Deportation translated - final version - Chapter 1
1. Graendal Vlkov, a Supreme Judge by lot
To avoid drawing unwanted attention, Graendal wore tinted glasses through the flight, and queued last in the border control line. Nobody paid attention to the taut man, a little taller than average, forty years old, dressed in loose pants and a gray linen shirt.
Only during the face control did he take off his glasses, and the young lieutenant immediately lost his official phlegmatic posture.
- You are the Graendal Vlkov? The judge?
- Yes, don’t I look like him?
- I have just learned. I saw yesterday on TV. Wow you made them squirm!
- Really?
- In my opinion, yes. Here’s your card, sen Vlkov. Welcome back home. Good luck!
- Thank you, sen officer.
The home, at the Sonfao atoll, has been 700 kilometers away, but homey spirit surrounded him as soon as he got onto the train from the airport to the Lanton bay pier. A motley crowd of all races and colors, dressed in all possible styles of clothing, from mild tropical denim suits to traditional sarongs and lava-lava, gesturing animatedly, chatting with each other and on mobile phones in all eight primary Meganesian languages. Sunset time is a kind of a rush hour in Lanton.
The announcement of the contest for social administration was less than a month away, so the political agendas advertising, languen guangao (join our wishes), or «soc4u» (in the SMS jargon) have filled almost all the posters, tusinbao, along the route.
Next to this poster loitered two dozen noisy off-dressed young men. Their bodies were painted and decorated with shiny appliqués. Nearby, a police car has been parked. Two uniformed policemen, one Indian and one Irish, were discussing some matter with a blue-haired young mulatto with a silver ring in her nose and a loincloth of luminous fabric around her waist.
Graendal snorted. He could understand body painting, but completely disapproved piercings and the like. However, everyone has the right to decorate their bodies as he sees fit - tastes do differ.
At the piers that radiated from the square named after Che Guevara swayed hundreds of hydroplanes of different designs, sizes and colors, carrying emblems of transport firms, in Chinese characters, symbols of the aboriginal tribal totem Utafoa, and just whatever came in handy, according to the artistic taste and the fantasy of the owners. A few dozen such machines were scurrying into the air and rolling in the water, taking off or landing. The bay was lit with dozens of spotlights and bright taxi advertisements. Agents of the trade union of individual aerial rickshaws, mostly teenagers, strolled along the area carrying banners with flight directions and prices.
Having found themselves here, foreigners usually get lost and purchase the tickets at the office of the central agency of internal transport, in the glass pyramid in the middle of the square. But Graendal was a local, and it only took him five minutes to find an affordable rickshaw to Sonfao. The cheapness was primarily due to the presence of two fellow travelers flying to the Terarua atoll: a Chinese woman in an almost invisible bikini, and a Russian in bright orange Bahama shorts. This made Graendal’s road about fifty kilometers longer.
The secondary circumstance has been the lack of public certification of the aircraft. The rickshaw disclosed that, as he was obliged, to the passengers.
- Da huya sya (oh, cool) - said the girl ironically, and climbed into the back seat .
- Po huy (no difference) - added her boyfriend succinctly and followed her.
Graendal shrugged and sat next to the pilot. Any Meganezian knows rickshaws ignore certification. A machine that conforms to the standards is much more expensive than a simple fiberglass «fly-wing» with a compact yet powerful alcohol turbine.
Rickshaw made sure the passengers are buckled, closed the fairing and muttered something into the microphone. Then he turned on the lights and the turbine. The aircraft ran a hundred meters in the cool water and soared into the air. For a while Graendal looked down at the ocean, dotted with scatterings of bright colored lights indicating shipping lanes and fishing areas. At some point he lost the border between the ocean and the starry sky, and dozed off for two hours, until the landing in the Terarua lagoon. The rickshaw pulled up to one of the piers, the couple climbed out and inside came an 80 year old man, who looked like a purebred Utafoa.
- To Ragaiu - he grumbled.
- Through Sonfao, twenty pounds.
- Fifteen.
- Seventeen - threw the rickshaw.
The grandpa nodded slowly, counted out the bills, handed them to the rickshaw and began to stuff self-grown tobacco into his long pipe embellished with intricate carvings.
