The Other Tree Read online

  “Thought it’d be fun to check out the slums?” asked Luke.

  “I got lost.”

  “I’ll walk you back to your hotel.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  She gave Luke a quick smile before jogging away down a side street.

  “I thought you said you were lost,” said Luke.

  “I’m okay now.”

  “What’s your name?” called Luke, as the woman retreated down the dim laneway.

  Her voice carried back from the alley.

  “Thena!”

  5

  Money wasn’t everything.

  There was intelligence, stealth, brute force, and allegedly, feminine wiles. Chris was favouring the second option, and had decided there were insufficient resources for the third or fourth.

  Chris slowly circled the halls of St Basilissa’s Museum for the umpteenth time, raking her gaze across the lighting rigs and security cameras, willing the receptionist to take an extended tea break, or perhaps to just spontaneously pass out.

  Docker and his team had gone through the door behind the reception desk—the Sumerian tablet had to be somewhere through there.

  Chris paused near the front desk to examine a display featuring a two-thousand-year-old piece of dental floss from South America. According to the information plaque, it had been painstakingly reconstructed from seventeen different pieces of fibre. Chris tried to look interested.

  The receptionist, Fabian, was trying not to fidget. He adjusted his nametag again, then nervously clenched his hands on the desk. He quite liked his job, although he had aspired as a child to be a cameleer. However, he had discovered that camels disliked him marginally more than he disliked eye infections from flying sand, so museums it was. He liked the order of the museum and the wonder he occasionally saw in people when they viewed a particular display. There was a certain gratification to sharing marvellous things with the public.

  Which was why it grated when certain parties swanned in, expecting rare items to be made available, demanding exclusive access to valuable pieces. This was a museum, not Rodeo Drive. Fabian remembered the time an advertising company had rented a rare Cambodian clay chalice for a beer ad, and it had come back chipped and smudged with lipstick stains. He had heard the Assistant Curator crying in her office for days.

  The telephone on his desk rang, and Fabian scooped up the receiver.

  Chris watched surreptitiously as Fabian spoke softly in Italian, his tone clipped and unhappy, in the manner of employees everywhere when being given instructions they were not disposed to follow, and which they would invariably recount in their exit interviews. Fabian replaced the receiver stiffly and strode over to the security door, pressing a short code into the control pad.

  Chris held her breath, wrapping her fingers around a business card in her pocket. She watched closely as Fabian opened the door and disappeared through it.

  As the door began to swing shut, Chris lunged past the desk and slipped the business card into the locking mechanism. She tried to look inconspicuous as she held the card tightly, listening as the footsteps died away. Glancing casually around the reception hall, she took a deep breath and slipped through the door.

  Life is full of classic choices, many of them clear dichotomies. One or the other. Left or right. Right or wrong. And often, of such simple choices, great historic changes are made, or wonderful opportunities lost.

  The corridor was carpeted in rich, verdant green, and the walls were panelled in polished teak. At the end of the short hallway lay a staircase curving upwards, and another leading down.

  The world can be divided into two camps. The first consists of those who, when confronted with a giant beanstalk, will climb to the top, and most likely be bestowed with riches and fame. The second group consists of people like Chris, who will probably dig up the beanstalk, take it home, and try to find out how it managed to get so damned big. They would then try to apply the same principle to potatoes in the hope of ending world hunger. There is actually a third group, whose instinct is to sell the beanstalk for woodchips to make cheap, unstable furniture, but they are unlikely to have found the beanstalk in the first place.

  Choices like these dictated the kind of life you led, and ultimately defined whether you viewed the world from above, or from within.

  Chris trod softly to the staircase, and with a cautious glance upwards, began to descend the stairs. The staircase continued for some time. As it descended the carpet took on a dull, stained look, and some of the wooden panelling became bloated and speckled. Several of the blown light bulbs had not been replaced, leaving their frosted glass sconces brimming with shadow. Just as Chris began to suspect that the carpet was damp, the staircase ended at a blue metal door with a steel handle.

