IT Evolution's 4 Bigs and How They Affect Your Integration Strategy
Evolution's Voice
Transcript of Evolution's Voice
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Evolution'sVoice
S. E. Byron
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EVOLUTION'S VOICE
S. E. Byron
Copyright 2008 S. E. Byron
All rights reserved. No part of this e-book shall be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, without prior written permission of S. E. Byron.
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To Susie
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Special thanks to
Laura Rhoades-Yokai
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PROLOGUE
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OCTOBER 24, 218 0
FINAL PRESIDENTIA L DEBATE
J OHN F. KENNEDY CENTER
The truth is clear, said Davis Keller as he stepped clear of his podium. Our
future is threatened. A Dark Age is upon us.
Davis strolled toward the center of the rectangular stage and pressed a finger to
his lips. A large projection screen glowed behind him, blue except for the gold banner
and the phrase AMERICA CHOOSES A PRESIDENT 2180, all of which seemed to float
over his head. His provocative words aroused the audience from the sleepy tedium of
the debates previous hour. A silent energy replaced the murmur of idle chat from the
depths of the cavernous auditorium. The stage lights pulsed methodically through a
swirling mix of reds, whites and blues.
You sensed the danger and have come to this debate tonight in search of
visionary leadership. I have spent thirty years fighting the darkness. Fighting to hold
back the irreversible forces of decay. As I have said at the start of this campaign, and
as I say again tonight, we need not descend into this doom.
Davis opened his arms and the audiences single, unified breath broke the
silence.
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nation now seemed to crave. He returned the glass to its cubbyhole and adjusted his
suit across his sturdy shoulders.
Thank you Senator Keller, the cheery moderator said. When the applause
finished and the audience sat down, he continued. Mister President, he said.
Senator Keller has summarized his stance of the preceding hour. Will you please do
the same?
Of course. Hardin smiled graciously. Despite the vision of disaster Mister
Keller always presents, there is no real evidence of any Dark Age. We have
occasionally fallen on bad times, but never have we been broken. And we never will, so
long as I am President.
My policies of domestic rejuvenation and strengthened federal power have
already restored our national pride. This country has excelled in commerce and quality
of life. We have not been seriously challenged in battle for over one hundred and fifty
years, not since our victory during the Brazilian Wars of the Twenty-First Century.
Hardin chuckled. I dont think the people have any reason to feel fear. Our supremacy
is unquestioned by everyone in the world. He gestured toward Davis. Everyone, that
is, except Davis and his Melioris Party.
Thank you Mister President, the moderator said. Ill get back to the subject of
Senator Kellers political party in a moment. Lets change focus a bit. With the election
now two weeks away, this is probably the last time we have to get personal. The two of
you entered the Senate at the same time. What were your impressions of one another
then? You both seemed to get along well then, even admire one another? Is that a
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safe assessment?
Hardin smiled. As safe as can be under tonights circumstances. The
audiences laughter faded quickly. But its true. We met in Twenty-One Sixty-Four,
when we were freshman senators. I came in under a different party than Davis, and I
certainly had never heard of his Melioris Party until then. Ill admit, Davis has always
had a way with words. You couldnt help but stop to listen when hed get up and talk.
As I recall, Davis interrupted. It did take you a few months to stop heckling
when I spoke. But that didnt seem to stop you from seeking quiet interruptions.
Well, I did supply the others with tomatoes. He laughed at a pleasant memory.
But those old guys couldnt throw worth a damn and you could take a splattering with
such dignity.
I guess my curiosity is getting the best of me, the moderator said. How was it
that the two of you eventually managed to cross your party lines in those early years,
and come to share a common view?
Hardin rolled his head sideways. Well, as Ive said, Davis can be persuasive.
Sam and I were something of rebels, Davis said. Despite our different
backgrounds, I think he and I both understood that our country had stalled. I would like
to point out that Sam didnt take much convincing to recognize the threats I saw.
Hardin scoffed. I said you were persuasive. Not a hypnotist. I just enjoyed
having another person in the Senate who actually had a little fight in him. Im used to
charging in and forcing things to happen. Thats my military background. Thats how
Ive always been. I think Davis found me a bit rough, but he knew I could twist arms and
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force deals.
Yes, Davis nodded. I found you rough. But you were skilled where I was not.
You worked best in the trenches, Sam, after the speech that inspires the battle. The
early years were the most promising of our careers. My only regret is that we came to
disagree on how to fix the problem.
The moderator spoke. What do you think is the biggest factor behind the
differences in opinion that developed between you?
Davis paused to rub a dull pressure building in his temples. The hot lights and
old memories challenged his calm. Our experiences in early life were vastly different,
and I have always felt that was the source of conflict between us. My family has always
taken the progressive side of issues. We have supported the forgotten causes and
fought the shortsightedness of government. Politics are part of my family heirloom, I
suppose.
I was encouraged to serve the public, so I studied politics, history and
economics. I served Texas in the state legislature, then in the Federal House of
Representatives. Now I serve both state and country in the senate. My early years
granted me knowledge of how politics and economics reflect underlying social trends,
and helped me see the problems I speak of tonight. But it was my familys legacy that
taught me not to fear the consequences of serving a cause.
Im not sure you ever understood the emotion called fear, Davis. Hardin smiled
and bore his teeth. I was afraid as a child growing up in a tough neighborhood. But I
learned to embrace fear, and all my-, he paused and tapped his electronic tablet, -
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what is the Melioris Party, and would you please comment on these descriptions?
Certainly. Davis nodded and shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
When I decided to run for national office, I needed a party, having lost faith is the
established parties. Candidates have been forming successful independent parties for
over a century, so my supporters suggested that course. The Melioris Party was born
from their tremendous enthusiasm, but I think the spirit of the party existed for many
years before that day.
What I think people should understand is that we have always desired the
restoration of American greatness, not as a military power, but as a beacon of
civilization. We are not, as some have suggested, a party for elite rule, but a source of
inspiration. We only exist to help, to make life better. The day my supporters and I
formed the party we named it Melioris, a Latin word meaning better. That is what we
want to help this nation become.
Hardin crossed his arms and rolled his eyes slightly upward.
Now, Davis, he said, casting off the moderators irritated expression by holding
up his hand. This is something I must again disagree with. Ive gone to great lengths
time and time again this evening to prove that we are already better than we were two
decades ago. Weve all sorts of examples from you of how this Dark Age illusion of
yours is about to run us down.
Hardin emphasized his points by ticking off each finger as he spoke.
A drop in the standard of living. The endangeredmiddle class - a fine choice of
words, I might add. Loss of art sponsorship? Hardin raised his eyebrows and shook
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his head. Drops in food production, and-what was the last one? Hardin tapped his
jaw. Ah yes, my favorite. Technological contraction. That was your favorite factoid
when we entered the senate, and Ive heard it every year since. Only, in the beginning,
you had to speak into a crackly old hand held microphone, and tonight these new
Doppler mikes almost speak for you.
The audience chuckled with Hardin. Davis tapped his fingers together and
allowed himself a muted smile.
That is very true, Sam. I do remember how those old microphones sounded,
and how the Majority Leader used the staticy irritation as an excuse to shut me down in
mid filibuster.
Hardin slapped his podium. That maneuver was called the Keller-buster. We
would first waited to see if one of your migraines would fire up; when we saw you rub
your temples, we knew the end was near. But if the migraines didnt come, and your
words started influencing votes, that was the only way to stop you. Hardin laughed
enthusiastically. It irked him relentlessly when you started bringing that awful karaoke
radio so that you could continue. He laughed again. The microphones back then
were awful, Davis, but they were the best for the day. I just dont see them as evidence
of falling brain power.
In fact, Sam, the microphones are perfect examples. These new doppler mikes
are a rediscovered technology, not a new one. They were first invented in the early
Twenty-First Century, used extensively for three decades, and then forgotten as our
technological capacity declined. The truth is that our situation has always been far
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more dangerous that the vocabulary of your Presidency acknowledges.
Hardin shrugged and bowed his head. An image of a piece of paper appeared
on his electronic tablet. The question DISPLAY DK119 NEXT? blinked below it, and he
quickly slapped his thumb on the YES answer button.