The light aircraft turned to the lagoon exit and soared back into the air.
Ten minutes later the cabin was filled with fragrant smoke. The pilot sneezed a couple of times and opened the ventilation louvers a bit. As a matter of fact, one was not supposed to smoke aboard, but most Meganesians didn’t bother noting that to the elders.
Graendal pulled out a mobile phone and poked the icon with the image of the lodge.
- Hi, honey!
- Aloha! Where are you?
- A hundred miles to the south. Be there in half an hour.
- OK. Irji will meet you with the boat. Hungry?
- Hell I am!
- It's good. I love to feed you.
- And I love you.
- I love you too. See you, kisses.
- Your wife? - asked the grandfather from the back seat.
- Yes.
- Beautiful?
- Very.
Graendal held the firm conviction that Laysha was the most beautiful woman, at least within our galaxy.
- Many children?
Graendal silently showed two fingers.
- Wah! - outraged the grandfather - no good! A strong man, a beautiful woman, should make a lot of children. Who will live under the sun, if you are lazy?
- We are working on it, - replied Graendal diplomatically.
The old Utafoa mumbled something and turned back to the window. Evidently, the answer did not dispel his concerns about the size of the next generation.
After some time, a small spot of light shimmered in the distance: the tiny Sonfao City was teeming with nightlife. Soon, one could distinguish the lights of the houses along the coast, and the yellow dots on the mast lanterns of the fishing proa around the atoll. The mobile squeaked.
- Hi, Dad! I see a light two degrees to the south, is that you?
- Hi, Irji. I think so, no one is flying nearby.
- Aha! I'm in the lagoon, I’ll now fire a red signal.
In 15 seconds a bright scarlet star appeared in the middle of the lagoon. Graendal touched rickshaw’s shoulder and pointed.
- Picking you up? - He asked, slightly shifting the headphones.
- Yes. My son.
- Wow! How old is he?
- Thirteen.
- You let the boy sail in the ocean during the night?
- Very good! - interjected the old man - I was sailing between atolls in the night when I was 10 years old.
- You’re Utafoa - said the pilot - you sailor skills are in your genes.
Grandpa chuckled snidely.
- Said a scientific word and you think it’s all explained?
- Anyway, a laguna is not open ocean - said Graendal.
The plane touched the water, made a long arc and stopped a few hundred meters from a small boat. The pilot pulled back the cowl.
- Good luck!
- Good luck in the sky! - Graendal said, got out of the cab to the right float, and jumped into the boat, which was already near him.
Irji gravely sat at the helm. Thin and dark-skinned, he could pass for a native, if not the red hair, green eyes and freckles that the tan could not quite hide.
- They were freaking annoying, yes, Dad? - he asked, aiming the boat at a distant pier.
- Who?
- Well, the - the boy shook his left hand in the air - Western offies. Our ekostory teacher says they are schmucks - and have always been. How do euros and the yankees live there?
- He says that?
- Well, not exactly, but close. Is that not true?
- What can I say - Graendal scratched his head - of course, the politicians there are rotten. But people adapt. They survive and perceive the politicians as a nuisance. And how are the things here?
- Fine. Sabi and I fixed the windmill turbine yesterday, while ma was at work.
- What, you dragged Sabi to the tower? Don’t you understand she’s too young?
- She wanted to, why do you blame me?
- Did you at least use the safety belts?
- Of course, but ma is still cursing.
They were approaching the house. The building, as it’s common in Meganesian suburbs, consisted mainly of terraces, balconies and canopies. Except that here in the center there was a reinforced concrete box, wooden staircase entwined with plastic and covered with a roof in the shape of a butterfly spreading its wings. There was a butterfly proboscis, or more precisely, a hose dipped into the pool: the roof doubled as a condensing water collector and a solar battery. On the sides were the wind turbine tower, a pole with a satellite dish, an antenna and the tanks of the local water supply system. This level of autonomy was commonplace here. Many even produced fuel alcohol from fermented algae in the backyard. The Vlkov family preferred to buy not only fuel, but also fish in the city market, earning the reputation of the somewhat lazies among the neighbors. Alcohol, people could understand, but buying fish when the ocean is full of it? On the other hand, the Vlkov’s orchard was the subject of envy. How, people were asking, did they manage to grow not only the usual plants like pumpkins and bananas, but even grapes, from which they made an excellent grappa? No one believed that this is only a consequence of Laysha’s agroengineering knowledge, and attributed her talent to her Italian origin. Everything, they said, is in the genes. From the front terrace, a wide staircase led down to the pier at the ocean shore, where stood another canopy. The canopy hosted the usual array of cheap aircrafts and a small SUV. At the pier was moored a proa, not a heavy one, with a trawl winch for fishing like most, but of a lightweight and sporty kind. Pampering, people would say.
