Around him, to either side, his platoons and squads fanned out across the compound. Occasionally, shots rang out wherever an FSA trooper simply felt he could not take the chance. This was the price of a fierce resistance; a price the Balboans had understood when they had decided that honor demanded that resistance.
Hennessey heard a scream rising above the sounds of battle, the scream coming from a burning building. Poor bastard, he thought. Horrible way to die. Why the hell didn't they surrender when they saw it was hopeless?
Of course, he knew the answer. I wouldn't have. Jimenez wouldn't have either. And the men will follow their leaders… if they're good men… and have good leaders. And Xavier is a good one.
A fire team leader, a corporal, led his three men to the sound of the scream without being told to. Dodging from cover to cover, they reached the building just as it collapsed. The screaming grew for a few seconds, then petered out into sobs amidst the smoke and falling sparks. Then the sobbing stopped, small mercy.
From off to one side, at another building, one of Hennessey's troopers called out, "I've got five of 'em, here."
A sergeant ordered, "Bring 'em out."
The answering voice was composed half of shock and half of wonder. "I don't think so, Sarge. They're all fucked up."
Hennessey jogged over to investigate. He passed the trooper standing flush against the wall by the door, entering a room taken straight from hell. Bodies, parts of bodies… above all, gallons of blood that lent the air an iron stench, even above the smoke. He looked for signs of life. He looked for his friend.
Hennessey knelt beside one body that still showed signs of life. With grief shaking his voice he asked, "Oh, Xavier, you big, dumb, brave fuck. Why the hell didn't you surrender when you had the chance?"
To his surprise the body answered, "Because I had my duty, Patricio."
"We sure as hell tried to get you to surrender, you know."
"I know that too, Patricio. But we had taken our oaths. We had our duty as we saw it." This time it was Parilla's turn to nod in silent agreement.
"It was too late, though?" Hennessey enquired.
"Patricio, it was always too late. It was too late when Herrera was killed in the plane crash that-I am morally certain-Pina arranged. It was too late when General Parilla here let himself be tricked out of office by Pina." Here, Jimenez referred to one of the cleverest coups in human history, where one would-be dictator, Antonio Pina, convinced a rather reluctant dictator, Raul Parilla, to resign his military post in order to run for the civil office of president… then ensured there would be no civil elections.
Parilla muttered, "Son of a bitch cocksucker," under his breath, then added, with a rueful smile, "I've got to admit it was clever, though."
"It was too late," Jimenez continued, "when the thieving son of a bitch lined his pockets with the money we might have used to build and train a force big enough and powerful enough to make your president think twice about invading until we could solve our own problems. It was too late when some of us launched the coup in October, 447, and failed. It was always too late."
"Speaking of which," Hennessey interjected, seeing that his guests had begun to look weary, "it's late, in general. I've had Lucinda make up guest rooms for both of you. If you'll tell her what you would like for breakfast, I am sure it can be arranged. In any case, we need to turn in."
The three stood then, leaving the study and walking across the courtyard to the bedroom side of the house. The rain had stopped; the skies cleared. Hennessey looked skyward at the familiar constellations-the Smilodon, the Leaping Maiden, the Pentagram-and wondered which of the bright points of light overhead were the ships of the UE Peace Fleet.
Interlude
4 August, 2040, Mission Control,
Houston, Texas, USA, Earth
The budget had been busted with not a damned thing to show for it. Then had come the scandals, the resignations, the heavily publicized trials… the obligatory appearances for public flagellation in front of a posturing Congress. Then had come very damned little money, let me tell you, brother. NASA was reduced to minor projects, as flashy as possible, to try to overcome the bad press and re-fire the public's imagination for the potential of space travel.
One such flashy mission-it amounted to little more than another photo op of the rings of Saturn-was underway now.
About the only thing positive to come out of the loss of the Cristobal Colon was that any number of astronomers and physicists had turned their attention to the area in which the probe had disappeared. There was a theory on the subject.
Based on the presence near the area of microwave variance that the physicists described as "lumpy," it seemed that the area concerned was very similar to conditions believed to have existed when the universe was virtually brand new. The theory was that the speed of light was not the same in that area as it was more generally.
This theory, by the way, was not exactly correct.
III.
An assistant flight director, bored and contemplating a night with a couple of cold beers, a hot shower and a hotter woman suddenly saw something on his screen that ought not-no way in hell-be there. He fiddled. He even faddled. But there it remained.
When in doubt, delegate. When delegation is impossible, buck it up to higher.
"What the…? Skipper? Skipper, you've got to come see this!"
Impatiently, the 'Skipper'-a retired naval officer entitled mission director for the Saturn mission-made his way to the terminal. His face was old, weather-lined, and leathery, but he walked erect. A careful observer might have noticed a certain swaggering gait that told of a life at sea now confined to the land.
"Yes, what is it?" the skipper asked.
"The Cristobal Colon just sent us a distress signal, sir."
"That's not possible. The thing disappeared three and a half years ago and never a peep."
"Look for yourself," the assistant flight director insisted, indicating his monitor screen with a pointed finger.
The skipper fumbled in his shirtfront pocket for glasses-bifocals, dammit!-and, placing them low on his nose, craned his head to look at the screen.
"I'll be dipped in shit," the skipper muttered, then continued, a growing excitement in his voice, "Don't just sit there with your teeth in your mouth. Answer it!"
A little shamefaced, the assistant flight director began typing on his keyboard. A series of protocols appeared on the screen. He scrolled through them at practiced speed. But which is… ah, there. Selecting one, and hitting return, the assistant flight director sent a signal down the line. The signal reached a largish antenna somewhere in the Rockies and was promptly beamed into space. Then came the roughly one hundred and four thousand second wait- about thirty-one hours-while the signal went out to the Cristobal Colon, was received and returned.
From that point until the ship was recovered the Colon sent an almost continuous stream of the most absolutely, most amazingly impossible data Mission Control, Earth for that matter, had ever received.
There were those who came to wish that the ship, the data, and the program had or would disappear. They had their reasons, and some of those reasons were very good ones.
Chapter Four
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Cochea, 11/7/459 AC
She glided through his dream like a goddess on a cloud; glowing with her own inner light. The halo of her hair shone with semi-divine vitality. Her perfume was the lightest fresh mist in his nostrils. Perfect rounded breasts danced-thinly veiled-before his eyes, enflamed aureoles outlined in the fabric that covered them. As ever, his eyes were dazzled.