  Seeing no suspicious wires, obvious cameras, or signs warning against the inappropriate use of fire escapes, Chris turned the door handle and pushed. She cringed and waited, but there was only silence. She pushed the door open wider, and saw a dim, concrete corridor stretching ahead. Plain blue doors studded the walls, and at the very end of the corridor was a heavy red door marked “Staff Only.”

  When searching for forbidden artefacts, doors labelled “Keep Out” were often good places to start. Chris stepped carefully into the corridor, and covered her nose with a hand. There was an odd smell down here—not like must and millipedes, more like…something rotting, very reluctantly. Her shoes crunched on the gritty concrete as she approached the far door, and the odour grew much stronger.

  Trying not to breathe too deeply, or at all, Chris stopped at the glistening red door, her hand hovering over the metal handle.

  Well, thought Chris, it doesn’t say “Do Not Enter,” or “Radioactive.”

  In the silence, she thought she could hear a faint squelching noise on the other side of the door.

  Her hand closed on the handle.

  “Oh my God, stop!” cried a voice.

  Chris spun around, excuses already sorting themselves into order.

  A woman with thick brown hair had emerged from a side door, and she was staring at Chris with an expression somewhere between horror and hysterical panic. She wore a name badge, reading “Rnynw: Assistant Curator of Uncategorised Objects,” but more striking was her choice of a harlequin blouse with a skirt patterned in skulls and crossbones. She also happened to be carrying a tumbleweed.

  “I was looking for the bathroom,” said Chris.

  Rnynw rushed over to Chris, inspecting the door urgently.

  “What’s behind there?” asked Chris.

  “Uh,” Rnynw looked suddenly wary. “Nothing.”

  Squelch.

  “You’re not from city council, are you?” asked Rnynw, a bead of sweat forming on her brow.

  Chris glanced at the tumbleweed.

  “Actually, I’m a Miscellaneous Academic from Varria University,” said Chris. “My office is a lot like this.”

  Chris gestured around the basement, and she saw Rnynw relax slightly.

  “You know, you can get rid of the mould on the walls by spraying it with a fifteen-percent tea tree oil solution,” said Chris. “No impact on millipedes, though.”

  “I don’t know how they get down here,” muttered Rnynw, watching a trail of them scuttle across the floor.

  Satisfied that the door hadn’t been breached, Rnynw walked back towards a side door. Chris squinted at Rnynw’s name tag.

  “That’s a very unusual name,” said Chris delicately.

  “My name’s Rochelle,” said Rnynw. “They messed up my nametag and couldn’t afford to reprint it.”

  “You could tell people you’re Welsh.”

  Rnynw smiled wryly as she pushed her way into a cluttered room. The interior was piled high with crates and trays, boxes and bags, and was lined with shelves heaving under countless unidentifiable objects made from minerals, metal, and possibly hair.

  “I don’t spend enough time upstairs to talk to anyone.” Rnynw placed the tumbleweed on a desk ha
lf-submerged beneath a landslide of tiny wooden carvings. “I’m stuck down here classifying things that will never go on display.”

  “Things?” Chris perked up. “Like Sumerian tablets?”

  “Oh no! Things like that are kept in the prime vault in the secure sector, on the lockdown level near the roof under the guards’ unit.”

  Somewhere, a cricket chirped.

  “Oh.”

  “I do things like pre-historic orthopaedics and alien carvings,” said Rnynw, holding up a rough soapstone statuette of a humanoid with antennae.

  “Wow. That’s…”

  “Weird, I know. And crazy. Which is why these things will never go on display. They won’t throw them out, just in case, but they’d never put their name to them.”

  Chris picked up a clay urn depicting a weeping figure surrounded by middens of rubbish, a large stylised diamond floating above its head.

  “Strange things can be fun,” said Chris. “They make people ask questions. Canals on Mars, chariots of the gods, who built the moon. Questions strengthen good theories and expose the flaws in bad ones. I think it’d be fun if the museum had an exhibition of all your strange artefacts. I bet it’d pull a crowd.”