On the tip of the pier, between the two marker beacons, hands on hips, stood Laysha. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt that has been white once, but now was covered with spots of fruit juice. For a native Calabrian farmer, she was lacking in the volume of the breast and thighs, and a higher education didn’t bring her closer either. But these small things couldn’t really stop Laysha if she decided to take on the role.
- Horror! - She said, casting a mocking glance on her husband with bright green eyes - Sunken cheeks, green face. What the hell did you eat in this barbaric Europe? To the table, now!
- Phew - Graendal hugged her, burying his face in the coarse hair the color of dark bronze - To the table sounds great. And if somebody poured me a glass of grappa...
- You’ll get it after you take a shower and throw your rags in the washing machine. Looks like you have collected all the dust from this dirty continent.
- Nothing like that - he said - there’s plenty left.
- I'm happy then. The Europeans won’t have to change their habits. And now, to the shower.
To avoid drawing unwanted attention, Graendal wore tinted glasses through the flight, and queued last in the border control line. Nobody paid attention to the taut man, a little taller than average, forty years old, dressed in loose pants and a gray linen shirt.
Only during the face control did he take off his glasses, and the young lieutenant immediately lost his official phlegmatic posture.
- You are the Graendal Vlkov? The judge?
- Yes, don’t I look like him?
- I have just learned. I saw yesterday on TV. Wow you made them squirm!
- Really?
- In my opinion, yes. Here’s your card, sen Vlkov. Welcome back home. Good luck!
- Thank you, sen officer.
The home, at the Sonfao atoll, has been 700 kilometers away, but homey spirit surrounded him as soon as he got onto the train from the airport to the Lanton bay pier. A motley crowd of all races and colors, dressed in all possible styles of clothing, from mild tropical denim suits to traditional sarongs and lava-lava, gesturing animatedly, chatting with each other and on mobile phones in all eight primary Meganesian languages. Sunset time is a kind of a rush hour in Lanton.
The announcement of the contest for social administration was less than a month away, so the political agendas advertising, languen guangao (join our wishes), or «soc4u» (in the SMS jargon) have filled almost all the posters, tusinbao, along the route.
Are you wealthy enough to not care about utility costs? We are not. Vote for the quota for the poor in the supervisory board of public utilities. It is profitable to you.
Most professions require two higher educations. You want an efficient economy? Vote for social payment for the second higher education.
Don’t want to live in a country where everybody is the same as you? Then vote your support for the Aboriginal islander communities today, because tomorrow no money will bring them back.
I have a dream to see the world, but I do not have enough money. Don’t want to be surrounded by boring people in ten years? Vote for the financing of children's social tourism.
Tired of high prices? Not satisfied with the quality of goods? The Hi-Tech development is controlled by ignoramuses! Vote for the qualification requirements for social observers.
Do we want to see a healthy new generation? Then why do families with sick children receive more social financing? Vote for the eugenics program!
I work as hard as you and pay the same social security contributions. Are you not ashamed to distribute my money without consulting me? Vote for equal suffrage for working teens!
90 percent of crime can be prevented by citizens. Vote for the inclusion of a basic police training program in schools, and security will become cheaper.
Think that money spent on particle accelerators or space research goes to waste? Think again. Think of your grandchildren, who will not have enough energy and space. Fundamental science is our future, vote for it today!
We all love wildlife, but not as much as to go back to the caves! Vote for reasonable limitation of the environmental requirements and costs.
Half of the medical officers are charlatans! Half of the medications are more harmful than piercings and implants! Down with the medical control of body art salons!
