Wednesday, November 18, 2009

You win some, you lose some...

This is a submission for my Isaiah class. It is four and a quarter pages long. It was written in one sitting and was reviewed only once. I'm interested in hearing impressions about voice and how to develop character by situation, what they notice and think, as well as dialog. Tschuess!

God with us.
I was on the city wall when Rabshakeh the traitor spoke to the servants of the king. “What makes you think you can rebell against the king of Assyria? Do you think Egypt will save you? The pharaoh is a broken reed, and if you lean upon him you'll only cut yourselves on him. Or do you think you can depend on Jehovah, whose altars Hezekiah has torn down in favor of his temple in Jerusalem?” Rabshakeh turned up toward the wall and away from the king's servants and pointed right toward me and my fellows on the wall. “If there were even two thousand men in this city, we'd give you horses for them to ride just to make things more interesting! So how can you stand here and tell me that you intend to stand ten minutes against my master, mighty Sennacherib?” Then he and his entourage began laughing.

I shifted my spear back and forth uncomfortably. Everything he had said was true. I looked down the wall, noting that about one in every three spots lay empty. We wouldn't last even five minutes if the army which took Lachish marched on Jerusalem. Too many people had left the city for the countryside, hoping to escape the brunt of Assyrian anger. Why had the king thought to anger the Assyrians? Now we were doomed to their wrath. I spat angrily. The soldier to my left looked at me in surprise but all eyes were quickly back on Rabshakeh as he shouted again at the city walls.
“Besides, do you really think that Jehovah would have let us take every walled city in the country if we weren't sent by him? No, no, Jehovah sent a message by his prophets to Sennacherib, saying, 'Go up against Judah, and destroy it,' and we have faithfully fulfilled his command!”
The master of the king's house stepped closer to Rabshakeh and hissed something, but Rabshakeh interrupted him by shouting, “The better question is, why shouldn't I speak in Hebrew? My master has sent me to tell those men on the walls that they have a choice, either to eat and drink their own wastes with you while you rot inside your fortress, or to surrender and inherit a fertile land where every man can eat from his own vine.” He turned directly to us again and shouted, “It's entirely up to you to believe whether or not Hezekiah, who has taken away all the altars of Jehovah, can really suggest that now he has your god's approval against an army that so clearly has been successful. But if I were you, I wouldn't stick around to see what we do to this city.” And with that, he and his servants turned and left. The master of the king's house rent his robe and stalked off through the gate.
I took off my helmet and tossed it against the parapet and sat down with my knees holding up my chin. The soldier who noticed me before picked my helmet up, dusted it off, and set it on the wall above my head. He and I remained in silence for some time while murmuring went up and down the line of soldiers. Then all was quiet, deadeningly so. Finally, the soldier turned to me and said, “You don't have to worry, you know.”
I scrunched up my face and looked at him from under my eyebrows. “You must be an idiot,” I said. “The Assyrians destroyed Lachish and now they'll come up out of their camp and they will flay us alive on a moment's notice. It's all because that fool king of ours decided to play games with the enemies of the greatest kingdom on earth, and expected someone in Egypt to care about us. We've already given those beasts down there everything valuable in the whole city, and now you're telling me I've got nothing to worry about.” I spat again. “That's what I think about Hezekiah and his blasted temple.”
The soldier raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything else for some time. I let him keep watch for the both of us. He nudged me with his foot when he saw the captain of the guard walking up. I jumped to my feet, spear in hand, but the captain was so preoccupied he looked as if he were going to be sick all over the wall that I doubt he would have noticed me if I had been sleeping all across the walkway. Now that I was up, though, I looked out at the huge army that waited a little less than a mile away, down the hill, for our only option: surrender.
My neighbor noticed where I was staring and the sour look on my face and stroked his silvering beard. I caught him looking at me from the corner of my eye and turned sharply to face him. “What do you want?” I snapped. He stopped pulling his beard and shook his head.
“Do you pray much?” he asked, seemingly not having heard me at all.
“I used to at home until some soldiers came and tore down our altar and cut down our grove. Oh yeah, I have the king to thank for that, too,” I snarled, and turned away, intending to ignore him.
“I just thought in absence of anything else constructive to do, we might try it,” he said calmly.
“Do whatever you want, just don't do it aloud or I'll break your jaw,” I mumbled through my arm as I rested my head on the parapet.
My neighbor said nothing. The only thing I could hear was the sound of insects basking in the heat of the valley below before the light faded completely. A boy, whom I also ignored, walked along the parapet distributing torches. My neighbor took one and jammed it into a crack in the wall and lit it with some flint. Then we both looked out at the Assyrians in the distance. Finally, just as the sun disappeared from view, he said, “You know, this isn't the first time Jerusalem's been besieged. We'll be all right, just like we always are when we're trusting in the Lord.”
