Getting red paint to Peru

i

MARIE VALARI was dressed in a loose jumper, leggings, and trainers. Despite being smart, she was incredibly forgetful—often not just letting things slip her mind, but completely forgetting she’d ever been asked in the first place. Thus, when she had to drive her cybertruck between the towns of Assis Brasil in Brazil and Iñapari in Peru using the Interoceanic Highway, to meet HECTOR MARES, who she’d never met, she knew vastly less how he operated at the moment she began the journey than she'd been told.

As she climbed into the cybertruck, loose strands of her hair blowing in the wind, the 25-year-old looked goal-driven but lacked a cognitive map of her end goal. MARIE approached the border, her heart racing with anticipation. She looked out of the driver’s window at who was approaching.

It was a soldier looking to do a contraband check. “Show us what you’re carrying,” he demanded at the Peruvian border. She was nervous about constantly removing and replacing her passport and visa as well as receipts at customs. She’d lost a pair of glasses this way. The soldier's demanding question hung in the air. He shifted his stance and added, “Você tem algo de valor para trazer para o Peru?” injecting a hint of deference into his Portuguese.

Obediently she pulled the tarpaulin to reveal the cargo hidden underneath: six bright red canisters of paint.

The soldier then tried rudeness to a woman of her station, "O que é isso, mocinha?"

The question brought a sense of unease, yet Marie understood Peru’s background of political upheaval which might signal trouble for her.

She knew about the attempted coup, had practiced the conversations in a simulator over and over, and yet her tone betrayed a subtle fear, suggesting that she might be less knowledgeable about the situation than she was.

"Your father has motivated the rebels and they are hunting for you," said the soldier, switching to English. MARIE's heart quickened. There was something decidedly off about this soldier, although she did not know what. To speak Portuguese fluently yes, but his English was too good for a patriotic loyalist.

As the implications of the soldier's words sank in, MARIE felt a surge of unease knotting in her stomach. The gravity of the situation of someone actually interacting with her made her hesitate.

In a sudden eruption of violence, rebels emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by greasepaint. The crack of gunfire shattered the tranquility of the scene. As chaos engulfed the area, the rebels hit the cybertruck with bullets.

As one of the rebels remarked with a casual air, the violence was not just an act of aggression but also an opportunity for honing their skills. The soldier had fled. The rebels, their faces twisted in grim determination, were moving swiftly, securing the border post. She was spotted as the daughter of their leader, but she was a trained agent of the Canadian Spacetime Agency, and she had a mission that could not afford to fail. She wanted to get to meet Hector Mares in Cahuachi in Peru. If, and it was big if, she could meet Hector Mares, who she had never met, then the time machine could be tested.

The rebels were closing in, their footsteps crunching on the gravel as they approached her vehicle. Marie yanked the cybertruck's door open and slid into the driver’s seat, her mind racing as she calculated her next move.

The road ahead was blocked by the rebels, but she could see a narrow gap between two of the abandoned guard posts. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Gritting her teeth, Marie gunned the engine, the cybertruck lurching forward in eerie silence. The rebels shouted in surprise, scrambling to get out of the way as she barreled toward the gap.

The cybertruck squeezed through, the metal scraping against the concrete posts with a screech that set Marie’s teeth on edge. She didn’t dare slow down, didn’t dare look back. She knew they would be on her tail in seconds, but she couldn’t afford to lose focus.

But everything caved in as she was hit on the side of the head by fragments from an RPG’s explosion, which had missed her vehicle and dug a furrow in the road. When she woke, her father, Carlos Biltong, stood like a star at the heart of an enclave of rebels. His combat suit in burgundy was a uniform of controlled flamboyance. This was his domain, his peak moment: orchestrating one of the most sudden political takeovers ever in the name of the drug cartels. He relished the power, subtle yet absolute, to charm and manipulate the people.

Marie still loved her father, but not this political struggle. She had been in his drugged company and he was generally jovial under that spell, but to use it for political gains was beyond the pale.

Rejecting the family's hypocrisy she chose the CSA, a role where her unyielding personality could thrive, her love for the rule of right. Yet, here she was, forced back into the field, a reluctant participant in the family show.

Flora approached her father and brushed a kiss on his cheek. "Hi, Dad. An hour and a half with you then I must be on my way, alright?"

He frowned, his voice carrying the weight of too many repetitions of the same conversation. "And what's my daughter going to do after this? Got a date?"

This was familiar ground, well-trodden. His fatherly concern, the same tone he'd used to dismiss her career choices, meant he was straight, for now anyway.

"Yeah," she said, her voice flat. "With a bookworm."

He sighed, a sound more resigned than disappointed. "You know how that sounds to me, Flora? You’ve found yourself a loser."

“Lover,” she retorted.

An Ernst Fuchs painting in muted grays caught her eye, an unusually realistic portrait of a woman half embedded in stone, encrusted with jewels. The piece was compelling, almost hypnotic. This was one part of the family business she didn’t mind—the art collection, then getting stoned became a quiet ritual, something she could almost enjoy. Or had. Once.

