Blood Sport

by Lisa Smedman

  The officer—a fair-skinned elf whose tan uniform was stained with sweat, even though he wore no armor—glared at us. He backed off a step or two, leveling the boxy-looking SCK Model 100 submachine gun that was smartlinked into his wrist, and waved two soldiers in our direction with a flick of his free hand. He didn’t look the slightest bit Azzie—I suspected that he was a mercenary.

  On the far side of the checkpoint, four soldiers had stopped a dusty Ford Export pickup. A group of five traditionals—four men and one woman—stood beside the truck. All had the distinctive high cheekbones and arched noses of the Maya and were dressed in loose-fitting white shirts with brightly embroidered hems, baggy pants—or a skirt, in the case of the woman—and sandals. Like all of the campesino farmers in this region, the men carried machetes in sheaths hung from belts. They watched fearfully as two of the soldiers searched through the bags of corn, jerry cans of kerosene, and boxes of produce that filled the back of the pickup. The other two soldiers kept watch over the farmers, assault rifles at the ready.

  The pair of soldiers who had been directed toward us clambered over the barrier and reached our bike as the poultry truck rumbled to a halt behind us, enveloping us in a cloud of dust. They wore heavy armor and helmets that reminded me of the Star’s riot gear—but with built-in cooling units, I noticed enviously—and carried high-velocity assault rifles. One moved with the unnatural smoothness of someone whose motor control has been overridden by a move-by-wire implant and the other was targeting us with a needle-thin red laser sight that beamed out of his cybereye. I wondered if all Aztlaner soldiers were augmented and cybered. This pair seemed as cold and professional as their merc officer. And they were just as slotted off at our clumsy intrusion into their checkpoint. I knew we couldn’t expect any sympathy.

  “Get off the bike and keep your hands away from your body, por favor,” one of them said in a cold voice.

  As a police officer, I’d given similar directives enough times to understand the unspoken subtext. Any move even mildly suggestive of reaching for a weapon—or of bringing a weapon hidden in a cyberlimb to bear—would bring instant retaliation. And given the fact that we were in a war zone and that these were not police officers who needed to justify the use of lethal force, I was extra careful. I did exactly as the soldier directed, sliding off the back of the motorcycle and keeping my hands open and in view.

  The dust raised by the poultry continued to swirl around us, even though the driver had shut his vehicle down. I thought I could hear him singing in his cab.

  “I’m sorry, officer,” Rafael said as he killed the ignition and slowly climbed from the bike. He started to remove his breather, but the two soldiers shifted suddenly, tensing and raising their rifles. Rafael left his hands where they were, up near his face. “I was trying to pass the truck, and couldn’t see because of the dust,” he explained, waving it away from his face. “We weren’t trying to run the checkpoint—we just didn’t see it until it was too late. My wife and I rode down from Nuevo Laredo to visit with friends in—”

  The whirlwind struck without warning. One minute we were trying to convince the soldiers that we weren’t worthy of being shot, and the next we were in the middle of what felt like a tornado or hurricane. A blast of dust-filled air threw me sprawling to the ground. Rafael managed to stay on his feet a second or two longer, then was spun backward against the bike, knocking the Sidewinder over in a clattering heap.

  The two soldiers stayed on their feet, but staggered about like drunken men.

  Dust stung my eyes and blasted like sandpaper against my face. Feathers from the chickens on the truck whirled past like thick white snowflakes as the birds’ frightened clucking filled the air. Then all at once, as one, the birds fell ominously silent. The feathers swirling around me now were tinged with red.

  New noises filled the air. I heard screams and the roar of automatic weapons fire from the spot where the pickup truck had been stopped. Realizing that I was in an exposed position, I crawled for the only shelter I could see through my squinting eyes: the underside of the poultry truck. I couldn’t see Rafael, but prayed that he too had the sense to keep his head down.

  Once I’d reached cover, I used my cyberear to filter out the frequencies that corresponded to the wind—nearly every fragging frequency on the scale—and listened for Rafael’s voice. Nada joy.

