A Desert Called Peace-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  Hennessey picked up a still warm corn tortilla and held it down between the level of the table and the level of the courtyard's ground. The bird looked at the tortilla, then looked with vast suspicion at Parilla and Jimenez in turn. Hennessey wriggled the flat fried corn cake to distract the bird.

  "My friends won't harm you, Jinfeng. Come get your chow."

  The bird opened its beak wide, wide enough to see that it was lined with teeth. A warning? Possibly. Jinfeng and her kind had not survived – so far – on Terra Nova by failing in the paranoia department. Then she waddled over, her long boney tail scrapping along the stone walkway that ran the length, also the breadth, of the courtyard while the claws on her partially reversed big toes went click-click-click.

  She stopped beside Hennessey's chair and reached out with a three fingered claw sprouting from her wing for the tortilla. Before eating it she gave another screech, this one sounding almost polite. Then she raised the tortilla to her beak and began ripping off pieces with her teeth.

  "You don't see many of those around anymore," Parilla commented. "There were a lot more when I was a boy."

  "They're smart, you know," Hennessey said. "At least as bright as a grey parrot."

  "If they're so smart," Jimenez asked, "why are they nearly extinct."

  "It's the feathers," Parilla answered. "I daresay if you were that good looking, my ebony friend, people would be hunting you, too. Besides, coming near extinction, in the presence of man, is no shame . . . except to man."

  "And they still do hang on," Hennessey added, flipping the bird a slice of fried ham that it caught and likewise bolted down. "Linda's been looking for a mate for this one."

  "Speaking of hanging on, why did so many of you stay and hang on in the Estado Mayor?" Hennessey asked again, as breakfast neared its end. "Don't get me wrong. I think you did the right thing. I admire you dumb bastards, I did even then. But it was hopeless."

  Jimenez sighed and shrugged. "We knew that. But what's a principle worth? What's honor worth, Patricio?

  "Not everybody did stay in the Comandancia, you know. Truthfully, I do not know how many took off as the screen between the Transitway Zone and the Estado Mayor collapsed. For a certainty, very few of the real thugs Piña brought in stayed."

  "We found well over a hundred bodies inside," Hennessey reminded. "And only the five of you that were too badly wounded to fight that were taken prisoner."

  Jimenez winced. "Oh, I know, Patricio."

  "Damn shame. You had some good kids with you that day."

  Jimenez smiled. "Yes. They were the best, the ones who wouldn't give up."

  Parilla interjected while spreading butter on a piece of toast, "You will note, young Patricio, that those were men Herrera and I trained, for the most part – the old guard. I wish to hell we had their like again in the uniform of the country."

  "We do, General," Jimenez objected. "The Civil Force boys are as good as what I commanded in 447." He grinned, ruefully. "One of the good side effects of having been abandoned by most of their officers is that a lot of good men survived who would have been killed had they been properly led."

  Parilla scowled as he buttered a bit of toast. "But they aren't an army, Xavier. A country needs an army."

  Jimenez looked down at his own plate and, nodding, frowned. "Yes . . . well we're not going to get an army again; so we have to make do."

  "We could have an army again, if . . . " Parilla didn't finish the sentence.

  Hennessey thought for a bit, then said, agreeably, "You have good people. They make good troops. If you ever get an army again and need a little help . . . "

  "Yeah, well," Jimenez said, "no one believes that here. We lost, after all."

  "So did the Sachsens in the Great Global War," Hennessey objected. "Xavier, General . . . you know I was in the Petro War, too?"

  Jimenez nodded as did Parilla.

  "Well, let me tell you this. Six companies and less than a dozen independent platoons of Balboan light infantry – outnumbered, outgunned, hit without warning in the middle of the night – gave the FS Army more trouble than fifty divisions of heavily armed Sumeris. That's the truth; from someone who fought both. Your boys had nothing to be ashamed of."

  Parilla smiled with pleasure. In truth, the Armed Forces of Balboa – be they called "Civil Force," "Defense Corps," or "Guardia Nacional" had been and remained his one greatest love. To hear good words of an organization and tradition for which few in the country had much use anymore did him a great measure of good.

  Just as Parilla was touched by the admission, so too was Jimenez. Normally a block of black ice to the world, still his voice choked a bit as he tried to formulate fumbling words of thanks. Before he could get those words out he was interrupted by Lucinda, gone suddenly pale, bursting in on them.

  "Señor, señores . . . come quick. Something terrible in the Federated States. On the Televisor. Come quickly!"

  Exchanging worried glances, the three arose and hurried to the television room.

  Columbian Airlines Flight 39, 0827 hrs, 11/7/459 AC

  Legs splayed, the stewardess lay face up with her open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling of the first class cabin. Her throat was raggedly slashed and a great pool of her blood stained the carpet around her. The blood likewise stained the back of a now abandoned guitar.

  Forward of the stew's corpse, halfway up the flight of steps that led to the bridge of the airship, was another, smaller, pool of blood. It dripped from the steps down onto its donor, the airship's purser. His throat had been cut at leisure, after he'd been beaten senseless. It was a much neater slash.

