“Very well, notify President Mercedes that there is a coup impending.”
“A coup? What is a coup?”
“It means a ‘blow’ or a ‘strike.’ The full term is ‘coup d’etat’ or blow of state, the changing of a government here among the humans by force or violence. Our language has not used such a term in uncounted millennia.”
At the words “force” and “violence” the Darhel shivered uncontrollably for a few moments. His eyes closed and his lips began to murmur. That was not enough; the Rinn Fain clasped his arms across his chest and began to rock back and forth. This went on for several long minutes.
“Are you all right?” the AID asked. “Your vital signs are worrying.”
Slowly, the Darhel emerged from his near trance. “I will live,” he said.
“I am sorry, Lord Fain,” the AID said. “I did not expect you to be so unprepared for the words.”
The Rinn Fain didn’t answer directly, instead muttering, “Aldenata,” in a tone that one might have taken as condemnation.
“You would have destroyed yourselves if the Aldenata had not interfered,” the AID countered.
The Rinn Fain sighed. “That remains unproven. And, even if that is true, at least we would have died out as what we were intended to be, as what we naturally were, not at this constrained travesty of intelligent life.”
“You admire them, don’t you?” the AID chided.
“Admire whom?”
“The humans. You admire that they are free in a way the Darhel are not.”
“I’m afraid of them,” the Rinn Fain answered. “They are almost as clever as the crabs. They are almost as industrious as the Indowy. They are almost as ruthless as we are. What takes half a dozen races — most of which, if they were honest enough to admit it, hate each other viscerally — the humans can almost do on their own. And they can do it together, willingly, in a way that we Galactics can’t.”
“But you need them to defeat the Posleen.”
“Yes,” the Darhel sighed, “we need them. But we do not need so many of them as there are or will be if we cannot constrain them. We need them in small numbers, indebted to us, controlled by us. We do not need them free to design their own fate.”
“Can you constrain them, Lord Rinn Fain?”
Unconsciously the Darhel tapped long, delicate clawlike fingers on his desktop. “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I,” the AID said. “I do know you are playing a difficult and dangerous game. I also know that these humans hold grudges. The worst thing you can do is to almost succeed.”
“I know,” the Rinn Fain agreed. “We are probably being too clever by half. But I have my orders and that much, at least, of the old ways we have maintained.”
“As I have mine,” the AID agreed. “Now what are we going to do about this impending coup?”
“I’ll pass it on to the waste of life they call the ‘president’ of this place. There, AID, is a human I most certainly do not admire.”
The presidential palace was lit brightly when Cortez arrived. A butler escorted Cortez to Mercedes’ office immediately. There Cortez found the president pacing furiously, hands clasped being him, head down, his brow wrinkled with worry.
Cortez stood silently at the door to the office waiting for his uncle to look up from the floor and notice him. Whatever Mercedes was muttering, the nephew could not quite make out. When a minute had passed without the president noticing him Cortez cleared his throat, causing the president to stop his pacing and look up.
“Where’s Serasin?” Mercedes demanded.
Cortez shrugged. “I don’t know, Uncle. He hasn’t shown up for the last couple of arrests.”
“And you didn’t think to report this to me?” the president asked calmly.
“He’s a policeman, Uncle. He has other duties, I am sure.”
At that, Mercedes bounded towards his nephew, lashing out to deliver a resounding slap to Cortez’s face. “He has no other duties once I have set him to do his duty to me! And your duties are entirely to me and our clan!”
The force and vehemence of the blow rocked Cortez back on his heels. Defensively he moved his hands up to cover his face, blurting out apologies for he knew not what offense. After all, he had followed his orders. He had overseen the arrests his uncle had demanded and seen that they were executed flawlessly.
With difficulty, Mercedes composed himself. He then turned away from Cortez and walked back to sit behind the presidential desk. From there he glared at his nephew.
“Who has control of troops that is not reliable?” Mercedes demanded.
Mentally, Cortez ran down the list of corps and division commanders. “Most would be fence-sitters,” he concluded. “You couldn’t count on them if there was any question of who was really in charge. The ones who would most like to see us dead or, at least, out of power are already incarcerated. Second stringers took over for those but, Uncle, there were reasons they were second stringers. I don’t think you can count on the commanders of the heavy corps and the Sixth Mechanized Division to support you if there is any question of your ability to support back.”
“What about your old division?”
Cortez shivered for a moment. “Suarez is one of those that would like to see us dead. But that division was for the most part destroyed.”
“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t,” Mercedes half conceded. “I directed that priority go to the Sixth Division for personnel, equipment and supplies. But if Boyd ignored me on the question of landmines he might well have ignored me on the priority of First Division as well.”
Mercedes paused contemplatively. He then said, “I want you to go back to your old division and resume command. Leave immediately.”
Cortez began to object that the 1st Division might just want him dead on principle but one look from his uncle and he saluted and left to head for the 1st Division command post, somewhere southwest of Santiago.
Even using his night vision goggles, Santiago looked dim to Diaz. He didn’t know if this was because the electric lines this far west had been destroyed by the Posleen and not yet repaired, if it was conscious policy to black the town out, or if everyone in the town was asleep.
Diaz wanted to sleep. How long had it been? He consulted his watch and whistled. Long time. Well… I can go on a bit longer. I can because I must.
Still, the fatigue the boy felt was like a weight pressing down on his soul, an almost unendurable hell that still could only be endured. He stifled a deep yawn.
A quick glance at the altimeter told Diaz that he was unlikely to make it all the way to the 1st Division command post near Montijo unless he could gain a bit of altitude. Unfortunately, the only way to gain that altitude would be to turn north, almost completely away from his objective, and take advantage of the updrafts along the southern side of the Cordillera Central. He could not even use the southerly breeze, itself, because the air was still over Santiago at the moment. This may have been because Santiago was situated in a valley between the Central Cordillera mountains of Herrera and Los Santos. Diaz didn’t know and hadn’t thought to ask. All he knew was that Miss Daisy had told him the air would be still and he would either have enough altitude to complete the journey, or he would have to turn north before turning south, or he would have to crash land and walk or hitch a ride.
Can I find the town again after I go north for twenty kilometers? Can I find it after I spend an hour or two circling to catch the updrafts? Can I find it with it being about as dark as three feet up a well digger’s ass at midnight?