The Second Wave by Leska Beikircher Read Free Book Online

but good for the soul.” She got her
supply of chocolate from Tom deLuca, who had excellent sources that
provided a variety of snacks for relatively small prices.
    “Or vanilla perhaps? I know I have a vanilla
wafer here somewhere. They are definitely the best. You’ll love
it.”
    Captain Eleven’s voice interrupted her
cheerful monologue. “She eats now?”
    “No,” the doctor admitted. “But I’m hoping to
spike her interest. So far she’s just lethargic and, well, silent.
I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand a word we’re saying, so I’m
trying to keep my voice light and unthreatening, to signal that we
don’t intend to harm her.”
    Eleven had a thin file under her arm, which
she now offered her colleague.
    “This is the DNA result?” Paige asked, before
she opened it to look at the single piece of paper it contained.
“Emily, is this a joke?” She looked from the file to the woman and
back to Eleven again.
    “I don’t know, I didn’t look. General Fatique
told me to give it to you. Why? What does it say?”
    “Well,” Paige began, not sure if reality made
sense anymore. “It says here that this young woman is one of the
first wave settlers.”
    “That should be good news.”
    “I’m not exactly sure what kind of news it
is.”
    Because according to this, the woman’s name
was Eugenia Gust, and when she left for Alternearth not eleven
months ago, she had been three years old.
    * * * *
    It took John more than two nights to reach
the island of Cyprus, and from there nearly another week to cross
Turkey, where the largest black market of the Orient, perhaps of
the whole planet, was at: the Byzantium Bazaar.
    Byzantium was a protected city, one of the
largest and the most crowded, which meant police was abundant all
around. Contrary to Alexandria, Byzantium was a place full of life,
bursting at the seams with people, animals, noises, smells and
colors it could hardly hold in anymore.
    The first thing a weary traveller noticed
about Byzantium was its silhouette against the sky under the
invisible force shield. The mud brick buildings were merely two
storeys, sometimes three, high, but there were innumerable houses,
squeezed in every corner, lining the streets and alleys, standing
in bizarre angles to one another. Most of them had flat roofs upon
which yurts stood to house more families, or where resourceful
citizens grew their own spices. The temples had round, shapely,
imperial roofs, painted in all colors, ornamented with tiny glass
mosaics so they glistened in the daylight.
    The noise could be heard far outside the city
walls—the sea gulls’ cawing the wind carried in from the coast, the
annoyed neighing of a donkey who wouldn’t move, and the yells of
its owner, urging it ever onwards. Live stock, herded through the
streets, their hoofs clicking on the cobbled ground. Chicken,
running around freely, constantly cackling, like bickering, old
women. Then, nearer to the bazaar, a never ending verbal cascade of
haggling, arguing and advertising.
    Yet the noise was nothing compared to the
smell. Byzantium smelled of everything at once—of thyme and honey,
of garlic and cinnamon, of mustard and cardamom. Every few steps
there were marketers selling pistachio bread, fruitcakes, dried
vegetables, raw meat and, of course, always candy in all sizes and
flavors. Old men sat on doorsteps, smoking hookahs, passing goat
cheese around. The heat preserved every nuance of the smells, never
allowing it to leave, because it was a part of the city. Those who
were permanently living here, didn’t notice the smell anymore; they
didn’t notice the reeking of the animal excrements, which mixed
with the sweet fragrance of carefully perfumed oil that could be
bought at every corner. Their noses were accustomed to the
unbearable stench of sweat and stuffy caftans that intermingled
with the scent of sheep wool and the always present smell of the
sea.
    The colors outshone everything, though, not
just because the