ll do whatever I can to earn yours.”

            Milton looked up. Tessa’s eyes met his. She never broke off, which was somewhat unnerving. Even the thin woman could never look him in the eyes when she was torturing him.

            “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

            Tessa nodded. “My default directive is to keep an eye on the stars. Do you know about the Deep Field Observatory?”

            Milton had heard of it. “Yeah, there was something in the news a couple months ago…”

            “Ashtor’s Bleed. The Sinret Project out in the Redlands were the ones who confirmed what it was, but it was us at the DFO who actually found the thing.”

            “Wait, us?”

            “Yeah. I was part of the team. I told you that I was staying at the Observatory, didn’t I?”

            “Well, yes, but… I thought… They’re having you fake being an astronomer?”

            Tessa sat back, with an expression Milton almost thought seemed hurt. “I am an astronomer.”

             “But, you’re an Agent…”

            “And you think I can’t be both?”

            Milton had never really considered it. “I thought you’d be too busy.”

            “Jack, do you think my bosses just want people who do nothing but skulk around and spy on people all the time?”

            “Kind of, yeah. I mean, when I think of… a person of your organization, I think of, well, shady people skuliking around all the time. I think of the kind of people that the conspiracy nuts in towns like this obsess over.”

            Tessa finished her bluewine. “Frankly, it’s not hard being an Agent. Sure, you have to do some odd things now and again, like lying your way into a hospital and pretending some guy is your husband, but normally all I do is make a copy of my research notes and hand them off to my superior.

            “And what does your superior do with them?”

            “No idea.”

            Jack took a sip of his beer. “So you’re really an astronomer?”

            She nodded. “Yep. I’m about a year away from getting my PhD.”

            “Really? What’s your thesis about?”

            Tessa sat up, a proud look on her face. “The exotic chronological dynamics of generative matter at the terminus of the Path of Aeoes.”

            Milton nodded enthusiastically. “I have no idea what that means.”

            “Well, it sounds complicated, but let me try to give you a layman’s explanation…”

            Tessa then attempted to explain her thesis to Milton. They were still talking two hours later when Mr. Flow made it back to the city.

            He walked into the front lobby of his building, nodding politely to an elderly neighbor as they waited for the elevator. The ride up was slow, and the woman took a long time exiting it when she reached her floor. Mr. Flow hit the “door close” button several times before it had an effect.

            He checked his door for all the small signs – the small piece of tape at the bottom, that would tear if the door was opened, the slightly off-center door mat that an intruder might attempt to right should he mistakenly believe he was responsible for its displacement, and a fine layer of dust he sprinkled on the knob that even a gloved hand would rub off. Everything was still there. Barring an exceptionally skilled intruder, the door had not been opened.

            Regardless, he checked the unit, searching every possible hiding place or anything that could be put out of place. Everything appeared to check out. His eyelids drooping, he finally collapsed into bed and allowed his eyes to close…

            But there was someone. Right there, at the foot of his bed, standing over him. He sprang up, pulling the gun from under his pillow and turning the lights on with a single motion.

            But there was no one there. His heart was pounding, and his fiery blood seemed to be frozen cold. He stared at that space, where the person he had imagined would have been standing. Nothing there.

            He was exhausted. He reasoned it was probably a hallucination. Unable to fight his fatigue anymore, he fell back to his pillow.

            As he drifted off, he swore he could smell the scent of coffee drifting in the air.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)