In the hands of an experienced nauallis like Itzpalicue, the wealth of data surging around Jagan was a clear ocean from which she could pluck almost anything she wanted.
Everything inconsequential is revealed to me, she thought sourly, save that which I desire.
Carefully avoiding the display panes and comps piled on the edges of her bed, the old woman rose up and stepped carefully across a nest of cables to reach the bathroom. Her hand, unerring in the dimness, found the pull-cord of an archaic-looking light fixture. The bulb flared white, stark in comparison to the soft phosphor glow of her screens. Itzpalicue grimaced, eyes narrowed to slits, and turned the tap. A rattling gurgle followed, and eventually water gushed into a pale green basin. She took time to wash her face. Curlicues of reddish stain swirled in the water and vanished down the drain. The pricking which focused her concentration had its own cost.
Everything in the washroom was gorgeously made, from hand-cast faucets and taps, and colored tiles deftly arranged in an elegant pattern on the floor, to a gleaming porcelain bathing-bowl sitting on massive stone feet. Lips pursed in appreciation, the Mйxica woman ran a thin-boned hand along a filigreed wooden border surrounding the stall. Unidentifiable Jehanan creatures – flying snakes? serpents with myriad legs? – interwove in a delicate pattern. The heavy wood showed faint honeycomb striations beneath a dozen layers of varnish. She rapped her knuckles against the screen and was rewarded with a low, rippling hum. The 'trees' of Jagan did not lay down the familiar rings of Anuhuac.
"Barbarians indeed…" The old woman shook her head and turned out the light. The heedless racism of the Flower Priests was only part of the puzzle confronting her. Given her purpose, other matters were more pressing than trying to teach them manners.
Settling back into her nest, Itzpalicue stripped a comm thread against her cheek and tapped open a fresh channel pane. Radiance from a room filled with bright lights lit up her wrinkled old face. Behind her, a pale yellow flush climbed across tapestries made from hundreds of thousands of tiny, carefully placed feathers stitched to a silk backing. Turquoise hummingbird, green quetzal, yellow parrot, red spoonbill, raven, glossy crow and blue cotinga shone brilliantly in the darkness. Scenes of Mйxica soldiers with golden breastplates and backswept, Niseistyle helmets wading through the surf onto a green shore emerged. Pigeon down made the white sails of the mighty fleet behind them. The sky was bruised gray in owl and sparrow, heralding an impending storm. Bearded men – pale-skinned, with bristling red mustaches – were waiting, hands raised in greeting. Their tartans and breeks were wild with vivid, clashing color.
On the opposite wall, the carnage of Badon Hill was vividly displayed. The faces of the Anglish soldiers, fleeing in defeat, were stark. Far in the background, the skyline of London was aflame. Amid clouds of gunsmoke, the Skawtish king Stuart advanced on a white horse with fetlocks stained red with blood. He, at least, was properly dressed in a russet mantle with bracelets of turquoise and gold.
"Have you finished deploying the secondary hi-band array?" Itzpalicue grimaced, watching the disorderly chaos of men and women moving boxes in the background of the image on the v-pane. There were no locals among the workers. Every one was an Imperial, imported at considerable cost from the nearest loyal colony. The old woman did not intend to lose her quarry for want of a few quills or horseshoes.
"Yes, mi'lady." The Mirror engineer in charge of the operations center was a hair too young for comfort, but he had come highly recommended. "We'll be finished tomorrow. Everyone's moved in, all of the landlines are active, and satellite is coming on-line now…"
"Are your generators shielded? How deep are you?"
The boy – could he be more than twenty? – nodded sharply. "Yes, mi'lady. This set of rooms is twenty meters beneath the city ground line." He grinned. "Six hundred years ago, we'd have had a nice view of the street. Right now we're still on city trunk power, but by tonight we'll switch over to a rack of fuel cells in an even lower basement."
