Part I: Ambassadors
They searched his small carry-on suitcase and each and everyone of his pockets right before they would let him board the space shuttle. A shiver of anticipation and repressed fear ran down his spine when they passed him.
“You’re clear. You are free to board,” the short uniformed Arrassian said to him. Alan merely nodded.
The whole scene passed across his eyes as bizarre, yet he was appointed to this job not long after the Arrassian queen sent her broadcast to the Earth that they’d accept ambassadors from the nations of the Earth. Of course he wasn’t the ambassador. He was merely his assistant, and the emissary from the U.S. was nothing more than a spy dressed to play the part. Alan was there to keep the project above board and to convince the queen that the U.S. was not a hostile entity. He didn’t know how his presence would change her mind. He’d seen the FBI file on her and the president of Arras, (the nation existing on Mars). When the two Martian leaders had been on Earth, the FBI had made their lives difficult; they had no fond memories of the government. Still, those that appointed him figured he’d make a good impression on the queen and the president.
The real cause of his fear was the other reason he was being sent—he was expendable. No one knew if the Arrassians were truly sincere, or if they only pretended to be friendly just to deceive the entire Earth to complete a takeover. Sure, when the first spaceships came out of the sky it was obvious that they were taking over the Earth, but when a whole new set of ships came out of the sky and fought the first set of conquerors and removed them from the Earth, it got confusing. Were they conquered? Who were the true enemies? Were they really the first group as the second group claimed? He didn’t know. They all looked alike to him—pale, short, and thin. They were human, or so they claimed; but regardless of their so-called humanity, there was no way the U.S. could trust them for sure.
Alan stepped onto the clean open shuttle and peered at the rows of chairs and the luggage racks. He saw the Canadian emissary and his aides sitting uncomfortably in their plush seats. Taking a breath, he sat down in the chair in the front, farthest from the door. His carry-on suitcase had already been loaded by one of the small pale Arrassians. All he had to do was wait.
Alan glanced out the door and saw his traveling companion getting inspected. The Arrassian military officers thoroughly searched his suit and seemed to be extra meticulous about it, as if they knew the man’s real intentions for this trip. One of them pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the man’s coat pocket and grimaced. The Arrassian flippantly tossed the pack over his shoulder and continued his search. Alan smirked and settled back into his seat. It might be a while.
After about five minutes, his superior stepped aboard. He was the last one on the shuttle before the Arrassians themselves stepped inside and closed the door. One Arrassian soldier marched right up to the pilot’s seat without a word and settled himself in. He adjusted nearly everything: his seat, the air conditioning, the lights, and his helmet. A tremor ran through Alan’s bones again. This man wears a helmet when he flies? All the passengers had were seatbelts. How safe was that ship anyway? Another man soon sat down in the seat next to the pilot and also pulled on a helmet. He muttered something in Arrassian to the pilot and the remaining Arrassian crew. They all chuckled.
“Sor nas za’en ray instor’narr bandel ,” a redheaded Arrassian remarked from the front row just behind the pilot.
Both the pilot and co-pilot nodded. The Arrassians actually kept their remarks to a minimum. They didn’t waste any time launching the ship. It took off like an airplane, gliding along the runway and into the atmosphere. They just kept gaining altitude, and when they had to escape the Earth’s gravity they merely pressed a few buttons that gave them the extra boost they needed. They all started to feel the floating sensation of space once they were out of the atmosphere. The minor floating sensation vanished immediately when the pilot pressed another switch. Alan felt a pull to the floor that didn’t feel like natural gravity. At first, it made his bones ache. The pain died off after a few minutes but the feeling of dread did not leave. This was it. The point of no return.
The U.S. ambassador started to unbuckle his belt once they started to glide into space.
“You’d better refasten your belt, sir,” one of the ship’s crew said to him.
The ambassador gave the small man a tired glance and continued to fiddle with his belt. “This trip is going to be a while, isn’t it?”
The co-pilot laughed. Alan kept silent, watching the Arrassians give the U.S. emissary pitying glances for his ignorance.
