19

Canada Station Three :

Lagrange Point 4 :

Earth Orbit :

The one thing Kenny insisted on was to record the experiments on holo.

Since they wanted to keep the administration of Quantum Resources out of the procedures until they could come up with some solid conclusions, both Alex and the physicist decided to conduct their tests in Alex’s apartment after official hours.

For the most part, Alex’s involvement in the core research at the lab had become minimal—there were only so many experiments they could do without any Kinemet. It had only been on Kenny’s original insistence that Alex had been there on a more regular basis the past few weeks. Now that Kenny’s official reports did not show any progress, Alex was allowed to spend his time as he saw fit, so long as he remained on call should the need arise.

Since recharging himself with the Kinemetic radiation on the liner before it was hijacked, Alex was completely restored. He had not, however, reported his recovery to the administration, and wouldn’t until he and Kenny had a chance to do some of their own research.

His complexion was hale, his legs were strong, and he had more energy than he’d had for years.

He had not gone to see Doctor Amma for his regularly scheduled checkup, but sent her a message that everything was going well for him. Although the doctor had the best of intentions, Alex knew any diagnosis she reached would not provide him with any great insight into his condition. It would, however, raise some serious flags back on Earth if they reported he had gone into complete remission. For the time being, he could not afford that kind of attention.

Alex wanted time to investigate other aspects of the Kinemetic ability without the hindrance of the scientists who had spent most of the last ten years getting him to perform the same useless tasks and scratching their heads when they couldn’t figure out what it all meant.

In Kenny, Alex saw the spark of someone who wanted to know the answers without using the knowledge for their own political or professional gain. Although Kenny had come on strong—trying to prove himself—once he had a glimpse of what Alex was, and what he could become, Kenny’s primary instincts kicked in.

Most scientists initially entered their fields in the pursuit of knowledge, to be the first one to solve the puzzle. After years of the politics and squabbling inherent in the scientific community, many lost sight of their purpose. Right under the surface, Kenny was still motivated by his original passion, and Alex recognized it.

But while NASA and Quantum Resources wanted to know the extent of Alex’s condition, Alex needed to know. And if it meant going behind the backs of the administration to find those answers, so be it.

At first, when he no longer needed the hydraulic braces, Alex was certain someone would notice him walking around Canada Station Three under his own power, but after years of dismissing his presence, no one seemed to be able to tell the difference. Still, Alex kept mostly to himself in his rooms, except to go to the mess hall, or to the labs when he was called.

He didn’t need to go to any physical location; once again his clairvoyant ability allowed him to visit any area on the station without leaving his room. All he had to do was close his eyes and concentrate. It was a simple matter of will for him to push his senses outward. Like a ghost or an astral walker, he could frequent every corner of Canada Station Three.

Alex was able to see Kenny with his ability long before the physicist arrived at apartment for their nightly experiments.

A moment before Kenny pressed the buzzer, Alex extended his thoughts to the door panel. While it was just as easy to walk over and press the release, or even use voice control to allow the door to open, Alex preferred to exercise his electropathic ability to trip the switch. It was good practice.

“Hello, Alex,” Kenny said as he stepped inside.

Without any additional preamble, Kenny pushed a cart filled with equipment toward Alex’s computer station and began to connect the sensor leads to the bus ports.

“You had an idea, Kenny?”

The physicist nodded. “Yesterday I noticed that there was a fluctuation in the ambient temperature when you used your sight.” He glanced over at Alex. “I hate using the word ‘clairvoyance.’ Sounds like something a fortune-teller would say.”

Alex shrugged.

Kenny continued explaining: “I’d like to run a series of tests to measure the temperature change around you in relation to the distance that you extend your sight. It could be important; if you require more energy to see farther, it could make a difference to how much Kinemet someone would need to pilot a ship to different locations.”

“I keep telling you, piloting a ship in that manner is not what was intended. That’s just incidental.”

Kenny looked up from the computer and nodded. “Yeah, I know. But if we’re going to get the government corporations on board with this—and get you more of the Kinemet—we need to give them some tangible purpose. They want to see black on their profit and loss statements, not red. They need results. Things they can get behind; like cheap space travel.”

“All right. But tonight I’m going to try to push my sight farther than I ever have before,” he said, adopting Kenny’s word for the ability.

“What do you mean?”

Alex lay back on the sofa while Kenny trucked the cart over and placed the sensors around and on Alex.

“The very first time I experienced the sight, I saw the entire solar system laid out for me. It happened over a four-hour period, but in my memory, it was more like an afterimage from a bright flash. There was no controlling it. It was almost like something in my mind was calibrating my senses, getting my location.

“After that, my range was considerably less. I could only see about a hundred and fifty kilometers away. Before I went to Centauri, I used that ability to help the group who was sheltering me, by warning them of incoming ships. When they went on salvage missions, I would scout for them. I had plenty of time to practice and push my ability.”

Kenny asked, “You worked for the pirates who kidnapped you, right?”

“We came to an understanding.” Alex closed his eyes and tried to relax. “I’ve never been able to go farther than about a hundred and fifty kilometres, and when I try, it’s been an enormous strain.” He looked at Kenny. “I can sense there’s something out there, beyond the limit of my clairvoyance—my sight. Maybe there’s something out there I can only see if I’m quantized.”

“You mean, when you shift out of our reality?” Kenny paused to look at Alex.

“Yeah. But when I enter a quantized state, I don’t have any senses at all. It’s like I’m in some kind of stasis. I know that’s not the way it’s supposed to be, but… It’s like I’m a baby bird that has ventured out of its nest for the first time and sees the limitless sky. It can tell it’s supposed to be able to fly, but hasn’t figured out how to use its wings yet. Until I can complete my transformation, I won’t know what I’m capable of when I become quantized.”

“So what is it that you are proposing tonight?”

Alex breathed deeply, and paused to collect his thoughts. “When I spent those few hours on the Diana recharging myself with the Kinemet, there were others there who were also exposed to the Kinemetic radiation.”

“Yes?” Kenny’s interest was piqued.

“Perhaps if I focus on them, since they’ve been marginally irradiated, I’ll be able to bridge the gap between us.”

“And,” Kenny added, a knowing smile on his lips, “perhaps get a location on your kidnapped friends?”

Alex nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“I’m on board with that. Let me just finish hooking you up.”

It only took Kenny a few more minutes to complete the set up. As he tested the sensors and got an initial reading before they started their experiment, Kenny looked as if there was something he wanted to say.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.

“It’s only been three days since you were restored,” Kenny said. “I know you’ve used your abilities far more than what I’ve seen.”

Alex admitted, “Yeah. So?”

“So, the Kinemetic radiation in you is not unlimited. You’re going to run out of juice at some point, and we have no idea when we’ll get more for you.”

Alex leaned back into the sofa and smiled dismissively. “I know, but I’m good for a while longer. Let’s get on with this, Dr. Frankenstein.”

Once Kenny finished attaching the sensors to Alex, measuring his vital stats as well as brain waves and electromagnetic emanations, he flipped on the spectrograph and gave Alex a thumbs up gesture.

Shutting his eyes, Alex willed himself back into that transcendent state. Over the past few days he had become quite adept at the technique.

This time, instead of visualizing the station and allowing his senses to float through the corridors and rooms, he pushed his senses outward. Trying to ignore anything tangible within the scope of his sight, he focused on any Kinemetic energy signatures in the area. There was a link between him and that element, and if he could simply train his extra-spatial senses to detect it, he was certain he could send his incorporeal form out to find Justine and the others.

As he scouted in a sweeping pattern outside the station, he felt an extrasensory tug, accompanied by a note or two of the haunting melody that always seemed to be in the periphery of his senses when he was using his Kinemetic abilities. Without being conscious of what he was doing, he gathered all his will and pushed himself in that direction.

At first, his spectral senses soared at an alarming speed, but it was as if he were on the end of a giant elastic. Once Alex reached approximately a hundred and fifty kilometres distance from the station, the effort to move himself even a meter more became exponentially more difficult. Like a marathon runner who reaches their glycogen limit, Alex felt a sudden burning fatigue and lost focus.

Disoriented, he suddenly could not determine which way to return to his body. He was lost, adrift in space, and he didn’t have enough energy to sever the link and snap back to reality.

Alex panicked, and he felt his consciousness fade away into a nothingness as dark as the farthest regions of space.

20

Unknown Plantation :

Honduras :

Central American Conglomeration :

For what seemed like an eternity, Michael and George lay on the floor of the van as the Cruzados transported them to an unknown location.

Trussed up like a hog around his ankles and wrists, Michael was unable to find a position where every pothole they hit in the road didn’t send him bouncing and jostling against the steel floor. Twice he banged his head against a metal tool box; the second time he nearly blacked out and almost vomited from the sudden nausea. He wasn’t sure his kidneys would survive the ride.

Like George, Michael was gagged, and could only glare back at the rebel soldier who watched over him with callous eyes. Unlike George, Michael was still conscious.

The first time George had tried to protest his capture, struggling against his bonds, the solider guarding them kicked him in the side and barked, “Silencio!”

After a particularly jarring bump, George once again growled through his makeshift muzzle. The soldier struck him in the side of the head with his rifle butt, and then gave Michael a challenging look when he tried to wriggle over to check on his friend.

A small trickle of blood ran down George’s face. He was knocked out, but breathing. Still alive, though he didn’t regain consciousness during the remainder of the journey.

It was hard to judge how much time had elapsed, but it seemed like hours before the van slowed, turned a sharp corner, and then rolled up to its final destination.

Michael heard shouts in Spanish as orders were given, acknowledged and carried out. He estimated from the voices that there were more than a dozen men in the vicinity.

When the back doors of the van opened, and he and George were pulled out into a moonlit compound, Michael saw that his assumption was correct.

A number of armed men approached to assist in unloading the prisoners. While two of the soldiers grabbed Michael by the arms, a third cut the rope around his ankles. They escorted him from the van to a large storage shed. Four other men lifted the prone figure of George out and carried him.

In addition to the shed where they were heading, there were three other outbuildings—barns converted to barracks, Michael guessed as he spied more men milling around in front of them. The buildings had been erected on either side of a packed dirt road which led up to a main house. It was dark except for one room on the second floor. A silhouetted figure stood in the window, as if overseeing the activity below.

One of the soldiers yanked on Michael’s arm, getting his attention and dragging him roughly to the storage shed.

Stepping inside first, the soldier pulled a thin string attached to a bare light bulb hanging from a rafter, and harsh yellow light bathed the inside of the shed. Wooden barrels were stacked in one corner. Against the other wall was a dilapidated gas generator that looked as if it hadn’t worked for a decade. The floor was of packed earth, but there was a dirty straw mattress near the back of the shed. The soldiers carrying George dropped him on it without exercising any amount of care.

In heavily accented English, one soldier said, “Sleep now. No trouble.”

Turning off the light, the Cruzado exited the building. Michael heard the snap of a padlock and the soldier ordering a man to stay posted out front.

There was one small dirt-stained window beside the door, but it was large enough to let in some light from the moon, and Michael’s eyes soon became accustomed to the night.

With his hands still bound behind his back, he moved over to check on his friend again. He got down on his knees and leaned in for a closer look. George was still unconscious, but his breathing was evening out.

Michael spoke in low tones, “It’ll be all right George. We’ll get through this.”

He looked around the shed again, his mind racing. First things first, Michael wasn’t going to be able to do much with his hands tied together.

Awkwardly struggling to his feet, he approached the generator and turned his back to it. Reaching out with his fingers, he felt a sharp length of broken metal jutting out just far enough that he might be able to cut the rope at his wrists. He worked the rope over the edge repeatedly.

Soon enough, the rope fell free from him, and Michael brought his hands out front to examine them in the dim moonlight for damage. Several tiny cuts marred his skin and a few trickles of blood ran down his arm, but he was otherwise unscathed.

He set to work untying George’s bonds and trying to arrange the man into a more comfortable position until he regained consciousness. That accomplished, Michael sat on the foot of the mattress and leaned back against the wall.

With the shed locked and guarded, and Michael unarmed, there wasn’t much else he could do. They had been sending updates to John Markham every morning. When they failed to check in tomorrow, Michael hoped that John would send out an alert to the authorities and contact Calbert at Quantum Resources. However, even if they were made aware that Michael and George were missing, they would have no idea where the two were.

Michael had no idea what had become of their equipment. George’s video mask had a GPS tracker in it. If the Cruzados had taken it with them, then all Michael had to do was turn the camera back on and wait for someone back home to notice. If the machine were destroyed, then Michael would have to find some other way to let their location—wherever that was—be known.

In the back of the van, Michael had been disoriented and distracted. He’d had no bearings. Had they gone north, west, east, south? And for how long? Hours for certain. But that could mean they were anywhere, even in one of Honduras’s bordering countries, like El Salvador or Guatemala.

Michael sat up for another hour, worrying over their situation and speculating on what would happen the next day. After a time, exhaustion crept in and sleep took him.

∞

It was one of the most uncomfortable nights Michael had ever spent, and he woke with a sharp pain in his neck from sleeping upright against the wall.

George was already awake, and sitting on the edge of the mattress, elbows propped on his knees, one hand gingerly touching the swelling bump on his head.

“You look like I feel,” he said to Michael in a grave voice.

“Thanks.” Michael tried to work the kink out of his neck. “How’s the head?”

“Feels like a watermelon in a microwave. But no permanent damage, I think.”

“That’s good.”

With exaggerated care, George pushed himself to his feet and tested his balance. He looked around the shed and then stepped closer to the small window. “Where are we?”

“Not sure of the exact location, but it’s obviously some kind of base camp for the Cruzados.”

George glanced sharply at Michael. “Our equipment? The camera?”

“I’m not sure. They may have destroyed it.”

“We can only hope!”

Michael stood up. “What?”

With a knowing smile, George winked. “I installed a backup circuit running off a lithium battery. It was in constant contact with one of the geo satellites we were using. If the link is severed, it trips an immediate alert back home. The GPS uplink would give them our last coordinates. At least that would give them a starting point from which to track us.”

“What if they didn’t destroy the camera?” Michael asked.

Shrugging, George said, “Well, the longer it takes Calbert to notice we’re missing, the harder it will be for him to find us.”

“That’s what I thought,” Michael said, pressing his lips together in a grimace.

They both turned when the heard the clanking of metal. Someone unlocked the shed’s padlock, and the door swung open. Two Cruzados with rifles at the ready stood just outside, looking in. One of them glanced down, saw their hands unbound, and narrowed his eyes. He made a gesture with his weapon and said, “Siga con nosotros.”

With one soldier in front, and one behind, the two prisoners were led up the packed road to the main house.

∞

Inside, they were greeted at the door by a dark haired, middle-aged man with a thin black moustache which drooped around the corners of his smiling mouth.

“Please come in,” he said with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “My name is Oscar Ruiz, and this is my plantation. I apologize for the unpleasantness of your quarters last night, but we were unprepared for your arrival. We have had many guests of late, and we are not always able to accommodate everyone.”

Michael blinked, unsure how to respond. He shared a look with George.

A burly man with a thick moustache appeared from another room. He was dressed in a dark grey shirt and denim overalls. At the end of a leather strap slung over his shoulder was a submachine gun. It rested between the back of his arm and his side.