In fact, Davis continued, unaware of Hardins invigorated posture. The
advances you tout as prosperity are illusions. What is real are the desperations of daily
life, the stories I have passed on this evening and during this campaign. I have spoken
to families that have not sent children to college in generations because they must now
chose between the enormous cost of daily life and the enormous cost of education. The
middle-class dreams of millions have turned to nightmares, but Mister President, you
offer no comfort.
I have visited the farmer mourning the sale of his farm as he drives past deserts
that once grew seas of wheat. The capacity of agricultural technology has failed to
keep up with domestic demand for over fifty years. Twenty million people have starved
to death during this centurys famines, and our population continues to crash. But
Mister President, you cut food programs to pay for a new army division that your
comments here tonight suggest is not needed.
In every city, I have attended the funerals of children, lost to diseases that
ravaged their innocence, diseases that have returned from extinction to consume our
next generation. Yet, Mister President, you say happiness abounds.
Hundred of millions of people struggle to survive, forced to abandon comfortable
lives for filth and despair, forced to watch helplessly as darkness overwhelms them,
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forced to believe the tale that the last four years have seen their lives improved. But
you, Mister President, can at least offer them microphones. I can offer them something
more. A voice. May they use it to speak passionately again of the future.
Applause thundered but Hardin was not concerned.
Davis, my old friend. You make it seem as though Iam the monster. Nothing is
farther from the truth. You and I once agreed that the country had fallen from her old
glories, but we never agreed on the solution. I sought action, something immediate,
something more useful than pretty words. Hardin stepped from behind his podium and
advanced slowly toward the middle stage.
My accomplishments during this first term are more than you give credit for.
Those old glories you constantly refer to are returning. Have returned. Ive launched
grand projects to rebuild our capitol citys crumbling monuments, and I have funded
small projects that restore electricity to rural towns.
Most importantly, I have restored the prestige of a federal government that long
ago let the petty needs of states and cities take precedence over the greater good.
Thatwas the problem that ended our alliance, Davis. You keep seeing things as great
historical trends, or in terms of the rise and fall of nations. But the truth is that our
nations problems have been caused by a lack of authority and the need for a strong
commander. My military experience taught me that, and it taught me that quickly when I
led troops during the Lake Maracaibo War. A decade studying books and earning
degrees still hasnt taught you that lesson, Davis.
Your battles with me through the Senate these last four years should also have
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taught you that the people do not believe your predictions of doom. The people do not
want a long-term plan, like the one you propose. They want results, things they can
feel.
Hardin smiled. Most people are driven by their feelings, Davis. Have you
forgotten? You have forgotten quite a lot, I suspect. Like what drives our countrymen,
what has always driven this nation forward. The pursuit of glory. And we have always
accepted that glory requires pain. We are not afraid to feel pain, Davis. We are not
afraid to suffer in order to achieve greatness. We are not afraid of anything.
You are mistaken, Sam. Davis said coolly despite the pain spreading behind
his eyes. You have always been mistaken. Our early days of united ideological
crusade in the Senate ended when you chose to ignore the magnitude of the problem in
order to pursue the politically advantageous view. The people gave you an opportunity
to prove that view was correct. I believe you have failed, and I believe the people will
elect a better path.
An evolvedpath, perhaps? Hardin smiled and approached the screen. Like
the one offered through your Melioris Party? We will understand where that path leads
tonight, Davis. Your magical words hide secrets, Davis. Lets reveal that hidden truth
now, shall we?
Hardin returned to his podium and tapped the DISPLAY DK119 NOW button. The
banner and words on the projector screen dissolved into a flash of white. The paper
from Hardins tablet appeared slightly out of focus.
I think we can all agree that what is being debated here tonight is nothing less
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than the fate of our nation. Hardin approached the screen. You say it can become
better. In the hands of a man whos party is run by elites? In the hands of a man who
has suffered from debilitating headaches for decades? Can you handle the challenges
you imagine we will soon face, Davis? Will you lead four hundred million people into the
future? I think the real question is whether or not you have any interest in us at all.
The projector sharpened and zoomed on the bottom of the document. Davis
could easily read his doctors signature, but he did not consider this a betrayal; Hardins
spies were very effective. Davis rubbed his temple again but maintained a perfect lack
of emotion.
Read carefully, and understand Senator Kellers truth. This is why he shuns
emotion. This is why he should not lead us. As signed by Doctor Phillip DeGuire six
years ago, a confirmation that Davis Keller is, in fact, a new species of man.
The audience fell horribly silent, then burst with gasps and panic.
He thinks he is far superior to the rest of us! Hardin shouted over the noise.
Take his advice and do not elect a monster to the presidency!
Hardin glowed in the chaos his treachery had ignited.
An evolutionary monster like him!
Shouts and emotion pounded the stage. Davis sat patiently before the people,
and held steady against the explosion of rage. Now, as Hardin paced triumphantly,
darkness obscured hope; the Presidential election became a choice between evolution
and extinction. The people needed to understand. They needed to see Davis was not
the monster Hardin wanted him to be. They sought a hint of benevolence. They
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needed him to calm their fears.
Davis rose from his chair, clasped his hands together and walked into a sudden
silence.
What you see is the truth. I have evolved.
Davis stopped at the edge of the stage.
I have evolved. But I am not stronger, or faster, immortal or omnipotent. He
tapped his head. I have evolved here.
Davis stepped off the stage and walked the aisles.
To avoid confusion and lies, I will tell you what lead to this discovery. Medical
science, according to the paper President Hardin presented to you, has determined I
possess brain structures never before seen in the species Homo sapien. Besides the
awful headaches that cripple me daily, these structures give me the ability to tame my
emotions, to regulate that which has plagued all civilization. This gift brings with it a
freedom of thought that subverts old barriers, and allows an unobscured vision of
harmony. Peace. Prosperity. Strength. Greatness.
The crowd absorbed his words and yearned for connection.
Although I am a new species, I am still human. That is something which cannot
be lost. Look at me. Despite my controls, I still share with you humanitys basic
emotional threads. I am not different. I love. I need. I protect. I hurt with every loss.
Though I can control an emotion like feat, it is an understandable reaction to my
evolution. Even I was concerned at first.
Again, look at me. Am I hideous? Am I a monster? No. Do I toss bolts of
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lightning at those who anger me? Do I write my name in light? Has anyone bowed as I
pass? Ive seen many gestures in the last few minutes. Bowing was not one of them.
Laughter followed Davis back to the stage.
Prophecy is my only power. Davis looked to the far side of the stage. Hardin
smiled, unfazed by the strong retaliation. What I say frightens men like him. Their
feast of spoils would surely end if I can persuade any of you to see me without fear.
There is simply no reason to fear change, and therefore, no reason to fear evolution. Or
me. Only those who fear progress would tell you otherwise.
Davis paused to point an outstretched hand at Hardin.
This man cannot lead you through the dangerous times ahead. He and his
allies will fall victim to the same Dark Age weaknesses, the same disastrous faults that
bring famine, war, slaughter, and shattered lives. Our society evolved from this
savagery to elegant prosperity. President Hardin and those like him will make decisions
that affect you based on pure madness. They will destroy our world for the sake of their
insecurities and we will suffer for generations to come. Will you allow those men to drag
you down, or will you choose to change? Will you choose to evolve?
Davis knelt at the edge of the stage.
Everything evolves. Creatures evolve. Ideas evolve. Nations evolve. We, as a
civilization, evolve. Evolution is complex. There must be losers, or there could be no
winners. I say to you tonight, that we can all be winners. If you are prepared to witness
the birth of a new nation, an evolved nation. A nation that cannot fail.
The crowd pulsed with excitement and shouted his name.
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DAVIS KELLER REVEALS HIS EVOLUTION, WINS DEBATE.
IS PRESIDENT HARDIN AN ENDANGERED SPECIES?
Hardin tapped the screen to make the article disappear. Davis might possess
evolutionary gifts, but he did not possess control over the powerful and wealthy few now
enjoying the benefits the current President provided. Davis might have the loyalty of the
voters, but not that of the men who knew how millions of electronic voting machines
could be pre-programmed with the correct votes. Davis did not possess Richters skills
for persuasion and intimidation, or control of the agents enforcing their Presidents laws.