“This trip is but only be a bit of minutes,” the co-pilot explained with the most unusual accents. He obviously struggled with English and didn’t know it nearly as well as his companions. He sounded almost Irish, except stupid at it.
The U.S. emissary laughed at the man’s language butchery and assumed the man didn’t know what he was talking about. He stood up and stretched.
“Sit in your seat,” the pilot said sharply. “We will not fly any farther until you comply.”
The ambassador scowled but sat down. The pilot was around thirty years old and stern faced, visible even from under the helmet.
“Buckle your belt and remain in your seat until the flight is over.” The pilot turned around once he saw the U.S. ambassador complying, and then he remarked to his co-pilot, “Shea za nooj’ra.”
Alan could hear his traveling companion grind his teeth in disgust—still, he knew that his partner wouldn’t cross the pilot. That Arrassian came across as a hard-nosed character, very military and not one to cross or get on his bad side.
They flew in silence for nearly ten minutes before the co-pilot opened a channel on his communications system. “Em men’om sha knap’lakee. Cherg’narr trii udrren’en.”
Chills ran through Alan again. Goosebumps shivered down his arms, only now, he realized, it was because the cabin was chilly. He could see his breath, and even the pilots were adjusting their collars against the cold. He watched as the pilot punched several new buttons. As they started to flicker, the strangest sensation ran through his body. It was as if he was being pressed into a tight hole in one immediate jerk, and he was halfway stuck. He felt suspended and breathless. This feeling lasted for nearly two seconds. Immediately after, he felt as if he was being jerked out of that hole, yanked the rest of the way and shoved face down into a steaming room. Everyone around him was sweating, even the Arrassians who were now unfastening their collars. Just as he was about to say something, he looked up and there in the view window was Mars floating like it had just appeared there.
“Zeta thirteen, Loshan, receiving me. This is Zeta twenty requesting to approach the planet,” the pilot called into the communications receiver.
The other side buzzed for a second and replied with an incredibly strong accent, <<Input the codes, Zeta twenty.>>
The co-pilot punched in a code and glanced over at the passengers. He stopped on Alan’s gaze and smirked. The pilot punched in a few more switches and waited. By that time it was apparent to him that the shuttle was just floating in space not far from an asteroid lump that orbited the planet.
“Mars has two moons,” a passenger muttered behind them. “This must be Phobos.”
<<Permission granted. Please escort the ambassadors to the communal docking bay in section seven.>>
The pilot smiled. “Thank you, Zeta thirteen.”
They could feel the shuttle dip towards the planet’s atmosphere and the pilot again adjusted the temperature so that the insides were quite chilly. The co-pilot smirked as he saw this and muttered under his breath to his partner. “Nee del’rein rel trii koshmar’en ne’eme.”
This private conversation was starting to feel like a prelude to torture. Alan half expected them to grow tentacles and get up to eat them, or, at least, tie them up for food storage like that old 80’s TV series, V.
The shuttle rushed down through the atmosphere and soon the temperature was raised back to a less chilly level. They zipped over open dead plains and rocky terrain for several minutes. They could see clear pinkish blue sky above and ahead—and not until they dropped into the canyon did they actually see any dust storms. The drop into the canyon was rather sudden, and Alan felt the bottom of his seat fall out from under him along with his stomach. The pilot laughed to himself. This time the co-pilot gave him a dirty look and spoke sharply as if it wasn’t as amusing to him.
“Yiin’kai. Nee nas an’stra’om ne’eme thof,” he said with a growl. “Sha thal’a nas’op rein shar’or sa.”
“Same here,” Alan found himself muttering.
The co-pilot turned around and gazed at Alan, possibly wondering if he understood their Arrassian. The pilot merely chuckled. “O’re del’rein oomalch’or neem, Aver Mersesk.”
The co-pilot nodded, but still eyed Alan as if he was an unusual specimen.