Noticing the new arrival, Oscar nodded in his direction while keeping his eyes on Michael and George. “This is Humberto, who is part of my new protective detachment, and is assigned to household security. If you will follow him upstairs, he will show you where you can clean up. Breakfast will be served shortly. I cannot wait for you to try our own home-grown coffee—it’s world famous, you know.”

Oscar gave them a quick nod, took one step back and spun on his heel. As he disappeared into the same room Humberto had come out of, he called out some instructions in Spanish to the house staff.

In a thick accent, Humberto said, “Upstairs.” When Michael didn’t move right away, the soldier put his hand on the back of his arm and pushed him gently but firmly toward the staircase. “Now.”

George needed no prompting, and led the way to the second floor. Humberto followed them up, and called out directions which brought them to a sparse bedroom furnished with a single mattress flat on the floor, a wooden chair in one corner, and a ratty looking sofa.

There was a four-pane window looking out over the plantation, and a quick glance showed dozens of campesinos tending the rows of plants. Thick iron bars covered the window, providing no means of escape. Not that it was an option at this point. Even if Michael and George were able to get away from their captors, they were both unequipped to survive in the open on their own for any length of time; at least for however long it would take them to make their way to a populated area where they could call someone for help.

Humberto took a few steps to the wall opposite the sofa and pushed back a slatted door.

“Wash here,” he instructed them.

Without another word, he left the bedroom, closing the door behind him and locking it.

Michael looked at George. “What the hell is going on? Are we prisoners or guests?”

“Yes,” was George’s answer. He smiled. “If I were to make a guess, I would say Mr. Ruiz is a supporter of the Cruzados movement, but he might not be a willing supporter. I wouldn’t count on him knowing much more than whatever rhetoric they feed him.”

“How’s that?”

“Look at it from his perspective,” George said. “He’s a wealthy landowner with a profitable business, at least by local standards. Central America has been rife with civil war of some sort for centuries, and someone who wants to maintain their status needs to work within that reality. I’d say he’s just hedging his bets. Obviously the Cruzados are a larger organization than we suspected. If they manage to attain their objectives, then he’ll be remembered for his contribution. If their revolution gets put down, he can always point to his ‘guests’ to prove how hospitable he was; he could maybe even go so far as to claim the Cruzados forced his cooperation.”

George was the first to enter the water closet and he grunted in disapproval. “Well, at least it’s indoor plumbing,” he said when he turned on the tap and watched rusty water pour into the cracked porcelain sink. He did his best to wash the sweat and dirt from his face and neck while Michael sat on the chair and waited his turn.

“So how do we play this?” Michael asked.

George stepped out of the washing room, dabbing at his face with a towel. “We don’t have a lot of options. We don’t know where we are; the authorities don’t know where we are and we don’t have any means of contacting them. They’re not going to kill us, and I don’t think they’ll hold us for ransom—at the most we’ll be used as hostages. In the meantime, we should act as guests, ingratiate ourselves with Oscar, and pump him for as much information as we can get. Even if he’s not directly involved in the Cruzados’ politics, I’m sure he knows more than we’ve been able to guess so far. Your turn.”

Michael barely had enough time to wash up before there was a knock on the door for them to head back downstairs.

∞

Michael smelled the fresh-brewed coffee well before Humberto led them into a large dining area. The table in the center of the room was filled with breads, fruits, sausages and fried potatoes. Eyeing the breakfast hungrily, Michael almost didn’t notice there were two people sitting at the table.

As Michael and George entered the room, Oscar stood up and motioned to two empty chairs. “Please, sit. Join us. I implore you to tell me what you think of my coffee; the beans were freshly roasted and ground only a few minutes ago.”

But Michael didn’t reply. Both he and George stopped short when the second man turned and directed his toothy smile at them.

In Spanish, Yaxche said, “George. Hello. Where is your funny hat?”

21

Lucis Observatory :

Venus Orbit :

Justine was the first to regain consciousness, and a knife of panic sliced through her awareness when she couldn’t hear or sense anyone else in her vicinity. She began to hyperventilate.

Without her PERSuit harness or optilink, she had no idea where she was or who was with her, if anyone. The after-effects of the sleep agent made her feel like her head was filled with cotton, and there was a persistent ringing in her ears.

She thrust her hands out to try to grasp something—anything—familiar and orient herself. Her fingers brushed against fabric, and then with both hands she tentatively felt along its length. It was the sleeve of someone’s jacket. Only one person in their group wore a suit.

Gently shaking his arm, she whispered, “Clive? Are you all right?”

A moan escaped his lips as he came to. “Oh, my head,” he growled. “Did a planet land on me or something? How are you?”

“I’m all right.” Now that she wasn’t alone in the darkness. “Can you see?” Justine asked. “Where are we?” Absently, she scratched at the inside of her elbow.

She heard him groan as he sat up. “We’re in a large room of some sort,” he told her. “Maybe a conference room or a lab. All the furniture has been removed. There’s one door; it’s barred, but it has a small window. There’s light coming in from it.”

Clive made some rustling sounds as he struggled to his feet. “The others are here, too, but they’re still unconscious.”

Justine experienced a moment of unreasoning panic when Clive stepped away from her, and her fingers reached out for him of their own accord. If Clive was aware of her momentary desperation, he did not acknowledge it. She took a deep breath to center herself. She was stronger than this; succumbing to her fears wouldn’t help the situation.

Justine heard Clive rouse Lieutenant Jeffries, and after a moment, the squad leader groaned and coughed as he awoke.

“That was one hell of a Mickey Finn,” he said, his voice rough as sandpaper. A moment later, he asked, “You two all right?”

“Aside from the mother of all hangovers, yeah,” Justine said. “Do either of you have any idea where we are?”

“Obviously we didn’t crash into the Sun,” the lieutenant said, his voice sardonic. “Though it feels like it. My skin is on fire.” A moment later he said, “It looks as if they’ve taken all of our weapons and equipment. They even took my boots and belt.”

Before they had been rendered unconscious, when they were in the hold of the liner, the soldiers had their ion rifles and supplies. Of course, they were completely ineffectual, but it had provided Justine with a psychological cushion. Now, it sunk home that they were completely at the mercy of their captors.

Justine heard the lieutenant go from man to man and shake them awake. Most of them woke in a symphony of moans and complaints, and Corporal Marks made a remark that he felt a tingling sensation in his legs, as if they were still asleep. When one soldier woke, Justine heard him roll over and vomit.

“Do you see anything out there?” Lieutenant Jeffries asked, his question directed to Corporal Marks, who answered from a distance away.

“An empty hall. I see a few other doors. We’re in some kind of lab complex, I would say. None of the other windows are lit.”

“Any markings?” the lieutenant asked.

“Just room numbers. Wait—” There was a moment of silence, and then Corporal Marks said, “Huh.”

“What?” Justine asked.

“I know where we are,” he said, his voice rising in surprise.

“Well?” she prompted.

Clearing his throat, Marks said, “At the end of the hall is a little trolley. There’s a symbol etched into the front of it. A circle with a small cross hanging from the bottom.”

Lieutenant Jeffries asked, “The symbol for a female?”

“No,” said Corporal Marks. “Venus.”

“Venus?” the lieutenant asked. “I thought Venus was a ball of hot acid.”

The answer popped into Justine’s head. “Lucis Observatory.”

“Right,” said Clive, back beside her. “In Venus’s shadow. It’s the perfect hiding place. The orbital has been abandoned for years, but the computer still collects data and transmits it home on a regular basis. As long as the computers keep spitting out periodic data to Earth, no one would ever suspect anyone was here.”

Using a wall to stabilize herself, Justine stood up. “We’re missing something.”

“What?” Clive asked.

“Right before we were knocked out, the liner slowed.”

Corporal Marks said, “Docking here?”

“No, I think we were docking with another ship, and we were transferred over.”

Clive took a step closer to her. “What makes you say that?”

Justine reached out and took his hand, and lifted it up. “Two reasons. First, the liner wouldn’t have had enough fuel to make the trip here.” She pushed up his sleeve and ran her fingers along the skin at his elbow. There was a tiny bump there. She pressed it.

“Hey, that hurts,” he said.

“Second, we weren’t merely unconscious, we were given a dose of thiopental or some other barbiturate. If you check, we all have a puncture where they had us on intravenous.”

Clive whistled. “Induced coma? How long were we out?”

Corporal Marks spoke up. “Rough calculation, based on how far the liner had traveled, and the remaining distance to Venus, I would say at least two or three days in transit. There’s no way to know how long we’ve been here, but judging by the scab on my arm, we’ve been off the IV for the better part of a day.”

Justine nodded, not knowing if anyone saw the movement, and said, “So if you add those two facts together, that would mean they want to keep us alive, but they want to keep our—and their—existence a secret.”

She had continued to keep her grip on Clive’s arm, but now she squeezed it hard. “I don’t think we’re being kept here as hostages.”

Lieutenant Jeffries asked, “Then what do they need us for?”

His question was interrupted when the soldier who had vomited earlier cried out, “What the hell?”

“What is it, Private Jackson?” asked the lieutenant.

“Sir, my apologies, sir. I couldn’t help it. I—I voided myself. But, sir, it hurts.”

Justine heard some of the others hurry over to investigate, and she let Clive lead her towards the group.

Clive said, “Oh my.”

“What?” asked Justine.

“That’s not shite,” Clive said.

Corporal Marks’ voice was tight. “It’s blood.”

And that’s when the pieces of the puzzle fell into place for Justine.

22

Ruiz Plantation :

Honduras :

Central American Conglomeration :

It took Michael a moment to regain his thoughts. The last person he had expected to be there was Yaxche. The old man looked healthy and hale.

George was the first to speak. “¡Hola! Ha sido un largo tiempo.” He stepped around the table to shake Yaxche’s hand, and continued speaking in Spanish: “Unfortunately, I don’t know where my funny hat is, but I wish I had it right now.”

Without the benefit of a translation program in his portable computer, Michael struggled to keep up with the conversation. His Spanish was very rusty, but he knew Yaxche didn’t speak English, so he let George do most of the talking. Whenever he could, he translated for Michael.

“We came down to Honduras to find you,” George said to Yaxche. He took a seat at the table when Oscar, with a gracious smile, motioned to two chairs and then snapped his finger for a servant to pour two cups of coffee.

“I am right here,” Yaxche said, as if that had been an obvious fact all along. There was a slight crack in his smiling façade that Michael noticed. The old man was just as much a prisoner as they were.

“Are you all right?” Michael asked. One thing he realized quickly was that Yaxche’s grandson was not present. Was he someplace else? Was he ill? Dead?

“Yes.” Yaxche nodded. “Oscar has been very kind.”

“The only thing that separates us from the beasts is manners,” Oscar said. “Please, fill your plates. Eat.”

They didn’t need any more prompting. Michael’s stomach rumbled as he loaded his dish with half a dozen strips of bacon, two hardboiled eggs, and spread jam on a hot piece of toast. He dug into his breakfast with gusto. It was a feast fit for a king, as far as Michael was concerned, especially after having had nothing to eat since the previous morning.

He wanted to grill Yaxche, but without knowing more about the situation and getting all the facts, Michael decided to hold off on his questions for the time being.

Between mouthfuls of food, George nodded to Señor Ruiz. “Perhaps we can impose on your generosity with a question?”

“Of course,” Oscar said, with a flourish of his hand.

“What is to become of us?”

“For now, the three of you will remain here as guests, so long as I have your word that you will not abuse my hospitality.” He looked into Michael’s eyes for a moment, and then George’s to ensure both men understood and agreed to the condition. “As for the future, I cannot say; though it is my understanding that you will not be ransomed.”

So they were to be held as hostages, Michael concluded. A second thought occurred to him. If they didn’t need to ransom them, then the Cruzados already had enough money to fund their operation. It was a little scary to think this organization had grown so quickly without the notice of the international security agencies.

There was still the question about where Oscar’s loyalties lay, but Michael had to assume their host would report every word of their conversation to whoever gave him orders. The entire hacienda could be bugged, for all he knew.

Although his mind screamed for answers about the events surrounding Yaxche’s kidnapping—and their own—Michael instead took a long drink of his coffee. “You are right. This is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

Oscar beamed with pride. “Thank you. It is from my personal stock. Only the best for my guests.”

George, picking up on Michael’s lead, asked, “Perhaps you could give us a tour of your operation sometime.”

“Of course,” their host said. He looked up as a younger man dressed in a light grey suit appeared in a doorway and nodded to him. Absently, Oscar said to George, “It would be my pleasure, but we will have to do this at some other time. Right now, I have some business matters to attend.” He stood up and bowed to his guests. “Please, finish your breakfast. Help yourselves to as much as you want. You may, if you wish, stretch your legs with a walk around our grounds. I’m sure Humberto, as always, will escort you.”

With that, Oscar took one last sip of his coffee and left the room.

Michael was chomping at the bit to grill Yaxche, but he wanted to find a place where they could have at least some semblance of privacy. Waiting until George had cleared his second helping of breakfast, he looked back and forth between his friend and Yaxche, and said, “Perhaps we could take our coffee outside, and sit for a while?”

One of the servants, picking up on Michael’s suggestion, immediately loaded a serving cart with the coffee urn, a dish of sugar and a small pitcher of cream, and led them outside to a veranda.

Half a dozen palm tree saplings had been planted in large ceramic pots and placed strategically around the veranda to provide as much shade as possible. It was still early morning, but the tropical sun was already beating down. A few dribbles of sweat began to form on Michael’s forehead and neck.

They sat in wicker chairs around a patio table, the base of which was made of carved wood, and the round top was a mosaic of various pieces of hand-cut stone.

Humberto took up a position at the edge of a set of stairs, putting himself between the hostages and the field—and possible escape. He was far enough away that, if the three of them talked in low voices, they wouldn’t be overheard. There was no way to guarantee there wasn’t a hidden microphone in their vicinity, but Michael had to assume they had enough privacy to discuss the events that had led the three of them to their present circumstances.

As they conversed in Spanish, Michael interrupted only occasionally when he didn’t understand a word or phrase. Again, he let George do most of the talking.

George started off by telling Yaxche what they knew; which wasn’t very much.

“When we arrived at your village, we were told your grandson was also abducted. Did they take him someplace else? Is he all right?”

Yaxche’s face fell at the mention of his grandson. “He was not taken,” he said. “It is my great shame to say he was the one who took me.”

Michael and George shared a surprised look. “What do you mean by that?”

“He is not the boy he used to be. He has changed. His heart, I believe, has seen too much pain.”

Concern in his voice, Michael said, “We spoke to your daughter. She told us about his fiancée.”

“Itzel,” Yaxche said in a whisper. “She was an angel, but her time was short. Te’irjiil could not forgive himself, or us.”

“You?”

“He blamed all of us—me, the village council, even our country—for not saving her. He always thought we should have sold the ancient scroll to NASA for medicine and machines.”

“But,” George said slowly, casting his eyes back and forth between Michael and Yaxche, “your daughter said he came back from a long trip with medicine and technology. If he blamed the people from your village, why would he help them?”

Yaxche stared out into the field. “It may be darkened, but I believe it is still a good heart that beats in his chest.”

Michael asked in broken Spanish, “I understand he told everyone he made the money gambling. Do you think he may have sold the scroll instead?”

