Michael McCollum - Man of Renaissance

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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

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Michael McCollum - Man of Renaissance

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