IGMS Issue 9 (17 page)

Miguel sprinted as the police car ground to a halt behind him. Miguel was confused by the lighters, but then he smelled the gasoline, and realized their orange uniforms were damp. "Grandfather, no!"

"
No viviremos como presos!
"

"
Acuestense en el piso!
" One of the suited men was screaming. "Lie down! Lie down!" shouted another.

"Grandpa, no!" Miguel screamed, still sprinting toward him. One of the men in black suits broke away and pointed his gun at Miguel.

Sandro glanced at Miguel, his eyes watering, and just as quickly returned his gaze forward.

And, God forgive him, Miguel snapped a picture. He didn't think about it anymore. If he did, he would stop. So he just kept snapping pictures as, one by one, Sandro and the others held the lighters away from their bodies and struck the flint.

"
No viviremos como presos!
"

Their arms pulled inward toward their chests, toward the location the RFID chips were programmed to bury themselves.

"Please, Sandro," Miguel whispered, "don't."

Just then the sound of a great gust of air cut through all the shouting, silencing everyone.

As twenty orange flames painted the blue sky black.

The sound faded away until everything was inhumanly, horrifically quiet. And all the while Miguel took his pictures -- tears streaming from his one real eye.

Miguel parted the red curtains and took in the crowd of hundreds filling the stadium-seating auditorium. All of them had come to honor the International Photographer of the Year. To Miguel's left, the emcee was setting the stage for Sandro's suicide, telling the story as the pictures from Miguel's book played on the huge screen at the back of the stage.

Then the emcee called Miguel's name. The crowd began applauding immediately, but Miguel had to take a few deep breaths to control himself before stepping onto the stage. The applause and embarrassment and shame washed over him as he walked up and accepted the award. He gave a speech, as he had for the four other awards he'd won for various pictures and the book, which hit the stands some six months ago. It had been over a year since Sandro had killed himself, and the memory hadn't faded. It had, in fact, grown stronger, because Miguel had been forced to relive the moments over and over again in speeches, interviews, and during the book's long and intense editing process.

It was due penance, Miguel told himself. It was only right. Sandro had made the ultimate sacrifice. The least he could do was pass Sandro's message on as he'd promised.

The speech was finally over, and after trading pleasantries with dozens of other photographers, the crowd thankfully began to thin. But then he caught sight of a mousy woman calmly sitting, watching him. Recognition came, and he tried hard to hide his disappointment. He'd completely forgotten he'd granted this interview.

When the last of the crowd had left, the woman stood and made her way over.

"Mr. de la Cueva, I'm Beth Harrison."

"Of course. So glad to finally meet in person."

A wry smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "You look like you'd rather be eating worms than standing here talking with me."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Just a bit. Look, I know this must be emotional for you. We could reschedule if you'd prefer."

"No." He motioned to a nearby auditorium chair. "Please. If I don't do this now I might never do it."

She sat, placing his book on her lap. On the cover was a 3D picture of his frail grandfather, standing upon a lush green lawn with nineteen other Mexican men and women, all of them wearing orange prison uniforms, lighters held to their chests, mouths open in a perpetual scream.

The title read
No Viviremos Como Presos: We Will Not Live As Prisoners
.

After Miguel had sat down next to her and settled himself, Beth touched the frame of her no-nonsense glasses, activating the microphone hidden there, and leaned back. "All right. You mind if we start at the beginning?"

Miguel shrugged. "Not at all."

"OK. Tell me about your grandfather. What was he like?"

As the interview moved from the preliminaries and into the meat of Sandro's story, Miguel kept staring at the cover of the book. Part of him wished he'd never taken those pictures -- he knew, even now, they were going to haunt him for the rest of his life -- but another part of him realized that it was a small price to pay. This wasn't about him. It wasn't about Sandro. It wasn't even about the nineteen other people who'd taken their lives that day. It was about the heart of the people in Mexico, about the discourse that had long ago been dropped by the wayside. It was about tearing down walls, not building them up.

Before Miguel knew it, the interview was nearly over. Beth was staring at him. Her eyes had been noncommittal nearly the entire interview, but now there was a clear note of seriousness, of regret.

"I think I only have one more question, Mr. de la Cueva."

"Please."

"What do you want your readers to take away from this book?"

He had thought about that for some time before, knowing he would inevitably be asked by the media. The Spyder Project had ceased the day after the mass suicide, pending a congressional investigation. Talks had resumed between the U.S. administration and Mexico -- serious talks, it seemed to Miguel. But there was always the chance this would slip away, become yesterday's news. The U.S. was famous for it, and Sandro had known it. He felt, rightly or wrongly, like he'd had to make a statement so large that it couldn't be ignored. Miguel only hoped it would be enough.

"That's just it," Miguel said to Beth. "
I
don't want to say anything. I just want people to open their eyes. I want them to listen. That's all."

Benjamin had always thought of himself as a strong-willed young mouse, but he had to admit that he was starting to lose heart. Not that he ever regretted penning that pamphlet calling for the abolition of the monarchy, but now he did sometimes wish he'd used a pseudonym.

