’Neath Quicksilver’s Moon by Jaye Michael
Chapter Eleven ― Moon Over Miami

¿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 seven blunders of human society,
which are the source of all violence:
politics without principle;
pleasure without conscience;
wealth without work;
knowledge without character;
business without morality;
science without humanity;
worship without sacrifice.

—Mahatma Gandhi
Marriot (Spring 1998)

Barbara Big Horse and two of her security officers were walking down the road toward where I was working with some of the old-style Triffids, since I wanted to save as many genetic variations as I could before the new Triffs ate them to recycle their organic compounds. The two security guys were in uniform, and looked to be the same as the last time I’d seen them, but Barbara had changed, for the better I think, and she seemed happy, almost serenely so, an expression I’d never seen on her face before. Where she’d been short and more than a little dumpy before, with hair cut as short as she could make it and still look something like a woman, now she was tall and buxom, at least five-eleven, and wearing, of all things, a buckskin dress with elaborate beadwork, open slightly at the neck to display the swelling curve of her breasts to best advantage, but otherwise very modest, the hem of the skirt just brushing the tops of her moccasins. Her hair though, her jet-black hair was glorious, confined only by a beaded leather headband — upon which what looked like a single eagle feather was displayed upright — while her hair spilled straight and full down her back, past her waist, and then over her hips to the very tops of her thighs. She was beautiful. Not as lovely as my own life’s light, of course, but beautiful still. She paused when she saw me, and then came up to me almost timidly, another thing I’d never seen before.

“Doctor Nevrith? Is your wife at home? My men and I would like to talk with her.”

“I think she’s around here somewhere. If you wouldn’t mind waiting here in the shade for a bit, just let me look out back.” I ran around the edge of the Research Center building, still amazed that running like this didn’t faze me in the least. I wasn’t even puffing after a good hundred meter sprint, and there she was, bent over a basket where she was collecting fresh young triffid leaves for a salad. Her blonde hair was loose, the breeze catching wisps of it and streaming them out behind her, more beautiful every day. I couldn’t tell yet, of course, but I imagined her waist thickening slightly, and thought about how much had changed in both our lives.

I called to her, “Luz? Chief Big Horse is here.”

She smiled and said, “I’ll be right in. Why don’t you ask her if she’d like some cool juice to drink? It’s a warm day.”

“I’ll get right on it, Sweetheart. It’ll be good practice for pampering you.” I grinned and waved at her, then jogged back around to the front, where I asked them to sit in the shade of the new triffid trees while I brought them something to drink.

When I came out with the drinks — I’d decided on empty glasses with ice cubes, with a pitcher each of chilled water and freshly-squeezed triffid-fruit juice, which I carried in a little hostess-caddy and set down on the picnic table, then took one pitcher in each hand, ready to pour out — Luz was just coming around into the yard, and walked immediately over to the Chief and gave her one of those hugs that women do so naturally, with a complete lack of self-conscious awkwardness, pressing her cheek to the Chief’s cheek and wrapping her arms around her in a friendly embrace, bending toward her slightly rather than pressing her full body against her, which the Chief returned with more feeling, actually, than Luz had, parting from her, it seemed, with some reluctance. I could sympathise; I felt the same reluctance, sometimes, still astonished that she had chosen me.

Luz put her at ease, the ever-gracious hostess, saying, “Please, sit down, all of you, You’re very welcome here.”

They sat, but not comfortably, and Chief Big Horse said quickly, as if she’d been steeling her nerves for it, “Luz, we’ve come to apologize for our part in the death of your son.” She actually started to cry, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks as she choked out the rest of what she’d come to say, “There’s no excuse, of course, but we were frightened of the demonstration, and under orders to suppress it. I got carried away, in my customary anger back then, and my men were caught up in the general panic and confusion. I’m deeply ashamed of what we did, and am here to offer whatever we can do to … to help to reconcile … or … I don’t know … What could we possibly do to …?” She turned up her face to where my wife stood watching, and she was still weeping with no effort to conceal the pain she so obviously felt deeply. My own heart nearly broke to see her so humbled, who had been once so proud, despite her anger.

One of the men, Alberto … Alberto Gonzalez I think, started crying too, even less able to control himself than Barbara was, “I did it, Luz, and I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! I wish now that both my hands had been cut off before my cruel blows struck your son!” He collapsed back in his chair, his hands over his face, and his shoulders were shaking with grief and shame as he wept helplessly.

