For Victor Barnuevo Velasco, who does Spanish so elegantly.
Only the little finger of his left hand tapping on the mini-ape handlebar betrayed Soy’s tension, as he waited perched like a waif on the monstrous Harley, reconstructed, patched together from and studded with found tech, now parked before the wall of black ivy clinging to the ruins of LoEast, on the island of M’natan, as he waited for his adjutant, Cholo, to emerge, parting the undulating black vines with the sonic knife of his signet ring, he being one of the six men entitled to such a ring, men of the inner circle of Soy, the legendary knights of the LoEast hierarchy, often derided as the Soy Bean gang, which he ignored, knowing that Soy came from the term Tisoy, an old Tagalog slang for mestizo, and that neither was it from the Spanish “I am!” declaration of sentience, though Soy knew from his older sister that his name was history, denoting bloodlines confused by successive colonization and travels to and via parts now unknown in the aftermath of the 14 days nuclear war, allegedly low-yield, nearly 200 years in the past, still visible in the dunes of crushed cement, steel, and glass, and, above all, the black ivy grappling with the debris, triangular leaves humming, like a gush of breath going wooooo, at a time when one wondered if one could breathe or wanted to, a low sound which would metamorphose into agonized shrieks and the whipcrack of vines flagellating anyone within reach, not to mention trying to strangle anyone attempting to part them for access to the interior of the collapsed church whose blue, red, yellow, and green stained glass cupola still topped the jumble of
deconstructed concrete, but Cholo came unscathed out of the darkness into the dusk of the cleared space where Soy was parked, Cholo of the steel bow Panaka, which he wielded with deadly speed and accuracy, as Soy had witnessed in one battle with a marauding gang of free scavengers who had entered LoEast and tried to take over the terrain, a dozen of their front line dropping almost instantly into a huddle of squiggly mess as the Panaka’s arrows delivered toxin into flesh, and Soy had on the spot elevated Cholo to be his personal adjutant and security, expecting the two of them to get along well, considering that Cholo was Ladino and as young as Soy, and sure enough, Cholo fell for Soy’s sister, the Learned One, Soy’s court wizard and witch, who scrambled for rescued tech and books in the ruins, thrusting her hands with the slim strong fingers into crevices and beneath cement slabs, but who had been in full isolation for months now, in a hidden location, studying, as Soy told Cholo, a subject so
esoteric it was difficult even for him to comprehend, but meanwhile, the two of them and the Soy Gang had this business to conclude, an artifact to sell to the highest bidder among the three other sindicatos – the Souyersey hierarch, the Wesside hierarch, and the Gusangang – an artifact long hunted for, and legendary in its magic, so the night tales went, able to confer the best of fortunes and luck and power to the owner, so long venerated in its absence that it was priceless, the artifact called The Che, which, to no one’s surprise, had been acquired by Soy and to everyone’s surprise, he had placed on the market, though, aside from a reserve price of a breathtaking amount of International Credits, demanding in addition a particular piece of information, one of those bits of knowledge lost in the mist of rumor and speculation, the location of a particular research facility, a requirement from Soy’s sister who was said to be insatiable in her hunger to know, and who had been vital to the retrieval of The Che from whatever secret place it had resided, after being smuggled out of Cuba, before Havana became a glowing wasteland, with no survivors, in the 14 day war, but here it was, The Che, in LoEast, and Soy, getting off his Harley, showing himself to be tall, dark brown, slimness belying wiry muscles, handsome, 28 years old, black faux leather pants and jacket hiding the festoon of tech weapons on his body, internally and on the skin, one of which he pressed with his left index finger, he being lefthanded, as befitted the legend of the elves which ran through the inchoate subconscious of the survivors of a war indescribable despite its briefness, pressing the button which made the Harley shimmer and glimmer into invisibility, as Soy turned to Cholo and asked if the hierarchs were ready, and at the latter’s nod, striding toward the black ivy snakes, interrupting sotto voce its sonorous breath with a five-note whistled melody which slotted impeccably into barely discernible notches of silence in the vines’ humming, at which the blackness parted, revealing a door, and behind the door, pushed open by Cholo, a flight of stairs, steps chipped at the edges, mica in the cement flickering in the light of a rainfall of LEDs on the walls, a hosanna of celebration at the arrival of the LoEast hierarch, Cholo having made sure that everything was astonishing, an impressive display of wealth and power and capability, which made Soy clap his back in appreciation, feeling the muscles hard as iron beneath the other’s shirt, as they walked through the narrow corridor, edged past a still steaming narrow chasm and deftly avoided all the booby-traps the Soy gang had embedded on and in the path, until they reached the amphi, as they called it, a large space lit by the sun streaming through the cupola glass, pews still awaiting worshippers, debris disguising tech at the room’s corners, the light caused the Souyersey hierarch to remark that the place wasn’t that safe since anyone could break through the glass overhead, at which Soy drew a circle in the air with his left forefinger, and the humming rose as black ivy crawled in dizzying speed up the interior of the cupola, cutting off the illumination until only a halo remained, a round column of light hitting the dark brown floor of the amphi, as Soy commented, “you know the ivy can tear to pieces anybody and