He furrowed his brow, shooting her a confused look as the attendant checked his ticket and wished him a good flight. Walking down the hall, towards the plane, it occurred to him that he was stepping into the middle of a hornet’s nest.
And life had been so easy and unsatisfying just twenty-four hours before.
The plane rattled into Cotopaxi International Airport after a turbulent and over-long flight, at least by Keene’s standards. He missed the smooth lift of The Blue Maybelle, travelling close to the speed of light with no disturbances at all.
These buckets they called aircraft were ready to drop out of the sky at a moment’s notice.
But still, here he was in Latacunga, the sights and sounds beginning to stir memories of those confused first few days of his new life on a strange planet. Earth. No one in the Coalition had even discovered Earth 200,000 years ago, so far was it from the center of their known universe and standard travel routes.
Or had they known of its existence? The maps had brought everything into question.
One thing was certain—Earth’s inhabitants had no clue about the Coalition or anything that lay beyond the reach of the Milky Way. But the way people spoke of it here, Earth was the only place that mattered at all. Did any of them have any idea how damn big the universe was?
Keene sat and mused about people’s willful ignorance as he waited for the rickety baggage carousel to loop around. After five or six fruitless turns, his bag showed up, and he grabbed it from the jumbled mess, eager to exit the airport and begin his search.
A week.
Find it in a week, or go back to jail.
His bracelet beeped once, reestablishing connection with Freddy’s computer in America, as if to remind Keene of the stakes.
With the use of flailing hands and vigorous pointing—and the help of a few strangers who knew scraps of English—Keene discovered the location he sought lay well outside the city. Walking down the bustling street, filled with vendors and buoyant sounds of life, Keene glanced at a digital clock hanging above a bank sign.
An hour already. Keene wiped his brow. Unlike the winter cold front battering the northeastern United States, Ecuador’s late year climate was far more hospitable and mild. A little warm, even. Keene veered off into a convenience store advertising Coca-Cola and other wares in bold Spanish lettering.
He grabbed a water from the rack and took it to the counter. An older man sat watching a taped soccer match from years before, the feed grainy and almost indiscernible. Despite this, his fingers were clenched together in tense attention, as if the fate of his team hung in the balance.
It did. The opposing club scored, and he threw his hands up in disgust before finally noticing that Keene was waiting.
He flashed a grin. “American, yes?”
Not quite, but close enough. “Yeah.”
“Ah, what is it you call it? Break heart?” The man paused after taking Keene’s money, deep in thought. “Heartbreaker. Yes, a heartbreaker.”
He shrugged and hit a few buttons, the cash drawer spitting out with a happy ping.
“You speak pretty good English.”
“My wife, she is American,” the clerk said with a grin. “She does not understand either.” He jerked a thumb back at the television, which was now static, the tape having run its course. “Football. It is beautiful, yes?”
“I agree,” Keene said, lying completely and totally, “say, I got a question, since you speak the best English around here.”
“Yes, yes, ask.”
Keene explained what he knew about the mountains, where he’d come from. And then he said after venturing a description of Franz to the shopkeeper, “The man’s name, it’s Frank. Francis? Fr—shit.”
Keene saw the clerk’s countenance darken in recognition.
“Franz Chibuco,” the man said, the volume of his voice dropping so low that it was difficult to hear. A silence hung in the air for a few seconds after as Keene waited for more. But the old man, so cheery a minute prior, didn’t seem to want to talk further.
“Do you know where can I find him?”
The shopkeeper shook his head and said, “A crazy old man.”
But he still told Keene where the old scientist was rumored to still live, which happened to be pretty close to a mountain. Even wrote it down, with directions in Spanish for potential cab drivers.
Keene nodded his thanks and exited the store. Walking back towards the center of the city, where it would be easier to get transportation, a newspaper kiosk caught Keene’s eye. He stopped and knelt down, staring at the picture.
The words were a mystery, but the image told a clear enough story. Senator Strike was being shipped back to America, his casket sitting on the tarmac, waiting to be loaded aboard a cargo plane.
There was another picture, of his covered body being wheeled out of an opulent hotel, surrounded by emergency and police personnel.
Keene chewed on the thought as he walked, what it all meant. Strike had a nice tan, unusual given the weather in New York this time of year. Which meant that she’d come down, had a look around when her old man was murdered.
She’d said it was a man who’d done the killing. What had she found on her little trip?
Secrets indeed.
“Cotopaxi,” the driver said with a nod, “Turista?”
Keene didn’t answer, just watched out the window as the cityscape segued into tree-lined road.
After a trip in a taxi that was in far worse shape than the plane he’d rode in on, Keene could see a pristine, clear lake on the horizon. Far beyond the lake sat a volcano with a snow-capped peak. Cotopaxi of the Andes Mountains, a place where, according to Freddy’s computer analysis—and one shopkeeper’s reluctant suggestion—Keene was most likely to find a match for whatever he was looking for.
Keene had made sure to keep the specifics as vague as possible to both of his new FBI overlords. They thought he was pursuing old associates, and he was. Only Catarina wasn’t first on his mind for a reunion.