“Not the scroll,” Yaxche said. “Its secret.”

Michael immediately glanced up to see if Humberto was listening in. The Cruzado was busy looking bored and chewing a dirty fingernail.

“We’ve had hundreds of cryptologists, translators and decoding computers working on that document for over a dozen years,” Michael said. “NASA has all but given up on it providing them with any significant meaning, and I believe Quantum Resources has mothballed the project.” Michael gave George a glance for confirmation of that last point. “And all this time, Alex was right; you had the secret?”

Yaxche looked down at his hands, folded on his lap. “No. I do not know the secret. I have failed my ancestors. I was entrusted with the story, but I now realize I have never understood its true meaning. I had hoped to pass the scroll on to my grandson, that he might protect it through the next generation, but his eagerness to learn the story was a trick. I saw in his eye that he discovered the truth that been hidden from me all along.” The old man fell silent while Michael’s mind raced.

What was the secret that had eluded so many scientists and educated minds? How had a simple villager figured it out? Was it something so obvious and plain that seasoned professionals had dismissed it? Or was it a genetic puzzle that only a descendant of the first transcribers could comprehend?

George lightly touched Yaxche’s wrist with his fingers. “No one blames you. But perhaps if you could tell us exactly what happened, what sparked the Cruzados to kidnap you, we might be able to help you understand.”

Yaxche said, “For a year, Te’irjiil had sat with me every evening, reading the story with me. Talking about its meaning. He would hold up a small box—one of your computer machines—and tell me it agreed with some of the story, but not with other parts. At times he would get angry and say the scroll told nothing more than a bedtime story, and there was no meaning. That we wasted our time.

“I thought, the last night I saw him, he would once again leave our village and not return. But he asked me to tell him the story again. I do not know how he came to understand the secret of the scroll, but I saw it in his eyes. And then came his betrayal.”

Once again, Yaxche fell silent, and Michael could tell it was difficult for him to tell the tale. It was obviously very personal and very painful.

Over the past decade, Michael had read and re-read the translation of the scroll, telling the story of how the Mayan people—one of the most advanced civilizations of the pre-Columbian world—had come to the brink of extinction over a thousand years before, after a failed civil war caused their gods to abandon them. Like Yaxche’s grandson, Michael had always thought it more of a parable than fact.

Yaxche had always claimed that the story had been transcribed from the words of their ancient gods before they left Earth to return to the stars. The scrolls themselves were of human manufacture, and of biological origin, as was the ink with which the story was written. The only fact that lent credence to the scroll’s ancient link was the Mayan inscription on Dis Pater.

Goozal Kinich Ahua; Inti ba Rahn; Goozal Kukulcan.

“Beware the Mighty Door of Kinich Ahua; Eternity is now Before You; Beware the Power of Kukulcan.”

Both the scroll and the inscription on the monument on Pluto mentioned Kinich Ahua—the Mayan god of the sun—and Kukulcan—the feathered god of war who could affect the elements and cause earthquakes.

Historians had struggled to comprehend the symbology behind these ancient deities and what the scroll was trying to tell the descendants of the Mayan people. At one point, a group of physicists from Arizona had assigned each of the gods mentioned to various elements from the periodic table. They tried combining these elements with Kinemet in various formulations to no discernible results. For years, the ‘secret’ of how to effectively use Kinemet for effective interstellar travel had eluded the best minds on the planet.

But for some unknown reason, Te’irjiil—the son of a plantation worker without the benefit of a formal education—had solved the puzzle.

“Yaxche,” George said, “I hope you know that we are here to help you. Do you remember Alex Manez?”

“Yes, Colop is always in my thoughts, though I have not spoken with him in many years.”

Uncertain that what he had to say would come across correctly in Spanish, Michael asked George to translate: “Alex sent us a message from one of our space stations to find you. He said that you have the secret, even if you don’t know it. He couldn’t tell me anything more, because he fell into a fugue state.”

“Ahyah. He has had a vision, then.”

Michael understood the reply, but continued speaking in English: “I don’t know that. I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to him since then, though I received word that he had recovered. But before he went unconscious, he said I needed to hear the story. Wait—”

Eyes widening, Michael glanced up at George and said, “You know, after all this time, I just realized: I’ve read the translations and interpretations, and I listened to the recording you made when you first interviewed Yaxche, but I’ve never actually heard the story itself.”

“What do you mean? You heard Yaxche telling us the story on my recording.”

“In Spanish. And then translated into English. I haven’t actually heard it in Mayan.”

George blinked at Michael. “I’m sure we have the Mayan version on record somewhere. We had a few linguists on retainer who could interpret the Mayan glyphs, and I recall several of them reading the scroll out loud. Are you sure you didn’t access one of those recordings?”

“I don’t think so, but I also don’t think it matters. Alex said, specifically, ‘You have to hear him tell you the story.’ Not one of our linguists, but Yaxche himself.”

Shaking his head, George said, “What good will that do? Without a computer to translate, it will all just sound like jumbled words to us.”

Michael opened his hands. “At this point, what harm can it do?”

George shrugged and turned to Yaxche. “Are you able to tell us the story on the ancient scroll from memory?”

“Ahyah,” the old man said, as if the question had stung his pride. And then he closed his eyes and began to recount the tale of the end of the Fourth World in his native language.

At first, Michael strained to listen to the words and phrases, trying to find anything familiar in the lyrical sound of the story. He hoped his brain could make any kind of connection, that some kind of revelation was forthcoming.

Soon, however, he realized George was correct. It was just a big jumble of incomprehensible sounds. Out of politeness, he waited until Yaxche finished reciting the complete tale, and then turned to George to acknowledge the researcher had been right all along.

But when he looked at George, he saw in his eyes what Yaxche must have seen in his grandson’s eyes. A quick glance at Yaxche confirmed it.

Somehow, George had figured it out, too.

“What?” Michael demanded. His voice was a little too loud, and Humberto jerked his head and took a step toward them.

Raising his hands in a pacifying gesture, Michael said to the Cruzado, “Sorry. Everything is all right. We’re just debating something. A scientific point.”

With a grunt, Humberto eased himself back into his post, but he kept suspicious eyes fixed on the three of them.

Yaxche took a deep breath in anticipation of what George would say next. There was a pained look in the old man’s expression, and Michael guessed that having not one, but two people understand something he did not, something that he was entrusted with, was difficult to accept.

“What is it?” Michael pressed.

“I wish I had a computer right now,” George replied in a growl. He licked his lips. “I can’t be a hundred percent, but I think I know the key to the secret, at least.”

His eyes moved back and forth, as if scanning his own memory. “You know how, in grade school, when you wanted to remember something for a test, there were a number of mnemonic techniques you could use?”

“You mean like acronyms or acrostics?”

“Or rhymes or songs,” George said. “In this case, I think the tale itself is a way to get the teller to remember the song itself.”

Michael made a connection. “When Yaxche was telling us the tale, it did have a lyrical quality to it.” He tried to quell his excitement, in case it drew Humberto to investigate. “You think we need to analyse the story as if it were a song?”

“Not for the lyrics, but for the melody. I think the story is just that: a story. It could probably be of any subject. It’s simply there to help the keepers of the scroll remember the melody. There were certain parts of the tale where Yaxche’s voice hit a certain note and used a particular inflection. I think that’s important.”

George turned to Yaxche and spoke very quickly in Spanish, summarizing his theory.

“Yes,” Yaxche said in Spanish. “That is how I was taught the Song of the Stars. It is very important to sing those parts in the correct manner; to honor the gods.”

“The Song of the Stars?” Michael asked. “That’s the title of the story? I’ve never heard mention of this in any of the translations. It’s not written on the scroll. Is it?”

“No,” George said, “but then again, no one ever asked what the name of the story was.” He let out a breathless laugh. “It’s more than a lack of translation, it’s about a lack of a common frame of reference.”

“What do you mean?” Michael felt his face flush as he couldn’t put the pieces together in his own mind.

“From Yaxche’s cultural point of view, he must have assumed we would already know that the tale was in the form of a song. After all, that’s how stories have been passed down from generation to generation. We have ballads that date back centuries.

“On the flip side, from our scientific point of view, we were so busy looking for measureable evidence in this document that we didn’t take into account the one fact that was obvious from the start.”

Michael still didn’t make the connection. “And that is?”

“The song itself is a translation from another language. Not in the literal sense of the words on a page, but as a means of passing down the melody itself.”

“Sonics,” Michael said in a gasp. “When Macklin’s Rock first reacted, the Dis Pater gave off cyclic wave emissions which corresponded with the changes in its light spectrum.”

“Different notes on the musical scale can be charted by their compression waves,” George said. “And although the difference between the wave-particles of light and the frequency in sound would be in the factor of, I don’t know, a billion hertz or so, I think there is a solid correlation, and I think this is something a suitably advanced civilization—one that used computers—could program and calculate.”

“We need to get you to a computer,” Michael said in conclusion.

“And we need to record Yaxche’s song in a sound room.”

All the while the two of them talked, Yaxche looked back and forth between them. The look on his face was a mix of consternation and panic. He had no idea what they were talking about.

George, flicking his eyes up to make sure Humberto wasn’t listening, said to the old Indian, “We need to get you out of here and to safety.”

“I am not concerned for my well-being,” Yaxche said, making no effort to lower his voice. “But if you wish, I can show you a way out.”

Michael cocked his head. “You know a way to escape this place?”

“Ahyah,” Yaxche said. “My friend Humberto told me of it.”

23

Lucis Observatory :

Venus Orbit :

The Mayan culture had always placed great significance in Venus, which they referred to as both the morning star and the evening star because it could be seen at either time.

As some of the most sophisticated astronomers of the time—and being a calendar-conscious and mathematical civilization—the Mayans had charted Venus’s yearly cycles and discovered that five of Venus’s years correlate almost exactly with eight Earth years. To them, this was an obvious sign of its link with Earth and proof that Venus itself was a deity. The Mayan people would time any of their great events, such as a war or the coronation of their leader, with the cycles of Noh ek’, their name for the sky god.

And so, when Terry first realized Klaus had set up his main base of operations on Venus, a part of him felt it was more than coincidence; it had to be some kind of divine influence.

From the moment Terry had joined the Cruzados, he had imagined that he had been chosen to spearhead a holy revolution, that he would singlehandedly restore the Mayan culture to the frontlines in the quest for interstellar progress. In his naive fantasy, the world would honour him as an ambassador for Earth once mankind had overcome the limitations of travel between the stars, and made first contact with the thousands of alien races who were waiting out there.

Terry had been taken in by the romantic notion of a holy crusade, with an army of Cruzados at his back.

Terry, however, had no idea how he was going to accomplish that, and after two days on the orbiting observatory, he began to give in to despair. Gradually, he realized that once he had handed the Song of the Stars to Jose and Klaus, his dream had begun to unravel bit by bit, and it looked more like a nightmare with each passing hour.

The Cruzados were not an honorable group. They did not have the ancient Mayan spirit in them. He was coming to understand that they were just another gang of disgruntled peasants and greedy opportunists who, in turn, had thrown in their lot with someone Terry could only describe as a madman—granted, one who certainly knew more about computers, Kinemet and astrophysics than most.

In one of the Lucis Observatory’s workshops, Klaus Vogelsberg sat hunched over a haptic console. There were seven holoslates set up in a half-circle around him. Periodically, he would adjust an input or type in a series of commands.

Terry stood half a dozen steps to the side and waited. He had been relegated to the role of Klaus’s personal servant, and though it grated on his pride, he knew he only had himself to blame.

There was one other person in the workshop. Jose watched as his partner in crime tended his programs. There was a look of dark concern on his face as he stared at the monitors, clearly unable to decipher what he saw.

“You’ve been at this for days. Are we any closer to the solution,” Jose asked.

“Every minute that passes brings us closer,” Klaus said sardonically.

“You know what I mean.” Jose pointed across the room. “He’s the third, so far. At this pace, we will soon run out of lab rats. And every day we spend here increases our risk of being discovered.”

Terry grimaced at the words, and couldn’t help but look past the two men where Jose had pointed. Adjacent to the workshop was a lab, shielded with titanium and electromagnetically sealed. A wide pane of tinted glass—created with particles of titanium—allowed them to see inside the experiment area.

Strapped on a medical gurney, one of the captured American soldiers lay unconscious and naked. Dozens of sensors and leads were attached to his arms, chest and head.

Beside him was a tray on which rested one milligram of unshielded Kinemet—which Klaus had shaved with what had looked like an invisible saw. He had told Terry the beam was simply a non-reactive laser coupled with a chemical coolant, and that he required complete concentration to get the cut just right, “so kindly keep your mouth shut from now on, unless I ask you a question,” he had said through gritted teeth at one point.

When Klaus didn’t reply to his last statement, Jose said, “You promised us you could unlock the secret and give me complete control of space travel. That was the only reason we agreed to your terms. I wonder if you maybe overestimated your capabilities.”

“There is always a measure of trial and error when conducting scientific experiments,” Klaus replied evenly, speaking with much more patience to Jose than he had to Terry. “I assure you, I will have the proper sequence locked down very soon.”

A moment later, however, he matched Jose’s harsh tone. “And don’t forget, the power will be ours together. You may have contributed men and the ancient scroll itself, but without my money and knowledge, you would still be sitting in a darkened warehouse making empty plans. We are partners in this.”

A ripple of irritation passed over Jose’s features, but he quickly reined in his emotions. “Very well, partner. If we are equals, then we should both know exactly what you are doing now.”

“I’m not sure you would understand the scientific terminology.”

Jose narrowed his eyes. “I have taken a few physics courses at university. I’m certain I can follow.”

Klaus shrugged and turned back to his computer. He took a deep breath and seemed to debate his next words. “All right,” he said finally. “We have a little time before we can measure our subject’s reaction, anyway.”

He called up a file and played one of the many animated presentations of the Kinemetic reaction which had peppered the EarthMesh newsfeeds over the past decade.

“Back when Quantum Resources was in its heyday, they used a bombardment of hydrogen photons to create a reaction in Kinemet; it caused the metal to convert into a quantum kinetic force. As a raw fuel, this works, but there’s no control once it quantizes. Whatever is in proximity to its sphere of influence at the time of reaction gets quantized—turned into light. Any electrical impulse is neutralized. When the Kinemet stops reacting with the photons, and returns to solid state, all the electrical systems are disabled. Someone, or something, needs to kick start them, or you’re adrift in space without light, heat … air.”

“Yes,” said Jose. “I know this much.”

“Just making sure.”

Klaus called up another animation. This one was watermarked with the NASA logo on the bottom right, the Quantum Resources stamp on the bottom left, and the word ‘Confidential’ along the top. It was a conceptual recreation of Alex Manez’s voyage to Centauri.

“Now,” Klaus continued, “that problem is compounded. After rematerialization, there is a secondary reaction in the Kinemet, a nuclear fission, which causes the Kinemet to release its photons in an exothermic reaction—something like an atomic bomb. Why? Well, when you drop a rock in water, and it causes a temporary void, when the surrounding water rushes back in to fill that void, there’s a splash. Energy is released. The splash is enough to cause the Kinemet to start reacting to itself. Instead of quantizing, it fissions, and this happens quite quickly.

