CHAPTER
TWO
Flickering light from a hardwood fire in the deep fireplace failed to reach the corners of the immense room, but gave a steady heat that warmed the man while he worked. Armando Cabral sat close to his desk, leaned forward to closely watch the numbers scrolling down the screen of his workstation. He made occasional notes on a sheet of fine parchment. His writing instrument was a prized possession, an antique fountain pen dating back to the first century of the Aurilian League and copied from a museum piece brought out by the first colonists from Terra. It was black and heavy, fat in his hand, like one of his cigars, and he would write with nothing else.
The parchment on which he wrote was rare, hand-crafted, each sheet more costly than a dozen memory cubes. But the feel of pen on paper slowed the pace of his mind in times of serious thought. It connected him to his ancestors, those who had come far from an overcrowded world to begin new life on a harsh but empty planet and create the miracle now called Belarous Tower.
The desk at which he worked was ornately carved mahogany with a polished top two meters by a meter and a half, on which rested his workstation, a videophone, and an ebony box filled with his favorite cigars shipped regularly from Colomba. The cigars had been illegal since the start of the war, with an embargo on all products from that rogue planet, but for Armando Cabral, exceptions were made when dealing through the proper channels. It was a matter of profit distribution. In the efficient conduct of business, he knew well, wealth must be shared with the less fortunate.
It was near midnight, his favorite time, quiet hours for concentration and serious thought about the exciting new problems that arose each day in the vast expanse of his holdings. Angelina was upstairs in her study, reading another historical novel. They would meet later for a glass of wine and quiet talk, and then make the long walk to their west wing bedroom, but not for lovemaking. At least she allowed him to hold her as they fell asleep. Armando was thankful she showed some affection for him and shared his bed each night. There had been times when he'd foolishly neglected her, and for that he'd paid a horrible price.
I was younger, then, he thought, then realized his vision had blurred in a moment of reverie. He stopped the scroll, backed up four screens, and refocused his attention. Around him three walls were lined with books, floor to ceiling, all unread by himself, all centuries old. Many of the books were gifts to Angelina, a prolific reader, given by those who sought favor with her husband, and with occasional success. The thick, orange carpet in the room was barely worn, plush chairs and couches virtually untouched. Armando's place was here, behind the desk, turning the economic gears of Nova Brazilia and the rest of the Aurilian League.
He was interrupted by a beep from the videophone, but it was an intercom call, for the screen remained dark.
“Yes?” he said gruffly, irritated by the intrusion.
“M-1, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but you have a visitor.”
“At this hour? Who is it?”
“From the Defense Ministry, sir. Vicente Pinzon. He says it's urgent he speak with you and madam. It's about your son Eduardo.”
Armando felt like a hand had just seized his heart, and was squeezing it. “Bring him right in, but do not bother madam. I'll call her later.”
“Yes, sir,” said the servant, and clicked off.
Of course it could be anything, thought Armando, perhaps even a promotion. Good news, brought by the Defense Minister in charge of ground forces, and an old, dear friend. He willed calmness, but his hand darted to the ebony box and withdrew a cigar, which he immediately bit into at one end and began to chew.
A moment later there was a soft knock on the large double doors of the room. Armando stood up, and stepped to the front of the desk. “Come in, Vicente,” he called out cheerfully, and the doors opened. A tall, slender man with prominent nose and cheekbones stepped into the room, and the servant bowed slightly before closing the doors behind him. The man was dressed in formal black, a cape draped over his shoulders, an ebonite walking stick in one hand. He smiled as Armando walked towards him, hand stretched out in greeting.
They shook hands warmly. “A very late visit, my friend, but of course you know the hours I keep,” said Armando.
“I was counting on that,” said Vicente. “Your servant is protective of your privacy. At first, I thought he wouldn't let me in, but his logic is good. I'd almost forgotten he's a sim.”
“I have three others just like him, all patterned after my dearly departed Miguel. Come in, come in. Let me get you a brandy.”