Although it was possible Keene was wasting valuable time, pursuing a dead end. If his friends were dead, the ship gone, then what? He squinted at the scenery, trying to remember stumbling about in his semi-frozen haze. The memories were like vivid flashes of sensory input, rather than anything coherent.
Walking along the trail, Keene considered his own motives. Was this about his former friends? Or was this about his former craft, which held the keys off this world and back to his own? About the only thing he’d checked on the news over the past six months was if The Blue Maybelle had been discovered, paraded in front of the world as a sign of alien life. He preferred watching bad reality television, which is how he’d picked up English.
A lack of news coverage didn’t prove that Franz or someone else hadn’t hauled the craft away, which made Keene believe revisiting the old man—given his condensed time frame—was worth the struggle.
The trail segued into beachfront, past a sign that said Laguna de Limpiopungo. Keene took his shoes off to feel the sand. What a strange planet this was. A beach, jungle, and snow within a few dozen miles of one another. A flash of recognition stirred in the recesses of his mind.
This was it, wasn’t it?
In the distance, along the edge of the water, a couple wild horses wandered up to grab a drink. Keene ate his sanduche de chancho hornado acquired from a street vendor back in the city and lay back, staring at the odd beasts and the odd scenery, wondering what would lay in store for him when he found Franz.
If the old man was still even alive.
The tall, thin woman glanced out the door’s peephole, pressing a rifle up against the center of the thick wood.
“Go away,” she said. “We’re eating.”
“Maria,” Franz said. “Manners.”
“It’s another tourist,” she said. “Thinks this is a rest stop.�
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Franz smiled at the two people sitting at the table and got up. “Maria, you should be nicer. We have guests.”
“Si, si, invitados.” She let loose a snort and rolled her eyes. “Six months, and still they are guests.” The woman returned to the kitchen to check on the beef sizzling in the pan. Satisfied it wasn’t burning, she turned back to Franz, who was looking at her. “Well, invite him in. I know better than to turn a stray dog away from you.”
As if on cue, their dog, a small, terrier-looking bundle of hair and energy, scampered beneath her feet to grab a stray piece of meat. Maria cursed as she nudged the animal away with a loving foot. The dog returned to the table to beg from the two permanent guests.
They shared a knowing smile at the familiar routine, and one of the guests, a young woman seated at the table, crumbled a piece of bread beneath her fingers, dropping it to the ground. The dog pounced on it with a vigor that suggested it was starving, not spoiled with love and premium leftover cuts after every meal.
“Franz,” the young woman said in perfect Spanish, “who’s at the door?”
The old man didn’t answer, but the door closed, and two sets of footsteps came around the corner, into the small kitchen and dining room. The young woman and her companion turned to check out their mysterious, silent visitor.
Franz stepped into view, and behind him, out of the shadows, emerged none other than Kip Keene.
10 | Fate
Keene leaned against the wall dividing the small kitchen from the front door. His gaze darted between the two figures at the table, his mind attempting to process the scene.
Not only had Franz proven neither to be a vicious bandit nor a serial murderer, but the old man had taken it upon himself to free the surviving two members of Keene’s crew. The very ones Keene had fled from in cowardice and left to die.
His knees felt wobbly and his lips were cracked, his tongue dry. Any words that came to mind flitted out as soon as they entered his consciousness.
All Keene could do was stare. Lorelei was alive.
And so was he.
“Kip Keene,” Franz said to break the silence, and then took a seat.
“Mierda,” Lorelei said, and dropped the rest of the bread before clasping a hand over her gaping mouth. Lorelei wasn’t what one would call pretty; her face was plain, her black hair rough, somewhat frazzled. She had a fighter’s build to her, managing to be square and agile at once.
“You know him? Good, like a reunion. I think these two were getting lonely.” Maria tugged Keene over to the table and pushed him into a chair. Then she picked up a plate of food and dropped it in front of him. “Eat.”
Keene didn’t understand a word, but from the woman’s gestures and stern glance, her instructions were apparent enough.
“Thanks,” Keene said, speaking English. He looked around for any sign of recognition, but was greeted with only stunned silence and matching frowns from his two former crew members. Franz, at least, looked curious. There was hope there.
Lorelei chucked her empty dish at his head, and Keene ducked just in time for it to sail a hair high and crash into the counter. She bit her lip, her face flushing. Then she let loose a shriek and stormed off into the back room.
He followed.
Keene looked down at his plate, and even though he wasn’t hungry in the slightest, he forced himself to shovel everything down.
As Keene ate, Franz reached out and placed the tips of his fingers against the younger man’s shoulder. He smiled, not a happy expression, but one filled with knowledge and understanding.
“You are back,” he said, speaking English. “It is fate.”
Keene finished his meal in silence, no one voicing any opinions. Even the dog was silent, curled up beneath the table.
Somehow, Keene had imagined his return to be a less emotional affair.
