Dr. Silas Strand eased his way up the final few claustrophobic steps of the Gatekeeper's tower and out in to the cool evening air. Below him the great curtain wall of Nor, the principle fortified island of Badr City, dropped away in to the evening mists. It was a view that would induce vertigo in even the most experienced rock climber; the clean stone wall so tightly mortared it offered no handhold, the jagged bedrock beneath and the dark, volcanic waters of Badr Lake whose mineral rich vapours were said to have induced visions of terror in the minds of ancient invaders.
Strand could well believe it. He stepped away from the rampart's crenelated edge before the dizziness got the better of him, and took a moment to roll his shoulders, easing away some of the stiffness that had accumulated in his muscles. After a day spent in his surgery, seeing to the various ailments of dozens of Pavonian pilgrims, his body needed little excuse to remind him that he wasn't a young man anymore. There were bits of him that had seized up completely, and the short walk over rough cobbles to the city's main gate, a walk he took whenever his surgery hours allowed, had done little to lift the weariness bearing down on him. He longed for a break, just a few days rest, but there was no chance of that with the city's population swelling by the hour.
The Kho'i Festival was Badr City's busiest time of year, its most lucrative, and its most dangerous. All day a steady queue of pilgrims had shuffled along the causeway linking Nor to the Rim, passing under the wide rampart on which he stood, before dispersing deeper in to the city's network of bustling lanes and ancient, shaded squares. More than a dozen islands made up the land on which Badr City stood and since the plague there was plenty of space available for weary pilgrims to find a bed for the night. Few of them would end up as his neighbours though. The Plains people, who made up most of the swelling crowd, preferred isolation and self-reliance to doing business with the city's merchants, and even those that did venture over the Rim Pass to trade tended to steer clear of the Stranger's Quarter, the isolated island where most of the city's alien inhabitants resided, Strand included.
The sweet odour of cooking food was wafting up from the streets below, and even though Strand had never really adapted to the local vegetarian diet, his belly rumbled in response. The Pavonians were a devout race, and the strictest forms of their faith required adherence to set meal times. As a result some of the pilgrims still on the road had decided to take a break from their march to picnic where they stood before the sun went down, whilst inside the city gates every food stand and restaurant Strand had passed during his stroll already had a substantial queue of customers. There was little chance of getting served at any of them that evening, and it would probably be well in to the night before he returned to his own apartment and the meagre contents of his kitchen cupboards.
Turning south, Strand made his way over the rampart to the next tower in Nor's great defences. Torchkeeper's tower could no longer be accessed from the street, its door had been blocked off in antiquity, and it's grand cupola, which had once provided light and guidance to all those travelling over the Rim, stood empty and neglected. As a result it was one of the few places in Badr City that offered any kind of privacy. Strand stepped into its cover, out of sight of the shuffling line of pilgrims below. Out of sight of everything, except the few stars winking into life above the Rim. Slipping a hand into the pocket of his windbreaker, he pulled out the hip flask he always carried, and took a slug of the contents. The smooth amber liquid hit the back of his throat like a fireball, and he felt some of the tension ease from his body. After fifteen years on Ierus, fighting and losing against the worst of the plague, he'd worked countless shifts without a hot meal, but he couldn't recall the last time he'd faced a day without alcohol.
"Hey, Doc!"
The voice was familiar, but unexpected, and Strand spluttered as his second shot of booze stuck in his throat. So much for drinking in private, he thought as he watched two men hurry towards him across the rampart, laden down with what looked like an array of camping equipment. Titus, Strand's next door neighbour, was carrying an ancient pair of threadbare deckchairs, their fraying seats a rainbow of faded colours. His companion, a mountain of a man in furs and a knitted hat, grunted under the weight of a large picnic basket and a thick roll of rough, canvas bedding.
"We thought you'd be up here," Titus bustled in to the cupola. If he noticed Strand's drinking flask he said nothing, and instead busied himself with unfolding one of the deckchairs. "It'll make a great spot to watch from, don't you think?"
Many people thought it was an act, not just with Titus, but with every ECHO. That their programming could be so sophisticated as to generate genuinely experienced emotion in a synthetic being; well, it just seemed like science fiction. However, Strand had known Titus for long enough to be sure that the emotions his friend displayed were honest. The young man was as irritatingly upbeat as he appeared.
"Watch what?" Strand asked, too weary to argue, as Titus ushered him into the deckchair. Its flimsy supports groaned under his weight, but held.
"He wants to watch the lights in the sky," the mountain in furs grumbled. During the Chrysomite Wars Jepp Quadel had been a Major in the Circinian land forces, but his fearsome reputation had not saved him from the purges of the Circinian court once peace had broken out. He was a refugee now, just like every other off-worlder in Badr City.
"They're called aurora," Titus huffed, wrestling the second deckchair in to position beside the first. "And do you know how rare they are on Ierus?"
"No." Quadel set the picnic basket down and flipped the lid open with the toe of his boot. For Strand and his empty stomach it was as if Saint Peter had just thrown open the gates of heaven. Exiled from his home world by the ruling Gosheven clan, Quadel had found a new vocation running the Anaht-Her, the most popular Circinian tavern in the Stranger's Quarter, and his cooking, particularly his stuffed flatbreads, had become as legendary as his military successes. Quadel reached in to the straw lined depths of his picnic basket and produced two foil wrapped packages, both the size of Strand's forearm.