Flora’s stomach tightened. She glanced toward the door catching her father’s disapproving look from across the room but ignored it.

“We’re going to sell the art. We need money."

Flora gave him a skeptical look.

She took a slow sip on the offered drug, eyeing him over the rims of her glasses.

"A private auction tomorrow night. In Cahuachi."

"Cool."

ii

Her father held the cybertruck door open, his smile wide. Flora noted with mild disdain that he looked as fit as ever—black curls, broad shoulders, slim hips. She remembered Che Guevara and made a comparison, allowing for the aging.

"You look great, as usual."

"I'll brief you on the way." He slid in beside her.

“Where were we going?”

“Same place as you.”

"Cahuachi? Home of the Nazca?"

"You remembered. Thanks for the lift," he said, flashing an apologetic grin. "Did you really have a date?"

She looked him over but saw nothing out of place. "Yep, but you're good—there’s a note on the car mirror of where he’ll meet me."

"Thanks."

The night was pitch-black by the time they arrived at the pyramidal mound that was the auction room which he’d explained was his own destination. Flora stepped carefully on the sanded path, her shoes finding purchase as she held onto her father’s arm. The cold air sharpened her senses, bringing with it the scent of night’s bonfires. She slipped her arm into his, but she could feel the tension in his body. The path was lined with small stones, leaving shadows across the yellow plain. The rain had stopped about an hour ago.

"It’ll be fine," Flora said, trying to sound calm. She jabbed him lightly in the arm.

"Hey. That hurt."

They reached the meeting place, and noticed an ancient, cracked statue—South American, roughly two thousand years old, sand still clinging to its surface.

Outside, torchlight flickered, but beyond that, the night was an inky void lit with bonfires. The craftsmanship of the statue was flawless, the figure so perfect that it stole her breath.

“Dad, it’s the Astronaut.”

“Astro… who?”

“The future Astronaut. This statue was likely made by the Eternals, probably sent to Nazca to change reality.”

“Are you still stoned? How do you know?”

Their conversation was interrupted.

Standing before her was a tall man who reeked of expensive cologne.

“I see you’re admiring the statue. Planning to bid on it?”

“It’s adorable. Is it Peruvian?” Flora asked in her stranger meets stranger voice.

“You could say that. Oh, Hector Mares, at your service”

Flora smiled, but underneath, a quick thought flickered—a flash of anger, the affront to her solitary existence, and that existence suited her fine.

“Peru’s been stripped of its treasures for years now. I’m an expert on armour and armour as you know provided the template for astronauts’ suits.”

Flora’s eyes lingered on the Astronaut, uncertain as to whether it hailed from the future or the past. She eyed Hector with a sense that she was fulfilling her brief by meeting him.

The drug deals pay for it,” said her father. 

There was a pre-auction party. Flora wove through the party, calm on the outside, her heart pounding beneath the surface. She reached the stairs and ascended, her movements careful, deliberate. The house was vast, and she began opening doors, one by one. Empty rooms, until she heard footsteps.

She held her breath, listening as the footsteps passed.

“Dump the body with the kitchen trash after the party. Just leave it for now.”

Flora still heard faint voices. She continued down the hall and noticed blood. She opened the door just enough to slip inside and flicked on the light.

Her father lay twisted on the floor, a fatal wound in his chest, blood was pooling around him. Flora knelt beside him, sobbing. She touched his neck—no pulse. His eyes stared out in uncanny non-comprehension.

She closed his eyes then glanced at his body one last time, then moved to the window, peering into the black night. Inside, she felt numb, cold. She called Hector..

“Dad’s dead. Shot.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s too dangerous to speak now.”

“Flora…”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes. Okay. But…”

Flora heard footsteps in the hall and ended the call.

Flora stood, smoothed her dress, and returned to the party. She accepted a fresh glass of lager.

She focused on another figure—a thin man, light-skinned, with dark hair and eyes. He was calm, almost too calm. Flora felt a shiver of recognition. It was the border soldier. She reckoned he was one of her father’s killers.

She moved across the room, directly to the man with the dark eyes, hand outstretched.

"Flora Moxie. I want to speak to you."

His eyes, black as night, flickered with something like recognition He took her hand, squeezing it lightly.

"Jose Manganes. But aren’t you the lady who was at the border earlier? I assume we’ve already met."

"I came with someone else to buy the Astronaut by the wall for my collection."

"And how do I know you are who you say?"

"You already know who I am."

They locked eyes, tension growing. Flora’s rage was palpable.

"The insurrectionist deserved it."

Yes, the English was too good.

Flora nodded, and headed for the terrace. A server handed her an umbrella at the door, and she opened it. Grieving could wait. Revenge couldn’t. She spent the next moments strategizing. Reinforcements wouldn’t arrive for a while. After a short wait, Hector Mares returned.

