Pedro
The town of Law and Order was situated in the Pecos Valley on a little crook in the river, amid the sage and bitter brush. Since Pedro Blasón’s falling out with Matt Dillon, by mutual agreement it was now actually two towns: Law on the north bank of the Pecos, and Order on the south side. As far as Pedro was concerned, the twain need never meet.
Pedro wiped his brow. The hot sun hung at its median in the northern sky, and he considered dropping by Donna’s Truck Stop for a coke and burger, rare and juicy, with onions and mushrooms and lots of cheese, that’s how he liked it. He stopped for a moment in the shade of a willow, and gazed across the river, wondering for just a moment about life on the other side. Law was a wild, wide-open sort of place, and Dillon had seen no reason to change it, as long as everyone more-or-less obeyed the rules. But it was the sort of environment Pedro couldn’t abide, the lack of control made him nervous. And that was the source of his falling out with his old amigo, Matt; that and Dillon’s insistence on playing by the rules, when any fool could see that the only applicable rule was that the guy at the top of the food chain got to eat the best meal. Fuck that rules shit, that was for the peasants.
Law and Order had been established to ensure that the independent ore haulers coming down from the mountains with their payloads tithed their share of taxes to the New America Corporation. Pedro insisted that it was only fair that he and Dillon take a little extra for their trouble. But Dillon didn’t look at it that way. As a consequence, the riverboat crews boycotted Order, purchasing their goods on Dillon’s side of the river. It had forced Pedro to set up his own taxing station further up river at the narrows. Dillon didn’t like that, but Dillon didn’t have the balls to challenge him.
Pedro had the highway on his side, as well. The independent bauxite triple-trailers had no choice but to stop and pay taxes to the City of Order. With the weekly construction convoys coming through, and the soldiers that accompanied them, the inns were full, the whores were happy, and the business men were getting fat. That meant Pedro was getting fat. And if the rumors were true, if the corporation was really building a highway along the edge of the forest to connect a series of military outposts, Order would soon be a rich boomtown, ripe for the pickings.
A brief thunderstorm the previous evening left the air filled with the sweet smell of wet sage and ozone. After five years, Pedro still couldn’t believe how much this place felt and looked like the chaparral country of south Texas where he grew up. Only the northern sun was wrong, and you couldn’t really convince yourself it was south, because then it would be going in the wrong direction. The southern hemisphere, they told him, but it was still unnerving when he thought about it, so he tried to not think about it when he could.
What he did think about today was the imminent arrival of Her Majesty, along with some special guest. Landing with her whole god damned entourage this evening. It was all a big pain in the ass, but he couldn’t complain, really—it was his job.
“The young man will be a guest of the good Sisters at St. Magdaleine,” her messenger had said. “He will have an around-the-clock guard, and his presence must be kept secret at all cost.”
“Tell Ms. Cheng, no problem.”
Pedro didn’t like the Sisters of the Temple. He didn’t understand them, and their secret hierarchies and hidden agendas didn’t mesh with his need for control. But they were Jolene’s bambino. As long as she protected them, their was nothing he could do. Just keep his eyes and ears open, try to make some sense of it all.
Jolene Cheng rewarded him well for his little favors. One of those favors was to keep her doings and goings out of sight of Dick Miglia, and by extension, that meant Matt Dillon. Pedro had no idea what it was all about. Some corporate power struggle that didn’t concern him. He could take care of himself. Jolene Cheng may or may not be Queen of the Fucking Universe, but Pedro Blasón was the King of Order.
Dillon
On the Law side of the river, Matt Dillon had been singing the blues, practicing most of the morning for a gig with his band, Indigo River, but now the hot sun was burning in through his north window, turning the room into a furnace. He wiped the sweat from his dark forehead with the back of his hand and turned off his karaoke machine. The new material was difficult, but it would have to be good enough. Dillon sang an occasional lead, but mostly he performed backup for Carmella Johnson, a gorgeous ebony-skinned beauty who fronted the band. Dillon loved to sing, and if it weren’t for his other commitments, he might consider moving to the big city, doing it full time. But, for now, it was all in fun.
Dillon thought maybe he was in love with Carmella Johnson, but he wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Carmella was a hard woman to know, and even though he had been sleeping with her for two years, he still couldn’t figure out where he stood with her. He wondered if maybe the price of power was never understanding what anyone really thought of you beneath that deferential mask they all wore. Even the ones who shared your bed.