"What would you like, Doctor?" the old warrior asked. "Roasted kurat, or grilled?"
Kurat was a Circinian bird, not unlike turkey, and on Ierus it was very hard to come by, although not as hard as its Solarian equivalent. Strand opted for the grilled version, tearing off the foil packaging and devouring his first mouthful with an enthusiasm that caused rivulets of kurat grease to course through his beard.
"I'm pretty sure the bird is already dead." Titus said, producing a sheaf of paper napkins from the picnic basket. "You don't have to kill it again."
With a mouthful of food, Strand could only manage a grimace in response. Quadel considered poor table manners to be a seal of approval for his cooking, but Titus was always horrified by any bodily function he didn't share, like the need to eat.
"So, when's this aurora due?" Strand mumbled, hoping a change of subject would deflect his friend's attention away from the globs of hot, sweet sauce oozing over his fingers.
"Oh, we have a couple of hours yet," Titus took the bait and, dodging past Quadel, who was making short work of his own food, hurried over to one of the tower's crumbling apertures. He gazed up at the darkening sky with child-like delight. "I just don't want to miss it all this time."
The aurora had first appeared the previous night, but both Strand and Titus had missed the show. It had been close to midnight, but the waiting room at Strand's clinic had still been full of patients. He couldn't have left even if he had wanted to. At his workshop in the Stranger's Quarter, Titus had been recharging his batteries, literally, and had been oblivious to the commotion the aurora had caused in the rest of the city. That was a mistake he seemed determined not to make again, and even though dusk still clung to the jagged edges of the Rim, and the lights from Nor's citadel were washing away the fainter stars, he remained riveted to the spot, his pale, blue eyes roaming the view, hunting for the first hint of his colourful quarry. Quadel and Strand decided to leave their young friend to it, particularly after the Major produced two flasks of spicy Ierusian cider from his picnic hamper. Half an hour later, they were both comfortably drunk, Quadel stretched out on his bedding roll, Strand half asleep in his deckchair, when Titus announced they had company. Someone new was approaching from the Rim Pass.
"Half the planet is approaching from the Rim Pass." Strand belched. "And they'll all have blisters by morning."
"It's not a local," Titus responded, "Circinian maybe, or Solarian. Looks like a woman."
That got Quadel's attention. The big man scrabbled to his feet and started to fidget nervously with his cloak, like a teenager on his first date.
"Take it easy, Major," Strand laughed. "You know there are no non-native females outside the City. If there were, Pin would have scooped them up."
Badr City had been a cosmopolitan settlement ever since the Circinians first made contact with the local population, over two centuries ago. However, when the Pavonovirus first broke out those who could flee did so; leaving behind only the Pavonian inhabitants and those whose criminal activities made legitimate travel all but impossible. Chief among them was Pin Hunh, Safian arms dealer, brothel owner, benevolent philanthropist, and as of a year ago, in a result that took exactly nobody by surprise, the legally elected Mayor of Badr City. If there was a non-Pavonian woman on Ierus who wasn't employed at the Anaht-Her, or in one of Pin's brothels, then Strand was sure it wouldn't be long before the Mayor's goons went looking for her.
"Well Pin obviously missed one," it was Titus who responded. The irritation in his voice suggested he took Strand's scepticism personally. "Looks like she's been walking for a while too."
Now Strand's own curiosity was piqued. Rolling out of the deckchair with as much dignity as he could muster, he joined Titus and the Major at the edge of the cupola. The eastern sky was almost fully dark now, and the summits of the Rim were barely discernible, but even in the heavy dusk and at such a distance, the lone figure making its way down the causeway immediately caught his eye, silhouetted as it was by a dozen pilgrim campfires, and he could see that Titus had been right. The locals were as tall on average as Solarians, but their anatomy was bird-like, and they possessed a distinctive, strutting walk. The approaching figure walked like an upright primate, which meant they were either Circinian, or a Solarian.
The realisation that a stranger was approaching caused Strand to fumble once more for the hip flask in his pocket. How long had it been since somebody new arrived on Ierus? The entire Pavonian system had been under quarantine for well over a decade now, and the only ships officially allowed to pass through the Lazaretto belonged to the Hadari Peacekeepers, who kept the worlds still under quarantine supplied with aid and food. Legally entering the Lazaretto, even illegally entering it, without some form of assistance from the Hadari would be extremely difficult. Unless you were the Mayor of Badr City you had to know exactly who to bribe, and have the funds to make sure they delivered you as promised, heart still beating and limbs intact. People didn't make that kind of trip for the fun of it, and whoever this woman was, and whatever her reason for coming here, Strand had a feeling she was going to be trouble.
"What are the chances Pin won't hear about this?" Titus asked.
"Maybe, with the festival, in all those crowds," Strand left the thought unfinished. He wasn't convincing himself, let alone his companions. The enthusiasm which Titus had shown for the impending aurora was already melting away, to be replaced by visible concern.
"You need to see this for yourself, Doc," Titus reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a small data pad. Every ECHO carried some kind of device to allow them to share information, ideas, even memories with their non ECHO friends. He handed it to Strand.
"If anyone asks," he said "We didn't see her arrive."