It was not the Sci-Fi invasion from outer space everyone imagined.
Furry pilgrims from the planet Vidura. Home movies dating back to the Ice Age. Real estate titles, tax receipts, defensible claims of dual citizenship.
The Anye Disclosure. A history lesson about inadvertent colonization, cautious stewardship, steadfast virtue as a cure for naked self-interest.
But, in U.S. President Carmen Benequista’s opinion, “Diplomacy was never going to get the job done. Earth’s ruling elites will see the planet burn to ash, rather than give an inch to someone who might be able to solve our problems.”
And that was how it was going.
Eighteen months after Jivada’s merchant nobility reclaimed a seat at the table, three days after the White House Christmas party, Carmen began to step back from the fray.
She skipped a day at the office to go on a first date with her gentleman friend, former NSA officer Brandon Lopez.
At a housewarming celebration aboard the historic airborne estate Ruksa Zila, built on Vidura 68,000 BCE, released into atmosphere only hours before.
A fleet of spaceboats gathered above the Pacific Ocean west of Panama. Expected wait time — more than ten minutes.
The PMI Explorer Inconsistent followed the attraction south.
Brandon Lopez reached across the center console to hold the President’s hand.
Her valet, Pascal the maroli, crowded up front, tentacles spilling between operators’ seats — an elevated Anye-technology labor appliance, one of many, allegedly possessed by spirits of the dead, although not in a bad way.
He said, “This one is not prone to gossip, but my hearing is excellent.”
Carmen rotated the co-pilot’s seat. “Fifty years ago this month, my maternal grandfather traveled to the United States for a Christmas visit.”
Pascal quantum-glued his capsule to the deck. “This one listens.”
“A Spanish Gypsy — born in Greece, married in Corsica, on the move most of his life.”
“Did your mother consider herself a Gypsy?”
“No. Her extended family was Italian.” Carmen shrugged. “My grandparents eventually bought a house in Sicily, but kept traveling. Mom used to say life on the shanty trail was unstable. She married away from it as soon as she could.”
Brandon had a word with traffic control. Carmen paused. He said, “We have time.”
“Anyway …” She gazed into the past, eyes unfocused. “Grandpa filled my imagination with tales of adventure and then disappeared, never to be heard from again.”
Pascal said, “You were twelve?”
“A skinny little nosepicker in convent school. I never thought I would be anything except pregnant, until I met him.”
Pascal drew tentacles halfway into the plug cavity. “What was the most important thing he said to you?”
“Everything that matters is at arm’s length.”
“That is SagGha doctrine. Perhaps he was an adventure tourist from Jivada, gone native after a Roma caravan holiday.”
“My mother would have known.”
“The AjJivadi have a tradition of hiding who they are.”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Carmen rotated her seat back around. “Here’s the punchline — the second most important thing he told me was to be like him.”
“I think I know the answer but I must ask, was this advice an influence in your life?”
Carmen nodded. “It’s probably how I ended up flying helicopters in Iraq.”
The van’s cabin fell silent, its passengers sightseeing through Armor Light, to witness a flock of seabirds on a steep glide, aimed at a moving buffet.
Ruksa Zila — a 335-meter-tall faux-rock-faced grav-lift barge shaped like a curved-blade obsidian hatchet with a fat 400-meter-long spine, sharp edge down — capped with grass, trees, gardens, a lake, a stream, a waterfall, buildings, pavement, paths and hollows.
Carmen tapped rudder pedals. “Tell the boat’s Oma to let me drive.”
Brandon touched a gesture pad. “Don’t get us in trouble with our hosts.”
A fly-around begged comparison of Ruksa Zila’s hull form to a bare-naked upside-down mountain ridge in need of a pressure wash. Brandon spotted a spatial distortion leak near the estate’s swim platform. The house Oma told them to move away.
Their party disembarked on a promenade, between lake and a row of zero-clearance storybook facades, tucked into a hill below the owner’s residence, anchored on the port side by a four-story cube with a bar-and-grille on the ground floor, apartments above.
Toward starboard — guest accommodations hidden behind semi-functional faux storefronts, culminating in a community center, commercial kitchen and dining hall disguised as a bakery.
They strolled through a line of battle-dressed CH Banks security guards, a throng of housewarming guests, a contingent of non-elevated maroli serving appetizers.
Carmen was quiet, reserved. Pascal the maroli wrapped a tentacle gently around her wrist.
He asked, “Is Madame all right?”
“I’m glad I wore flats.” She bumped him with her hip. “Everyone is smiling at us.”
“Perhaps they are trying to be friendly without intrusion.”
“It’s like they know something.”
He performed a gesture of mirth. “Madame has a bounce in her step.”
Brandon nodded agreement. “A little more sway than usual. Looks good on you.”
The walkway gridlocked in front of a mock eyewear boutique. Carmen covered her face, letting out a mournful groan.
“It’s the clingy skirt.”
“You’re channeling Sophia Loren. I promise.”
She pretended to give him the bad-eye. “At what age?”
“The lady still has it going on, in my opinion.”
He peered through storefront glass, spying an elevator lobby. “Let’s hide out for a while.”
There was a kiosk on subdeck 3, a legacy of Ruksa Zila’s hotel phase — stocked with Bronze-age works of art and artifice, sunscreen, tobacco, and vintage snacks — as though still in business.
The full loop took them to a flight of stairs leading back to the surface through a bunker, emerging near a spillway, top of the waterfall, alongside boulder-strewn rapids.
Where loitered master of the house Glenn Mehrenholz — German farmer stock, by nature shy-to-sheepish.
Brandon clapped him on the shoulder. “Making yourself scarce?”
“I’m sociable, but not two-hundred guests’ worth.” Glenn gave Pascal the eyeball. “What do you have there, buddy?”
Pascal moved his prize from tentacle to tentacle, a demonstration of possessive ardor. “A Ruksa Zila guidebook from the gift shop.”
“RZ has a gift shop?”
Carmen’s valet hid the pamphlet amongst lesser ungula. “On subdeck 3.”
Glenn chuckled. “What’d you do, go on a house tour?”
Pascal performed the maroli nod. “Our party did not visit the owner’s residence; in case you weren’t ready.”
“Good thing, because we’re not.” Glenn kissed President Benequista on the cheek. “Hey.”
Carmen batted eyelashes at him. “Hey, yourself.”
Brandon stood on tiptoes. “Did you leave a drain open in the lake basin?”
“Don’t ask me; I haven’t moved in yet.” He touched thumb to ring finger. “RZ; is something happening with the reservoir?”
The lake frothed. A Saraf Drive pylon emerged, shedding water on its way to becoming the tallest object in town.
Glenn listened to the house Oma, then wiggled fingers at his guests. “We have a missile coming our way.”
At the center of the lake, a spiral disk fanned out from a still-rising dull-grey column. Below decks, an atomic shredder power pack spooled up with a deep growl.
A bright blue midday equatorial sky disappeared, replaced by an empty black void. Artificial lighting blinked on.
Phase cancellation reduced ambient sound levels by half. Ears popped from a change in atmospheric pressure. A child started to wail.
Thirty seconds later, the historic airborne estate Ruksa Zila was cruising off the coast of Portugal under starry skies.
A disorienting experience for everyone except master-of-the-house Glenn Mehrenholz.