A Vial Upon the Sun

by James Codlin

  “Martín fell down a duct, and I think he’s unconscious.”

  “Do you have a picture? Can you tell anything from it?”

  Gina studied the dim picture before her. There were no features visible except for a light source on the left side that was some distance away, glowing blue. There were two parallel lines coming from behind the camera and converging near the light source. She spoke into the microphone describing what she saw.

  “We just got Dennis away from the Inquisition,” Nicholás said, “but he’s badly hurt. It’ll be a few minutes before we can go looking for Martín.”

  Gina looked at the monitor and called Martín’s name. As she studied the televised picture, she realized what she was seeing. Martín had fallen from a ventilation grill above the subway tunnel. The converging lines were the tops of the steel rails illuminated by a blue-tinted work light. The camera had fallen between the tracks and was pointed down the tunnel.

  From the perspective of the light and the shiny steel rails, Gina knew that Martín was lying on or between the subway tracks.

  Chapter Twenty-NINE

  President Ishikawa paced as he watched the auto-de-fé on television and waited for King Carlos to call him back. The door to his office opened and Waro Moto swaggered in, seating himself without being asked to do so.

  “Were you aware that this—this—travesty would take place?” the president demanded.

  Moto gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “It is of no consequence. It is among the gaijin.”

  Ishikawa glared. “I will not tolerate such an outrageous act of religious fanaticism.” He walked to his telephone, picked it up, and hit a button. “Minister Luz, come to my office at once.”

  “Do not get your minister of justice involved,” Moto said when Ishikawa had hung up the phone. “You don’t seem to understand—or won’t allow yourself to understand—what is required to seize, and more importantly, hold power in the world.”

  “You knew of this?” Ishikawa asked.

  “Of course,” Moto said. “Why must I continually explain these things to you? It is like talking to a child.”

  “You delivered Martín Ibarra to them.”

  Moto laughed. “Actually, to all appearances, you did. One of your military planes took him to a small airfield and he boarded a plane operated by the Inquisition. We have the exchange on video, of course.”

  “That was supposed to be a French military plane taking him to the launch complex.”

  “No one but you knows that,” Moto replied.

  Justice Minister Ernesto Luz, standing in the doorway to Ishikawa’s office, cleared his throat. The president looked at Moto, then walked to his desk. He sank into the leather chair.

  “Excuse me, Minister Luz,” he said, looking out the windows at the mountains. “I was mistaken. You are dismissed.”

  *

  Lieutenant Colonel Lavigne jumped out of a camouflage-painted vehicle, crouched, and ran to three Legionnaires, throwing himself down beside them.

  “Sir, automatic weapons fire one click to the right,” a corporal said.

  Colonel Lavigne’s radio erupted into life with a report of another contact two kilometers away—small arms automatic weapons fire reinforced with mortars. Bullets cracked over the ditch as heavy automatic weapons rattled close by.

  Another call came in to Colonel Lavigne. A squad had engaged three kilometers to the east and was encountering mortar and rifle fire.

  “Alpha One, this is Echo One.”

  “Go ahead, Echo One,” Lavigne said.

  “Sir, there are… locals advancing with the invaders. Civilians.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. One of them is Guillerme Portier—”

  “Cease fire, cease fire!” He held the radio away from his mouth and swore violently. He hit several keys and said, “Chain Mail, Chain Mail, this is Alpha One.”

  “Go ahead, Alpha One, this is Chain Mail.”

  “There are French civilians mixed in with the invading forces and they are moving off the beach toward the launch complex perimeter. We cannot hold them off without returning fire. Awaiting your orders.”

  “This is Chain Mail. Stand by, Alpha One.”

  “Chain Mail, we have very little time. The enemy has already engaged my forces and they are at the perimeter!”

  The responding voice, sounding bored, said, “Chain Mail copies, Alpha One. Stand by for orders.”

  Lavigne watched the seconds counting off on his digital watch and silently seethed.