"Flora Moxie? Everything’s in order. I’ll go ahead with the auction."

She thanked him, slipped into a restroom, and prepared. Smiling, she took a seat.

The room, a dining room by day, was set up with chairs facing a podium. Hector took the stage, arms wide.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to this informal auction. I’m sure you’re eager to confirm the authenticity of our items. Every sculpture here was found in Peru within the last year. The paintings are from the Moxie collection.”

He stepped down. Flora knew he was the man she was supposed to meet.

The bidding began. When the Astronaut finally appeared, she bid relentlessly until it was hers.

She returned to the restroom. Now, all that was left was to find her father’s other killer. She had an hour. The CSA was tight on schedules.

She moved back to the terrace, the cold sharpening her mind. She cradled the the Astronaut, feeling its weight. An hour to midnight. A man stepped out, and she approached him.

"Why did you kill Senior Moxie?" Flora asked softly, placing a hand on his arm.

He looked startled, unsure. She held up the Astronaut.

He hesitated, laughed bitterly, then lowered his gaze.

"You ask too many questions. I had to stop him." He had blood on his cuff.

Flora checked her watch, realizing there could be no mistake.

Desperately, she grabbed the Astronaut, swinging it upward with all her strength. The man screamed. Blood streamed down his cheek. He stumbled against the railing.

A movement caught her eye—a man with a gun, the soldier again. She shot him with the gun from her cybertruck.

Paramedics lifted the men’s bodies. They were dead. She had killed them.

She retrieved her coat and left. The torches were out. She phoned Hector.

"You lied about the danger. Forced me to involve my family. And you didn’t even trust me to do my job. It’s your fault."

"Calm down. Don’t be silly."

"I’m calm. Starting today, I’m done with you. I’ve had enough."

Behind Flora, the sound of gunfire rang out, bullets pinging off the cybertruck’s metal shell. The rebels were giving chase. Marie felt a bead of sweat trickle down her forehead as she swerved to avoid a pothole. She couldn’t keep this up forever.

Marie re-entered the vehicle and gripped the steering wheel as the cybertruck was veering off the road and onto a dirt path. The tires kicked up clouds of dust as they hit the loose gravel, the vehicle jolting violently as it bounced over the uneven terrain. She could hear the rebels behind her, their shouts growing fainter as they struggled to follow her.

For a moment, it seemed as though she might lose them. The rebels’ vehicles were built for speed, not for off-road driving, and the rough path was slowing them down.

Marie could see Cahuachi growing in distance and she could feel the ancient energy of the place thrumming in the air.

She slammed on the brakes, the van screeching to a halt in the middle of the desert. The rebels, caught off guard by the sudden stop, skidded to a halt behind her, their vehicles forming a semi-circle around the her. Marie could see their faces through the windshield, their eyes narrowed in suspicion and confusion.

Taking a deep breath, Marie reached into the back and grabbed one of the red canisters. She hesitated for a moment, then she twisted the cap off the canister and hurled it out of the cybertruck, the red paint splattering across the sand in a vivid, eye-catching streak. The rebels reacted instantly, their weapons trained on her as they barked orders in rapid Spanish. The way it pooled in the sand, forming a bright red circle, would attract the government helicopters.

The rebels were closing in, their weapons raised, but Marie didn’t stop. She reached for the time travel equipment, her hands shaking as she activated the controls. The device hummed to life, the yellow lights flickering as it began to draw energy from the surrounding environment.

The device became active, the wormhole beginning to form in the center of the red circle. The air around them shimmered and warped, the fabric of reality bending as the time machine did its work.

She glanced at the rebels one last time, their faces a mix of fear and anger as they realized what was happening. And then, with a final surge of energy, the wormhole opened, the world around her dissolving into a blur of light and sound.

For a moment, there was nothing—just a void, a sense of being suspended in time and space, with no up or down, no past or future. And then, just as suddenly, she was through, the world snapping back into focus around her.

Marie found herself standing in the middle of the ancient city of Cahuachi, the sun high in the sky, casting harsh shadows across the stone ruins. The desert stretched out around her, the same as two thousands years in the future, but the stars were mapped differently, but it made her shiver.

Hector was nowhere to be seen.

Marie’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the device’s readings. The connection was unstable, the wormhole threatening to collapse at any moment. She couldn’t let that happen.

With a final, desperate push, Marie activated the last of the stabilization protocols. The device shuddered, the lights flickering as it fought to anchor itself in time. And then, with a sudden, blinding flash, the wormhole stabilized, the energy around it calming into a steady, pulsing glow.

Marie collapsed to the ground, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath. Hector Mares was approaching her, having gotten within its field, arm extended for a lift up inside the cybertruck.

She grasped it. She had brought the time machine to ancient Cahuachi, had stabilized the wormhole, and had ensured that the experiment would proceed as planned. “Who are you?” she asked, shaking off the dust. “Hector Mares,” he reiterated. “of the CSA. Our mission is safe for now.