’Neath Quicksilver’s Moon by Jaye Michael
Chapter Nine ― Blood Moon

¿Hasta cuándo, oh simples, amarán la simpleza, Y los burladores se deleitarán en hacer burla, Y los necios aborrecerán el conocimiento?

— Proverbios 1:22

How long, O simpletons, will you love being simple-minded, and you tricksters delight in trickery, and you fools hate the truth?

— Proverbs 1:22

The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

—William Shakespeare
Hamlet, act ii. sc. ii.

“By the four arms of Vishnu, what do you mean, ‘you’re going to change your position and vote against the tariffs?’” World Senator Maneesh Bihar was livid as he stormed into Ortiz’s office. Knocking the chair impeding his path to Ortíz’s desk out of the way, the short, brown-skinned man could be seen foaming behind his bushy white beard. “We have an agreement, or don’t you want those food processing plants?”

Jamie Ortíz stood up behind his desk and smiled calmly at the angry man. Still ignoring him, he strolled past him to close the door and take a seat in a small conversational grouping by the windows of his office in the Hsiu Office Building. From the floor to ceiling windows, he could see the reflecting pond and the immaculately landscaped grounds of the World Senate compound. Beyond the pond was the World Senate Building with its glittering holographic dome, even larger than the one it was modeled after in Old Washington.

“Come, Maneesh. Sit by me. Look out at the quiet reflecting pond and calm yourself so that we may resolve this minor issue.”

Maneesh, still struggling to regain his composure, stalked over to the proffered seat and sat. “I say again, you cannot renege on this. Our countries, our people, are counting upon those resources and those tariffs. Why am I hearing that you have repudiated this arrangement?”

“I have come to the conclusion that it is not in the best interest of Mexico, India, Earth, Earth Two, Gruntovoy, Quicksilver…”

“No sermons, Ortíz. Black and white. Why? Did that mauling from your puppy rattle your brain?”

“Maneesh, please. I do not insult you. Why do you insult me? I am merely doing the math. We now need the resources of the colony planets more than they need us. Looking back into history, it is evident that the kind of harsh taxation and plundering we are doing will come back to haunt us. The supply lines are too long to sustain a serious effort to control the colonies, and a war would eventually result in starvation and riots here on Earth.”

“Bah! You sound like the Americans.”

“Yes, I had noticed that, old friend. Much as I hate to say it, I have begun to suspect that they might actually be correct, just this once. We have a saying here in old Mexico, ‘Entre los individuos, como entre las naciones, el respeto al derecho ajeno es la paz,’ which means that among individuals, as among nations, respect for the rights of others is peace. The first President of Mexico, Licenciado Benito Juárez, said that. I can’t say that he was wrong.”

“What are you not telling me? This is too radical a change for one such as you. What about the many commitments we both have? Forget constituents for the moment. There are monetary issues here that cannot be ignored.”

“You mean the many companies making a killing for themselves…”

“…and for us. Do not forget your retirement planning.”

“I’ve decided not to worry about that, Maneesh, old friend. These things have a way of taking care of themselves.”

“Jamie, Jaime, Jaime,” Maneesh sighed as he stood. “You’ve been like a son to me, but I know I taught you better than that. Even with your defection, there are still enough votes to keep things running as they should. Do as you will, but remember that some of our backers are less forgiving than I am.”

“Perhaps, but they’ll soon listen to reason.” He placed a familiar hand at the back of his friend’s shoulder, saying, “Whenever I’m troubled, as you are now, I like to gaze out at the soft ripples on this quiet pond and let my troubles slip away for a moment. Just thinking of the immense quantity of water hidden just beneath the surface is so very soothing; how shallow it seems just to look at it, but it’s so deep, deeper than night, deeper than thought, deep enough to sink into, deep enough to slip away from the light and take sweet refuge in the cool darkness beneath the surface. It calms me, this water; whatever it is that roils beneath the surface just spreads out, so thinly atop the depths, just gentle ripples, gone in a second, and I can see that nothing matters, nothing at all, and that whatever obstacle I’d thought was insurmountable is gradually flattening by its own weight, and it spreads smoothly out upon the cool dark waters. Your own worries, my dear friend Maneesh, are as nothing, are slipping away into the cool darkness, even as we speak, aren’t they?”

Maneesh didn’t speak, staring at the water.

“You see, amigo? You’re coming around to my way of thinking ….”

Jack Webster was staring at the same wolfhound cum terrorist he’d been staring at for days now, angry and frustrated and intrigued, all at once. He’d had a Ouija board brought in, then a giant Ouija board, on the off chance that the dog’s vision didn’t allow him to focus clearly on the letters of the alphabet, sophisticated paraplegic communications devices that were guaranteed to require no special dexterity to operate, giant pads of thick paper — almost cardboard — and non-toxic markers specially-fitted with custom prosthetic adaptors meant to allow the dog to write, and one device that supposedly operated through scanning the brain. Nothing doing. The dog stared at them as if they were newspapers in Chinese, although he urinated on one pad with seeming indifference. There was no hint of sardonic amusement, or anything really, just the same happy agreement with spoken statements that were obviously true, and the same emphatic disdain for anything concerned with terrorism, organized groups, and even — he was desperate by then — a series of questions meant to evoke any hint of the dog’s true identity being the real Senator Ortíz, but somehow prevented from saying so.

