Music of the Spheres (13 page)

As Michael and George entered the room,
Oscar stood up and motioned to two empty chairs. “Please, sit. Join us. I
implore you to tell me what you think of my coffee; the beans were freshly roasted
and ground only a few minutes ago.”

But Michael didn’t reply. Both he and
George stopped short when the second man turned and directed his toothy smile
at them.

In Spanish, Yaxche said, “George. Hello. Where
is your funny hat?”

21

Lucis Observatory :

Venus Orbit :

Justine
was the
first to regain consciousness, and a knife
of panic sliced through her awareness when she couldn’t hear or sense anyone
else in her vicinity. She began to hyperventilate.

Without her PERSuit harness or optilink,
she had no idea where she was or who was with her, if anyone. The after-effects
of the sleep agent made her feel like her head was filled with cotton, and
there was a persistent ringing in her ears.

She thrust her hands out to try to grasp
something—anything—familiar and orient herself. Her fingers brushed against
fabric, and then with both hands she tentatively felt along its length. It was
the sleeve of someone’s jacket. Only one person in their group wore a suit.

Gently shaking his arm, she whispered,
“Clive? Are you all right?”

A moan escaped his lips as he came to. “Oh,
my head,” he growled. “Did a planet land on me or something? How are you?”

“I’m all right.” Now that she wasn’t alone
in the darkness. “Can you see?” Justine asked. “Where are we?” Absently, she
scratched at the inside of her elbow.

She heard him groan as he sat up. “We’re in
a large room of some sort,” he told her. “Maybe a conference room or a lab. All
the furniture has been removed. There’s one door; it’s barred, but it has a small
window. There’s light coming in from it.”

Clive made some rustling sounds as he
struggled to his feet. “The others are here, too, but they’re still unconscious.”

Justine experienced a moment of unreasoning
panic when Clive stepped away from her, and her fingers reached out for him of
their own accord. If Clive was aware of her momentary desperation, he did not
acknowledge it. She took a deep breath to center herself. She was stronger than
this; succumbing to her fears wouldn’t help the situation.

Justine heard Clive rouse Lieutenant
Jeffries, and after a moment, the squad leader groaned and coughed as he awoke.

“That was one hell of a Mickey Finn,” he said,
his voice rough as sandpaper. A moment later, he asked, “You two all right?”

“Aside from the mother of all hangovers,
yeah,” Justine said. “Do either of you have any idea where we are?”

“Obviously we didn’t crash into the Sun,” the
lieutenant said, his voice sardonic. “Though it feels like it. My skin is on
fire.” A moment later he said, “It looks as if they’ve taken all of our weapons
and equipment. They even took my boots and belt.”

Before they had been rendered unconscious,
when they were in the hold of the liner, the soldiers had their ion rifles and
supplies. Of course, they were completely ineffectual, but it had provided
Justine with a psychological cushion. Now, it sunk home that they were
completely at the mercy of their captors.

Justine heard the lieutenant go from man to
man and shake them awake. Most of them woke in a symphony of moans and
complaints, and Corporal Marks made a remark that he felt a tingling sensation
in his legs, as if they were still asleep. When one soldier woke, Justine heard
him roll over and vomit.

“Do you see anything out there?” Lieutenant
Jeffries asked, his question directed to Corporal Marks, who answered from a
distance away.

“An empty hall. I see a few other doors.
We’re in some kind of lab complex, I would say. None of the other windows are
lit.”

“Any markings?” the lieutenant asked.

“Just room numbers. Wait—” There was a
moment of silence, and then Corporal Marks said, “Huh.”

“What?” Justine asked.

“I know where we are,” he said, his voice
rising in surprise.

“Well?” she prompted.

Clearing his throat, Marks said, “At the
end of the hall is a little trolley. There’s a symbol etched into the front of
it. A circle with a small cross hanging from the bottom.”

Lieutenant Jeffries asked, “The symbol for a
female?”

“No,” said Corporal Marks. “Venus.”

“Venus?” the lieutenant asked. “I thought
Venus was a ball of hot acid.”

The answer popped into Justine’s head. “Lucis
Observatory.”

“Right,” said Clive, back beside her. “In
Venus’s shadow. It’s the perfect hiding place. The orbital has been abandoned
for years, but the computer still collects data and transmits it home on a
regular basis. As long as the computers keep spitting out periodic data to
Earth, no one would ever suspect anyone was here.”

Using a wall to stabilize herself, Justine
stood up. “We’re missing something.”