The shuttle soon left the narrow canyons and dived in the wide-open canyon, flying straight for the canyon wall. Alan could feel the incredible chill of fear rush back over him again as he realized that they were not slowing down, and the pilot seemed to have no intention of veering away from the wall. They just flew at it, closer and closer as if their final destination was impact with the wall itself. It was crazy. Why bother with the nice ship if they were going to crash it? Why were the pilots so laid back if this was the end? It had to be some mistake. Was the pilot a nut that wanted them all killed? Just as he was sure the question would be answered with the deafening crash of the ship into infinity, the stone face slipped aside and four gaping doors pulled open, leaving a huge gaping hole in the cavern wall. They flew right inside and stopped rather suddenly.
“Al’ en’op rel del’el d’ein sha hasal’d-hang,”  the co-pilot complained.
The pilot, however, was laughing. “Del’el nee veed’om sha serree da ne’emes zherrahee? En rel nichkak!”
“Spasp’kai!” one of the men in the back complained. “En rein el feesali’ova. Al’s them’emn rel urrkas’narr. En rel prav gep ne’em kroi’el sha borr’danee van fena.”
“Al rel lakov vl’narr ray Alea Zormna, almoyee. An’e del’or en hal sha fena,”  the pilot remarked with a casual air.
“Rein d’ yiinriidee,”  the man in back retorted with a huff.
This conversation wasn’t completely lost on the passengers. They could all see that the pilot thought his landing was the perfect joke, and no one else found it funny. The pilot smirked all the same and turned to the passengers, removing his helmet. “You may debark.”
Without another second, he punched the door button and stepped off the shuttle into the bay. The entire crew followed him, though still grumbling among themselves. Alan turned and looked at his superior. The American ambassador, in turn, shrugged and pulled at his seat belt again. They were there.
They quickly climbed out of their seats and off the ship, dragging their luggage as they stepped down. The docking bay itself was huge. It had an open ceiling that was stadiums high, and above their heads they could see several catwalks and ships hanging, suspended like airplanes in an aerospace museum. Wide as the length of an aircraft carrier, if not more so, the hall itself was filled with ships of all sorts. Most were shuttles but some were long sleek fighter planes that Alan knew to be the first set that invaded the Earth. The rest of the ships were smaller tank sized warships that he knew were flown to the Earth in the first takeover. That sickening feeling that they had been duped filled his stomach all over again. Where were the other fighters that supposedly fought against these ships?
“Come this way,” a new voice called to them from across the hall. It was a young, friendlier voice and there was certainly no menace to it. Still, Alan looked down from the ceiling to inspect the speaker. What he saw disarmed him even further. It was a boy. Oh, he was a young man of nineteen maybe, but most positively he gave the impression of still being a boy. He wore a different colored uniform than that of the other officers he had seen, silver and green. This soldier was pasty white, like all the rest of the Arrassians. His hair was a dark red black, brushed slick to the side of his head, his eyes a pale blue, and his smile was sheepish, as if he was caught being late.
“I not your directing man. I just here to help. Follow me,” the soldier said, waving them all from the ship.
Alan gave him a sidelong glance and decided to go along with it. There were, so far, no real signs that the Arrassians were hostile—excluding the obvious prankish behavior from the pilot earlier. All his earlier suspicions started to vanish away as he watched this innocent young man explain what they would be doing and where they would be going from there.
“I is friend of Queen and she ask me help you be com… com… what is word?” the young man struggled to say in English.
“Comfortable?” Alan let himself utter. His American compatriot glanced at him as if he was giving away private information. The Arrassian boy, however, looked grateful.
“I sorry. My English not good. I study French, but no good too.” He smiled as if that settled everything. “I’s name is Aver Dzhon Niizek. We go this way. Follow me.”
Alan smiled. Somehow he could feel that this was no threat, and the cold nervousness ran out of him.
They walked down numerous corridors, occasionally stopping whenever their guide ran into a superior officer. It seemed as is this officer was handling more than they had supposed. In fact, several of his inferior officers saluted him in their fashion as he passed; and he likewise gave them similar regard, but he never initiated it. It made Alan curious immediately, and he decided to break the barrier of silence as they walked. He rushed to walk alongside the young soldier and tried to catch his attention. The soldier saw him and smiled.
“Uh, Aver John, um, how exactly do you know the queen?” Alan asked.
