Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Textbook Ebook The Last 8 Pohl Laura All Chapter PDF
Textbook Ebook The Last 8 Pohl Laura All Chapter PDF
Happy reading!
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part II
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part III
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
To Mom.
Live long and prosper.
CONTENT WARNING:
***
I’ve barely landed the Beechcraft when my abuela comes out the
back door, a towel in her hands, shouting from the steps.
“You two are late!”
She’s already in her dress, the one she wears to church, black and
somber. I run inside the house and take a quick shower. Five
minutes later, I’m downstairs and ready to go.
Abuela gives me the once-over. “No makeup?” she asks.
I shake my head.
She sighs dramatically. “How will you look in photos, Clover? In ten
years, you’ll look back and think, ‘Here are all my beautiful
classmates, and I was too stubborn to do anything to look nice.’”
“Abuela, it’s the science fair. It’s not even graduation.”
“And? The pictures will still be in the album,” she says. “Look at me
and your grandfather. We’re wearing our best.”
It’s no use discussing this with Abuela, who thinks every single
school occasion where I have to present something is worthy of
putting on her best clothes as if she’s about to meet the president
himself.
“Fine, I’ll do it in the car.”
“Carlos!” Abuela shouts, and he comes downstairs just in time,
finishing the knot in his tie. “Let’s go.”
She marches outside like a soldier ready for battle, heading for the
truck. I sit in the back seat, Abuelo in the front on the passenger’s
side. For all the planes we can fly, we don’t seem to have a knack for
driving cars.
Abuela glares at me in the rearview mirror, unwavering, and I pick
up her makeup bag, applying some powder and mascara at her
insistence. It takes us almost thirty minutes to reach the school, and
by the time I get to the gym, the science fair is already in full swing.
I make my way toward my table, where my project is set up. Abuela
takes a few photos to keep in her album, and then Abuelo takes her
arm, ushering her away to see the other projects. At the next table
are Mark Robson and his girlfriend, Emily, with their project on solar
energy.
“Martinez,” Mark says. “I thought you skipped school activities.”
“It wasn’t an option this time,” I tell him flatly.
He laughs. Mark has a good sense of humor, though we don’t talk
much. Truth be told, I almost never talk to my classmates outside of
school. It’s strange being the only Mexican American kid in a small
town in Montana, and I never exactly tried to bridge the gap
between them and me.
“Are you finally going to tell us what this big mystery project is
about?” Emily asks, cocking a blond eyebrow at my table, which is
still covered under a linen sheet. “Mr. Kay couldn’t shut up about it.”
Just as she says his name, the science teacher appears. He smiles
gleefully at me.
“You’re a bit late, Clover,” he says. “But I guess everything is in
order?”
I nod. “All ready to go.”
He nods to Emily and Mark, who are still curiously staring at me.
Then he leans in and whispers, “You know, an admissions recruiter
from MIT is here.”
“What?” I say, my mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding me.”
“No,” he replies. “I told him over email about your project and how
excited you are to apply to MIT in the fall.”
My cheeks burn a deep red.
“He’s scouting you. So do your best.”
“I will,” I tell him.
When Mr. Kay walks away to look at the other projects, I force
myself to breathe. This is my opportunity to land a good scholarship,
the first step in what will eventually take me to NASA and out of
here.
Into the sky, just like Abuelo.
Slowly, people trickle by each table. Parents, grandparents, little
sisters and cousins, all of them came to see what was happening at
the science fair. In a small town like ours, there isn’t much to do on
a Saturday morning in early April.
My grandparents are the first to officially visit my table, and I
demonstrate my project for them, even though they already heard
me rehearsing. Abuelo helped me build the model and the motor,
and everything works just fine. My presentation becomes almost
mechanical as I wait for the MIT recruiter to show up.
Noah comes to my table instead.
“Hey,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “You?”
He nods, pursing his lips. There’s an awkward silence between my
ex-boyfriend and me. I’m sure he wants to say something, but
neither of us find the right words.
Before I can speak again, Ted, one of Noah’s football teammates,
rams into him.
“We’ve got it all ready,” Ted says with a grin.
“Dude, be quiet,” hisses Mark from the next table. “If the teachers
find out, we’re toast.”
Ted grins, careless, and then narrows his eyes at me. “Oh, Clover’s
not going to snitch, is she?”
Noah looks at me apologetically as Ted throws an arm around him.
“What are you guys up to?” I ask.
“Fireworks,” Ted says. “After the fair is over.”
I look at all three of them. “You guys are idiots.”
“Thanks for your input, Clover, it’s always appreciated.”
