Owl Dance

by David Lee Summers

  A star was pinned to the man’s black jacket. “Sorry to intrude, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to Fatemeh, then turned his attention to Ramon. “I’m Mariano Barela, Sheriff of Doña Ana County and Deputy Marshal of Mesilla. Please come with me, Mr. Morales. You’re under arrest.”

  Ramon glanced from one side of the room to the other, as he sought options and a possible escape. His arm twitched as he instinctively reached toward a gun that wasn’t on his belt. Sheriff Barela’s hand was already on the grip of his pistol. His gaze did not waver from Ramon. Finally, Ramon held up his hands, resigned that there was nothing he could do.

  “Where are you taking him?” Fatemeh’s voice had risen an octave. Ramon saw a mix of anger and fear on her face. Her cheeks flushed pink.

  “Just over to the county jail, ma’am.” Barela stepped around Ramon and put his hand in the center of his back, nudging him gently toward the door.

  “I’ll go with you,” she declared.

  Barela shook his head. “Ma’am, it would be better if you remained here.”

  Ramon looked down at his feet, then back up into Fatemeh’s eyes. “Fatemeh...corazón...I think we should do what the sheriff says. He’s the law here.”

  Fatemeh’s lips tightened into a line. She nodded sharply.

  As the sheriff led Ramon out of the room, he saw Mrs. Castillo put her hand on Fatemeh’s shoulder. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  Ramon heard Fatemeh’s answer as he was led through the front hall. Her words were clipped—angry, yet thoughtful. “The sheriff is the law and Bahá’u’lláh instructs us to obey the law. I will do so, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take action.”

  << >>

  Fatemeh stormed into the offices of the Mesilla News. She saw a clerk wearing an apron setting type on a printing press. “Where can I find Luther Duncan?”

  The clerk pointed across the room. Fatemeh marched past him and banged on the door.

  “Come in.”

  She threw the door open and saw Duncan sitting behind a desk working on a strange machine. Fatemeh was curious in spite of her anger and stepped around the desk to get a better look at the unfamiliar device.

  “It’s called a typewriter,” he said. “I’m still getting the hang of it.” He pointed to messy handwriting on one of several sheets of paper. Then, he lifted another sheet with neat text that looked as though it had been printed. “It makes my notes a lot easier to read. Mike—you probably saw him out in the other room—doesn’t make as many mistakes when he sets my stories into type if I write them using this machine.” Duncan sat back and indicated the chair opposite the desk. “What can I do for you, Miss Karimi?”

  Fatemeh remained standing. “Did you turn Ramon into the Marshal’s Office?”

  Duncan blinked back surprise. “No, ma’am. I slept in late, then hurried right to the office so I could work on this story. I was out pretty much all day yesterday, so I’m behind schedule.”

  “Oh.” Fatemeh felt that someone had thrown water on the flames of her anger. She moved around to the chair. “Ramon was arrested this morning. Who do you suppose turned him in? Could it have been the apothecary, Mr. Candelaria?”

  Duncan sighed and sat forward. “Who knows? I gather you’ve been in town some time. I’m sure lots of people know you. It could have been anyone who saw the wanted poster.”

  Fatemeh wrung her hands. “What’s going to happen now? In my country, when arrests are made, people go away for a long time and even die. It’s why I came to the United States.” She looked up and saw Duncan’s gaze soften in apparent sympathy.

  “There will be a trial where a group of Mr. Morales’s peers will decide if he really committed the crimes he’s accused of. If they find him guilty, most likely he’ll spend some time in jail.”

  “How much time?”

  Duncan pursed his lips. “For the crime of assault, no more than a few years.”

  “A few years!” Fatemeh sprang to her feet. “That’s terrible. What can we do?”

  The reporter snorted. “Do? Nothing really. We need to wait and see what happens at the trial.”

  “Where will they hold the trial?” Fatemeh asked in a resigned tone.

  “That’s hard to say.” Duncan shrugged. “Normally you’re tried in the town where you’re accused. However, since Ramon was a sheriff, I’m sure a lot of people in Socorro have strong feelings about him. They may hold the trial somewhere else so they can get a jury of twelve impartial people.”

  “If they don’t have the trial in Socorro, where would it be?”

  Duncan shook his head. “I’m not really sure, but it could be here. The district judge is in town. It might be easier for him to hold the trial now than put it off.”

  Fatemeh nodded and turned to leave.

  “Miss Karimi.”

  She paused in the doorway, but did not face Duncan.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  She nodded and stepped from the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  << >>

  Two days later, Luther Duncan paced the rail platform waiting for the Southern Pacific to make its brief stop. He would only have about half an hour to interview the Russian military attaché before the train continued westward. Duncan paused and listened. All he heard were the sounds of wagons rumbling through the Mesilla Park and the chirping of birds in nearby trees. He looked at his watch. Five more minutes before the train was scheduled to arrive.

