President Richard M. Nixon signed Public Law 91-550, formally returning the sacred Blue Lake and its surrounding lands to the native people, no other ceremony had held such historical relevance. It had taken sixty-four years of struggle to overturn the injustice that had taken this land away from the people. But it had only taken two years for the Taos Pueblo community to go completely off-grid.
Tall Bear had led the push for a similar effort on the Santa Clara Reservation. But the Taos Pueblo had given the movement a widely publicized momentum, and it was rapidly being adopted by tribes across the country. Now, as he stood gazing across the courtyard at the St. Jerome Church and its surrounding brown-and-white adobe walls, with three white crosses visible atop the church roof, Tall Bear felt a warm glow wash away his awareness of the biting breeze.
With a few final words in the Tiwa language, tribal governor Vidal Padilla pulled the rope that released the tarp covering a small adobe alcove on the outer wall, revealing a larger-than-life ceremonial mask sheltered within. Stepping to his right, Padilla flipped the switch, filling the enclosure with a soft eternal light.
Amid vigorous applause from the native onlookers, Vidal Padilla smiled, and Tall Bear smiled along with him. This trickle of electricity marked the first watts of many from the pueblo’s new Kwee Cold Fusion Reactor.
The Washington Mall was beautiful in the early morning light. At this hour of the morning, the sun hung low in the sky, and its reflection off the Tidal Basin backlit the cherry blossoms. As journalist Freddy Hagerman jogged among them, they glowed pale pink and white, scenting the morning air with just a hint of ancient Japan.
In the best physical condition of his life, Freddy filled his lungs with air, holding it for two full strides before slowly letting it out, enjoying the extra spring the artificial running leg gave him. The other leg was his weak link. It gave his stride a long-short-long-short wobble that was disconcerting to watch. But he’d gotten used to it. That fake leg was so good he had actually contemplated replacing the other one.
“Damn sure won’t be Benny Marucci’s people doing the cutting,” he muttered to himself as he ran.
Freddy had never been much of a physical fitness nut. Funny how getting chased cross-country, frozen, and shot, and having your leg jigsawed off by a couple of mob thugs could change your appreciation for life. Besides, now that he was famous, he needed to take better care of himself.
Gotta make this last.
Shit. He’d even had ex-wives calling him, saying how much they’d missed him, how it’d be nice to get together again. Not happening.
Freddy made a left turn, picked up the pace for the final stretch, and let himself coast to a stop at the base of the Washington Monument. Placing both hands behind his head, letting his lungs work like a bellows, Freddy began the cooldown walk back to his car.
The brand-new gunmetal-gray Lincoln MKX detected the key fob in his pocket, unlocking the driver’s door as he approached. He opened the door, bending across to grab a dry T-shirt from the passenger’s seat. Walking around the back of the vehicle, Freddy pressed the open-liftgate button on the fob, pulled off the wet T, balled it up, and tossed it inside the spacious hatchback compartment.
Then he shrugged on the dry one. It was navy blue and sported his favorite question in bold white letters.
“Do I look like I give a rat’s ass?”
Freddy turned around, propping himself up against the back as he removed the curved spring that was his running leg. Lovingly wiping it with a dry towel, Freddy exchanged it for his walkabout leg. One nice thing about making the kind of money the NY Post had offered him to take the DC political beat: He could afford really nice legs. Hell, he could afford really nice ass for that matter.
Pressing the close-liftgate button, he walked around and opened the car
Tall Bear had led the push for a similar effort on the Santa Clara Reservation. But the Taos Pueblo had given the movement a widely publicized momentum, and it was rapidly being adopted by tribes across the country. Now, as he stood gazing across the courtyard at the St. Jerome Church and its surrounding brown-and-white adobe walls, with three white crosses visible atop the church roof, Tall Bear felt a warm glow wash away his awareness of the biting breeze.
With a few final words in the Tiwa language, tribal governor Vidal Padilla pulled the rope that released the tarp covering a small adobe alcove on the outer wall, revealing a larger-than-life ceremonial mask sheltered within. Stepping to his right, Padilla flipped the switch, filling the enclosure with a soft eternal light.
Amid vigorous applause from the native onlookers, Vidal Padilla smiled, and Tall Bear smiled along with him. This trickle of electricity marked the first watts of many from the pueblo’s new Kwee Cold Fusion Reactor.
The Washington Mall was beautiful in the early morning light. At this hour of the morning, the sun hung low in the sky, and its reflection off the Tidal Basin backlit the cherry blossoms. As journalist Freddy Hagerman jogged among them, they glowed pale pink and white, scenting the morning air with just a hint of ancient Japan.
In the best physical condition of his life, Freddy filled his lungs with air, holding it for two full strides before slowly letting it out, enjoying the extra spring the artificial running leg gave him. The other leg was his weak link. It gave his stride a long-short-long-short wobble that was disconcerting to watch. But he’d gotten used to it. That fake leg was so good he had actually contemplated replacing the other one.
“Damn sure won’t be Benny Marucci’s people doing the cutting,” he muttered to himself as he ran.
Freddy had never been much of a physical fitness nut. Funny how getting chased cross-country, frozen, and shot, and having your leg jigsawed off by a couple of mob thugs could change your appreciation for life. Besides, now that he was famous, he needed to take better care of himself.
Gotta make this last.
Shit. He’d even had ex-wives calling him, saying how much they’d missed him, how it’d be nice to get together again. Not happening.
Freddy made a left turn, picked up the pace for the final stretch, and let himself coast to a stop at the base of the Washington Monument. Placing both hands behind his head, letting his lungs work like a bellows, Freddy began the cooldown walk back to his car.
The brand-new gunmetal-gray Lincoln MKX detected the key fob in his pocket, unlocking the driver’s door as he approached. He opened the door, bending across to grab a dry T-shirt from the passenger’s seat. Walking around the back of the vehicle, Freddy pressed the open-liftgate button on the fob, pulled off the wet T, balled it up, and tossed it inside the spacious hatchback compartment.
Then he shrugged on the dry one. It was navy blue and sported his favorite question in bold white letters.
“Do I look like I give a rat’s ass?”
Freddy turned around, propping himself up against the back as he removed the curved spring that was his running leg. Lovingly wiping it with a dry towel, Freddy exchanged it for his walkabout leg. One nice thing about making the kind of money the NY Post had offered him to take the DC political beat: He could afford really nice legs. Hell, he could afford really nice ass for that matter.
Pressing the close-liftgate button, he walked around and opened the car
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