Phase Shift (34 page)

I smell the pizza the moment I open the
bathroom door—has it been over thirty minutes already? Palmer's in
the kitchen tossing a small salad in the large wooden bowl. When he
sees me he takes a moment to sweep it into the centre of the bowl
before serving it. "There you are," he says. He removes two cans of
pop from the freezer and sets them on the kitchen table. "I was
debating whether to come and get you or leave you to your space."
He sits at the table. "Veggie and anchovies on whole wheat
okay?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to keep up your strength." His
hand feels cool at the juncture between my neck and shoulder. He
plants a butterfly kiss on the crown of my head.

Palmer drops a slice of pizza on a paper
plate in front of me nevertheless. It smells like lonely teenaged
Saturday nights, not totally uninviting.

He takes the first bite of his pepperoni and
sausage and chews in silence whilst avoiding eye contact. I pick at
the onions on my slice.

"So, Goren wants me to hold a symposium on
Earth," I say when it appears he's not going to ask. "He wants to
bring the plight of the Gaian people to Earth's masses."

Palmer looks at me over the rim of his soda
can. "I think it's a great idea."

"What? No! It's a terrible idea." He opens
his mouth to say something but I cut him off. "I can't invite
scholars and politicians to an event and tell them we're going to
kill ourselves and this...alternate world if we don't mend our
ways. I'd be made a laughing stock." I pause to take a drink. The
bubbles burn going down.

"It's all in the framing of the situation,
Moll."

"The fact that we're killing the planet's
not new. People have better things to do than to spend a day
beating a dead horse." I start in on the cheese, having already
picked off most of the onions.

"Won't they be surprised if it turns out
global warming's nothing more than a part of Earth's warming trend
as she bounces back from the last ice age?" Palmer asks. "Do you
know the scientist who supports that theory has actually received
death threats for it? I saw the story on the news just the other
day."

He takes a drink of his pop and helps both
of us to another slice.

"I don't trust Goren," I say.

"He's the Prefecture bigwig, no?"

"He would have Gaia believe Earth's totally
at fault for their predicament. He figures if he demonizes Earth
then he can continue his behaviour unabated." The crust is crisp,
chewy, and slightly salty having melded with the anchovies.

"His behaviour?"

"The trading he's doing with Earth. I know
he's the one responsible. Reyes practically said as much when he
showed me Goshan's ruins."

"But you trust Reyes."

"Yeah. I mean, I think I do. He seems to be
straight with me."

"So get him to help you plan this
symposium."

"I'm not hosting a symposium."

"Sure you are. You just don't know it
yet."

"Not funny, Palmer," I say as I push my
plate away.

"Come on, Moll. You know you want to. I'll
help. So will Joey, I bet. I'll bring the idea to the Dean, see if
we can't drum up a little funding."

"I'm not doing this," I say, firm. The
muscles in my neck grow taught. It's all I can do to maintain my
temper.

"Come on, Molly. It'll be fun."

"No. I'm not doing this," I say standing.
"I'm not." I'm done. Ignorance is bliss. It truly is. I begin a
hasty retreat back to the bathroom. I'd really rather crawl into
bed and pull the covers over my head, stay there, and let the world
come crashing in around me. And according to the Gaian prefects, it
soon will. The fact is the bathroom's really the only room in the
house with a lock on the door, the only place I can lock out the
world. With the exhaust fan on and the water running, I'm pretty
sure I can drown Palmer out, too.

"Molly," Palmer calls. I can hear him
lumbering down the hall behind me. He grabs my arm just as I'm
about to corner the bathroom door and pulls me close, burying my
head in his chest. I try to pull away, but his grip is firm. He
begins to stroke my hair.

I gasp for breath and realize I'm crying.
Palmer's shirt grows cool and damp beneath my cheek.

"Shhh," he tells me. "It'll be fine, I
promise. You can do this. We can do this. Together."

Of course I could do this, plan a symposium,
if I wanted to, that's not at issue. What is at issue is whether I
want to do this, philosophically. I know Goren's up to something
more than anyone's willing to admit. Maybe if I invited more than
just businessmen, politicians and scholars in key positions on
Earth. Maybe if I invited prefects and whatever they have on Gaia
resembling businessmen as well. What if I used this opportunity to
out Goren to his own people? Now that might make a difference.

