But what did the implants have to do with it?
“Do you remember any of this?” Miguel asked.
Sandro shook his head. “Nothing.”
“I don’t understand. A doctor was using the tuberculosis patients?”
“Several of them, yes. To test their company’s prototype HMI implant.” Sandro touched his right eye with one finger. “The grandfather of your interface.”
“But tuberculosis patients?”
“That’s how they got access to me and over forty other people. They thought we were all going to die, and they weren’t far wrong. Twelve of the patients did die, and probably not from the tuberculosis.”
“Who got access, Grandpa? How who got access?”
“The company Bayless was working for. InterGenome Sciences.”
Miguel reeled. IGS was the same company that had developed dozens of different brain-enhancement implants. It had started with the military in 2047—human-machine interfaces to enhance reaction time and replacement eyes that could display messages and provide overlay information like the head-up display in a fighter pilot’s visor. But military spending had become anemic, forcing IGS to leverage their technology in the private sector. They added memory banks to store simple data like phone numbers, addresses, account locations and passwords and PINS. Cameras and photo storage came quickly after, and Miguel had been one of the early adopters of the technology.
It had all been a chain of cause and effect that had started with IGS’s experiments on Sandro and the others, and suddenly Miguel felt like he had profited from his grandfather’s pain. He blew air through his pursed lips noisily. “I know this must be a shock, Grandpa—”
“You have no idea what it must be.”
Miguel realized that Sandro’s depression these last few months must have started with some initial contact from Bayless’s lawyers, perhaps a letter telling him about the experiments and the inheritance Bayless had left him. Why hadn’t he told Miguel about it?
But as Miguel sat there, looking at Sandro, he realized why. Miguel had been trying to cut Sandro out of his life for years. Yes, he went to visit Sandro—they played chess and talked a few times per month—but Miguel had always been looking for a way to get out of Vero Beach for good. And Sandro knew it. He’d been trying to spare Miguel the pain he was bearing.
“Tell me about it,” Miguel said softly. “I want to understand it.”
Sandro stared at Miguel, his face expressionless, but then he softened and leaned back in his chair, scraping it noisily against the white tiles. He jutted his chin toward the far wall, northward. “When I decided to come here I thought I was like this city, that I was split in two, one piece damaged and rotten, the other healthy but not whole.” Sandro paused, frowned. “I felt…incomplete. Broken.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about what was gone.” He glanced out the window to the littered street outside of the bakery. “Maybe the parts that were damaged didn’t mean anything. Maybe I turned out exactly the way I would have without the surgery. But maybe not. Maybe I only achieved half of what I might have, understood a tenth of what I could have. I felt like a ghost of a man, like seventy years of my life had been going in the wrong direction. You can’t know what that’s like as young as you are.”
Sandro picked up the picture—a boy on a table, a broken implant destroying something vital. Miguel had never seen his grandfather look so sad.
Miguel took the picture from him and laid it face-down on the pile. “You don’t have to throw your life away just because something was taken from you so many years ago.”
Sandro nodded seriously. “No, you’re right. That’s why I came—to prove that my life wasn’t worthless—but when I got here, I realized it was all bullshit. Good part… Bad part… It doesn’t matter. What matters is doing something in your life that you can be proud of.”
“You’ve done a lot,” Miguel said. “You served your country.”
“That was sixty years ago,” Sandro said. “I’ve done nothing but stew and live off my bum knee and my family since, and it’s high time I did something about it. I want you to come back with me, Miguel. Take the stories of the others: El Movimiento para las Fronteras Abiertas. I want you to spread their stories, just as you hear them, just as you see them.”
“There are reporters all over both sides of the wall.”
“Come on,” Sandro said. “When’s the last time you saw anything about a Mexican family, one that doesn’t show them as illiterate beggars? I need you to tell their stories, Miguel. That’s the only way I’ll know it’ll be told fairly.”
The door of the bakery tinkled opened. A middle-aged woman came in and stepped up to the counter as the air conditioner continued to squeal. As she chatted with the owner, Miguel tried to sort his feelings. Part of him felt proud to be Sandro’s grandson—he was taking a stand; he was trying to do something he felt was right—but another part of him saw a wizened old man with a bad knee and a guilty conscience.
“You don’t owe anyone anything.”
“I do!” Sandro gave Miguel such an intense gaze then, a gaze filled with more purpose than he’d ever seen in the eyes of his grandfather. “I owe me. I owe you. I owe those that came before me. I owe those that come after. Don’t you believe that, Miguel? Don’t you want to leave the world a better place than when you came into it?”
“Yes, but—”
“There are no buts! My time has come, simple as that.”
Miguel realized that this had become just another chess match, though the stakes were now unbelievably high. Sandro had convinced himself there was no other way than the one he’d chosen, and he wasn’t going to back down.
Miguel had to accede. He would hear their stories, take their pictures. He’d even see about publishing them. And once Sandro had some time to calm down… Then he would see reason. Then he would come home.