Next to this poster loitered two dozen noisy off-dressed young men. Their bodies were painted and decorated with shiny appliqués. Nearby, a police car has been parked. Two uniformed policemen, one Indian and one Irish, were discussing some matter with a blue-haired young mulatto with a silver ring in her nose and a loincloth of luminous fabric around her waist.
Graendal snorted. He could understand body painting, but completely disapproved piercings and the like. However, everyone has the right to decorate their bodies as he sees fit - tastes do differ.
At the piers that radiated from the square named after Che Guevara swayed hundreds of hydroplanes of different designs, sizes and colors, carrying emblems of transport firms, in Chinese characters, symbols of the aboriginal tribal totem Utafoa, and just whatever came in handy, according to the artistic taste and the fantasy of the owners. A few dozen such machines were scurrying into the air and rolling in the water, taking off or landing. The bay was lit with dozens of spotlights and bright taxi advertisements. Agents of the trade union of individual aerial rickshaws, mostly teenagers, strolled along the area carrying banners with flight directions and prices.
Having found themselves here, foreigners usually get lost and purchase the tickets at the office of the central agency of internal transport, in the glass pyramid in the middle of the square. But Graendal was a local, and it only took him five minutes to find an affordable rickshaw to Sonfao. The cheapness was primarily due to the presence of two fellow travelers flying to the Terarua atoll: a Chinese woman in an almost invisible bikini, and a Russian in bright orange Bahama shorts. This made Graendal’s road about fifty kilometers longer.
The secondary circumstance has been the lack of public certification of the aircraft. The rickshaw disclosed that, as he was obliged, to the passengers.
- Da huya sya (oh, cool) - said the girl ironically, and climbed into the back seat .
- Po huy (no difference) - added her boyfriend succinctly and followed her.
Graendal shrugged and sat next to the pilot. Any Meganezian knows rickshaws ignore certification. A machine that conforms to the standards is much more expensive than a simple fiberglass «fly-wing» with a compact yet powerful alcohol turbine.
Rickshaw made sure the passengers are buckled, closed the fairing and muttered something into the microphone. Then he turned on the lights and the turbine. The aircraft ran a hundred meters in the cool water and soared into the air. For a while Graendal looked down at the ocean, dotted with scatterings of bright colored lights indicating shipping lanes and fishing areas. At some point he lost the border between the ocean and the starry sky, and dozed off for two hours, until the landing in the Terarua lagoon. The rickshaw pulled up to one of the piers, the couple climbed out and inside came an 80 year old man, who looked like a purebred Utafoa.
- To Ragaiu - he grumbled.
- Through Sonfao, twenty pounds.
- Fifteen.
- Seventeen - threw the rickshaw.
The grandpa nodded slowly, counted out the bills, handed them to the rickshaw and began to stuff self-grown tobacco into his long pipe embellished with intricate carvings.
The light aircraft turned to the lagoon exit and soared back into the air.
Ten minutes later the cabin was filled with fragrant smoke. The pilot sneezed a couple of times and opened the ventilation louvers a bit. As a matter of fact, one was not supposed to smoke aboard, but most Meganesians didn’t bother noting that to the elders.
Graendal pulled out a mobile phone and poked the icon with the image of the lodge.
- Hi, honey!
- Aloha! Where are you?
- A hundred miles to the south. Be there in half an hour.
- OK. Irji will meet you with the boat. Hungry?
- Hell I am!
- It's good. I love to feed you.
- And I love you.
- I love you too. See you, kisses.
- Your wife? - asked the grandfather from the back seat.
- Yes.
- Beautiful?
- Very.
Graendal held the firm conviction that Laysha was the most beautiful woman, at least within our galaxy.
- Many children?
Graendal silently showed two fingers.
- Wah! - outraged the grandfather - no good! A strong man, a beautiful woman, should make a lot of children. Who will live under the sun, if you are lazy?
- We are working on it, - replied Graendal diplomatically.
The old Utafoa mumbled something and turned back to the window. Evidently, the answer did not dispel his concerns about the size of the next generation.
After some time, a small spot of light shimmered in the distance: the tiny Sonfao City was teeming with nightlife. Soon, one could distinguish the lights of the houses along the coast, and the yellow dots on the mast lanterns of the fishing proa around the atoll. The mobile squeaked.
