Michael McCollum - Man of Renaissance.pdf

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MAN OF THE RENAISSANCE
McCollum, Michael
If you think nuclear weapons are difficult to build, ask yourself the following question: How successful
would the Manhattan Project have been at inventing the VCR?
Darol Beckwith guided his steed over rocky ground, carefully threading his way among scrubby Palo
Verde trees and yellow stands of cholla cactus until he gained the summit of the small hill that had been
his goal for the previous quarter hour. Once on top, he reined in his horse. Behind him, two heavily
laden pack mules stopped in their tracks, each taking quick advantage of the opportunity to crop at the
few patches of wiry, yellow grass that poked through the carpet of fist sized stones.
Beckwith removed his salt-stained hat and wiped perspiration from his forehead onto the sleeve of his
threadbare, cotton shirt. Around him, the yellows, greens, and browns of the Great Sonoran Desert
stretched as far as the eye could see. Replacing his hat, he rummaged in his saddlebags for his pipe,
lighter, and tobacco pouch. He soon had the pipe alight and the other implements repacked. Only then
did he lean forward to retrieve a pair of ‘tronic binoculars from their case. He pointed them at the
brown pillar of dust that rose lazily into the cloudless blue sky halfway to the horizon. The dust cloud
leaped forward at the press of a control, resolving itself into a column of mounted men. He studied the
image for several minutes before restoring the glasses to their protective sheath.
"They're Sonoran cavalry, all right," he muttered as he leaned forward to stroke his horse's neck.
"Vargas's report was right about that. Wonder what they're doing this far north?"
The horse's answer was a short whinny as Beckwith urged it forward with his spurs and began picking
his way toward the level ground of the plain below. He made no effort to avoid the patrol, but rather
rode straight for it, reining in when the file of horsemen was less than a kilometer distant.
It did not take long for them to spot him. He puffed on his pipe and watched the Sonoran envelopment
unfold with professional efficiency. He counted thirteen in all -- an officer and a dozen enlisted men -- as
he became the center of a cloud of roiling dust, milling horses, and men with rifles drawn and ready.
He bit down on his pipe and lifted his hands well away from his body. The officer, a captain of cavalry
by his collar insignia, stopped directly before him and aimed a needle gun at his midsection. Beckwith
could see by the thumbwheel that the weapon was selected to full automatic. He tried not to let that
knowledge bother him as he carefully broke into a practiced smile.
" Buenos Dias, Capitan ," he said, bowing his head slightly in respect to what was obviously a nobleman,
and probably a younger son or bastard willed into the duke's service by a father determined to keep him
out of trouble. "To what do I owe this singular honor?"
"Who are you, Senõr ? Where from and where bound?"
"Beckwith's the name. Darol Beckwith. I am the circuit doctor for these parts. Most recently out of
California Free Republic, bound for the village of Nuevo Tubac on my yearly rounds ... and damned if I
expected to see Sonorans this far north."
 