  As I squirmed around, changing my position under the truck, I saw the driver’s legs as he stepped down from the cab. He didn’t seem affected by the whirlwind at all—his walk was steady and his pant legs weren’t even fluttering. I could hear his voice more clearly now—it wasn’t singing at all, but more of a chant. It sounded like the strange, glottal language Mama G had used in casting her healing spell.

  As the driver moved away from his truck, I could see him clearly. He had the high cheekbones, dusky skin, and arched nose of a traditional, and was dressed, like the farmers, in baggy white clothing. He seemed to be walking in the eye of the storm. Perched on his head, completely unaffected by the wind, was a straw cowboy hat with a brown and white feather shoved into a dusty red bandanna that was tied around the crown of the hat. His arms were flung out wide, fingers fluttering like the wing feathers of a bird. He sang his chant in a melodic tenor voice, shuffling his feet in a rhythmic dance and stamping the earth. Then he threw back his head and let out a shrill, high-pitched cry that sounded like the scream of an eagle.

  I heard more gunfire and shouted commands—and also an agonized scream. My cyberear picked up a faint rumble that I guessed was the APC engine starting up. I couldn’t see more than a meter or two in front of me—the dust was that thick. Strangely, it seemed to be filled with tiny swirls, thicker clumps of dust that resembled knots in wood—or eyes. I had the unshakable feeling that the whirlwind was looking at me, weighing me—and then disregarding me.

  The thought that I could have been the target of its wrath sent a shiver down my spine. It was obviously an elemental or nature spirit of some sort—probably the latter, since the truck driver’s motions suggested those of a shaman communing with a bird totem. For a moment, I wondered if he’d summoned the whirlwind to protect Rafael and me from the soldiers. But that didn’t seem to fit with his earlier actions—cutting us off on the highway and being a jerk by not letting us pass. No, something else was going on here.

  The dust cleared for a moment and I spotted Rafael. He was hunkered down behind the Sidewinder with his pistol out. He squinted into the wind, either looking for me or for a target. I shouted to him, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

  And then I saw the soldier that stood a few meters behind Rafael, legs braced against the wind. The targeting laser sight in the soldier’s cybereye swung around, moving with steady precision toward Rafael’s back. Even as I scrambled out from under the truck and staggered to my feet, the soldier raised the weapon that was smartlinked with his laser sight, matched its aim with that of the laser, and . . .

  A machete carved into the soldier’s neck, slicing through the armor like butter and sending a spray of blood flying into the wind. The farmer who wielded the blade had appeared from out of nowhere, charging against the whirlwind to strike the blow. Now he raised the machete a second time, and slashed again at the soldier’s neck. The assault rifle flared and spat a stream of bullets that punched into the motorcycle’s muffler, turning it to Swiss cheese and startling Rafael into sudden awareness of the danger he was in. Then the soldier collapsed onto the ground. The farmer threw his head back, punched a triumphant fist into the air, and whooped—although even with my cyberear I could barely hear his cry against the wind—then turned and ran back to where I’d last seen the pickup truck.

  I staggered over to Rafael and hauled him to his feet. He was still shaking. “Come on, Raf,” I yelled into his ear. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “But the bike . . .” he protested.

  “We can come back for it later.”

  The whirlwind was ebbing slightly, but its noise was still deafenin
g. The shaman who had summoned it stood a few meters away from us, head drooping and chest heaving as he panted like a man who had just run a marathon. His hands hung limp at his sides. Beyond him, the farmers were finishing off the soldiers—slashing with their machetes at the men who lay on the ground. Five of the soldiers were down, and then the female campesino took out the sixth with a brilliant turquoise bolt of energy that blasted out from her fingertips. The officer, however, was nowhere in sight.

  That’s when I saw the APC’s turrets begin to move. The heavily armored vehicle had turned slightly and its engines were revving. It was swinging around, slowly bringing its heavy canon to bear on the farmers, who were too busy finishing off the soldiers to notice. Within seconds it would blast them to pieces.