  *

  Standing on the beach under the clear night sky, Carolina peered at her map with a red-tinted flashlight. The man next to her, Guiana’s representative to the Chamber of Deputies in France, was listening to a handheld radio. He hooked it back on his belt.

  “Commander,” he said, “it looks like we have at least four French soldiers pinned down here and eight more a bit further west. From this morning’s military briefing I know that there is only one squad here in Kourou—the rest are at the Suriname border. Lavigne has called his commander in Paris, telling him that there are civilians mixed in with your men. The military will have to consult with civilian politicians and that will paralyze them for a good while. Move your troops in quickly.”

  “I’m ordering one of my reinforced squads to increase the rate of fire with mortars so Lavigne thinks that’s the main body,” Carolina said. “We’ll keep flanking until we string them all the way out and they run out of men.”

  A soldier ran up, out of breath. “Commander Delta,” he gasped, “the scientists are very nervous hearing the gunfire.”

  “Keep them back on the beach, but away from the barge and the boats. Just tell them to keep their heads down and they’ll be okay.”

  Carolina excused herself and walked swiftly down the beach, passing the huge rusted dredging barge they had used to move most of their forces, equipment, and scientists from Point Delta in Guyana, where a sympathetic government and population had hidden them as they had massed their forces. The cavernous hull of the barge had been loaded with two hundred of her men along with the scientists, engineers, and their tools. Another fifty of her men and their equipment were hidden below deck in the tugboat that pulled the barge.

  They had sailed slowly down the coast of Suriname. A patrol boat looked them over, but its bored-looking captain decided the barge was heading somewhere to dredge. As they came into French waters off the coast of Guiana, another patrol boat had concluded the same thing, waving amicably to the ragged men in the tiny wheelhouse of the tugboat. The mast of the dragline concealed an antenna that they used to communicate with support locations all over South America via sophisticated encryption gear obtained in North America and Europe. They had arrived unopposed and now had an established beachhead where they joined up with the local independence forces. Carolina’s plan to mix the Guianese civilians among her own forces was working perfectly, paralyzing the French military and civilian command structure.

  Carolina quickly covered the four kilometers to where a platoon was firing into the launch complex perimeter. There was still no return fire coming from the Legionnaires. Some of the best fighters in the world were being rendered impotent by men six time zones away—men who were being called from the beds of their wives and mistresses to deal with an inconvenient problem in an overseas department that they frankly didn’t care about.

  *

  “Martín,” Gina called into the microphone. “You’ve got to wake up. Please, Martín.”

  Only a few minutes had passed, but there had been no sound from the speakers and no movement of the camera. She looked at the other monitors and saw pandemonium in the Zócalo. More gray-clad armed guards had marched into the plaza while Mexico City police and army units milled around, looking unsure of what to do. Bodies were being hoisted out of the open grate at the base of the raised platform. The priests on the platform stood in a tight group, their leader gesticulating broadly and pointing toward the steel grate
.

  Nicolás’s voice came through Gina’s headset. “Gina, we’ve got Prinn’s bleeding stopped, but Serrano’s got his guards reorganized and they’re everywhere in this station. What’s happening with Martín?”

  “He’s unconscious and he’s lying on the subway tracks…”

  The picture on her monitor moved slightly, and she heard a groan.

  “Hold on,” she said, then clicked over her mic to Martín’s channel.

  “Martín!” she called.

  “Wha… who?”

  “Martín, this is Gina. You’ve got to move! You’re on the subway tracks!”

  “Dream…’nother dream. What’s happening to me? I can’t think… I can’t…”

  The background noise coming from the speaker increased—a deep vibration.

  “Martín,” Gina said, trying to stave off her rising panic. “Can you move?”

  “Leg… head… can’t think.”

  “Pick up the camera and point it around you,” she said.

  There was another groan and the picture on the monitor moved. She saw shadowy shapes, a curving wall, and a signal light. “Keep the camera moving, Martín,” she pleaded. The picture rotated again, and in the dim light she could make out the tunnel stretching away. The noise through the speaker was growing.