Hardin relaxed in his chair and looked at a picture of himself beside the worn rim
of a tanks cannon. Davis also lacked an effective military. Without steel and muscle,
there was no bravado, no power. As persuasive as Davis could be, some arguments
were best won without flowery words. Hardin smiled deeply and let the tension of the
evening bleed from his body.
What Davis lacked most of all was a guaranteed re-election.
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JA NUARY 16, 2181
INAUGURATION DAY
UNITED STATES CAPITOL BUIL DING
Davis Keller pulled his wool coat tight against the bitter January cold of
Inauguration Day. To his left, the Capitol Building swooned in the flags and ribbons of
celebration. To his right, rows of seated senators, judges and other dignitaries sipped
coffee and chatted over how they had secured the coveted inaugural invitations despite
their opposition to their Presidents re-election.
Davis stood beside them, hovering on the periphery and shunned by his peers.
His presence this day was merely symbolic, a display of unity and graciousness after a
stunning defeat. Despite strong evidence of electoral fraud, the mechanism of power
worked in Hardins favor. There would be no investigation about the allegations of vote
tampering. Davis temples tightened and he slowed his breathing in response.
He knew Hardin was capable of such treachery; Henry Marek, the Meliorans
National Director, had warned that ballot tampering was underway a week before the
election. But Davis had believed-hoped, really-that Hardin would somehow resist the
temptation to shatter the most cherished democratic bedrock. Davis knew he should
have expected this outcome.
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He sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. The Dark Age was so close,
nearly unstoppable now. The fight was now so desperate, and his supporters morale
was so low.
The brass band on the opposite side of the platform kicked off the first notes of
the Presidential March. Hardin stepped out of the Capitol Building. Ice crunched
beneath his boots as he swaggered leisurely to his spot in defiance of the wind biting
his flesh.
Davis stared out to the grounds between Hardin and the white obelisk of the
renovated Washington Monument. A crowd of less than five hundred huddled tightly for
warmth. Most wore fine furs and affluence. Some wore military uniforms and deep-set
eyes. He paused, looking harder at one soldier who resembled Henry Marek. After a
moment, Davis let his eyes settle on Hardin again. It could not have been Henry;
Meliorans were not on the guest list.
Boots crunched urgently through the ice behind the guest stand. Before Davis
could turn and investigate, a man stopped within an inch of his side and a firm hand
squeezed his shoulder.
Davis
Davis recognized his friend Freeman Tyler at once. He turned to offer a greeting,
but did not care to speak when he noticed the retired general wore his uniform beneath
his heavy trench coat. Freeman leaned in and whispered in rapid and tense bursts.
The pain in Davis temples exploded so suddenly, he though his skull had fractured.
Is Freeman telling the truth? How did it come to this?
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* * *
President Sam Hardin seized the podium and tightened his grip on the top. He
stood firm against a powerful gust, then leaned into it with great resistance. Frosty
clouds of breath charged out from his flared nostrils, and the wind rippled his hair like
the mane of a warhorse set to trample the Earth. Hardin inspected the audience before
him and saw a scruffy soldier who looked like Davis national party director. The crowd
began to cheer and Hardin did not concern himself with that man anymore. A watch
beeped the time and he turned to stare down the senators.
Davis face had turned a cold shade of white; perfectly free of all emotion,
desolate to the very last. Another oddly familiar man stood close to Davis side and
whispered something into his ear. Hardin returned his attention to the people below,
then snapped back when he remembered the strangers face. Freeman Tyler, a
general and a Melioran. Both men returned Hardins gaze; a flicker of deep thought
flashed red on Davis forehead. Hardin motioned for his security men to investigate
then resumed his inauguration.
On this cold day, I believe in great victories-
A car exploded into heat and shrapnel. Machine gun fire popped behind the
museum. The troops within the crowd pulled pistols and cried out vengeance in Davis
name. People scattered through screams and bullets and blood. Hardin stood boldly
undisturbed and watched the senators stumble over each other until a burst of sniper
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fire tore through them. Davis and Freeman had vanished.
The strong hands of Hardins security men dragged him into the Capitol Building.
Federal soldiers poured from concealed positions and met the rebels on the steps. The
rhythm of battle drew Hardin to an upstairs window. His heart pounded in cadence with
the surge of men, tanks and death. The man who must have been Henry Marek
charged toward the Capitol Building and disappeared into a puff of incendiary smoke.
Blood trickled down the marble steps. Men lay in pieces across Hardins private
battlefield. His soldiers showed no mercy to the brothers who had turned traitor. Hardin
smiled as the coup collapsed against a rapiers edge of Federal power.
But military aides were already delivering grim reports. Fort Nelson had raised
the Melioran flag. California was sacking its governor. Air Force squadrons were
dogfighting over Kansas. Hardin whistled and issued his directives. On this cold day,
events deviated from expectation. The army splintered. The nation chose sides. Davis
had escaped.
On this cold day, the Melioris Rebellion began.
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PART ONE
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JU LY 28, 2182
AUSTIN-BERGSTROM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
AUSTIN, TEXAS
Inacio Alvaro leaned against the observation deck window and watched ground
control guide the passenger plane to the gate. He worked his hands together, locking
and unlocking his fingers in a nervous rhythm. The letter announcing his sister Sabinas
return had sounded neutral, reluctant. It offered only a date, flight number and a
partially erased smiley-face as clues to her mood.
Inacio could picture her, probably slouched in her window seat, as she had done
five months before when a combination of tragedies forced her to seek comfort back
home in Brazil. Or, perhaps she drummed her fingers impatiently on the armrest as she
did to repress excitement. Still, he did not know which it would be. Passengers waved
from each tiny window to silhouettes resembling loved ones. Inacio turned away from
the window and pressed his back against the glass. Maybe Sabinas seat was on the
other side of the plane.
The pilot throttled back the engines, which increased the impatient buzz of
waiting families and friends. The exit ramp slid to the plane, dipped to align with the
hatch and sealed itself against the hull. The counter clerk announced the flights arrival.
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Inacio dug his hands into his pockets and walked to the rear of the crowd forming near
the gate.
The doors swung open. A long line of travelers dispersed into hugs, kisses,
handshakes and warm chatter. Inacio peered down the ramp, uncertain if he would
recognize Sabina. More passengers disembarked, pushing the mob toward Inacio and
the main hallway. He sighed again. Perhaps she skipped this flight. The push of
strangers and the public setting helped Inacio subdue the stronger emotions.
A round man exited the gate and stopped to talk with friends. A tall, beautiful,
refreshed and poised woman, with shorter black hair and fewer American fast food
pounds, stepped around him, her dark eyes scanning the terminal. Inacio harrumphed
a mix of surprise and joy; a smile escaped his gloom.
Sabina? He called.
Inacio towered over the crowd, enhanced by his faded red knit shirt and coarsely
combed black hair. Sabina smiled and waved, but Inacios sulky expression made her
cautious. He waved again and she approached quickly.
OiInacio, she said softly.
Their hug was soft and hesitant, full of unspoken sorrow and mutual regret.
Inacio pulled away, brushed a few strands of hair from his brown eyes and took her
bags. He walked his sister through the summer heat to his car, opened her door and
stowed the bags in the trunk. Sabina turned to him when he merged onto the highway.
Inacio caught her stare, nodded and smiled weakly.
I visited Bellisas grave a few times while you were with Mama and Papa, Inacio
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said. Kept the flowers fresh. Picked the dirt from the engraving. He stumbled over
his words. The grass has filled in
Sabina did not respond and his voice trailed into deeper memories. She
stiffened with anxiety as the traffic near downtown Austin stalled their progress. Inacio
sighed. A part of him wished the embrace of family and the simplicity of life in their
Brazilian jungle village of Campoalmas had kept Sabina from returning to this miserable
place. But he understood that she could not stay away from the baby shed lost in a
premature birth. Inacio sighed again, settled into his seat and let his mind drift through
old memories. His jungle home was a great distance from Austin, in kilometers, time
and tragedy.
* * *
Inacio left Campoalmas for the first time when he was ten. Papa and his uncles
invited him on a boat trip into Manaus. The magnificent city burst with colors, cars,
rudeness and toys. Inacio followed the men impatiently, tugging against Papas strong
grip to demand a walk down isles full of glitter and fun. Papa always said no. They
paddled slowly home, talking and rationing the meager food purchase. Sparkling glass
buildings radiated from the jungle, taunting Inacio to choose between a new world and
the old.