“The ‘pilot’ is there to give the electrical generators a kick start, so the dampers can prevent the fission from occurring. In the case of the Quanta, the pilot was too slow to rematerialize, and that is why the ship exploded, and that’s the problem they’ve been struggling with for the past few years. How to stop the bomb from exploding once the fuse is lit.” He chuckled at the concept.

Jose asked, “So how does the ancient scroll fix that?”

“The problem is not with the Kinemet. The problem is with the pilot, or more specifically, the irradiation process to create a Kinemetic pilot. It’s something far beyond the quantizing process, which in and of itself is biologically harmless.

“Alex Manez was exposed to the reacting Kinemet under unknown and uncontrolled circumstances, and was irradiated during that process. Among other things, he became electropathic—and gained the ability to manipulate those electronic dampers needed to stop the ‘splash’—but there is something in him that failed to complete the change. He was unable to materialize in time, and the Kinemet exploded. The incomplete Kinemetic process also resulted in his deteriorating health and will be the cause of his inevitable demise.

“Unfortunately, no one has been able to reproduce the exact conditions that created Alex’s new physiology. They tried photons from other elements like helium and the other noble gases, but that had no effect. The closest they came was to try to prime the Kinemet with a burst of ultraviolet rays. They were on the right path working in the electromagnetic spectrum, but their methodology was wrong—they didn’t have the proper sequence to prime the Kinemet, and so the Quanta experiments continued to fail.

“Some pilots died moments after initial exposure in the lab environment. Two lived for a month before radiation poisoning killed them. Those were the earliest experiments. Five survived the process, but in the field they—like Alex—were unable to rematerialize quickly enough to engage the Kinemet dampers. Boom. Even though Alex somehow managed to survive the explosion on the Quanta, he is also considered a failed conversion.

“So now, the question remains: what is the correct process to create a Kinemetic pilot?”

Klaus pointed to the ancient scroll, which was resting at an angle on a nearby worktable. “You see, the Mayan document contains a key code, a sequence of sound waves which the computer can map to their particle-wave counterparts. We then bombard the Kinemet with that frequency before the quantizing process. Different frequencies—and combinations of frequencies—elicit disparate reactions in the element, conditioning it to give off a subtly different form of radiation.” He shook his head. “It’s an amazing element, and I’m certain it will take decades to chart every aspect.”

Klaus turned in his chair to face Jose and drew in a deep breath. “So you see, I’m reproducing some of Quantum Resources failed experiments, but using the correct frequencies I recorded from Terry’s vocal rendition of the story to prime the Kinemet first. Of course, this is all assuming Terry recited the story exactly as his grandfather taught him—” Klaus glanced over at Terry, who stiffened at the implication that he had made any mistakes.

Klaus continued, “I’ve mapped the notes where he used particular inflections, and I’m hoping they provide the proper combination to unlock the puzzle.”

“Hoping?”

“Well, it’s been a millennium since the scroll was first written. Even if Terry recited the song exactly as he’d been taught, how can we know that every generation passed down the sequence without a single mistake? There are a few other dynamics to consider.”

Jose took a few measured paces towards the window, as if he could see the internal changes in the soldier in the other room. “What are you telling me? How many uncontrolled factors are there?”

“I don’t have complete records from Quantum Resources, so I have had to repeat some of their failures.”

Jose ground his teeth. “How many more failures?”

There was a hint of a smile playing across Klaus’s lips; it seemed he enjoyed tormenting Jose. “Quantum Resources underwent more than a dozen full trials, and established a number of constants. For the purposes of my trial, I’ve been using those confirmed results. There are still some variables in their tests, however, and once we get past candidate number three, here, I only have two more factors to account for, and then we will know whether Terry’s rendition of the Song survived unchanged over the centuries.”

Jose inhaled, then let his breath out in a slow hiss, as if to release the tension that had built up inside him. “Good. Then by all means, proceed.” He turned back to the window to watch.

Klaus wrinkled his forehead in annoyance, but Terry was the only one to see the movement. There was obvious friction between the two partners, but Terry didn’t know if he had the wit to use that against them.

He knew any action he took that made him look more disloyal at this point would most likely earn him a bullet. Now that he had given them what they wanted, the scroll and the song, they had no use for him outside of being Klaus’s personal attendant. After Terry’s behavior on the liner, Jose didn’t trust him anymore and wouldn’t allow him to even carry a gun.

For now, Terry would bite his lip, endure the heartache brought on by witnessing the inhuman experiments, and bide his time until he saw an opportunity to repair the wrongs for which he was responsible.

∞

They did not have to wait long until one of Klaus’s monitoring programs let out a short alarm.

“Ah,” Klaus said. “The sequence is now programmed into the computer. We can proceed with trial number three.”

“How long will this take?” Jose asked. “When will we know if it worked?”

Without answering the question, Klaus punched in a command to his console. “Here we go. Now I’m bombarding the Kinemet with the thirty-two ultraviolet frequencies of photons in the prescribed order, and the sensors indicate the Kinemet is undergoing the transformation. All right, now for the main attraction: hitting it with hydrogen to start the quantization.”

All three men looked up into the shielded room to see the Kinemet suddenly light up in a fashion similar to a magnesium flare. A moment later everything in the room turned into the same light. If not for the Kinemetic dampers in the other room, the Kinemetic radiation from a milligram of the element could conceivably quantize most of the Observatory, as Klaus had informed Terry earlier.

The entire lab room was filled with a brightness so sharp Terry had to put his hand up to protect his eyes. The sensors that had been attached to the soldier stopped transmitting data to Klaus’s computers, since they were also affected.

“They’ve quantized,” Klaus said by way of commentary. “During the Macklin’s Rock incident, Alex Manez was exposed for approximately four hours. The actual length of time required could very well be four seconds, for all we know. Quantum Resources used the four hour marker as a constant, so I’ve been doing the same.”

Jose, who also had his hand up between his eyes and the lab, asked, “So that’s when we’ll know?”

“We’ll know if he is altered or not. Once the Kinemet has completed its process, everything in the room will return to a solid state, and then we can go in and take some readings on the subject. After that we’ll perform a simple quantization procedure and see how quickly he rematerializes. Anything more than nine seconds is a failure; the pilot wouldn’t have enough time to get his bearings and initiate the dampers.”

Giving a nervous cough, Jose asked, “What about the ‘splash’ effect you mentioned?”

“There won’t be any Kinemet left for a secondary reaction,” Klaus said. “If they had only packed enough Kinemet for a one-way trip to Centauri, there would never have been any fission and the Quanta would never have exploded.”

“So we’re safe?”

“Yeah.” Klaus typed a few more commands into the computer, and then spun around on his chair. “The lab is electromagnetically sealed. No one can get in or out. Meanwhile, I’m hungry. Time for something to eat.”

∞

Before leaving, Klaus punched a key on one computer, and the window between the main workshop and the lab room grew darker, enough so that it was no longer physically uncomfortable to look directly at it. Of course, there was nothing to see beyond the glass other than a bright blur.

Following Klaus out the door, Jose ordered Terry, “You stay here. Make sure no one enters except us. Anyone else tries to get in here, send me an alert on the comlink.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’ll bring you back a sandwich or something.”

∞

Terry, who had remained stoic while the co-leaders were in his presence, let out a curse and punched his open hand with his fist in frustration once he was alone.

His anger was directed not only at Klaus, Jose and the Cruzados, but at himself for being such a sucker.

Everything he had done had been to honour Itzel, and to ensure what happened to her never happened to his people again.

And he was right at the center of it; he was the catalyst. If he hadn’t run away from home like a petulant child; if he hadn’t naively taken up with the Cruzados; and if he hadn’t betrayed his grandfather by stealing the ancient scroll, none of this would have happened. How many people—innocent or not—had died because of Terry’s actions? How many more would die?

In the past two days, Terry had been helpless to do anything but stand by as Klaus experimented on the American soldiers. Once he had determined the first subject had failed to change completely, Klaus ordered the victim taken out of his sight, and never followed up on his progress. Terry had never seen anyone with such a lack of remorse or conscience. Klaus was completely absorbed in his task, and didn’t exhibit any signs that he cared who lived and who died in the pursuit of his goal.

One day, while eating lunch by himself, Terry had overheard some of the other Cruzados a table over talk about Klaus, and how he and his uncle had been the ones who had kidnapped Alex Manez a decade ago, and had been somehow betrayed by him.

Terry hadn’t seen much of Captain Gruber. The man spent most of his time teaching the Cruzados combat techniques for ship-to-ship battles and how to fight inside space stations.

That last bit of information drove home the reality that Terry was part of an insurrection, rather than the liberation and rebirth of the Mayan culture he had dreamed of.

And it had only been possible because of him.

There had to be something he could do to stop them. But he knew he wasn’t clever enough by far. He didn’t know how to fight, and he was too transparent to become a politician and sway the Cruzados to his views.

He took a few measured paces towards the window of the lab, and he felt a pang of guilt knowing that the soldier inside would most likely endure hours, days, or weeks of agony before dying of Kinemetic exposure. He hadn’t even found out what the soldier’s name was.

His grandfather was most likely completely ashamed of Terry. He hoped the old man was all right. Jose had promised to keep him safe and secluded in case anyone from Quantum Resources or NASA tried to use him to figure out where the Cruzados were and what they were doing. Terry realized now that they were, in effect, holding Yaxche hostage against Terry’s continued cooperation.

It was a complete disaster. He probably couldn’t have screwed things up any worse if he had planned it that way.

He pulled up a chair near the window and sat down to wait out the rest of his vigil. Although he wasn’t the kind of person to give in to despair, he half-hoped the Kinemetic radiation might leak through the window somehow and permanently turn him into a being of light.

∞

A few hours later, Terry looked up when he heard footsteps out in the hall.

The workshop door opened and Jose entered the room.

“How is it going,” Jose asked, and Terry shrugged.

“All right, I guess.” Terry looked, but he didn’t see a plate of food or even a bottle of water in Jose’s hands. The Cruzados leader must have forgotten. Stomach rumbling, he said, “You mind if I take a break?”

Jose, stepping toward the window as if he could see what transpired within, waved his hand dismissively to Terry. “Sure. Be back in an hour, would you? That’s when the experiment should be over. We’ll find out if the price we paid is worth it.”

∞

Before heading down to the mess hall, Terry stopped at the lavatory. Inside, he entered one of the stalls and sat down on a chrome toilet lid. He had no need to relieve himself, but just needed a few moments to pull himself together before facing any of the Cruzados.

They were all very rough men, raised in some of the most poverty-stricken regions of Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador and Honduras. If Terry didn’t act as tough as them, they would see it as an act of weakness. He had already lowered himself in their eyes by his protests on the liner. If he had any chance of getting out of his situation alive, at the very least he had to maintain whatever status he had left in the eyes of the Cruzados.

While gathering up his courage, Terry heard the washroom door open and two men entered. He recognized them by their voices. It was Klaus and his uncle, Captain Gruber. Making himself as still as could be, Terry waited for them to go about their business and leave.

The two men spoke in German, so Terry had no idea what they said, but their tones were full of menace.

Klaus said, “Achten Sie darauf, Ihre Männer sind bereit. Ich werde Signal, wenn der Vorgang abgeschlossen ist. Sie wirst sie töten Jose und Terry.”

When Terry heard his name, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up, and he cursed himself for not being able to understand what was said.

In English, Captain Gruber asked, “What about the rest of the Cruzados?”

“I have enough evidence to convince them Jose was just using them for his own benefit; he was never a true believer. Don’t worry about them; without a leader, those sheep will soon flock to my banner. —Oh, and if you can, make sure it looks as if it was Jose who killed Terry. Fuel for the fire.”

After a moment, Gruber said, “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Soon, Uncle, we will finally take what Alex Manez promised but failed to deliver. I won’t rest until that little brat is dead, too.”

∞

“You’re late,” Jose said in a reprimanding voice when Terry returned to the workshop. “The Kinemet has almost burnt out.”

Klaus didn’t look up from his computer. Captain Gruber stood off to the side, but the older man didn’t look directly at Terry. His eyes, however, took everything in, and a chill ran down Terry’s spine.

“Uh, sorry,” Terry said and shrugged as Jose shot him a scathing look.

He tried to make sure none of the three other men in the room saw how his hands shook, how his breathing was ragged, or how hard his heart thumped in his chest. Almost, he had decided to run and find a hiding place somewhere in the observatory. He knew, however, that if he had, it would have only been a matter of time before they discovered him.

He was a dead man anyway. He knew it deep in his heart. Even if he returned to the lab, once the experiment was proved a success, Captain Gruber would murder him. After all that Terry had done, he felt he deserved it, and decided to face his destiny. If he was to die, at least he would die brave, instead of running like a coward.

“Not a moment to spare,” Klaus said and motioned toward the other room.

The light inside the lab flared and suddenly extinguished, and Klaus retracted the window tinting.

Soon, everyone could see the soldier slowly rematerialize as thousands of tiny flashes of light coalesced and went out.

The entire transformation took less than six seconds, according to a timer display on one of the monitors, and Klaus stood up, obviously excited.

“Did it work?” Jose asked.

“I don’t know,” Klaus said, never taking his eyes off the soldier. “I need to revive him and run some tests. If he shows all the signs of a successful metamorphosis, then we can run him through a simulation and measure his reactions.” He tapped a command, and an intravenous tube in the lab turned blue as some kind of stimulant was introduced into the subject’s system.

Within moments, the solider stirred. His legs jerked as sensation and consciousness returned to him.

Through a microphone, Klaus called out, “Private Teegs, can you hear me?”

“Whass,” the soldier said, his speech clearly not at full capacity. He licked his lips, forced his eyes opened and tried again. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“How do you feel?” Klaus asked. “Can you describe the sensation?”

“I heard it,” the young man said, voice filled with wonder. “It was a song. Haunting. It filled my head. It—”

Just then, his entire body shook with a convulsion. A look of panic spread across his face and his eyes bulged out. Veins popped up on his forehead and neck.

“What’s happening to me?” he cried out.

Klaus spoke in a hard voice into the microphone. “Calm down. It’s just an after-effect of the procedure. I assure you, you’ll be fine.”

But the man was anything but. Both Terry and Jose ran forward to look as another spasm took the soldier and he fell off the gurney to the floor.

Like a fish out of water, he writhed and twitched, all the while howling in agony. The imaging machine and medical monitors sparked as they were overloaded with electricity. Most fizzled and went dead, but one caught fire and popped with a couple of tiny explosions until the overhead sprinklers shot CO² into the room to smother the flames.

“You have to help him!” Terry shouted, looking over his shoulder.

There was no concern or empathy evident in Klaus’s eyes; merely a look of disgust and frustration. “It’s over.”

“But he’s dying.”

Without replying to Terry, Klaus turned to his uncle and shook his head. Captain Gruber, who had looked as tense as a tiger ready to spring, relaxed visibly.

Jose, watching the soldier’s final death throes, asked, “What now?”

“We’ll have to clean up the lab, reset everything and try again tomorrow. Only one variable left; at least we’ll have a fifty-fifty shot.” With that, Klaus walked out of the workshop, his uncle following a few steps behind.

Terry turned to Jose. “We can’t just stand here and do nothing. He’s dying.”

