Generation of vipers fir.., p.2
Generation of Vipers (First Contact), page 2
Veronica likes Saturn. The rings are pretty. Jorge prefers Jupiter because he can see the moons orbiting the gas giant. Watching the planets is a matter of pride for him. Maria explained comet An̆duru was too small to be seen by anything other than an observatory, but still he looks in case there’s another one coming. This morning, Saturn is a pale yellow dot high in the west.
Jorge has been trawling in the southern Bahia de Campeche fishing grounds, eighty miles off the coast of Mexico. The run home has been smooth. The sea is like glass.
Life changed after the passage of An̆duru over the Gulf. Even now, two years later, Mexico is still recovering. Entire cities have been abandoned. It’s easier to build new infrastructure than it is to demolish buildings and repair power, water and sewage lines. People, though, are sentimental. It’s difficult to move on even if there’s no hope for renewal. Humans are nothing if not resourceful. The government may have abandoned ports like Vera Cruz, opting to relocate to La Antigua in the north and Boca del Rio in the south, but not everyone can wait on construction. Like Jorge, a lot of Mexicans are stubborn—but not in an ornery way. Persistent is a better term. The government might promise a new life further along the coast, but life is to be lived now—not in a decade. People need a roof over their heads, not sheets of canvas blowing with the wind. Promises are nice, but no one can live in a promise. No one can eat a promise. For better or worse, Jorge is committed to rebuilding Vera Cruz.
Seagulls squawk overhead. They drift on the breeze, looking for fish scraps. Occasionally, they land on the old trawler.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
“Huh?” Veronica says. Her eyelids flicker. She yawns, sitting up within the cabin of the fishing boat. She should have gone to sleep below deck on one of the cots, but she prefers the plastic padded bench seats lining the wheelhouse so she can stay close to Jorge.
“Look,” Jorge says, pointing at the clouds.
“So pretty.”
The sea is calm. The diesel engine beneath the deck hums, pushing them on. The wake kicked up by the fishing boat sends waves racing across the slick surface.
Veronica wanders out onto the wooden deck of the boat, staring up into the sky.
“This is why I love the sea,” Jorge says. “On this day, there is nowhere on Earth more beautiful—more peaceful. The Gulf is more stunning than any painting in the museums of Paris or New York.”
Veronica nods. Jorge can see the wonder in her eyes. Being a ten-year-old orphan in Mexico, Paris might as well be the Neverland of Peter Pan, while New York is no more real than Alice’s Wonderland. These are names thrown around by adults or fairytale cities on television. Jorge ruffles her hair. He’d love to take her to these mystical places one day. He’d love to see them for himself.
Jorge’s been working on his nets for the past few hours, stringing them up on poles and repairing tears. He walks over and sits on one of the lids to the hold. With aging hands, he picks up a netting needle and continues weaving a thread back and forth. The more he does out here, the less there will be to labor over under the hot sun later today.
“Did we do well?” Veronica asks, stretching.
“We did well,” Jorge says. “We have a good catch. We will feed many mouths today.”
Veronica lifts the lid and peers into the darkness of the hold. Mounds of fish lie on top of each other in plastic baskets. Ice overflows around the edge, shifting with the slight rocking of the boat.
“Are you hungry?” Jorge asks, pulling an apple from his lunchbox. Maria always sends him out with too much to eat. She worries about him. She says he’s too old to work the waters. Grandfathers should sit onshore, she says. For Jorge, the sea is life. Pride keeps him going out to the fishing grounds. Maria has begged him to take some of the young men with him, but he’d rather they rebuilt Vera Cruz. The government might have moved on, but the young know. They see the future. As for him, he can handle the sea.
He hands Veronica an apple. It crunches as she sinks her teeth into the smooth skin.
For the next hour or so, they trundle along in silence, with just the hum of the diesel engine between them. Jorge works on his nets while Veronica sits in the wheelhouse, watching for other ships.
Eventually, she says, “We’re approaching the harbor beacon.”
“Aye, captain,” Jorge says, returning to the wheelhouse. “Shall I take her in or will you do the honors?”