  I told myself that this wasn’t my fight. But at the same time I knew that the campesinos only had one hope: me. And I knew that the enemy of my enemy is my friend—and it wouldn’t hurt to have some friends in these parts.

  All of these thoughts went through my mind in a nanosecond as I noticed that the rear hatch of the APC was still open. Then I was running toward it. Whether they meant to or not, the men with the machetes had saved Rafael’s life. I owed them one. And like Rafael, I wanted to kick some Azzie butt.

  I scrambled in through the hatch just as the elven officer inside the APC let out a low, triumphant chuckle. He was jacked into the APC controls, connected to his vehicle by a smartlink. His eyes were unfocused, staring off into space as he concentrated on the virtual feedback his mind was getting through the link. The APC had stopped its turn, and I heard the soft whine of the cannon as it came to bear. Within a second, it would fire.

  But a second was all I needed. I slammed my hands forward, knocking his head into the control panel above the driver’s seat and tearing the link from the datajack in his skull. He moaned and tried to rise, but was disoriented by the sudden jack-out. I used the opportunity to punch him in the sternum, thinking to knock the wind from him—and then screamed in pain as my fist struck what felt like a solid metal wall. Drek! The fragger was dermal-plated! I should have expected that when I saw that he wasn’t wearing armor.

  My agony gave him the second he needed to recover. Snarling, he lunged at me, trying to wrap his hands around my throat. They closed instead on my shoulder as I ducked away—but then I was pinned up against the side of the APC, with nowhere to go in that narrow space. Grinning in victory, the elf squeezed, and I yelped in pain as what proved to be superhumanly powerful, cybernetic hands pinched with agonizing force against the nerves in my shoulder, instantly numbing my arm. Flashes of white light danced in front of my open eyes as I saw him reach with one hand for the pistol that was holstered at his waist. . .

  And then I heard the pop! pop! of Rafael’s Streetline Special. The elf sagged, releasing me, and I blinked the pain-induced tears from my eyes. The elf had caught the bullet in one of his pointy ears. I guess he wasn’t dermal-plated there.

  “Thanks, Raf!” I called out. “You’re one up on me. Now I owe you another one.”

  I pushed myself upright. My arm was still numb. But even so I had the presence of mind to snag the elf’s pistol with my good hand. Rule number one for rookie cops: never leave a perpetrator armed—even when he appears to be down. It was one rule I always stuck to, even though I’d long since left the Star.

  The pistol was a Savalette Guardian—a chromed-steel monster of a gun that you don’t see much on the streets. It fires high-powered slugs in bursts of three—the elf had probably needed the cyberhands to handle the recoil. It was too heavy a weapon for me, and was certainly too big for my shoulder holster, but I kept it anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers. Especially in Aztlan. I shoved it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

  Rafael grinned at me through the open hatch. Then he turned around, startled, as the farmers crowded in behind him, slapping him on the back and crying out, “Muy bien! Good shooting!”

  I heartily agreed. Rafael’s Streetline Special wasn’t noted for its accuracy. Must have been my lucky day.

  One of the men leaned in to offer me his arm as I climbed from the APC. “Muchas gracias, señorita, ” he said. “We will take it from here.”

  Another of the farmers climbed into the vehicle, rolling up a shirt sleeve to reveal a datajack on his wrist. He shoved the bleeding corpse of the elven officer out of the way, sat down in the driver’s seat, and jacked the APC’s link into his wrist.

  I looked around at the grinning campesinos who surrounded Rafael and I. “You’re not farmers, are you?” The question was stupid, but it needed to be asked. “You’re rebels—revolutionaries.”

  “We might be,” one of them said coyly. “Or we might just be bandidos. An armored personnel carrier is worth mucho on the back market—once you get the blood stains out of it.” The others laughed at his joke as they hauled the body of the elf from the APC.

  Rafael glanced around at the men. “My abuela worked with the rebels,” he said. “Her name was Rosalita Ramirez. She was a healer. I came to Aztlan to find someone who can tell me more about her. Did any of you know her?”