“He’s already dead,” the leader of the Cruzados said, his voice hard and steady. “Nothing we can do at this point.”

Trying not to let Jose see the tears streaking down his face, Terry turned away from the window. His hands continued to shake.

If the soldier had lived, Terry would now be dead at the hands of Captain Gruber. Which was the more just outcome?

Terry remained alive, but now he had more death on his conscience.

“Sometimes,” Jose said quietly, “I wonder if you are fully committed to our cause.”

24

Unofficial Transcript :

Alex Manez Interview Part One :

Dated August 2103 :

Edgar: “Good morning, Alex. My name is Edgar Janz. I’m the assistant to the science advisor for USA, Inc.’s Board of Directors’ oversight committee for Quantum Resources.”

Alex: “Morning.”

Edgar: “Did you have any questions before we begin? I’ve cleared the entire day, so there’s no rush.”

Alex: “I had hoped to be debriefed by Michael Sanderson.”

Edgar: “I’m sorry, he’s retired from Quantum Resources. I’m afraid his security clearance has been downgraded since then. Anything you speak to him about must be of a personal nature only.”

Alex: “What about Captain Turner?”

Edgar: “Major Justine Turner is attached to the training facility at Kennedy Space Center. I’m sure you can arrange to speak to her after your debriefing. Are there any other questions I can answer for you?”

Alex: “I guess not.”

Edgar: “Well rested after your trip to Honduras?”

Alex: “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry if that delayed your report.”

Edgar: “I won’t lie. There are a lot of people waiting to hear your story. It wasn’t easy putting them off. But that isn’t a big problem. I have a preliminary report I already submitted, but we need to verify some facts. Are you ready?”

Alex: “Yes.”

Edgar: “Excellent. All right, let’s do this. Ahem. This is the official debriefing of Captain Alex Manez, first human to travel to another solar system. It has been five days since his return to Earth. All medical and psychological tests have come back, and aside from the difference in his biological and chronological ages, Alex Manez has been given a clean bill of health. —Yes, Alex?”

Alex: “I’ve been a little achy since yesterday.”

Edgar: “Uh. I’m sure that’s just an after-effect of all the traveling. The doctors cleared you.”

Alex: “All right.”

Edgar: “Good. Now, can we start at the beginning? Can you describe your experience traveling in a quantized state?”

Alex: “For me it was instantaneous. I didn’t experience anything. One moment I was here; the next moment I was there.”

Edgar: “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. They might seem repetitive or obvious, but this is for the benefit of the oversight committee. I would like to start with the events leading up to the explosion of the Quanta.”

Alex: “Of course.”

Edgar: “Was there power in the ship when you first materialized in Centauri System?”

Alex: “No there wasn’t.”

Edgar: “According to pre-flight experiments this was expected. Just for the record, can you explain why?”

Alex: “Of course. There were two separate quantities of Kinemet on the ship. One for each leg of the trip. As I understand it, the Kinemet that had been primed with photons would burn out just as I arrived in Centauri. The second load, which had not been primed, was merely quantized as was every other substance on the ship. The astrophysicists determined that once the non-charged Kinemet rematerialized, it would re-react with its own photons and cause a secondary reaction. Without applying a coolant, it would reach critical mass and undergo a nuclear fission.”

Edgar: “And this is why there is a need for a human pilot at this point, correct?”

Alex: “Yes. Assuming I would be rematerialized as well, my only task was to restart the onboard electrical systems. I merely had to turn on a generator, which would return electrical power to the ship. The onboard computer would then initiate the Kinemetic dampers and interrupt the second load of Kinemet before it reacted.”

Edgar: “And was there a problem preventing you from sparking the generator?”

Alex: “Yes. The ship had turned solid, but I remained in a semi-quantized state and was unable to physically grab the pull ring to charge the generator.”

Edgar: “Do we know why you didn’t fully return to a physical form?”

Alex: “One of the analysts surmised the longer a biological entity was in a quantized state, the longer the transition to a normal corporeal form.”

Edgar: “Do you agree with this theory?”

Alex: “No.”

Edgar: “Uh … Alex. I don’t have anything in my notes about your disagreeing with that assumption.”

Alex: “I know.”

Edgar: “Well, what do you think is the reason?”

Alex: “I believe I have not been fully transformed into a Kinemat. I am an aberration. I didn’t know this before the trip, but I do now. We need to stop thinking about using Kinemet for light-speed travel and start examining its other properties before more people end up like me.”

Edgar: “Will you excuse me a moment, Alex?”

Alex: “Of course.”

Edgar: “I just need to make a call.”

∞

Edgar: “Hello, Alex. Sorry that took so long. I hope you’re comfortable.”

Alex: “They served me an early lunch.”

Edgar: “Good. I’ve been instructed to strike your last comment from the official record and concentrate on the actual verifiable events only. Please restrict your answers to facts rather than conjecture.”

Alex: “All right.”

Edgar: “Where were we? Right. There was a delay between when the Quanta rematerialized and when you returned to physical form.”

Alex: “Yes. But during that short time, I was conscious and aware of where I was. I was halfway between light and matter.”

Edgar: “And how long, exactly, were you in this transitional phase?”

Alex: “It was about eight or ten seconds before I brought myself back to material form. It’s hard to judge.”

Edgar: “ ‘Brought yourself?’ Alex. I have nothing in my records stating that you brought yourself back.”

Alex: “I know.”

Edgar: “Did you tell anyone this before?”

Alex: “Of course, but they think it was just my imagination, or my memory playing tricks. Did you need to leave the room again?”

Edgar: “No. Let’s just skip that last part for now.”

Alex: “All right.”

Edgar: “So you rematerialized. How long did you have before the ship exploded?”

Alex: “Just a few seconds. I wasn’t thinking straight, and tried to pull the kick starter ring.”

Edgar: “But … I thought that’s what you were supposed to do.”

Alex: “It didn’t have any effect. I tried to tell them before we left. The generator needed more of a boost to get started than a simple pull cord—being quantized for that amount of time, the electrical system was weakened. I had to use my electropathic ability to start the generator.”

Edgar: “Electropathic ability? What is that? Alex, I’m not sure I can report any of this. My record and your story doesn’t match up. I have nothing here that says anything about this.”

Alex: “I’m sure they’ll edit the parts they don’t want to hear.”

Edgar: (coughing sound)

Alex: “Okay … the generator started, but it was too late to start the dampers.”

Edgar: “It was too late?”

Alex: “There was only about a second or so left before the Kinemet reached critical mass, and the coolant required at least four seconds.”

Edgar: “How did you survive the blast?”

Alex: “Well, the automatic capsule ejector launched the cockpit just as the Quanta silently burst into fragments of light.”

Edgar: “All right. That’s what I have in my report as well. What happened next?”

Alex: “I was a little stunned by the escape, and I was dazed. After a few minutes, I realized I was stranded more than forty-trillion kilometers from home with no way back, and I started to panic.”

Edgar: “That’s understandable.”

Alex: “All traces of the Quanta were gone. The capsule only had about a week’s supply of oxygen and food. I … felt completely alone.”

Edgar: “What happened next?”

Alex: “I instructed the shipboard sensors to scan the vicinity for trace electromagnetic vibrations. The ship’s spectrographic analyzer picked up a signal.”

Edgar: “The signals were similar to those emitted by the artifact in our solar system, the Dis Pater?”

Alex: “Yes. The computer calculated it was a little over twenty-thousand kilometers away.”

Edgar: “Then what?”

Alex: “I programmed the navigation system to fly to it.”

Edgar: “Based on the calculations you provided, at the capsule’s top speed, it would take a little over a month to get there.”

Alex: “Correct.”

Edgar: “You only had a week’s worth of oxygen and food. So how did you survive the trip?”

Alex: “I put myself back into a quantized state.”

Edgar: “You put—? Alex, there are significant discrepancies between my reports and what you are telling me. I’m not sure we can continue until I get this straightened out.”

Alex: “I tried to tell the analysts, but no one believed me.”

Edgar: “We’ll continue this debriefing tomorrow. Right now I need to get to the bottom of this.”

25

Lucis Observatory :

Venus Orbit :

Justine had never been more frightened in all her life. She had never fully experienced the acute isolation and helplessness of being blind like she did now.

When she had first lost her sight on Pluto, she had run the full gamut of emotions on the six-month voyage home: anger and frustration, denial and false hope, depression and finally acceptance.

During the trip home, however, she had never once feared for her life. The entire ship’s crew had been as supportive and accommodating as anyone could be. NASA had kept in constant communication with her and made arrangements for her optilink surgery upon her arrival back on Earth.

For those first six months, she had begun to compensate for her blindness in a natural way, relying more on her other senses: hearing, touch and smell. After the surgery, even though she had adjusted to life as a blind person, her visual prosthetics had been a huge crutch for her. The only time she was without technological aid was in the comfort and safety of her apartment. The sensory skills she had begun to cultivate over that first half a year had never fully developed.

Now, she had no time to expand her natural abilities and compensate for her loss of sight. Her current situation was indeed dire, and her life was in very real danger.

The Cruzados had shown their complete disregard for life by experimenting on the captured members of the security squadron, and Justine was more than helpless; she was an added burden on the remaining soldiers, and on Clive.

She was relieved and more than grateful to have him with her. As if she were a toddler, he hovered over her day and night. From helping her navigate to the lavatory, to ensuring she was able to eat the tray dinners their captors brought in, to holding her hand whenever there was a sharp unexpected sound; Clive never left her side. Justine knew he had to be going through his own emotional journey, and the shame of putting the burden of her wellbeing on him filled her with guilt and despair.

…And anger.

She had been a commissioned officer of the United States Air Force, the decorated captain of a NASA space vessel. She had traveled to Pluto and been on the team that discovered evidence of alien cultures in the galaxy. And here she was, hiding in a darkened room, barely able to care for herself, and fearing for her life.

There were others in her group who were far worse off.

When she had realized Private Jackson was the Cruzados’ first attempt at creating a Kinemetic pilot, she was outraged.

That outrage quickly turned to horror when the young man went into spasms and cried out in agony as his body began to die from radiation poisoning.

Over the next three hours, he developed an angry rash that turned first red, then black, as Clive described to her in a very low and somber tone. The private’s skin bubbled with melanomas, and he continuously secreted bloody pus from all of his orifices. At the end, he could barely summon the strength to moan before he finally died. Justine could still recall the wretched sounds the poor man made; they haunted her.

Dormant Kinemet carried extremely little risk to humans. The minimal radioactivity it gave off was considerably less than getting a medical X-ray.

Kinemet reacted differently to other forms of radiation. Once it was bombarded with hydrogen photons, it quantized and became an extremely powerful fuel source.

Justine knew, from reading some of the briefing reports, that Quantum Resources had experimented with ultraviolet radiation and Kinemet. When exposed to this combination, humans exhibited symptoms similar to Alex Manez’s: a few of the subjects who had volunteered for the experiment reported a heightened sensitivity to any electronic field in their area; they seemed to experience a kind of heightened perception, as if they were dislocated from their corporeal bodies; and they described a high-pitched sound that permeated their hearing. It was like a ringing in the ears, if the ringing changed pitch on a random basis.

They also exhibited classical symptoms of radiation poisoning, and died of rapid mutagenic melanoma. The same melanoma that the private exhibited.

The remaining members of the security detail kept a silent vigil while Private Jackson died a painful death. Over the next thirty-six hours, two more soldiers were taken.

Private Anderson was the next subject; he was gone for ten hours, and when they brought him back, he seemed physically unaltered, except that he was completely catatonic, and had to be force-fed by one of his fellow servicemen. His condition worsened, and though he displayed no physical symptoms, he was dead for an hour before they realized it.

Private Teegs was missing from the room before Justine had woken up that morning.

The soldiers had largely grown silent with despair.

Lieutenant Jeffries made his best effort to boost their morale, but no one laughed when he cracked jokes, no one responded when he tried to make idle conversation, and he had no takers when he attempted to start a few parlor and word games. He gave up trying after a few hours, and the entire group settled into a general atmosphere of malaise.

The injustice of it all made Justine simultaneously want to rage against her circumstances, and curl into a little ball in the corner and cry until she ran out of tears.

Justine did neither, however. She was determined to put on a brave face, despite her handicap, and try to think her way out of this situation. A kernel of thought had gestated in her mind over the past few days, and if she could only concentrate hard enough, she might come up with a solution.

The only comfort Justine found, as they passed the anxious hours, was being as close as possible to Clive. The two of them found a spot a little way off from the others to get some semblance of privacy. Backs against a wall, they both sat with their legs touching. Justine folded her hands in Clive’s and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry to get you involved in all this,” he said to her quietly.

“Nonsense.” She clucked her tongue. “It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe, but I feel responsible just the same.” Clive reached an arm around her and pulled her close, tucking her safely to his side. “We all feel like there should be something we could have done differently. Second-guessing is part of being human.”

“And so is speculation,” Justine said.

“How’s that?”

“I’ve been so scared over the past few days my brain feels like it’s been dipped in molasses.”

“Not to mention lack of proper sleep,” Clive said. “I would kill for a mattress or even a blanket. I think my hip bone is going to come right through my skin.”

Justine patted his hand. “Do you get the sense that there’s something we’re missing in all this?”

“Like what?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Well, up until a week ago, I had never heard of the Cruzados movement. No one was forewarned about this uprising until they stole the old Mayan scroll. Since then, somehow, they’ve managed to infiltrate Canada Station Three, hijack the Diana and bring us to Venus. I mean, they’ve obviously been here at the observatory for some time, setting things up. From the briefing I received in Houston, the authorities didn’t really think the Cruzados were a serious threat.”

“And what do you make of that?” he asked.

“First of all, if they didn’t think the Kinemet was at risk, why move it to Luna? Why not just put it on a military base?”

She felt Clive shift. He said, “Perhaps they thought moving the Kinemet was a preemptive measure. Remove temptation and all that. Like you said, no one thought the Cruzados had spread beyond Central America.”

“Then why on a commercial liner? Why not on a military transport?”

“That was the first plan,” he said. “However, a few hours before take-off, the rocket developed some kind of computer glitch. It would have been days before it was repaired.”

“Still,” Justine said with an edge to her voice, “there’s something more going on here than we’ve seen.”

“How so?” he asked.

“I don’t think the Cruzados are the only threat here.”

“Uhm—” Clive started to interject.

“No, listen,” she said, holding up a finger to illustrate her point. “Honduras doesn’t have a space program at all. Even the nearest spaceport is Mexico City. There has to be someone else behind the Cruzados. It can’t just be a grassroots historical preservation movement. Someone has supplied them with arms and training. Someone got them to Canada Station Three. Someone set things up here on Venus. This whole thing had to have been planned for months, or even years. And—”

Justine fell silent as the missing piece of information came to her. A hundred thoughts bombarded her, and she struggled to make sense of it. She stood up suddenly, as if the motion would clear her head.

A moment later, Clive got to his feet. “What?”

“They had to have inside information and help.” Justine tapped a finger against her lower lip.

Clive scoffed. “How would that be possible?”

“Someone has to be using the Cruzados as a cat’s paw,” Justine said. “They can’t have the resources or information to pull this off.”

She had spoken loud enough that Lieutenant Jeffries and the others heard.