He swam twenty meters from the boat before Papa retrieved him.
Campoalmas seemed dirtier after that trip; simple child pleasures became
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unimpressive. Inacio insulted kids playing in the mud, refused to splash with his friends
in the filthy water, and watched planes while the other boys dreamed of working with
their fathers on the new highway. Mama grew tired of his pouting. One day, while
cuddling with Sabina, she invited Inacio to join them in her hammock.
Do you remember your Uncle Faustino? He left the village to find excitement,
when you were little. Youre just like him. If he bothered to write, Id have him write
you.
Inacio rolled out of the hammock and ran in circles. Can I live with him?
Mama stretched out and Sabina curled up near her belly. Why do you want to
leave? Life is good here. You have friends and a sister who adores you.
Inacio spun in frustration. Manaus is better!
Sabina lifted her head and frowned. Qual a sua?she spat out.
Whats his problem? Mama repeated with a laugh. His problem is that he was
born red all over and screaming like an angry scarlet macaw. They watched as Inacio
howled and spiraled down to the dirt floor. He hasnt changed. He was born with fire
in his heart. The fire keeps getting him into trouble. And trouble chases him like fire
chases the trees.
esse fumo? Sabina asked as she peered over the hammocks edge.
No, theres no smoke, Mama chuckled. Just dust. She leaned over to see if
Inacio was still spinning on the floor. I could tell you about your uncles adventures.
Inacio sat up. Yeah!
Mama sighed and pressed a finger to her lips, tapping gently for several minutes
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In Sapas hut, the lecture was a brutal punishment.
Ours is a good life, Inacio. You have a good life here.
When he was twenty, Inacio was eligible to work with Papa on the road project.
He followed the others to the day labor camp, gripped the chain-link fence and waited
until the boss motioned for him to join the crew. Inacio climbed into the diesel trucks
open bed and waved to Papa, who was not selected. The truck jostled in ruts and
sprayed mud across Inacios face.
At the site, Inacio jumped off the truck, scraped filth off his face and rubbed his
sore spine. The boss assistant tossed him a smoother and pointed to his post. Sweat,
heat, anger and concrete lapped his boots.
The boss and his assistant argued constantly over the roads condition. The
boss patted sweat and paranoia from his brow, fearful a worker might expose him, or a
competitor might spray him with bullets, or the government would uncover his crimes.
The assistant smiled reassuringly at the end of the day and slipped into the office. A
few minutes later he emerged, toying with something in his pocket before releasing the
workers. Inacio dropped his smoother and joined his friends standing behind the truck.
This road is a disgrace, Inacio said. Papa was right to criticize it. Look. That
section was finished last week and already the pavement has cracks and the roadbed is
eroding.
What do you care? His friend snorted. It pays.
Thats the problem. I could earn money from bad work and live as I have
forever. Inacio pulled a rolled magazine from his back pocket. But thats no life for
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me. You boys can have your mud and the girls from two villages over. He flipped the
pages to photos of American blondes. Im looking for this.
His friend laughed. Shes not looking for you. You dream too big.
My uncle made it work. Inacio rolled the magazine and popped his friend. Ill
do it. Youll see.
You mean your dead uncle?
No. My Uncle Faustino.
Yeah, him. They found him dead in a dumpster in Receife ten years ago. He
fell in with bad people.
Inacio slumped forward. What?
Your Mama didnt tell you? His friend shook his head. Shit, Inacio. Youve
been chasing the wrong dream. This road is the only future we have.
Inacio followed his friend onto the truck bed. A short, ugly man bumped him from
behind and backed off. Inacio sat on a toolbox, examined the crumbly road through the
sideboards and picked at bits of concrete entombing his shoelaces. Uncle Faustino
resisted and failed; family and friends abandoned him in death. Inacio cursed softly.
Thats him. The ugly man returned with the boss assistant. I saw him take it.
You, the assistant pointed at Inacio. Stand up.
Inacio squinted and folded his arms. The two men lifted him off the toolbox. The
ugly man dug into Inacios back pocket and pulled out the magazine. The assistant
unrolled it and something metal dropped onto the floorboards.
What is this? The assistant bent over and retrieved the tool. What is this?
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What do you need a metal file for in your thatch hut?
Inacio clenched his fists and both men flinched.
This man saw you take it. Both men stepped back. Inacios friends did not
move. You are a thief. All of you are thieves. The assistant looked for disagreement.
You lose your pay this day and so do the rest of you for not turning him in.
The assistant slid the file into his pant pocket and ripped the fabric. Two disks
tumbled down his leg and clattered across the bed. He chased them to the edge,
crouched on one knee and put his hand over one of the disks. The ugly man jumped off
the bumper and ran to the office. The assistant turned to investigate a noise and Inacio
kicked him in the head.
Do you thinkI dont know your games? Inacio slammed him onto the
floorboards. We know your scam! Plant a tool on someone, make an accusation, and
keep the pay for yourself! He pounded the assistants head against a rivet. Were not
so stupid, are we? We know all your scams!
Guns clicked and Inacio froze. The assistant spit blood and weakly called for
help.
What are you doing to him? The boss and his guards were ready for trouble.
What are you talking about?
Dont say it, Inacio, someone whispered. They mean trouble for all of us.
Inacio calmly leaned over and seized the trembling assistants wrist. The boss
tapped his pistol and narrowed his eyes. Everyone in the truck fell silent.
Beside the pay scam your assistant runs, which I believe you know nothing
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about, Inacio said. He also delivers information to your competitors.
Inacio motioned toward the disk closest to the end of the truck bed. The boss
stepped forward, picked up the disk and opened its plastic case. Inacio ran his other
hand across the floor, found the second disk, and slid it into his pocket. The boss
frowned and snapped his fingers.
His guards charged forward. Inacio rolled the assistant off the truck. The guards
seized the traitor and dragged him into the jungle. The assistant stopped screaming
after one gunshot. A guard emerged and the boss motioned for the driver to leave. The
truck jerked forward and Inacio tumbled onto his back.
Damn, Inacio, his friend shouted after the truck left the work site. You
shouldnt have done that!
And let him steal our money?
Thats how it is here. You saw how that man died. There is no justice in the
wilderness. You just shut up and live to work another day. The boss owns us.
No. Inacio reached into his pocket and pulled out the second disk. Not
anymore.
His friend jumped and cursed. Do you know how dangerous that disk is?
Trouble follows you! He knocked the disk from Inacios hand. It spiraled out of the
truck and splashed into the muddy road. Inacio walked to the edge.
Leave it Inacio. We have a good life. Id like to keep mine.
Inacio turned his head. You dont have a life if you always surrender.
He jumped from the bed and rolled to a stop. The truck sped away and
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disappeared into the jungle. Inacio retrieved the disk, dried it with his shirt and walked
home in the dark.
Campoalmas welcomed an unexpected visitor a month later, an athletic recruiter
from an American university who sought out English-speaking talent in exotic places.
He was short and intense, with a big heart and an inability to ask the right questions.
Inacio, banned from working the roads and wandering restlessly through the village,
was his only prospect.
Im looking for someone tall and fast, he scanned Inacio and grinned widely.
Id say youre it. How would you like to come to Texas on a basketball scholarship?
You know how to play basketball, right?
Inacio tightened his brow as the man walked. Mama, Papa and Sabina looked
on curiously. Sapa stepped from his hut, rolled his favorite stone carving tool in his
hand and returned to the shade.
Basketball? Surely this sport was easy to learn, though he wondered why
Americans were so crazy about a game that required a ball made from a basket. Sure.
I can play that.
Inacio stuffed a change of clothes into his new orange bag and followed the
recruiter to a boat. Sabina followed him out of the hut and joined Mama and Papa by
the riverbank. The recruiter reversed the boat into the river and roared away. Sabina
shared a long wave with Inacio, until he disappeared behind his smile and the jungle
wall. Mama buried her head into Papas shoulder and wailed uncontrollably over her
only surviving son.
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Dont worry Mama, Papa said between her cries. Dont worry. He needs to
go.
