Wisps (The Extraterrestrial Anthology, Volume I: Temblar)
Page 3
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Ramirez paced his office, his supercomputer constantly emitting flashes to indicate there was a legislative bill or other document that required his digital signature. His computer also constantly emitted a tone that alerted him to some world leader or other VIP that was requesting his presence in 3-D.
Despite all his success, Ramirez was not a happy man. Yes, the Wisps had catapulted Mexico to the top technologically. But new problems had come of this, and old ones had worsened. Despite Mexico’s great industrial output, the factories required very little manpower because Wisp technologies were designed to build without human intervention. Great wealth was being generated for Ramirez, his friends, and the owners of the factories, yet a record number of people were out of work. Much of the money being generated was leaving the country because foreign investors had rushed in and bought up Mexico’s industrial sector before Ramirez could get laws passed to stop them.
Furthermore, the Wisps steadfastly refused to apply their knowledge to military purposes. They were fundamentally and adamantly pacifistic, which is why they needed the Aztec warriors in the first place. Their answer, when Ramirez asked, was always the same, “We promised to help you but not to help you destroy yourselves.” And thus they had nothing to offer Ramirez to beef up his nation’s security except their humble returned gift of the ancient Mayans.
Meanwhile, millions of unskilled Mexican expatriates who had left their homeland for a better life in North America had flocked home. They all assumed employment in the booming economy but when they arrived they found that the jobs didn’t exist. Their disappointment turned to dissatisfaction that turned to anger. Revolutionaries came out of the woodwork and fanned the flames of rebellion. These angry masses didn’t care about Wisp technology: they wanted food and shelter, and maybe a 3-D TV thrown into the bargain.
Looking out of the new 9” thick bulletproof window recently installed in his office, Ramirez surveyed the angry mob. How dare they challenge him! His ancestors, Kings of Spain, never had such troubles. They built strong kingdoms and dynasties. His new wife had already provided him with an heir, a son Ramirez could groom for the future. But if Ramirez had his way, he wouldn’t cede power to his son for many years. His term ended in seven months, but he had bribed and promised favors to enough legislators that they would probably pass a bill that would remove term limits. That would clear the way for him to be President for life.
The door opened and Ix walked in. The squat Mayan warrior who had once entered Ramirez’s office holding a spear during the siege of the narcos had become Ramirez’s personal bodyguard. Ramirez got him to leave his spear at home and tried to convince him to learn to use 21st century weapons, but, unlike most of the other Mayans, he had obstinately refused. Still, Ramirez kept him on because of his remarkable physical strength and agility, and his formidable prowess in all forms of hand-to-hand combat. This, combined with the fact that the Wisps had modified him to be disease-resistant, made him, in many ways, the ideal bodyguard. Though other Mayans were stationed around the palace, only Ix had access to his office.
Ramirez had often tried to get the Mayans to tell him about their time away from Earth, what kind of fighting they had been engaged in, and what they knew about the Wisps. But they spoke little of these things.
Ix never spoke. He would come in and stand guard when the protesters became menacing. Yet, despite Ix’s silence, Ramirez always felt comfortable in his presence. To him, Ix was a symbol of his power and authority—a reminder of the lifelong support the Wisps had promised him.
Ramirez sat down to resume his work when there was a knock at the door. A soft, polite, knock. Probably some aide with a new report for him.
“Open the door,” said Ramirez.
Ix obeyed, and in strode Lazaro Diaz, the militant leader of Mexico’s opposition party followed by a tall man in a cheap suit who closed the door and then shot Ix through the head.
“Stop!” Ramirez shouted, even as he realized the futility of his command. Ix crumpled onto the floor, dead or certainly dying, and the silenced pistol had not been loud enough to summon the other guards. He casually moved one hand under the desk and pressed the little electronic button that would summon them.
Ramirez remained in his swivel chair as Diaz walked over to the desk and gave him a forceful push. The chair squealed on its caster wheels and careened into the wall behind him. Yes, he was clearly in for a rough ride if those guards didn’t get the hell over here. Diaz frisked him while the tall man drew the curtains and locked the door.
Ramirez was certain that the guards would come bursting in any moment. In the meantime, he’d distract Diaz, keep him talking.