Corporal Marks, sitting across the room, asked, “Then who would have the resources?”

With a quick tilt of her head, Justine said, “At this point, it could be any of the major country corporations. USA, Inc. and Canada Corp. haven’t been keen on sharing the tech, hedging against the future. World resources are strained; one of the country corporations might be getting desperate enough to make a play. They might think they can do a better job, or they might have been doing their own research all along and thought they’d made a breakthrough which we overlooked.”

Lieutenant Jeffries said, “If that’s the case, they’ve been playing it pretty close to the vest. I haven’t heard anything through military channels.”

“I’m on the mesh all the time,” Corporal Marks added. “If an entire country corp. were making this kind of move, no one’s made a peep about it.”

“Then who?” Justine wondered out loud. “They had to have someone who could pilot the liner. Someone who knew the Kinemet would be on the flight, and according to Clive that was a last-minute decision.”

With one hand lightly touching a wall, she stood up and began to pace. “Maybe if we work backwards,” she said. “I know it’s a wild shot, but if we can figure out who might have pulled the strings, maybe we can make the connection.”

Corporal Marks asked, “Do you think it might be someone in Lunar Lines?”

Shaking her head, Justine said, “I found out about the shipment the morning of the flight from Director Mathers. He’s been with the company for almost twenty years. He’s a family man, a decent guy. I can’t believe he had any part in this. What about you?” she asked the soldiers. “When did you find out about the mission?”

Lieutenant Jeffries said, “I was called in for a briefing by Colonel Gagne the day before. He told us he’d received the request for a security squad from NASA that morning. The decision to move the Kinemet had been made only moments after we found out about the theft of the Mayan scroll. The way everyone was scrambling, it was all news to the military. I wasn’t even aware there had been another ship involved.”

“Well,” said Justine, “none of this explains anything. It’s obvious someone higher up is involved. Someone with access to both the military and NASA.”

“I have a question,” said Corporal Marks. “And I really hope this isn’t out of line, ma’am.”

“Go ahead, Corporal.”

“Why you?”

For a moment, the question caught Justine off guard. “What do you mean, why me?”

“Well, pardon me for saying so, but the only factor that doesn’t make sense is why they chose you to accompany us. I’ve been on two missions in conjunction with Lunar Lines in the past year; we’ve never had an attendant assigned to us before. We’ve always sent a private up to get food. And, no offense, ma’am, but why would the military request someone with a handicap as part of an important operation like this?”

Lieutenant Jeffries cleared his throat. “That’ll be enough, Corporal.”

Justine fought to control the flush of heat that rose to her cheeks. “I certainly hope you don’t think I had any part in this? I’ll have you know I have dedicated my life to NASA. I’ve—”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Corporal Marks sounded clearly uncomfortable. “But if you remember, Lieutenant, even Colonel Gagne sounded bewildered that we were assigned an attendant at all. The request must have come from NASA itself.”

Justine barked out a hollow laugh. “It’s nothing so nefarious as that. Clive is the NASA liaison. He just thought it was an opportunity for us to spend some time together. Right?” she asked Clive, turning her head in the direction she thought he would be.

But he didn’t reply to her question. Justine, unable to see, felt a sharp needle of panic at his lack of response.

“Clive?”

“That’ll be quite enough of this,” he said finally, but his voice came from the far side of the room. “Everyone stay where you are.”

Justine shook her head. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

It was in a low, steady voice that Lieutenant Jeffries said, “He has an ion pistol.”

“A gun? —Clive, what’s going on?”

But then, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Her mind screamed that she was wrong; that she’d leapt to the wrong conclusion. She didn’t want it to be true. How could it?

“You arranged everything?” she said in a gasp. “No, you can’t be part of this. It’s a mistake. It has to be.”

She took a step in the direction of his voice, but Lieutenant Jeffries’ firm hand held her back.

“Clive, tell them they’re wrong.”

She heard a vigorous knock from the inside of the lab door. “You weren’t supposed to know until it was all over, and we had the power,” Clive said, his voice harsh and angry.

“The hijacking … the experiments!” Justine could not fathom any reason why Clive would be involved in such a heinous conspiracy. A man she had begun to love. She had opened her heart to him. “No, I can’t believe you had a hand in this. It’s treason. It’s murder!”

“It was necessary,” he said, and Justine heard him knock on the door again, this time harder. “NASA is filled with bureaucrats and politicians, more worried about their funding than about progress.”

Lieutenant Jeffries growled. “How long have you been working against us?”

“Since the beginning,” he said. “Every time the news announces massive layoffs, or higher taxes, or government corruption, it makes it easier to see what needs to be done. People are tired of having their lives run by faceless corporations who don’t care about them.”

“Clive!” Justine still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “You’ve been lying to me all this time?”

“Not about us,” he said. “It’s not too late, Justine. You can come with me. You were there at the beginning. The world needs to unite under one banner, one power. You can be part of that.”

“You’re insane!” Justine screamed, and Lieutenant Jeffries could not hold her back as she lunged towards Clive’s voice.

She heard Clive yell, “Get back, all of you!” and then the electric whir of the ion pistol.

Someone beside her screamed, and she barely registered it as she collided with Clive. Not thinking about what she was doing, she lashed out at him in an attempt to knock the gun out of his hand. He was stronger than she was, and he was not blind. It was all too easy for him to disable her, grabbing her arms and pushing her to the ground.

Another heavy body crashed into the two of them, and they all fell in a tangle, Justine pinned beneath them. She heard someone grunt as a punch connected.

With her feet, she tried to push herself out from under them, all the while flailing about with her hand, trying to locate the ion pistol.

Just as she felt the metal of the nozzle, and tried to grab for the handle, the gun was pulled from her grip.

There was another whirring sound, and then the two fighters were no longer in motion.

Justine heard the sounds of the three other soldiers rushing over to help their lieutenant.

Justine, her head ringing from the fight, reached out and, in a ragged voice, demanded of anyone, “What’s happening?”

A voice, thick and deliberate, answered, “Justine.”

“Clive?” Her fingers touched the fabric of his jacket, and she squeezed her hands around his arms.

“It was supposed to be you and me until the end. I made a place for us in the new regime. I’m so sorry,” he said, and let out a wet cough. And then he spoke no more.

She moved her hands up to his chest and felt the warm spread of blood running from a gaping wound. A sob came out of her, and her eyes stung from the sudden tears that flowed down her cheeks.

Corporal Marks spoke from just off to the side. “Someone help me get Lieutenant Jeffries up. He’ll be fine. Just knocked out.”

Her mind threatened to close in on itself. There was too much happening in too little time. It was as if she could hear the sound of her heart breaking.

“Clive,” she gasped out, calling to the memory of the man she thought he was; not the man he turned out to be.

“You,” Corporal Marks ordered to one of the soldiers, “see if Miss Turner’s all right.”

The soldier—Justine couldn’t tell who—gently drew her away from Clive’s dead body and pulled her to her feet.

“It’s over now,” he said in a soft, consoling voice.

Grief, fresh and raw, swelled inside her, and Justine let out another cry, and buried her head in the unknown soldier’s shoulder.

Before anyone had time to catch their breath, though, a new voice permeated the room.

“That will be quite enough of that. Put the gun down, Corporal, or my men will open fire.”

Justine heard the sound of boots on the floor as a number of men entered the room.

“Thank you. Now if you would all be so kind as to move back to the other wall, we can sort this out.”

The newcomer had a slight, somewhat familiar accent. Justine’s mind, hit by too many revelations and too much emotional pain at once, was muddy and slow to respond. She didn’t move from where she stood.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” she asked meekly.

“Major Justine Turner,” the man said. A moment later, she could smell his hot breath as he stepped in close to her. “Do you not remember me?” he asked. “We never met, but I’m sure if you think about it, you’ll figure it out.”

“Klaus Vogelsberg!” she gasped. “You? You were behind this? Why?”

“Your golden boy promised me something, and I mean to collect it. Now that we no longer need you to keep Clive happy, you can help us next.”

“What do you mean by that?”

To the Cruzados, he said, “Bring her.”

She heard the American soldiers protest, but the sound of rebel guns raised into position stopped them.

Rough hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her out of room.

26

Ruiz Plantation :

Copan Departmental, Honduras :

Central American Conglomeration :

It was all Michael could do not to choke on his coffee. “Humberto?”

George swatted him on the arm. “Not so loud.”

But it was loud enough for the large Cruzado to hear. Shooting the three guests a dark frown, Humberto quickly shortened the distance between them.

He kept his voice low and spoke in English, but it was edged with warning. “It is important you continue to act the gracious guests of Señor Ruiz. Do nothing suspicious. I will tell you when it is safe to move. Perhaps tomorrow; perhaps not.” It was the most Humberto had ever spoken to them at once.

Michael opened his mouth to ask a question, but Humberto silenced him with another look of warning. He then moved back to his post at the patio steps, narrowed eyes scanning the fields of the plantation dutifully.

Clearing his throat in an obvious way, George lifted his coffee cup. “I think I’ll have one more, and then maybe we can have a look around the house. I thought I spotted an art gallery of sorts at the other end of the main hall.”

When he got Michael’s attention, George pulled on one ear lobe and flicked his eyes at the manservant who was hovering just inside the house—the servant glanced over at them, and then quickly looked away. Michael got the message.

He nodded and moved his own coffee cup closer. George poured for both of them. He then motioned to Yaxche’s cup.

Giving a small shake of his head, Yaxche stood and excused himself. “It is almost time for my morning game of checkers with Alondo, the cook,” he said in Spanish. “He can only play one game before he must go back to the kitchen. Either of you are more than welcome to come and play a game after, if you have nothing better to do today.”

Michael answered Yaxche. “Thank you. That sounds good. I look forward to it.”

With a pleasant smile and an unconcerned gait, the old man ambled off to find the cook.

Michael watched him go, his thoughts racing in every direction, but he schooled himself to remain outwardly calm. Pouring a small amount of cream into his coffee and adding a teaspoon of sugar, he sipped his drink slowly.

Trying to be as casual as possible, he scanned the area around them. There were three patrols of two Cruzados roaming the grounds outside the house. Inside the big windows, he saw several servants cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Everywhere he looked, there was someone who could overhear anything he said. Most likely, their conversation with Yaxche’s had already been reported.

“We need somewhere to talk.”

George grimaced. “Yeah. Harder to do than to say, though. As gracious as our host has been, I don’t think giving his hostages any level of privacy is high on his list of priorities.”

Michael continued to look around, but he couldn’t think of anything they could do that wouldn’t raise suspicion. Humberto, while maintaining his proximity, pointedly looked away from them. Obviously, he was one of those people who would not say anything until he was good and ready to do so.

George leaned in slightly. “Let’s just bide our time. We can’t do anything about it without more data anyway. And I don’t think Señor Ruiz would be so accommodating as to give me access to a computer with an uplink to Quantum Resources.” He barked out a dry laugh at the thought. “Meanwhile, it might make it easier if we pretended we were on vacation.”

Raising one eyebrow, Michael said, “Vacation? This is the weirdest vacation I’ve ever been on. I don’t think I’m going to recommend it to any of my friends.”

∞

Michael almost went crazy from the waiting.

As a man who had spent the majority of his life in a position of authority, he was used to getting constant updates and progress reports from those who worked under him. He was also accustomed to having people answer him when he asked questions.

The few times Michael tried to extract information from Humberto, the most he could get out of the Cruzado was a monosyllabic response and a dark look of warning.

Michael was not used to subterfuge. A straightforward man, biding his time wore on his nerves. He had trouble sleeping, and the next morning he was slow to wake, and was very groggy.

There was only so much they could do to pass the time. They wandered around the house and admired Oscar Ruiz’ collection of art and handcrafted furniture. Careful of the hot sun, they sat out on the patio and lost innumerable games of checkers to Yaxche.

They didn’t see Oscar the rest of the day. When questioned, one of the servants said he had several plantations and could be at any one of them.

All the while, they were under the watchful eyes of half a dozen Cruzados who were posted in and around the household. Though Humberto was one of them, he rarely spoke to any of the rebels.

The day took forever to pass, and that night, despite being overwhelmingly tired, it took Michael hours to finally nod off to sleep.

His mind was whirling in a hundred different directions. How would the discovery of the Song of the Stars change Kinemet? Of course, he would ensure Quantum Resources was involved at every stage of development; but with the world economy so tight, and public interest in space programs at an all time low, would NASA and the CSA re-open their Quanta programs? Would this discovery help to heal Alex?

∞

“Wake up!” a voice whispered very close to his ear. At first, Michael flicked his hand at the disturbance, as if one of the many flies buzzing around the room had found a way under the mosquito netting hanging over his bed.

There was a gentle nudge on his shoulder, and Michael snapped awake. It was the black of night, and only a vague light from the crescent moon outside illuminated the room to any degree. A shape loomed near him, and he quickly identified George as the person who had roused him.

“What?” he asked, his mouth still dry from sleep.

“It’s Humberto. He said we need to move now.”

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Michael untangled himself from the netting and slipped on his shirt. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

In the hall, Humberto and Yaxche were waiting. The old man rubbed one eye and smiled a greeting.

Humberto spoke in English, and George translated for Yaxche.

“Make no sound,” the Cruzado said. “Señor Ruiz is still away, and half the guards are sleeping, as are the household servants. The entire perimeter of the plantation is wired with an electric fence. I have arranged for my cousin to ‘accidentally’ drive his jeep into one section. Several of the guards have gone to investigate. You will make your way through the rows of coffee plants to the other side of the property—I showed Yaxche the trail. I left an unregistered truck behind a large group of trees off the road, hidden from view. It has a full tank of gas, enough to get you to Santa Rosa de Copán; it is a little over one hundred kilometers from here. I left a map.”

“Wait,” Michael said. “You’re not coming with us?”

“No. They will find me downstairs in the main hall. I will be unconscious from a blow to the head by one of Señor Ruiz’s very heavy and priceless vases.”

“How will that happen?” George asked.

“You will have to do it,” Humberto said, and turned to lead them toward the stairs.

Michael grabbed him by the shirt. “Why are you helping us?”

Clenching his jaw, he answered, “Because I believe in our cause; I just do not think our leaders believe in our cause. They believe in money and power. Once they are removed, the Cruzados will once more stand for what is right and just.”

George whispered. “Come with us. With your inside knowledge, you could assist the authorities directly.”

Humberto leaned closer to them. “I will not betray the movement; only correct it. Taking hostages was wrong. There are many of us who feel the same, and soon we will act.”

Michael said, “Our liaison in the capital is John Markham; he’s with the Canadian Embassy. You can trust him. If you can get information to him, he may be able to help you overthrow your leaders.”

Humberto paused, as if considering. He nodded, finally, and then turned to Yaxche. Putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder, he said, “Do not be too disappointed in your grandson. His heart was blinded by memory of a loved one. He, too, can be saved.”

∞

George was reluctant to hit Humberto over the head with the vase, and when he passed the artifact to Yaxche, the old man scrunched up his shoulders and shook his head.

Sighing with resignation, Michael took the vase from George and eyed Humberto. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. You only need to swing hard enough to break the vase, not my skull. When I hear them approach, I will pretend to regain consciousness.”