All the others in the group leaned in to hear as well, but they themselves were feeling Alan was being bold a bit too early.
“Yes, Aver Dzhon is me. How I know the queen? Oh, that easy to say. She train me,” the soldier said.
The whole crew stopped.
“Trained you?” one of the other ambassadors exclaimed.
Aver Dzhon stopped. “Yes, she once not queen. No, it destiny she be queen, but then she no queen. Then she be in Alpha district with Alea Arden. She train me when she only Anzer. She best pilot. She lead Zeta district. She one good Surface Patrol officer.”
“Surface Patrol?” Alan asked. “What is that?”
He could see Aver Dzhon wanted to get them to their destination and was a bit antsy to get going, but he stopped and tried to explain as best as he could in his broken English. “Surface Patrol is one military. We protect Arras. Not like Ta’ren’s Kalregg  who no like you and no like me and no like Alea Zormna.”
“Alea Zormna?” Alan said, mostly to himself. He had never heard her called that until then.
Their guide blushed. “I forget, she now Queen Zormna.”
Aver Dzhon could see many of puzzled faces and tried to explain, looking occasionally down the corridor as if he really wanted to continue the trip. “Arras has before war two military. One fight you first, remember?”
The crowd dimly nodded.
“We number two military. We fight them,” Aver Dzhon concluded.
“Why would you have two militaries?” another emissary asked. Alan agreed that this was very odd, and it was the question that could perhaps answer the ultimate question—were they friends or foes?
Dzhon seemed to struggle with this question. “We no want two. We want only one, no—have two.”
“What?” escaped Alan again.
“He’s saying that we once had two militaries, one of which we never really wanted. Dzhon can only say so much with his vocabulary,” a voice broke in.
All heads turned. The saw a young pale man with red hair, younger than Aver Dzhon but wearing the familiar Alea’s uniform.
“I must apologize. Aver Dzhon was all we could manage at the time of your arrival and I was occupied myself so I could not greet you,” he said.
“Who are you?” the U.S. ambassador asked, not without much annoyance.
Alan could tell the Alea ignored the ambassador’s tone, which he clearly understood as contempt, and he proceeded to explain. He politely bowed to them all and introduced himself. “I am Alea Salvar Dezpah, head of the Zeta district and all interspace flight. I am also the son of the kevin, head of the Surface Patrol. I can answer any question you have.”
Aver Dzhon seemed to sit back with a bit of disdain, sad that he lost the spotlight and the pleasure of guiding them. Alea Salvar, however, took no notice of him and proceeded to explain about the two militaries as if the conversation was all his.
“We had two militaries to keep a balance of power when the High Class ruled. After Queen Zormna banished the High Class just after the war, we discontinued the People’s Military and now we have only the one.”
The young American assistant still didn’t understand what he was getting at. It was the same thing that Aver Dzhon had said except with bigger words and more complete sentences.
Dzhon himself seemed to sense that Alan didn’t get it, and he whispered into his ear, “Taren’s Kalregg—People’s Military, they bad. They no like we. They kill many. Kill Queen’s momma and da. We no like T.G.. Queen no like kill, so she say go bad rich people. Go T.G.; go live on different planet.”
Alan turned around and looked at the young boy. A chill ran through him again.
“I know. I friend too president. T.G. kill he’s momma and da too. He no like T.G.; T.G. no like he. No, he no kill only because Queen no like to kill.” Aver Dzhon looked at him sincerely when he said this.
“You know the president?” Alan whispered.
Aver Dzhon smiled. “We friend. When we little, we friend. I know he before I know she.”
Alan wondered if this guy was pulling a fast one on him. It seemed that the soldier was eager to make friends with them, and he seemed harmless. Alan couldn’t tell if it was the case.
Alea Salvar took their lack of questions as the end of the conversation. The Arrassian military commander decided to lead them himself to where they would be staying. He rambled on about numerous things, telling them many details about the buildings, telling them the age of the walls, the size of the underground city, the population that inhabited the city. He seemed to love to hear himself speak English; and even Aver Dzhon, who still stuck with them even though his superior was there, had a tired look on his face like he was sick of his commander showing off.