What Luz did then surprised even me, and well I know how good she is, and kind. She walked to where the man sat weeping and knelt before him, and held his hands in both of hers. “It was the anger, Alberto, and the violence, not you. Be at peace, dear friend. In your madness, you shot an arrow into the air, and it fell back down and hurt my son. I am reconciled to his death, so be at peace in your heart.” and she took his hands and kissed them. Then she turned and walked to where Barbara Big Horse sat with tears still trickling down her face, and knelt, and kissed her on both cheeks, and then her mouth, and said, “I know how much pain you’ve suffered, Barbara, and still suffer, as the ache of the blows your father dealt you in miserly exchange for the love and respect that he owed you settled into your bones and stunted your life, and that pain prevented you from blossoming into the beautiful woman you were meant to become. Be free of every hurt, my dear friend and sister, be free to love and give your heart to a worthy man, a loving companion who will see that your deepest soul is innocent of any evil, and that all you’ve done has only been a frantic attempt to escape the primal hurt that dogged you. Know that you are loved, Barbara, and that you will be loved, and that all will be for the good, and that you will come to good, and both you and your beloved-to-come will rejoice and be glad. You’ll have children of your own, two, I think, or three, and your beloved will cherish them, and you, and keep you safe.”

With that, Barbara’s face twisted up in grief and she broke down completely, then reached out desperately to my wife, sobbing, clinging to her as to a mother she’d never known, and was comforted at her breast, enfolded close in her loving embrace, sheltered at last from every harm.

I stood amazed, the two cool pitchers still in my hands, and the moisture on the glass slowly trickled down and then dripped, drop by drop, to the thirsty ground.

“I want to hit the ground running with this campaign, Sanderson. I’d like the first episodes of all three shows to premiere for Friday evening during prime time, an early slot for the family show, mid-late for the romance channel show, and late night for the action vid, say ten o’clock.” Senator Ortíz was dressed casually, in western jeans and a straw sombrero in the distinctive style of Sinaloa, his home state.

“I can do it, Sir, but it would be a big help if you could clear the way for me to access the realtime ansible link to Quicksilver, which is controlled by the local authorities. Their office is claiming that the expense for a high-def link will cut into their budget for routine comunications. For realism, I’d like to hire a camera crew to shoot the establishing shots on location, so we can composite the sets and actors into real situations. Enough people are familiar with Quicksilver from the news vids that this kind of realism will be dynamite for the ratings. I’ve already had scripts drawn up for the promos, extolling the ‘loveliest planet in the universe,’ so having simulated live action from ‘Paradise’ will be a huge draw for our target demographics, and I have a list of potential sponsors that the Global Football Test organization would kill for. The three series will each show a profit within six weeks, and I have performance bonds to that effect, based upon existing contractual commitments.”

“Leave it to me, Sanderson. Where the hell do they think their budget comes from in the first place? Will you need the ansible channel during any particular time periods?”

“If possible, I’d like around an hour every evening, local time of course, another around noon, and one early mornings, so we have a selection for lighting ambience. I’ve already got one scene written for the romance show featuring a moonlit dance under the twin moons, which is going to make every woman alive long for a hunky Mountie — do they have Mounties there? — for opening episode, which I’m calling ‘Quicksilver Memories.’ ”

“Not a problem, Sanderson, if you want Mounties, we’ll have Mounties. As it happens, that fits right in with another plan I have to start shipping horses to all the colonies, so by the time anyone from your target audience gets there, their dreams will all come true, more or less. I’ve already got a team working on coldsleep containers for Earth livestock, which no one had ever thought of, for some strange reason. They should be ready within a week or two, so you’ll have horses, and dogs at least, on their way to all three colony planets, probably cats as well. They play well to the female demographic, or so your expert tells me, and they’re commensal with us, because they handle vermin at essentially zero cost.”

“But we’ll have to drop in digital horses for the series.” He thought about that for half a second. “It’s not an issue, though. That will make it easier for the SPCA reps anyway, because all the animal action can be done under their direct supervision, and we’ve got dozens of predefined digital mannequins for both cats and dogs, so I’ll figure on incorporating them into the series. Good. That will add a good level of target-audience identification and North American family values to the interior sequences at least. I can think about a trusty dog companion for the men’s action-adventure plotlines as well. We’re good, I think. Do you have any other requirements?”

“I think that covers it. Good job, Sanderson, you’ve really picked up this ball and run with it.”

“Thank you, Sir. It’s always a pleasure working with you, because you always know exactly what you want and know what it takes to get it done.”