Veronica grins. “I need someone I can trust on the lookout.”
“I can do that,” Jorge says, smiling.
Veronica climbs up on the raised captain’s chair and positions herself behind the wheel. Her feet dangle in the air. She rests one hand on the wheel and the other on the levers to her right. A quick glance at the dials in front of her and she’s all business.
“Red, right, returning,” she calls out, pulling gently on the throttle. “Passing to starboard. Reducing speed to ten knots.”
“Aye captain,” Jorge says, standing behind her in the doorway. He hoists his arm up on one of the joists supporting the roof of the wheelhouse. The wind catches his hair.
“Easy as she goes,” Veronica says in perfect mimicry of him from days gone by. If anything, she’s far more attentive than he is when at the wheel. Ten knots is a strict speed for her. Jorge normally comes in at anywhere under twenty. Whereas he’ll lean on the wheel, she holds it with white knuckles. Jorge tends to come in too shallow, while Veronica keeps at least fifty feet separation from the various markers and buoys on approach.
She brings the trawler in toward the makeshift dock.
“Dropping to five knots,” she says, easing back on the throttle and turning to follow the channel in toward land. “Fenders out. Ready on the ropes?”
“Fenders out. Ready on the ropes,” Jorge replies, repeating her instruction back to her to show he’s heard her. He tosses a couple of old tires over the side of the boat to act as bumpers against the dock.
“Three knots and we are in line,” Veronica says. “Ready starboard?”
“Aye, captain.”
Jorge stands on the gunwale with a rope in hand. Maria is waiting on the dock, but she doesn’t look impressed. She’s got her arms folded across her chest and a scowl on her face.
“Two knots,” Veronica says, bringing the trawler to a halt. “And reverse. And full stop.”
The boat barely bumps against the dock. Jorge steps off onto the wooden planks. Veronica shuts down the engine. Instead of exiting via the cabin door, she climbs out of the open side window and jumps onto the dock to help him with the ropes.
“Well done,” he says as she joins him. They high-five.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Maria whispers to Jorge. “Not on a school day. She needs her sleep.”
“She gets her sleep,” Jorge insists, tying up the boat. “She sleeps better out there than she would in the orphanage.”
Maria sighs. “If we are to adopt her, the government wants to know we can care for her. You can’t just take her out fishing at night.”
“We care for her,” Jorge insists.
Veronica nods. “I’m cared for. I am.”
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Maria says to her. “No one. Do you understand?”
She nods.
“Nothing about the boat, okay? Not ever. They’ll think it’s dangerous. Too dangerous for a young child.”
“Okay.”
Vera Cruz was decimated by the wave that followed in the wake of An̆duru. The old city was swept away. Thousands of people died. The shoreline moved roughly two hundred yards inland following the tsunami.
Without government support, the rebuilding effort is slow. Padre Jesus is overseeing the construction of a new orphanage on the hill. Jorge and Maria live in a hut built out of debris cleared from the foreshore.
Jorge’s original fishing boat was destroyed by the wave, but news of how he saved Padre Jesus and the orphans spread throughout Latin America. He became a folk hero. A retired fisherman from La Ceiba in Honduras gave him The Santiago Apostol, a forty-foot trawler. Since then, Jorge has been on a mission to feed as many people as he can each day.
Disaster aid still comes overland from Xalapa, but it’s sporadic, with most of the effort going to the new developments. Only a handful of boats operate off the east coast of Mexico. Drinking water is plentiful but food is scarce. Schools are open. These days, they function more as a daycare than an educational institute. Helicopters fly overhead, ferrying in medical supplies. Even though the day has only just dawned, the sound of hammers and power saws can be heard as the reconstruction effort continues.
Most of what Jorge catches is given away. Maria works at a field hospital established by Médecins Sans Frontières. She talked the director into trading freshly smoked fish for diesel to power The Santiago Apostol.
Several locals help with preparing the catch for cooking. Like Jorge, they’re volunteers. They begin unloading the catch onto carts and hauling it to the gutting station. Someone’s already slicing fish open and emptying their entrails into the sea. Birds squawk, excited by the offal falling into the waves.