I could tell this was one of Hezekiah's men, and a religious fanatic no less, so I just spat and tried to ignore him since he wasn't going to talk to me like a rational person. He went on as if he hadn't noticed. “You know, I once saw the prophet Isaiah ben Amoz deliver a message to King Ahaz about the Israelite and Syrian war years before it began.” Since I was ignoring him, I didn't try to stop him. He unfortunately took my silence for permission to continue, which he did at some length as he leaned on the parapet.
“Ahaz had been playing politics himself and had got the nation stuck in a position where he was depending on Assyria to come to his aid. It looked like the only option was going to be a war like this one against both Syria and the Israelites. But what Ahaz didn't remember was that Jehovah had for generations warned Israel that if it didn't shape up, it would be captured and taken away.”
“Thanks for that cheery thought,” I mumbled under my breath. My neighbor didn't seem to mind.
“Isaiah risked his life to go up to the palace and talk to Ahaz, but Ahaz listened to what he had to say. When Isaiah told him that Jehovah would destroy Israel and Syria and told Ahaz not to fear, Ahaz's eyebrows raised almost off of his face. He stroked his beard and said it was good, figuring it would be easier to unite the kingdom if he had the option of calling on a holy man of Jehovah to rally the people. But then Isaiah told him that Jehovah invited Ahaz to ask a sign to prove what he had said was true. Ahaz laughed and said, 'I'll do no such thing!' Isaiah told him that he was wasting both his and God's time, and then went on to prophesy that Israel and Syria would be utterly humbled before a newborn child named Immanuel would know good from evil. As it turns out, that was true, and before the child could grow up, Israel and Syria were gone.”
My impatience bubbled to the surface. “Again, buddy, thanks for the pleasant reminder about destroying countries. It warms me all over inside to think that Jehovah went ahead and explained to Ahaz how well Assyria was going to smash Syria and Israel, since that's what's going to happen to us in the morning. The best thing we could do now is give up before they grind us into bits under their feet.” The words were bitter in my mouth, and I regretted saying them. God had given my family's land to my us almost a dozen generations ago. My forefathers as far back as I could count were buried there, and here we were, probably going to be killed, at best sent to who knows where while someone else tills my land and walks all over the graves of my fathers. I moved a bit further down the wall from him.
My neighbor seemed unperturbed, which was perhaps more evidence of his mental instability. “Well,” he said, “as it turns out Jehovah has said that Judah will not be destroyed at this time. In fact, that same Isaiah prophesied about what's going on now at least fifteen years ago, but the Assyrians won't take Jerusalem. Here on top of these walls, we're pretty safe.”
“Listen, I don't have time for rumors about soothsayers. I've only got a few hours till morning when I've got to figure out how to say, 'I'll do whatever you want, just don't kill me,' in Assyrian. So if you don't mind, I'm going to enjoy my last twilight before I die a slow, agonizing death.”
I looked down the wall in the last rays of the day at the ground a few dozen feet below. Just a headlong jump was all it would take and then the Assyrians couldn't take me alive. If they came up to the walls, would I jump? I didn't hear my neighbor sneak up next to me, so when he spoke I was startled a bit and lost my balance. He grabbed the back of my robe so I wouldn't fall as he continued. “When Isaiah prophesied about that child, he wasn't just guessing. Israel and Syria are gone, just like he said, and Assyria will be to. Just watch.”
A whisper was moving down the wall in the dark. The soldier on my right, who was a full space away and somehow ignored everything the soldier on my left had been spouting, now turned to us and said, “The word of Isaiah ben Amoz, prophet of Jehovah, is this: 'Thus saith Jehovah: Be not afraid of the words that thou hast heard, wherewith the servants of the king of Assyria have blasphemed me. Behold, I will send a blast upon him, and he shall hear a rumor, and return to his own land; and I will cause him to fall by the sword in his own land.' Pass it down.” I ignored him, but my neighbor clapped his hands passed it on down, word for word.
The night began to drag on. The fires at the temple were still burning, and the word along the line was that the king himself was joining the people in sacrifices, singing psalms and announcing that the Ethiopian king was approaching from the south, and that Sennacherib's army would not stay to fight him. The implication was that they would also leave Jerusalem alone.
I didn't want to, but I began to hope a little that the prophet was right. My old grandfather used to worship only Jehovah and would tell stories about how once a year Israelites and Jews would go together to Jerusalem and offer sacrifices to Jehovah in peace. Of course then there was Moses and Joshua, and if the stories were true, Jehovah had protected them and given them all sorts of miracles. Then there were the judges, and David. And though my father and mother had never believed those stories, preferring the gods that Ahaz worshiped, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a God who could do all that, why shouldn't we always worship him?
