Music of the Spheres (9 page)

Jose’s mother, he told Terry, was a half-blood Mayan, and
had married into a reasonably wealthy Honduran family. Growing up, Jose’s
mother had told him stories of his culture. “My legal name is Jose, but my
Mayan name is Huehuetlotl.”

It was while Jose was in university studying law that the
story of the discovery of Kinemet had broken. For years, he followed the story
with interest. After the first interstellar mission, NASA had tried to acquire
the ancient scroll for themselves.

A legal aid by that time, Jose and a few sympathizers had
organized themselves into an activist group. At the time, they had called
themselves the Mayan Spiritualists, and they tried to put pressure on the
Honduran government to restrict, or at least regulate access to the scroll.

“NASA was spending a lot of money in the area and in the
capital region,” Jose said. “Too many government officials were lining their
pockets with bribe money from businesses and contractors who wanted to work for
the wealthy Americans. Our movement was denounced, and those same politicians
instead pressured my law firm to have me fired and blacklisted. The only work
I’ve been able to find in the past year has been as a tutor to university
students.”

Jose gave Terry a very intense, impassioned look. “For
centuries our people have been taken advantage of, when all along we were meant
to lead the way to the stars.”

His words stirred similar emotions in Terry. The Mayans had
been stepped over by those with money and power, and kept poor and ignorant. If
the Mayan people had continued to be a power in the Americas, tragedies like
the death of his darling Itzel would never have happened.

Jose continued. “It was then that my friends and I began our
work in earnest. There are more than a hundred of us now, and our numbers are
growing. We even have a rich benefactor—unfortunately not Mayan, but he
believes in our cause.”

Terry asked, “And what is your cause?”

“We now call ourselves the Cruzados, and our mission is to
restore the Mayan people to their rightful place as ambassadors to the people
of the stars.”

“How will you do that?” Despite his initial misgivings, Terry
was becoming intrigued. If he joined a group who shared his beliefs, the
possibilities were limitless.

“The world will not simply grant us the status we deserve.
They have already shown their disdain for us. Therefore we must make them give
it to us.” There was a hard edge to his voice and fire in his eyes.

Terry balked momentarily. “Make them? You mean, by force?”

“If necessary,” Jose said, his hand balled into a fist. Then
he relaxed his hand and opened it; the smile returned to his face. “But it will
be better if we secure our position with a different kind of power: knowledge.
If we have something no one else has, then they have no choice but to deal with
us.”

“The secret of the scroll,” Terry guessed.

“That’s right.”

“But their scientists have been working on that for years.
They’ve given up. No one knows how to decipher it, not even my grandfather. What
can we do?”

Jose put his hand on Terry’s arm. “We can have faith in our
destiny. The secret will be revealed when the time is right. And when that time
comes, we must be prepared.”

∞

Over the following weeks, Terry met with the Cruzados a
dozen more times, often talking or arguing late into the night. They formulated
a number of plans, and by the end of Terry’s first month in the capital, he had
thrown his full support into the cause.

∞

Terry returned to Copán Departmental in a rented pickup
truck four weeks after leaving. The bed of the truck was filled with food,
clothing, and medical supplies. In his pocket, he had more lempira than he
could make in a year working the coffee fields.

When he arrived in his village, he recounted to his
grandfather and parents how he had made his small fortune at a casino one
night, and his first thought was the welfare of the village. He told them he
had contracted with an engineering company to rebuild the village’s water
processing and sewage system, and had arranged for a doctor to visit the
village once a month. Regaled as a hero, Terry spent the better part of the
year working to improve conditions in their community.

Terry also brought a pocket-sized holoslate with a mesh
connection. Jose had supplied it to him, and instructed him to keep this device
secret from his fellow villagers.

Every night, when he was by himself, Terry used the computer
to learn to read and write English. He also took courses in math, history and
science. Jose believed firmly that knowledge was power, and insisted that all
Cruzados had the benefits of an education. As a side benefit, Terry also
discovered world music, and spent hours listening to everything from classical
to rock to the latest progbeat rage.

Jose had insisted that Terry also spend as much time as he
could learning the customs and culture of USA, Inc. and Canada Corp. and the
history of the NASA space program—the
Quanta
missions in particular and
every scrap of information they could find out about Kinemet.