  The affect was instantaneous. My cyberear picked up murmurs of a “la serpiente” and whispered questions about Rosalita’s disappearance. The rebels gave Rafael and I sidelong glances, uncertain whether or not to believe that a grandson from El Norte would have turned up suddenly in the Yucatán, just like that. It was just too convenient, they thought. Too much like a trick Aztechnology would pull. We had to be spies . . .

  Their looks were suddenly very guarded. I noticed that one of the men was slowly raising the machete that was balanced across his shoulder and was easing around Rafael to get a better angle of attack. The woman had one hand behind her back, and was starting to make a series of slow, complex gestures that looked like the formula for a spell. There was a tense moment in which no one spoke . . .

  “And you, señorita?" The shaman joined the group. He was still breathing heavily, and sweat trickled down his temples. But he seemed to be very much in charge. The others parted for him, and listened deferentially while he spoke. “What brings you to Aztlan?”

  I took the plunge. “Rosalita Ramirez was killed a few days ago, in Seattle. I’m helping my friend Rafael to investigate her murder. It has—connections—with Aztlan.”

  The shaman had piercing eyes, sharp as those of . . . well, an eagle. Was there a hint of skepticism in them still?

  “Would it help you to trust us if I told you that we know a member of your revolutionary council?” I asked. “Someone who uses the name Soñador.”

  The shaman shrugged but looked skeptical. “If that were true . . .”

  “Rafael,” I said, “show them your souvenir.”

  Rafael grinned as he reached into his jacket. The rebel with the raised machete tensed, but then relaxed again as Rafael pulled out the feather we’d found in the cave. The rebels reached out tentatively to touch the beautiful plume, then jerked their fingers away as if it were a religious icon they dared not desecrate.

  “It seems that you do know Soñador,” the shaman said with a touch of what sounded like awe in his voice. “Or at least, that you have met the feathered serpent. I think there is someone you should talk to. Come.”

  The rebels seemed more relaxed now. At least they hadn’t taken our weapons from us. One of them clambered into the APC and then sealed its hatches. We stepped back as the armored vehicle revved its engines and then pulled away. It disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust. The spirits only knew what the rebels planned to do with it. But the APC packed enough firepower to give the Aztlaner forces a nasty surprise.

  The rebels left the bodies of the Azzie soldiers where they lay. They searched them thoroughly but didn’t take any of the gear or weapons. They also left the shaman’s poultry truck behind. The chickens in the wire cages were all dead, and a thin trickle of blood ran from the back of the truck. I supposed the birds had been buffeted about by the wind. It seemed cruel, to me, that the shaman had
left them die.

  The rebels insisted we ride with them in their pickup truck. They helped Rafael lift the motorcycle in over the tailgate, then the woman and one of the men climbed up and settled themselves on top of the farm supplies and produce that filled the back of the truck, beckoning Rafael to join them. The shaman insisted I sit up front in the cab with him and the driver. I knew what they were doing—deliberately separating Rafael and me. But we’d decided to trust them, at least for now. I’d had one wildly paranoid moment when I wondered if they had set this all up for us but then decided that the likelihood was extremely remote. We’d blundered into their civil war—and now we would make the best of this fortuitous meeting. Whoever the rebels were taking us to had probably also known Mama Grande and would be a valuable source of information.

  As he climbed into his seat, the rebel who would be driving the pickup tossed his machete onto the dashboard. I noticed that its blade was engraved with the words: “Freedom is the Road to Happiness.”

  I gestured at the weapon. “Is that a rebel slogan?” I asked. “Or is it some sort of spell focus?”

  The driver laughed. He was a portly man with a drooping mustache and pockmarked skin. “No, señorita. The blade is quite mundane and the slogan is just an expression. All of the farmers engrave their machetes. It’s a local tradition.” The shaman filled in the rest. “A machete’s a more valuable weapon against a government soldier than that pistol you pocketed.”

  As the pickup pulled away from the checkpoint, back in the direction from which it had come, I pulled my jacket shut. I thought the pistol might have been showing, but it wasn’t. The shaman must have felt the bulge in my jacket and guessed what its inside pocket held.