ATLANTIS GREETED THEM WITH OPEN arms. Specifically, the skinny arms of Shigetei Empa, one of the few governmental officials anywhere they considered a friend. Granted English was rarely spoken in Atlantis, but the Brothers Jetstream, being master linguists, found no difficulty at all learning their language subtly suggestive of several Mediterranean dialects, pointing to more than platonic contact with the outside world long before a failed tourism experiment allowed modern ships and planes to begin flitting through the Blank.
Empa hugged the first person in their convoy, which was Fiona, longer than necessary. This was the normal Atlantidean custom: held long and tight just in case.
When he peeled apart she nodded acceptance on behalf of the group.
“We expected you back but not too soon,” he said, leading them to his vehicle.
“Not by well-thought out choice,” said Milo.
Empa noted Raffic’s absence but decided to be quiet about it. “Intel is that we have an unrecorded stranger inciting messy bits.”
It was impolite to point out that their records on who or what passed through the Blank were shoddy and unreliable at best.
“They say he’s been predicting the future and things don’t look very good for the fringe settlements. This has to be related to your Buford.”
The short trip ended at the understaffed Office of Alien Registry. It was where the Atlantidean worked with four others, two of whom, a man and a woman, they saw as they marched the large building’s corridors to his office; both immediately preened the second they recognized Milo and Ramses Jetstream. Shig’s assistants Giselle Jira and Wither Ween.
“Hello, loves,” said Captain Luscious Smoove. Desiree tripped him. As he got up, Fiona inquired if Ele had found out anything about Lolita.
“Nothing encouraging, I’m afraid, unfortunately nothing new. There’s very little out there,” Shig said softly.
“Very little’s more than nothing,” she said.
The main search party was one mounted by and consisting of Lolita’s two sisters, brother Maseef, and an incohesive, on again off again ragtag band of science groupies operating under questionable motives.
“Her last reported position put her heading for the Glacial Range,” said Ramses.
Milo’s mind was on the Mount. It was from there that the future flowed. Many had tried, many had died, most went insane. The only verified prediction came nine years ago from the mouth of He Who Dared The Vantage That Yields The Invisible Stream Of Prescience Which Stretched Over The World, which was the tip of the Mount:
“We live.” End of revelation.
That man was Milo Jetstream, brother of Ramses, son of Hiram Percy (and not the False Prophet Buford as he too had been led to believe). So the Mount held special interest for him, and anyone claiming to have reached its summit invited suspicion.
“What’s our priority?” said Ramses.
“Buford,” Milo answered his brother. “Give me anything you have on his movements after we left,” Milo said to Empa. “We leave immediately.”
~~~
Ele Hachette, master empath and Atlantis’ Chief Theologian, was actually shorter than Fiona. She had a bob haircut that made her seem more like Peter Pan than a master psychotherapist. She was the only person the Jetstreams knew of to have accompanied Fiona on an alternate reality jaunt. One developed a great deal of resigned patience for the universe one was cemented into when made aware there are indeed others to choose from.
Hugging tall people tended to be awkward. She hugged Fiona. “Supplies are already loaded on the ships,” the diminutive four-foot niner said.
“Are you riding with me, Ele?” Fiona asked. Ele nodded. “Smoove’s taking the Fi. We sail in an hour. Looking for Lolita.”
“Finding her,” Ele corrected.
“Let’s get Maseef to rendezvous,” said Fiona. “Make sure he brings his damn whales. There was something in the water.”