* * *
As soon as they left the panadería, Miguel was blindfolded and shoved into a car. He’d been blindfolded twice before, once in Riyadh and another in Pyongyang—they had been the two times in his life he’d feared for his safety the most—but in that car, on the mercilessly rough ride to the MFA hideout, he feared not only for his life but Sandro’s as well.
They took him to what Miguel assumed was a butcher shop—the smell of meat and blood was strong even through the musty blindfold. Everything seemed oppressive in that dark, dank basement. But the woman Miguel met with first—a thick woman, a skilled cheese maker—began to ease Miguel’s mood. There was an earthiness to her that Miguel had never felt in his life. He’d been so wrapped up in school and travel and technology and his career that he rarely noticed such things. But while he was talking with her so intimately, asking about her dreams and reasons for joining the movement, he couldn’t help but notice it. She was a decent and honest woman. She wanted a fair shake in life, as simple as that.
And so it went. He interviewed eighteen more members, and took a dozen pictures of each. He tried not to draw any conclusions while interviewing them. He tried to follow Sandro’s wishes and merely let them tell their story. The important thing was to get to the human side of the conflict, the one that was getting lost beneath the politics of walls and spyders.
When he was done, Miguel was driven back to the panadería with Sandro. Sandro walked with Miguel from the ancient Ford Torino to his pristine blue rental car and held the door open for him.
“Come back with me, Grandpa. Let them fight this war.”
Sandro shook his head sadly. “I’m in it for good, Miguel.” He smiled, like he used to when Miguel had won a tight chess match, the smile that said he was proud of his grandson.
“We still need to talk about the money,” Sandro said softly.
“I know,” Miguel replied. He’d been thinking about it on the ride back, unsure how he was going to break it to Sandro. “I can’t give it to you.”
Sandro straightened his back, and his aged face looked more hurt than Miguel could eve
r remember. “It’s not for me. It’s for them. There are dozens coming back every night with spyders buried in their chests. The doctors work for free, but the equipment and supplies are expensive.”
Miguel shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t support this. There are better ways, legal ways, to solve this crisis.”
Sandro spit into the street. “Where were your legal ways when they were cutting a hole in my skull? Where were they eight years ago when the drought struck Baja and Sonora, when seventy thousand people died? Where are they now, while innocent Sonorans are getting killed because they stepped over some imaginary line?”
“I’m only one man, Grandpa.”
“You still don’t get it, do you? You can be greater than one man.”
“How much time would my money buy them? A week? Two weeks? I agreed to tell their story, and I will, but that’s as far as I’ll go. It’ll have to be enough.”
They stared at one another for a long time, the hot desert wind blowing through the square and kicking up dust. Then Sandro coughed, and the spell was broken. “You want to tell stories? Fine. Then tell one more. The MFA is going to issue a statement the day after tomorrow, seven miles west of the crossing. Go there and take pictures. Tell everyone what you see. Tell it honestly.”
“What are you going to do?”
Sandro stepped in and hugged Miguel. “You’d better go,” he said.
“Grandpa, what are you going to do?”
Sandro turned and walked away. As the Torino carried him off into the Sonora streets, Miguel’s gut twisted. It felt like the last time he’d ever see Sandro.
In the years to come, he would wish many times it had been.
* * *
Miguel made it back to the hotel late that evening, and found himself unable to sleep. He stayed up the entire night, worrying about what the MFA was going to do, and wondering if Sandro was going to be directly involved or not.
He said the MFA was going to “issue a statement.” It made political sense; Miguel hadn’t realized it at the time, but the decision to widen the system to three more cities had been made the morning he’d gone to see Sandro. Surely Sandro had known, and surely they’d chosen their timing to coincide with the dog and pony show at IGS’s tracking facility. The governor of Arizona and over a dozen congressman were going to be there.
By the time lunch had come and passed, Miguel’s stomach felt as twisted as a wrung out wash rag. Why had Sandro refused to tell him what they were going to do? What would the message be? Even though Sandro claimed the MFA were for a peaceable resolution to the conflict, the fact remained: men had died on both sides. Just because Sandro wanted peace did not mean that all of them did, or that the Border Patrol or the National Guard did. Tempers flared all too easily at times like this.
That evening, Miguel couldn’t take it anymore. He called the Border Patrol and told them of Sandro’s plans. The captain running the anti-insurgent team asked Miguel to stay at the hotel. Miguel refused. They couldn’t prevent him from being close since it was a section of the wall near a suburban neighborhood. But Miguel did promise to stay a few miles away when the captain authorized a tunnel to his embedded police transceiver. He would use it, he said, to update Miguel every half-hour, and Miguel could contact him should the need arise.
Miguel parked his rental beneath a huge, curbside oak tree as the sun rose over a row of tan condos. It was 7:00 AM.
He thought back to Sandro’s face as he’d told him about the planned crossing, how he’d asked Miguel to take pictures of all of it. His face had been so serious, but Miguel hadn’t been able to read anything beyond that. Just like when they played chess.
Miguel’s veins went ice cold.
Just like when they played chess.
Dear God.
No, no, no.
This was all a feint.
“Captain!” Miguel called over his temp channel. “Captain!”
“Mr. de la Cueva, not now. It’s already begun.”