“No problem.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a stranger approach the table,
and the moment between Noah and me is gone. I turn my attention
to the newcomer, and I know immediately that he is the recruiter Mr.
Kay was talking about—there aren’t that many strangers in our
town.
“Hi,” I say, hoping my voice is bright. “I’m Clover Martinez, and I’m
here to guide you through the next phase of human space
exploration.”
I summarize my project as best as I can, my palms sweaty. My
heart beats loudly against my rib cage, but I manage to keep calm
and speak clearly. I start with basic information about space
exploration, then I move on to talking about viable missions to Mars
and Jupiter. I run the test for the motor I’ve constructed. On a larger
scale, it would not only save fuel but also cover longer distances in
foreign environments, allowing spacecraft to be lighter in weight and
for their missions to last longer.
When I’m done, I look up expectantly.
“Impressive presentation, Miss Martinez,” he says, his accent
British. “Your teacher tells me you plan to apply to MIT?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after college?”
“Hopefully NASA,” I reply. “But I think it’s best to take it one step a
time.”
He smiles at that. “You’re right.” He takes a card out of his jacket
pocket and hands it to me. “I look forward to receiving your
application.”
“Thank you.” I grin from ear to ear as he leaves.
My grandparents approach the table, both of them looking at me.
“How did it go?” Abuela asks.
“I think he liked it.”
“He’d be an idiot not to,” Abuelo says, hugging me.
The science fair ends a couple of hours later, and I say goodbye to
Mr. Kay and thank him for his help. I’m still holding the business card
inside my pocket, my fingers trembling over it.
Abuelo helps me pack my things in the truck, and on the trip
home, I sit leaning against the window. When I look up, I see
something shining in the sky.
At first I think it’s one of the fireworks the boys set up, but its path
is too straight. Then I realize what I’m seeing.
More than a hundred shooting stars cover the sky. I see them
cross it, glimmering silver as their trajectory takes them straight to
the ground. It’s a beautiful sight, but for some reason, my stomach
sinks.
“Meteor shower,” Abuela says.
Slowly, Abuelo shakes his head. “See that?” He points to one just
above us. “It’s slowing down.”
That’s exactly what it’s doing—instead of accelerating and colliding
with Earth like a true falling star. It’s big, fat, and pear-shaped, and I
realize that there’s nothing about this thing that resembles a star or
a meteor at all. It’s a reinforced ball of armor, full of mystery.
The one closest to us crosses the sky, followed by a trail of fire. I
gape as it slows down even more and reaches the outskirts of town,
too far away for me to get a good look. But I can see smoke rising.
“It’s…” I start the sentence but can’t bring myself to finish it.
“A ship,” Abuelo says, completing my thought.
Not just any ship. A spaceship.
A real one.
Chapter 2
When we make it home, Abuelo is the first to get out of the car,
moving so fast that no one would believe he’s a senior citizen. I
follow, close on his heels, and by the time I’m in the house, he
already has the TV on and the volume up.
Every channel is showing emergency broadcasts, images of
spaceships coming toward Earth.
“The phenomenon has repeated itself all over the planet,” the
television reporter says. “In the last four hours, we have confirmed
sightings of more than one hundred thousand spaceships landing at
different points around the world.”
One hundred thousand. That’s too big a number. And it’s surely
growing, because no one had the time to count them all if they just
landed.
We could be easily looking at a force of five million.
“Government officials ask that all citizens please remain calm while
they investigate the situation,” the reporter continues. “The
president is due to make a statement soon. Please do not try to
approach these objects, and it’s recommended that everyone stay
inside their homes.”
Abuelo’s expression is indecipherable.
The image on the TV changes, and I’m looking at what appears to
be a welcoming committee for the possible aliens. People with signs
and party drinks approach a ship, gathering around it. The ship is
metallic silver and shaped like a pear. It’s closed tight, with no sign
of a door, completely impenetrable. It reminds me of an oyster shell.
Abuelo turns the volume down as the reporters repeat themselves
and footage is shown from all over the world. Spaceships are landing
in Russia and Brazil and France, all over the place, but there’s no
sign of aliens doing anything.
Yet.
A chill climbs up my spine.
“Qué en el nombre de Dios…” Abuela says as she finally joins us.
Then she sees the TV. “Dios mío.”
Abuelo moves over to the table and picks up the phone. “I’m going
to make some calls. I should probably head over to Malmstrom.”
Malmstrom is the closest air base. Abuelo is a retired air force pilot,
so his first instinct is to call them.
