“What’s he doing to my Scottie?” demanded Swan, slamming down his soft drink. “This isn’t fighting! This isn’t fair!”
Hommler cocked his head at the entangled vice president on the megascreen. He was a brilliant man, but unversed in fighting arts. For the silver-haired aristocrat, it was tough to determine who was winning. Then he saw the Alien’s back arch, and the junction of Smith’s bicep and forearm flush white with hyperextension. The vampire’s eyes flashed, and a faint grin touched his face.
“Oh, look, Scottie has picked him up!” squealed Swan. “He’s still trapped, but he’s turning the tide. Look, he has the filthy Alien turned upside down! The Alien’s upside down! Scottie’s going to drop him on his head and . . .” Swan gasped, choked, then gagged as if punched in the throat.
The youth grinned wolfishly as he heard popping sounds like the snapping of raw carrots. Blood had drained to his face, which was war-god red. With an aesthete’s ear, he then recognized a sound akin to tearing cloth. Pained lips obscured by Hans’s calf, the vice president’s screams were muffled. But it wouldn’t have mattered had they been loud and clear. The referee watched with folded arms, nodding approval at the youth’s skills. The crowd was a roiling vortice.
Inverted, Hans was laughing, his face maroon from the downflow of circulation. With renewed effort he arched his back to a radical degree, pulled the hyper extended arm, and curled his hamstrings. Suddenly, Scott’s bicep tore and shriveled up to his shoulder like a severed spring. Then his elbow snapped, broken hinge joint no longer impeding the force exerting against it. The forearm bent backward ninety degrees, and the malformed joint was a nameless, lavender vegetable. Scott seemed to drop in blocks to the canvass like chopped wood, his cries piteous.
Swan gripped his head with both hands, then commented numbly, “He’s maimed—Divine Color help him—he’s maimed—maimed.”
Hans threw the limp arm to a side, kicked away the gray body, and sprang to his feet. Vice president Smith writhed across the world on a billion television screens, tears running from his eyes, hand clutching his ruined elbow. Then appeared his conqueror, towering and primal, thews rippling in the spotlight. His hand was raised by the referee to a standing ovation. Hand still raised, he motioned for Eduardo to join him. The giant Aztlander swung himself over the topmost rope and hobbled over. Hans grabbed one of the giant’s bronze wrists and elevated it high. The two were awash in unceasing waves of camera flash, and the audience’s roar was dizzying. Behind them, the Vice President of the United States was attended by his cornermen, who awaited medical assistance that never came.
The referee had just declared the winner when the youth snatched away the mike. A ring card girl presented him with a gleaming belt, which he accepted with a bow.
“Hello, Aztlan!” he yelled, his eye swollen shut from the fists of Choi.
The crowd reacted with cheers and the children cried, “Hola, Saxon Anglo!”
Suddenly, Guerrero himself was ringside, motioning wildly to the announcer. When the announcer drew near, the president passed him another mike and uttered a command.
“They say you learn something from every fight,” remarked the youth, and the announcer dramatically translated the words to Spanish for the minority of the audience unfamiliar with English. “In this fight, I learned that even a man turned upside down can fight back and win.” The translator’s delayed words were unintelligible over the roar.
Back at the FCP, Stewart’s game room was dense with eager faces.
“Don’t say anything crazy or stupid,” mumbled Max, watching his son on the screen. Margaret laughed giddily with Kim, both women beaming with pride.
“I guess I’m the ‘King of Aztlan’ now,” continued the youth. “I know, because it says so on my belt.” Laughing, he held aloft the burnished gold. “Of course, the true king of Aztlan is that man right there.” He pointed to President Guerrero. “And this man right here,” he directed a hand toward Eduardo, “is the most talented warrior in mixed martial arts—he’s Captain Aztlan, and he’ll make a triumphant comeback—you watch and see.”
Guerrero listened, mesmerized, as the tens of thousands cheered and swayed around him.
