Symbiosis: Chapter 34

Jackson watched the activity outside the window of his room in the New Hope building. He could see the stone marker, an obelisk, where Kiians had arrived and changed the course of their history. Dozens of Cinconians crisscrossed the courtyard going about business as usual.

The rusty colored, longer furred Cinconians outnumbered the white and brown Cinconians as he’d noticed when they first arrived in New Hope, at least the ones doing the work. He began to wonder if they operated under a caste system and these were the unskilled labor caste. They focused on their tasks: sweeping, driving, cooking, cleaning, carrying out repairs in the road. Satisfying his curiosity would be a diplomatic inquiry he wanted to consider from all angles first.

Tom was surprised when someone knocked at his door. The room was cold, as usual, so he threw a heavy blanket over his shoulders and slid off the cot. He’d not been expecting Yee Akadar.

“Come in, please,” Tom said and stepped aside. The person in charge of the United Medical Authority looked down and stepped just inside the doorway.

“Jackson, we invite you, humans, at yearly Tournament in five days.”

“A what? A game?”

“Many games but not for fun. For new leaderships.” Tom opened a Mylar package and poured the contents into a solar kettle. He was going to need coffee for this conversation.

“Choosing new leaders? A contest?”

“A battle contest. Cinconian tradition require teams which want rule to earn must in combat.” Tom didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded like Yee Akadar was proposing a polite war. He tried to rub some sense into his brain with his hands.

“Tell me more.” He retrieved a cup from the table and readied it to receive the liquid magic heating in the kettle. The room had two chairs; Tom pushed one a dozen centimeters in Akadar’s direction. The fellow sat and began his story.

“Hundreds years as world go round sun Cinconians want to be leaders must…” Akadar stopped and a scowl appeared on his face. “Not know right words. Eh, champion must show strong more than other.”

“I understand. A contest for leadership.”

“Agreed. All want to be leaders battle in showground. You human people come on showground, see battle?”

“Do a lot of people come to the showground? It wouldn’t be a good idea to get a lot of people gathered while we try to stop the plague.”

“Not able stop Tournament. Many people come.”

“I thought you understood that all gatherings had to be cancelled while we fight the epidemic.”

“Not can stop Tournament. Must go, all go.” The yee’s face didn’t easily reveal its owner’s emotions, but Tom could hear an apology in his halting human words. He sighed in defeat and poured his coffee.

“We will come to the Tournament.” Akadar smiled, more or less, and got up to leave.

“Humans at Stations also see? No Cinconians to give medicine to so should all come.” Tom nodded as the yee left, ambling down the hall on short legs, his green cloak waving goodbye around his ankles.

A fight for leadership didn’t sound like a good idea in the best of circumstances, but with a killer bacteria on the loose, one that transmits through casual contact, well…

Tom picked up his portable telecom and signaled Scott Gregory. The doctor answered after several long moments.

 “Captain?”

“Sorry, I know it’s early. We need to talk. I’m bringing coffee.”

Tom poured a cup while his friend dressed for the cold weather outside. He explained what Akadar had just tried to communicate about the social event of the year.

“We told them no big gatherings. Where did this come from all of a sudden?” Scott grumbled. He took the cup from Tom and cautiously tested the temperature with a noisy sip.

“Apparently it’s their election cycle.”

“That’s barbaric. This is a civilized world. Why not just promote from within or by vote?”

“Ours is not to reason why. I had an idea. Akadar wants all of us to come – not just you and me but Adams, Ferris, everyone out at the site locations. He says no Cinconians will be there, everyone goes to the Tournament. What if we use the Tournament as a medical station? Everyone who is going in will get a vaccine or medication.”

“Closing the barn door after the horse is gone?”

“Not necessarily,” Tom said. “If people are really sick they can’t come. Only the healthy and exposed will be able to make it. We can tackle hundreds in one day.”

“Are you sure the contagious ones won’t show up?”