  Rnynw contemplated this, turning the tumbleweed in her hands.

  “So, you’re interested in Sumerian tablets?” said Rnynw.

  “Just one,” sighed Chris. “I don’t suppose you have any photos, or know anyone with a spare guard’s uniform?”

  “No. But I know who we got our tablet from. And where you can find him.”

  * * *

  A blue light strobed slowly across the room as the scanning laser crawled over the clay tablet. Docker’s eyes reflected electric blue as he watched, unblinking.

  “How many more?” he asked.

  “Just the radiotrophic isotopic scan on the verso,” replied Roman as her fingers beat rapidly across the touchscreen.

  The black and chrome-banded scanner hung over the small tablet like a huge, predatory insect, the glowing slit charging up for the final scan. With a deep hum, the blue light filled the room again, sliding across the clay.

  Halbert watched the proceedings with a sense of unease. The SinaCorp delegation had performed over a dozen tests and scans on that tablet, without giving any reason for their intense interest. In his experience, obsession led down a dangerous path, usually to poverty, ridicule, and poor hygiene. However, the smartly dressed professionals before him represented a different brand of obsession. It was the difference between a crackpot wielding a stick of stale bread, and a sniper with a scud missile. In Prada.

  As the scanner light faded, Roman sat very still for a moment, staring at the touchscreen from behind dark sunglasses. Her expression was unreadable, but every muscle seemed to tense as she resisted the urge to say something. Halbert leaned forward, and Roman flicked off the screen. Bale dismantled the scanner with practiced efficiency, folding it neatly into a guitar-sized case.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Vesina,” said Docker. “Good luck with your toad problem.”

  “Wait—” said Halbert, as Bale lifted the tablet carefully into a foam case. “Where are you taking that?”

  “We’ll be borrowing your artefact,” said Docker. “I’m sure your patrons won’t miss it.”

  “We would normally expect security on such a rare item,” said Halbert, with the distinct feeling that he was stepping off a cliff in the hope of sprouting wings.

  Docker gave Halbert a smile, but his eyes held a completely different message. Bale and Roman finished packing the equipment into cases resembling luxury hand luggage. They stood to attention behind Docker.

  “Of course,” said Docker. “I’ll have SinaCorp make a special delivery to the museum tomorrow.”

  With that, the SinaCorp delegation left, leaving Halbert with the ominous feeling that it might be a good time to change occupations, and possibly continents.

  * * *

  Chris ran up the damp green stairs two at a time.

  Her mind was bubbling with the kind of excited righteousness that led people to declare “I’ll show them! I’ll show them all! Who’s crazy now?”

  Admittedly, some of this had to do with the fumes from Rnynw’s acetate markers, but most of it stemmed from Chris’s determination to prove that superior funding would not be the deciding factor in the race to find the Tree of Life. Chris wanted to believe in things like persistence, passion, and being right. All those years of pushing trolleys and skulking around basements had to have been the right choice, it had to mean something. It had to mean she’d been working towards the right moment—this moment, not just a sign that she hadn’t been good enough, smart enough, tough enough, to have achieved more.

  Chris leapt up the last few stairs and froze at the sound of footsteps trampling down the upper staircase. She swung back down the stairs and threw herself to the floor, peering through the polished teak banister.

  As the footsteps drew nearer, Chris saw Fabian descend the stairs into the hallway, followed by Docker, the woman wearing sunglasses, and the dourer of the two fit men she’d seen earlier. The SinaCorp trio was carrying an assortment of cases, and one slim briefcase had a thin silver chain attached to the handle, disappearing up Docker’s sleeve.

  Chris experienced a brief pang of regret at not having continued with Wushu lessons in primary school. Once she had discovered it would take over thirty years of training before she could paralyse people with two fingers, she had given it up, having found that she could do pretty much the same thing with belladonna.

  Fabian held open the door to the museum hall.