World Senator Ortíz looked him over thoughtfully. “I do, don’t I? You’re a shrewd man, Sanderson.” Then he picked up his communicator and punched in a number. “¿Lorca? ¡Oyez, Cabrón! Sanderson gets access to the ansible network as needed, for up to four hours of high-def traffic a day, scheduled per his request. This project is important, and if you try to nickel and dime him to death I’ll have your balls, understand?” He listened for a few seconds. “I’ll send a few megacredits your way to cover the costs, but one more whine out of you will be followed by your surprise inspection tour of the new colony just getting started out Libra way, where you can help to ensure the financial success of the new plantations. It’s only two hundred and twelve light years, so you can come to tea sometime, just as soon as you get back.” He listened for two seconds longer. “I thought you’d see it my way. Remember, one more peep out of you, or a heavy sigh from Sanderson about how you aren’t polishing his boots to a proper shine, and you’re on your way.” He disconnected. “¡Pinche hijo de puta!” he said to the walls.

O’Hare sat back in his chair with a big smile on his face. “We’re on the road again, Jack. Congratulations, that was a great hunch. I can’t tell you the number of times when a cop’s intuition — based on ‘street smarts’ like yours — beat a damned bunch of fancy-pants laboratory scientists six ways from Sunday!”

Jack wasn’t nearly as happy, and he wasn’t spawled in the side chair like usual. He was sitting straight, kind of hunched in on himself, and wary. “I’d feel better if I didn’t know that something very much like a spirochaete, the same sort of bug that causes syphilis, infected what looks like close to the entire world about a hundred years ago, more or less. Those ‘lab boys’ have finally looked past their assumptions and can start giving us some answers, if they ever figure it out. It gives me the creeps, though, knowing that there’s a parasite living inside the cells of my body, and there’s no way in hell to get it out.”

“Well, looking on the positive side, it doesn’t actually seem to do anything. It just sits there, making its way slowly to the central nervous system, where it seems to go dormant. The guys in the lab don’t seem terribly worried about it, anyway. They claim that there are hundreds of bacteria living inside us, or on the outside, that actually help us, like the bugs that help us to digest things, or the bacteria on our skin that actually help us to fight off infections, so it might not have anything to do with the Buladors. So far, it’s just a theory, and something of a long shot at that. It might be just some random mutation, and have nothing to do with the colonies.”

Jack gave him the finger and smirked, but in a friendly sort of way. “You don’t believe that any more than I do, Tom. It’s still spooky, though. It’s in the right place to be the ‘Burlador’ back door into our minds, which means that everyone is vulnerable. Who knows what sets it off, though; whether it’s some chemical trigger, some sort of interaction with another bacteria, or even if you could just touch someone and … Presto chango! You’re the goat! Do not pass Go! Do not collect three hundred credits. The damned bug is transmittable even through skin contact, so people can give it to each other just by shaking hands, much less kissing. It’s worse than the damned clap.”

“But it gives us the smoking gun, Jack, can’t you see? Somehow, this ‘trigger,’ or ‘back door,’ whatever it is, is activated, and the virus is right inside your brain, so all we have to do is find someone with the means to pull this trigger and we’ve got our killers!”

“Did you ever stop to think that, if we catch up with these guys, they could pull the trigger on us?”

“Of course I have, Jack m’lad. But the devil I care. From all accounts, this thing takes time to work, however it works, and the stories we’ve seen have the victims tied up, or otherwise incapacitated, while the real assassin twiddles with whatever it is, so you must be able to fight back somehow. That gives us some room to punch these boyos in the nose. If we’re out in the field, we go in pairs or more. If we have to stop the night, we share a room. That’s just basic good police procedure, Jack. We’re not dealing with Count Dracula, who can bend our will with the power of his Transylvanian mind, nor with black magic, where they call spirits from the vasty deep. There’s not even any indication that they’re the creators of this bug, or aliens themselves. If we can believe the DNA evidence, and it’s looking like we can, these so-called ‘Burladors’ are as human as we are, and that’s a huge load off my mind, in any case. They make mistakes. Their attempt on Senator Ortíz failed completely, and he was back on his feet that very afternoon. The next time they slip up, we’ll be there to catch them.” O’Hare was very pleased with himself.

Jack grunted. “If you say so, Mister Bossman.” Jack wasn't pleased at all. Pessimism was his default setting.

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

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION:

To my loving wife, Betty. She completes me.

Copyright © 2011 Levanah

In Memoriam: Julia Tuttle, 1849-1898