“No thanks, Armando. I can only stay a few minutes. I have to return to a reception at the Ministry before the guests begin to leave. I only came because of some news I received, and I wanted to bring it to you personally before you hear anything from the military.”
“It's about Eduardo,” said Armando softly, his controlled voice breaking just enough to show concern.
Vicente put a hand on his arm. “Wait, now, we don't know everything yet. What I've heard is that Zed Force was in a severe firefight in the Girandot valley south of Valdez last night, and Eduardo was commanding one of the units. They were sent in to take out a bunker reported to be hiding Cesar Guzman, the last of the cartel leaders we've been trying to eliminate, but something went wrong. There was an ambush, and two of the units didn't arrive until it was over. There have been many casualties among two of the units, and one of those was Eduardo's. I don't know anything else, Armando, except that Guzman either managed to escape or was burned up in the bunker. I should have further news shortly, perhaps within hours. The Ministry knows I'm here. Should we tell Angelina what we know?”
Both men jumped at the sound of her voice.
“And what would you two have to tell me that's so secretive? I thought I heard your voice from the foyer, Vicente. I hope I'm not intruding on men's business, but I haven't seen you in ages.”
Her lovely face was peering at them from a door she had opened slightly without sound while they were talking. Now she opened it wide, and went straight to Vicente, her hand held out for a kiss.
“Angelina,” said Vicente, kissing her hand while looking into her eyes, in grand style. “How long have you been lurking at the doorway?”
“Indeed,” said Armando, a little angry, but mostly embarrassed.
Angelina put an arm around his waist, and kissed him warmly on the cheek. “Forgive me for being such a helpless snoop. Please?”
“Of course,” he said, smiling. He could do nothing else as she leaned warmly against him. She wore a black robe, her blond hair piled up high in a tousled mass, and her scent was like a room filled with flowers. Full lips, and a highly arched nose combined with a long, thin face gave her the look of ancient royalty that turned heads wherever they went.
There was an awkward silence, each man waiting for the other to speak. Angelina's smile faded. “What is it, Vicente? Why are you here at such a late hour?”
“It's about Eduardo,” said Vicente softly.
Armando felt her stiffen, and already his heart was aching for her. For him, there was only anticipation.
“Oh, no,” she said.
Vicente put a hand on her shoulder, and quietly told her everything he'd just said to her husband. “He might very well be safe. We just don't know yet, but it should be soon.”
Tears ran down her face, her head pressed to her husband's shoulder, one hand like a claw, digging into his waist. Armando kissed her forehead, squeezed her gently. “We must wait, darling. All is in God's hands now. We must have faith.”
Her answer was a sob, and she slumped against him. He sat her down in a chair, where she put her face in her hands and wept quietly. Armando caressed her hair. “Thank you for coming, Vicente. Please let us know immediately when you hear something new, at any hour.”
There was concern in Vicente's eyes as he looked down at Angelina. Armando saw empathy there, and a desire to comfort. There were times when Armando had seen envy in the man's eyes when Angelina was in her husband's arms, but who could fault a man for that when the woman was as beautiful as she?
“I will call our sons to be here with her,” said Armando.
Angelina lowered her hands, and looked up at him. “And you will go upstairs to light a candle with me,” she said.
“I will, right away.”
They escorted Vicente out of the study, down a short hallway lined with the portraits of ancestors to the white marble foyer with its fountain gurgling soothingly. Winding staircases on two sides led up to second level. Bright light from a crystal chandelier made the mood less somber here, and Angelina seemed to brighten with it, for a moment. At the door, she embraced Vicente warmly, her arms around his neck. “Thank you so much for coming,” she whispered, and her husband watched, feeling a sting of jealousy he knew to be foolish over a simple embrace.
Vicente hugged her gently, reached out to shake Armando's hand, and M-1 appeared out of nowhere to open the door for him. “I pray the news will be good,” said Vicente, and left the house, walking to the circular drive where a black limousine awaited him.