He'd been imprisoned in the dungeons beneath Kingsburrow for six months, which meant he still had fifty-four months to go on his sentence. His cell was tiny and dim. Its walls were angular and dirty, and the ceiling dipped so low that Benjamin couldn't even stand up straight. His tunic was in tatters, his fur was matted with grime, and his claws had grown long and jagged. He'd heard no news of his family, his friends, or the outside world. Twice a day, a gruff old mouse with gray whiskers would pass by and deposit a food tray on the floor outside the cell, and then Benjamin would reach between the iron bars to fumble for a tin cup of water and a hunk of moldy cheese.

One evening, two royal guards -- tall mice who wore red livery and carried gilded poleaxes -- appeared outside the cell. One of them said to Benjamin, "You there, the king wants to see you."

The guards opened the cell door, then led Benjamin down the passageway and up a steep spiral stair. Warm light seeped from above, and Benjamin was grateful for it, though when he finally reached the top step and emerged into a torchlit antechamber, the brightness made him squint.

The guards hustled him along. In one hallway, Benjamin passed a dignified and well-groomed mouse who stopped and instructed the guards, "He can't go before the king looking like that. Clean him up." So Benjamin was taken to a parlor where the first female mice he'd seen in far too long doused him with cold water, brushed the tangles from his fur, and dressed him in a fresh tunic.

Finally he was led to an elaborately decorated sitting room. In one corner stood the king's son, Prince Francis, who wore a red doublet, a black cloak, and a sword and scabbard. Benjamin had never seen Francis up close before. It was true what mice said -- Francis, with his thick, tawny fur and large, imposing ears, was the tallest and most handsome mouse in all of Kingsburrow. Benjamin felt a touch of apprehension, for mice also said that Francis was a master swordfighter, methodical and relentless.

Francis asked Benjamin, "Do you know why you're here?"

Something -- maybe just being clean for the first time in ages -- made Benjamin feel bold. He said, "To write a pamphlet?"

Francis actually smiled at that, but one of the guards swung the butt end of a poleaxe into the back of Benjamin's leg, and Benjamin fell to one knee. The guard said, "Kneel, you. And show respect."

Francis waved the guard back. "It's all right. Leave him."

Benjamin stood up again. His leg throbbed, but he refused to show any pain. He looked around. "So where's the king?"

Francis said sadly, "I am the king. My father is dead."

Benjamin was stunned. He found it almost impossible to imagine that King Michael, the grim and cruel old mouse who'd reigned for as long as Benjamin could remember, was king no longer.

Francis fixed an intense gaze on Benjamin and said, "Does that please you?"

Benjamin stared right back and said nothing, though what he thought was: Yes. Your father was a tyrant.

Francis turned away and began to pace. "What happened was this. My father had always had a passion for exploration. With the realm at peace and prosperous --"

Benjamin snorted loudly. Prosperous? This royal brat obviously knew nothing of the struggles of the common mouse.

The guards bristled and looked to Francis, who hesitated a moment, then ignored the interruption and continued. "My father decided to journey far away to the west, farther than any mouse had ever been. He took with him a band of brave knights." Francis halted then, and stared at nothing. "My father was slain, along with all his knights save one. That one, Sir Timothy, made it back here. He was mad with fever and badly wounded -- he'd been ambushed by Westburrow rats as he returned, and had barely escaped. Before he died, he whispered to me of the beast that killed my father. It was some foreign monster, unlike any we've ever seen." Francis turned back to Benjamin and said, "I will not risk the lives of any more good mice on this matter. We are too few as it is, and winter will be upon us soon. But neither can I sit here while my father's killer remains alive and free. I intend to seek out this beast myself, and slay it."

Benjamin suddenly knew why he'd been summoned here.

And indeed, Francis explained, "I shall need a squire to assist me on my journey, and if I should fall I'll need a messenger to bear the news of my fate back to Kingsburrow. You, Benjamin, are a traitor and a seditionist. Your life I am willing to risk. But you should know that I also feel, from everything I've heard of you, that you are not truly wicked, and that you even possess a certain misguided nobility. I believe you might deserve, and might welcome, a chance to redeem yourself. If you agree to accompany me, I will pardon you, and you will be a free mouse again. If you refuse me, you may return to your cell to serve out the remainder of your sentence."

Benjamin considered this. He'd be damned if he'd let the guards drag him back to that cell, and he
had
always wanted to see the wider world. But he didn't want to die at the hands of Westburrow rats -- or worse. The wilderness was crawling with all manner of grotesque monstrosities that Benjamin knew only from tales: Snakes. Spiders. Even the terrible owls, said to be the largest of all creatures. Benjamin especially didn't want to die for the sake of a royal fool like Francis. Still, Benjamin quickly made up his mind to accept. Being thrown back in the dungeon would accomplish nothing. But beyond the walls of Kingsburrow he might find opportunities for escape or subterfuge.