Palmer pulls away from me and smoothes my
hair. "You okay?" he asks.

I manage a nod.

"Had enough pizza for one day?" He smiles
and I know everything will be okay.

"What is it, Rice?" Bob Diaz asked. Diaz must
have virtually teleported to John Rice's desk; he'd barely had
enough time to re-seat the phone's handset in its cradle.

"More C1s, sir."

"More of the same?"

"No, sir. SOHO Prime's picked up one
originating in the downtown core and several more north of the
city, sir."

"Several?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you say, north of the city?"

Diaz sighed heavily. More C1s meant more
trouble. His men would have to log more hours to efficiently
monitor the situation putting a significant dent in his operating
budget. Never mind the fact that so many large radiation bursts
originating from the surface of the planet smelled like trouble no
matter how you sliced it. He'd also have to call the authorities
again.

"I'll send you the GPS co-ordinates
ASAP."

Diaz nodded. "Good work, Rice." His voice
sounded more deflated than encouraging.

Having noticed activity around Rice's desk,
Ozzie decided to investigate. "What's that? Rice sucking up
again?"

"Shut up, Osmond," Rice told him.

"Rice has discovered two more points of
origin for the C1 flares."

"No shit!" Ozzie said. "What can I do?"

"Osmund: Continue to monitor all media
channels. Rice: Keep a close eye on SOHO transmissions. Hourly
reports."

Another lazy Sunday topped off by another
lazy Sunday evening. Palmer's invited Schliemann over for a
brainstorming session with me. He sits at his desk, perusing a
number of digital spreadsheets detailing his last few summer
budgets. In the midst of all this, Palmer's planning the
university's summer archaeological field school. It's ironic,
really, trying to preserve the past when we're not even sure we can
preserve the future. The television's set to a twenty-four hour
news station with the volume turned down. Josef Schliemann sits in
the easy chair by the door with his laptop, as do I behind my desk.
Both of us are trying to figure out who to invite to Symposium.

"Is anyone hungry?" I ask. Before anyone can
answer, I add, "I could go for anything but pizza. I'm all pizzaed
out."

Palmer looks up from his monitor. "Anything,
Moll. Whatever you decide is fine with me."

I'm not really hungry, not yet, but I'm
starting to feel like I might be in the next hour or so. It's a
good sign—the first time since Stanley's death that I think I might
be able to have a proper meal. "Does anyone feel for Chinese?"

"Molly, please," Palmer scolds. He looks at
me and his face softens somewhat. When he speaks, so has his voice.
"I have to finish crunching these numbers tonight. If I don't get
the proposal done, we won't be digging anywhere anytime soon."

Schliemann makes a face at me showing we've
goofed once Palmer's attention returns to his monitor. I shake my
head at him and watch the news. The lead story is the latest oil
tanker to spring a leak in the Pacific. Greenpeace members work in
a gentle frenzy to save the wildlife. Dish soap bottle logos figure
prominently in the shameless photo-ops that ensue. A tickertape
scrolls across the bottom of the television screen detailing
Friday's activity on the Toronto Stock Exchange, all gobbledy-gook
to me with one exception. Amidst all the short forms for the
businesses, one seems to stick out, a stock named 'GaiaCorp'.

"GaiaCorp?" I say.

"What?" Joey asks.

"GaiaCorp. On the TV. It's a stock on the
TSX." I open a Google session on my computer and search for
reference to GaiaCorp. Google returns ten hits—the first a web site
for a company formally called Gaia Corporation. "Here it is," I
say. "They make green products." I click on the link.

Joey says, "Seeing as Gaia is the Greek
Earth Mother Goddess, it stands to reason an environmentally
friendly company would—"

"They're an R and D firm."

"What do they R and D?" Palmer asks,
interested in spite of his budgetary concerns.

On their homepage is a list of their
research. "Solar panels...fuel cells...alternate energy sources..."
I can't believe the technologies on the list. I have to stop and
read it again.