Door closed, M-1 asked, “Anything else, sir? Madam?”
“Nothing, Miguel. You may retire, now,” said Armando, and the servant went away.
Angelina took his hand, led him upstairs to the long hallway leading to the west wing, the floor and walls in white marble, walls decorated with family crests and portraits of ancestors of the two great families that had come together with their marriage. She hugged his arm as they walked, and murmured, “I will light two candles, and ask Our Mother to delay Her embrace of my youngest son. She will hear you, too, if you only share the desire in my heart. Despite your disbelief, she will listen, Armando. She loves even the disbelievers.”
“I will light the candles as a token of my desire, but you must pray for me,” he said. For Armando, there were no Gods, only human beings whose actions determined the outcomes of their lives. But Angelina was a believer. Their children had been raised in the Church; he attended mass regularly with her, and paid a generous tithe that only enforced his own, private belief that religion was a profitable business. It was a business that worked against him.
In his heart, Armando despised The Church, though its powers were rapidly waning. Only in the Governor's capital city and on the world of Colomba was the influence of an ancient religion truly felt: bells tolling the call to prayer, the shrines in each house, the framed Rules of Avoidance posted on a wall in each bedroom. The new technologies were regarded as evil, false gods substituted for The Mother. They were confined to the godless majority that lived in Belarous Tower to generate each day a new fortune for Armando Cabral. And The Church gladly accepted his tithe.
Suddenly Angelina pulled on his arm. “Can we stop here — for just a moment?” They had not yet reached their suite, and the shrine there. She had stopped at the door to Eduardo's old room, unchanged since he'd left home for the military academy six years past.
“Of course,” he said, understanding.
The odor of countless aerosols struck him when she opened the door and switched on the lights. Long unoccupied, two large windows were shuttered to keep out light and heat of the day. There was a single bed in one corner, a closet, a simple bureau, a table heaped with sketches, two cans stuffed with charcoal sticks and colored pencils. It was not truly a bedroom, but a studio where their youngest had pursued his first passion in life until yielding to Armando's pressure for a more meaningful pursuit. The stench of oil paints and solvents was overwhelming, making his eyes water.
“It's dangerous to breathe in here,” he grumbled.
Five easels were scattered around the room, unfinished paintings draped in linen. Two large tables smeared with clay were littered with blocks of plastics containing phantom images of city scenes, some of Eduardo's earliest experiments with laser etching and color center activation. Armando reached out to pick one up.
“Don't,” said Angelina. “We'll leave everything untouched — for his return.” Tears filled her eyes, but she smiled at him.
“This is what he really wanted, you know. He did not want to be a soldier,” she said softly.
“It was his choice,” said Armando. “Nobody forced him.”
“He did it to please you, Armando. He loves his father. He would do anything for you. And now —” She began to cry again, and Armando felt an ache in his chest.
“We have candles to light, darling. Let's do what we can to bring him back to us.”
They left the room of their youngest son, and went to their own, where Angelina knelt at the shrine of Our Mother. She lit two candles, passed the match to her husband to do the same. He stood behind her, feeling uncomfortable, as she bowed her head and prayed silently for a long time. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The statue on the shrine seemed to be looking at him, the eyes glowing from reflected candlelight. He averted his eyes from it, gazed down at his wife's head and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Minutes were like hours, and the statue was still staring at him. He wanted to grab it and smash it on the floor. The smell of candle wax was suddenly foul. He wanted to leave the shrine, take his wife to bed and hold her in his arms, but dared not even suggest it when she was so deep in her supplications to a Goddess of imagination. There was a distant sound, a pounding, on and on, and then it stopped. Angelina still prayed, hands clasped to her face and glistening with the wetness of her tears.
They were both shocked by the intercom call that broke the silence.
“M-2, sir. Senor Vicente has returned with news for you. He's waiting in the foyer. Will you see him?”
