Music of the Spheres (The Interstellar Age Book 2)

by Daniels, Valmore

“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 wh
at 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.

  There had been no reluctance or second thoughts when he’d agreed to join Michael’s expedition to Honduras. George, ever-curious, ever-helpful, was dead.

  When the two of them had been captured by the Cruzados, it had been a frightening few days, but at the back of his mind, Michael never really thought their lives were in imminent peril.

  It was Michael’s fault. He had dragged George halfway around the world only for him to be murdered in a jungle.

  Before his grief could consume him, Michael heard a sharp whistling sound as a bullet sped past his head and splintered a tree branch.

  Yaxche grabbed his arm with both hands and shook him. “Prisa,” he said, and Michael’s paralysis broke.

  They were only a few dozen meters from the road. Though he hated himself for leaving George’s body behind, Michael knew he and Yaxche would most likely join him in death if they tarried.

  Trying to block out thoughts of his friend, Michael hurried down the makeshift trail after Yaxche. Another shot rang out, and Michael ducked. He felt a tug at his shirtsleeve as the bullet narrowly missed him.

  There were angry shouts behind him, but Michael couldn’t make out any of what they were yelling.

  Quelling the blinding panic that tried to seize him, Michael scrambled up the embankment at the main road and quickly scanned for the copse of trees Humberto had mentioned.

  He pointed. “There!” Pulling Yaxche alongside him, he raced across the dirt road.

  By the time they got to the patch of trees, the Cruzados had crested the road. There was another brace of shouts as the men spotted them.

  One of the men chasing them dropped to his knee and raised his rifle to take careful aim. Michael pushed Yaxche out of the way as the man fired.

  Letting ou
t a curse in Spanish that Michael couldn’t identify, the Cruzado started shooting wildly in their direction.

  For a brief moment, as Michael and Yaxche reached the other side of the copse of trees, he thought either they had run to the wrong area, Humberto had set them up, or someone had stolen the truck before they got there.

  Michael let out an expletive of his own and threw his hands up in frustration; but then Yaxche tapped him on the arm and pointed. In the shadow of a jicaro tree, under a hasty covering of leafy branches, was a beat up gasoline-powered truck similar to the one he and George had rented, though this one was a light blue color and had a canopy over the short bed.

  They both sprinted toward the vehicle and jumped in. The keys were in the ignition, and when Michael pumped the gas and turned the switch, the engine fired up immediately.

  Slamming it into gear, Michael drove the pickup as fast as he could through the field, directly away from the Cruzados.

  The rear windshield suddenly spider-webbed as a shot ricocheted off it, but by the time Michael got the truck back up on the main road, they had left the Cruzados too far behind for them to have any hope of hitting their fleeing quarry with another bullet.

  Michael hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand in anger.

  Yaxche spoke in an assured voice. “Tu amigo vela por nosotros desde el cielo.”

  ‘Your friend watches over us from heaven now,’ Michael figured out after a moment.

  Setting his jaw, Michael fixed his eyes on the road ahead and concentrated on finding his way to Santa Rosa de Copán.

  27

  Lucis Observatory :

  Venus Orbit :

  Terry saw himself as a young boy at the height of the Mayan civilization. Dressed in traditional costume, he stood on a raised platform with four others his age.

  In the field, throngs of Mayans were gathered together as the astrological advisor to the king spoke about the coming of the fourth world, and that it would be signified by a great omen: the sky would turn to fire and the heavens would burn. Lightning would strike the earth and destroy their temples, and the gods themselves would fall from the sky and smash into the world. Conquerors from a distant shore would arrive in the aftermath and rebuild the world according to their own design.