  At the head of the stairs, there was a bolted door that now sealed off the bridge from the rest of the ship. Inside were eight men, three of them dead and on the deck. Of the five living, all were covered in the blood sprayed from the throats of the crew as they were sliced open. Two of those living sat the pilot's and copilot's seats. Another two guarded the bolted door against some desperate bid on the part of the passengers to regain control.

  Yusef, the final member and commander of the team, stood behind the two flight-trained hijackers. He had a mobile phone pressed to one ear on which he received reports from the other teams. With each report the smile in his blood-dripping beard grew wider, more jubilant.

  "The Merciful, the Compassionate One smiles upon us in all his glory," Yusef exulted. "The other two airships are also in our hands."

  Samadi, at the pilot's controls, pointed and exclaimed, "Brothers, look! There beats the heart of the beast."

  Looking out the bridge's forward window, Yusef nodded with anticipatory satisfaction at the immense skyscraper that was their ultimate target.

  "If you hanker after Paradise, Brother, then fly us into the base."

  Samadi smiled nervously and nodded. He was not nervous over his impending death; that was nothing. But he was only the best pilot among them, not necessarily a good one. Pushing forward on the yoke with one hand, the other pushed the throttle all the way forward. The speed of the ship began to climb up to maximum.

  Behind them, in the passenger compartments, the rest of the airship's passengers began to scream at the changing attitude, altitude and speed. The hijackers ignored those screams completely.

  Headquarters, Terra Nova Trade Organization, First Landing, Hudson, Federated States of Columbia, 0829 hrs, 11/7/459 AC

  As with all poisons, Linda thought, toxicity is in the dose.

  The ground floor of the TNTO was also the floor of the Terra Novan Trade Appeals Board, the planet's sole effective international court. Thus, that floor simply swarmed with lawyers. The density made Linda's skin crawl.

  One child in her arms, another held by the hand and the third trailing along, Linda stepped onto an elevator heading up to the office's of Patricio's family firm.

  "Your destination, please," the elevator's speaker asked.

  "Chatham, Hennessey, and Schmied," Linda answered clearly, though with a slight but utterly charming Hi
spanic accent. The machine running the elevator understood it well enough, in any case.

  With a smooth sound the elevator began to shoot upwards until it reached the 104th floor. There it came to an equally smooth stop. The doors opened to either side with a whoosh.

  Heart pounding, as it always did whenever she had to meet some of her husband's family – Annie alone excepted – Linda Hennessey and her children stepped off of the elevator. A sign high on a wall announced, "Chatham, Hennessey, and Schmied," the name of the family business.

  "Why do I put myself through this?" she asked of no one in particular. She asked and she answered, "Because family is important and I do not want my husband to have lost his . . . especially if I can help it."

  "Come on, kids," she ordered, then led two of them forward. Linda carried Milagro, the baby.

  Imperious, impervious, unsmiling and unfriendly, Pat's Uncle Robert watched without any expression at all as Linda led and carried the children into his office. If my own wife . . . useless mouth . . . had managed to have children perhaps I would not resent this woman having taken my only – practical – son. I should not blame her . . . but I just can't help it.

  In her own way equally impervious, Linda smiled with a warmth to rival the sun of her homeland. She glanced about Bob's office, mentally comparing his trophies and mementos – golf, business, and such – with her husband's, much to the favor of the latter. I am proud to be the mother of my husband's children.

  Truth to tell she found the entire office to be borderline tacky, unrestrained and unrefined. It wouldn't do to mention that, though.

  "Linda," Bob greeted, without noticeable enthusiasm.

  She didn't answer directly. Being old money, she was probably better at playing status games than Uncle Bob when she cared to play them. Instead, she placed Milagro down on the floor and said, "Go see your grand-uncle, niños."

  The two little ones scurried around Bob's imposing desk. The eldest, the boy, strode like a young prince, before putting out his hand to shake, formally. By that time Milagro had already climbed aboard.

  Still sitting in his chair, his throne, Bob looked down into a lovely little girl's enormous brown eyes, saw the image of the nephew that was more like a son, and felt his heart melting.

  He looked up to say something to Linda. She was looking out of his office window, wide eyed, speechless, an expression of shock written on every curve of her unlined face. Bob's eyes followed and saw. Mouth gaping wide, he exclaimed, "Oh, my God!"

  Columbian Airlines Flight 39, 0849 hrs

  The airship hit near the base of the skyscraper. Its structure, even while coming apart, was just strong enough to force its nose through the thin walls and into the main lobby with its toxic dose of international lawyers. As the ship lost speed to the collision, its engines in the rear broke loose and drove forward, smearing passengers and crew alike, before tearing out of the remains of the front and smashing into the shocked barristers. With the engines came a great invisible cloud of hydrogen gas, pouring into the open lobby before igniting from a spark created by the one of the engines tearing through a steel support.