“If you had the Black Plague would you go to an election rally or a basketball game?”

“These people don’t do what you’d expect them to,” Scott said. He took a serious drink from his coffee cup. “How many do you think will show up?”

“I couldn’t get a number out of him. I expect it will be at least a thousand.”

The two sat in silence with their morning coffee and looked back and forth at each other in sympathy. Tom finished first and refilled his cup. He wondered if Rianya was having tea alone and if his daughter might be doing the same thing with her playmate.

“If we can’t talk them out of it, we might as well use the opportunity to treat a bunch of them at once,” Tom summarized. “Why don’t you get a hold of the site leaders and tell them to prepare to come to New Hope in a few days.”

Jackson left shortly to assess the size of the showground but wasn’t prepared for what he saw when his hired ground vehicle stopped a few kilometers out of town. Akadar hadn’t done it justice when he called it a showground. Showgrounds were for county fairs. It was bigger than The G in Australia. It was bigger than the Superdome in North America. This ‘showground’ was an Olympic masterpiece of architecture if for nothing but sheer size alone that made anything on Earth look puny. Constructed of iron beams, it wasn’t oval but octagonal, and by some feat of engineering it was covered, probably because of the incessant cold weather. Nevertheless, this was a monument to the Cinconians love of entertainment.

It covered acres of land. He wasn’t sure he could walk around the entire thing if he’d had an hour to do so. Hundreds of the rusty, slightly shaggy Cinconians busied themselves around the amphitheater, putting up flags, zig zagging every which way, hustling to prepare it for the Tournament and the spectators. Tom has seriously underestimated their commitment to this event and the magnitude of the task.

The captain meandered toward what appeared to the main entrance taking in the vastness and details as he walked. Square stones decorated the entire exterior, and the entrance was flanked by dozens of thick lush greenery. An angular arch, half an octagon, led into the stadium. As Tom neared the entrance a pair of rusty Cinconians crossed his path and stopped.

“No can enter yet,” one of them said in his native language. Tom recognized the word “no” and turned back, taking a few steps but then cautiously made his way towards the bushes until they were out of sight. When his patience had run low he trotted to the entrance and slipped inside.

Inside the octagon a massive fire pit, cold, filled with rocks, and five meters in diameter, blocked his direct path. Each gigantic wall had two arches that led out of the arena and into the depths of the stadium. The floor was dirt, no turf, and Tom felt a genuine chill zip down his spine and raise every hair on his arms. He saw gladiators, swords, shields, blood, Romans screaming in the seats, their hands with thumbs up and thumbs down. He stood at the threshold of the Colosseum.

This would more than exacerbate the plague. An event of a hundred thousand people spreading disease and slowing the rescue to a crawl, or even halting it completely, had to be stopped. Jackson jogged out the way he’d come and raced down the stone steps. He bolted to the street where he could wave a vehicle to stop and return him to the New Hope building. Despite the chill sweat broke out and his heart pounded. Almost nauseous he jumped in a transport and tried to remain calm on the ride back.

He nearly jumped out of the vehicle and stumbled, paying the driver and shooting inside the building, down the hall to the sleeping rooms. He banged on Scott’s door, waited ten seconds, then banged again. Jackson spun about and dashed back to his own room. Inside, he stood still and took a few deep breaths to calm himself before he dug out his telecom and hailed the Maria Mitchell.

He waited. It would take a couple of minutes to get a signal to them and get a reply. He couldn’t let this Cinconian spectacle of power proceed. It wasn’t just a small gathering of a thousand, or even ten thousand. New Hope would soon be hosting a hundred thousand people in the middle of an eternal pandemic.

His telecom bleeped.

“Captain, we’re reading you. We’re currently in orbit of Cuatro and discussing terms with Kiians. Please acknowledge.”

“This is Jackson. Return to Cinco at the first possible opportunity. We’re not going to have time to wait for Kiians to get on board. Let me know as soon as you’re in orbit. Jackson out.”