"When were you last in the Republic, Senõr Medico ?"
Beckwith reached up to pull the pipe from his mouth and then lazily scratched at his week old growth of
beard. "Let's see now. I stopped for a week in New Refuge before crossing the river at Blythe, six
... no, seven ... yeah, seven days ago."
"Did you see any soldiers there?"
Beckwith let his smile degenerate into a sheepish grin. "Now, Captain, you know that my service doesn't
take sides in local politics. It would be a violation of my oath to answer such a question."
"Perhaps you would prefer walking to Nuevo Tubac without your boots?"
Beckwith raised one eyebrow. "Has His Imperial Majesty, Moctezuma VII, decided to abrogate his
sworn oath given in the Second Treaty of Hermosillo? Or is this the Duke of Sonora's idea? Is it now
the policy of the Empire to harass doctors of the service wherever found?"
"His Majesty does what he wishes, Senõr , and My Lord, the Duke, is his strong right arm."
"Then I guess I'd better give you my boots and start walking, for I will not answer. I assure you, by the
way, that my response will be the same when the California border guards ask me about you when I
cross back over next fall. I am but a harmless medic trying to get on with his job."
At this last, the captain's eyes dropped to the polished-by-use wooden stock of the automatic rifle in its
scabbard beneath Beckwith's right knee. Beckwith followed his gaze, and shrugged.
"Even a doctor must oftentimes defend himself in the wilds. All my instruments are on my pack animals,
and would bring a goodly price on the black market in Mexico City."
At the mention of the pack animals, the captain holstered his needle gun and gave orders to a burly
noncom. The sargento leaned forward and took Beckwith's lead rope from him. A few more quick
orders in the local patois -- a corrupt version of Spanglish -- and the doctor found himself disarmed. The
patrol formed around him and the whole party clattered off in a southeasterly direction.
Beckwith took the opportunity to study the men around him as he rode among them. Everything about
them -- their lean, watchful look; their dusty, sweat stained uniforms and dirty sombreros; the
straight-backed way they sat their horses -- told him that they were regulars. That, too, confirmed
Vargas's initial report. The insignia they wore identified them as the Second Hermosillo Dragoons, one of
the Duke of Sonora's best regiments.
The men themselves were a varied lot. As Beckwith had already noted, the captain was a mustachioed
young dandy of nearly pure Hidalgo stock. His troops, however, ran the gamut of humanity. Several
pairs of blue eyes stared from out of reddened, sunburned faces above blond beards; indicating that their
owners were descended from the vast wave of refugees that had swept down from the north eighty years
before. Other members of the patrol sported Indio and Negroid features, and one was
Caucasian-Oriental mix. All looked as though they knew their business.
It was late afternoon when they entered the pueblo of Nuevo Tubac in the Gila River valley. The town
sat on one bank of the stream whose position was marked by a darker-green swath cut through the
yellow-green of the desert vegetation. He took in the signs of the Sonoran occupation with experienced
eyes, while appearing to have no interest beyond finishing the long dirty joke that he had been spinning
for his companions. He did not like what he saw. If the main street of this little hamlet contained a
representative sampling of the Imperials' strength, they must number at least four troops of cavalry and an
 
unknown number of support personnel. That was a big chunk of manpower for Juan Pablo Andros, the
Duke of Sonora, to send this far north -- especially considering the other claimants-of-the-moment for his
throne.
Obviously, the fact that he had sent them north was convincing evidence that he had some overwhelming
reason for doing so. Beckwith cursed the fates that had prevented Vargas from finishing his report.
Whatever had happened, it had been no mechanical failure. A clear carrier wave had ridden the satellite
channels for almost three minutes after Vargas's voice link had been silenced.
The patrol did not stop at the village square as Beckwith had expected, but rode through the inner
defense wall and into the courtyard of the hacienda belonging to Don Ynicente Galway, Patron de la
Pueblo . Beckwith had spent many an enjoyable evening in that great rambling structure, playing chess
and arguing philosophy with his host. He hoped the old pepperpot had not objected too strenuously to
Juan Pablo's henchmen taking over his home. Beckwith had too few true friends in this world as it was.
He would hate to lose two in the same month.
The captain led him through the fortified outer door and into the gloomy interior of the hacienda, stopping
only when he arrived at the door of Galway's study. He knocked briskly and waited for a muffled order
to enter. Inside, sitting behind Galway's desk -- a prized pre-war antique -- was a General of the
Imperial Mexican Army in full regalia. His chest was covered with more medals than Beckwith had ever
seen before in one spot. More important was the fact that the general was Moctezuma's man (not Juan
Pablo's), and that he was commanding Sonoran troops.
After the Captain had finished his report, the general, a rotund, mustachioed man with hard eyes, waved
dismissal and the Sonoran officer spun briskly on his heel and marched out.
The general leaned back in the squeaky swivel chair and regarded Beckwith for a moment in silence.
The doctor stood his ground, coolly returning the stare.
"I am General Miguel Stefan Trujillo of the Militar de Mexico ," he said, finally, leaning forward to rest
his elbows on the polished surface of the desk. "You are the traveling doctor for this village?"
" Si, Senõr General ."
"I would have expected an older man."
Beckwith shrugged. "Riding circuit requires the stamina of youth, General. Do not fear. I began my
training at age twelve. That was twenty-five years ago. I assure you that I am highly skilled in my craft."
"Why is it that none of your patients informed us that you were due at this time?"
Beckwith shrugged. "Probably because none of them knew it themselves. I am late this year. Got hung
up fighting an outbreak of blue plague up in the Navajo Nation last fall and I've been rushing to catch up
ever since."
" La peste! " The general crossed himself with his right hand and made the sign of the Mushroom Cloud
with his left. Beckwith wondered what the Archbishop of Mexico City would think of such an overt
appeal to paganism in one of His Majesty's highest-ranking officers, a comment he carefully refrained
from making aloud.
"There is no danger, General. I've been vaccinated and if it hadn't taken, I would have been dead six
months ago."
Trujillo's expression quickly turned to anger, obviously fueled by the thought that he had made a fool of
 
