Tuesday, October 9, 2007

CHAPTER 17 - SAFE HARBOR

Sindy Blazer, Society Editor of Times of Second Life and sometimes Science Editor was doing her nails in her cluttered office on the 19th floor of the Art Décolleté Times Tower when her rose colored me-Phone blasted the ring tone of Sydney Mobile, the famed gem cutter and gold bug. Jimmy Washisname, the copy boy and junior journalist wannabe, stood lurking in Sindy’s open door.

“Hi Sidney,” said Sindy. “Yes, yes, it was a good photo spread wasn’t it. Your younger daughter Mugwort looked lovely... I know, the nose work by the art department was top notch… Really …Yes, back to reform school. How nice.”

Sindy talked to Mobile for a few moments before Mobile got to his point. Sydney Mobile was having trouble buying raw stones and uncut gems from Neopet or Zwinki. The gem dealers wanted to be paid in worthless US Dollars and not in the sound Linden. Something was up and Sidney Mobile wanted to know what Sindy knew. Sindy knew nothing. They chatted a bit more about Mugwort and her wonderful admission to the best high security reform school for girls in all of Second Life. Then Sindy said she would look into the Linden situation and they hung up.

Sindy stood for a moment, then grabbed her Gnocchi leather purse, a knock off from Purse Barn over on Ragnachar Avenue. She stood for moment thinking about who to talk to. The finance desk folks at The Times had all been laid off when Ruprecht Murdstone, her nominal boss and President of Lupine News Corporation, had purchased the Walled Street Drag. Ruprecht was her nominal boss because as Society Editor Sindy knew everything about everybody and especially their dirty laundry. Sindy had a stringer who worked in the Frog Laundry on King Pharamond Street. Sindy also collected photographs from One Moment Photo in the Dowdily building across the street.

Perhaps she should walk the three blocks over to Au Street and talk the WSD? No, she thought, the WSD was rapidly turning yellow, which was a compliment in her sector of the news business, but Sindy wanted some information of substance.

No, she would go visit someone over at the pink sheets. The Financial Times had a bureau here and Sindy knew the fashion editor Vanessa Friedman. Vanessa was here for fashion week. Besides thought Sindy, if the mighty Linden was in trouble then the Euro based paper might know something. Sindy dialed Vanessa’s assistant, Mr. Prince, and arranged a meeting at 6:00. Perhaps they could catch a quick bite at Blua’s or Café du Lune. Sindy could always get a seat there and she never had to pay. Blau’s and the Café always recognized Sindy when she walked in and she always got the best table. Sindy had become an item. As Society Editor Sindy made sure she was a hot item.

The FT offices were not on AU Street, which was the financial center of Second Life, but on King Pharamond alley, not far from the Palais de Congres. Sindy decided to walk. It was not far and she needed the exercise. Pilates was a joke. Good hard journalistic research, dancing, and foot leather were a far far better form of exercise. Besides you got to talk to interesting people and see interesting things rather than stare at breathless sweaty posteriors.

Sindy walked out into the darkening sky and turned right down Beast Street. As she passed the Long White Hall she wondered, as she always did, why they didn’t paint that old building. But perhaps Governor Linden was being responsible with Second Life’s finances. She laughed. The idea of the Governor being responsible with money was laughable, after all just look at that Paris girl he was so obviously supporting. What a joke. But thank the gods she was here, because it sold papers.

Sindy was surprised to see a line in front of Furries New Life Bank. About twenty avatars were waiting anxiously at the door to the now closed bank. Sindy smelled a story so she paused and went up to an elderly female avatar with a speckled brow, oversized ears, and a brown senseless frock.

“What’s happening?” asked Sindy.

“I don’t know,” said the anxious senior, “but I’m nervous about my money. There’s a rumor that the Linden is about to fall and I want my money, even if I have to stay here all night.”

“But tomorrow is Saint Golphus day, a banker’s retreat day, and they won’t be open till day after tomorrow,” Sindy relied.

The senior looked annoyed and replied, “Well I’m not moving until I get my Lindens and buy something safe with them.”

“What will you buy?” asked Sindy always interested in financial gain.

“Hot Couture, I’m gonna raid the racks at Lowmans. Hot Couture never looses its value, better than money in the bank,” the senior said with conviction.

“Thank you,” said Sindy filled with relief. Her closet was so full of Hot Couture that she could easily survive any financial crisis, even unemployment for a lifetime, if her clothes held their value. But then again here in Second Life there was probably no better investment than nice clothes.

At Alameda del Museo Sindy crossed the busy street and turned east toward lower Ragnachar. In the distance, toward the Capital City Stadium or near the Aerodrome she heard a series of dull thuds. Like someone hitting a base drum in a dense fog with a sponge. Odd thought Sindy, but then again this was Second Life where all things were possible and odd was normal. When she reached Ragnachar and turned south she heard sirens in the distance.