He calls the number, but no one picks up. He shakes his head
slightly, worry creasing his forehead. He looks at me, just to make
sure I’m okay.
I breathe in, breathe out, trying to remember how to function like
a normal human being.
Nothing about this feels real.
Abuelo shakes his head. “I’m going to try again. But the best thing
would be for me to head over there,” he says, his eyes landing on
Abuela for a second.
“Carlos,” Abuela says, her tone harsh. “You can’t fly right now.
Those things just came from the sky.”
Abuelo and I exchange a look. We know it’s dangerous, but we
understand each other. Our place isn’t here—it’s up there, with the
airplanes.
“Okay.” I nod.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
—Sin embargo, señora, un ladrón de semejante estofa no puede
ser patrocinado por nadie. Horribles cosas se ven en las guerras
civiles; pero nosotros los franceses entraremos en Cádiz.
—Esa es mi esperanza.
—¿No tiene usted valimiento con los ministros liberales?
—Ninguno. Mi nombre solo les sonará a proclama realista.
—Entonces....
—Cuento con la protección de los jefes del ejército francés.
—Y con los servicios de un leal amigo... El objeto principal es
detener al ladrón.
—¡Detenerle y amarrarle y arrastrarle! —exclamé con furor—. Pero
deseo hacer mi justicia a espaldas de la curia, porque aborrezco los
pleitos, aun cuando los gane.
—¡Oh!, eso es muy español. Se trata, pues, de cazar a un hombre
¿por ventura eso es fácil todavía?
—Fácil no.
—Y para una dama...
—Pero yo no estoy sola. Tengo servidores leales que solo esperan
una orden mía para...
—Para matar...
—No tanto —dije riendo—. Esto le parecerá a usted leyenda
novela, romance o lo que quiera; pero no, mis propósitos no son tan
trágicos.
—Lo supongo... pero siempre serán interesantes... ¿Ha dejado
usted criados en Sevilla?
—Uno tengo a mis órdenes. Le mandé por delante, y en Cádiz está
ya.
—¿Vigilando...?
—Acechando.
—Bien: le seguirá de noche embozado hasta las cejas, espiará sus
acciones, se informará de su método de vida. ¿Y ese criado es fiel?
—Como un perro... Examinemos bien mi situación, señor conde
¿Se puede entrar en Cádiz?
—Es muy difícil, señora, sobre todo para los que son sospechosos
al gobierno liberal.
—¿Y por mar?
—Ya sabe usted que en la bahía tenemos nuestra escuadra.
—¿Cuándo tomarán ustedes la plaza?
—Pronto. Esperamos a que venga Su Alteza para forzar el sitio.
—¿Y podrán escaparse los milicianos y el gobierno?
—Es difícil saberlo. Ignorarnos si habrá capitulación; no sabemos e
grado de resistencia que presentarán los insurgentes.
—¡Oh! —exclamé sin saber lo que decía, obcecada por mis
pasiones—. Ustedes los realistas no sirven para esto. Si Napoleón
estuviera aquí, amigo mío, mañana, mañana mismo, sí señor, mañana
sería tomada por asalto esa ciudad rebelde y pasados a cuchillo los
insensatos que la defienden.
—Me parece demasiado pronto —dijo Montguyon sonriendo—. En
fin, comprendo la impaciencia de usted.
—Sí, quien ha sido robada, vilmente estafada, no puede aproba
estas dilaciones que dan fuerza al enemigo. Señor conde, es preciso
entrar en Cádiz.
—Si de mí dependiera, señora, esta tarde mandaba dar el asalto —
repuso con entusiasmo—. Sorprendería a la guarnición, encarcelaría a
los diputados y a las Cortes, y pondría en libertad al rey.
—Ya eso no me importa tanto —dije en tono de conquistador—. Yo
entraría al asalto sorprendiendo la guarnición. Dejaría, a los diputados
que hicieran lo que les acomodase, mandaría al rey a paseo...
—¡Señora!...
—Buscaría a mi hombre, revolvería todos los rincones, todos los
escondrijos de Cádiz hasta encontrarle... y después que le hallara...
—Después...
—Después, señor conde... ¡Oh!, mi sangre se abrasa...
—En los divinos ojos de usted, Jenara —me dijo—, brilla el fuego
de la venganza. Parece usted una Medea.
—No me impulsan los celos —dije serenándome.
—Una Judith.
—Ni la idea política.
—Una...
—Parezca lo que parezca, señor conde, es preciso entrar en Cádiz.
—Entraremos.
—¿No sirve usted ahora en el Estado Mayor del general Bourmont?
