Lost Republic Read Free

window slid soundlessly down.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Jeanne demanded.
    â€œCanada and America.”
    â€œI know that! What about your luggage? Your PDD?”
    â€œI don’t need them. I don’t need any of it.”
    Emile slipped into the crowd of brightly dressed travelers. The last thing he heard behind him was Michele’s shrill cry, “What will Papa say?”
    He’ll say, good for you, son. Get away from those harpies. At least that’s what Emile wanted him to say. Emile saw his father at breakfast. They parted with a firm, manly handshake and no words at all.
    Emile fell in line behind a woman and a girl wearing matching hats. The girl, about Emile’s age but annoyingly taller, wore a white sundress that showed off her smoothly tanned shoulders. Her mother, also clad in white, had sleeves down to her wrists and slacks down to her ankles.
    â€œNellie, do you have the tickets?”
    â€œThey’re e-tickets, Mum.”
    The woman checked the PDD attached to her wrist. It was an uncommon style on the continent. The woman and girl spoke to each other in English, but they did not sound American.
    â€œOh yes, I see,” the woman said. “I feel like I’ve forgotten something—”
    â€œYou forgot to not call me Nellie,” said the girl with forced patience.
    â€œYes, yes, now you are so old, I must call you Eleanor?”
    The girl smiled a bit. Then she noticed the boy dressed in black trailing close behind. Too close.
    â€œNosy,” she said, frowning. “Watch your valuables, Mum.”
    Being mistaken for a thief pleased him. Emile dropped back a step and tried not to look innocent.
    Check-in for the
Carleton
was funneled through four gates. Agents of the shipping company and officers of the Securite Maritime stopped each passenger and scanned them for ID and properly paid fares. Emile followed Eleanor and her mother through gate 2. The girl glanced back at him, still frowning.
    â€œMadame Margrete Quarrel? Your passage is paid. Eleanor Quarrel? Paid.” The agent dabbed the backs of the hands with an invisible dye. Mrs. Quarrel moved on to the security check. Eleanor lingered behind her.
    â€œMonsieur Emile-Bertrand Baptiste Bequerel?” Emile nodded, looking right into Eleanor’s eyes. “Your passage is paid. Pass on, if you please.”
    Emile sauntered past Eleanor. Though tans were long out of fashion, he decided hers looked good on her, scowling or not.
    At the security station, Mrs. Quarrel was nearly in tears. Eleanor hurried to her side.
    â€œMy passport has expired!” her mother said. “They will not let me board the ship!”
    â€œHow can that be?” asked Eleanor.
    â€œThere must have been confusion between Cape Town and here.” She took Eleanor’s hand. “Check yours, Nellie.”
    Eleanor ignored the childish nickname and held her left hand under the scanner. The chip under her skin read out perfectly. Her virtual passport appeared on the monitor. The security agent shrugged.
    â€œMademoiselle is in order. But you, madame, cannot board,” he said.
    Mrs. Quarrel began to cry. “After all our planning and saving!” Eleanor bit her lip and tried to console her mother. The nosy Euro kid who followed them into the station stepped up.
    â€œMay I offer a suggestion?” Emile said.
    â€œNo,” Eleanor said.
    â€œBe nice, Nellie! Yes, please,” her mother countered.
    He concentrated on making his English perfect. “The
Carleton
is not so fast a ship. It may be possible to correct your document and join the ship at sea.” He turned to the security officer. “There are helicopters for hire around here?”
    â€œTrue—but expensive” was the reply.
    Emile passed the security check easily. He took a small plastic card from his wallet and gave it to Mrs. Quarrel.
    â€œWhen your passport is fixed, use this to hire a helicopter. They