‘Did you hear they died recently? In an accident – a totally meaningless death. To think of someone living that long and never understanding despair.’
‘That’s what was so impressive about my parents’ death. Of course what they did was nothing unusual, but when it’s your own parents, it feels different. From about half a day before they went, I felt their consciousness moving inside me. Wherever Meelians are when they die, their family members always know. I didn’t fully understand what was going on, but it moved me.’ Sol’s voice grew rich with emotion.
‘I can imagine.’ Jebba’s eyes had taken on a tender hue.
‘But Terrans aren’t entirely a lost cause. In some cases, the limitation placed on their lives gives them a powerful energy. That’s especially true of women. Their field of interest is terribly narrow. They’re primitive and strong. If we could somehow—’
‘Use that?’ offered Jebba.
‘I don’t like putting it that way. And, no, that’s not what I mean,’ Sol said, apparently struggling.
‘Okay, then. You mean—?’
Jebba cut out for an instant. The red cannot-translate light flickered on. It must have been a word unique to the Meelian language, Emma thought.
‘Yes.’ It seemed as though Sol nodded. Emma, who was growing uneasier by the second, made to turn off the switch. Use that? She felt enraged that Sol shared only such a tiny fraction of himself with her. His affection for her was all a pretence – a sham, a poor imitation. What an idiot I’ve been, she thought.
‘I’ve had an idea. I’m going to head off,’ Sol stood up.
‘Bye, then,’ Jebba said.
Sol would likely be back soon, Emma thought, and touched a finger to the screen. The automatic translation device went black, so that at a glance, it looked like just a regular compact mirror. She shut it away in her dresser drawer and went downstairs.
Two weeks had passed since that eye-opening conversation with Luana. After thinking it over a long while, Emma had taken the decision to switch a button on Sol’s jacket for a concealed camera.
Emma moved to the front of the bar and took down a bottle of Mirinnian spirits from the shelf. The pearl-coloured liquid swirled around inside the bottle. It had been a present from her older sister. Emma took off the lid and a bittersweet medicinal aroma permeated the air.
The glasses were dirty. She opened the lid of the dishwasher and put a glass inside. In twenty seconds, the indicator light went out. She removed the glass and poured herself some of the liquor.
What was she supposed to do? The tension she’d felt while staring at the screen evaporated and she was left with a feeling of utter exhaustion. Honestly, she felt like a dog that had just collapsed and died.
Emma drank. The drink had no taste, only a cold, smooth texture. And all this when I’ve given up drugs and have been being so well behaved, she thought. Soon she’d be out of money. She’d have to go and ask her father for some. Emma had been out of work for a year and a half now, since she’d quit her job at the Space Bureau after falling out with her boss.
The Space Bureau – yes, if Sol had some motive for being with her, it may well have something to do with her job there. Quite possibly, he’d been trying to trick her into stealing classified documents for him. But then she’d gone and quit…
But, no, that couldn’t be true. She’d just been a low-level employee, loading tapes into computers. She highly doubted they’d store any top-secret information on the computers. Things only made it there once their plans had taken a certain degree of shape. If Sol had wanted someone dealing with things that never made it to surface level, he’d have targeted the director’s secretary.
Emma pictured the secretary. She’d got divorced a long while back and seemed to have been single ever since. She was into her forties now, but was still pretty attractive…
Emma topped up her glass.
What was she doing, anyway, pursuing such a ridiculous train of thought? Trying to establish a link between Sol and the secretary – honestly! And yet, she was convinced Sol was trying to ensure the protection of his home planet. How could such a thing be achieved? If it came down to sheer military force, Meele wouldn’t last a second. And Earth would hardly go starting a war without a reason.
A reason: they could accuse the Meelians of plotting against Earth – it didn’t even matter if it was a total fabrication – and then spread the idea. The Meelians carry some kind of terrible germ, something like that would do. No, on second thoughts, that was no good. They carried out stringent scans and disinfection at the spaceport. If anything, Terrans were the ones spreading disease. Just recently, there’d been an outbreak of a Terran strain of influenza on Meele. Earth-dwelling Meelians would occasionally die of a brief cold. For them, dying before they’d fulfilled their potential, before they’d attained either absolute despair or the resolve to die, must have been truly tragic.
Emma propped an elbow on the counter. The alcohol was gradually going to her head. Her body felt floppy and hot. Those deceitful Meelian motherfuckers!
Outside, the day grew dimmer.
Sol still wasn’t back. What was taking him so long?
She reached a hand inside her pocket. There were two notes and a few coins in there. She could roughly calculate how much she had without looking. What a miserly little skill she’d managed to acquire for herself!
Emma picked up her coat and left the house, heading for the restaurant on the corner. There was a Meelian waiter working there – could she not avoid them? With a glum face, Emma made her way through soup, bread and an omelette. She was making to leave, without indulging in an after-dinner coffee, when a man walking in greeted her. ‘Hi!’
Who was this again?
‘Do you live around here? I’ve forgotten.’
Ah, yes, this was the guy who’d escorted her home recently. His name was… Ceno.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes,’ Emma answered, looking at the ground.
‘You don’t seem too happy, what’s up? Will you have a coffee with me?’
Taking the decision for her, Ceno took a seat by the window, raising a hand to order two coffees.
‘I’d like mine weak.’
The place only played old music: there was ‘Time of the Season’ and ‘Sunny’, followed by ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’. Now they were playing Raymond Lafèvre’s ‘La Reine de Saba’.
‘I live round here too. Why don’t you come up to my place?’ Ceno said with the utmost casualness when they were midway through their coffees.
‘Hmm…’ Emma was in the mood for a bit of fun, but there was something about Ceno that felt hard to pin down. He said he was working for a TV station, but it was impossible to say if that was true. Now Emma remembered a guy she’d dated a while back who, when they’d fought, had come out with the most awful insults in a supposedly ironic way (like a glimpse behind the scenes at Hollywood). About the least offensive of his offerings was ‘you filthy mucous membrane’. Why had she suddenly thought of him?
‘Not today.’
‘Really? Why so cold, eh?’
Emma hated being spoken to like this. She held her breath, then exhaled slowly.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ Ceno’s words expressed concern, but he looked annoyed. Have I started viewing men differently since being with Sol? she wondered. Oh, Sol, you swindling swine!
‘I’m going home.’ Emma stood up.
‘I’ll walk you.’ Ceno also got to his feet, taking advantage of the moment to squeeze her hand, ever so naturally. She pulled it away, fearfully.
Back home, Emma made a beeline for the bar, not climbing the stairs. She was getting very fond of that pearl-coloured drink.
A noise from above. Emma flinched, almost dropping her glass. Sol must be back.