Palmer asks, "Are you ok? You look
pale."

Schliemann nudges the wastebasket beside my
desk in my direction with his foot. It catches my bare baby toe and
stings. I read them the list again, this time, in its entirety:
"Solar panels, fuel cells, alternate energy sources...magnetic
levitation transportation systems and terraforming."

"No way," Palmer says. He rushes behind my
chair and reads the webpage over my shoulder. "There's a link," he
says, pointing to the text. "Click on it."

The hyperlink opens to a diagram of a small,
charcoal grey, two-seater car. A rudder-like steering mechanism in
lieu of a steering wheel is visible through the open window. "Oh my
God!"

"What? What is it?" Schliemann says as he
jumps to his feet and tries to get a glimpse at my computer
screen.

"That looks exactly like a civ vehicle."

"What's that? A 'civ vehicle'?"

Palmer explains while I continue to study
the image and the text following.

Schliemann laughs when Palmer's done.
"Surely it has to be a coincidence, right?"

"Who's on the board of directors?" Palmer
asks.

I go back to the homepage and do a search.
"CEO is Loman Praetner." I go back to Google and type the name into
the search window.

"What are you doing now?" asks Schliemann.
He sounds upset by the whole thing, almost panicked.

"I'm searching for Loman Praetner."

"Why are you doing that?"

I shrug. "To learn more about him?"

"Why?" Schliemann asks. "Why him?"

"Molly thinks GaiaCorp is exactly that: a
Gaian corporation," Palmer explains.

"Here?" Schliemann laughs. "On Earth? But
you said there's been no contact with Gaia since the fifties."

"That we previously knew of. Now we know
better," Palmer says. He reads the website on display over my
shoulder.

"Because of the name of the company?"

"Because of the technology they're into," I
tell him. "You sound frightened, Josef. Why all the questions?"
This is exciting. Our first real evidence of Gaian activity on
Earth. I'd think Schliemann would want me to follow the lead, to do
the research, not question my motivation at every keystroke.

"Me?" he says. He straightens his posture
and squares his shoulders. "Frightened? No, not at all. I just
don't see—"

"If you want out, Joey," I threaten, "just
say so and—"

"Nothing on Loman Praetner that I can find,"
Palmer says. As Schliemann and I duke it out, Palmer co-opts my
mouse and continues the search.

Schliemann and I glare at each other for a
moment. Try as I might, I can't seem to get a grip on his attitude,
why he's here, why he came back, if he's not so gung-ho about our
research. "Try another search engine," I tell Palmer.

Three hits turn up, each of them directing
us back to the GaiaCorp website. "Nothing," he says.

"Go back to GaiaCorp," I tell him, "I want
the company's address."

"What for?" Schliemann asks.

"I'm going to pay them a visit tomorrow. I
want to speak with this Praetner guy first hand."

"He's the CEO of the company, Molly. Do you
really think they're going to grant you audience so readily?"
Schliemann says.

"I can go one better than the address of
GaiaCorp," says Palmer. "Cyber-411 has Praetner's home address.
I'll get directions." He plunks the address into MapQuest and
prints out a map and directions for me.

"So much for a lazy Sunday evening," I say.
I wriggle my way between the men and head for the office door.

"You're going there now?" Schliemann asks,
seemingly horrified.

"You have something else you'd rather
do?"

"And you're going to let her go?" he asks
Palmer. "Alone?"

"I assumed you'd want to go with her, but if
you're chickening out—"

"Of course I'll go with her. Of course."

"Good. I've got my budget to tend to,"
Palmer says.

"Then it's settled," I say. "Give me a
moment to change."

My phone rings its default ring indicating a
call from an unknown number. When I pick up, Schliemann’s on the
other end. "Where are you?" I ask.

"In the car behind you." I turn and he
flashes me his brights. We're parked outside the Praetner
residence. It's an Edwardian knock-off on a park-sized lot, built
sometime in the mid 1900s, in a prestigious suburb of the city.

"Get out of your car, Josef. Let's go."

I reach for the door handle as Schliemann
says, "Wait a minute. Before you go..." and I relax back into my
seat.

"What is it, Josef?"