by Jim Wurst
Walking cautiously into the open, remembering the last time he was exposed, he looked left and right and up, hoping for that one signature that would mean the end of his travels. He saw the pile of branches in front of him. He could tell it was not a natural arrangement and focused there. It did not occur to him that this was not normal orangutan behavior. The heat signature was massive. “How many of them are in there,” he thought.
Ruth saw him aim, but he was aiming high. He shot at a branch a few meters to the left and up from the nest. It did the job. The orangutans screamed. Nurul retreated with Rabu, and Kai burst through the brush. An orange mass of muscle, spittle, and rage charged at the poacher with Ruth doing her best to catch up. The poacher was a good shot. One steady shot and Kai fell screaming and writhing on the ground. Ruth fought her instinct to run to her fallen friend and instead raised her rifle. Her only advantage was that the poacher wasn’t expecting a human with a gun. He hesitated, calculating if he should threaten, wound or kill her. The mother and baby were getting away.
“Drop it!” Ruth yelled. Her voice wasn’t as convincing as her gun. He didn’t drop it and instead took a clear aim he had decided on “kill.” The shot that Ruth heard didn’t come from the poacher’s gun. The man was already on the ground, spurting blood, before Ruth realized that the shot had come from someone else. Jamal emerged from the trees with his rifle still raised as his men entered the clearing from different directions.
It still took a few heartbeats for Ruth to realize she had been saved. She then dropped the rifle and ran to Kai. He was alive, the wound was large, but it was in his shoulder.
“Base, we have a medical emergency. Adult male orangutan with a bullet wound in the right shoulder...” She tried to talk on the radio while ripping open the first aid kit and applying gauze to the wound.
Meanwhile, the soldiers approached the prostrate man. Stripping him of both guns, Jamal examined him.
“He’s alive!” Jamal shouted to Ruth, “We have a human to evacuate as well.”
Ruth hesitated an obvious moment. “Right, one orangutan and one poacher.”
CHAPTER 77
The western sky was already darkening as the sun rose over the bustling port of Puerto Ayora. Every ship capable of making the trip to the mainland was either getting ready to leave or had just passed over the horizon. The EuroNet plane was the last one on the runway. A large tourist ship that happened to be visiting was enlisted as transport. Civilians were shifted from the Recovery Station’s ships to this one. This allowed more room on the scientists’ ships for more wildlife.
Sanjeet was studying his computer as he paced the deck of the passenger ship. Elsa was with him, but Sanjeet was talking more to himself than her.
“All civilians are either on the naval ship or out to sea in their own boats. The nurseries are empty. Station personnel have loaded their possessions. All data from the computers have been backed up in the ship’s computer and mainland computers. This ship has to leave right away to be sure of getting to the mainland ahead of the storm. Your airship can wait awhile, in case there’s any last-minute cargo.”
Elsa wasn’t interested in the ship’s inventory. “Why were your photos still on your desk?”
“What?”
“Your photos, in your bedroom. They weren’t packed when we left the house. Neither were the books. And you’re wearing rain boots.”
“I have priorities.”
“Why aren’t your bags on the deck? You just said the ships had to leave.”
He evaded. “Thought I would fly out with you. Last to leave and all that.”
“The expression is ‘the captain goes down with his ship.’ You’re not leaving, are you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You just said it. A captain goes down with his ship.”
“Bull. This is not a ship. These are islands and they will still be here and you are not the captain.”
“I am the protector of the islands. They are my responsibility. Besides, how can you say that they will still be here? Where is Fiji? Where is Vanuatu? The Maldives? I lost one home to the ocean. I am going to stay on this home. I am of the Ocean. The Pacific is my home. I simply will not retreat any further.”
“Fine, then I’m not leaving you.”
“If this is some kind of game to make me change my mind, it won’t work.”
“How thick are you? If you can care so much about water, why can’t you wrap your mind around the idea that I care that much about you?”
Marta and Pol were at the EuroNet plane. Jorge was loading their gear and as much of the station’s equipment as they could carry. Marta was recording the scenes at the dock. She aimed at the deck of the ship. “Look up there. I wonder what they’re arguing about?”
CHAPTER 78
Ron loved this part of space travel. He was sitting, strapped in, in a seat far more comfortable than his tin can. The view from the window was peaceful, not a piece of debris, anyway. And the best part was that he was a passenger. The actual business of flying this thing was someone else’s responsibility.
They were flying at such a luxurious pace, with so few indicators visible from the window that it almost seemed like they weren’t moving at all. Ron’s fellow passengers looked as relaxed as he did, although he knew most of them had not clocked as much time in space as he had. But they were at peace, even if they were nervous, they were exactly where they wanted to be. A few were even sipping vacuum-packed drinks. And then, so subtly, they felt a change in trajectory. They could feel a downward tug. Not a harsh grasp, just the gentle pull of a pet wanting to go for a walk.