Lining up his shot, Michael swung the ceramic at Humberto, who braced for the impact. As it turned out, he didn’t hit hard enough, and the vase remained intact. Humberto, however, stumbled forward a step and rubbed at the back of his head, wincing. He shot a perturbed look at Michael, but instead of bracing for a second blow, he yanked the vase out of Michael’s hands and threw it on the tile floor.

It smashed spectacularly.

Still touching the tender part of his head, Humberto said, “At least I’ll have a nice bump there to show them. Good enough.” Looking back and forth between Michael and George, he slowly got down on his knees. “They’ll be back soon. You had better be off. I’ve cleared the path, so you shouldn’t need to use any more light than what the moon gives off.”

With a final look at the three of them, Humberto sank to his belly and lay down.

“Good luck,” Michael said to him, and the three men hurried out the back way and into the coffee fields.

∞

As if he had walked the path a thousand times, Yaxche marched at an even pace down through the rows of flowering coffee shrubs in Oscar’s plantation.

Although Michael wanted to hurry the old man, he appreciated the surefootedness of their guide, and made his best effort to follow Yaxche’s footsteps exactly.

They were most of the way to the tree line when they heard a distant shout coming from the main house.

Michael’s first reaction was to run, but he caught himself when he almost ran over Yaxche, who had come to a complete stop.

“What is it?” he asked. “They’ve figured out we’re gone. They’ll be after us.”

Yaxche turned around slowly. After listening to George repeat Michael’s words in Spanish, he replied in a very quiet voice. “Ahyah. We must wait here.”

Michael opened his mouth to ask what for, but Yaxche raised his arm and pointed to one of the trees near him. At first, he couldn’t see what Yaxche was pointing at, but then he saw a brief silhouette of some kind of small animal jumping from one branch to another directly over their path.

As if it spotted something amiss, it paused and scanned the surrounding forest for signs of danger.

“Monkey,” George said in a breathless whisper. “If we spook him, he’ll howl like a banshee.”

Michael couldn’t make out what kind of monkey it was, and he didn’t want to get any closer to find out. Silently, he prayed the little primate would go on its merry way.

More lights flicked on from the main house, and the shouts grew louder. The monkey stood up straighter, hearing the sounds, alert for danger.

Holding his breath, Michael waited an eternity before the monkey decided to get as far away from the disturbance as possible. Letting out a short chittering sound, it leapt into the branches of the next tree and scooted off.

George, who was also holding his breath, let it out with a whoosh. “That was close,” he said.

His words startled a second monkey they had not spotted.

It screeched in alarm, shook a tree branch, and then raced after the first monkey.

Several flashlights from the main house turned in their direction, and before Michael could duck, the beam passed over him. One of the Cruzados hollered a command in Spanish, and the entire group broke towards them.

“Go!” Michael barked out. “Run!”

Yaxche looked to be a man in his late seventies or early eighties, Michael was in his late sixties, and George was well into his fifties. The men who chased them were much younger, and would soon catch up.

Even though they had a head start, the road where Humberto had stowed the truck was at least a kilometer away. By the time the three men stumbled through the copse of trees, the Cruzados were almost on top of them.

Making painful sounds as he tried to catch his breath, George took a quick look over his shoulder to check the distance between them and their pursuers. He promptly lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, crying out in pain as he twisted his knee.

The lead Cruzado yelled, “¡Alto!”

Michael reached down to help pull his friend back up. Gasping for air, George shook his head. “I’m done!”

“Bullshit!” Michael said. “Get up!”

With a grimace that showed he was in excruciating pain, George tried to get to his feet.

There was a loud snapping sound, and George abruptly looked up at Michael in surprise. At first, Michael thought he might have broken his leg, but then he saw a shadow spreading out from George’s white shirt. It looked black in the darkness of the woods, but the metallic smell of blood wafted up.

“My wife…” was all George managed to say before he fell back to the forest floor.

“George!” Michael said, and tried in vain to pull his dead body back up.

A firm hand grabbed his arm. “¡Vamos!” Yaxche said.

Michael couldn’t think. He was frozen by the shockingly sudden killing. George had been his friend for over a decade, both when they had worked together, and when Michael had retired.

There had been no reluctance or second thoughts when he’d agreed to join Michael’s expedition to Honduras. George, ever-curious, ever-helpful, was dead.

When the two of them had been captured by the Cruzados, it had been a frightening few days, but at the back of his mind, Michael never really thought their lives were in imminent peril.

It was Michael’s fault. He had dragged George halfway around the world only for him to be murdered in a jungle.

Before his grief could consume him, Michael heard a sharp whistling sound as a bullet sped past his head and splintered a tree branch.

Yaxche grabbed his arm with both hands and shook him. “Prisa,” he said, and Michael’s paralysis broke.

They were only a few dozen meters from the road. Though he hated himself for leaving George’s body behind, Michael knew he and Yaxche would most likely join him in death if they tarried.

Trying to block out thoughts of his friend, Michael hurried down the makeshift trail after Yaxche. Another shot rang out, and Michael ducked. He felt a tug at his shirtsleeve as the bullet narrowly missed him.

There were angry shouts behind him, but Michael couldn’t make out any of what they were yelling.

Quelling the blinding panic that tried to seize him, Michael scrambled up the embankment at the main road and quickly scanned for the copse of trees Humberto had mentioned.

He pointed. “There!” Pulling Yaxche alongside him, he raced across the dirt road.

By the time they got to the patch of trees, the Cruzados had crested the road. There was another brace of shouts as the men spotted them.

One of the men chasing them dropped to his knee and raised his rifle to take careful aim. Michael pushed Yaxche out of the way as the man fired.

Letting out a curse in Spanish that Michael couldn’t identify, the Cruzado started shooting wildly in their direction.

For a brief moment, as Michael and Yaxche reached the other side of the copse of trees, he thought either they had run to the wrong area, Humberto had set them up, or someone had stolen the truck before they got there.

Michael let out an expletive of his own and threw his hands up in frustration; but then Yaxche tapped him on the arm and pointed. In the shadow of a jicaro tree, under a hasty covering of leafy branches, was a beat up gasoline-powered truck similar to the one he and George had rented, though this one was a light blue color and had a canopy over the short bed.

They both sprinted toward the vehicle and jumped in. The keys were in the ignition, and when Michael pumped the gas and turned the switch, the engine fired up immediately.

Slamming it into gear, Michael drove the pickup as fast as he could through the field, directly away from the Cruzados.

The rear windshield suddenly spider-webbed as a shot ricocheted off it, but by the time Michael got the truck back up on the main road, they had left the Cruzados too far behind for them to have any hope of hitting their fleeing quarry with another bullet.

Michael hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand in anger.

Yaxche spoke in an assured voice. “Tu amigo vela por nosotros desde el cielo.”

‘Your friend watches over us from heaven now,’ Michael figured out after a moment.

Setting his jaw, Michael fixed his eyes on the road ahead and concentrated on finding his way to Santa Rosa de Copán.

27

Lucis Observatory :

Venus Orbit :

Terry saw himself as a young boy at the height of the Mayan civilization. Dressed in traditional costume, he stood on a raised platform with four others his age.

In the field, throngs of Mayans were gathered together as the astrological advisor to the king spoke about the coming of the fourth world, and that it would be signified by a great omen: the sky would turn to fire and the heavens would burn. Lightning would strike the earth and destroy their temples, and the gods themselves would fall from the sky and smash into the world. Conquerors from a distant shore would arrive in the aftermath and rebuild the world according to their own design.

In order to save themselves from the wrath of Hanub Ku and survive in the fourth world, they must build a monument in his honor; a staircase to the heavens where they could rise above the coming disasters and ride out the chaos.

The king, his priests and his most trusted astronomers had chosen that spot where Terry and the other four boys stood to begin construction.

To commemorate the undertaking, they had chosen the five boys as a special sacrifice to gain Hanub Ku’s favor.

Two large men grabbed Terry by his arms and bent him backwards over a sacrificial altar.

The priest approached him with a long knife—

∞

Terry shot straight up from his cot and gasped in panic. His eyes scanned the darkness of the small room he’d been sleeping in, and he clutched one hand to his chest where his heart thumped like a hammer. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal when he realized he’d been having a nightmare.

Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, he found his shoes and slid his feet into them. He closed his eyes, held his head in his hands, and thought about what he had just dreamed.

Terry’s grandfather always stressed the importance of dreams, and the need for remembering nightmares. The Mayans of old believed dreams were a way of communicating with the gods, and with other people both living and dead, revealing knowledge that could not be shared during their waking hours.

Always regarding this as mysticism, Terry had never paid too much attention to his grandfather’s interpretations. Now, however, with the realization that there was far more substance to the legends his grandfather had recounted, Terry had become a believer.

Calming himself by sitting up straight and regulating his breathing, he tried to remember his nightmare before the threads of his memory evaporated like smoke in the wind.

He had no idea what it meant, or why he had dreamed it. Although he’d had more frequent dreams of the ancient Mayans since Itzel’s death, none of them had ever dealt with human sacrifice or portents of the remaking of the world before; nor had any seemed so much like a vision.

Before he could sort out the reasons for his nightmare, and whether it had been one of the special dreams his grandfather had talked about, the chime on his nightstand sounded and a familiar voice issued out of it.

Jose said, “Terry, we’re heading up to the lab to begin with the next subject. Klaus wants you there standing by in case he needs something during the experiment.”

Like coffee or a sandwich, Terry thought to himself. Out loud, he said, “All right. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” And then he clicked the communicator to shut it off.

He rubbed his head as if the action would clear his thoughts from the nightmare. Padding over to the washroom, he splashed cold water on his face to wake himself up. Finally, he went out to fulfil his role as servant to a madman.

∞

Terry arrived at the lab just moments before Klaus and Jose. Both men bore determined looks. Behind them, several large Cruzados escorted the fourth subject for the Kinemet radiation trials.

It was the woman. Major Turner.

Terry had completely forgotten about her. He had been preoccupied with the recitation of the Song of the Stars for Klaus and performing menial tasks for him. At no time had he gone to check on her or any of the prisoners, but even if he had wanted to look in on them, he couldn’t have. The section of the observatory where they kept the prisoners was under heavy guard, and no one was permitted entry without express orders from Klaus, Jose, or Captain Gruber.

As they dragged the woman past him, he got his first good look at her. Her eyes did not focus, and he recalled that she was blind.

Her long hair was disheveled and her cheeks were streaked with tears. Major Turner looked like she had been through a tough few days, but she held her head high and set her jaw defiantly as her escorts steered her past Terry and toward the lab.

“Jose,” Terry said, finding his voice. “She is a woman, and she is disabled. We can’t do this.”

Jose glanced up at Terry, but it was Klaus who raised his hand sharply to cut him off. “On the contrary, boy, we can and we will. If it makes you feel any better, I really have only one more variable to test for. She’s got a fifty-fifty shot of becoming the first fully transformed Kinemetic human. Of course,” he added with a wry smile, “she still might die from radiation poisoning. We’re really just stumbling around in the dark hoping for the best here.”

It was too much for Terry. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do against six men who were much larger and more prone to violence than him. He could feel himself shaking from frustration and anger.

Although he had undertaken combat training at the monthly camps the Cruzados held, Terry had never really taken it as seriously as the others, and never committed himself to the instruction. He had believed from the beginning that his destined part in the movement was geared more towards a leadership role than as a fighter. But he wasn’t even a figurehead in the Cruzados revolution; once he had unlocked the door to the Song of the Stars, they had relegated him to being nothing more than Klaus’s servant.

All he could do was stand there while the brutish Cruzados herded the woman into the lab.

Inside, one of the men reached over to unbutton Major Turner’s shirt at the collar. She swore at him, and Terry couldn’t make out her exact words. Her meaning, however, was very clear. She punctuated her words with a slap to the Cruzado’s face.

The man immediately belted her across the cheek with the back of his hand, knocking her into the examination bed.

Terry instinctively stepped forward to help, but a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. Klaus’s fingers dug into his skin.

Reaching up, Terry ripped the hand away from him with as much strength as he could summon, and glared at Klaus, who was smirking back.

Terry pointed toward the other room. “Is that really necessary?”

“We can’t risk the possibility of contamination from her outfit,” Klaus answered, mistaking the cause of Terry’s protest. He weighed Terry with a critical eye, and his voice carried a heavy undercurrent of disdain when he spoke again.

“You really aren’t cut out for this, are you? You’re a dreamer, and dreamers never survive in the real world.”

There was a scream from the lab, and Terry turned to see the four Cruzados forcibly strip the clothes from Major Turner. Naked, she fought wildly, but another slap disoriented her long enough for them to haul her up on top of the table and strap her down. One of them inserted a needle in her arm from an intravenous drip. When Justine tried to pull her arm away, the man punched her in the face.

Blinded by outrage, Terry pushed Klaus out of the way and raced over to the door of the lab.

One of the Cruzados, a big man named Esteban, saw the movement and hurried over to block the entrance. He was far too large for Terry to handle, and by the time Terry could figure out how to get past the big man, both Jose and Klaus grabbed him.

Klaus spat out his words. “I thought you said you could control him, Jose.”

Instead of answering Klaus, Jose barked an order out to his man. “Esteban, take him to his quarters and seal the door.”

To Terry, he said, “I’m very disappointed in you, niño.”

As he was dragged out of the lab, Terry saw behind him that Major Turner was already unconscious, and Klaus had returned to his computer station to begin the Kinemetic transformation trial.

Once again, Terry had completely failed in his efforts, and the cost would be another life.

∞

Terry only had three meters of floor on which to pace, and he made the round-trip at least a hundred times. All the while, he fumed at Klaus and Jose, damning himself for his role in the entire affair.

When history wrote his story, they would not hail him as a hero, or visionary, or savior of the Mayan culture. No, he would go down in the books as a traitor to humanity. A thief, kidnapper, and accomplice to murder.

There had to be a way to redeem himself.

But what could he do? He was just one small man against dozens of Cruzados.

By now, Major Turner would be well into the experiment. She would be nothing more than a series of photons swirling around the room. In less than three hours, the speck of Kinemet Klaus used to kick-start the reaction would expend itself, and then she would either be transformed into a quantum navigator, or she would die a horrible and painful death, as had the previous subjects.

Terry had to do something.

As he paced, the seed of an idea formed in his head. Maybe he could play Jose and Klaus off against each other?

He held his breath, as if the plan might escape with his next exhalation.

Could he do it? Was he capable of following through? Or was his mind leading him into yet another foolish act?

Forcing himself to calm down, he closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing. When his heart returned to a normal rhythm, he slowly opened his eyes once more, and then began to work out a plan of action.

He returned to the door and checked the peephole once more, but didn’t see anyone in his limited range of vision.

The doors of the residential quarters only had locks on the inside. Carefully, Terry slid the latch open and gently pulled the door back a crack, and then peeked out.

Esteban was half a dozen meters down the hall, sitting in a chair and leaning back.

Keeping the door as close to the jamb as he could while still giving him enough of a gap to see through, Terry watched him. The man had to be bored out of his mind with the mundane guard duty. He already looked as if he were ready to doze off. Terry just had to be patient. With slow movement, Terry removed his boots and then approached the door once again, this time in his stocking feet.

Like a jaguar stalking its prey before an ambush, Terry peered through the gap and watched and waited. He kept his eyes fixed on Esteban and stood still.