“You know what?” asked Hans. “The people of Aztlan and the people of America share something in common. And it’s something that I’m proud to be the recipient of. Because if I weren’t the recipient of it, there’d be something wrong with me. Together, we’re the recipients of President Swan’s hate.” The audience quieted, and heads nodded in agreement. Hans paused and breathed heavily as the interpreter caught up.
“President Swan, and all his cronies, hate the very concept of Aztlan. Why? Because it emphasizes strength and family bonds and marriage. Because it fosters traditional notions of gender. Because it has a strong military. Because it honors the twin virtues of tradition and honor. Because it’s successful. And, most importantly, because it won’t adopt the ideology of a psychotic, social-Marxist freak who wants to recast the world in his own perverse image.”
The audience’s applause was its loudest yet, and Hommler reduced the theater’s volume before the speakers blew.
“Who is that man?” Swan growled. “He hurt my Scottie. He hurt my beloved Scottie. Oh, my poor, poor Scottie.”
“Now do you see what we’re up against—why we must be aggressive in how we deal with these people?” Hommler demanded.
The president’s eyes were teary, and he ripped out tufts of his hair. His bottom lip curled, and he inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, the tear streaks were so prolific they were no longer distinguishable.
“Scottie . . . oh, Scottie,” he said weakly.
Chapter 30
All eyes were on Marisela. Her brown eyes were soft like those of a doe drinking from a pond. With a smile, she sat in an elegant chair and removed her flat shoes. When they were off, her father knelt down and slid a high heel onto each foot. The fifteen-year-old stood up, a bit shakily, and smiled at her thousand guests. Then she followed her father onto the dance floor. Rosa wiped tears from her eyes as a live band, the most widely acclaimed in Aztlan, struck up a brisk waltz. The girl’s pink gown, resplendent with jewels, was high art.
They swept across the floor in tri-steps, and when they had developed an unblemished rhythm, Guerrero felt confident that light dialogue would not ruin his cadence. Many couples had by now joined them on the dance floor.
“Your mother and I are so proud of you, honey,” he whispered.
“Thanks, daddy.” She smiled, and focused her attention on the intricacies of a magnificent chandelier to avoid tears.
“I remember being so stressed out the day you were born. I was so nervous about having a child, but when I saw your mother cradling you in the delivery room, there were no more doubts. Come hard times, come destitution, I couldn’t even conceive of life without you and your brother. You two mean the world to your mother and me. Always remember that.”
She nodded and sniffled, bottom lip protruded.
“There, there, pretty girl.” He smiled. “No need for that—hey, I already booked reservations for Buenos Aires when you return from your ski trip. Have you decided on a color yet?”
“Red.” She smiled. “With a big spoiler.” She blinked several times, and the wetness left her eyes.
“A spoiler, huh?” He laughed. “A spoiler for the spoiled?”
“Dad!” she pouted.
“Okay, okay . . . whoops!” He missed a step. With a grunt, he stopped the dance, bobbed his head in tune with the rhythm, then resumed. “You know, sweetheart, I’m meeting with the president of Porsche while we’re down there. Looks like they’re going to begin opening dealerships in Aztlan next year.”
“Aw, that’s awesome!” She smiled. “Well, when I’m ready for my next one, maybe we won’t have to go all the way to Argentina.”
“That’s right. Who knows, maybe they’ll make their headquarters here someday like other companies are contemplating. It’s a good thing they packed up
and left Stuttgart when they did back in 2050 before the Muslims took over.”
“Yeah,” she pondered. “But daddy, how can businesses locate here if the people who work for them aren’t Hispanic? Where will the employees live?”
“Here.”
“But I thought Hispanics were the only people allowed to live in Aztlan.”
“We’re adopting legislation to change that,” said Guerrero. “Aztlan is and forever will be a Hispanic nation with a Hispanic majority. The demographic allowance for non-Hispanics hasn’t been determined yet, but numbers between ten and twenty percent of the net population are being floated.”
“Wow,” Marisela said, “so we’re going to have authentic Japanese restaurants again? I’ve been so hungry for California rolls!”