Once Inacio settled into Austin, he surprised his coaches with a complete lack of
athletic ability. For a few weeks, at least, he tried to bond with his teammates, but his
heavy accent and boredom with the sport made acceptance impossible. He spent his
free time wandering the campus and found himself spending more time in the library,
where yellowed books fed his malnourished mind with obscure philosophies and
scientific truths. By spring his grades were good, he lost his heavy accent, and forgot to
attend half his required basketball practices.
Because most students despised what they considered foreigners on charity
scholarships, Inacio could not break from his isolation. Americans, better educated and
held to higher expectations, hated competing with the jungle savage. Friends were
scarce and girls preferred pasty nerds or drunken rich boys. When the basketball
season ended, Inacio was kicked off the team and had no hope of fulfilling his
scholarship obligations. Sapas words droned endlessly in his mind.
You have a good life here in Campoalmas.
Inacio drifted into a street rally one dreary evening, held by a group calling
themselves the Melioris Party. Their leader, Davis Keller, spoke eloquently of apathys
dangers and their obligation to guide the nation. His subtle passion and strong words
captivated Inacio. He inched into the crowds edge, and then someone tapped his
shoulder.
Hello, a tall but skinny poster child of American wholesomeness offered a
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handshake. Im Brennan Korier. Youre the one who wrecked the curve on the
economics test? Good job! You and I were the only ones to pass. Inacio? Is that your
name?
Yes. Inacio felt comfortable with Brennan.
Well, Inacio, its funny youre here. I was telling our national director about you
yesterday. He wanted to meet you, but I didnt know if you could make the rally. I hear
youve been kicked off the squad. Will your scholarship default after May?
Inacio paused, weary of Brennans intent. Yeah. Theres no hope of a transfer
to another sport. No one wants me around.
Brennan leaned forward. We can fix that, find you a job and get financial aid
flowing, so you can stay and learn your potential. We offer success. Material. Political.
Intellectual. True success.
Inacio agreed, and took the oath to brotherhood and the Melioran cause. The
groups national director, considered the number two man after Davis Keller, greeted
Inacio personally.
Im Henry Marek, he said in a dry voice as he scratched his beard. Brennan
speaks highly of you, but says you have a money issue?
Inacio retold his story, probably too much of it. Henry Marek cut him off with a
polite smile and a handshake.
Dont worry. I know the right people to fix your troubles. Did you say you enjoy
Anthropology?
Yes, much more than sports.
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All right, the director straightened into a surprisingly commanding pose. Ill
suggest you to the department head. And I can get you a paid assistantship there as
well. He scratched his beard and smiled. That should be a good place for you. The
Melioris Party is well established here. Things will work out nicely.
The rally dispersed as Davis Keller left the small square podium and waved to
Henry. When the director left, Brennan slapped Inacio on the back.
I didnt even get that strong of a greeting. Henrys an admirer of intellect, and he
wants the movement to bring out the best of our potential. I think youre set, Inacio. I
think your set.
The Meliorans became family, yet the old bonds with Campoalmas did not break.
Sabina would occasionally write to him, asking how his new life was different, and telling
him her dreams for her future. Inacio believed his sister was brilliant, full of potential,
and destined for disappointment in Campoalmas. She deserved to join the elite.
Without asking her thoughts or permission, he did what a good brother should. He
pulled a few Melioran strings and secured a scholarship for Sabina.
That act, more than anything else, haunted Inacio the most.
* * *
The car attempting to merge honked. Inacio jumped in his seat and tightened his
grip on the steering wheel. He accelerated to make room and saw Sabina in his right
side mirror. Five months away from Bellisa added to the redness in her eyes. Inacio
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Mourning families called it Melioran Hill. The brilliant white tombstones betrayed their
recent placements and the youthful ages of the dead. Perhaps it was a good sign that
Melioran Hill crowded toward full capacity; dwindling gravesites meant fewer rebels
remained to fill the empty spots. No matter, Davis Keller would be captured soon, and
justice would kill the bankrupt Melioran cause.
Inacio folded his arms across his chest, waiting for a sense of satisfaction that
never came.
SAGE VALLEY CEMETARY
CEDAR PARK, TEXAS
For six wonderful, incredible, brief months, Sabina Alvaro was a mother.
Throughout the tension between her husband and brother, she endured as a mediator.
Throughout the pain, the burning in her belly, and nightmares that made the last months
of pregnancy unbearable, she endured with anticipation. She rose above it all to give
life to one she never met, but knew would be wonderful. Through it all she swelled with
hope and love.
In a span of time incomprehensibly brief, the dream ended in a cruel finale. Her
baby was never meant to feel her mother's soft touch, gasp for her first breath, or see
the smile and loving face of another. Sabinas daughter would never know life.
Sabina sat beside the small limestone marker and ran her tear-softened fingers
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over the cool stone. The words 'Bellisa Dawn Korier: January 10, 2182' tugged her
fingers. Sabina fondled her necklace and a tear splashed into the carved letters. She
imagined Bellisa, cooing and gurgling in her arms, tugging aggressively at the pearls.
More than the dreams of motherhood ended that day. Her American family, and the
future Bellisa came to symbolize, crumbled as well.
Sabina settled into the grass and turned to check on Inacio. He was staring into
the distance, his mind no doubt fixated on the epitaph of his ambitions. She could still
remember the day Inacio abandoned his true home for a flashy future. Back then, she
thought life in Campoalmas was perfect; family and friends were always close and
comforting, and the jungle offered a daily parade of fascinations.
She most enjoyed the evenings, and stood at the edge of the jungle to listen.
She was quick to learn the unique sounds of one animal over another, and could easily
pull any birds song, frogs chirp or monkeys howl from the tangled blast of jungle noise.
A few years before Inacio left, Sapa decided to dabble in the tourist trade. The
villagers built a sloppy collection of huts by the river, and dressed a dozen or so men
and women in loincloth and feathers in order to present a scripted view of ancient
Amerindian life. Sabina convinced Sapa to let her serve as a tour guide.
Tourists were collected at Manaus. Parents were drawn in by the chance to
experience the rituals and language of a dying culture; their children excited by the offer
to blow darts at rats. As the boat motored slowly to Campoalmas, Sabina amazed their
guests with her encyclopedic knowledge of the jungle. By the time they reached the
riverbank, the tourists were fatigued by the lengthy boat ride and tropical air, and Sapa
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sat them down to hear his stories.
He told them the legends, the great and sorrowful list of events that swirled
around the tribe since the deep shadows of the past. For the last hundred years, since
the end of the Brazilian Wars, their people had been able to settle in relative peace and
abandon their nomadic ways. When Campoalmas was settled, it was nearly devoid of
life. The jungle had been reduced to cropland, but the wars and lawlessness of the 21st
century had all but extinguished humans from the Amazon. Over the decades, the
jungle returned, seeded by patches of forest preserve.
Some primeval patches remained uninhabited, he told them, for the spirits of the
dead held them. Rarely did those who entered return, and those who did come back
possessed, haunted in the mind, and doomed to a quick death. This somewhat true
story always scared the children, and helped keep the more adventurous tourists from
wandering off. The illusion of a subsistence lifestyle would fall apart if someone found
the real village of masonry family huts, radio antennas and satellite receivers.
When the visit was over, the tourists were ushered into the boat with their
overpriced trinkets, feather headdresses and Stone Age tools. The natives offered a
traditional farewell as the boat departed, then changed into their modern ways, counted
the thick rolls of money and laughed about gullible gringos. Papa enjoyed pretending
far more than building the road.
But the tourists always disembarked from the same spot where Inacio so eagerly
leapt into the recruiters boat, and Sabina could not forget his smile as he disappeared
around the river bend. When the money was counted, and the villagers had settled
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down to discuss how to spend it, she would sit by herself and wonder why her brother
wanted to go.
Mama and Papa told her that he was restless, and her friends whispered that he
was in trouble with the thugs on the road project and had to leave. But there had to be
more. As she grew older, and saw her life through mature eyes, Sabina came to
understand that Inacio did not leave. He escaped. Inacio left because he was angry
over a lost past, over what should have been, over a surrendered collective future.
Inacio wrote to her sometimes. He always said positive things, even though his
letters were short and vague at first. She thought maybe he regretted his choice; that
the loneliness and distance from home was too much for him, and that maybe he would
come home and sleep contentedly in his empty hammock. Instead, Inacio found the
Meliorans, and discovered what he was looking for. He wrote Sabina often after that,
with thousands of words describing the golden age of his life and putting in her head the
whispers of fascinations beyond the known world.
