Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,110

where a car is waiting for us. We see no one on the ground, and the pilot of the charter never leaves the cockpit. Phoebe and Mere get in the car while I retrieve the three cases. They go in the trunk; I climb into the back seat; and we drive out of the airport through a gate that, oddly, is open and unmanned.

Arcadian-style invisibility. Money makes the world go round. I have to admit that I missed the ease with which we had moved about the world. The last few weeks have been a hard reminder of how removed we had become from humanity. Our own choice, but given Phoebe's diatribe last night, I'm wondering how much input I truly had on that decision.

Given the opportunity to submit my own opinion, I also wonder if I would have chosen the same path for Arcadia and its citizens.

A half-hour later, while most tourists are still sleeping in, we're checked in to a pair of suites in a hotel along El Sol, the main boulevard that runs through Cusco. The sun hasn't burned off all the morning fog yet. Cusco's elevation is over three thousand meters; at this elevation, the air quality is usually much cleaner—the pollutants and toxins tend to sink to sea level—but I still need to be cautious. I haven't abandoned myself to the sun as much as Phoebe has.

While Phoebe strips and cleans the guns, I go next door to Mere's suite where she's sitting on the couch, legs curled under her, intent on her laptop screen. She's already on the hotel's Wi-Fi, researching the legacy of Montoya Industry's involvement in local matters.

I make myself useful and order room service. Fruit, a pot of coffee, yogurt, granola, honey.

“There's an Incan spa down the street,” Mere offers. “They do ancient Incan cleansing rituals.”

“Maybe on our next visit,” I say as I hang up the phone.

“They have an oxygen lounge…”

“Oh, well, that's different. Do they have mud baths too?”

She grabs a throw pillow from the couch and throws it at me. I catch it and spend a few moments staring at the pattern woven into the cotton fabric. It reminds me of the facade of Montoya's building in Santiago. Dimly, I can recall the walls of the well room at the Arcadian spa on Rapa Nui.

It's the same pattern.

Are our minds actually wiped, I wonder, or do we just not remember everything? Phoebe said it was the Grove who inspired Mother. Arcadia—collectively—participated in the idea of Mother. Had we programmed ourselves into thinking she existed as a defense mechanism? As a way to explain why we did the things we did to ourselves? If Mother was responsible, then we weren't. We were simply agents of her desire. Worker ants, responding to the commands of a distant queen. An unconscious hive mind, working intuitively to protect itself. Was that worth saving? Or was my concern about Arcadia simply the ingrained survival mechanism of an ant whose only thought was to serve the queen and the nest?

“Hey.”

I shake myself from my reverie and look up. “Hmm?”

“What do you know about terrace farming?” she asks.

“The Incans were very good at it,” I say.

“I could go so far as to say ‘exceptional,'” Mere says. “There's a bunch of sites in this region that are still in use.”

“Escobar's?”

“Undoubtedly. Okay, so think of this region as being shaped like a pot. If you look at it from the side, the Urubamba River is the handle and top edge of the pot. The Andes would be, ah, the lid.” She holds her hands to illustrate her point. “Along the river are these series of forts that used to protect the valley. Ollantaytambo”—she holds one hand flat to indicate the pot's arm and lid and walks down it with her other hand—“Urubamba, Calca, and Pisac.” Her hands move down the line. Then she cups her hand under her other one. “Down here is Cusco.”

“The bottom of the pot.”

“Right. Where everything goes. Down to the bottom.” She taps the underside of her wrist. “Now, back here is a place called Maras—it's known for its salt fields. Slightly uphill from it is a ruin called Moray, which is this ancient Incan installation with some serious concentric terraces. Apparently, they're deep enough that the climate changes dramatically from the top to the bottom.”

“Handy if you're experimenting in different crops,” I interject.

“You think?” she says. “A couple of years ago, there was a record rainfall. The sort that tends to wipe