He stood and faced Diaz. “You think you can pull off a coup? Here? Now? The people won’t stand for it. The Wisps won’t stand for it!”
Diaz smiled. “The people don’t want you. The people want food, shelter, jobs. They don’t want technology that puts them out of work.”
“I have made Mexico into a world power! The people are sure to benefit; it just takes a little time for the prosperity to trickle down.”
“You have made yourself and your friends as rich as kings. But you’ve done nothing for the people, nothing since you kicked out the narcos. And now you seek to destroy our democracy by making yourself president for life.”
Ramirez glanced at his chess set. Since the day he’d met the Wisps, he’d always left that one king standing with the other pieces knocked down. That one King had always seemed powerful. Now, he appeared alone, isolated, impotent.
“What do you want, Diaz?”
“I want you to resign. Step down. You can retire to the U.S., if you like. Diablos, go anywhere. But don’t come back to Mexico.”
“I’ll take the Wisps with me. Do you really want the gringos to have the Wisp technology?”
“No, you will summon them, now. I will negotiate with them directly, representing the people of Mexico.”
Ramirez’s inner rage congealed into fear. Why were the guards taking so long?
“I can’t,” Ramirez said. “They come when they want to. The Mayans…the Mayans can talk to them.”
“Diablos. Our junta did away with your precious Mayans. You really should have equipped them with some better weapons. They fired some shots and did some fancy footwork, but our FX-05 Xiuhcoatl’s ended the dance.
Ramirez steadied himself against the desk. How could this be? He hadn't heard a shot. Then he realized that the thick bulletproof glass, the new walls fortified with heavy armor plating, the thick bulletproof door, had essentially soundproofed the room. His own protections had made him dangerously vulnerable.
He collapsed into his presidential chair. The wheels squeaked. He rubbed his eyes.
“I…can’t summon the Wisps,” he said, his hands shaking. “They come when they want.”
Diaz nodded to his companion. The tall man shot a hole in Ramirez’s desk.
“This is not a negotiation. If no one else can talk to the Wisps, you do not need to go into exile. You can just as easily go into a grave.”
“No! This can’t happen to me! Not after all I have done for Mexico!”
Diaz shook his head, a cloud of anger growing on his face. “Done to Mexico,” he spat. “You wanted to remake Mexico in your own image. But you are not a god, Ramirez. You are not even a king.”
With that, Diaz turned his back and the tall man pulled out his gun, raised it to chest level, and fired.
Ramirez felt nothing. His heart was racing so he still had a heart. There was no blood on his clothing. He was alone in his office, and the gray substance that the Wisps breathed surrounded the building. Then he saw a Wisp floating at eye level.
“President Ramirez,” it said, its voice coming from nowhere and everywhere.
“What happened?”
“You were shot by one of those weapons you humans are so fond of.”
“Please help, I have seven months left to my term! Help me defeat my enemies!”
“Your human life is coming to an end. You are dying.”
“What do you mean? Fix me!”
“There is little we can do for you.”
“What can you do?”
“All we can do is what we have already done. We are keeping you in suspension. Would you prefer to return to your dying body?”
“No, no…”
“In that case, we will leave now. A king reigns only until his death. Our agreement with you has come to an end.”
With that, the Wisp simply disappeared. Ramirez looked around. He wasn’t anywhere. The gray murk outside ebbed and flowed, but it didn’t change.
He wandered the Presidential Palace for what seemed like hours until he finally accepted the fact that he was completely alone. No Wisps, no staffers, no guards, no Mayans. Not even Diaz and the tall man. Nothing. No one. The panic set in.
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About the Author
Ryan Croker was born in Missoula, Montana. After spending some time in Mexico, he graduated with a degree in History and an MFA in Creative Writing from Brigham Young University and currently lives in Cedar Hills, UT with his wife and daughter. When not writing fiction, he works as an editor and writes sketch comedy, movie scripts, and the occasional freelance article in his spare time.
Acknowledgements
Dave Robinson led the editing efforts for “Wisps” with support from Andrew Gray. Andrew Gray developed the cover art concept and the cover graphic was illustrated by 3DGarden (www.3dgarden.org).
Other Danger Eye Stories
“The Extraterrestrial Anthology, Volume I: Temblar” is available here
“Cooter” is available here
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