John Ringo: Yellow Eyes

“Tell me again the particulars,” Mercedes demanded.

The ambassador nodded before answering, “Very well, Señor Presidente. First, you must have the laws passed requesting — no demanding — our assistance in accordance with the Carter-Torrijos Treaty of 1977. We prefer that it come from you for public relations reasons. At the same time you must have the legislature grant us back the use, the temporary use — for the duration of the emergency — of those facilities we need.”

“And what am I to do with the people who have already purchased the property? Hmmm?”

Amiably, the ambassador answered, “The United States is willing to pay a reasonable, but not extravagant, rental. But that is only for private individuals. We expect land held by the government of Panama to be granted to us freely for construction, training and operations. We also expect that no more transfers to private hands will take place. Our President was explicit on this point, Mr. President: You’re not going to jack the rents up on us through sleight of hand. Moreover, we will expect the government of Panama to take any land needed from corporations that control it and allow us its use. Some of that land will find permanent fortifications built on it. Think of this as a sort of reverse lend-lease, not essentially different from the agreements the United States had with Great Britain, Australia and New Zealand during the Second World War… or here in Panama, for that matter, notably on the Isla del Rey, San Jose Island and at Rio Hato.”

Mercedes’ piggish eyes narrowed further. “And you people will pay our troops and provide for arming and training them?”

“We will pay something … much, even. But not all, Señor Presidente ,” the ambassador answered. “Panama will have to pay its fair share. Don’t worry overmuch about the cost, though; your government is going to make a fortune on Canal tolls in the coming years.”

Again Mercedes scowled openly. The scowl disappeared as a new thought occurred. The gringos are going to be doing a lot of building. But they are unlikely to have much construction capability they do not need themselves. That is profit to the proper families. And if they do send builders here? My God, what a bounty for both the families and myself in graft: permits, consulting fees… come to think of it, I was supposed to provide a sinecure for little cousin Maritza’s worthless brat. I could never have made this kind of money, not even laundering funds for the Colombians.

Seeing the scowl and misunderstanding it completely, the ambassador interjected his final selling point, “Rejuvenation for a number of key Panamanians is, of course, offered. There are some unfortunate rules on that, but the rules have a fair amount of leeway to them.”

Mercedes pretended that the prospect of renewed youth was a matter of no moment. Mentally el Presidente tallied the likely rake-off and set that against the price he expected to be gouged for off-world asylum for his extended family. Then he calculated the marvelous prospect of another fifty years of enjoying not only his own youth, but a near infinity of young women, and said simply, “I’ll make the demand of the legislature in ten days… agreed.”

The sound of the laboring resuscitator was faint over the wailing of half a hundred close relatives. Scores more crowded the hallways outside the antiseptic-smelling, scrub-green intensive care room in which Digna Miranda, tiny and aged one hundred and two, slipped from this world to the next. The tininess was not a result of age. Digna had never been more than four feet ten in her life.

Within the room, by Digna’s side, were the thirteen still-living children of the eighteen she had borne, as well as some of their offspring. The oldest of these was, himself, eighty-seven, the youngest a mere stripling of fifty-eight. One toddler, invited into the room as much as anything to remind Digna that her line was secure, was seven year old Iliana, great-great-granddaughter by Digna’s oldest, Hector.

Digna herself lay quietly on the bed. Occasionally her eyes opened and scanned the crowd insofar as they could without Digna turning her head. The old woman was too far gone for any such athletics as head turning.

Digna was a rarity in Panama, being of pure European ancestry, a Spanish-French mix, with bright blue eyes. When those blue eyes opened, they were still bright and clear, as her mind remained clear, whatever decay had wracked her body. What a pity , she thought, that I can’t slip into the past for one last look at my children as children, or my husband as a young man. Such is life… such is death.

Though no near-death dementia brought a false image of her long deceased husband, Digna’s mind remained healthy enough to pull up images on her own, images both of her husband riding his bay stallion to claim her from her father just after her fifteenth birthday, and of her husband lying in his bier. See you soon, beloved, I promise.

That happy thought brought a slight smile to her face, a slight smile being all she was capable of. The smile continued as her eyes shifted to the face of her eldest. I bore you in blood and pain, my son, with only your father and an old Indian midwife in attendance. What a fine man you grew to.

Digna closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep and to dream.

Hector sighed, wondering if this trip to the hospital would truly be the last of his mother. It seemed impossible that this unbent old woman should pass on after dominating so much and so many for nearly a century. With thirteen living children, well over one hundred grandchildren, and great- and great-great grandchildren numbering nearly four hundred, so far — and with about a dozen more on the way, she was truly the mother of a race.

“ La armada Miranda,” Hector smiled at the family joke, before frowning. “Armada” might indeed be the right term if even half of what the president had said was true. Personally, Hector suspected the president’s speech had contained much more than half the truth. Why else would he invite the gringos back?

Better you go now, Mother, I think. Or if not now, then soon. You grew up in a cleaner and better world. I would not have what we are about to become blight your last days.

A confused and confusing murmur came from the outside corridor. Hector turned from his mother’s deathbed to see a group of five men standing in the doorway. The leading man, deliberately nondescript, wore sunglasses and a suit. Two others, standing just behind, were equally unremarkable medical types. Behind those stood the last pair, wearing the khaki of Panama’s Public Force, its combination army and police force.

“ Señor Miranda?” asked the foremost intruder.

“Hector Miranda, yes. And before I am polite may I ask what you people are doing here intruding on our grief?” The Mirandas, though only locally powerful, were still — albeit only locally — very powerful. In their own bailiwick they could kill with near impunity, and had. Moreover, while Hector was old, at eighty-seven, like his mother he remained vital, and perhaps a bit fierce, long after most people had slid into decrepitude.

The nondescript suit-wearer answered without the minimal politeness of giving his own name, “I am sorry for that, but orders are orders.” He pointed his chin towards the supine and sleeping Digna. “Is that Señora Digna Miranda?”

“She is. And who the hell are you?” Hector demanded.

“My name is unimportant. You may call me ‘Inspector,’ however. That is close enough.”

Hector felt his hackles rise, hand reaching on its own for the machete that would normally hang at his side. “Very well then, Inspector. Let me rephrase: what the fuck are you doing here intruding on our grief?”