by Tom Kratman
“Mama, this is her. This is Lady Lele.” Lele blinked, and focused on the small, skinny girl who spoke. After a moment of blankness, she realized suddenly that this tiny child could only be Mirabel, the brave little voice from the back.
“Lady Lele,” Mirabel’s mother said, and her voice and her eyes filled with tears once more. Lele found herself drawn into a chokingly tight embrace as the woman wailed over her. More and more arms wrapped around her, and Lele felt as if she would be smothered by the gratitude that rolled off of these people.
“Step back, step back. Let the woman breathe!” The voice that spoke was male, and carried that faint quaver that bespoke great age. The suffocating hugs eased, and one by one the people stepped away. Somewhere nearby, another torch flared, and the flickering light played over the figure of a wizened older man.
“Grandfather,” Lele said respectfully, as her grandmother would have expected.
“You are Filipina?” the man asked, his face stern.
“My grandmother was. She taught me the language. I’m from California.”
“What is your name?”
“Leonora Cristina Adalynne Reyes Campbell. But . . . please call me Lele.”
“Lele. You are a UN officer.”
“I am . . . was. Sort of. My government ordered me and some others to work for them.”
“Your unit attacked our village.”
Lele swallowed hard and nodded. Was this it, then? Would they execute her for the actions of her unit? To be honest, she wasn’t entirely sure she could blame them if they did. The memory of gunshots in a school echoed through her head.
“My unit did,” she said, when it appeared that the old man required more of an explanation. “We were told that it was a communication node for the insurgency.”
“It was a place to send our children. A place for them to get schooling.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I know that now. It is not what we were told. When I realized . . . my copilot grabbed as many of the kids as he could and I ran with them. Mirabel brought me here.”
The old man looked at her for a long moment. Lele stood uncomfortably under his gaze and didn’t look away. She could hear the snap of the flame on the torches, and patter of the continuing rain. Far away, thunder rumbled. The storm was passing them by, finally.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
The dreamlike feeling faded, leaving Lele weak-kneed with fatigue. She felt like sagging, collapsing to the ground. So she pulled herself straighter.
“I don’t know,” she said. “If I go back, they will likely kill me for desertion. After they interrogate me to find out the location of this place. It would be better if you killed me here, first.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because . . . I don’t want to betray you . . .” Lele said slowly, not really understanding why he was asking. She’d thought she’d been pretty clear.
“No, child. Why did you save our children?”
Oh.
Wind gusted, and a fresh curtain of warm jungle rain poured down like blood from the sky. Blood on her hands, spilling from her thighs . . .
“Because,” she whispered, “I couldn’t save my own.”
“Ah,” the old man said. Slowly, he smiled. Lele wavered, and the world closed in from the edges.
Her face was hot. Lele squinted her eyes open and realized why. She lay next to an open window, and the brutal equatorial Terra Novan sun blazed in through a hole in the concealing canopy.
Lele sat up and looked out of the window, which was really just a square hole cut into the crude wooden wall of a shack. From this angle, she could clearly see the clever net arrangement that the people used to camouflage the wide field in front of the caves. They’d even managed to tie living plants in pots up among the nets, so as to hide from chlorophyll sensitive recon cameras. From the air, it would just look like so much jungle. But underneath, an entire village teemed with life and activity.
Instinct had her looking for her aircraft. She leaned out of the window and craned her neck until she saw it at the far end of the field. Someone had strung a rope around it, and no one appeared inclined to cross this barrier.
“You’re awake!”
Lele turned to see the woman from the night before, Mirabel’s mother, walking into the small shelter where she’d been sleeping. Like Lele, she was small and slight. But Lele remembered this woman’s crushing hug, and knew that her delicate body contained a wiry strength that typically came from leading some kind of an interesting life.
“I . . . yes,” Lele said. She put a self-conscious hand to her hair. “I’m not exactly sure what happened.”
“You fainted, and then you slept. For most of the day, really. The sun will set in a few hours. That’s fine, though. You needed your rest, after a flight like that. Mirabel told us all about it. Such a storyteller, that girl!” the woman spoke with a mother’s pride. Lele found herself smiling, even through the familiar pain.
“She’s a brave girl,” she said.
“Yes,” her mother agreed. She came and sat on the bed next to Lele, and took one of Lele’s hands in hers. “She is. My name is Eva. How many?”
“What?”
“Miscarriages? Our doctor examined you after you fainted. She said you’d had at least one, probably more. Those were the babies you couldn’t save, weren’t they? How many?”
“Four,” Lele breathed on a wave of agony. Eva nodded.
“I lost two before Mirabel. She is my miracle baby. Proof of God’s love.”
“God’s love?” Lele asked. Her voice turned sharp, brittle. “How can that be? What kind of God kills children in the womb?” Or allows them to be murdered by men with guns? “How can that be love?”
“How can it be otherwise? Look at all the children you saved last night. Would you have been here had you not lost those poor babies? So they wait for you in heaven while you do your work here. Then, when you die, they will welcome you to heaven.”
“I wish I believed that,” Lele said.
Eva smiled and patted her cheek.