  “Mr. Bale, Ms. Roman, after you.”

  The dour man and the woman with shades glided through. Docker paused in the doorway and turned around towards the staircase, as though responding to a noise.

  Chris held her breath as Docker stared down the silent hallway, and she wondered briefly whether she was actually in danger of anything aside from acute embarrassment and possible charges of trespassing. Finally, Docker smiled, apparently to himself, and the door clicked closed as he left.

  Chris waited a few long beats before slipping quietly into the reception hall. There was a late-afternoon trickle of visitors in the main hall, and she could see the loose crowd subconsciously parting as Docker and his group headed towards the main doors.

  “Chris!”

  She saw Luke marching across the hall towards her, looking irate. Chris sprinted across the floor and pushed Luke quickly behind a giant large-print medieval text for vision-impaired monks.

  “I’ve been trying to call you for the last half hour,” said Luke, waving his phone.

  Chris peered anxiously around the text, watching as Docker and his team left the museum.

  “You were supposed to be done with that when I got back,” said Luke.

  “SinaCorp,” said Chris. “They have the Sumerian tablet.”

  “Did I miss the part where this turned from fanciful archaeological expedition to espionage thriller? It’s like that terrible vampire road movie all over again.”

  Luke followed Chris as she walked cautiously out of the museum, stepping into the warm afternoon light.

  “I was going to mention,” began Chris. “SinaCorp have a team looking for the Tree of Life.”

  Several pieces of information slotted neatly into place for Luke, like crucial blocks in a Tetris game.

  “But I wasn’t expecting to run into them,” continued Chris quickly. “Except at the very end, and I was definitely going to have told you by then.”

  Luke put his hands in his pockets, his gaze skimming across the wide sandstone street, the buildings painted in a molten afternoon glow. A light breeze floated through from the bay, carrying the smell of salted fish and sea spray. “Really,” was all Luke said.

  “Do you like underdog stories?” asked Chris with a hopeful smile.

  Luke realised why he’d felt the urge to hide under his desk the day she’d come by. Hers wasn’t the kind
of madness you saw from miles away, involving public nudity and running down the street with other people’s undergarments on your head. It was the kind of madness that made someone stand alone in front of a hostile legion, wielding a banner that read “And your mother, too!” It was the kind of madness that made you believe pride, hope, and love could win against wealth, power, and hard weaponry. It was the kind of madness that got people killed.

  If you weren’t careful around such people, it could be infectious.

  “Well, I bribed some centurions and got mistaken for a homeless man,” said Luke. “How did you go?”

  “It’s that linty trenchcoat you wear.”

  “It’s a long jacket. And it’s wool.”

  Chris looked at the coat sceptically—it looked vaguely like a wild ancestor of the domesticated cardigan.

  “I think I have a lead,” said Chris. “The Sumerian tablet was donated to St Basilissa’s in 1748 by Ferdinand Abbaci, a Garden of Eden nut.”

  “There seem to be a lot of those,” said Luke.

  “They say he was a local shipping merchant, spent a fortune trying to locate Eden. Died an impoverished recluse. The ruins of his mausoleum and chapel are supposed to be somewhere just outside the city.”

  “Lyon’s Crossing,” murmured Luke. “I think I know where to find it.”

  * * *

  The door to the hotel suite opened a crack and Emir slipped inside, closing the door silently. He turned around and stopped dead.

  The room was a mess.

  The contents of bags were scrunched and scattered, and pieces of disassembled equipment had been strewn about the floor.

  “Man! Where have you been?” said Stace from the midst of the disaster zone, clutching his head. “You know I can never get stuff to fit back in the bags!”

  “Sorry,” said Emir, quickly scooping up stray objects and folding equipment back down to size. “I had some stuff to do.”

  “Docker wants us ready yesterday, and you know how snotty he gets—”

  “I know.” Emir slid something which resembled a rocket launcher into a stylish tote.

  Stace studied Emir for a moment, watching the introspection oozing from his colleague.