Jack was actually glad about that. If the dog had answered “Yes,” he would have been faced with the prospect of accusing a World Senator of faking his own assault in order to replace himself with a werewolf, who would then — he could already imagine the headlines — turn over the world government to Dracula, Emperor of all the Vampires. As for his career, if he escaped incarceration as a dangerous lunatic, he’d doubtless be on his way to the colonies by now, with a one-way ticket. He’d picked up enough around the house to know that Señor and Señora Ortíz shared a bedroom, and it seemed impossible to imagine a duplicate exact enough to pose as a woman’s husband without being detected, if only by his mannerisms and lack of familiarity with the hacienda, the Senator’s daily business, and his customary interactions with his subordinates. As Sherlock Holmes used to say, this was a three-pipe problem, but Jack didn’t smoke.

As he was contemplating his probable future as a hardrock miner, his phone chimed with that special tone reserved for his boss, the Presidential Hotline tones from Our Man Flint, a spy action/adventure parody from the early days of video, a series of five closely-spaced triplets which ascended and then descended. He’d thought about using the five alien tones from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but thought that might be seen to be in poor taste, even for him, especially if these Burlador guys turned out to be space aliens, which seemed as likely as anything else right now. What was Holmes’ dictum? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Fat chance! He answered, “yes, Mr. Boss-man, sir?”

“Getting anywhere with the dog, Jack?” O’Hare didn’t sound happy.

“Well, at the risk of sounding facetious, I think I’m well on my way to teaching him how to ‘sit,’ on command. The guy who takes him for his walks will be very pleased.”

“So it’s another dead end?”

“I’m still not sure, sir. It has all the earmarks of a Burlador hit, that is to say there’s very little connection with anything else they’ve ever done, but no ‘fingerprints,’ other than the series of completely anomalous events. The dog gets lost, has a savage fight with something, but there’s not a mark on him; is sick for unknown reasons, but nothing organic, according to the vet; savagely bites the Senator, but is gentle as a lamb with me and everyone else; displays a strange behavior, the ability to answer simple yes or no questions with apparent understanding, together with irritation when we ask what the dog thinks are stupid questions, but has no apparent ability to read or write; and finally doesn’t think that he’s a dog, but is quite positive that he’s not the Burlador, nor does he know anyone who is. Oh, and he feels no remorse whatsoever about biting his master, but wants to go outside again, very soon if possible, and doesn’t want to bite him any more. If he were a human, we’d probably diagnose hysterical fugue combined with amnesia. As it is, he’s a goddamned miracle. If the Senator ever needs a second income, he could do a nice little stage show in the Vegas Historical District.”

“So you think he really has nothing to do with the Burlador gang?”

“No, Sir, I don’t think that at all. I think he’s a joke. I think the goddamned ‘Tricksters’ have just forced us to sit through an elaborate shaggy dog joke, with just about the lamest punch line I’ve ever heard.”

“So that’s it? The punch line?”

“No, Sir, The punch line was when I brought in a pure-bred wolfhound bitch, purchased with department funds by the way, to test his reaction when he smelled that she was in heat, and I have to say that he’s all dog, and virile as the day is long. When I asked him whether he liked it, he nodded yes with great enthusiasm, and wanted more, to hear him tell it. The bitch, if you’ll pardon the expression, is ‘expecting’ now, and the vet assures us that they’re all dogs as well, at least by ultrasound and genetic testing, so it’s me who got screwed.”

There was a long period of silence before O’Hare said anything, and then he just said, “Well, pack up and get back here. There haven’t been any more threats that we’ve heard of, but we think the Burladors have discovered a new tactic, because World Senators Ortíz and Bihar have just announced a phase-out schedule for the colonies, with gradual transition to full independence.”

“You’re shitting me!”

“I’m afraid not, Jack. It’s either the most elaborate and unlikely assassination plot I’ve ever encountered, because both Senators owe enough ‘favors’ to unsavory concessionaires in the colonies that their announcement is widely rumored to be political — and possibly literal — suicide, or I’ve just slipped into a time warp, because those two used to be the most rabid ‘Earth First’ partisans of them all.”

“Damn! That doesn’t make any sense! What about the Burladors? Have they made a victory announcement? A grateful acknowledgement that True Justice has Prevailed? Even a hearty raspberry for the hapless politicians who ‘saw the light’ only when their feet were in the fire?”

“Not a word. I think they may be biding their time to see which of our local criminal racketeers bump the good Senators off first, or maybe they’ve been ‘scared off’ by our many half-assed successes in stumbling across their work long after they’ve either absconded with the goods, or blown up their enemies.”

“This latest thing is something like the Williams guy you told me about, though, isn’t it? Former philanderer, possible shakedown target, suddenly saw the error of his ways and has returned to the path of virtue. Greedy Senators, rapacious leeches on the body politic, overcome with grief over their betrayal of the public trust, set out immediately to rectify every sin they committed in their days of unenlightened corruption, and have resolved to be the noble public servants they pretended to be.”