Alea Salvar led them out of the military compound into an open cavern that was brightly lit as if it were outside on Earth. He called the place the uppercity and pointed to the false sky that looked semi-real. They could all tell that there was a ceiling there. That fact was impossible to hide. Still, it was a pretty good mock up that made them feel less like they were underground, and more into open space.
The ambassadors walked down the open street, dragging their luggage without even a drip of help they’d find customary at home. Nearly half the group was disgusted with their guide halfway down the street. Alea Salvar didn’t seem to notice the exhaustion of the crew, and even Aver Dzhon (as innocent as he seemed) didn’t lend a hand. He merely smiled and walked along side them, occasionally dragging his fingers across the bark of the trees that he passed and shaking his head as if amused. After a few minutes Alea Salvar led them to a large building with a broad emblem stamped on the side. The ambassadors from Earth knew the symbol to be the mark of the world of Arras. The large familiar collection of circles that connect at the top garnished with grain and bars of color were on every ship they saw that came from Mars.
Their guide walked right up to the doors and pointed the way in.
“This is the government housing building. You’ll be staying here.” Alea Salvar then turned from the building and immediately walked down the street back to where they came from. Each one of the ambassadors stared after him, utterly appalled at his behavior.
Aver Dzhon sighed and opened the door. “I must go too. They help you here.”
Alan shook his head and kept his thoughts to himself. Perhaps it was just the Arrassian culture. They didn’t seem to be type of people that traveled and perhaps they never had guests at all. Picking up his bag. Alan walked right through the open doors into the lobby. Within an instant several pale attendants inside scrambled with wide smiles and reached for his bag.
“Nee dav’or al’m nee’s chiir,”  one said, politely bobbing his head in a bow. None of them could speak English. They simply took the ambassadors’ luggage and led them to their rooms.
Shaking his head, Alan changed his mind. These people did know about hospitality, they just had a funny way of showing it.
Alan and the U.S ambassador’s apartment was nicely furnished with wide walls and warm plush carpets. It was rather Spartan in décor, but at this point they didn’t care. They found the setup to be rather convenient and comfortable. They had two rooms, much to their relief. Their own beds were rather wide, much like a hotel, only Alan had a feeling that this place used to be someone’s home. The chills set in again, chills that seemed to make him feel like he was walking in a graveyard. It was a hard feeling to fight.
After he found a set of drawers built inside the wall, Alan decided to unpack and then do some exploring, if it was possible. They had been promised a guided tour of the city. But considering how the morning went, he wasn’t so sure that was going to happen. Alan walked downstairs and into the lobby, gazing across the room as he went. There he saw that several of the ambassadors were gathered and talking. The Canadian ambassador smiled when he saw him and motioned for him to come over.
“He’s here. We can go now,” he said.
That’s when Alan saw that there was one man heading the group—a redheaded Arrassian in a nice two-piece outfit that seemed to be their equivalent to a suit. By his side were two other men, in minor uniforms like that of Aver Dzhon.
“We are ready then?” the headman asked.
Everyone nodded.
Alan looked up at the American ambassador and wondered how long he’d stick with the tour group before he’d skip out on his own to look at things for himself. The man seemed to wait as if he intended to stay the whole trip. It made Alan sigh. It was going to be an interesting experience all the same.
“To introduce myself: my name is Kriisk Melzdar. I am a middlecity Guard Class man. I have a family of three children, and my newly appointed job is chief liaison with Earth. I make sure you have all your needs met. I am sorry we had the Surface Patrol meet you at the bay, but I think Queen Zormna wanted a friend to make sure you made it here safely.”
A murmur that ran through the crowd when they heard that.
“What do you mean make it here safely?” the ambassador of Australia asked.
The Arrassian sadly smiled. “I’m afraid that we still haven’t found all the People’s Military officers—our enemies and your enemies from the war. If any knew you were here and relations would grow friendly between Queen Zormna and you, they’d try anything to stop it…even if it meant killing any one of you.” Then he shook his head. “Besides, our city is not one of the safest places to be. We have gangs here, very violent gangs that we are still struggling to clear out. With the opening of the uppercity to regular folk they have also spread…” he then smiled. “It really isn’t as bad as all that. That was the explanation that Queen Zormna gave me, and she is extra anxious about relations with the Earth. You should be free to roam the uppercity, the middlecity, and the Surface Gate without any harm.”