After so many hours of zero gravity, they felt the weight of their bodies again. Not Earth weight, this was less assertive. The pull became stronger with every passing second until they knew the ship had stopped. It has landed. Ron looked out the window at the barren, dirty-white landscape. It was bright, without a hint of shadows. He could see a small section of a metal and glass dome. He craned his neck to look up, but he saw nothing larger than the stars. With a slight jerk, Ron knew the ship was being pulled forward on a kind of conveyer belt. Just before the air lock door shut blocking out the view, the captain spoke over the intercom: “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Moon.”
CHAPTER 79
“Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.” Black sky in the morning? It was well past dawn and while a slice of the rising sun was visible on the eastern horizon, most of the sky was engulfed by the grey and black of the rolling storm. The natural and human world of the Galapagos had shut down. The waves were rougher and the winds higher, all the animals taken shelter.
The Santa Cruz dock was deserted, the passenger ship sailed before dark with the EuroNet plane shortly after that. Elsa had set up all the transmission equipment in the control center. She was walking around the area, shooting wide shots of the deserted docks, the landscape, the darkening sky, and Sanjeet, who was staring at his islands as he had never seen them before. Totally quiet. Not dead, he would never use that word but still, unblinking. Hibernating? Comatose?
He walked towards her as she turned off the camera. He didn’t ask, but she told him anyway. “Geneva is not going to let us broadcast live. This will be transmitted to the crew in Guayaquil and Geneva headquarters. I’m going to do this as if it were live in case they change their minds.”
“What did Geneva say?”
“That they are looking forward to firing me when I get home.” She attached the camera to a tripod and pointed at the deserted harbor. “Do you mind?” she asked, pointing at the camera. He shrugged. The motion said, “as if I had a choice.” She walked away from the camera as Sanjeet aimed and starting recording. Technically, it was broadcasting, but the feed was only going to her team and HQ in Geneva. As she prepared her thoughts to start speaking, a few drops of rain splashed her face. She reacted as if she had be
en sprayed with acid.
“I want to start now.”
“Okay.”
“It’s 0900 hours in the Galapagos. We are standing on the island of Santa Cruz, the home of most of the chain’s human inhabitants and headquarters of the Galapagos Recovery Program. As you can see behind me, the typhoon is approaching. Right now, the storm looks like any ocean storm. The waves are quite high, the winds have picked up and there is a bit of rain. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Theeteorological station on the Al-Khwarizmi says the storm is 100 kilometers due west at this time, with winds topping 200 kilometers an hour. It has not touched inhabited land for two days. There was a possibility of it losing strength once it got to the Equator, but that has not happened. There is no likelihood of the typhoon missing the Galapagos now. We will continue recording through the storm. Once it has passed, we will record how the islands and the wildlife have managed…”
Marta and Jorge had planted themselves at the naval station at Guayaquil, Ecuador’s main port. A navy commander was paying little attention to the human drama but was more focused on the weather maps and reports from the space station.
“Is she serious?” Marta asked, “Does she believe that?”
“She has to say something. Otherwise, it looks like exactly what it is suicide.” Jorge instantly regretted using that word.
“When are they going inside? It’s the only way they stand a chance.”
They watched as Elsa was worn down by the pummeling rain. They could hear Sanjeet off screen. “We should relocate inside the station now.”
Without argument, Elsa swung the camera around to face the station and followed Sanjeet towards the door. Since she wasn’t speaking now, the whistling winds and growling waves were more audible. Sanjeet opened the door and ushered her in. Elsa aimed the camera inside to give a sweep of the room. By making this choice, she didn’t notice Sanjeet standing at the door, looking out over the island for a long moment before shutting and sealing the door.
She let the camera roll over the scene inside. “Tell us more about this station. How it is constructed.”
Sanjeet tried to mimic her just-the-fact tone. “The station is an alloy of aluminum, plastic and various polymers. The idea is that the structure can handle most weather conditions” he didn’t dwell on the obvious implications of “most” “and needing minimum maintenance, thus reducing the pollution and waste that once was associated in remote stations like this. It’s a closed environment, the solar windows provide all the power, human waste is recycled. Besides air, the only thing we bring in from the outside is water from the island’s desalination plant.
“We have a separate greenhouse. Since foods humans tend to eat aren’t indigenous to the island, we grow fruits and vegetables isolated from the environment. Most of our protein is from soy and seitan with fish and meat loaves brought in from the mainland.”
The storm was gathering. They convinced themselves they had heard wind like this before.
“How long is the storm likely to be over us?”
“It depends on how large it is now. An hour or so is possible. It’s moving fast, but it is large. I’ll check the monitors.”
“You don’t have to.” It was a plea more than a request.
Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t want to talk on camera anymore.”
Speaking again to the camera, Elsa said, “In this station, which is the central location for all scientific research and analysis on the islands, we have monitors placed around the islands to track the movements of the wildlife unobtrusively. Obviously, the wildlife has all gone to ground because of the storm, but we can still see We can still see the conditions outside.” As she said that, a monitor went black, then another. Tellingly they were both from Fernandina Island the furthest west of the islands.“Sanjeet, do you want to tell us what we are looking at?”