himself before this stranger.
"Be that as it may, Senõr Medico , I find myself wondering at the timing of your current visit."
"If you will pardon me for saying so, General Trujillo, it is I who should be wondering at your presence,
not vice versa."
"My presence here does not concern you."
"It concerns me if it interferes with my work. I got the impression from Captain Rodriguez that I am to
consider myself your prisoner."
"His Imperial Majesty would never imprison a representative of the Public Health Service, Doctor. You
are our honored guest."
"Will I be allowed to practice my craft freely?"
"Certainly. I will even assign an officer to assist you."
"Will I be allowed to leave when I am finished in this village?"
"I'm afraid not," Trujillo said. "You will to remain as our guest until we complete our work here."
"How long will that take?"
"As long as it takes."
"I was forced to lecture your junior officer concerning Mexico's obligations under the treaty. Must I do
the same for you, General?"
"His Majesty has authorized me to take special measures on my current mission, Doctor. If you are
inconvenienced, your service may petition His Majesty for compensation. Now, then, if you will excuse
me, I have much to do."
Beckwith turned to leave.
Trujillo glanced up from his paperwork. "One thing more, Doctor. I would be honored to have you for
my guest at dinner this evening. Senora Galway sets an excellent table and I am always interested in tales
of far-off places."
Beckwith blinked, seemed about to refuse, and then relented. "I would be delighted."
He turned to leave once more, his expression dour. He was well out in the hall, following a uniformed
flunky toward the stairs that led to the hacienda living quarters, before he allowed himself the barest hint
of a smile.
Phase One had gone as planned!
#
Beckwith followed the aide to the upper part of the house and found himself in the same bedroom he had
occupied on his last visit. He busied himself unpacking the leather satchel he found in the room. He
noted signs of a hurried search of his belongings as he did so. A few quick glances inside the case
assured him that the seals on the false bottom that hid his "special equipment" were unbroken. He placed
his clothes on the pegs set into the adobe walls for the purpose. He had just finished laying out his
 
shaving kit when there came a quiet knock on his door.
He opened it to find Esperanza Galway standing in the hall with a load of linen. She curtsied politely and
brushed past him, all the while keeping her eyes averted as was considered prim and proper for a young
lady hereabouts. She placed the linen on the feather bed and turned to face him as he closed the door.
"It is good to see you again, Doctor Darol."
"And you, too, Espe. By the Great Gods of Fission, you are sprouting up like a weed! It won't be long
before the young grandees will be beating the doors down."
Espe blushed as Beckwith nodded approvingly. Gone was the gangly little girl whose arm he had set five
years ago. In her place was a blossoming young woman of nearly fifteen summers. Espe was one of
those lucky people who seemed to have extracted just the right characteristics from her mixed bag of
ancestors. She was fast becoming a beautiful young woman.
"How is your father?" Beckwith asked.
"Safe, as far as I know," Espe said. "He left for Taos to buy breeding stock last month and has not
returned."
"And your mother?"
"Very angry at the Mexicanos for tracking mud all through her house."
"Did that potion I left help her tuberculosis?"
"She is much improved."
"What of my other patients?"
"Carmen had her baby, a strong, young boy with healthy lungs that can be heard all over the pueblo.
And Aldo Finessa's arm has regenerated as good as new. Other than that, not much has happened
except for the Sonorans."
"What of old Manuel Vargas? Does he still suffer from shortness of breath?"
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?" Beckwith asked. "I just got here, remember?"
"The Sonorans killed Manuel Vargas. They say he was a spy. They found him with a machine. Some
say that it was a radio."
"Radio? Where would old Manuel get a radio? And for whom would he spy? And what would he spy
on out here in the middle of all this desolation?"
"I do not know. All I do know is that the fat Generalissimo was most unhappy. It is said in the village
that he had two of his own men shot when he learned that they had killed Vargas."
"Nice people," Beckwith muttered. "Why'd they come to the Gila Valley, Espe? This is poor land,
barely able to support the people who live on it. Surely old Moctezuma can't want to add this place to
his Empire."
"I do not know, Doctor Darol. They have four horse troops and los inginieros with them."
 

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