There was a murmur among the crowd.
Alan had to speak up. “Excuse me, but she was the one who arranged those two guides?”
The man nodded, smiling. “Her personal friends. Surface Patrol mind you—not very hospitable but well intended. She wanted the best for you. You should feel honored.”
Alan nodded and continued. “Will we get to meet with the queen and president any time on this trip?”
Kriisk Melzdar smiled and gazed more intently on Alan as he spoke. “Yes, the queen plans to meet you. There will be a banquet in your honor after today at around nine o’clock—according to your system.”
The group murmured pleasantly at that news and felt more settled for the trip.
“Very well. We will begin to board.” But then the man stopped and blushed shyly. “I am sorry,” pointing to the men beside him, he said. “These are my French and Spanish translators. I was told that this group would be only those languages. Is there one I don’t have?”
The group looked around at each other. It seemed right. The Arrassian guide smiled.
“Good.” Then pointing to each man at his side, he said, “This is Aver Hlen Karmas. He is the French translator.”
Hlen bowed politely and gazed at the other translator.
“And this is Aver Kells Prensk. He will translate Spanish for us today,” the man then said, pointing to the other man.
Aver Kells smiled immediately and waved. “Buenos dias!” he said cheerfully.
The crowd chuckled.
They stepped out of the building into the uppercity street. Parked along the side the street was a long box-like bus. It didn’t look half as nice as the space shuttle they took, but it was full of windows and they knew that this would be a guided bus tour and not a hands-on walking tour. It was as much as they expected. Without further ado, the entire group climbed aboard the box shuttle and tried to get a good window seat. The Spanish guide had the Spanish speakers move to the back so he could translate to them as a group. The French speakers moved to the right side of the bus, and the English speakers took the left. Their head guide was rather cheerful, and he rambled on about nearly everything that he could. He and the other guides each held an itinerary and a list of things to talk about, so the translation and tour was actually not equal all around. The Spanish translator in back kept cracking jokes, and the whole back of the bus was laughing most of the time. The French translator kept giving him dirty looks as he tried to translate with dignity, and somewhat boring the French speakers in the process.
The English tour, to Alan, was quite interesting. They traveled through the upper-city and the guide pointed out the capital buildings, the old prison (VOIC as he called it in Arrassian), the museum, the restaurants, and the sports centers. They flew to the Surface Gate and toured the many levels of what looked like the hugest mall in existence, extending for miles to the right and left, and raising upwards for several stories. The guide pointed out the many entrances that led to the Surface Patrol compounds. He explained to them that when their group arrived, they didn’t go through the Surface Patrol compound to get there. He said that the Surface Patrol docking bays were larger than the one they saw earlier that day—but they wouldn’t tour the Surface Patrol until the next day. The rest of the Surface Gate was packed full of people, happy people that didn’t even seem slightly oppressed as Alan had been told they were.
After they toured the Surface Gate, their traveling van took one of the transit tunnels that headed downward. They flew down and down a deep and very dark tunnel only lit by strips and dotted lights above on the ceiling. Below they could hear trains of subway cars rumbling along tracks, and beside them they could see other car-like vehicles flying along with what looked like scooters. Nearly all scooter pilots were helmeted, and all were flying in the same direction. Only occasionally did they hit a place with cross traffic and only there were there signal lights. Most of the traffic flew low and away from the ceiling, avoiding the hanging traffic lights and signs. All the signs were backlit so the letters showed up dark against the green colored grids. The writing itself was amazingly vertical. It looked like Chinese characters with no regularity. Some were stumpy and other were long and jagged looking. Alan didn’t have time enough to examine the letters of each sign to see a pattern, and as the tunnels were becoming extremely dark as they went farther down he gave it up from the eyestrain.