“No.”
It didn’t matter. All the monitors that were still operating showed the same black mass dwarfing the islands. The rain was so heavy it wasn’t visible on the screens. But it was loud enough to drown out most of Elsa’s attempts to speak.
The detached pose was getting harder to maintain. “There is probably no island or chain of islands more thoroughly monitored than the Galapagos…”
The building groaned, pleading against the rain. Somewhere, something snapped.
“The trick is to maintain the greatest observation without disturbing the natural balance… Sanjeet, please come over here.” He complied as the last monitor went black. Then the lights on the panel itself began to go out. The lights in the center flickered. There was an explosive snap rapidly followed by a crash.
“That was probably a solar panel. We’ll lose electricity any time now,” Sanjeet noted.
Climate control was gone. The pair were soaked from the rain and clammy air. The storm was vacuuming the air out of the room.
“The last Class 5 cyclone was in…”
If she was speaking it was impossible to tell. The storm sucked the words out of her mouth and flung them out to sea. She gave up, dropped the mike and held Sanjeet’s hand. Like a ghost pacing down the hall banging a drum, the groans and slams grew progressively louder. It was also as if it was programmed: snap, crash, crush, repeat. Then a crash and the Furies rushed the defenseless humans.
The static from the dead screen was louder than any storm. Elsa’s friends in Guayaquil simply stared.
“We’re going back,” Jorge said, “This doesn’t mean they’re dead, it just means their equipment is destroyed.”
“You’re not going back,” the commander flatly stated.
“Who are you to tell us what to do?”
“You think that storm just vanished? Look.” He pointed to a screen that was still alive. The storm had swallowed the Galapagos but didn’t linger. “It’s heading this way. It will hit us tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. You have an air ship. We can transport maybe 20 hospitalized children out of the city to the interior. I have martial law authority to confiscate your ship if you don’t cooperate. Once the storm has passed and we’ve moved everyone we can out of harm’s way, you’re free to head back to the islands.”
“How many days will that be?”
“Does it matter?” Marta sighed as she silenced the noisy screen.
CHAPTER 80
Mr. Lopez often went to these sturdy, barren hills. Sometimes the hills called him, but usually something was happening around him that drew him here. Sometimes he couldn’t even articulate what it was. But today he knew. It was Election Day.
As always, he had his broad-brim hat and large water bottle as he walked through the Petroglyph National Monument. This vast expanse of volcanic rock and little else was along the west bank of the Rio Grande at the edge of Albuquerque. The suburbs that had spread out to the edge of the preserve had now retreated. From the hillside, Mr. Lopez could look out and down on what was left of the houses. Much like his own neighborhood but more extreme since this was further from the city center, the houses were shells stripped of anything useful decades before. Anything metal, kitchen and bathroom fixtures, windows, wood paneling, roof tiles. Gone and gone. Desert animals and cacti had moved in. Drained swimming pools had layers of unimaginable gunk piling up. Dresden in 1945 was more intact. In another century or two, archeologists are going to go nuts here, Mr. Lopez thought.
The rocks were formed by volcanic eruptions 200,000 years ago. Enough of the cooled lava had smooth surfaces that invited creation. The petroglyphs were not painted, but rather chiseled art. The artist scraped away the dark skin of the rock to reveal a lighter tan under a layer that served as the canvas.
The images were a mystery. Who carved them was well known, the Pueblos carved most of them between 1300 and 1680 AD. A few were clearly done by the first Spaniards Christian crosses and depictions of animals such as sheep that they would have brought to
the New World. The mystery was what they meant.
In other pictorial histories such as the paintings in the Lascaux Caves or the frescos of Cacaxtla, there were unambiguous images of fertility of humans and the earth, the hunt, worship. But here, while some were simple snakes, lizards, stars, others were more elaborate images that didn’t reveal their meanings easily.
One of Mr. Lopez’s favorites was a square with a variety of images that looked like sections of Mexican pyramids, the cardinal points, or a star and what? a mushroom, a nuclear explosion? Very few of the human figures were simply human. They were adorned with strange appendages, too many arms and not enough toes, squished heads. Gods or men in ceremonial costumes? The general belief was that they did not represent some formal ritual, but a highly personalized view of the world. Each artist was his own priest. If that were true, then Mr. Lopez’s interpretations were as valid as anyone else’s.
What he said out loud was barely more than a thought. He walked slowly among the petroglyphs, not so much because of the heat but because he wanted to. This was meditation in motion. No one could know if he was right in what he saw, but it didn’t matter to anyone but himself. The Pre-Columbian version of the stations of the cross. He stopped at certain petroglyphs, his old friends, and spoke to them. It was almost a prayer.
“Man, the worshiper.”
“Bird, freedom.”
“Man, the warrior.”
“Sun.”
“Earth.”
“Man, the hunter.”
“Lizard, deep of the earth.”
“Corn, the gift of the gods.”
“God.”
“The cardinal points, the directions for all life.”