We all sat in silence under the night sky. Over in the camp of the Assyrians, hundreds of fires were burning. There were probably more campfires than there were Jewish soldiers on the wall. I started shaking, more from cold than horror. The fear was what was keeping me awake, however. My neighbor came up beside me, looking up at the night sky. “It's funny,” he began, “one set of lights in front of us threatens destruction, but there are so many more above us that are singing in harmony about the power of Jehovah, who made them. You know, that prophecy about Immanuel didn't just refer to saving us from Syria and Samaria. Immanuel means, 'God with us,' and it refers to other anointed ones who will save us in our times of need. Jehovah will spare us because he loves us, each of us, and we are his covenant people. The king is in the temple praying right now. Isaiah has been right before, and I know he's right now. Jehovah will send Sennacherib back to Assyria, just as he's promised.” I nodded and leaning on the wall I rested my head on my hands. My neighbor left me alone with my thoughts.
After considering my family outside the city, hopefully still safe and hidden, I decided a little prayer to Jehovah might be worth it. What could it hurt, anyway? “I don't know thy name well,” I began, mumbling so that only I could hear, “and I don't really know what thou desirest of me. I'm about to die, though, and I thought that since I—I don't have any real reasons not to ask for thy help. So here it goes. We can't defeat this army, not now, not ever. But if thou art the one who parted the sea for Moses and knocked down the walls of Jericho for Joshua, hey, this is a piece of cake. So I'm begging thee, send the Assyrians home so that my family can live! I'll find out what thou desirest from me if thou wilt do this thing, and I promise that I will do whatever thou askest, and will worship no other. Just watch over my family, please!”
It was anything but an eloquent prayer, but I felt like it was at least accurate, and I was sincere. I immediately felt a kind of calm wash over me, and I smiled. I looked out at the Assyrian camp and thought of Isaiah's words. God would send a blast and a rumor. I didn't really know what that was supposed to mean, but maybe Sennacherib would just change his mind and take off. I tried to imagine that view of twinkling campfires gone, with just the night to replace it. Whispering on the wind, I heard a psalm that my grandfather used to sing when he was working, or when the insects had eaten the corn:
“Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul. They that hate me without a cause are more than the hairs of my head! But God will save Zion, and will build the cities of Judah: that they may dwell there, and have it in possession. The seed also of his servants shall inherit it: and they that love his name shall dwell therein...”
I think I fell asleep there on the wall, because I don't remember much else that night. My neighbor watched out for me and made sure I didn't get in trouble with the captain. The next thing I remember was the sound of shouting in the valley. I woke up in the pre-dawn light to the song of birds. My neighbor, grim-faced, stood still, looking out at the Assyrian camp. The morning was calm and peaceful, as opposite to the oppressive and dark feeling of the night before. I marveled at the change. Suddenly, a whole lot of noise started coming from the Assyrian camp. Everyone on the wall got nervous, restrung their bows and adjusted their armor, until it became clear that the Assyrians weren't coming toward us. They were going north, back up the valley. Most of us couldn't believe our eyes, but my neighbor didn't seem to be surprised a bit. He just smiled and said nothing.
We later found out that more than one hundred thousand Assyrian soldiers had died during the night due to an unknown disease, and had retreated. We were dispatched from the city out to the south and had the unpleasant duty of burning the bodies. I did find a good few pieces of gold, though, and a pair of Assyrian steel swords, so I'd say it was definitely worth the awful smell. Within a few days, we were released to go back to our families. I finally asked him his name when I ran into him on the way back to Jerusalem. “Shear-jashub,” he said. “I know it's unusual, but my father insisted.”
I shrugged. “It could be worse. It could be even longer.” He nodded and smiled lopsidedly. “Listen, how did you know all those things about Immanuel?” I asked.
“Well, like I said, I was there. I saw the whole thing. It left a deep impression on me, and I wondered why it was that the Lord had wanted me to be there, so I've pondered it and I've prayed about it for years. I don't know if I've come to a very conclusive answer, but I do know that I've learned more about the Lord thinking about it that I would have just reading someone else's writings, though that's nice too.”
“You can read?” I asked.
He smiled. “Sure. And if you bring your family to visit some time, maybe I can teach you. Just ask for me, I'm the only Shear-jashub in the city.” I chuckled and embraced my new friend before heading out on the road home. My wife and our two young sons would be there, but we would have a lot of work to do. If by the will of God our crops were still alive, we might make it through this harvest. Then, during the winter, I would go to Jerusalem and offer up a lamb at the temple. Maybe I would send my youngest son to Shear-jashub to learn how to read and come back and tell me more about prophecies and Jehovah. There were prophets out where I lived, too. I would invite one to come and eat with us and teach us the law. But first things first: I would remember to thank Jehovah for saving my family and me each morning and each evening. And I would remember how it felt, up there on the wall in the dark night, when he comforted me.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Prologue . . . hopefully