Instead, it hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, leaving him nauseous and disoriented, gasping for air. He had considered finding his surviving crew, but it was more abstract fantasy than anything concrete.
As he stared at the wall, trying to avoid Franz’s line of sight, Keene came to understand that the next seven days hadn’t been about going home, saving the world or finding his crew. It’d been about saving his own ass—using these seven days to stall, figure a way out of this mess that wouldn’t have Strike hounding him around the globe like a persistent horsefly.
He blinked and took a deep breath. Focus, man.
“I need to visit the ship,” Keene said after Maria had cleared the plates and retired to the bedroom.
“You’re in trouble,” Franz said.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Your leg.” He shook his head before Keene could follow-up. “I’m a scientist. I observe.”
“I see that.”
Keene searched around the small room. The house, if one were to add up its total area, was smaller than his apartment by a good margin. The front foyer snaked into this small dining and living area. Beyond that were two rooms and a tiny washroom.
“It is small, I know,” Franz said with a sad laugh. “Before, I had a much bigger house. Servants. Maria, she does not mind. This is the trick to life. Find a good woman.” He smiled and walked to the bedroom, his steps soft so as not to wake his sleeping wife.
Keene wondered whether the old man was leaving him alone, but Franz reappeared a few minutes later with a photo album and crinkled newspaper.
“Here,” the old man said, and handed the items to Keene, “they can explain more.”
Although Keene hadn’t come here for the old man’s story, he nonetheless felt inclined to take the precious items and make a show of understanding them. The newspaper had a picture of a younger Franz, his hair darker, his face with fewer lines, walking from a court house.
“What’s it say?” Keene pointed at the headline.
“Here, I shall read it to you.”
The yellowed paper rustled as the old man spread it on the worn table. He donned a pair of reading glasses and looked the front page article over with rueful nostalgia. “How young I look,” he said. “No matter. The past is past.”
And then he began to read. But soon, the story turned from the written word to the spoken one, of his memories of an incident that had taken place thirty years prior—the one that had sent Franz to the edge of Cotopaxi.
11 | Franz’s Tale
You see, my boy, as I’ve told your friends, science is a dangerous mistress. A good wife is steady, faithful. Perhaps she lacks randomness, surprise. Do not tell that to Maria. I will be cooking for myself for a week, and that is a fate to which no man wishes to be subjected.
A man does not seek a passionate wife, for passion burns away in a white-hot flash.
That, however, is not truth—the mundane can spark passion. Indeed, passion often rests at the way station of the mundane, in between bouts of inspiration. But, you see my young friend, pure passion, untempered passion—that is the catalyst of great science.
Such energy brings danger, always places you on the edge of discovery or tragedy.
And, that day, it was tragedy.
When we first met, six months ago, you didn’t have the opportunity to ask me my occupation. My life’s work—what was my life’s work, before the events you see in this paper I hold before me were played out. Yes, we did not get much time before you ran out, into the cold.
I understand that I am rambling. It happens to the old, though I cannot profess that when I was younger, I was more coherent, focused. Perhaps that is why she is no longer alive.
I mean my first wife. Yes, I see you are surprised Maria and I have not been married forever. Surely it seems that way some of the time. Which is as it should be, always in the present moment. But far before that, far before I even met you, I happened to be one of the world’s experts on cold fusion.
Catarina, that was her name, and what a brilliant scientist she happened to be. Better than I ever could strive for, cliché as that might sound. It’s tricky working with your wife on the same project. Perhaps more so when she is smarter than you in every discipline. Quite the challenge for the ego. But it was going so well…until the explosion.
I was careless with the numbers. I was not at the lab, but Catarina, she was working late. You see, I had left early, as Maria and I—well, I’m sure you can guess. Perhaps Maria does not lack passion and I misspoke. A trial ensued, and although I wasn’t convicted of any wrongdoing, my infidelities were brought to light, my scientific accomplishments forever blotted with the weight of my errors. I was forced from the city by harsh stares and unforgiving people. And I was not one to disagree with them.
So, you see, I keep this paper as a reminder. There is a price to be paid for dreaming too big.
A man should always know that, lest he pay it unwittingly.
But it has led me here, to you, your crew, the strange ship high in the mountains. Where I once believed in science, I have found some form of truth in myth.
So it is not all lost.
Keene looked at the yellowed pages, squinting to make out the faded photograph. The ink, however, was too smudged and ravaged by the passing of more than thirty years to make out. He nudged it back across the table.
The old man folded the paper and flipped the photo album open to a sepia-toned shot. Franz and a woman stood dressed in scientific garb, smiling in somewhat serious fashion in front of a host of lab equipment.
“Beautiful, no? And smart.” Franz shut the album and walked back to the bedroom.
There was something about that smile.
Keene drummed his fingers on the album cover. The name Catarina had, ever briefly, brought a faint stirring in his stomach—one of dread and slight wonder—but he had, to this point, considered it only a coincidence.
But the smile.
He curled his fingers underneath the worn cardboard, lifting it a half inch, his heart thumping.
The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3 Page 7
