[i]“I’ve heard rumors of places beyond the safety zone—unlikely settlements in the sea of glass, villages in the jungle canopy beyond reach of mutant beasts, even a city within a mountain, but always of thought such things as fairy tales, so this,”[/i] Ndakala extended his arm to embrace the unbelievable subterranean crystal cityscape, if such was an apt description of the perfect congruence of nature and commerce. [i]“—this must be a fevered dream. I will wake to find I fell from my jeep after a nasty bump. There is no secret so well kept as Marange for there not to be whispers of it elsewhere.”[/i] [i]“I assure you, Marange is no fantasy,”[/i] Makemba insisted, [i]“neither are rumors of such places as you’ve described quite as bountiful as you suggest.”[/i] [i]“I hear many things in my work, much of it embellished,”[/i] Ndakala consented. [i]“What work is that?”[/i] [i]“Westerners call it eco-tourism. I help people like Miss Benson go to where they want to go. Places Xanathan prevents ordinary people from going, poor places, sites in the militarized zone. I meet many strange folk with stranger stories along the way. It is good money. Before we were taken here, I was on my way with this lady”[/i]—he gestured to Lydia Benson who, for the moment, sipped docilely from a stone carafe filled with tea—[i]“to Phalaborwa so she could meet the children her philanthropy has benefited. Now I hear Phalaborwa is engulfed in flames. A sad story, very sad, but one of the many I have seen on my journey.”[/i] Lydia opined solemnly from her tea, [i]“Such pointless tragedy, these tribal conflicts!”[/i] They both ignored Lydia’s uninformed commentary. Instead, Makemba, who noted how transparently Ndakala performed for his client, narrowed her eyes and countered, [i]“Not everything you say is true. I can tell by just looking at you, here and alive, that you are an honest man in principle, if not in fact, but also of humble means. Whatever money you make is not equal to the risk. You provide ‘tourist services’”[/i]—at this she held up her hand in quotes to emphasize her sarcasm—[i]“as a front for other reasons.”[/i] Lydia was obviously offended at the insinuation. Ndakala shrugged dismissively. [i]“How is it you know of Mount Diaba?”[/i] Makemba demanded, clasped her hands tightly around one of Ndakala’s wrists, which lay on the table before her, and peered intently into his eyes. [center] . . . [/center] Nine months prior. An eco-tourist wanted an extended leisure stay on the Etosha Pan. The Abditory wanted rumors of a settlement near the Ogooue River investigated. They said it was along the way. It was almost a week further north by jeep, assuming all went well. The cover was adequate, but the journey went far beyond his comfort zone. Still, his contacts were insistent. If he could get them in touch with a safe haven deep in the quarantine zone, they would have a mechanism to provide aid to much of Africa. It was night, at least twenty hours since he last rested, and his fuel reserves were nearly halved. When they reached that point, he would be forced to turn back. The rough terrain alternated between dense jungle and marsh as the dirt road skirted the rim of the Nkomi lagoon. Once again, it all began to blur. It was the third time he stopped himself from passing out. Unable to safely continue, he pulled over. In the distance, to the north, he thought he saw a large dark silhouette; the shape of a mountain where no mountain ought to be. It was a vague thought as he drifted off, too exhausted to ruminate over the perils that milled around him in the nearby overgrowth. With a jolt, he awoke. Still belted into the driver seat of his jeep, he and it bounced along a declination that appeared to be a former rail transport shaft. It reached the end, a pair of large blast doors, and the jeep dropped a good five feet. It sounded awful as the vehicle’s groan reverberated in the tunnel. Then a long-armed sinuous shadow gripped at a slid between the blast doors and pried them open enough to drag the jeep through. Inside was what appeared to be a bazaar, where people, many disfigured, engaged in some transactional exchange or another. << [i]What did you find today, Dussan?[/i] >> chimed in an electronic voice from a speaker. An unnaturally long-limbed and powerful nubian stepped into Ndakala’s field of view, looked into a security camera, and said, [i]“Jeep with tiny dead man.”