- Hi, Dad! I see a light two degrees to the south, is that you?
- Hi, Irji. I think so, no one is flying nearby.
- Aha! I'm in the lagoon, I’ll now fire a red signal.
In 15 seconds a bright scarlet star appeared in the middle of the lagoon. Graendal touched rickshaw’s shoulder and pointed.
- Picking you up? - He asked, slightly shifting the headphones.
- Yes. My son.
- Wow! How old is he?
- Thirteen.
- You let the boy sail in the ocean during the night?
- Very good! - interjected the old man - I was sailing between atolls in the night when I was 10 years old.
- You’re Utafoa - said the pilot - you sailor skills are in your genes.
Grandpa chuckled snidely.
- Said a scientific word and you think it’s all explained?
- Anyway, a laguna is not open ocean - said Graendal.
The plane touched the water, made a long arc and stopped a few hundred meters from a small boat. The pilot pulled back the cowl.
- Good luck!
- Good luck in the sky! - Graendal said, got out of the cab to the right float, and jumped into the boat, which was already near him.
Irji gravely sat at the helm. Thin and dark-skinned, he could pass for a native, if not the red hair, green eyes and freckles that the tan could not quite hide.
- They were freaking annoying, yes, Dad? - he asked, aiming the boat at a distant pier.
- Who?
- Well, the - the boy shook his left hand in the air - Western offies. Our ekostory teacher says they are schmucks - and have always been. How do euros and the yankees live there?
- He says that?
- Well, not exactly, but close. Is that not true?
- What can I say - Graendal scratched his head - of course, the politicians there are rotten. But people adapt. They survive and perceive the politicians as a nuisance. And how are the things here?
- Fine. Sabi and I fixed the windmill turbine yesterday, while ma was at work.
- What, you dragged Sabi to the tower? Don’t you understand she’s too young?
- She wanted to, why do you blame me?
- Did you at least use the safety belts?
- Of course, but ma is still cursing.
They were approaching the house. The building, as it’s common in Meganesian suburbs, consisted mainly of terraces, balconies and canopies. Except that here in the center there was a reinforced concrete box, wooden staircase entwined with plastic and covered with a roof in the shape of a butterfly spreading its wings. There was a butterfly proboscis, or more precisely, a hose dipped into the pool: the roof doubled as a condensing water collector and a solar battery. On the sides were the wind turbine tower, a pole with a satellite dish, an antenna and the tanks of the local water supply system. This level of autonomy was commonplace here. Many even produced fuel alcohol from fermented algae in the backyard. The Vlkov family preferred to buy not only fuel, but also fish in the city market, earning the reputation of the somewhat lazies among the neighbors. Alcohol, people could understand, but buying fish when the ocean is full of it? On the other hand, the Vlkov’s orchard was the subject of envy. How, people were asking, did they manage to grow not only the usual plants like pumpkins and bananas, but even grapes, from which they made an excellent grappa? No one believed that this is only a consequence of Laysha’s agroengineering knowledge, and attributed her talent to her Italian origin. Everything, they said, is in the genes. From the front terrace, a wide staircase led down to the pier at the ocean shore, where stood another canopy. The canopy hosted the usual array of cheap aircrafts and a small SUV. At the pier was moored a proa, not a heavy one, with a trawl winch for fishing like most, but of a lightweight and sporty kind. Pampering, people would say.
On the tip of the pier, between the two marker beacons, hands on hips, stood Laysha. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt that has been white once, but now was covered with spots of fruit juice. For a native Calabrian farmer, she was lacking in the volume of the breast and thighs, and a higher education didn’t bring her closer either. But these small things couldn’t really stop Laysha if she decided to take on the role.
- Horror! - She said, casting a mocking glance on her husband with bright green eyes - Sunken cheeks, green face. What the hell did you eat in this barbaric Europe? To the table, now!
- Phew - Graendal hugged her, burying his face in the coarse hair the color of dark bronze - To the table sounds great. And if somebody poured me a glass of grappa...
- You’ll get it after you take a shower and throw your rags in the washing machine. Looks like you have collected all the dust from this dirty continent.
- Nothing like that - he said - there’s plenty left.
- I'm happy then. The Europeans won’t have to change their habits. And now, to the shower.