U.E.S. Indiana Jones
201.-11

Sometimes, Santiago wished his brain would just shut up.

He’d been right in the middle of the perfect date—dreaming, of course; but hey, who didn’t?—a night of high stakes gambling in Las Vegas with a gorgeous blond Venutian—the new type being grown in the black market crèche pools on the Paradise World for the big timers down Earthside: mouthwatering blonde; dark skin that was the perfect blend of oriental, African, and Latina, smoothed out with some anglo genes; eyes the color of amber, or gold, depended on the light; and full lips that were just begging for attention—anyways, the point was the flaca was perfect. And he’d been perfect too, at craps, poker, black jack, Martian Hold’em . . . he hadn’t been able to touch a chip or card without walking away a whole order of magnitude richer. Gambling was one of the few pastimes that made Santiago grateful for his brain; the rest of the time, his super-sized cranium was more trouble than it was worth. No matter what the bigwigs at New Harvard claimed.


The point was, it had been the best kind of dream: way too good to be true. The kind of dream that could only be cooked up by the cocktail of drugs the U.E.S. Indiana Jones’ medic had force-fed him somewhere around Jupiter. Not that they’d had to—after that last slingshot past the Big Guy, Santiago had been bored enough to actually try striking up a conversation with the other flesh and blood weirdos that wandered around the ship—he’d slipped the IV without a moment’s hesitation. Not that his efforts at socializing had gotten anywhere. The only female-type in the whole ship who wasn’t crew—he’d made a promise to himself, years ago, not to get involved with Navy women—was some quantum physicist who was wider than she was tall. Not that he was shallow or anything.

So, basically, the dream had been a welcome relief. Until his brain had to go and mess it all up, that is. He’d been on the brink of a winning throw, the dice rattling in his hand, when the flaca had leaned forward and whispered in his ear—so close those perfect lips actually tickled, mind—“We’re decelerating at one g.”

“You outta your mind, chata,” he’d replied, grinning and rattling the dice some more, “I’m just warming up.”

But then he threw the dice, and instead of bouncing around on the table like they should have, they zipped across the board, fell to the floor, and kept on rolling until they hit the far wall, fifty meters away . . . exactly like they would have if they’d been experiencing one g of lateral deceleration.

He’d turned around, ready to give the Venutian an earful for breaking his concentration, when suddenly the vibrations started, like hands running up his legs and back in a gentle massage, and he’d thought for a millisecond that the Venutian was going to work on him—they were trained in that kind of thing—but no, she’d been a good half meter away from him, perfect hands at her side, full lips quirked in a knowing smile.

“You’d better wake up and find out when we’ll arrive at our destination.”

“Screw you sister”—at least, he meant to say that, but suddenly it wasn’t the Venutian anymore, but his mamita, hands on hips, squeezed into the Venutian’s tube dress.