“No, that’s not the real one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s a decoy.”
“No, Mr. de la Cueva. This is deadly serious. I’ll update you when I can.”
“Captain!”
He didn’t answer.
Miguel started the car and punched the accelerator. The car surged forward, and he screeched onto the through street ahead, narrowly missing a white sedan. He wove through traffic, heading for downtown, seven miles away.
Where would Sandro strike? What would he do?
He had no idea.
He blew through a red light. The traffic lamp blared a warning as he sped past, a signal that the police had been alerted, a request to pull over and wait.
He drove faster.
As he reached the edge of old town, it hit him. The tour of the tracking facility. The politicians. It was the only thing with enough heft to it, the only thing that would draw enough attention.
Why hadn’t he seen it before?
He knew from the newsfeeds the facilities were just north of the downtown area, only a few miles away.
Halfway there, a black-and-white pulled onto the street a quarter mile behind him. It gained quickly on his sickly little rental.
He was so close.…
He screeched into the parking lot a few minutes later, the cop nipping at his heels. The fifteen-story glass-and-steel building lay just ahead. Seven or eight news trucks surrounded a huge water fountain. He drove past the fountain and onto the lawn, braking too late to avoid slamming into one of the squat cement vehicle barriers lined up in front of the building.
Seven men in black suits and three guards were lined up on the far side of the lawn, near the street. Their pistols were drawn, and they were pointing them at the twenty Mexican men and women dressed in orange prison uniforms. Sandro was standing near the center. Each of them held a butane lighter in one hand, unlit, near the center of their chest.
Closer to the building, three cameramen were snapping pictures with traditional cameras.
“Lie down!” one of the men in suits was screaming.
“No viviremos como presos!” they shouted as one. We will not live as prisoners!
Miguel sprinted as the police car ground to a halt behind him. Miguel was confused by the lighters, but then he smelled the gasoline, and realized their orange uniforms looked damp. “Grandfather, no!”
“No viviremos como presos!”
“Acuéstense en el piso!” One of the suited men was screaming. “Lie down! Lie down!” shouted another.
“Grandpa, no!” Miguel screamed, still sprinting toward him. One of the men in black suits broke away and pointed his gun at Miguel, ordering him to stop.
Sandro glanced at Miguel, his eyes watering, and just as quickly returned his gaze forward.
And, God forgive him, Miguel snapped a picture. He didn’t think about it anymore. If he did, he would stop. So he just kept snapping pictures as, one by one, Sandro and the others held the lighters away from their bodies and struck the flint.
“No viviremos como presos!”
Their arms pulled inward toward their chests, toward the location the RFID chips were programmed to bury themselves
“Please, Sandro,” Miguel whispered, “don’t.”
The sound of a great gust of air cut through all the shouting, silencing everyone.
Twenty orange flames painted the blue sky black.
It was inhumanly quiet.
And all the while Miguel took his pictures, tears streaming from his one real eye.
* * *
Miguel parted the red curtains and took in the crowd of hundreds filling the stadium-seating auditorium. All of them had come to honor the International Photographer of the Year. To Miguel’s left, the emcee was setting the stage for Sandro’s suicide, telling the story as the pictures from Miguel’s book played on the huge screen at the back of the stage.
Then the emcee called Miguel’s name. The crowd began applauding imm
ediately, but Miguel had to take a few deep breaths to control himself before stepping onto the stage. The applause and embarrassment and shame washed over him as he walked over and accepted the award. He gave a speech, as he had for the four other awards he’d won for various photographs and the book, which hit the shelves six months ago. It had been over a year since Sandro had killed himself, and the memory hadn’t faded. It had, in fact, grown stronger, because Miguel had been forced to relive the moments over and over again in speeches, interviews, and during the book’s long and intense editing process.
It was due penance, Miguel told himself.
It was only right.
Sandro had given the ultimate sacrifice. The least Miguel could do was pass Sandro’s message on as he’d promised.
The speech was finally over, and after trading pleasantries with dozens of other photographers, the crowd thankfully began to thin. But then he caught sight of a mousy woman sitting calmly, watching him. Recognition came, and he tried hard to hide his disappointment. He’d completely forgotten he’d granted this interview.
When the last of the crowd had left, the woman stood and made her way over.
“Mr. de la Cueva, I’m Beth Harrison.”
“Of course. So glad to finally meet in person.”
A wry smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You look like you’d rather be eating worms than standing here talking with me.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You think? Look, I know this must be tough for you. We could reschedule if you’d prefer.”
“No.” He motioned to a nearby auditorium chair. “Please.”
She sat, placing his book on her lap. On the cover was a 3D picture of his frail grandfather, standing upon a lush green lawn with nineteen other Mexican men and women, all of them wearing orange prison uniforms, lighters held to their chests, mouths open in a perpetual scream.
The title read No Viviremos Como Presos: We Will Not Live As Prisoners.
After Miguel had sat down next to her and settled himself, Beth touched the frame of her no-nonsense glasses, activating the microphone hidden there, and leaned back. “All right. You mind if we start at the beginning?”
In the Stars I'll Find You Page 26