Casa Linda, Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova
Lightning flashed over the wide Mar Furioso to the north, briefly illuminating the crested waves. Sometimes it struck down to the sea below. At others it seemed to dance from cloud to cloud, never touching down. Still other flashes were diffused behind heavy blankets of storm clouds, causing large portions of the angry sky briefly to glow.
Underneath the fiery display, surface vessels struggled through the waves, some on their way to the Transitway to the west, others having just left it, and still others merely paralleling the coast on their trek between Southern Columbia and Colombia del Norte, the twin continents joined at the narrow Isthmus of Balboa.
A couple of miles from the frothy surf, on the marble-railed back balcony of a grand old stone-built house, situated on a steep hill overlooking the sea, the lightning likewise lit two eyes. They were strange eyes and, to some, frightening. They watched the lightning, as they watched the struggles of the ships at sea. They watched as if curious but not involved.
A primitive bird, extinct on its homeworld, landed on the balcony's railing in an effort to get under cover from the lashing rain. Half a moment later another bolt lit sky and eyes. Its light reflected from the eyes, making them seem as if they lit up of their own accord. The bird may have been primitive; it was not stupid. One look at the glowing eyes convinced it, Better to brave the storm than to sit here with those.
* * *
Patricio Carrera blinked two or three times against the bright blinding flash. Funny, he thought, for a half second there I thought I saw a trixie. Maybe I'm sicker in the head than I'd realized. Maybe . . .
Ah, never mind. Not important.
Little seemed very important to Carrera, of late. Little had, since he'd collapsed the year prior, a result of a combination of overwork and overwhelming guilt at having become at least a candidate for the title of 'Greatest Single One Day Mass Murderer in Human History.' This wasn't a title he wanted, though he thought it was one he might well deserve.
Carrera looked down at his hands, thinking, first, Miserable dainty things, and then, How can I defile my wife with the touch of hands so stained with blood?
Besides that questionable title, Carrera had many others: The Blue Jinn . . . Carnifex—the Butcher. Most still referred to him by his military title: Dux Bellorum, in Latin, or Duque, for short, in Latin's daughter, Spanish. And no one had ever so much as suggested that he resign his title and position as commander of the Legion del Cid.
Though I should, he thought. That, or find a way to force myself to take up once more the duties that are plainly mine.
Lightning flashed again, in the distance. It was another shot of ribbon lightning, which again lit from behind the clouds across the sky.
That's what Hajar looked like . . . almost . . . in the last second before the fireball destroyed the camera I watched by. What did the people see—ninety-nine percent of whom, or more, were utterly innocent, I am sure—in that last second before the fire engulfed them? Poor sorry bastards.
But did I have a choice, really? A valid one, I mean? The Salafi Ikhwan intended to nuke not one but a dozen cities. Yes, I captured their nukes before they could. But they could have gotten more . . . probably . . . eventually. And they'd have used them if they had them, of that there is no doubt at all.
Now? Now they've no support. I nuked Hajar but they took the blame. And virtually everyone in the Moslem quarter of this world counts that as Allah's doing, his ultimate statement and command that terrorism is wrong. More practically, not one country in the world is loony enough, now, to give them shelter, on the chance they might bring in a nuke and allow it to detonate. A reputation for incompetence has hurt them more than any reputation for frightfulness.
I saved tens of millions of people maybe. I killed a million, though, maybe more, for a certainty. And my hands still drip with blood. And I can't bring myself to touch my wife.
* * *
She was fairly tall for a woman of any race, but remarkably so for a woman of Balboa. In her stocking feet, Lourdes Nunez Cordoba de Carrera, wife of Patricio Carrera, stood five feet, nine inches. In heels, which she usually avoided, she towered over her man.
Like her husband's, Lourdes' eyes, too, were rare. In his case it was the color, and the dark blue circles about the irises that gave them a frighteningly penetrating quality . . . that, and their odd habit of seeming to glow under certain lights at certain angles. In hers, a gentle and beautiful golden-brown, it was the sheer size and shape that excited men and made women cringe with envy.
Those huge and lovely golden-brown orbs remained open, though the woman lay abed. Hand tucked between pillow and cheek, Lourdes stared at the strobe-lit French doors which led to the covered balcony connecting her husband's office and library with their bedroom.
I'd wish he'd come to bed, the woman thought, feeling frustration well mixed with anger and despair, but, then, what would be the point? All he'd do is lie as far to his side of the bed as possible, and then turn away. And if he actually did sleep? Then the screaming would begin.
He thinks I can't guess at Hajar. Why do men think—how can they think—that there are any secrets from wives? I hear the name of the city; I hear him mutter his plea for forgiveness. I see the tears on his cheeks.
But he never talks about it, when he talks at all. Does he think I wouldn't understand? It was war. My people were in danger. All people were endangered. Worst of all, my children were targets. Does he think I would prefer any number of strangers over my own son, Hamilcar?