[/i] << [i]He looks alive to me, Dussan. Bring him to the elders so we can find out who he is.[/i] >> Dussan grunted, picked up the jeep, then— << [i]No, Dussan. Leave the jeep there. We just need the man inside of it for now.[/i] >> Ndakala hastily unbuckled himself before being torn from his vehicle. Carried along like a terrified sack of grain, and too afraid of speak lest he startle his captor, he was eventually taken down a hall and into a chamber where an assortment of individuals hastily assembled. Placed down, his legs trembled to where he could barely stand, but he managed. Then, it seemed all at once, everyone, himself included, asked, [i]“What’s this?”[/i] << [i]A stranger was snooping around outside the Arcelisk. Dussan was on patrol, found him snoozing in his jeep, and brought him in.[/i] >> [i]“Arcelisk? What’s that?”[/i] Ndakala blurted out. << [i]A self-contained sustainable society enclosed a single structure with limited exposure to or interaction with the outside world.[/i] >> A woman with a forceful voice wearing robes that matched her red and orange silk turban stood at the head of the table and said, [i]“Enough. The Council is in session. Sit down and answer our questions calmly and concisely. First, what is your name?”[/i] [i]“Ndakala Blayhi,”[/i] he sputtered. [i]“Very well, Ndakala. Who sent you?”[/i] [i]“A humanitarian aid organization that opposes the quarantine of the African continent and—,”[/i] he started, but was interrupted: [i]“I asked, ‘who sent you here?’ not, ‘what do they do?’”[/i] [i]“My contact? I don’t know. The organization reaches out in different ways to avoid being compromised to Xanathan and Earth Federation authorities. It is run by a bunch of rich business owners with more money than sense, useful in getting food and medicine to places like—”[/i] he was about to say ‘like this,’ thought better of it, and finished weakly—[i]“to places that need help.”[/i] After a protracted and wearisome interrogation, they unearthed all they desired of him and his motives. Meanwhile, he learned a little about his whereabouts. This was Mount Diaba, once a mountainous landfill erected from the discarded refuse of nearby coastal cities, abandoned, repurposed as a nuclear test site, crystallized in a series of internal nuclear explosions triggered by seismic activity, and finally an underground city. The place, once under martial law, was led by those ascertained by an artificial intelligence to be the best and most popular amongst the city’s inhabitants. A meritocracy of sorts. Proud of their mode of government, they explained it willingly, perhaps in the hope the experiment would blossom elsewhere. Unexplained were key facts, such as the lack of radiation that would ordinarily still be present in lethal quantities, how the mutants all got here, and how the inside of the mountain was hallowed out. These were questions he asked, but not questions they answered. Eventually, he inferred Mount Diaba was the settlement to which he was sent by the organization. He also found they did not desire assistance and instead opted to minimize their exposure to the outside world. They kept the transponder—not that they ever activated it—and other supplies, but left him his jeep and enough fuel to make it back to the nearest town. Left him unconscious in the same place they found him in order to conceal the entrance of their city. He was alone, as they felt it wouldn’t be safe to send him away with the ‘volatile ones,’ which was evidently a euphemism for mutants whose awakened powers were too dangerous for a close society. A month after his departure, he returned to Etosha Pan and an infuriated client. [center] . . . [/center] Ndakala recoiled from Makemba’s grasp as once scalded by hot water, but held her gaze. He felt violated, and his expression said as much, although he wasn’t certain what just transpired. He kept silent and waited for an explanation. [i]“I am an empath. If I touch another person while a memory is triggered, I will experience it with them.”[/i] [i]“Then now you must know we are not foes,”[/i] he said, his tone angry, but measured. [i]“Yes.”[/i] [i]“Then out of respect for me and my client ...”[/i] his words trailed off, his mind unable to articulate further what he wanted to say, but his meaning was clear as the waters fresh from an underground spring.