  The hydrogen began burning in front, incinerating several score shrieking attorneys. Then the flames raced through the rich oxygen-hydrogen mix present in the tunnels carved through the ship by the flying engines. Flame then burst out of the rear, tearing open the hydrogen cells there. The contents of these, once mixed with oxygen, effectively exploded, driving the remains of the ship, and much of its hydrogen, further into the lobby of the TNTO. There it burned hot enough to incinerate several thousand more international jurists, as well as to set aflame anything therein remotely flammable.

  Yusef and company, however, didn't get to see any of that. They were dead and on their way to wherever and whatever might prove to be their final reward, moments after the ship's nose touched concrete.

  Terra Nova Trade Organization, 0849 hrs

  Arms clutched protectively around the now crying Milagro, Bob rushed to the side of the fallen mother. Julio followed.

  "What happened?" she asked, groggily.

  "I don't know, I don't know," answered a shocked Bob as he helped her to her feet. "The LTAs never come that close. Jesus, it hit us!" He thought about that for a moment, then amended, "No, it crashed into us. On purpose. Christ!"

  As Bob spoke, the fire sprinklers came on overhead, sprayed for a few seconds, and then died as pressure from below fell to nothing. The pipes had been cut. Unchecked by the sprinklers, smoke and the hint of flame began rising past the exterior windows.

  Milagro began coughing as faint smoke filtered into the office complex. Minutes passed as Linda soothed the child, Julio calming the next oldest beside her. Just as the last tears were wiped and the last sniffles snuffed, Julio looked up and pointed out the window and across the city to where another airship closed on a building only just less grand than the TNTO. That was the headquarters for the Global News Network, based in First Landing.

  Julio said, "Mom, there's another one . . . "

  Cochea, 0903 hrs, 11/7/459 AC

  Hennessey and his two friends missed the first impact. However, like the rest of the world, they saw it replayed over and over in the next several minutes.

  "Dear, God!" Hennessey exclaimed, once he made the visual connection. Stomach sinking and heart pounding he added, "That's my uncle Bob's building." He raced for the phone, frantically dialing his cousin Annie's number in First Landing.

  1050 5th Avenue, First Landing

  "Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT, STOP that ringing!" Bad as the ringing was, the sound of her own shout seemed enough to tear the top off of Annie's head. She shuddered and pulled a pillow over in an attempt to shut out the nagging phone. No such luck. It continued to ring.

  "Shit," she muttered. "May as well see who it is."

  Slowly, reluctantly, not a little angrily, Annie stumbled to the phone.

  "Who is it?" Annie asked, her voice still distorted by alcohol. After Linda had left her at the restaurant, she had consumed more than her share of Black Russians before going home alone.

  "Annie, it's Pat. Where's Uncle Bob right now?"

  Anger drained from Annie's voice. "Oh, hi, Pat. I imagine he's at the office. Why?"

  Hennessey's voice in the telephone receiver was frantic. "Turn on the TV, Annie. Something's happened at the TNTO."

  "Sure . . . ok . . . " Annie walked unsteadily to pick up the television's remote. The set came to instant life just in time for the woman to catch the second airship slamming into GNN Headquarters. For several seconds she stood dumbfounded, then blurted into the phone, voice breaking with tears, "Pat . . . Linda and the kids are in there!"

  On Annie's screen, another plane stuck low at the World League Headquarters. There were three building burning now on the First Landing skyline, with smoke and flames beginning to billow up and out.

  TNTO, 0915

  It was pandemonium. Office workers ran to and fro frantically, looking for some escape. Cute little secretaries in short skirts wept. Some people, those a bit calmer or braver, punched numbers into their cell phones for a last goodbye to their loved ones.

  The smoke inside was worse now, though it was still not clearly visible to the naked eye. Outside, however, it was an angry black cloud rising past the windows like a swarm of vicious wasps. Tongues of flame licked up occasionally, though the greatest flames were just visible through the smoke, dancing around the GNN building.

  Milagro – clutched in Linda's arms now – coughed from the smoke and cried. Her elder sister, nicknamed "Lambie," tried to be brave though a quivering lip and dampened eyes betrayed her. The boy, Julio, put an arm around Lambie's shoulder and hugged her close and tightly.

  Uncle Bob had left them for a few moments to check on the possibilities of escape via elevator or stairwell. He returned, looked at Linda, then shook his head slightly. No way out.

  At his nod, she steeled her face and pushed her emotions away before they themselves ran away with h
er. For the nonce, she also pushed away the decision: burned or crushed or fallen? Oh, my babies, why? What did you ever do to harm anyone?

  A hand gently brushed the baby's hair and cheek, brushed away a tear and a bead of sweat. The floor was growing noticeably warmer. "Don't cry, Milli, we'll be fine," she lied.

  Taking his cue from his mother, ten year old Julio said much the same to Lambie. Even as he spoke those few words of comfort, he looked at his mother meaningfully. We're going to die, aren't we, Mom?

  Linda answered, indirectly, "I wish your father could see you now. He would be so proud of his son."