“What?” Clive asked.

“Right before we were knocked out, the liner
slowed.”

Corporal Marks said, “Docking here?”

“No, I think we were docking with another
ship, and we were transferred over.”

Clive took a step closer to her. “What
makes you say that?”

Justine reached out and took his hand, and
lifted it up. “Two reasons. First, the liner wouldn’t have had enough fuel to
make the trip here.” She pushed up his sleeve and ran her fingers along the
skin at his elbow. There was a tiny bump there. She pressed it.

“Hey, that hurts,” he said.

“Second, we weren’t merely unconscious, we
were given a dose of thiopental or some other barbiturate. If you check, we all
have a puncture where they had us on intravenous.”

Clive whistled. “Induced coma? How long
were we out?”

Corporal Marks spoke up. “Rough calculation,
based on how far the liner had traveled, and the remaining distance to Venus, I
would say at least two or three days in transit. There’s no way to know how
long we’ve been here, but judging by the scab on my arm, we’ve been off the IV
for the better part of a day.”

Justine nodded, not knowing if anyone saw
the movement, and said, “So if you add those two facts together, that would
mean they want to keep us alive, but they want to keep our—and their—existence
a secret.”

She had continued to keep her grip on
Clive’s arm, but now she squeezed it hard. “I don’t think we’re being kept here
as hostages.”

Lieutenant Jeffries asked, “Then what do
they need us for?”

His question was interrupted when the
soldier who had vomited earlier cried out, “What the hell?”

“What is it, Private Jackson?” asked the
lieutenant.

“Sir, my apologies, sir. I couldn’t help
it. I—I voided myself. But, sir, it hurts.”

Justine heard some of the others hurry over
to investigate, and she let Clive lead her towards the group.

Clive said, “Oh my.”

“What?” asked Justine.

“That’s not shite,” Clive said.

Corporal Marks’ voice was tight. “It’s
blood.”

And that’s when the pieces of the puzzle
fell into place for Justine.

22

Ruiz Plantation :

Honduras :

Central American
Conglomeration :

It
took Michael
a moment to regain his thoughts. The
last person he had expected to be there was Yaxche. The old man looked healthy
and hale.

George was the first to speak.
“¡Hola!
Ha sido un largo tiempo.”
He stepped around the table to shake Yaxche’s
hand, and continued speaking in Spanish: “Unfortunately, I don’t know where my
funny hat is, but I wish I had it right now.”

Without the benefit of a translation
program in his portable computer, Michael struggled to keep up with the
conversation. His Spanish was very rusty, but he knew Yaxche didn’t speak
English, so he let George do most of the talking. Whenever he could, he translated
for Michael.

“We came down to Honduras to find you,”
George said to Yaxche. He took a seat at the table when Oscar, with a gracious
smile, motioned to two chairs and then snapped his finger for a servant to pour
two cups of coffee.

“I am right here,” Yaxche said, as if that
had been an obvious fact all along. There was a slight crack in his smiling
façade that Michael noticed. The old man was just as much a prisoner as they
were.

“Are you all right?” Michael asked. One
thing he realized quickly was that Yaxche’s grandson was not present. Was he
someplace else? Was he ill? Dead?

“Yes.” Yaxche nodded. “Oscar has been very
kind.”

“The only thing that separates us from the
beasts is manners,” Oscar said. “Please, fill your plates. Eat.”

They didn’t need any more prompting.
Michael’s stomach rumbled as he loaded his dish with half a dozen strips of
bacon, two hardboiled eggs, and spread jam on a hot piece of toast. He dug into
his breakfast with gusto. It was a feast fit for a king, as far as Michael was
concerned, especially after having had nothing to eat since the previous
morning.

He wanted to grill Yaxche, but without
knowing more about the situation and getting all the facts, Michael decided to
hold off on his questions for the time being.

Between mouthfuls of food, George nodded to
Señor Ruiz. “Perhaps we can impose on your generosity with a question?”

“Of course,” Oscar said, with a flourish of
his hand.

“What is to become of us?”

“For now, the three of you will remain here
as guests, so long as I have your word that you will not abuse my hospitality.”
He looked into Michael’s eyes for a moment, and then George’s to ensure both
men understood and agreed to the condition. “As for the future, I cannot say;
though it is my understanding that you will not be ransomed.”

So they were to be held as hostages,
Michael concluded. A second thought occurred to him. If they didn’t need to
ransom them, then the Cruzados already had enough money to fund their
operation. It was a little scary to think this organization had grown so
quickly without the notice of the international security agencies.