anything that disturbs it,” at which the Wesside hierach burst into laughter, while the Gusangang hierarch maintained his contemptuous impassivity, and Soy gave each a glance, these men of wealth and power, his visitors, muscled men running hodgepodge networks of supply and distribution through their respective areas, as the desultory survivors of the war eked out a kind of existence, determined still to love and laugh, and have the time for both, despite genetic shifts, tumors, and various diseases, not to mention deprivation and starvation, despite the absence of victories in a desolate land of losses, but he must not stray from the matter at hand, the first step to his dream, forged in the tightest of secrecies with his wizard sister, and his mother now long dead, in the days when one woke up wondering if one could still breathe or whether it was still worth the effort to breathe, but this matter had to be resolved as quickly as possible because he had no doubt that all three hierarchs had already laid down ambushes for whoever would acquire The Che, as they would have no doubt thrown their combined might against the Soy gang, had the artifact remained in his hands, suspending temporarily their own tripartite wars, so Soy raised a forefinger again and a box shrouded by a red velvet cloth floated into the amphi, on levitating magnets, not too big a box, 19 inches x 12 x 7, the optimum size, his sister had said, the velvet cloth turning the color of red wine when it reached the halo of sunlight from the circle of dome’s cleared glass, and Soy paused for all of a minute, to let the hierarchs appreciate the aesthetics of the moment before striding forward and grasping the cloth, swept it off the box and let it fall to the floor, as a distinct sigh reverberated through the amphi at the revelation of a transparent box with a pair of hands, palm to palm, sheared off with an inch of wrists, in a horizontal gesture of prayer, a sigh since not even his own men had seen the merchandise, and he said, “the box alone is worth a fortune. But with the artifact inside, it is priceless. Lecithin, guaranteed to last a thousand years, conferring luck and magic upon the possessor,” adding the latter because he knew that in this era of dearth, fables and tales and stories served to assuage a thirst for hope, but the Wesside hierarch, a white man, rose to his feet, aimed a weapon at the box, and let loose with a spray of pellets, which bounced off an invisible shield wrapping the container, as Soy gang members drew weapons and Soy had to raise a hand to halt them, lest a freewheeling firefight erupt, while the Wesside hierarch, beet red in consternation, threw his pellet gun down, saying, “just testing, just testing,” at which Soy replied that only an idiot would not ensure that The Che was shielded, noting how the Gusangang hierarch rose and held a small gray device in the air, which he recognized as an age-testing instrument and he nodded, giving his permission for the hierarch to approach the artifact, signaling his own men to cut off the shield, to let the Gusangang boss, who prided himself on being scientific, to proceed to test and measure, test and measure, pressing small devices against the box still in levitation, as Soy went on with his spiel, “strong hands, but delicate fingers, a surgeon’s hands which could hold a rifle; magic hands, there’s nothing like this artifact anywhere in the world,” until the Asian was satisfied and returned to his place near the front pew, his steps followed by three beeps from Soy’s communicator, which, upon his checking it, gave three messages, naming the same amount of Universal Credits, making him laugh, showing him that the three had conferred beforehand and decided on the minimum acceptable price for The Che, such a waste of time he had to say, “shall I divide The Che into three – how many fingers for each of you?” to which the Souyersey hierarch said to the other two, “I told you this was silly and we should just each bid” at which the Gusangang hierarch retorted “we made an agreement; he should choose,” telling Soy in effect that he had something up his sleeve, and he gave the Gusangang boss a hard look, but the man maintained an impassive face, while the Souyersey guy spoke in a whisper into his communicator, which was silly since the pews were bugged and Soy could hear his question of “how much can I spare, the maximum I can spare?” eliciting his smile, telling himself that this was good, the pseudo-cartel wouldn’t hold, they’d be bidding soon, and sure enough, the first ping rose of message gave the Souyersey’s offer, and just 8 figures, either a modest start or that hierarchy wasn’t as wealthy as it was reputed to be, as the Wesside guy smirked, showing he knew how much the other was bidding, before he poked at his own communicator and another beep came from Soy’s communicator, and there it was, an additional million in Universal Credits, which made the bidding over, unless the Gusangang hierarch dove in and named his own but the guy was waiting the other two out, as the pings came faster now, the amount rising to unheard of heights for a piece of goods, until his communicator fell silent, the last message being of a nine-figure amount, give or take a few million difference between the Souyersey’s and Wesside’s bids, and into the silence, the Gusangang said quietly that he would match the highest bid plus – and he pressed a button on his communicator, a lovely one Soy saw, beautifully designed and colored green, and the resulting ping on his made him look down but instead of numbers, he saw words – “I have the location of the research facility” – making Soy’s skin jump and he nodded, for sure, it would be the Gusangang who would know, as that hierarchy prided itself on being into tech and information as much as Soy’s own, but first, he must announce to his guests that he was most honored by their presence and participation in this auction and he hoped they would be present at the next one he would host, just as he would attend theirs, if