He sighed, grabbed a beer, and headed for the front door. From the shade of the porch, he gazed across the broad expanse of desert, the ramshackle houses and dusty dirt roads, the willows along the river, and on the other side of the river, the tidy little town of Order. Something was happening over there in Order, Dillon could feel it. The Monitors had been alight with signals all week, encrypted messages. Jolene Cheng, no doubt—what the hell was she up to?
Dillon and Pedro Blasón had once been Jolene’s soldiers, back on Earth, but now he worked for Dick Miglia. Dillon was nothing if not loyal to his employers. Cheng was going rogue, and Pedro, the opportunistic little bastard, was betting on Cheng and trying to position himself for the biggest crumbs when it all settled down. It was pathetic, but no kind of reason could sway Pedro.
Dillon trigged his com and waited for Sharma Xerxes, his Monitor supe.
“Yes, Sir?” Sharma’s voice sounded hollow and distant, and he wondered if the New America techs were working on the com grid again.
“Sharma, are our ears still online across the river?”
“No change in status, Chief. Something new come up?”
“No. Just a feeling. Whatever is going on in Order, it’s happening soon. Just keep up the vigilance.”
“As usual, Sir.”
“Thanks, Sharma. I know you’re on top of it.”
Dillon cut the com. Sharma was a good girl, competent, and he trusted her. He just couldn’t stop worrying. Jolene Cheng made him nervous.
—
The night was unbearably hot, so Dillon pulled a mattress out to the veranda, and he and Carmella laid beneath the stars, but even outdoors it was too hot to sleep, so they spent their time naming constellations.
“See, there’s a bison,” said Carmella, pointing. “See it’s legs…there… and its horns.”
Dillon tried to picture it. “I don’t know, Carmella. The bison are gone. Should we name constellations for things that no longer exist?”
“All of those constellations back on Earth were named after Greek gods and shit,” said Carmella. “They never existed at all, Sugar.”
“You have a point.”
“Besides, Walker says he saw a white-tail deer up the canyon a couple weeks ago. If there are deer up there, then maybe there are bisons, too. They just haven’t been discovered yet.”
Dillon bristled at mention of Walker. Walker was the drummer for Indigo Blues, and he had a sweet spot for Carmella. “Damn fool wouldn’t know a deer if he saw one.”
“Matt,” scolded Carmella, “you know I won’t tolerate jealousy over Walker. That kind of shit will tear the band apart. Walker don’t mean a thing to me, Sugar. You remember that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dillon squeezed Carmella’s hand. But, Dillon was no longer thinking of Walker. He was contemplating bison.
“Carmella,” he said, after a while.
“Yeah, sweetie.”
“You ever hear the idea that the microcosm mirrors the macrocosm?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, maybe there are tiny universes that are just like our own universe, a kind of mirror. Do you know what that would mean?”
“Uh-uh.”
“It’s hard to get your mind around, unless your a Hindu or a Buddhist or something. It would mean that each one of those tiny universes would contain even tinier universes on into infinity.”
“Hmmm.”
“But, here’s the thing. The big universe would also just be part of an even bigger universe, and this too would go on into infinity. So there is infinity in both directions. And there we are, living in an infinite number of those universes–an infinite subset of infinity. And in some of them we are laying here on the veranda, but in others something has changed and we are somewhere else, doing something else. Or we are dead. Or never born.”
“So there would be bison in some of them?” Carmella asked.
“Yes, that. But, then I was thinking—”
Carmella let out a sigh.
“—I was thinking that maybe we are sleeping, and we are trying to awaken. But first, all of the Dillons and all of the Carmellas and everyone else in the tiny universes beneath us must awaken first, and then we will be awake. When that happens, and everyone in this universe is awake, then the universes above us can become conscious. And when everyone in all of the universes is awake, then God will be awake.”
“So,” said Carmella, “God is sleeping, lucky guy. Heaven is sleep. I think you may have something there, Sugar.”
“Yeah,” Dillon chuckled, “maybe so.”
—
Carmella had finally found sleep when Dillon heard his mobe chime softly from the pocket of his trousers. He slipped from bed, grabbed the pants, and carried them into the living room as he fished out the mobe. The clock on the wall said three. This had better be good. He hoped he hadn’t disturbed Carmella, the girl slept like a log once she was out, but she didn’t like to be roused by Dillon’s comings and goings.
“Dillon, here.”
“Boss, this is Sharma. I think you better get down here right away.”
“We finally have something on Cheng?” he queried.
“No, boss. We have a massacre up at Newton’s Spring. Got some travelers here who found the bodies. Think you might want to talk to them.”