It wasn’t long before they reached the undercity. To all the travelers’ darkest imagination, the undercity was indeed cold and dismal. The false sky was obviously in bad repair. Chunks were missing from the sky and dark holes make it look like a person with missing teeth. The guides all spoke soberly as they explained the conditions of the undercity and who lived there.
“It is mostly because of neglect that the undercity is in this condition. The High Class neglected the people that lived here mostly because they were of the caste without class—and in their eyes that meant they were worthless. It is a concept that has also been hard to kill, even now. Most people, even now, consider the people of the undercity as worth less than those that were raised in the middlecity. Your first guide, Aver Dzhon is from the undercity. This neighborhood, in fact,” the guide said.
They all looked around at the filthy shambled condition of the area and felt chills of a different sort run through them. They were shivers of pity and empathetic remorse. Alan started to wonder how this place could exist, and yet the place fulfilled his expectations of what he had heard of the Arrassians. He had expected to see cold abuse in their world as was predicted to him when he was assigned to go to Arras, and at last he saw it. Only now, he didn’t think it was entirely the fault of those Arrassians he hadmet.
The guide continued. “President Jafarr has made it his special project to repair the undercity and set it up to date with the rest of Arras. If you look closely to the far end of the cavern you will see the repair crews working. They are going building by building. That’s how meticulous his plan is.”
Alan raised his hand. The English guide smiled at the schoolboy gesture and pointed. “Yes?”
“I was wondering, you said that our soldier guide is from here,” Alan said. “He said that the president was a friend of his when they were kids. Is that true?”
The guide smiled. “It is true. This is the president’s neighborhood also. I suppose that is why he wanted to start here first.”
There was a murmur throughout the shuttle.
“Then he’s of that lowest caste isn’t he?” the Canadian ambassador asked.
The guide nodded gravely. “Yes, he is.”
The group murmured again, wondering what effect that had. The English guide seemed to take the news himself as an embarrassing shame.
“Many people are not pleased with their president being a classless man. Yet, he was elected by the majority—nearly eighty-nine percent, because Orrlar Aflov, one of the formidable leaders of the rebellion, didn’t want to be president. He felt that Jafarr Zeldar would be a better one mostly because he was the leader of the rebellion, and lastly because no one but Jafarr Zeldar has ever equaled the queen in capability and temperament. Most people give him a class of his own simply because he is the remaining descendant of Zeldar Tarrn, the second cousin of the ancient Queen Zormna and therefore nearly royalty himself.”
Alan stood up then, a little confused. “Hold it. You’re saying this guy is ten-thousand years back related to Queen Zormna’s ancestor, and that is what makes people not completely reject him as the president?”
The guide nodded, still a bit ashamed. “That, and he can reason with the queen and get what the people want. She can be a bit hardheaded.”
Alan laughed. “So he’s president only because she is testy and needs a baby sitter?”
The crowd in the ship muttered to each other at how impertinent he was being. They were sure he was offending their guide with his remarks. The guide, however, blushed more.
“Yes, as shamefully as it is, it is just that,” their guide said.
They all nearly burst out laughing.
He tried to explain. “Queen Zormna, in the truest sense, really doesn’t want to be queen.”
“What?” they all exclaimed together in murmurs and cries of astonishment.
The man nodded again at the shameful fact. “She is only in the position at the people’s request. She’d rather go back to the Surface Patrol and command the Zeta district again. She’s a pilot, not a diplomat.”
Alan couldn’t contain himself. “You mean to tell us that if she had her option, she’d ditch it all?”
The guide nodded again.
“It is crazy,” Alan exclaimed. “Have you no leadership at all?”
Their English guide shook his head. “Oh, she leads. Don’t doubt that. She’s good at it. It is just that it wasn’t her intention. She just wanted to win the war and go back to her life. She instituted the position of president so she wouldn’t have to be queen. The people are the ones that insist that she still be queen, and she is only complying at the will of Jafarr Zeldar, whom she had the utmost respect for.”
“What a triangle,” Alan murmured.
The entire busload of ambassadors and aides nodded.
“On to the agricultural sector?” the guide asked.
The group nodded, not knowing what else to do.