“That sums it up fairly well. Our ‘terrorist’ gang seems to have been infiltrated by missionaries, whose only weapons are fasting and prayer. Well, if you don’t count the dog.”

“Next,” Jack said bitterly, “it’ll be Abbot and Costello doing their ‘Who’s on First?’ skit, and we’ll all die laughing.” He disconnected without another word.

Without a word, Dan Nevrith, current, soon-to-be former, Senior Botanist for the Terran Research Center on Quicksilver, took Juanito by the hand and led him down the rows of experimental plantings, pointing to a low hill of particularly luxurious Quicksilver Triffids, surrounded by barbed concertina wire, and pointed. The Triffids were all roughly the same type that Juanito had discovered, how long ago? The stems had gotten shorter, though, although the magenta bulbs were larger, and there hadn’t been a hill here, before. The last time Juanito had seen this field, it was as flat as a durasteel panel fresh from the rolling mill. The leaves of the new Triffids were moving constantly here, the rustling of them almost like wind, although the air was still, with not the slightest hint of a breeze. It was more than a little eerie.

Juanito asked his friend, “¿Qué es eso, Señor? What’s this?”

“Dear friend, this is the unmarked grave of your wife, Margarita, and your two lovely children, little Pablo and Conchita. The security people buried them here, down deep in a hole they dug, and then piled up dirt around them, scraping the topsoil off the surrounding fields with bulldozers to pile on more, because they were terrified of the sickness. The new magenta Triffids grew up around them immediately, I watched them growing for an hour or so, and they reached this height within the hour, and then started to develop the buds you see. They seem to be mature now, because they’ve stopped getting bigger, but they’re multiplying quickly, and spreading, already well past the barbed wire in spots, and I suspect that they’ll overrun the experimental station by tomorrow morning, because all the other variants are either giving way before them or being devoured, so I’m probably out of a job. I’ve been afraid to touch them, even wearing a biohazard suit, because they can move quickly enough to catch hold of you. Even from a distance, though, I can tell that they’re clearly a different species, so I owe you another thousand E-Creds.”

“Both my children too?” Juanito had thought that his heart was broken, but this was the final blow. “If you’ll excuse me, estimable Señor, I want to visit the resting place of my wife and children, to say good-bye. Lo siento mucho, pero voy a buscarlos.” Quicker than thought, she twisted away from him and was running, running pellmell toward the hill, somehow running free of any hindrance, and the plants moved aside, so she never touched them that he saw, then closed behind her as she passed. When she reached the top of the low rise, in the center of the hill, she sank down on her knees. Before her, one of the ripe magenta buds — fruits? — of the new Triffids hung, just within reach, and she held out her hand and the fruit dropped into her palm.

“Juanito, No!” Dan said, horrified, but it was too late. She’d bit into it, and was chewing, light purplish juice streaming down her face, now mixing with her tears, and then she smiled.

“It’s delicious,” she said, and then she collapsed fainting to the ground, almost in slow motion, as the leaves parted, then covered her like a blanket.

Sick with dread, but too frightened to follow and help her, Dan didn’t know what to do besides watch, hoping against hope for some miracle that would let her stagger out from the midst of the poison, so he could try to save her. He had medicines in his first-aid kit, antihistamines and blood-coagulants, that sometimes helped. The Triffids were deadly even to the touch, and every part of them was toxic, he knew that. He stood helplessly as the leaves moved restlessly, and then he too sank down upon his knees, trying to think, still staring at the place where her body lay hidden. “I’m so stupid! I should have known,” he said aloud, “I should have taken better care of you. my friend,” but then the leaves over the grave parted again, and she rose smiling, like Aphrodite from the waves, and she was nude, demure blouse and skirt vanished into air, into thin air, as if they’d been a dream.

“Juanito! Are you alright?” he called, amazed that she was still alive.

She laughed. “Of course I am, silly! The Triffs won’t hurt us; they love us now.” She started walking towards him, down the little hill, as graceful as a dryad in her woods, completely at ease in her nudity as the leaves brushed aside, every one of which ought to have raised bloody welts on her alabaster skin.

The hairs raised on the back of his neck as she approached, because this was impossible, the Triffs were poisonous, oozing neurotoxins and hemolytics from every part. The merest touch on any exposed skin would send any human into instant anaphylactic shock, with a close race between asphyxia and internal bleeding as the proximate cause of death. Yet here she moved naked through the leaves, as innocent of shame as Eve in the Garden of Eden. She was holding one of those magenta bulbs in one outstretched hand as she approached; it looked almost like a pomegranate, and she was right, it smelled delicious. “Juanito, don’t…” he said, terrified and hopeful all at once. She was alive! She couldn’t be!

The rustling of the leaves stopped, and it was still, as if all of Quicksilver were listening, waiting for something wonderful.

Copyright © 1993, 2010, 2011 by Jeffrey M. Mahr

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION:

To my loving wife, Betty. She completes me.

Copyright © 2011 Levanah