“Santiago Zambrano Alcaraz, you wake ¡este momento! ¿Me escuchas? ¡Este momento!”

“Shut up, brain, er . . . mom? ¡Callete!”

But by then it was too late. With his mamita still screaming at him in the back of his mind, he cracked an eyelid, and the cold light of the Jones slapped him across the cornea. He squeezed his throbbing eye shut with a moan that rattled through his teeth, and fumbled for his sleeping bag’s zipper. And his brain, his brain wouldn’t stop yammering at him. The rhythmic pulsing that he was still vainly trying to pretend was the Venutian’s small hands working on his cramped muscles was rolling through the Jones’ bulkhead every 2.5 seconds, interlaced with a slower rumble that cycled through his aching body every 13.75 seconds, so loud that he could hear it. As if knowing that did any good. As if his vaunted brain was any help ninety-five percent of the time!

Almost smugly, his brain told him the deceleration was increasing, nearing 1.5 gs and still climbing. That little tidbit brought an involuntary frown to his face. 1.5 gs? At that rate, they’d have come to a complete stop in—his brain chortled and dove into the physics—in roughly 52.4897959184 seconds.

Unfortunately, it was at that moment that his hand—still functioning largely without higher direction because 50% of Santiago’s brain was asleep and the other 50% was cheerily crunching numbers—found the zipper and pulled. Hard. It was also at that exact moment that Santiago remembered that he’d ignored the boson’s stern warning to secure his sleeping bag to the bulkhead labeled with a big black 1, not the one labeled 2—a warning that he had promptly ignored, just to show the Navy muscle he could. After all, in null gravity, who cared?

The deceleration forces ripped him out of his bag with a strangled shout, and 0.521640530957 seconds later he slammed into the 1 bulkhead. Of course, half a millisecond before he actually hit the wall the Navy jerks up on the bridge decided to cut the burn, so instead of sticking to the bulkhead like he should have, he was bounced, screaming profanity the whole way, back towards 2 bulkhead, which he struck with enough force to finally shake the Venutian flaca from his brain and send her spinning back to Venus once and for all. He only barely managed to wrap his hand around one of the straps on his sleeping pouch, which kept him from dribbling back and forth between the bulkheads like a human basketball.

For a second he just hung there, contemplating the cruel nature of the universe, shoulder screaming at him like his mamita had been only a few seconds ago, his hand that had grabbed the strap burning. He was sure it was bleeding. He just didn’t want to look. His head was rattling and spinning like the dice he’d been throwing in his dream. He had to blink half a dozen times just to bring the cramped cabin into focus. Was that his blood on the far wall?

He ran his trembling free hand across his forehead, and then grimaced at the red stains on his fingers. More of his blood was floating free in the air between the bulkheads in shimmering spheres that looked like wine. Good wine, too. Maybe a Montpelier 1997.

“Lights at fifty percent,” he said. The room dimmed, and he hooked his left leg around the pouch so he could shake the sting out of his hand. “Exterior view on screen one.”

To his right, the cabin’s media console came alive, the main screen brightening into an impressive star field. Some people might have paused a moment to gaze at the . . . 147,678 stars that were visible in just this tiny slice of the universe, but Santiago didn’t care much about the view.

“Augment,” he commanded, and suddenly the starscape was overlain with a hundred different colors, texts, and lines. The pinpricks of light were separated by color into stars, galaxies, nebulae, planetoids, asteroids, unidentified Trans-Neptunian objects, etc. Text blocks that seemed to hover just above the celestial bodies indicated mass, relative velocities, relative distances, ages . . . the list went on. And the lines that swept across the screen tracked the orbits of the 10,000 nearest objects. A normal person probably would have had a coronary just looking at all the data. Santiago, on the other hand, had his brain, and his brain cobbled up everything the computer could shove at him, and more, in the half second it took Santiago to sweep his gaze across the screen.

Thanks to his brain, he knew where he was before the computer had finished painting all of the orbits across the screen. The Kuiper belt, roughly 6 billion klicks from Earth, give or take an astronomic unit. That raised his eyebrow. What in the world was out here? Ice . . . lots of ice.
Shaking his head—ignoring the eight hundred and ninety seven possible locations in the Kuiper belt his brain was suddenly suggesting as the Jones’ destination—Santiago unhooked his leg and pushed away from the wall, angling for the tiny sanitation unit on the bulkhead opposite the media station.