“Yes!” said Armando. “We'll be right down!”
Angelina shuddered as he pulled her to her feet. “Oh, Armando,” she whispered. “So soon, so soon.”
“We must be strong,” he said, enveloping her with his arms.
They went quickly down the endless hallway, but it was as if they were prisoners on the long walk to execution, time speeding. When they reached the foyer, Vicente saw them and raced up the stairs, arms outstretched. Angelina sobbed, and Armando felt a horrible dread for her at the grimness of Vicente's face. For himself, there was elation.
“Dear friends — your son is alive!” said the man.
They came together in an embrace. Armando felt only shock. Angelina burst into tears. “She has heard me. She has heard me!” she cried.
“I received the news in the car, and came right back,” said Vicente, hugging both of them. “It's not all good. Eduardo has been seriously wounded. He and three other survivors have been taken to Benedictus in Valdez, and are now in surgery. That's all I know. I can have a military vessel ready for you within the hour, Armando, and with your permission I'd like to accompany you to the hospital.”
“Take Angelina with you, Vicente, and I will join you in a day or two. There are pressing matters here that I cannot leave right now.”
“Armando, he's your son!” said Angelina angrily.
“My sim will go with you to convey my feelings of relief when Eduardo is conscious. The boy will understand, dear, and I'll be there soon. Please.”
Angelina pulled away from him, and said, “I'll only be a few minutes, Vicente. I must pack a few things.” She glared at Armando, then turned and fled up the stairs.
Vicente looked at him sadly. “Her anger is righteous, my friend. This is much more important than business. Eduardo might be near death, and you should be there for Angelina if it comes.”
Armando fought back a scowl, put a hand softly on Vicente's shoulder. “I cannot — not now. You're our closest friend, Vicente. Eduardo knows you well. A visit by our Defense Minister will be important to him.”
Vicente looked at him sadly. “Armando,” he said.
“Eduardo is my son. I have raised him with discipline and taught him all I know. He will understand, even if the rest of you do not. My sim will convey the message that comes from my heart, and for Eduardo it will be enough, if — if he lives.” Armando took a deep breath, and allowed tears to come to his eyes. He thought furiously, searching for a story Vicente might believe. And found it.
“Perhaps you are stronger than me after all, Vicente. If I were there when Eduardo died, I don't think I would be of any comfort to Angelina. I think I would behave in a foolish way. When the crisis is past, I will be there. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but I'm still disappointed,” said Vicente, frowning at him.
Armando called out, “Miguel!” The servant immediately appeared at the base of the stairs.
“Prepare my simulacrum, and send it to my study.”
“Yes, sir,” said the android, and it marched away.
“I must compose a message,” said Armando, and Vicente nodded. He left him on the stairs, and went back to his study to deal with the moment, imaging the thoughts of a loving father. He composed the message without pause, allowing his emotions to move him, then stored it in the sim's active file, and paused to chew on a cigar.
A moment later the sim arrived, led in by M-2. It waited by the door until Armando motioned it forward. The android moved smoothly, the top of its line, dressed in a gray business suit, its thin face younger than Armando's by several years. Armando stood up as it reached his desk. “Input,” he said.
The sim turned its back to him. Armando took a thin cable and jacked it in at the base of the sim's neck, pressed two keys on his terminal, and waited only seconds before removing the cable. “Complete,” he said.
The sim turned and looked at him without expression. “Supplemental?” it asked, its voice a hollow, deep approximation of his own.
“None. Just deliver the message when Eduardo is awake and receptive. Make sure that he hears it. Otherwise, stay in Reception Mode.
“Reception Mode,” replied the sim, storing the new input.
Armando accompanied his duplicate back to the foyer, where Vicente waited by the door. The man looked at both of them, and shook his head. “The resemblance is frightening,” he said. “Only the age and lack of facial expression betray the difference.”
“The message is the important thing,” said Armando.