“Yep, me too.” He smiled. “But how about we call them Aztlan rolls, sweetie?”
“Yeah, okay!” She laughed. “But daddy . . . what will the priests say?” A shadow winged her face.
“Uh, which priests?” He fumbled.
“C’mon, Dad. You know the ones I’m talking about. I’m sure not talking about the Catholic ones.”
“Oh, of course. Well, ah, they’ll just have to learn to live with it. I mean, we don’t live in a theocracy. The people determine the fate of Aztlan—not a sacerdotal oligarchy.”
She smiled broadly. “That’s the spirit, Dad.”
“Gracias—you’re such a smartie. I would have hesitated using big words like I just did in conversation with any other fifteen-year-old I know. But not with you. You’re genetically blessed with intelligence, and that gift interacts beautifully with your love for learning. You are Aztlan’s greatest treasure.” He kissed her forehead as the waltz concluded. A light applause effervesced among the crowd for the father and daughter. Marisela departed the stage to hug her mother.
Suddenly, President Caballero materialized with a retinue from the crowd. He wore a fine tuxedo, and a large diamond gleamed from the center of his bowtie.
“Marisela, my God, look what a beautiful young lady you’ve become!” He stepped forward, took the girl’s hand, and pressed it to his lips.
Guerrero was there instantly, brow drawn tight.
“Don’t look so startled, Juan.” Caballero laughed. “You never revoked your invitation to attend, so here I am.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I know,” Caballero interjected, “the invitation was made before our telephone tiff. But, like I said, you never withdrew the offer. Don’t worry; I’ve come to make amends.” He extended his hand to the President of Aztlan.
For dragging moments Guerrero scavenged the Mexican’s eyes. Finally, he accepted the hand and nodded.
“All right. All right. A struggle between us could only be internecine. Let’s try to rebuild our old friendship.”
“That’s precisely what I had in mind.” He bowed somberly.
The band struck up a second waltz, and Caballero turned to face Marisela.
“Senorita,” his tone was genteel, “doubtless you have an endless array of boys your age eager to dance with you this evening. But could I, perchance, ask of you this dance?”
Marisela looked to her mother and father, eyes a bit wider than usual.
Guerrero scrutinized his southern neighbor once more, this time more deeply. “You’re a young woman now. You can make your own decisions.” He nodded to his daughter.
The girl shrugged her shoulders at the Mexican president. “Sure, okay.”
Caballero bowed, then led her on to the dance floor. He moved with a flourish, and the duo’s completion of turns and whisks was seamless.
“So tell me,” said the president, wrinkling his nose, “who are all these garishly dressed barbarians at your party—the ones with the bird feathers and body piercings.”
“Oh, my dad invited them—they’re high priests of Aztlan.”
“Pagans?” Caballero asked coyly.
“Yeah.”
“At a Quinceanera? Isn’t that a bit of a desecration? Your tiara, your earrings, your cross, your bible—they were all bestowed on you today to mark your continued devotion to God.”
“I know, President Caballero.” She sighed, then frowned. As she danced past some family friends, she saw looks of concern. Conscious, again, of her whereabouts, she smiled happily.
“Well, how does that make you feel, having these leering heathen all around you?”
“Sad.”
“If only your father felt likewise,” he lamented.
“No kidding.”
There was silence for several moments as they rededicated themselves to the dance.
“Marisela,” the president worded delicately, “if it were up to you, what would you do about all this paganism taking hold of our people?”
“Honestly, I’d stop it.” Her tone was decisive.
“Wonderful!” Caballero blinked his eyes, checked his enthusiasm, but never missed a beat. “How would you propose to do that?” His tongue tip was between his teeth, and his eyes narrowed. “Err, better yet, why don’t you think on that.”
“Okay.” She giggled. “But why? What’s it matter?”
“Oh, just a mental exercise.” He blushed. “Marisela, when was the last time you spoke with my son?”