—En él estoy a las órdenes de la que es imán de mi vida —repuso
poniendo los ojos en blanco.
—¿Será Bourmont nombrado comandante general de Cádiz, luego
que la plaza se rinda?
—Así se dice.
—¿Hará usted prender a mi mayordomo?...
—Le haré fusilar...
—¿Me lo entregará atado de pies y manos?
—Siempre que no huya antes, sí, señora.
—¡Huir! Pues qué, ¿tendrá ese hombre la vileza de huir, de no
esperar?...
—El criminal, amiga mía de mi corazón, pone su seguridad ante
todo.
—¿No dice usted que hay una especie de escuadra?
—Una escuadra en toda regla.
—¿Pues de qué sirven esos barcos, señor mío —dije de muy ma
talante—, si permiten que se escape... ese?
—Quizás no se escape.
—¿De qué sirve la escuadra? —añadí con la más viva inquietud—
¿Quién es el almirante que la manda? Yo quiero ver a ese almirante
quiero hablar con él...
—Nada más fácil; pero dudo...
—Me ocurre que si hay capitulación, será más fácil atraparle...
—¿Al almirante?
—No; a... a ese.
—Sin duda. En tal caso se quedaría tranquilo en Cádiz, al menos
por unos días.
—Bien, muy bien. Si hay capitulación, arreglo, perdón de vidas y
libertad para todos... Señor conde, aconsejaremos al príncipe que
capitule... ¡Pero qué tonterías digo!
—Está patente en su espíritu de usted la obsesión de ese asunto.
—¡Oh!, sí. No puedo pensar en otra cosa. El caso es grave. Si no
consigo apoderarme de ese hombre... no sé... creo que me costará la
vida.
—Yo también le aborrezco... ¡Hombre maldito!... Pero le cogeremos
señora. Me pongo al servicio de este gran propósito con la sumisión de
un esclavo. ¿Acepta usted mi cooperación?
Al decir esto, me besaba la mano.
—La acepto, sí, hombre generoso y leal, la acepto con gratitud y
profundo cariño.
Al decir esto, yo ponía en mi semblante una sensibilidad capaz de
conmover a las piedras, y en mis pestañas temblaba una lágrima.
—Y entonces —añadió Montguyon con voz turbada—, cuando
nuestro triunfo sea seguro, ¿podré esperar que el hueco que se me
destina en ese corazón no sea tan pequeño?
—¿Pequeño?
—Si es evidente, por confesión de él mismo, que ya tengo una
parte en sus sublimes afectos, ¿no puedo esperar...?
—¿Una parte? ¡Oh! no. Todo, todo.
El inflamado galán abrió sus brazos para estrecharme en ellos; pero
evadí prontamente aquella prueba de su insensato ardor, y
poniéndome primero seria y después amable, con una especie de
enojo gracioso y virtud tolerante, le dije que ni Zamora ni yo podíamos
ser ganadas en una hora. Al decir esto, violentos cañonazos me
hicieron estremecer y corrí al balcón.
—Son los primeros tiros de las baterías que se han armado para
atacar el Trocadero —me dijo el conde.
—¿Y esas bombas van a Cádiz?—pregunté poniendo inmenso
interés en aquel asunto.
—Van al Trocadero.
—¿Y qué es eso?
—Un fuerte que está en medio de las marismas.
—¿Y allí están...?
—Los liberales.
—¿Muchos?
— Mil y quinientos hombres.
—¿Paisanos?
—Hay muchos paisanos y milicianos.
—¡Oh!, morirá mucha gente.
—Eso es lo que deseamos. Parece que siente usted gran pena po
ello.
—La verdad —repuse, ocultando los sentimientos que bruscamente
me asaltaban—, no me gusta que muera gente.
—A excepción de su enemigo.
—Ese..., pero ¿estará en el Trocadero?
—¡Quién sabe!... Está usted aterrada.
—¡Oh!, yo quiero ir al Trocadero.
—Señora...
—Quiero ir al Trocadero.
—Eso mismo deseamos nosotros —me dijo riendo—, y para
conseguirlo enviaremos por delante algunos centenares de bombas.
—¿Dónde está el Trocadero? —pregunté corriendo otra vez a la
ventana.
—Allí —dijo Montguyon asomándose y alargando el brazo.
Hízome explicaciones y descripciones muy prolijas de la bahía y de
los fuertes; pero bien comprendí que antes que mostrar sus
conocimientos deseaba estar cerca de mí, aproximando bastante su
cabeza a la mía, y embriagándose con el calor de mi rostro y con e
roce de mis cabellos.
XXXIII