Angelina came down the stairs wearing a long cloak, and carried a small bag. Vicente opened the door as she arrived, her face hard.
“Please understand,” said Armando, but she didn't look at him.
Angelina brushed past him. “I don't understand, and right now I think you're horrible,” she said, and marched straight towards the waiting limousine.
Vicente patted his arm. “Please come as soon as you can.” He motioned to the sim, and it followed its mistress outside. “I will do what I can for her.” said Vicente.
“I'm sure you will,” said Armando, “and thank you. Please, Vicente, don't judge me too harshly.”
Vicente smiled faintly, and left. Armando waited until the car had sped away, then closed the door. The servant stood right there, awaiting instructions.
“No further visitors for any reason, Miguel. I wish to be alone.”
“Yes, sir.” The android locked the door, and went back to its receptacle west of the foyer.
Armando went back to his study, closed the doors behind him, and locked them. The fire in the fireplace had burned down to embers. Armando used a poker to prod it into flaming again. He retrieved the cigar he'd left lying on the desk, clipped off its end, then slowly, deliberately lit it, and puffed luxuriously. A day with the balcony door open would surely destroy the evidence of his rebellion, and the cigar helped him think. What could he say? What should he say, now that it was over?
The house creaked, still settling in the night. A layer of smoke formed at head level in the room as he paced and thought. Finally, it was enough. Armando went to the wall behind his desk, removed two crossed swords from the family crest there, and placed them on the desk top. The crest opened outwards like a cabinet door. He punched four numbers on the lock pad of the inner door, and opened it with a click. Papers, and a velvet bag containing a few choice emeralds were inside, along with the bulky scrambler phone coded to his personal satellite in geosynch orbit two thousand kilometers overhead.
Armando punched eight numbers on the keypad of the telephone, sat down at the desk with instrument in front of him, and waited several seconds. The telephone chirped a digital tune until there was a click, and a voice said, “This is a private line.”
“And this is Miguel. There seems to have been a mix up on my order. Have your supervisor call me right back.” Armando clicked off the phone, then on again. Seconds later, it beeped at him, and he touched a key with a finger.
“Yes. This is Miguel. Go to channel three, please.” He touched another key, and leaned back in his chair, puffing vigorously on the cigar.
Another click, then a soft voice, male, with a slight Colomban accent. “I was going to call you in the morning, when we had more information.”
“Indeed,” said Armando. “And how much information is necessary, do you think? I had to find out what happened from a defense minister. I had to hear from him that Eduardo Cabral has been only wounded in action, and is alive.”
“Yes. He's in Valdez, at Benedictus. I have men there, now,” said the man on the phone.
“Oh, good. Will you then send someone in to finish what should have been done in the jungle? Are you really capable of such stupidity?”
“Why do you say that?” asked the man. “You wanted a job done, and we're doing it.”
“You ass!” shouted Armando. “Not only is Cabral alive, but half of Zed Force wasn't even touched, and now I will have to make concessions I did not want to make. Can you give me one positive result that might spare your life?”
A pause, then, “Guzman is safe. He's on his way to Nova Brazilia as we speak, and he's most grateful. The mix up on the ground was out of my hands, but I can make sure Cabral does not live through the night.”
“If you do anything to him, now, I will make sure you do not live through the night. Enough questions will be asked about the botched up operation against Guzman, and any mysterious deaths of survivors will make it even worse. Pull your men out, and do it now! I don't even want your people on the streets again until I say so. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miguel, I understand,” said the telephone voice, softly obedient. “We will do what you order.”
“Good. And call me when Guzman is in place. He is not to call me; I will contact him. If he calls me, he is dead. Tell him that.”
“Yes, Miguel. I'm sorry that —”
Armando punched the phone pad, and there was silence. A blue cloud of smoke floated around him. He walked over to the fireplace, and threw the stub remnant of the cigar into it hard.
“Idiots,” he growled.