“Please, my dear professor,” Censor Smith says, standing up. “I think I speak for all our students when I say that I am ready to skip the rest of these preparatory activities and move on to the Century Festival.”
Oh, yes, Ximena thinks, and joins the spontaneous burst of applause that fills the auditorium. Even Mark whistles next to her with loud enthusiasm.
While Censor Smith sits with a pleased expression on his face, Professor Miyagi laughs on stage and raises both hands at his audience. “I hear you, people, I hear you. Fine, fine. Context is clear enough, I think. So, Ank, 31st of December, please?”
Twenty-Six
The Lost Colony
A scene comes to life across the amphitheater: a bird’s eye view over the colony of Lunteren on a bright winter afternoon. Smoke rises from hundreds of chimneys, the scent of burning firewood intertwines in the fresh air. The sun hangs low over the sea, spreading long shadows over the landscape.
Ximena wets her lips, trying to rein in her anticipation. It is only hours to the new century.
Like a bird that has spotted a shiny object, the scene begins to glide down, ever closer to the buildings standing on the south-western edge of the colony. Not far away an extensive array of solar panels follows the sinking sun with obsessive eagerness, next to other structures like wind turbines and what looks like huge silos. Crop fields, barren now in the winter, extend far beyond.
The scene approaches an imposing building right on the edge of the colony: an old Christian church, solid and still proud. The structure—even the tower that rises at the end of the rectangular main body—is aesthetically elegant, walls of red brick under a black slate roof.
The scene lands smoothly on the open space south of the church, its bricks bright red in the sun. A large, yellow side door is the only visible entrance.
Ximena turns her head to a sudden, high-pitched whiz, in time to see a cycling figure turning a corner at considerable speed. She immediately recognizes Gotthard as he skillfully dismounts the bicycle before it is fully at rest, and parks it among others near the entrance. The sturdy—and yet elegant—bicycle carries a large heavy-looking block attached to the frame, possibly an electric battery; a crude one, judging by the size. The other bicycles in the rack look primitive and worn-down in comparison.
Gotthard takes a wrapped package that he was carrying in the bike’s front basket, and strides into the church. The scene’s point of view follows behind him.
The inside is lit by direct sunlight streaming in through tall windows, so all electric lamps, placed at intervals on the walls, are off at the moment. The space looks like a factory floor, humming with activity. Grease, sweat and poor ventilation produce an unsavory smell. Workers are busy attending tall, bulky machines placed in two parallel rows.
“Printing presses,” Mark whispers in Ximena’s ears.
She nods silently, eyes hypnotically fixed on the large cylinders as they rotate with the soft purr of electric power, pressing ink against paper, cutting pages and stacking them on neat piles that younger workers—recent adults not much older than ten—move swiftly away, returning with more ink, paper rolls and other supplies.
Gotthard, wrapped package in his right hand, walks with determined pace across the open space, ignoring the surrounding bustle.
“Man Kraker!” a youthful voice calls to the side, a short, chubby girl, sweating profusely. “Would you mind looking at this blade? The cut is dirty, I think there is a vibration or a—”
Gotthard ignores the girl. At the end of the room, he walks past a vaulted arc into a square area: the base of the tower. As Gotthard approaches a narrow passage of steps, another voice—authoritative this time—stops him. “Gotthard, wait!”
A man already in his mid-twenties approaches Gotthard with quick, short steps. He is carrying a large, elongated object and wears a colorful robe of fine fabric. Despite his skinny, pale face and receding hair, his confident gait produces an almost attractive impression.
“Colder van Althuis,” Gotthard says with a stiff smile. “Aws Blessings to you.”
The man laughs, glancing back at the main room, where the noise of production shields their voices. “We’re alone, young boy. Why so formal? You don’t even stop for a chat these days.” He shoots a wink. “Were you going up to your lair?”
“Sorry, Simon. Uh, yes. I want to get some work done before heading off to the Festival.”
“You too,” he sighs, and shakes his head in frustration. “The whole night shift is refusing work tonight.”
Gotthard chuckles. “And you are surprised?”
“I know.” Colder van Althuis waves a hand dismissively. “The event of the millennium and all that; but work needs to be done, Goah’s Mercy.”
Gotthard laughs. “This is not the event of the millennium, Simon. The Century Festival is the biggest thing ever to happen in Lunteren’s history, and you expect people to miss out? Be realistic. Is that for me?” He points at the bulky object that Colder van Althuis is carrying in his hands.
“That Speese woman left it for you.” Colder van Althuis hands it to Gotthard. “What is it?” He stares with curiosity at the long metallic pole and the thick flexible cable, made of the same metal, loosely wrapped around the pole.
“Ah, nothing… just an experiment I’m doing.” Gotthard shifts his weight to better carry both the cabled pole and the wrapped package in both hands. “If you will excuse me, I really must…” he staggers towards the stairs.
Colder van Althuis squints up. “You are not using the tower for anything… inappropriate, are you?”
“No! Of course not.”
“I’m taking a risk here, young man. Leasing it to you. I hope you don’t betray my trust.”
“Never, Simon. It’s just a private science lab, that’s all!”
Colder van Althuis smiles. “I know, I know.” He gestures at the working space behind him. “Listen, Gotthard. I know you’re not
