Gregg Hurwitz - Minutes to Burn

"Then how can you remain?" Juan asked.

"Because," Diego said, picking something from his hair and flicking it over the railing. "My family is filthy rich."

"He'll get along well with Szabla," Derek muttered.

Diego shook his head, still lost in his thoughts. "First the tortoises… then the turtles…then the iguanas and the birds and the trees."

"What the hell is he talking about?" Derek asked. Cameron shrugged. Savage lit a cigarette.

"It's all a loss. All my little projects here." Diego pointed to another tortoise enclosure, farther up the walk. "We moved that group of tor-toises from Isabela before Wolf erupted. Would've been wiped out by the resultant flow."

"Well," Savage said, lowering his cigarette, "isn't that how evolution works?"

Rex looked at him, annoyed. "A philosopher."

"Survival of the fittest," Savage said. "All's fair, right? A volcano comes along, erupts, little fuckers can't get out of the way, tough shit is what I say. That's how evolution works."

"You seem to have a firm grasp of the concept," Rex said.

Diego took a deep breath. "Actually, now I'm inclined to agree. For as long as I can remember, I've put everything into it. Into this." He indi-cated the enclosures around him and the distant peaks of the island with a sweep of his arm. "And for what? What does it matter? As you say in America, I'm throwing in my towel. I've lost everything."

"You've lost everything," Juan repeated.

"Yes. Everything. My turtles, my workers, my title… "Diego lowered his head. "There's no point in taking you to Sangre. We're fighting a losing battle. Without ammo."

"We have work to do," Rex said.

"I just saw seven years of my work go down the gullet of a pig. I'm done. Find your own boat."

"You listen to me," Juan said angrily, stepping forward. "With your perfect English and your fake castellano accent. I may just be some mono from Guayaquil, but I can tell you this: There is more you could have lost." He jabbed a finger at Lonesome George. "There is more we all can lose. Things are wrong in the world, things do not go well? Tough luck amigo. My wife and daughter are gone because of bad timing and worse structural engineering. But I am not going to lose more to this… to this mierda. The ozone hole and these earthquakes and the foolish irresponsibility of others. I am not. These islands prove to me that life can still have meaning, that things can be logical and magical all at once. And that is something worthwhile, a little glimmer of meaning in this mess before us."

Juan rested a hand on Rex's shoulder and Rex looked over at him, sur-prised. Juan continued to address the back of Diego's head angrily. "You might want to desert your responsibilities because things are bad, but don't make that choice for us. We are willing to stay, to do what we can, however small. Don't make these islands pay for your disillusionment."

Diego leaned over, lacing his fingers. His shoulders settled a bit, as if under great weight. Below him, a finch flew over and landed on Lone-some George's back. With painstakingly slow, deliberate motions and a resigned sigh, the tortoise pushed himself up on all fours and extended his long slender neck. The finch hopped around his shell, picking para-sites off George's tough, leathery skin.

Diego watched. "Beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful."

Juan stepped back, the redness fading from his face. He glanced around at the others, ashamed for losing his composure.

"We'll pay you well," Derek said.

Diego's laugh was tinged with lunacy. "Pay me in bullets."

"I'm sorry," Derek said. "I don't understand. How much do you want?"

Diego rose, slapping his hands together. "Two shots of bourbon. One neat, one on the rocks." He rose and glanced down at himself. "After I shower."

He walked past the others, pausing beside Juan for a moment. Juan looked down uncomfortably. Diego raised a hand to pat him on the side but lowered it again when he saw it was covered with blood. He headed down the walk back toward the Station.

"Come," he said.

Diego sat contentedly at the bar before two shots, one poured over ice. He threw back the first, set it on the counter, and took a sip from the second. Tucker watched hungrily, working the thimble on his key chain. He was drinking passion-fruit juice. A feral kitten had sneaked into the bar. It was playing near the door, sharpening its claws on a wicker chair.

The Galapason, a tropical theme bar at the eastern end of Avenida Charles Darwin, was open to the scorching sun, though a few pieces of plywood were laid across the high rafters, creating sporadic patches of shade. A pool table stood in the center of the bar, one leg propped up with a mound of old books. Hammocks swayed between 4x4s, and painted bas-reliefs of parrots stared out from the walls. A back alcove housed a junkyard tangle of broken furniture. A rat scurried across the dirt floor, disappearing between the yellow crates of Pilsener bottles, and the orange crates that held the smaller Club empties.

The soldiers were still finishing a ceviche of octopus, spiced with aji. It was served with soft, flattened potato patties mixed with campo cheese and onions and topped with salsa de mani, a peanut sauce. Savage signaled the bartender for another beer, which arrived quickly. He held up the bottle, regarding the upside-down Pilsener label.

Diego shrugged. "Ecuador," he said.

Cameron and Derek had grabbed a quick snack and left to stand guard over the gear, freeing up Szabla and Justin to eat. The soldiers and scientists sat in a row along the bar, ignoring the scurrying rats and the faint aroma of urine in the musty air. There were a few locals at the scat-tered tables, and two men played pool on the uneven table.

Having showered, loaded a bag with supplies, and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved nylon T-shirt, Diego was prepared to brave the sun and push out for Sangre de Dios. He drained the second whiskey.

The kitten rolled onto its back and swatted at the underside of the wicker chair. Diego glanced at it with enmity. After it put on a few pounds, it would be out like the other feral dogs and cats, scouring the landscape for tortoise eggs and land iguanas.

"You know," Rex said, "even if I set the GPS equipment on Sangre, we'll still need someone to receive the telemetric information here and relay it back to the States via computer."

"Well," Diego said, "you'll have to show me how the equipment works."

"I thought you retired," Juan said.

"That was the pig blood talking." Diego rose. "Let's get the gear set up at the Station. Then I'll pull the boat in and we'll load up."

They rose and headed for the door. Diego picked up the kitten by its tail on his way out. He stepped outside, twirled it once in the air, and smacked it against the wall. He tossed the limp body into a nearby trash can and started for the Station.

They didn't have the luxury of waiting for dusk to avoid extreme UV exposure. Before they loaded the gear on El Pescador Rico, Diego made them wash their boots at the pier, in case they were caked with dirt hiding seeds, insect eggs, or other communicable material. Cameron was fascinated by the ritual-it was hard for her to believe that the ecology of each island was so fragile that it could be upset by the transport of a single seed. Though Sangre de Dios had already been compromised eco-logically, Diego claimed that it could be further damaged by introduced species. Diego made Tucker throw out an apple he'd had in his kit bag since Guayaquil, and Savage had to hide his cigarettes in the top pocket of his shirt to save them from a similar fate.

The boat had been beautifully kept up-Cameron noticed Diego scrape some dried blood off the bow with his fingernail before boarding. Rex sat quietly on a cruise box, holding the padded nylon bags in his lap as they struck out for Sangre de Dios. Diego kept them motoring west at about eight knots. Derek threw the two Sigs back in the weapons box and locked it.