“Music,” he said absently once he reached the sanitation unit. A glance in the mirror, a tiny thing no bigger than his palm, revealed a haggard-faced eighteen year-old with a fan of blood spreading across the right half of his face. Lousy Navy. Some way to treat the world’s smartest person. And that was documented too, no bragging on his part. He had a certificate from the Department of Neurosciences of New Harvard. Where had he put that, anyway?

He groped around the tileplast station till he found the bath wipes, then started cleaning off his face. “Lets hear something from the ‘30s . . . make it alternative rock.”

His eyes drifted back to the screen, which was still tracking orbits and velocities; he barely heard the music, but his brain logged it away anyways. Coldplay, their last album.

Where was the Jones' going?

It had taken a long time for Santiago to get used to his brain. Heck, it still gave him the creeps some times. Who wouldn’t be creeped out by a brain that was faster and smarter than any AI ever invented? Santiago would like to meet the fellow. He’d shake the monse’s hand, tip his hat to him, and then switch brains without breaking a sweat. He really would. Most days, anway.

But now, with that empty starfield making faces at him on the monitor, Santiago’s brain had no answers, and he didn’t like, not one bit. The Navy boys—and the occasional Navy female-type he’d run into on the Jones—had been about as talkative as clams. And compared to the secret police that had busted into his flat in New Washington, three months and six billion kilometers back on Earth, the Navy crew was downright chatty. He grimaced as his brain replayed that night. The visit from the three police—all of them women . . . the nasty kind from the DAR—had gone from bad to worse: a break-in through his apartment window, followed by a long ride in a windowless van, followed by three weeks solitary confinement in a cement box with a bed and toilet, followed by another three weeks of psychological tests that made the hoops the New Harvard had made him jump through seem like cake, followed by a ride up the Western Atlantic Space Elevator, and finally ending with him being shoved into the United Empire Ship Indiana Jones like a sardine with only the clothes on his back . . . and his brain, of course.

He was still wiping at his face. Frowning, he deposited the bloody wipe into the trash recycler, and pushed off back towards the media station. His brain had been his only asset during the psych tests, and yet from those tests he’d learned more about this mission he’d been hijacked into going on than the doctors had learned about him.

The Navy was looking for something. Something that was, apparently, out here in the Kuiper Belt. And whatever it was, they needed a computer expert, the computer expert, to help them deal with it. And whatever it was, they wanted it bad. So bad, in fact, that the DAR—Daughters of the American Revolution, that is—was in on it. And if the secret police were in on it, the Imperial family was in on it. And if the Imps were in on it . . .

Well, if the Imps were in on it, Santiago Zambrano Alcaraz wanted to be in on it.

His brain pointed out, snidely, that the death rate among middle-class citizens that dabbled in Imperial politics was 15.78% higher than their less politically inclined peers, but he ignored it. After all, those statistics didn’t apply to him, a New-Harvard-certificate-carrying genius.

He extended his hands over the computer’s holopad, and the controls flickered to life around his fingers. Zero point two five seconds later he was deep into the Jones’ programming, cruising through lines of codes he doubted any Navy personnel had reviewed in years. Yeah, the DAR secret police might have all but stripped him naked before shoving him onto the ship, but that hadn’t stopped him from hacking into the network through a public, supposedly ‘safe’, terminal, and writing up three- or four-dozen programs that basically put every system on the Jones at his disposal.

Just thinking of how he was suckering the Navy and the DAR made him laugh out loud. Of course, that’s when his brain chose to remind him that he’d been abducted because he was able to do just this sort of thing, and that the Navy probably fully expected him to be doing exactly what he was doing right now, so he wasn’t really pulling a fast one on anybody, and they were probably blocking access to any really crucial systems through subroutines he hadn’t considered yet.

“Shut up you,” he muttered through his teeth. Stupid brain. Why couldn’t it just do as it was told?

Gently, he assumed control of the ship’s passive scanners, and began scrolling through the flood of data that the Jones was pulling in. As the information flooded passed him, his brain whistled in surprise—well, the lipless and soundless equivalent of a whistle at least. And for once, Santiago could only agree.

“Wow.”