During the day, his task was to find out as much as he could
about the ancient scroll. Though he still found himself with unresolved
feelings of anger towards his grandfather’s stubborn and backwards ways, Terry
forced himself to ask after the history of the document and pressed his
grandfather to speculate about the secrets it held.

Once a week, Terry would check in with Jose or Humberto to
exchange updates, and once every two months Terry would leave the village for a
weekend. He told his grandfather he was going to visit the friends he made in
Tegucigalpa. In reality, he went into the countryside at a secluded camp where
he would train with the Cruzados in combat techniques.

Initially, Terry resisted the idea of military action.

“Sometimes, in order for your voice to be heard,” Jose told him
the first time Terry picked up weapon, “you may need to raise it.”

∞

The months rolled by without any new developments until the
day when, in frustration, Terry demanded that his grandfather repeat the story of
the ancient scroll over and over again.

Listening to the words his grandfather spoke, the key to
unlocking the secret of the document came to Terry as if it were preordained.

Running back to his own house, Terry contacted Jose on his holoslate.

That call set in motion a whirlwind of events that
ultimately brought Terry to where he was today: standing on the bridge of a
Lunar Lines ship with an ion pulse rifle in his hand while Jose announced their
takeover to the passengers.

To Terry, the past year seemed more like a dream or a
nightmare, and it was then that he realized he had lost control of his own
destiny.

15

Tegucigalpa :

Honduras :

Central American
Conglomeration :

The virtual
tourist
flicks on to show a city bathed in heat and humidity. The sky is a
clear blue with barely a trace of clouds behind the skyline of the airport.

A cacophony of noise from the loading trucks, taxis and passenger
vehicles outside the terminal is loud enough that Michael—who is framed in the
two-dimensional image—has to raise his voice to be heard.

He looks cranky and tired.

“What are you doing?” he asks after tapping a request for an
autotaxi into a kiosk.

George’s voice comes from off-screen. “Documenting our
trip.”

“We’re still at the airport,” Michael says. “I’m not sure
they care whether we can get an autotaxi or how much we paid.”

“Well, you never know. Don’t worry, I’ll edit out the boring
parts before I submit the recording. But I think our arrival in Tegucigalpa is
a good bookend.”

Michael presses his lips together. “You look conspicuous. We
need people to trust us before they’ll talk to us.”

The image bounces. “The only fieldwork we do is looking at
reactors. Calbert never saw any reason to upgrade us to the new PERSuit system.
Now that’s a toy I’d like to get my hands on.”

Shaking his head, Michael says, “We’ll just have to make do
with what we have. Let me do the talking when we get to the consulate.”

“You got it, boss.”

Michael grimaces as he waves down a cab. “Sorry I barked at
you. It was a long flight.”

“No worries.”

An autotaxi pulls up and they throw their bags in the
storage compartment. The image jostles dizzyingly as they enter the vehicle.

The computer personality prompts,

The image pans to Michael, and George says, “Why don’t we go
to the hotel first, check in and get cleaned up?”

“That sounds good.” Michael scratches his beard. “Maybe I’ll
shave, after all. I didn’t think it would be so hot down here.”

“The Ambassador Arms,” George says to the computer, and the
autotaxi pulls out into the street.

∞

The virtual tourist image turns back on outside the glass
doors of an office on the third floor of the Centro Financiero Banexpo
building. The frame zooms in on the sign of the Canadian Embassy.

Michael, who looks energetic and confident, stands at the
door and pauses. With a clean-shaven face, he is dressed in a loose-fitting white
shirt and brown pants.

He removes a wide-brimmed hat and faces George and the
camera eye.

“All right. I guess if we’re documenting everything, I’ll
narrate.” Michael clears his throat. “We’re here at the embassy office to get
our travel papers, maps, and to meet with John Markham, who is the consul’s
aide. We hope he can give us some additional information on the theft of the Mayan
scroll and the kidnapping of Yaxche, the translator.”

Michael enters into the reception area where a
smartly-dressed woman smiles a greeting.

“Hello, I’m Michael Sanderson and this is George Markowitz.
We have an appointment.”

“Mr. Markham is expecting you. Go right in.” She points down
a carpeted hallway. “It’s the office at the end.”

Michael nods and then proceeds to the consul’s office.

Inside, John Markham stands up from his desk and comes
around to shake Michael’s hand. Deeply tanned skin stretches around his mouth
as he greets them. His eyes glance at the VT camera.

“We’re recording our progress for our report,” Michael says.