“You will see. God loves you very much, Lady Lele. That is why he brought you to us. You left behind a home filled with pain. Now this is your home, and you can be free.”
“In what way?”
“In all ways! You can stay, you can go. This is not like the UN, where your fate is tied to your place in society. You can do what you want, be what you want.”
“I want . . .” Lele trailed off, closed her mouth so hard it hurt her lips.
Eva reached out and stroked her hair.
“What, sister? What do you want? What is it that you want to be?”
“A mother,” she breathed, and the dam broke. Great wracking sobs erupted from deep within her chest. Tears ran in scalding lines from her eyes. She crumpled around herself and felt the unending grief well up as it had done so many times before.
This time, though, there was someone there.
Always before, she’d been alone. Her ex-husband hadn’t wanted to deal with the blood and the mess of it. He’d been too busy with his own pain, and his anger at her inability to do this simple thing right. After the divorce, she’d cried in secret, lest anyone else learn of her failure and her shame. It had seemed safer, since she knew that this agony would never go away.
But not this time. Eva wrapped her arms around Lele’s shaking shoulders and drew her head down onto her generous chest. Unlike the hardness of last night’s embrace, this was soft, gentle. Comforting. When Lele’s sobs quieted, Eva didn’t let up, but simply crooned soft words in the grieving woman’s ear.
“That’s it, my sister. Cry it out. I cry for my lost babes too, even after my Mirabel. You cry as much as you need. There is peace and healing in tears, you know.”
Lele sniffled a laugh at that and sat up.
“Not for me,” she said swiping at her eyes. “Tears are shameful and weak.”
“That is nonsense,” Eva scoffed. “Tears are what make u
s human. You cry, and then you feel better. This is the way of things.”
“You wanted something, when you came in here. I’m sorry to have distracted you,” Lele said, eager to talk about something else. She felt strange. Hollow and light, as if her tears had emptied her, at least temporarily, of the raging grief. It didn’t usually work that way. Usually, she cried herself to exhaustion, then she snuck back to her room and passed out.
“Oh! Yes. I was going to ask you if you would help me. Some of the little ones you saved . . . well . . . their parents were in the village. We haven’t heard from them. There is hope yet, but . . .” she gave an eloquent shrug.
“Anyway, they need someone to cuddle them and get them to eat a little something. I thought perhaps if you weren’t too tired, you might be able to get a response out of them. They all know that you saved them, you see. You are their Lady Lele. Their angel in a helicopter.”
Lele froze, and searched the other woman’s face. Mirabel’s mother smiled softly, her eyes full of the knowledge of just what she was offering.
“All right,” Lele whispered.
“All right,” Eva said, getting up. She held out her hands and helped Lele to her feet. “Let’s go. Your children are waiting.”
INTERLUDE:
From Jimenez’s History of the Wars of Liberation
And so, to the list of heroes of revolution and resistance on Old Earth, were added new names from Terra Nova’s guerilla history. On the Isla Real, for example, we have coastal defense batteries named for Pedro, called “el cholo,” for Mitzilla Carrera de Alvarez, daughter of Belisario Carrera, for her husband, Juan Alvarez, and for Mendoza, whose first name we do not know. In addition, there are coast defense batteries named for UN deserters to our cause Amita Kaur Bhago and Nandi Mkhize. Near the capital of Aguinaldo is a park named after General Lele Campbell. Gaul has its Citadelle Madalene La Pen, as Sachsen has its more generally named Freiheitkaempferstrasse, a highway connecting the north with the capital in the south.
But amidst all of that heroism and self-sacrifice, there was a shadier side.
Not everyone who came to Terra Nova came here voluntarily. Not everyone came without a considerable number of police on their tail. In addition to the heroes, we also received more than our share of villains, ranging from the corrupt rich to political terrorists from Old Earth, eager, this time, “to do it right.”
9.
Blood, Sweat, and Tears
Christopher L. Smith10
Marko followed the assistant through the heavy, ornately carved wooden door into the Shah’s office.
Silverwood, he thought, casting an appraising eye over the workmanship, No expense spared here.
Scenes of nymphs cavorting gaily through a forest of tranzitrees were well crafted, their delicate features skillfully carved down to the smallest detail. Individual leaves, blades of grass, vines—they all spoke volumes towards the artist’s skill. The gold filigree covering it all, however, spoke volumes towards the owner’s lack of good taste.
Marko made sure his face remained expressionless. His opinion on art wasn’t the reason he was here.
The Shah loved to remind the people of his wealth. From his limo—the only one of its kind on Terra Nova, as far as Marko knew—to the massive ceremonies for visiting officials, the Shah made everyone aware of exactly how poor they were in comparison. For some, it seemed to inspire them. For Marko, it served as an object lesson. Hard work and diligence was its own reward. Money could go away with bad decisions. Pride and respect for yourself was harder to lose.
“Ah—Marko Saavedra!,” the Shah said, spreading his arms and smiling, “My friend! It is good you have accepted my offer to join me!”
Marko bowed, careful to keep his eyes turned to the floor as he did so. He held the bow slightly longer than was technically proper, to the Shah’s apparent amusement.