A car pulls up at the end of the dock. It’s still got its headlights on, which is unusual given the sun is up. Someone’s been driving for a long time. Given most of the roads are impassible, they had to have driven up from the south, taking the mountain route.
“Breakfast is ready,” Maria says as they walk back home.
Two men make inquiries onshore, questioning one of the locals. Someone points at the three of them walking along the dock.
“Jorge? Jorge Rodríguez Mendez?” one of the men says in a distinct US accent.
Jorge eyes the man with suspicion, refusing to reply.
A friendly handshake is offered.
“Eric Brown, PBS.”
“I pay my taxes,” Jorge says in English. “I owe nothing to the US. Nothing!”
“Easy,” Maria says, but Jorge is defiant.
“It was a long time ago. You cannot hound a man—”
“Papa,” Maria says, resting her hand on his forearm. “PBS, not IRS.”
Eric clarifies. “PBS is the US Public Broadcast Service. You might have seen some of our shows down here. Wonders of Mexico? Nova? SpaceTime with Dr. Matt O’Dowd?”
“Pati’s Mexican Table,” Maria says, nudging Jorge. “You’ve seen me watch Pati.”
“Huh,” Jorge says, unconvinced. He puts his arm around Veronica’s shoulder, pulling her close. He’s unduly protective.
“You’re a hard man to reach,” Eric says, being friendly. “We’ve been trying to get word to you for weeks.”
Maria asks, “Where have you come from Mr. Brown?” She points at the car. “You’ve driven a long way to get here.”
Thousands of bugs lie splattered across the car’s grill. The plates aren’t local.
“Vera Cruz is difficult to reach,” Eric says. “We had to fly into Guatemala and drive up from there.”
“You’re very persistent, Mr. Brown.”
“I am,” he replies, apparently taking that as a compliment. Jorge, however, understands Maria’s intent. As protective as he is of Veronica, Maria is like a lioness. She’s deeply suspicious. PBS sounds innocent enough, but Jorge finds it difficult to accept change as good. He’d rather one day was simply the repeat of another.
“Why have you come here?” Maria asks. That’s what Jorge wants to know, but he doesn’t say as much. He’s happy for her to take the lead. Although Jorge speaks fluent English, for now, he plays dumb.
“PBS is working with NASA to sponsor a conference in Houston next year, examining the impact of An̆duru on our world. We heard about your father—how he saved the orphans that night. We’d like to invite him to be a guest speaker. This is a chance for him to share his story with the world.”
Maria has her hands on her hips. She’s not convinced.
Eric gestures to the ruins around him. “Your father will be able to highlight the plight of the rebuilding effort here in Vera Cruz.”
Jorge looks at Maria. Although he understands what’s being said, he’s struggling to grasp the implications. His initial reaction is this seems good, but he’s unsure. He wants some reassurance. Besides, he’s needed here. Someone has to fish the waters.
Maria says, “We don’t have—”
“Flights and accommodation will be paid for,” Eric says. “And expenses. Plus an honorarium. Your father will be our guest.”
“No flights,” Jorge says, shaking his finger. “No tin can for me.”
“My father will not fly.”
Eric says, “But he was evacuated in a helicopter, right?”
“And it terrified him for weeks afterward.”
Eric addresses Jorge. “An airplane, a commercial flight, is entirely different—I promise.”
“No. No. No.”
Veronica tugs on Jorge’s trousers, asking, “Can we go to Disneyland?”
Eric crouches before her, saying, “Oh, sorry. Disneyland is in LA. But I can get you a tour of the Johnson Space Center. You’d get to see rockets and astronauts.”
“Like the ones that went to the Moon?” Jorge asks.
“Yes,” Eric says, straightening up. “They all trained at JSC.”
“Can we go?” Veronica asks, still tugging at his trousers. “Please can we go?”
“We have no passports,” Jorge says.