  During his ninth sojourn across the platform, his sensitive ears picked up a telltale low-frequency whine from the tracks. Before long, the train’s whistle blew. Duncan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The train would soon be at the station. He took out his notepad and pencil. The reporter watched in awe as the black locomotive rumbled past him. Its pistons turned the mighty wheels in a syncopated rhythm and smoke churned from the stack, almost obscuring the train’s line of cars. The locomotive’s brakes squealed as it slowed. Even though he had seen the sight numerous times, he was still impressed by the machine’s power. At last, the train came to a stop.

  A man from the station pushed past Duncan on his way to the mail car. People emerged from the train and milled about on the platform, getting some fresh air and stretching their legs. At last, the reporter sighted his quarry. A man with a thick, black beard, wearing an elaborate uniform with gold epaulets stepped from a private car near the back of the train. He retrieved a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He looked toward the rugged Organ Mountains and sneered.

  Duncan swallowed, then strode up to the man. “Excuse me. Are you General Gorloff?”

  The bearded man evaluated Duncan as though he was something distasteful found on the bottom of his shoe. He took a leisurely draw on the cigar and then nodded slightly. “I am.”

  Duncan introduced himself. “I’m a reporter for the Mesilla News. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” He held out his hand.

  The Russian military attaché studied the proffered hand for a moment. Finally he reached out and gave it one firm shake, then put his hands behind his back. “I do not have much time. I think we will be leaving soon.” He cast a meaningful glance back toward the train.

  “Yes, sir.” Duncan opened his notebook. “It’s rare for us to have such a distinguished visitor here in Mesilla. What brings you out west?”

  “I am traveling to Call Ranch in California. Russian citizens live on that land. They have been there for forty years and they do not want to move. The rancher, George Call, wants the land for his cows.”

  “Why are there Russian citizens on Mr. Call’s ranch?”

  Gorloff removed the cigar from his mouth and snorted, releasing a billow of smoke. Duncan was reminded of the locomotive. “That used to be Fort Ross.” He made the statement as though it should explain everything.

  Duncan’s brow furrowed as he searched his memory. “Wasn’t Fort Ross built by the Russian American Company?”

&n
bsp; “It was.” Gorloff nodded sharply. “A few of our people stayed behind. They are old and do not want to leave. Mr. Call called California’s governor for help. The governor wired President Grant.” The general shrugged. “The President—he asked me to help.”

  “Why you? This seems a strange job for the Russian military attaché.”

  “Perhaps, but our new ambassador, Nicholas Shishkin, has just arrived in Washington,” explained Gorloff. “President Grant has known me for many years, even before my own short term as ambassador. We are both military men with similar tastes.” Gorloff held his cigar aloft. “I believe he felt comfortable asking this favor.”

  “Do you think you can help?”

  Gorloff shook his head and sighed. “This is no matter for ambassadors or generals, but I can speak their language. I will see what I can do.” He looked around. “At least it gives me an excuse to see your American West again.” The general smiled for the first time since the interview began. “It is...a marvelous place.”

  “You like the West, then?”

  “When Grand Duke Alexis came to this country four years ago, we came west to hunt buffalo with Generals Custer and Sheridan and Buffalo Bill Cody.”

  Duncan looked up, his eyes wide. “That must have been some hunting trip.”

  “It was. I demonstrated Smith and Wesson revolvers to the Grand Duke. He was most impressed—”

  The general was interrupted by the conductor’s cry of “All aboard!”

  “You will excuse me.” Gorloff turned back toward his private car.

  “Thank you for your time,” called Duncan. He continued jotting notes on his pad, satisfied with the interview. Finally, he put the notepad and pencil back in his pocket and turned to leave. As he passed by the station’s ticket office, he caught sight of the calendar. Ramon Morales’s trial was scheduled to begin the next day. At the Marshal’s Office, he’d learned Judge Bristol decided to hold the trial in Mesilla because he was afraid Ramon wouldn’t get a fair trial in Socorro where everyone knew him. On one hand, Duncan was pleased, since that would provide material for yet another good article. However, the reporter’s smile was wistful. His pleasure at the prospect of a good story was tempered by his concern for Miss Karimi. The trial would no doubt be a harrowing experience for her, and he did not want to see his new friend hurt.

  << >>

  All of Legion’s component parts gathered near the train station at Mesilla. The nanite swarm observed Luther Duncan as he paced the platform. The swarm was fascinated by the train when it finally arrived. Components of the swarm entered the locomotive and began making a thorough study. It was a primitive, yet powerful mechanism. Legion himself was a living intelligence uploaded into a machine. Seeing the humans and the locomotive together sent a surge of excitement through the swarm. It was like seeing two disparate lines of his family together, long before they merged into one.

  Despite his interest in the locomotive, the swarm was still focused on finding General Gorloff. Most of Legion’s component nanites continued to observe Luther Duncan. Eventually, Duncan approached another human. Legion monitored the conversation and determined the human was, in fact, the military attaché. After a few minutes of conversation, Gorloff turned and entered one of the units pulled by the locomotive.

  Legion followed Gorloff into living quarters aboard the train and watched as he settled into a chair. The swarm found a place near the ceiling and scanned the quarters while he waited. Comparing the scans to the data recorded from Luther Duncan and Alberto Mendez, Legion believed most humans would consider this so-called private car rather opulent. This data served to reinforce Legion’s belief Alexander Gorloff was a man of power.