There was still the question about where Oscar’s
loyalties lay, but Michael had to assume their host would report every word of
their conversation to whoever gave him orders. The entire
hacienda
could
be bugged, for all he knew.

Although his mind screamed for answers
about the events surrounding Yaxche’s kidnapping—and their own—Michael instead
took a long drink of his coffee. “You are right. This is the best cup of coffee
I’ve ever tasted.”

Oscar beamed with pride. “Thank you. It is
from my personal stock. Only the best for my guests.”

George, picking up on Michael’s lead,
asked, “Perhaps you could give us a tour of your operation sometime.”

“Of course,” their host said. He looked up
as a younger man dressed in a light grey suit appeared in a doorway and nodded
to him. Absently, Oscar said to George, “It would be my pleasure, but we will
have to do this at some other time. Right now, I have some business matters to
attend.” He stood up and bowed to his guests. “Please, finish your breakfast.
Help yourselves to as much as you want. You may, if you wish, stretch your legs
with a walk around our grounds. I’m sure Humberto, as always, will escort you.”

With that, Oscar took one last sip of his
coffee and left the room.

Michael was chomping at the bit to grill Yaxche,
but he wanted to find a place where they could have at least some semblance of
privacy. Waiting until George had cleared his second helping of breakfast, he looked
back and forth between his friend and Yaxche, and said, “Perhaps we could take
our coffee outside, and sit for a while?”

One of the servants, picking up on
Michael’s suggestion, immediately loaded a serving cart with the coffee urn, a
dish of sugar and a small pitcher of cream, and led them outside to a veranda.

Half a dozen palm tree saplings had been
planted in large ceramic pots and placed strategically around the veranda to
provide as much shade as possible. It was still early morning, but the tropical
sun was already beating down. A few dribbles of sweat began to form on
Michael’s forehead and neck.

They sat in wicker chairs around a patio
table, the base of which was made of carved wood, and the round top was a
mosaic of various pieces of hand-cut stone.

Humberto took up a position at the edge of
a set of stairs, putting himself between the hostages and the field—and
possible escape. He was far enough away that, if the three of them talked in low
voices, they wouldn’t be overheard. There was no way to guarantee there wasn’t
a hidden microphone in their vicinity, but Michael had to assume they had
enough privacy to discuss the events that had led the three of them to their
present circumstances.

As they conversed in Spanish, Michael
interrupted only occasionally when he didn’t understand a word or phrase.
Again, he let George do most of the talking.

George started off by telling Yaxche what
they knew; which wasn’t very much.

“When we arrived at your village, we were
told your grandson was also abducted. Did they take him someplace else? Is he
all right?”

Yaxche’s face fell at the mention of his
grandson. “He was not taken,” he said. “It is my great shame to say he was the
one who took me.”

Michael and George shared a surprised look.
“What do you mean by that?”

“He is not the boy he used to be. He has
changed. His heart, I believe, has seen too much pain.”

Concern in his voice, Michael said, “We
spoke to your daughter. She told us about his fiancée.”

“Itzel,” Yaxche said in a whisper. “She was
an angel, but her time was short.
Te’irjiil
could not
forgive himself, or us.”

“You?”

“He blamed all of us—me, the village
council, even our country—for not saving her. He always thought we should have
sold the ancient scroll to NASA for medicine and machines.”

“But,” George said slowly, casting his eyes
back and forth between Michael and Yaxche, “your daughter said he came back
from a long trip with medicine and technology. If he blamed the people from your
village, why would he help them?”

Yaxche stared out into the field. “It may
be darkened, but I believe it is still a good heart that beats in his chest.”

Michael asked in broken Spanish, “I
understand he told everyone he made the money gambling. Do you think he may
have sold the scroll instead?”

“Not the scroll,” Yaxche said. “Its secret.”

Michael immediately glanced up to see if
Humberto was listening in. The Cruzado was busy looking bored and chewing a
dirty fingernail.

“We’ve had hundreds of cryptologists, translators
and decoding computers working on that document for over a dozen years,”
Michael said. “NASA has all but given up on it providing them with any
significant meaning, and I believe Quantum Resources has mothballed the
project.” Michael gave George a glance for confirmation of that last point.
“And all this time, Alex was right; you had the secret?”