invited and the merchandise was of interest to him, but at the moment, the artifact was going to the Gusangang which had submitted an unmatchable bid, his regrets to the losers, to whom he would be giving gifts, a device or two unearthed from the ruins, as the Wesside hierarch groaned and the Souyersey hierarch cursed, the two almost simultaneously wheeling about and making for the corridor, signaling Soy’s men to see them out, as they were, no doubt, in a hurry to get their ambushes operational, and if those failed, they would join forces against the third, poor Gusangang, but those were the hazards of possessing a talisman in the Era of Dearth, when one didn’t know if one could breathe or it was worth the effort to breathe, these thoughts whirling through his head as he signaled his men to let the box descend into the steel box held by the Gusangang’s men, nodding for them to wrap up, restore all the locks and protections, let the black ivy back into the amphi, as he walked toward his personal corridor, Cholo following, guarding his back, the lights dimming behind them and the rustling of vines across the floor filled the chamber with the soft hiss of death, the whole structure once again in the grip of the black ivy, exhaling its endless low wooooo, control of which had given the Soy gang, also derided as the bean curd hierarchy, its formidable reputation, thanks to his wizard sister, who started reading rescued books at the age of five, the sister whom Cholo adored, Soy could feel the heat of his breathing behind him, the inhale-exhale that was a question, repeated over and over again, “where is she? Where is she?” but to his surprise, Cholo said instead, “you did not tell me what the merchandise was” in a voice of barely gripped anger, as they stepped into the sunlight cooling into purple dusk, and Soy was forced to reply, “what of it? We’ve sold stuff before” and Cholo repeating, “you did not tell me what it was, we should not have sold it, that was sacrilegious,” as he ceased moving and the Panaka was no longer slung on his shoulder but held by his right hand, and Soy’s heart skipped a beat, before he willed calmness, saying, “come, primo, you don’t really believe in all that, do you?” and Cholo saying, “my heritage, it shouldn’t have been sold,” and Soy saying, “you have no idea how much it is a part of your heritage,” as he pressed the button that caused his Harley to shimmer into visibility, while Cholo was raising the Panaka to his chest, saying, “why did you do that, disrespect my history, my culture,” and the Harley spat what seemed to be a light beam but was actually a thin, silver rope which couldn’t be snapped, a rope that went around Cholo, immobilizing his arms, and Soy said, “when I am gone from here, I will send you her location; she will explain,” and chuckling, he mounted the Harley, called out that he was freeing Cholo, and for the latter not to try to do anything rash, “I don’t want to have to kill you; the Wizard will curse me for life; she has gambled a lot for your dreams,” and his, Soy’s, as well, though his wasn’t a dream but a quest, handed down from his mother, and cared for by him and his sister like a rare plant, until it had become an ivy trapping all three of them, even as his mother made her last breath, ravaged by tumors, a dream of green leaves and blue waters, of islands which had been mountain tops sheared off by the force of nuclear tsunamis so they glided with the ocean tides, pristine, picking up seedlings, seeds, nuts, until they were overgrown by food, the likes of which were just a memory to the denizens of LoEast, but for which Soy must now cross mountains and wildernesses and wastelands, so he could return to the land of his ancestors, as his mother had made him promise, there being zero future in the steadily degrading environs of M’natan, its evening green glow shriveling breasts and wombs, urging him to be off to find an amiable sanctuary, with his kind, as he must assure the Wizard/Witch/Magician/Seer who was hidden within a hill of seeming debris which housed her laboratory, fueled by sonic power sourced from the black ivy, through which she shimmered into visibility, wearing her light-bending black robe that covered her from head to feet, her face a pale moon within the cowl, and she nodded a greeting, stating, “it went well,” because had it not, he would have sent her a warning signal, to which he also nodded, bringing out a piece of skin, perhaps human, dried as a parchment, on which he etched with a stylus the coordinates of the secret research facility, because she distrusted things digital, having painstakingly taught him cursive writing which hardly anyone could read or do, adding, “here; perhaps you can regrow your uterus and have children with Cholo,” tossing the skin to her and she deftly catching it with hand whose speed was such it was only a blur, even as he transferred via his communicator a fourth of the Universal Credits from the sale to her account, adding that he would send for her and Cholo when he found the green islands of his quest, “who knows? Perhaps there will be people there, too,” which made her laugh, face crinkling with premature lines, and she raised her arms in a mock hug, showing their black steel hand prosthetics, saying, “dreams are costly in so many ways; but forgetting them has a price, too” and he looked into her eyes – one blue, one brown—and asked, “and this one is worth it?” – at which she smiled, and with her right hand black as the pernicious ivy leaves, caressed her belly, a gesture that reminded him of his mother, who had done the same, trying to quiet the gnawing pain in her womb, causing him to pat the bag attached to the Harley, near the seat, their mother’s ashes, with him always, so she could go home to a home she had not even known, but this was a debt owed to one’s ancestors and had to be fulfilled, the last obligation to the generations preceding one’s own, especially now when life was but one long breathless exhalation, just one breath, before obliteration.