“No need for that, my friend,” the Shah said, expression making his words a lie. He was smugly pleased by the gesture, Marko could tell. He waved to the overstuffed leather chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit. Would you care for a drink?”
“Thank you, sir. I would.”
“Fruit juice for my friend, and water,” the Shah said to his assistant. “And please be quick about it.”
The young man left, gently closing the door behind him. The Shah turned back, still smiling.
“How may I help you, today, sir?” Marko said, “I must say that I was surprised by your invitation.”
“Ah . . . Straight to the heart of the matter. I like that in a man,” the Shah said. Again, his face didn’t match the words or tone. The Shah’s reputation was that of a man who liked to make an entrance, draw out the production, make people wait.
“I have a visitor arriving in sixteen days,” he said, leaning closer. A heavy cloud of perfume followed him. “Whom, I can’t say, but it is someone I’m anxious to impress.”
“I’m certain that you will not fail to do so, sir.”
“Ah! But that is my dilemma, Marko. This visitor is not so easily impressed as the local dignitaries. I need to show them what a man of my stature has at his beck and call. That is where you come in.”
“Sir? I’m not sure how I can help? I’m a simple builder.”
“But what you do is not so simple, is it?” the Shah said, sitting back again. He was interrupted by the return of the assistant. The man came in carrying a silver tray, on which were four crystal goblets, a decanter of water, and another decanter of dark red juice. “Thank you, Ali, you may go.”
As the door closed again, the Shah poured the drinks and continued.
“I’m told you are the best in the city, Marko. That you can accomplish quality works with a small crew in a short amount of time. This is what I need.”
“What are you thinking of, sir?” Marko said, mentally gathering a list of names. “Depending on the project, I’m not sure it can be accomplished in your time frame.”
“What I need is a fountain. One that will be a centerpiece of the reception.”
“A fountain? That shouldn’t be too difficult, for any one of many tradesmen in the city.”
“Ah—but this fountain is special. I need it pour not water—but wine, liquor, and beer. My guest and their entourage are not bound by the same traditions as we are, and will appreciate the gesture.”
Marko sipped his juice, turning the idea over in his head. A hollow structure, utilizing tubing inside and some kind of pump . . . it didn’t seem like a difficult project.
“The liquid must also be chilled.”
Marko started slightly, barely catching himself before he choked. He cleared his throat and looked at the man across from him. The Shah was serious.
“I’m sorry sir, did you say ‘chilled’?”
“Yes! What better way to refresh yourself after a long trip across the stars than by indulging in a cold beverage?” His smile grew wider. “I’m told that you can do this, no?”
“I . . . I suppose it could be done, sir,” Marko said, frowning slightly, “It just hasn’t been done before.”
“And that is why I must have it!”
“You do realize that this can’t be done cheaply? Not in the time frame you have set?”
“Bah! Money is no object. You will be given what amounts to unlimited funds to do this.” Reaching into a desk drawer, the Shah produced a ledger and fountain pen. Both with gold inlay, Marko noted. “Here is a deposit, should you accept. I believe one hundred thousand dirhem should be enough to start?”
With a flourish, he signed the paper and tore it from the book. He held it towards Marko. Marko leaned forward, taking the other end. The Shah didn’t let go.
“I must add,” he said, face losing all joviality, “that if you are unable to complete this project, you will have a very difficult time finding work again.”
Sweat made Marko’s hand suddenly very slick. Acceptance meant taking care of his family for the foreseeable future. To reject it would likely bring the same
fate as failure. There was only one response.
“Sir, I will do my absolute best.”
He took the check.
It wouldn’t be easy, but it also wasn’t impossible. One week for demo and building the support pieces, one week to install the fountain and fine tune everything. Refrigeration was easy—he’d been on several projects with large walk-in coolers. The main thing would be getting that refrigeration method to cool the fountain. Still, that was just re-purposing existing equipment for something new.
The challenge would be getting the crews in place to do all the work, and getting that fountain built.
Especially the fountain. Artisans are a flaky bunch on the best days, He thought. Adding a short time frame and pressure could really bite him in the ass. He took another look at his notes about what the Shah wanted.
Six different types of beverages would require as many spouts, and all the individual workings to make that happen. Cooling it all would require the additional copper tubing and connections. Making it all appear, as though magically, in the center of the ballroom—that would take some effort.
Marko began listing the different components, and who the best choices for the work were for each, with alternates.
Tomorrow would be busy, getting in touch with all of them. And the clock was ticking. He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. Focusing on a point beyond the ceiling, he inhaled slowly.
“Papa!” His youngest daughter’s piping voice startled him, his heart leaping in his chest. While the distraction cost him his relaxation technique, it was a welcome one. He reveled in the feeling that, at least for a few more years, his child was excited to see him. There would be time for work, later, after the house was asleep.
“Hello little Estrella,” he said, bracing himself for her inevitable pounce into his lap. “How was school today? OOF!”
“It was terrible, Papa!” she said, pouting. “Julio pulled my hair, and Selina just laughed!”
“Ah, that means Julio likes you, little one, and I thought Selina was your best friend?”