Then he made Sabina an offer.
I can get you into college here. Come to America and discover a new destiny.
Sabina pressed Inacios letter between her hands. She had always assumed
her destiny was that of all the generations before; to live life as it was offered to you, not
to insist on more. She had expected to start a family of her own, not become a student
in a foreign land. But Inacio had achieved something better; maybe America would
bring Sabina something unexpected. Maybe her family waited in America, or maybe the
village needed a teacher, or both.
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Melioris Party. Sabina let them talk into exhaustion before chuckling her rejection.
How can I achieve intellectual success when the meetings happen every night?
Classes and isolation resumed in the spring. A biology professor joined her on
the bench outside her evening class and made a proposal. Sabina built a wall with her
books, aware of Doctor Thomas Waynes love for pretty young students. He tapped his
foot and nervously scanned the halls, fearing a colleague might see him with the
Brazilian.
I noticed from your essays that you have knowledge of tropical life and
medicines. I also know youve been ignored. I have research interests in the rainforest
and I need an assistant. If youll help me, Ill mentor you, even into graduate school.
Sabina accepted immediately and he hurried out of sight. She walked home
after class, wondering how badly graduate school would alter her plans. Excitement
blinded her to three men looking to fulfill a fantasy. One muffled her screams as the
others carried her behind the apartment. They laughed when her skirt tore.
Wood cracked bone. The man squeezing her thigh screamed and crumbled to
the ground. The others cursed, dropped Sabina and ran.
Bastards! Inacio yelled out. His baseball bat missed the next target and he
chased them into the street.
The man lying beside her growled and hobbled to his feet. He fumbled for a
switchblade. Brennan jumped him and pinned his arm. The blade clattered on the
asphalt. Brennan pushed the man away and kicked the weapon out of reach. The man
staggered then ran before Inacio returned. Brennan knelt beside Sabina and pressed
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her head to his shoulder. She cried for a moment then breathed deeply to regain
composure.
Are you hurt? Brennan asked.
Ill be fine, she responded, suddenly aware Brennan was more to her than
Inacios friend.
Inacio ran to them and caught his breath. Why are you looking at him like that?
He furled his brow as Brennan and Sabina smiled at each other. He just wanted to
save you. Iremembered to bring the bat.
When Sabina married Brennan, her lifes goals seemed achievable; but then
Davis Keller lost the Presidential election, Inacios Melioran friends and protectors died
in the failed coup, and the nation collapsed into civil war. The Meliorans wanted
soldiers, but Inacio refused to fight. His friends expelled him with fists, but Brennan
reluctantly sided with his brother-in-law. Life formed an unsteady equilibrium between
past and present; the Melioran defeat at Fort Hope a year ago ended their peace.
The Federals occupied Austin and directed their hostility at everything Melioran.
Inacios dean delivered a short letter, written under the shadow of threat, invalidating his
graduate and senior level credits. Colleagues viewed him suspiciously. Old friends
denied his existence. The police harassed him for being weak, arrested him when they
wanted, and released him when Sabina brought money. Melioran taunts at work and
school relented only as the war diminished their numbers.
Brennan lost himself in news reports and visited the graves of fallen brothers.
Sabina held him tightly, accepting cold kisses as reassurance of true love. The
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Meliorans tugged on Brennan, twisted his sympathies and convinced him Sabina was a
limitation. He was not happy when she became pregnant, and became enraged when
she lost the baby.
Inacio brought Sabina home from the hospital, argued with Brennan over his lack
of compassion and presence, and left for class. Sabina slept poorly, holding her hand
out to the empty spot on the other side of the bed. She rose and stumbled to the
dresser. The blanket Mama made for Bellisas inscription into the familys huaca, their
family tree, was missing from the top drawer. She struggled into the living room and
spoke over news reports of a raid near the Mexican border.
Brennan, have you seen Bellisas inscription blanket?
He batted his head against the headrest and spoke with sharp words.
It was buried with her.
Buried? She fell back. But-
That inscription ceremony is idiotic and not appropriate. Brennan jumped out of
his chair. We couldnt just let you cremate her and take her back to Brazil! She
belongs with me!
Is that what you did instead of looking after me in the hospital? She leaned
against the wall and shivered. You should have taken care of me instead of stealing
her from me! She is my baby!
Brennan brushed her when he entered the kitchen.
Why Brennan? After all that has happened to us, why did you do this? Shes
my baby also. You didnt tell me. You didnt let me see her go. You didnt want me to
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see her burial?
She deserved an appropriate burial. You would have protested. We decided to
do what was necessary. Brennan banged dirty dishes in the sink and kept his back to
her.
Sabina clenched her fists. Your Meliorans told you to do it, didnt they? Your
damn Meliorans! They have no business in our lives! They have done everything to
ruin us!
No, dammit! Brennan waved a soapy knife in his hand. Youruined
everything! He stalked her around the couch and into a corner. You ruined
everything! My friends warned me about marrying you, but I didnt listen! They told me
you would do anything to hold me back. Is that why you got pregnant? To hold me
back? How fucked up is that? They were right. You were never good enough! You
couldnt even make a healthy baby!
Her legs quivered and she clutched her belly. Then leave. Leave if Im not good
enough. Leave us. Were already a broken family because of you! You chose them
over me years ago. I just wish Id believed it then. She held her tears and stood tall
despite the pain.
Leave!
Brennan retracted the knife and backed away. He turned and walked to the
door, but stopped with his hand on the knob. He looked over Sabina and scowled.
Inacio kicked in the door. Brennan fell back onto the wall but did not release the
knife. Inacio punched and kicked with full hatred until he controlled the knife. He
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pressed the blade to Brennans throat and Sabina pleaded for him to stop. The tears
she pressed into his back paralyzed his rage. Brennan slipped away to join the war
and his Melioran brothers.
Inacio said nothing as the days ticked off, his silence hard despite Sabinas cries
for support. He stared into old pictures, scratched the faces off Melioran friends and
searched for someone to blame. Alone and distraught, Sabina saw no resolution to her
grief in their tiny apartment. She knew, as the plane pulled away from the gate and he
waved goodbye from the terminal window, that Inacio wanted to sort his jumbled
emotions in private.
Her family in Campoalmas greeted her warmly. Sabina laid Bellisas new gown
into the ceremonial fire and stepped back into Papas arms. The edges curled over
and blackened; bright yellow flickers diminished and the gown joined the fires ashes.
A dull sparkle on Sabinas cheek slipped into the darkness. Sapa worked a small clay
urn through the hot ash. He chanted softly and walked with Sabina to the riverbank.
Although Bellisas body is not with us, he said, her spirit will make the journey
to the ancestors.
Sabina knelt and emptied the urn. A soft splash deafened the jungle cries; ashes
flowed between her fingers and swirled into the night. Sapa walked her to the familys
hut and inscribed Bellisa into the huaca. Mamas tight embrace offered strength and
love. Sabina fell into old routines. Chores and busywork consumed her days; her
worn and comfortable hammock cuddled her to sleep. Mourning turned to smiles and
Mama left Sabinas side to greet tourists at the fake Campoalmas.
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you.
He sliced off one more sliver, then got up to place the tool on a table. He sat
beside her and Sabina noticed a lifetime of suffering etched in his face.
Our legends say the birth of our ancestors the Payaruna was a lonely event.
For a thousand generations, the Payaruna lived alone, consuming the fertile valleys
without respect for the life they destroyed. Ice came from the mountains. The valleys
dried up. The Payaruna knew their Gods were displeased.
And then, from the mountains came the Nauparuna. The Payaruna invited the
Nauparuna to stay and make their homes among the villages. Marriages and children
bonded the two peoples together; peace made the land thrive, and food came in
plentiful amounts. The Gods had rewarded them for living in harmony, and the
Payaruna came to appreciate the gift of life and all the creatures of the Earth. The
Nauparuna did not.
They saw themselves as different. A hundred generations passed, yet the
Nauparuna could not accept life with the Payaruna. They left the villages to make
homes of their own, claiming far away valleys and abandoning the very ways that saved
the Payaruna.