“Oh, that’s fine. Come in. Have a seat.” He returns to his
side of the desk.

The image briefly flashes on George’s hiking boots as he
awkwardly finds his chair and sits down. As he points the camera back up, John
is handing Michael a thin memory card.

John says, “After your supervisor called to let me know you
were coming down here, I took the liberty of compiling some local newsvids that
reported the incident.”

“Thank you.” Michael takes the card and inserts it in his holoslate
to transfer the files. “Every little bit will help.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much there. Whoever these Cruzados
are, they’ve kept a very low profile up until now. They’ve never taken part in
anything more serious than a protest at the Office of the Interior when NASA
first tried to purchase the document. For the past year, they’ve been so quiet
we assumed they’d disbanded.”

“Do we know the names of any of their members?”

“Just one. Jose Fernandez, who we believe is their leader. I
talked to my counterpart at the US embassy and he forwarded a copy of all the
data they’ve gathered on the Cruzados, and a timeline of their activities. Like
I said, it’s not much.”

“Do you have any contacts with the
policia?
Someone
we can talk to about this?”

John frowns. “Yes, but I’m not certain they will tell you anything
useful.”

Michael looks up from the holoslate. “Oh?”

“Well, for one thing, the government of Honduras doesn’t think
the theft and kidnapping are much of a priority.”

With a glance at George, Michael says, “They don’t?”

“The only reason the National Department of Investigations
even opened a case file is because of pressure from USA, Inc. and the Honduras
Office of Tourism.”

“They don’t think kidnapping is important?”

John shakes his head. “It’s very important, but it happens
so often in this part of the world that unless there is a ransom demand or an
imminent threat to a VIP, the authorities simply don’t have the manpower or
resources to investigate. And so far, the Cruzados are only
suspected
of
this crime. They haven’t taken responsibility or communicated any demands yet.
As a matter of fact, according to the consul in the U.S. Embassy, the only
reason we know the Cruzados are involved is because of an unsecured EPS to a
contact in Houston.”

Michael and George share a grim look between them.

John shrugs apologetically. “I want to help you as much as I
can, but I have to tell you I think you’re wasting your time. Until the
Cruzados surface on their own with a list of demands, you’re just spinning your
wheels.”

Michael has a thoughtful look on his face. “I appreciate
where you’re coming from, but we have to follow through on this.”

“Of course.”

With a quick look to George, Michael says, “We thought we
would begin our investigation in Copán, where it happened. Interview some of
the local residents.”

“I can certainly help you with travel arrangements. There’s
a bus that runs daily between Tegucigalpa and Santa Rosa de Copán. From there,
perhaps you can hire an autotaxi. I believe Yaxche’s village is less than an
hour away.”

George shakes his head, causing the image to bob up and
down. “When I was there last, I rented a truck from the owner of the hotel
where I stayed. The autotaxis won’t run rurally.”

John smiles and stands up. “Excellent. I’ll call down for
some bus tickets while you get your travel documents from my receptionist.” He
walks around the desk again and shakes both George’s and Michael’s hands. “And
if you have a few extra days while in Honduras, you should visit Copán Ruinas. It’s
quite astonishing. If you’re a history buff, it’s a must-see.”

∞

There are a series of images of the landscape looking out
from inside a bus. The noise of the vehicle’s engine is too loud for anything
to be heard other than garbled audio.

∞

A short nighttime shot of a hotel in Santa Rosa de Copán
slowly pans to a busy sidewalk filled with pedestrians. On the street corner
opposite the hotel an old beggar holds his hand out while gumming his teeth and
staring into the distance.

∞

The morning sun casts shadows on the dirt road of a small
village. A couple of barefoot kids kick a partially deflated soccer ball back
and forth near a well which serves as their central plaza.

Michael steps into the frame. “We’re here in the village
where Yaxche and the document were taken. What’s the village’s name again?”

George says, “Pueblo de Santa Brio, but most everyone here
just calls it the
pueblo.”

Michael makes a motion with his hand for George to follow
him. “We’re going to try to find one of Yaxche’s relatives and see if they can
give us any more information than what we already have.”

“If I remember correctly,” George says off-screen, “his
house is the last one on the end. Maybe his daughter or his grandson is there.”

Michael heads towards the far side of the small village. As
he walks, a few of the residents stop and look up at him and George in passing
curiosity.