“Diego? Well, it’s been about three or four months I think. I sent him a card for his twenty-first birthday two months ago, though. Haven’t heard from him.”
“Well, perhaps you will soon. The boy must get his priorities straight. Vying for the affections of a beautiful girl like yourself should top his list. My lady, it was a pleasure. Your devotion to our Christian faith fills me with joy. Oh, and one more thing—you may be an Aztlander, but you are also a Mexican. In the ancient world, Mexico owed what it was to Aztlan. Now, Aztlan owes what it is to Mexico. Do not forget that.”
The song ended. Caballero bowed, then relieved a waiter of a glass of wine from a tray.
***
“Yo, slow down, birthday girl,” Teo yelled after Marisela as she pulled ahead of him down the slope. “I’ve only been skiing like once, remember—I’m not the privileged type like you. When I was a kid, the only skiing I did was down the junk pile at the dump at the corner of the barrio.” He flailed his arms to regain balance. “Damn, I thought I was in shape, but my hips are killing me!”
Marisela and four of her girlfriends raced down the slope. Her friends were the daughters of Aztec dignitaries and politicians, and skied almost as well as she. On one flank was Raul, the bullish guard whose girth was obscured in his white and gray camouflage ski suit. On the other flank was the giant Eduardo, last month’s ankle injury unimpeding his ski skills. Each bore an automatic weapon slung prominently around his neck. Far below, a handful of knights from the Orders of the Jaguar and Eagle awaited them at slope’s end. The girls laughed as they tried to elude their guardians, their pink goggles glinting in the Tahoe sun.
After skiing for several hours, Marisela and her fourteen friends swam in the ski lodge’s indoor pool. Drinks and snacks were served, and speakers cranked uninterrupted countdowns of the Aztlan top forty. The knights somberly manned the pool’s perimeter, or scanned the surrounding mountains with binoculars. Teo, however, was in the midst of a water volleyball game with the teenagers. Many of the boys Marisela had invited eyed the high priest with resentment. Effortlessly, the priest jumped high above the net, then spiked another point for Marisela’s team. The boys stood no more a chance outshining him in sports than catching the eye of Marisela or her friends when he was near. Too long they had overheard the girls’ giddy laughter when he strutted by—they knew the ten years of maturity, good looks, and testosterone he had on them was insurmountable.
Jorge, the son of the captain of the vaunted Jaguar Knights, was especially enamored with Marisela. He marveled at her tall, athletic body and pretty face through the net’s partitions. She looked like a younger specimen of Rosa, a woman whose beauty was storied in Aztlan. But then Teo eclipsed the view, glowering. He rais
ed a finger, shook it no-no fashion, then, as the ball drifted weakly over the net, pounded it directly at the boy. It ricocheted off Jorge’s head and flew skyward again out of bounds. As laughter teemed around him, the boy’s face reddened.
“Gotta be a little faster, bro,” advised Teo. “That was game point—we win again. Hey, Marisela, nice game! Want me to teach you some Nahuatl?”
“Oh, that would be awesome—I’d love to learn some,” she exclaimed.
Teo smirked at Jorge, then climbed out of the pool, his long hair draped across his muscular back.
“Where will you teach me?”
“Over here is fine.” The high priest smiled, as he eased into an adjacent hot tub. Marisela’s girlfriends giggled. Nearby, Raul sneered.
The girl exited the pool and skipped daintily to the Jacuzzi, droplets falling from her body.
“Nice six pack,” Teo murmured, as she sank her legs then torso into the bubbling tub.
“Told you I like to work out.” Her face was down, blushing. “Forty-five minutes of cardio every day followed by weights.”
“That’s perfect for a girl.” He nodded. “I don’t do much cardio—don’t want to burn off my mass.” He bobbed his pecs and laughed. “I’ve got a fast metabolism anyway—wouldn’t want to turn into a scrawny-ass.”
“But cardio’s good for your heart and health generally,” she said, puzzled. “I thought you did things that were good for you. I thought you took really good care of yourself.”
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