The Payaruna were disturbed by this, and approached the Nauparuna to ask for
their return. They could not convince the Nauparuna their lives were worse. A new
tribe had appeared in the Nauparunas valleys; one they saw as superior to the
Payaruna.
Tempted by the Incan tribes need for empire, the Nauparuna became a part of
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them. When the Spanish came, the Nauparuna were punished for abandoning the old
ways. They were destroyed; claimed by those sharing the Nauparunas lack of respect
for life.
Sapa sat in silence for a moment, longing for his tool while thinking about what to
say next. Sabina rose to retrieve it. He smiled at her, made a deep cut, and continued.
The Nauparuna forgot that every life has value and purpose. They perished
because they saw the Payaruna as different, and saw more value in life with the Inca.
Our legends say we are the children of the Payaruna. To forget what they have learned
means we have not listened.
Sapa took a long breath and exhaled. When you left for America, I thought you
made a mistake. But then I decided you had to go, so that you could return and teach
our children the worlds knowledge. I wish tragedy never found you, but you should
hear our ancestors whispering louder than your grief. They tell us every life has
meaning, even one as short as Bellisas. He took another breath. Her life has
meaning to others that may not be felt or understood for years to come. You and
Bellisa both have much to teach us. You still have reason to live, even if you do not
believe that now.
She hugged him, and her tears soaked his shirt. He smiled at her again.
Every life has purpose. That is why your loss would be such a tragedy to us.
It was then she decided to return to America.
* * *
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Sabinas thoughts faded and she ran her tear-softened fingers over her
daughters marker. Bellisa should be here, cooing softly and tugging her mothers
necklace instead of existing as a few samples of blood and tissue collected after her
death. At the time, Sabina just wanted to have a part of Bellisa, but now she intended
to use them.
The doctors failed to understand the cause of death, wasting time and credibility
searching for viral infections, reading body scans for signs of brain damage or
deformity, and running detailed genomic analyses on both mother and child. The data
came back so inconclusive and outrageously abnormal that the lab equipment and test
procedures became suspect. Despite all the science and technology at their disposal,
the doctors could not understand the cause and ruled Bellisas death as unexplainable.
Sabina stood and wiped the drying tears from her eyes, then stooped to touch the
stone. She was every bit the good scientist as her doctors, if not better, and she could
find the answer herself.
Inacio leaned against the far side of the car, oblivious to his sister's approach.
He stood rigidly in silence and stared toward a far hill.
Inacio, Im ready to go. Sabinas soft voice returned him from his daydreams.
She walked around the back of the car. The hardness in his face, the same look
of stone that gripped him five months before, remained unbroken.
Thanks for bringing me here, she said. I will probably get too busy before long
to come and see her. I need to prepare a lesson plan for freshman biology. I need to
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finish my old research project before I can graduate. I just hope the freezer vat didnt
destroy it.
She put her arm behind his back and he rested his chin on her head.
I am glad you decided to come back, he said. I was lonely.
Sapa talked me into it. I needed to come back for the village, Bellisa, and you.
Inacio walked her to the passenger side, then fell into his seat and started the
engine. The car hummed to life and demanded action. She saw the tombstone-crusted
hill Inacio found so captivating. Melioran Hill. The rebellion still clouded his mind.
Inacio looked west to the setting sun. Crimson rays splashed against his face.
Inacio, Sabina hesitantly asked as they drove away. How have you been?
Same as always.
Her heart trembled. The answer was what she feared.
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AUGUST 29
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHIN GTON, D.C.
Ill have the scenarios encoded for viewing shortly, Mister President, Tallon
Richter said. He ran two fingers across his silver chin stubble, then typed a few last
minute commands into the War Rooms master computer.
Richter was lanky, but he intimidated with the harsh angles of his face and the
raptor-like eyes that seemed to examine every person as if they were meat to be taken
at his leisure. His skin was rough from his years of operating in the blazing tropical sun,
yet pale from decades of intricate political activity
Richter also had odd surgical marks near his temples, which he never discussed.
Hardin knew of them, because he had first met Richter in a Venezuelan field hospital
immediately after the surgery that made them. The write-up referenced some type of
head trauma requiring an emergency fluid draining. Since then, Richter kept himself
bald by shaving his entire head, save the eyebrows, twice a day. Some people thought
Richter was crazy to do it, but that was probably the idea.
I only want good news this morning, Richter, Hardin said as he picked lint from
his sweat stained army green sweatshirt. It was necessary for a President to maintain
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the physique of authority. Hardin was not the enormous hulk he had been as a lad, but
a daily routine of exercise held back the weakness of aging. In many ways, Hardin
considered himself more adept at command now then he had been in Venezuela; his
mind was sharper, his huskier voice more threatening, and the sun-etched battle lines of
his face coronated him like a warrior king. Hardin was in his prime.
Shave off whatever you need to, Hardin continued as he watched Richter toy
with his chin. But make sure this briefing is short.
Richter frowned briefly but did not pause from his task. Hardin chuckled; Richter
had no sense of humor before breakfast. Pre-dawn meetings never bothered Hardin;
they got the job done in the army, during his governorship of Venezuela, and they
worked especially well in Washington. Nothing kept the military chiefs prepared and
afraid like Hardins unscheduled war reports.
The door to the War Room opened and Hardin faked a yawn as his chiefs
sauntered in.
Good morning, gentlemen. Hardin smiled cheerfully. He stood, walked to the
breakfast bar to grab a pastry and pour a cup of coffee. Please excuse my attire.
A perk of being President was that no one dared criticize your private
appearance. The formal events, like meetings with world leaders or more interesting
people, naturally required formal attire: but 5 a.m. was never a formal hour. It was
possible the chiefs, the general staff, or even the nation as a whole, did care about their
Presidents pre-dawn appearance. But who would dare tell the great Sam Hardin, still
reeking of his morning exercises, that he did not smell Presidential?
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Hardin wiped his forehead with a musty towel and plopped down next to a young
spinster from Media Relations in a thousand-dollar look. The two smiled at each other,
and Hardin wondered if this young man grasped the magnificence of the well-worn War
Room. Many a splendid war and secret international incident had been directed from
this room.
Over the centuries, the tools of strategy had changed significantly. The simple
map tables and pencils of the Twentieth Century gave way to computer animation, real-
time satellite imagery and Hardins favorite, an antique three-dimensional holographic
map table used since the mid 21st Century. The device focused an array of colored
lasers, concealed in the tabletop frame, to produce the illusion of space by aiming them
at a sunken, spinning metal coil. The resulting display could be zoomed, flown through,
spun around, or draped with the angle of light from any given day and time. The
operator could follow a rivers course or a highway, and plot the location of every soldier
and tank on a battlefield.
Ah, yes. A great machine, even if Hardin had absolutely no idea why it worked.
If everyone is ready, Richter said. He took one last look at his assembled facts
and intelligence, then switched the master computers display to the holographic table.
Lets begin.
Everyone turned to face the map table. The spinning metal coil reached top
speed, looking like a shallow dome as it sped past human perception. A square shaped
slice of the Southwest winked into view. The image zoomed slowly into eastern
Arizona, New Mexico and western Texas. Three-dimensional icons of green soldiers,
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brown tanks, and white barracks hovered over the positions of infantry units, armored
cavalry and regional bases. Smaller red soldiers hovered over the positions of known
or suspected Melioran troops. It was clear from this view that the Meliorans were
spread thin.
As Richter approached the table, a small red and white target appeared over
Tucson and began moving east toward New Mexico.
Approximately three hours ago, Richter said, we received intelligence that
Freeman Tyler and possibly Davis Keller were in Tucson. We have confirmed the
information, but learned they had left the area twelve hours earlier.
Hardin knew that Richter like to confirm through bribe or torture, or both.
Whatever the method, they had never been this close to squashing Davis or Tyler. He
leaned forward and watched the little target move into New Mexico.
The informant was not clear with his vehicle description, but suggested a recent
model van or off-road vehicle was the probable mode of transportation.
Richter paused as the target reached Gallup. New Mexico and split into three
targets that moved in different directions. One remained in Gallup, the second
continued east and south to El Paso, Texas, and the third turned west and returned to
Arizona.