There are no more than two dozen ramshackle houses in the
village, all looking in dire need of repair. The front of one of the homes has
a few tables set out. On one of the tables are baskets of fruit, bread and two
dead chickens. On one of the other tables a number of handcrafted trinkets are
arrayed. A plump woman smiles at them and says,
“Comprar?”

Michael glances at George with a helpless smile. “I forgot
to pack my translator.”

“She wants to know if we want to buy something.”

Michael shakes his head. “Maybe later.”

To the woman, George says, “
Más tarde. Gracias.”

She smiles and waves at them as the two make for Yaxche’s
house.

The home itself is of typical construction: the walls are
made of adobe, and the roof is constructed with clay tiles. Unlike many of the
other houses, this one has a small porch and the floor is made of wood rather
than packed earth. The front door is partially open.

George calls out into the house.
“¿Hola?”

There is no answer, but one of the soccer-playing children
trots over.

“La casa está vacía,”
he says.

“Do you know what happened?” George asks in Spanish, immediately
translating the conversation for Michael’s benefit.

The boy shakes his head. “They were taken by men with guns.”

“They?”

“The soldiers came and put Terry and his grandfather in a
truck. They drove off. This was many days ago.”

“Have you ever seen those soldiers before?”

“No. I know nothing of them.” The boy pointed to a house two
doors down made of thatch and clay. “Terry’s mother is there. She waits for
them to return.”

“Thank you,” Michael says and passes the boy a twenty
lempira bill.

Yipping with joy, the boy runs off to show his friends the
money.

Michael turns to the camera. “This is news. We no idea Yaxche’s
grandson was abducted as well.”

The two of them cross the packed dirt street to the house
the boy had indicated and knock on the flimsy door made of wood planks bound
together with a weaved rope.

A middle-aged woman opens the door. Worry lines stretch
across her face; her eyes flick back and forth fearfully between Michael and
George. Recognition blossoms when her gaze settles on George, who had been to
the village over a decade earlier wearing similar headgear.

Behind her are two pre-teen girls who look on with
curiosity.

The woman speaks in Spanish, and George translates between
them.

She says, “Please come in.” She turns to her children and
tells them to go play outside.

Michael smiles politely and nods as he follows the woman
into her sparsely furnished house. Handmade chairs surround a carved table. A
shelving unit holds plates and glasses, and on the mantle over a rudimentary
fireplace is a photographic portrait of a young man.

Michael points to it. “Is that your son?”

“Yes,” the woman says, wringing her hands. “He and my father
have been missing these past days. Taken by the bandits, for what reason I do
not know. We have nothing of value.” She glances at Michael and George out of
the corner of her eye. “You are not the police. Why have you come?”

“We want to help find them,” Michael answers. “Though we
only found out today that your son was also kidnapped. Can you tell us about
him?”

“Yes.” She sits down on a chair at the table. “He is my only
son and I love him, though this past year he has grown apart from me and his
father. Terry was engaged to be married, you see. Itzel was beautiful and
brought joy to him and our family, but she was struck down by sickness and
died. Terry ran away from us in grief and did not return for a month. He left a
boy but came back a man. He brought a great many supplies and ideas to our
village.”

When she spoke, she did not look proud, and Michael shot a quick
look at George before saying to her, “You don’t look happy about that.”

“Something happened to Terry when he was away. My husband
does not hear me when I say that he is not the same; he and the other villagers
only see the improvements to the village and the wealth he brought back with
him. But where did he come by this money? He says he won it gambling, but I
think he may have done something shameful. I think—”

She falls silent and stares at her hands. “It is not my
place to say.”

Michael puts a hand on her shoulder. “You can tell us. It
might help us in our search for him and your father.”

There is a tear in her eye as she looks back up at Michael.
“My husband tells me I am being foolish, but I think my son may have … stolen
the money from the banditos. That is why they have taken him and my father.
They will either ransom them to the village, or they will take their anger out
on them.”

She grabs Michael’s arm. “Please. I beg you. Find my son and
my father before something terrible happens to them.”

With a grim face, Michael says, “We will do everything we
can. Is there anything you can tell us about these bandits?”

“No one saw them closely. They drove a black truck and had hunting
rifles. That is all I know.”

Michael turns to George and says, “Maybe we can track the
Cruzados by their truck? It might be a long shot, but if there was a satellite
in the area the night of the kidnapping we might be able to see which direction
it went.”