Yaxche looked down at his hands, folded on
his lap. “No. I do not know the secret. I have failed my ancestors. I was
entrusted with the story, but I now realize I have never understood its true
meaning. I had hoped to pass the scroll on to my grandson, that he might
protect it through the next generation, but his eagerness to learn the story
was a trick. I saw in his eye that he discovered the truth that been hidden
from me all along.” The old man fell silent while Michael’s mind raced.

What was the secret that had eluded so many
scientists and educated minds? How had a simple villager figured it out? Was it
something so obvious and plain that seasoned professionals had dismissed it? Or
was it a genetic puzzle that only a descendant of the first transcribers could
comprehend?

George lightly touched Yaxche’s wrist with
his fingers. “No one blames you. But perhaps if you could tell us exactly what
happened, what sparked the Cruzados to kidnap you, we might be able to help you
understand.”

Yaxche said, “For a year,
Te’irjiil
had sat with me every evening, reading the story with me. Talking about its
meaning. He would hold up a small box—one of your computer machines—and tell me
it agreed with some of the story, but not with other parts. At times he would
get angry and say the scroll told nothing more than a bedtime story, and there
was no meaning. That we wasted our time.

“I thought, the last night I saw him, he would once again
leave our village and not return. But he asked me to tell him the story again.
I do not know how he came to understand the secret of the scroll, but I saw it
in his eyes. And then came his betrayal.”

Once again, Yaxche fell silent, and Michael could tell it
was difficult for him to tell the tale. It was obviously very personal and very
painful.

Over the past decade, Michael had read and re-read the
translation of the scroll, telling the story of how the Mayan people—one of the
most advanced civilizations of the pre-Columbian world—had come to the brink of
extinction over a thousand years before, after a failed civil war caused their
gods to abandon them. Like Yaxche’s grandson, Michael had always thought it
more of a parable than fact.

Yaxche had always claimed that the story had been
transcribed from the words of their ancient gods before they left Earth to
return to the stars. The scrolls themselves were of human manufacture, and of
biological origin, as was the ink with which the story was written. The only
fact that lent credence to the scroll’s ancient link was the Mayan inscription
on
Dis Pater
.

Goozal Kinich Ahua; Inti ba Rahn; Goozal Kukulcan.

“Beware the Mighty Door of Kinich Ahua; Eternity is now
Before You; Beware the Power of Kukulcan.”

Both the scroll and the inscription on the monument on Pluto
mentioned Kinich Ahua—the Mayan god of the sun—and Kukulcan—the feathered god
of war who could affect the elements and cause earthquakes.

Historians had struggled to comprehend the symbology behind
these ancient deities and what the scroll was trying to tell the descendants of
the Mayan people. At one point, a group of physicists from Arizona had assigned
each of the gods mentioned to various elements from the periodic table. They
tried combining these elements with Kinemet in various formulations to no discernible
results. For years, the ‘secret’ of how to effectively use Kinemet for effective
interstellar travel had eluded the best minds on the planet.

But for some unknown reason, Te’irjiil—the son of a
plantation worker without the benefit of a formal education—had solved the
puzzle.

“Yaxche,” George said, “I hope you know that we are here to
help you. Do you remember Alex Manez?”

“Yes, Colop is always in my thoughts, though I have not spoken
with him in many years.”

Uncertain that what he had to say would come across
correctly in Spanish, Michael asked George to translate: “Alex sent us a
message from one of our space stations to find you. He said that you have the
secret, even if you don’t know it. He couldn’t tell me anything more, because
he fell into a fugue state.”

“Ahyah. He has had a vision, then.”

Michael understood the reply, but continued speaking in
English: “I don’t know that. I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to him since
then, though I received word that he had recovered. But before he went
unconscious, he said I needed to hear the story. Wait—”

Eyes widening, Michael glanced up at George and said, “You
know, after all this time, I just realized: I’ve read the translations and
interpretations, and I listened to the recording you made when you first
interviewed Yaxche, but I’ve never actually
heard
the story itself.”

“What do you mean? You heard Yaxche telling us the story on
my recording.”

“In Spanish. And then translated into English. I haven’t
actually heard it in Mayan.”

George blinked at Michael. “I’m sure we have the Mayan
version on record somewhere. We had a few linguists on retainer who could
interpret the Mayan glyphs, and I recall several of them reading the scroll out
loud. Are you sure you didn’t access one of those recordings?”

“I don’t think so, but I also don’t think it matters. Alex
said, specifically, ‘You have to hear
him
tell you the story.’ Not one
of our linguists, but Yaxche himself.”