In a few moments she was on King Pharamond street, famous for Fanny’s Fabulous Fabrics, The Frog Laundry, and the Farmers Garage Sale Outlet Store. Sindy quickly spotted the two story pink brick Tesco building that housed the Capital City FT bureau on the second floor. She looked up and all the lights were blazing. It was early morning in London thought Sindy, I’m surprised they are still working. Sindy quickly climbed the steep creaky wooden stairs to the cramped FT offices. The place was packed with reporters, stringers, and hangers on. Something big was happening and she was missing it.

She spotted Vanessa banging her me-Phone on the desk in obvious frustration. “What’s happening Vanessa?” asked Sindy.

Vanessa looked up without smiling. She was pissed. “Damn me-Phones are down again. I could just strangle Jobless Steves and his Baffles Computer Company. What %$^#!

“It’s a fire, definitely, a big one,” shouted a short round man Sindy recognized as Alan Beedy the farm reporter for the FT. “The whole aerodrome is aflame, get Tiny Tim out there to take pictures. I’m leaving now,” Beedy said grabbing his brown overcoat and bowler hat as he ran for the stair. “Oh,” he said as an afterthought, “The me-Phones aren’t working and the communications button is out. Get some runners in place.”

“Wanna come with me,” said Vanessa as she grabbed her hat and coat. She stopped for a moment to apply her lipstick looking into a small mirror she held in her hand. “There’s always a fashion aspect to any disaster.”

“Are you kidding?” said Sindy. “Let’s go!”

They both ran to the stair and soon they hailed a pedi cab on Ragnachar Avenue.

Quickly they ran into traffic. Emergency crews were abandoning their flying carpets, egg crates, and other forms of conveyance and hoofing it the two kilometers to the Capital City Aerodrome. Sindy and Vanessa could see the flames from their cab. Sindy looked at Vanessa’s three inch stiletto heels on her Ferraguano boots and Sindy’s own Manolo’s. They weren’t going to walk far in those. Best to stick with the cab.

Sindy turned to Vanessa who was staring at the flames in the distance. “Is the Linden in trouble?” Sindy asked.

Vanessa laughed, and looked at Sindy like she was stupid, and then laughed again. “The Linden is in the crapper,” Vanessa said.

“Got those flares ready?” yelled Punky as she eased into the pilot’s seat. The wind had come up a bit from the north, and the landing was going to be tricky. A polo field looked big from the ground, but from a blimp running low on fuel and desperate to land in the dead of night, it was mighty small indeed.

“Yes there ready,” cried Washrox. “and the grappling line too.”

The crew stood ready and were in their life jackets. Monforte’s fishing pond was at the far end of the polo field and they might well end up in the drink. Besides Punky had learned just before graduation that the life jackets really helped in a hard crash – fewer broken bones and bad bruises. A bit like body armor for the knights of old she had learned on that awful morning.

A sliver of moon had finally appeared on the horizon but it was still black as the reapers face. Punky was concentrating.

“Turn on the lights!” she shouted.

The landing lights came on in a blinding flash. In the darkened interior of the pilots station all the instruments, stanchions, and levers became hot silver white with black void outlines. Punky strained to look down. She reached for the port window and slid it back with a thump and she stuck her head out. There. She saw a glint of water to the north east perhaps a hundred yards.

Below fires began to burn. Monforte had gotten their message. Bon fires two at each end of the Polo Field. Suddenly Punky could see the field below. “Kill the lights,” she shouted as she pulled her head back into the cockpit. Her own landing lights were blinding her and the bon fires below were the best landing illumination. She put the engines into dead ahead and slowly turned the UP&DOWN wheel. Gently the Poofer descended.

“Away the grappling line,” Punky cried and Washrox dropped the line through the open belly hatch. The line was limp then it straightened and started the characteristic jiggle as the three foot tangs sought a purchase in the soft sod below. The line went taut.

“Away the landing lines.” A gentle lift in the buoyancy of the Poofer told Punky that the fore and aft lines were away. She adjusted for the increased lift.

“Call out the altitude” said Punky.

“100 Meters,” yelled Normal.

“50 Meters.” yelled Normal

“25Meters.”

Punky started to slow the descent. She leveled off at 15 meters. She could see the ground below clearly and the figures trying to grasp the landing lines. In a few moments the ship pitched a bit and lurched aft. The makeshift landing crew had the lines

Punky threw open the window again and put her head out. She could see that the figures on the ground had tied the lines firmly to two huge oaks.

“Away the docking lines,” shouted Punky.

In moments the Poofer was secure and Punky increased the buoyancy a bit to make sure the ship stayed put. Below the bon fires went out in a hiss of steam that Punky could see from the cockpit.

Punky turned to the crew. “Excellent job, excellent. Now I want all of you except Normal to get some sleep. Washrox, relieve Normal in two hours. We will be leaving before sunrise so I want all of you rested. Washrox you're Mission Commander. If something goes wrong on the ground take off and try to make it to Fort Balatro. The Zippy blimp works is empty at this time and it may not have been a target.”

Before the crew could respond Punky had attached a climbing belt to her waste, clipped in a carbineer and a figure eight. Punky paused a moment and saluted her crew and then she was gone down the grappling line and into the dark.

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