“Shit. I’ll be right down.”
Dillon slid on his pants, and buckled on his Colt .45. He returned to the veranda for his shirt. Seeing that Carmella was still sleeping, he tiptoed down the porch stairs, skipping over the squeaky step.
The night air had cooled somewhat, but still brought out the sweat as he hurried along the path to the Sheriff’s Department. Sharma Xerxes was waiting at the door when he arrived. Inside were four men and a woman. The men had several days growth of beard, and all were covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. Miners, most likely.
“This is Alex Martine,” said Sharma, indicating a short, stocky redhead. He’s the crew leader.”
“Miners?” asked Dillon.
Martine scowled. “Corporate Geological Survey. We’ve been out at the big rift looking for signs of ore deposits. Decided to drive down to Manifest Destiny for supplies. Found everyone dead.”
“Did I hear that right? Everyone?”
“Yeah, twenty-four bodies. Men, women, and children. Mostly killed by arrows. A few scalps taken. Some of the women might have been raped. The buzzards were moving in—and the coyotes—so we buried them. Figured they deserved to be buried.”
Dillon looked at him with his mouth hanging open. “You buried them? Jesus Christ, how the hell am I going to do an investigation without bodies.”
“Hell,” said the redhead, “how were we supposed to know? Besides their bones would be stripped clean before you got out there.”
“Okay.” Dillon bit his tongue. “I need to see your ID. Make sure you’re who—”
Sharma cut him off. “I’m on top of that, Boss. They’re what they say they are.”
“Okay, Sharma. Take them into the interview room and get all the details you can. Even if it takes the rest of the night.”
He should keep them in town for a few days until he had a chance to ride up to the Springs. But they were Corporate Geo. He’d get his ass in a sling if he did that.
Jolene
The boy’s face, as dark as the moonless night, stared out the limo window at the chaparral landscape rushing by. The vehicle hummed quietly, and its interior lights reflected off his somber profile, outlining his features in sharp relief. He would be a handsome young man in a few years.
Jolene Cheng looked at him for a time in silence. “You know that this must be done,” she said at last. “The Sisters at St. Magdaleine will treat you well. They will continue your education, and it won’t be long until you see your mother again.”
The boy was silent, but she could see the slight change in his face, a hardening.
“It’s all for the best, Joey. My daughter has allowed you to grow soft. You will not survive this world if you are weak. Do you understand that? You have a destiny. You could rule this world someday.”
The armored car ahead of them braked as a jackrabbit bounded across the road. She could see the lights of Law and Order on the horizon. The boy’s face showed no sign she could read.
“Why?” he said at last. “Why can’t you just let us be in peace? Don’t you have enough already?”
Jolene let the fog of silence engulf them again. The boy would be her heir one day, but she couldn’t tell him that, he wasn’t ready to listen. So, it came around to the same argument every time, and what could she say that would change it? He needed to learn that the bad guys don’t give you a break. If it’s not the barbarian natives, it will be Miglia’s minions. You have to be as ruthless as they are.
The first time she had told him this, he protested. “The natives aren’t what you think they are. Aunt Bridge lives among them. She thinks they are people, too, but they’re not.”
“Then what are they?”
“I don’t know,” said Joey.
“There, you see. It doesn’t matter what we call them, they are still savages who ambush the miners and kill our settlers.”
Joey pouted. “It only wants to protect itself.” His words trailed off.
The boy was obviously confused, and he possessed too much imagination for his own good. What he needed was a disciplined, down-to-earth education to prepare him for his future. The Sisters would set him straight.
Pedro Blasón met them at the edge of town, his small coterie of police vehicles merging with flawless choreography into Jolene’s substantial entourage. Pedro roared up alongside the limo on his City of Order Police Department Harley and gave Jolene a thumbs up. He flashed an enormous grin, his long hair whipping wildly beneath his dew rag, before he sped off toward the front of the procession.
Pedro was too cocky with this outlaw act. Jolene hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him before the Joey business was behind her. She needed a loyal lieutenant, not some fucking Pancho Villa. Over-taxing the truckers was one thing, but shaking down the ore barges had to stop. If she didn’t stop it, Miglia would move in, and nothing good would come of that.
The boy was sleeping now. In sleep, he had a look about him that reminded her of his grandfather. The association with Joe wasn’t negative, and that surprised her. It stirred up a fleeting sadness that she didn’t recall having ever felt before, and it disturbed her in some fundamental way she didn’t understand.
©2010–2011, Duane Poncy