  “Point it the other way,” she said and the picture swung. A point of light appeared in the center.

  “Wind,” Martín said.

  Gina looked at the monitor again. The point of light was growing.

  “Martín, listen,” Gina said. “There is a subway train coming. You have to move off the tracks. Do you hear me? You have to move off of the tracks, now.”

  All she heard in response was a weak groan.

  *

  Voices squawked over Lavigne’s radio, all of them raised several octaves by the adrenaline surge of combat. They called out casualties, demanded combat medics, and reported enemy positions fewer than fifteen meters away. Lavigne calmly passed out assurances and issued battle orders. All squads had reported casualties—a total of three men dead, twelve seriously wounded, and twenty-one walking wounded. The squad leaders couldn’t be sure, but they thought there had been at least ten Guianese casualties, and an unknown number of revolutionaries were down.

  Lavigne knew that his order from Chain Mail, which he had just passed on to his junior officers and non-coms, was impossible to obey. Command had ordered Lavigne to use lethal force only against the invading revolutionaries, and not against the Guianese citizens. They were outmanned, outgunned, and paralyzed by a ridiculous order.

  The colonel had tried the citizens band radio once to establish direct communications with the Gendarmerie, but from the occasional blasts and the glow of firelight from the direction of Kourou, Lavigne knew they had their own problems. The latent independence movement that had been smoldering for years had exploded into open violence against French rule.

  “Alpha One, this is Juliet One.”

  Lavigne put his radio to his mouth. “Go ahead, Juliet One.”

  “Sir, we’re at coordinates five point two four six one nine eight break negative five two point seven six three six zero two. There are about two hundred civilians coming toward the wire, many of them armed. They are heading straight for us. Am I authorized to fire?”

  Lavigne wiped his face with his hands. The non-stop adrenaline buzz that had been ratcheting up his senses for the past three hours was taking its toll.

  “Juliet One, at what distance are they?”

  “Their point man—and woman—are less than a click from my position.”

  “Alpha One, this is Hotel One.”

  “Juliet One, standby, break, break, Hotel One, this is Alpha One.”

  “Hotel One has approximately two hundred civilians coming toward our position. They are armed and less than a click from the wire. What do you want me to do?”

  “Alpha One, Alpha One, this is Kilo One, I’ve got civilians coming at me too. Sir, I’ve got to open fire if I’m going to be able to repel them. Do I have permission?”

  Lavigne clicked off his radio. “Goddamn son of a bitch! Shit! What the hell do they expect me to do?”

  His driver, a young enlisted man from Greece, looked back him with wide eyes, but said nothing.

  Lavigne squeezed his eyes shut. “Chain Mail, Chain Mail, this is Alpha One. Our position—” His voice broke. He tried again to speak, and made only a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat. “Chain Mail, this is Alpha One. Our position is untenable and indefensible. If we defend our positions, there will be hundreds of French civilian casualties. I have carried out your orders to the best of my abilities. You decide what to do about the missile. I say it should be destroyed right now by an air strike, and we will just have to accept the Japanese civilian casualties against the many more that will result if these rebels carry out their plan. Alpha One out.”

  Lavigne turned off the frequency linking him to the general staff and switched to tactical frequency. “All units, all units, this is Alpha One, authenticating Delta-Bravo-Mike-November-X-ray-Lima. I order all units to cease fire. I say again, you are ordered to cease fire. Report immediately to company HQ, where we will surrender. Alpha One out.”

  *

  Martín felt the wind blowing on his face and a sense of nostalgia swept over him. He remembered traveling on the São Paulo metro trains with Gina. They waited in stations talking, hugging, and kissing, and when a train approached they would feel the breeze first. Martín had explained how a subway train in a tunnel was just like a piston in a cylinder. As it moved, it pushed a wave of compressed air ahead of it signaling its imminent arrival. Then he had made a lewd joke about a piston pumping in a cylinder.