The informant was also less than clear on Mister Tyler and Mister Kellers
destination. This is why you see three extrapolated routes. There is reason to believe
all three are viable. There has been a recent spike in encrypted Melioran radio traffic
originating near Gallup, suggesting this town as a possible rendezvous point with these
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rebels suspected to be in Farmington. Tyler is a crafty man, and it is not out of
character for all of this information to be a decoy intended to draw us to a phantom
target so he can backtrack and move freely further west. Richter lazily studied the map
he had created and the creased faces of the other men.
We have also received information from a reliable source, he continued, that
the pair intend to join with a small Melioran platoon believed to be near Laredo and
cross the Rio Grande into Mexico.
Richter, like Hardin, made his legend in Venezuela. The claw, as the young
intelligence officer Richter was known back then, was an uninspired play on his name
meant to compliment his ability to ensnare the craftiest rebels and safely eliminate even
the most popular critics. His value increased as Hardin gathered power; his cunning
sharpened on years of political prey.
Hardin had also met Freeman Tyler in Venezuela, where they were uneasy allies
until Hardin became military governor. Tyler repeatedly refused his governors orders,
lived by the wrong code of honor, and became the only officer in all of Venezuela that
did not knuckle under to Hardins blunt rage or Richters shadowy pressure. Tyler was a
problem they could not silence, and a snitch who damn near got Hardin executed over a
trivial bit of collateral damage.
Tyler was an old danger in a new war, still capable of beating every trap,
screwing up every strategy and dragging this war out far beyond the initial one-month
battle plan. Even after the Meliorans were nearly crushed in a brilliant double
envelopment at the Battle of Fort Hope, Tyler did not surrender. He fought on, thwarting
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three great plans and forcing the adoption of a few radical alternative strategies. The
best of these alternatives was the simplest.
Forget Davis. Kill Tyler.
Hardin stood and walked to the side of the table near Laredo. He crouched to
inspect the topography of the Rio Grande and the Mexican side of the river.
Hell have a long way to run for the mountain cover if he crosses at Laredo. The
plains are barren and we could easily have the Mexicans hunt them down for us. That
option is a ploy.
Yes. I would agree. Richter walked closer to the table so he could point out the
area near El Paso. I think they will cross here. With the scattered Melioran regiments
believed to be safehoused in Las Cruces and Carlsbad.
Hardin turned his head to look at Richter. Why El Paso? The last time he
crossed was through Arizona. This is a ploy to divert us so he can cross in Arizona.
El Paso is big enough to hide his numbers and border security there is easily
bribed on both sides.
Hardin tisked. I thought wed fixed that. Fire all the border agents there. Bring
in people who respect a short leash. He then stood straight and turned back to the
table. He watched the second target symbol cross the Rio Grande at El Paso. Tyler
must be planning something, another trick, another strike. The last time he crossed, he
regrouped in the mountains, invaded and damn near claimed the whole southwest
mineral belt. I want armor and troops to cut him off. Send those units in western
Colorado south. Where do you think he is now?
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Richter answered. Assuming the informant was correct, Tyler was moving
quick. Most likely in the Albuquerque area now.
All right, Hardin continued. Then deploy the three regiments from Fort Bliss to
seal the Mexican border. The units from Colorado can block any a return through
Arizona. And have them track that signal in Gallup and destroy it. Hell, search the
whole town to rule it out as a safetown for Davis and Tyler. Any resistance; raze it.
Hardin turned and walked for the exit. Thats all. He paused at the doorway
and scoffed at his chiefs. Youve all been quiet this morning. Im beginning to think I
can run this country alone with just a little help from Mister Richter.
The chiefs switched off their electronic tablets and grumbled silently. Richter
squinted his eyes slightly, made an imperceptible dip of his head and watched the target
blinking slowly over Gallup. He folded his arms, then lifted a hand to his face and
began slowly tapping a finger against his cheek.
Mister Richter, Hardin said as he stepped through the door. When youve
finished here, come to my office.
Richter nodded and returned to the War Rooms main computer. Hardin moved
swiftly through the halls of the White House, acknowledging greetings from the few
staffers he liked, while ignoring the rest. He entered the Oval Office by throwing open
the doors in a flurry of drama. Inside, his desk was already tarnished with token
legislation requiring his attention, and he hesitantly took his seat. The desk's flat screen
display scrolled through his itinerary for the day.
Dull crap, all of it.
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Hardin pulled the first piece of paper from the stack and placed it in front of him.
This was a bill authorizing the post war reorganizing of state governments hed
requested three months earlier. Congress was slow to act, as always, but still did what
it was told. The purge of the opposition during the last two election cycles was proving
very effective. If Congress stayed too meek, he might have to lift his beloved state of
emergency.
The secretary knocked and opened the door for Richter, who walked to Hardins
collection of antique weapons. Secured to the walls were polished medieval swords,
maces, crossbows and a chipped battleaxe. In smaller cases situated on the shelves
were pistols and rifles from most every war the nation had fought. At the center of the
collection, beneath a spotlight and crystal glass, was a bronzed grenade that an
insurgent had thrown at Hardin while he was Governor of Venezuela. Hardin liked to
tell his guests that it was still live, and then count the number of steps politely taken
back.
Richter, Hardin said after he signed the second bill. He placed his pen down,
rose from his chair and walked over to join him. I do not want Tyler to escape this time.
He thwarted the original plan to mop up the rebels in a month. Then he strengthened
his army such that we had to abandon the second plan. Then he sniffed out the double
envelopment at Fort Hope and escaped with a guerilla army andDavis. This war has
gone on long enough. Weve had our fun, broke the Melioris Party and silenced the
West. But I learned my lesson in Venezuela, Richter. Flex your muscle and annihilate
the opposition quickly. As long as Tylers out there thwarting us, we look weak.
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Hardin admired his chipped battleaxe, supposedly used at the Battle of Hastings.
Unlikely, but it made for a good story.
I know Tyler, he continued. Despite his honorable exterior, he wants what I
have. Hell never stop til he takes my office, Richter. Poor, dumb Davis is just along for
the ride; probably unaware hes being used. Its too bad you never met Tyler in
Venezuela, Richter. You could have personally killed him and saved us all a lot of
trouble.
Richter took his attention away from a 15th Century dagger and looked at Hardin.
I doubt he would have accepted my invitation to meet. He knows a trap. For that
reason, it is possible Tyler will not cross into Mexico at all. He may anticipate our
deployments and move north.
Possible, I suppose. Place a detachment from the Amarillo garrison on alert.
Richter turned away and focused on the brass grenade. There is the still our
fall-back plan. It is still in order, but now that Tyler and Keller are potentially in our
grasp, it requires your final sanction.
Hardin turned to face Richter and propped his arm beside an encased pair of
dueling pistols. You have my authorization, but this plan could be messy. You and I
are the only ones who know of all its parts. Make sure it stays that way, and tidy up any
lose ends. He turned again and walked to his desk. Let me make it perfectly clear
that I prefer Davis and Tyler to end up as a smoking crater.
Yes, Mister President. Richter walked to the doors then stopped. I believe
they will not escape this time. Your old friend Keller will soon be dead.
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Hardin snapped his head up and stared down Richter until the man turned away.
Davis chose to be the martyr. I entered this war intending to see that it happened.
Richter nodded and left the office. The doors closed and there were a few
moments of silence before the clock chimed six a.m. Hardin took up his pen and
reached for the next bill. His eyes fell on the bronze grenade and he began to hum an
old war hymn he had not sung since he sacked Caracas nearly twenty years earlier.
He wondered if he would sing the song celebrating Davis bloody demise.
NORTHEASTERN A RIZONIA
Davis Keller leaned carefully to his right, searching for a better view from the
passenger seat of a rusty truck. He watched the rocky terrain slide past his window and
scratched his graying beard. Evening sunlight enveloped the Arizona desert with
ghostly luminescence and colored the desolate land in furious shades of red. The
unmistakable crescendo of advancing jets had just ended the uneventful leg of the trip
from Tucson.
Davis pressed his weight into the cushion as he scanned the darkening sky. The
spring that had been pressing into his numb leg for the last two hours popped with a
twang. Bits of powdered foam erupted from a split in the vinyl seat cover and mixed
with the dry, dusty air.
Freeman Tyler, who had driven the entire trip without saying a word, pulled one
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