Music of the Spheres (17 page)

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.