  Gina’s voice was calling to him now, reaching him through his reverie. He felt a terrible pain in his right leg and he couldn’t remember whether Gina hated him or loved him. Both seemed equally possible. Either way, her voice in his ear was imploring him to move, and a train was coming… if it came, he—they, he corrected himself, if Gina was still with him—would just get on it and ride it to… wherever.

  He was vaguely aware of an object resting in his hand. Oh, yes, the camera. The one that felt like a pencil and allowed him to “see” because he would point it and Gina’s voice would talk in his head, telling him to go left or go right or up or down. And now she was telling him to move, and her voice pleaded the way he wished she had pleaded with him so long ago not to leave her in Brazil. If she had, he was sure that he would have relented, and they could have been together. Instead he was just laying here in a state of confusion and pain. His leg hurt so much. He didn’t want to move.

  But there was her voice, in his ear, telling him urgently to move, over and over and over.

  He reached out and felt the steel rail. It was smooth on top and vibrating. And surely that meant a train was coming. At least that’s what Gina kept saying.

  He pulled himself toward the rail but, God, his leg hurt so badly! How about that, he thought. I can see stars of pain even with my blind eyes. And the noise—now a roar—was getting louder. More and more the wind pushed against his body. He strained again, pulling himself, but his leg hurt and the wind and the vibration and the noise and Gina’s voice and the train were all crashing together…

  *

  The noise of the approaching subway train thundered from the speakers. Gina watched the light growing until it filled the screen—a white fireball that washed everything out. There was a flash, then darkness, and then a receding roar. She squeezed her hands against her ears and looked away. In ten seconds, it was gone.

  Silence.

  Gina slowly relaxed her hands on her ears. She raised her head, reluctantly looking at the monitor. Half the screen was black, but on the other half she could see a stationary light. Another signal, she guessed. There was a moan of wind, and nothing more.

  Gina pounded the control console with her fists as tears welled in her eyes.

  *

  Fath
er Serrano had discarded his miter and vestments in favor of a gray jacket. Behind him, armed guards trotted in his wake as the priest hurried through the subway station.

  “So, when Nicolás Ibarra… overpowered you,” Serrano sneered, “you last saw them in this part of the station, right?”

  “Yes… Father,” one of the men said.

  Serrano led the guards to the train platform. He stood looking both ways into the tunnel, shining a powerful flashlight.

  “They’ll be in this tunnel somewhere,” he said. “He couldn’t have made it very far. Divide up. The two of you—that way… I’ll go this way. Stay in touch by radio.”

  They climbed down onto the tunnel floor, walking quickly along the concrete pads supporting the rails. Serrano called out as he gestured to a shrouded rail running parallel to the pads, “And stay clear of that third rail, gentlemen. It’ll do even more damage to you than Nicolás Ibarra did.”

  The guards broke into a jog and disappeared into the tunnel.

  *

  The dying wind gave way to another sound.

  A tone.

  Then another.

  They were going up and down slightly in pitch. “Doo, doo, doo, da-doo.”

  Gina looked up at the monitor and was greeted with the same view of… nothing. The tones continued, a little faster now. A melody.

  Humming!

  “Martín?” she asked quietly into the microphone. The humming stopped.

  “Martín?” she asked again, louder this time.

  The humming resumed, rising and falling without a recognizable melody. “Cam-er-a, cam-er-a, T-V, T-V-cam-er-a,” the voice sang.

  “That’s right, Martín! Pick up the camera. Pick it up so I can be your eyes again.”

  “Be my eyes, beeee my eyeeees… ag-ain!”

  Gina watched the monitor. The picture rolled crazily, and the signal light spun and disappeared off the screen. Then it stabilized, looking down the tunnel. The rails were shining from below, and the tunnel structure was arcing overhead in a graceful curve. A line of small lights, glistening like shining beads, stretched away into blackness.

  “Martín, listen. Listen to me. There will be another train coming. You have to get moving. Walk the way you have the camera pointed.”