Eric says, “We have plenty of time. The conference isn’t for another seven months. Given the disruption caused by An̆duru, the US Embassy in Mexico City has offered a waiver and issued you temporary visas. All you need is a driver’s license or some other government-issued ID. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“Please, please, please,” Veronica says, jumping up and down with excitement.
Jorge looks to Maria as though she were the parent. She smiles.
“By boat,” Jorge says, raising a finger. “No plane. I will take The Santiago Apostol up the coast.”
“Works for me,” Eric says, offering Jorge a handshake. Reluctantly, the big man agrees.
Senator Wilson
“The technical issues have been resolved,” a voice says through the speakers within the auditorium. “And we are live again in five, four, three…”
Kath is anxious. She wants to pee. She doesn’t need to. She went to the bathroom before walking into the massive hall over an hour ago. It’s just nerves, but her bladder disagrees. As one of the lead investigators into the journey of An̆duru through the solar system, Dr. Kathleen McKenzie was called on to help prepare for this debate. She’d rather be back at NASA’s JPL.
On stage, President Aston looks calm. It’s an illusion. They’ve both seen the polling. They’ve both been briefed on the most likely talking points this evening. The alien spacecraft hasn’t come up yet, but it will. Anxiety eats away at Kath’s mind.
Senator Scott Wilson looks smug standing behind a Perspex lectern on stage opposite the President. Spotlights catch every carefully rehearsed facial expression. At 48, Wilson is a decade younger than the President. The senator’s fit and trim, wearing a black three-piece suit, a heavily starched white business shirt and a brilliant red tie. With short grey hair on the sides of his head and wavy, dark hair on top, the senator’s rockstar good looks and charismatic smile are magnetic.
President Aston, by comparison, looks worn and old. She’s wearing a formal white dress along with white pearls, only the stage lighting does her no favors. Her skin is pale while her hair is wispy, almost sickly. Her outfit needs a splash of color to give it life. As for make-up, the senator’s wearing more than she has had on for days. But for him, the blush daubed on his cheeks isn’t gaudy. It plays well before the cameras, making him appear like an actor on a Broadway stage. To Kath’s mind, he is.
Presidential debates ought to be more than fashion week in Milan. No one should care about appearances and yet everyone does. It’s subliminal. Clothing may be a facade, but people read body language for intent. They read posture, temperament and styling as a measure of character. By themselves, these things are meaningless and yet they amplify the message being delivered by the candidates.
The floor manager points at the moderator. A red light glows above one of the cameras, indicating where he should direct his gaze.
“Welcome back to the final Presidential debate. We are one week out from the election and the eyes of the nation are upon us. The world is watching, waiting to see if President Aston will win a second term or if the firebrand senator from Texas has the momentum to snatch the White House. The final question of the night goes to you, Senator Wilson.”
Long before the debate began, the senator knew he had public opinion on his side. The passage of An̆duru over the Gulf of Mexico caused more than infrastructure damage and the loss of life, it eroded the President’s political support. Everyone loves a war-time President. Once the war is over, though, it’s time to shed dead weight. Senator Wilson offers the nation change. Whether that change is for the better remains to be seen, but the allure is there regardless.
After an hour and a half of fierce debate, Senator Wilson has President Aston on the ropes. Her stooped shoulders show she’s been beaten. The President looks as if she’s ready to head for the dressing room and start working on damage control with her campaign team. Senator Wilson, though, isn’t finished with her. Not yet. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. Is it anger? Cruelty? Spite?
The moderator says, “Two years ago, Comet An̆duru skimmed the gas giants in our solar system. It used the dense clouds of Saturn and Jupiter to slow its approach to Earth. Here in the US, conspiracy theories were rife. Like comets during the Dark Ages, most people saw it as a harbinger of doom. The official line from the Aston administration was that the approaching alien spacecraft posed no threat to life on Earth. We now know that not to be the case. Senator Wilson, if you had been President at the time, what would you have done? How would you have handled this crisis?”
“First,” the senator says. “I would have surrounded myself with competent advisors.”
Ouch!
Kath shrinks a little in her seat. If this were a boxing match, Wilson would have just scored a hit with his lightning jab.