  A short time after the train began moving, an elderly human entered the general’s compartment and poured liquid from a closed container into an open one. A few of Legion’s components investigated and determined the liquid was a mix of alcohol, water and fruit sugars. Searching through the information garnered from Mendez and Duncan, the swarm believed the liquid was called brandy. Gorloff drank three of Legion’s component nanites with the brandy, but they floated quietly in his digestive system, not wanting to draw attention.

  Eventually, the light in the general’s compartment grew dim. He stood and disappeared behind a door. While he was gone, the elderly man who had poured the brandy appeared and turned back the covers of a bed, then left again. When Gorloff emerged a few minutes later, he wore lighter weight clothing than he had before. He slipped under the covers of the bed and, after a few minutes, he began to snore. Legion moved toward the general.

  << >>

  Alexander Gorloff thought he heard voices. His eyes fluttered open and he felt the rumbling of the train. He looked around, searching the darkness, but didn’t see anyone. Finally, his eyes drifted shut. A short time later, the general had the most remarkable dream.

  He found himself in a vast white space, surrounded by a swarm of some strange species of insect. They neither landed on him nor bit him, but he heard soft whispering voices as though they were speaking to one another. He plucked one out of the air and looked at it. It was soft and malleable, but he could not squish it like an insect. It flew away from him and joined its comrades.

  “We are called Legion,” came a velvety voice speaking Russian.

  “Where are you?”

  “All around you.”

  “You’re the insects?” Gorloff raised his eyebrows.

  “We are a swarm, but we are not insects. We have come to learn about your world.”

  “My…world? Where are you from?”

  “We are from a distant island of stars.” The scene around him changed. At first, Gorloff thought the room had become black and the swarm was now white, but then he realized he was looking at the night sky. However, when he looked at his feet, he realized he was not standing on a surface. Instead, he was floating, carried by the swarm, which swathed him like a blanket. The swarm carried him through the sea of night to a great whirlpool of stars. “This is where we came from.”

  Legion then carried the general back through the sea of stars. Finally, Gorloff saw a blue-green ball that floated in the void. In the distance he saw the sun, but it looked strange floating in a sea of black, instead of hanging in a blue sky. The blue-green ball unfolded and Gorloff realized he was standing in the white room again, looking at a remarkably detailed map of the world. Light whispers continued in the background—so many voices, but so soft, it was almost a white noise. The general was aware of questions being asked and suggestions being made very gently, as though Legion didn’t want to break something delicate.

  Gorloff found himself studying the Russian Empire and the United States. As he did so, Legion helped him to understand things about their relationship he had never known before. The memory of Alaska’s sale to the United States came to the forefront of his mind. He remembered the land as a potential target should Great Britain renew its hostility toward Russia. As a strategist, the Russian general had agreed the sale of the land to the United States was necessary. However, Legion showed him there was great wealth in Alaska he had not known about. Not only were there great gold deposits, but there was oil, which was vitally important to machinery. Alaska’s sale to the United States had been accomplished less than a decade before, but after Legion’s revelations Gorloff began to wonder if it was a mistake.

  The military attaché shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “This is a crazy dream.” His tone was harsh. “America is our friend.”

  The swarm appeared at Gorloff’s side. Its whispers were more audible to him now. “Analyzing political and economic structures of countries called the United States of America and the Russian Empire. Recent war in the United States will have lasting effects on the population, including increased economic stress in certain sectors. There is a 90% likelihood that such stress will result in an uprising by the labor class to improve their well-being. This movement will likely spread around the world…”

  The vo
ices continued. Although Gorloff did not understand all the words, he followed the meaning surprisingly well. He began to have a vision within his dream. He saw workers rising up in Russia and toppling his beloved Czar. In spite of that, Russia grew even more powerful. America also increased its might. Eventually, a time came when the two countries were directly in conflict. He saw a future where Russia and the United States of America developed horrible weapons—weapons that could murder every man, woman, and child in the world. Finally, Gorloff had a vision of a charred and blackened Earth, floating dead in space.

  “This is terrible.” Gorloff put his hands to his head. “I cannot let this happen.”

  Legion’s soft murmurings changed and the general saw a new vision. This time the Civil War ended differently and America was permanently cleaved in two. In the world that resulted, neither the Union nor the Confederacy would ever become a dominant world power. The labor class of the United States would not rise up in the same way and there was a chance the Czar could keep his power, especially if he made conditions better for Russia’s laborers.

  General Alexander Gorloff saw a future where Russia was the strongest country in the world.

  “The only problem,” said Legion, who sensed the general’s thoughts, “is that machines will become increasingly important. Although Russia has resources, they may not be sufficient to power the machines necessary to obtain dominance.”

  Gorloff’s attention went back to Alaska. He thought about the American Civil War and how it almost divided the country. Looking at the map in front of him, a plan began to form.

  “Can you help me?”

  The swarm grew agitated. “We only wish to gain information. We are not interested in interfering with this planet.”

  “Help me, and I will introduce you to Russia’s greatest minds. You will learn from them and they will learn from you.”

  “Your proposition is most interesting.”