When the big man’s head dropped a notch fifteen minutes later, Terry still did not move.

Even when he heard the first light snore come from the Cruzado, Terry remained motionless.

He waited an additional five minutes after he thought Esteban was asleep, and then delicately opened the door wide enough to slide out into the hall.

The layout of the observatory’s residential area was such that there were two ways Terry could have gone. The first was out toward the cafeteria and common area, but there would assuredly be any number of Jose’s men loitering there. The only other way was in the direction of the laboratories. That was where Terry wanted to go anyway, but in order to do so, he would have to creep by Esteban without waking him.

He raised one foot and put it softly down in front of the other as he picked his way past his guard.

He was directly in front of Esteban when a loud clanging sound echoed down from the opposite end of the hall in the direction of the kitchen. Terry heard someone curse lightly, as if they had dropped a pan, and he froze, staring intently at Esteban.

For a brief moment, he thought the guard had woken with the sound and was staring back at him. But it was a trick of the shadow and light in the hall; Esteban continued to snore.

Terry resumed his deliberate pace until he rounded a corner two sections down, and then he quickened his steps.

At the lab area, he turned toward a flight of stairs and followed them down to the lowest level.

He would need help if his plan were to have any chance of succeeding; and there was a distinct lack of friendly faces in the observatory.

∞

The hallway to the empty lab where they kept the American soldiers was unguarded. The lock on the main door to the room had been reconfigured to lock from the outside, and there was no way the prisoners could get through the electromagnetic latches. No one expected any of the Cruzados or any of Klaus’s men to open the door and let the soldiers out.

The locks were keyed with an infrared scanner. When Terry had first come aboard the Lucis Observatory, Captain Gruber had sprayed the back of his wrist with a laser. It left no visible mark, but the old smuggler had assured him it was a kind of sub-dermal tattoo that would last for at least a few weeks. It would give him access to all the labs and common rooms with a mere wave of his hand.

There was a moment of doubt when Terry reached the door. If Klaus had updated the security databanks and removed Terry’s clearances, this trip—and his plan—would be cut short. But the door opened into a darkened room. The smell of unwashed humans wafted up and he had to force himself not to gag.

He had some expectation that once he opened the door, the Americans would rush him and knock him down before he could talk to them, but when he flicked the overhead lights on, he saw that the soldiers looked weak and defeated.

One of them looked up as Terry stepped into the room, and said, “Who are you?” in English.

The others spotted Terry. Their eyes narrowed and their jaws clenched.

Terry had spent the better part of the past year learning their language, and though he still had trouble with aspects—especially slang—he felt confident enough to relay his idea to them.

“My name is Terry Fernandez. My grandfather is the guardian of the Song of the Stars scroll. I am as much a prisoner here as you. Our captors are experimenting on your compañero, Major Turner, and if you don’t help me, they will most assuredly kill her.”

∞

Klaus was hunched over a computer monitor, tapping one long finger against his lips as he scanned the diagnostics.

A few meters to the side, Jose was looking at the brightened window between the lab and the workshop, as if mesmerized by the display. He had his hands folded over one another behind his back, and every few seconds he would make a rocking motion, lifting himself up on the balls of his feet, and then settling himself back down.

Sitting on a tall stool at a lab table, Captain Gruber held half a deck of cards in one hand. The rest of the cards were arrayed on the surface of the table in a game of solitaire. At his hip was an ion pistol in its holster.

On the other side of the room, two of Jose’s Cruzados were looking bored. One of them leaned against a computer server rack and rested his elbow on the top. The other was chewing his fingernails with his teeth. Both of them had ion pulse rifles, but they were propped barrel-up in the corner a few paces away.

“How much longer, do you think?” Jose asked. His voice sounded casual, but there was a note of anticipation in it.

Klaus popped his head up from the display. “Any minute now, I—”

Then he blinked, noticing that Terry had entered the lab without anyone knowing.

A moment later, everyone else turned their heads, sensing something wrong in Klaus’s voice.

Terry willed his breathing to remain steady, and his heart to beat normally and not jump right out of his chest as every person in the room glared at him, first in surprise, then with alarm.

The two Cruzados stumbled into each other as they both went for their pulse rifles, but Captain Gruber already had his ion pistol out and pointed at Terry.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jose demanded. “Where’s Esteban? That idiot!”

Terry kept his eyes fixed on Jose. He didn’t want to rush anything at this point. Unless he kept his voice level, the leader of the Cruzados would not take him seriously.

“I have something to tell you, Jose,” Terry said after he was sure he had everyone’s attention. He was impressed with how calm he sounded.

“Oh?” Jose blinked and shot a quick glance at his two men, making sure they had found their pulse rifles and were ready to handle any kind of trouble.

“Your life is in danger.” Terry didn’t make any threatening gestures, but he could immediately see the fear and uncertainty in Jose’s eyes as he looked up and down to see if Terry had a weapon.

“Really?” The sarcasm in his voice was tinged with doubt. “I understand if you are upset,” Jose said, stalling for time, “but I’m sure we can talk it out.”

With a slight shake of his head, Terry said, “The danger is not from me.”

Jose narrowed his eyes.

“When I was in the washroom earlier, I overheard Klaus and his uncle say they were going to kill both of us and take over your men once the experiment was successful.”

Whipping his head first to the left at his men, who looked as confused as him, then back to the right at Klaus, Jose said, “Is this some kind of joke—?”

But he went silent when Captain Gruber swung his ion pistol away from Terry and pointed it at Jose.

Klaus, who had been watching the exchange with a half grin, said, “No joke, Jose. The little man has it right. You see, I thought it over, and even though the entire galaxy is really big, I’ve decided I really don’t need a co-commander. But I’d like to thank you for your contribution to the cause—my cause, that is.”

Jose, wild-eyed, threw a look at the two Cruzados. “Don’t just stand there! Shoot him.”

The men raised their pulse rifles, but they didn’t point them at Klaus or Captain Gruber.

“Oh,” Klaus said in a smug tone, “and I’d like to thank you for your men. As it turns out, most of them really weren’t interested in your silly crusade, or in following your incompetent leadership.”

Jose opened and closed his mouth in shock.

No one was paying attention to Terry all the while, and he slowly backed away from the conflict, heading toward the lab door. He unlocked it with a swipe of his wrist, and a moment before he opened it wide, he shouted:

“Jose! Run for your life!”

Seeing the open door, Jose took one step toward safety.

Captain Gruber fired the first shot, and that pulled everyone’s attention back to the center of the room.

The ion stream hit Jose high in the arm, and he spun around, but did not fall. Screaming from the pain, he dove behind a table.

Just then, five American soldiers burst into the room and rushed Gruber and the two Cruzados, who fired blindly at the men without hitting anyone. Trent Gruber, however, did not panic under fire, and shot an ion stream directly into the head of the first man to reach him.

In the confusion, Terry lost track of Klaus, who must have dived for cover. He quickly skipped to the side, looking for the man, and saw two sets of legs kicking wildly from behind a metal table.

Dashing around, Terry saw Jose, bleeding from his arm, sitting on top of Klaus, his hands around the other man’s throat, trying to choke the life out of him.

An ion stream from one of the rifles hit the tiled drop ceiling, and a small section broke free and crashed down on Terry. He threw a hand up to protect his head and glanced over to see two of the Americans tackle the two Cruzados on the other side of the room. Malnourished and weak, they were barely able to pull the pulse rifles out of their opponents hands. In hand-to-hand combat, the Cruzados were getting the better of them.

Captain Gruber wasn’t able to get off another shot before the two other Americans, Lieutenant Jeffries and Corporal Marks, collided with him. They fought for control of the gun.

In front of Terry, Klaus and Jose rolled around on the floor, each trying to squeeze the life out of the other. Terry was all for letting them finish each other off, but he knew he couldn’t chance either of them getting away.

He threw himself at the two men who had been the engineers of his downward moral spiral. The sudden anger he had for them surprised him, and he found himself punching them indiscriminately.

They had lied to him, tricked him, led him to betray himself and the people he loved, and then planned to kill him. The injustice of it all filled him with such a rage, he didn’t even notice that one of them had stabbed him in the stomach with a screwdriver. It was only when Klaus, with a curse in German, kicked him off and onto his back, that Terry felt the shooting pain in his abdomen.

He couldn’t breathe, and it took everything in him to get to his feet.

Klaus was bleeding from his nose and a few other cuts on his face. He spat blood as he used the metal table to haul himself up.

Jose remained on the ground, still and glassy eyed.

With his vision tunnelling, Terry saw that the Americans had managed to subdue the two Cruzados and were keeping them pressed to the ground.

On the other side of the room, Lieutenant Jeffries was on his knees, holding his hand over his face. Corporal Marks and Captain Gruber had both hands on the captain’s gun.

With a vicious kick, Captain Gruber knocked the wind out of Corporal Marks, and the American released his grip on the ion gun. Captain Gruber shot him in the chest, point blank.

Klaus, seeing this, ran to help his uncle.

Like a predator, Terry let out a war cry and charged after Klaus. He had to prevent the two from escaping. If they got out of the room and sounded the alarm, their rest of the Cruzados would easily overcome Terry and the surviving Americans.

Captain Gruber swivelled at Terry’s cry, and fired a charge at him without a moment’s hesitation.

Two things happened at the same time.

First, there was the feeling of a sledgehammer pounding Terry square in the chest. His forward momentum kept him from falling back to the ground, but he couldn’t breathe, no matter how much he tried to force his lungs to inhale.

Secondly, a fraction of a moment later, an ear-shattering explosion sounded from behind him and the entire room filled with light as the ion stream passed clean through him and into the window of the lab.

With the window blown out, the particles of light that Major Turner had become were now free from any barrier, and spilled out into the lab.

Above the ringing in his ears, Terry heard Klaus scream, “No!” as the photons swirled and escaped out into the hall.

Terry saw Lieutenant Jeffries spring up, face bleeding, to collide with Captain Gruber, and he sensed the other soldiers race past him to help bring Klaus and his uncle down.

But the last thought that went through Terry’s mind was not that he had managed to defeat Jose and Klaus, but that he finally figured out what his dream meant.

The gods of old had spoken to him. In order to save his people, Terry had to be sacrificed.

And as he sank to his knees, and the final darkness enveloped his consciousness, Terry decided he was all right with that.

His grandfather would be proud.

28

Unofficial Transcript :

Alex Manez Interview Part Two :

Dated August 2103 :

Frank: “Good morning, Alex. My name is Frank Galloway; I’m the senior advisor for USA, Inc.’s Board of Directors’ oversight committee for Quantum Resources. I’ll be taking over the debriefing from my assistant.”

Alex: “Where’s Edgar?”

Frank: “I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s been reassigned.”

Alex: “I’m not worried. But I still want to know why he isn’t here.”

Frank: “If you must know, this conversation is outside the scope of his security clearance.”

Alex: “And you have enough clearance?”

Frank: “To be honest, I don’t think anyone has enough clearance. But at the very least I’ll be able to determine whether the information you provide can be disseminated, and if so, through which channels.”

Alex: “But your scientists need to know what I know, or we’ll never be able to use Kinemet the way it was intended.”

Frank: “I’ve spoken with the department heads at Quantum Resources. They’ve all assured me that they can make Kinemet a viable fuel for space travel.”

Alex: “Maybe, but the way they are using it is dangerous and very inefficient.”

Frank: “And how does it need to be used?”

Alex: “I don’t know, exactly. But you need to stop them from repeating the Quanta mission. People will die. They need to start over from scratch.”

Frank: “Alex, you strike me as a highly intelligent young man, but this is the real world. There are other factors that need to be taken into consideration.”

Alex: “Such as?”

Frank: “…All right… For one thing, the space program is extremely unpopular at the moment: we are spending billions every year, and so far we haven’t been able to recoup those expenses. Alex, we were hoping for a different result from your mission; something we could use in our PR campaign to bolster support, something that would fire the imaginations of the population. Heck, we’d have settled for a little green man in a flying saucer.

“In the eyes of the media and the public, the Quanta mission was a failure. The ship was destroyed, there was no contact with an alien race, and the viability of Kinemet as a fuel is still years—if not decades—from refinement. We need a success, and soon. The USA, Inc. Board of Directors are generally not scientifically inclined; they’re motivated by opinions and polls, and if they enact policies and expenditures that go against the shareholder majority, they may lose their seats in the administration.”

Alex: “Politics, you mean.”

Frank: “Yes. Exactly. And so, you must also understand that any information you reveal today that goes against the Quanta missions may never go beyond this room.”

Alex: “So you would let Quantum Resources continue down a path doomed to failure rather than set them straight? All for politics?”

Frank: “I’m afraid that’s not my call, but if that’s the final decision, it will come from the CEO’s offices.”

Alex: “It will cost lives.”

Frank: “That’s why I’m here. I want to know everything you know so that we can prevent future accidents.”

Alex: “Nothing I say at this point will help you.”

Frank: “Now, Alex, please be reasonable.”

Alex: “…Do you believe that I was able to put myself into a quantized state when I was in the Centauri system?”

Frank: “The consensus with the department heads indicated that what you think happened may be a result of disorientation or fatigue.”

Alex: “But what do you think?”

Frank: “I’m not certain there is any way to verify your story. I mean, it would go a long way if you could quantize yourself again and allow our scientists to observe the effects.”

Alex: “I used up all the Kinemetic radiation in my system in Centauri. And it’s also not something I can do here on Earth—there’s too much geomagnetism on a planetary body. If I was recharged, and back in space, I think I might be able to do it again.”

Frank: “That might be a difficult request to fulfill, Alex. There are many people in key roles who cautioned against letting you go on the first mission. They are using the failure as leverage to forward their own agendas and to ensure your removal from the program.”

Alex: “What you are saying is everyone has already made up their minds.”

Frank: “Not everybody, but enough of them to make your request difficult to grant.”

Alex: “So what does this mean for me?”

Frank: “I’m sorry, Alex. I’ve been instructed to tell you that if you cooperate, and reconfirm your non-disclosure agreement, we can offer you a generous compensation package. You’ll never have to worry about money again for the rest of your life.”

Alex: “What if I refuse?”

Frank: “Well, as far as the world knows, Alex Manez is a seasoned pilot for the Canadian Space Force on loan to NASA, and who is of a considerably more mature age. We even have a digital composite image of a few actors made up for the press release and any future interviews. There’s no possible way we can reveal to the world that we let a teenager lead the Quanta mission. That would be a public relations nightmare.”

Alex: “I don’t like to be threatened.”

Frank: “I don’t like to make threats. So what will it be?”

Alex: “I want the agreement all in writing, then I’ll tell you the rest of what happened out there.”

29

Unknown :

The Music of the Spheres fills her mind and soul.

Raw and exposed, all Sol System lies before her.

The energy of the Sun floods her senses.

Like children, the planets dance in orbit.

Come and play, they call out.

Each have their own laugh.

Their voices are songs.

They are alive.

Another song…

Alex?

So small.

He is lost.

There, but not there.

She pushes her thoughts out.

His song is faint and distant.

He needs her help to come home.

A new being of light, she lacks control.

Her essence explodes outward; the galaxy is wide open.

The Song of the Stars fills her mind and soul.