Minutes to Burn

"Why was I in charge?" Diego's knee was bouncing up and down, his foot resting on the planks. He stilled his knee with his hand. "Because I was the only one willing to stay. We haven't had grant money. No one was getting paid."

"Then how can you remain?" Juan asked.

"Because," Diego said, picking something from his hair and flicking it over the railing. "My family is filthy rich."

"He'll get along well with Szabla," Derek muttered.

Diego shook his head, still lost in his thoughts. "First the tortoises… then the turtles…then the iguanas and the birds and the trees."

"What the hell is he talking about?" Derek asked. Cameron shrugged. Savage lit a cigarette.

"It's all a loss. All my little projects here." Diego pointed to another tortoise enclosure, farther up the walk. "We moved that group of tor-toises from Isabela before Wolf erupted. Would've been wiped out by the resultant flow."

"Well," Savage said, lowering his cigarette, "isn't that how evolution works?"

Rex looked at him, annoyed. "A philosopher."

"Survival of the fittest," Savage said. "All's fair, right? A volcano comes along, erupts, little fuckers can't get out of the way, tough shit is what I say. That's how evolution works."

"You seem to have a firm grasp of the concept," Rex said.

Diego took a deep breath. "Actually, now I'm inclined to agree. For as long as I can remember, I've put everything into it. Into this." He indi-cated the enclosures around him and the distant peaks of the island with a sweep of his arm. "And for what? What does it matter? As you say in America, I'm throwing in my towel. I've lost everything."

"You've lost everything," Juan repeated.

"Yes. Everything. My turtles, my workers, my title… "Diego lowered his head. "There's no point in taking you to Sangre. We're fighting a losing battle. Without ammo."

"We have work to do," Rex said.

"I just saw seven years of my work go down the gullet of a pig. I'm done. Find your own boat."

"You listen to me," Juan said angrily, stepping forward. "With your perfect English and your fake castellano accent. I may just be some mono from Guayaquil, but I can tell you this: There is more you could have lost." He jabbed a finger at Lonesome George. "There is more we all can lose. Things are wrong in the world, things do not go well? Tough luck amigo. My wife and daughter are gone because of bad timing and worse structural engineering. But I am not going to lose more to this… to this mierda. The ozone hole and these earthquakes and the foolish irresponsibility of others. I am not. These islands prove to me that life can still have meaning, that things can be logical and magical all at once. And that is something worthwhile, a little glimmer of meaning in this mess before us."

Juan rested a hand on Rex's shoulder and Rex looked over at him, sur-prised. Juan continued to address the back of Diego's head angrily. "You might want to desert your responsibilities because things are bad, but don't make that choice for us. We are willing to stay, to do what we can, however small. Don't make these islands pay for your disillusionment."

Diego leaned over, lacing his fingers. His shoulders settled a bit, as if under great weight. Below him, a finch flew over and landed on Lone-some George's back. With painstakingly slow, deliberate motions and a resigned sigh, the tortoise pushed himself up on all fours and extended his long slender neck. The finch hopped around his shell, picking para-sites off George's tough, leathery skin.

Diego watched. "Beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful."

Juan stepped back, the redness fading from his face. He glanced around at the others, ashamed for losing his composure.

"We'll pay you well," Derek said.

Diego's laugh was tinged with lunacy. "Pay me in bullets."

"I'm sorry," Derek said. "I don't understand. How much do you want?"

Diego rose, slapping his hands together. "Two shots of bourbon. One neat, one on the rocks." He rose and glanced down at himself. "After I shower."

He walked past the others, pausing beside Juan for a moment. Juan looked down uncomfortably. Diego raised a hand to pat him on the side but lowered it again when he saw it was covered with blood. He headed down the walk back toward the Station.

"Come," he said.

Diego sat contentedly at the bar before two shots, one poured over ice. He threw back the first, set it on the counter, and took a sip from the second. Tucker watched hungrily, working the thimble on his key chain. He was drinking passion-fruit juice. A feral kitten had sneaked into the bar. It was playing near the door, sharpening its claws on a wicker chair.