"Good." Itzpalicue was pleased. The xochiyaotinime did not intend their War to erupt for another two weeks, but the old woman believed in being well prepared. Experience suggested that the arrival of the Fleet battle group – and the prince, once his presence was known – might incite the natives to violence long before the troublemaking priests had finished clearing and grading the field of battle. "Security?"
"Well…" The lead engineer's face twisted sour. "Are…are th ese creatures trustworthy?"
"The Arachosians?" Itzpalicue laughed breathily. "Don't they seem trustworthy with their wicked kalang knives and long muskets? With such peaceful faces and polite ways?"
"Mi'lady!" The engineer did not spit on the floor, but she knew he wanted to. "The Arachs are notorious thieves and murderers, brigands with chains of fore-teeth around their necks, scales pitted and scarred from a hundred brawls…muskets? You've provided them with some odd-looking muskets! Muskets don't take clips of Imperial Standard 8mm 'firecrackers,'do they? No, I don't trust them at all."
"They've not set aside their long knives for our new toys, have they?" The old woman sat up a little straighter, concerned.
"No." The engineer shook his head. "Most of them are carrying muskets, axes, stabbing swords, bandoliers of grenades…"
"Good. Very good." Itzpalicue was relieved. "Lachlan-tzin, you can trust the Arachs while they are waiting for the other half of their payment. After that…well, we will be far from here. The Jehanan princes can clean up the mess. So, while no one offers them a more generous array of toys, you can trust them to keep you and your technicians safe."
The Iirishman shrugged, nervous but wanting to believe.
"What about surveillance in the cities?" Itzpalicue had begun to key up screen after screen of surveillance channels on her displays, each sub-pane no more than a palm wide. Most of them were still dark and inactive.
"Tomorrow," Lachlan replied, squaring his shoulders. "We're waiting for the nymast to fly up at dusk before we launch the spyeyes. I have three crews – protected by your trusty Arachs – laying out the hives on appropriate rooftops tonight."
The old woman raised an eyebrow, fixing him with a piercing glare.
"The nymast," the engineer said, a little stiffly, "are night-flying avians which feed on the insect cloud which rises over the city at sundown. I thought…I thought we should be careful in releasing the spyeyes… It is possible someone might mark the launch and…"
"Wise." Itzpalicue dismissed the rest of his explanation with a sharp twitch of her fingers. "The Jehanan are neither savages nor fools. They have eyes and the wits to understand what might be seen. What about asset tracking? Do we have a trace on every Flower Priest active on Jagan?"
Lachlan nodded, shoulders settling. "Sixteen groundside controllers, all running under Imperial merchant passports from a variety of authorized pochtecan based at the Sobipuru spaceport or in Parus itself. We tagged them within a day of arrival. There are another seven operating under double-cover in the hinterlands… Four are locked, and we're running down the other three."
The old woman nodded, considering. The numbers matched those provided by the Flower Priests. "These seven are presenting themselves as agents of 'Swedish Naval Operations and Research'?"
"Yes. We've tentative pheromone, scent and skin flake idents on them; but given the relatively few number of Imperials working on Jagan…we should be able to keep track of them fairly easily."
"I assume they are already hard at work?"
Lachlan nodded, sandy hair falling into his eyes. "Sowing mischief, mi'lady. Selling arms and ammunition, filling the hearing pores of local revolutionaries with wild tales…blackening the Emperor's name with a will. Within three weeks, I would guess, every local potentate will be sweating tears in his sleep, wondering when the sky will open and the invasion fleet will descend. The usual Swedish line of propaganda."
"Good." Itzpalicue swept her eyes across the feeds. "And every marginal sect leader, patriot, malcontent and outlaw wil
l be hyping himself into a frenzy. Someone must save civilization from the invaders, of course. Have you identified the princes who will step forward?"
"The darmanarga moktar – Those-Who-Restore-the-Right-Path?" Lachlan's forehead creased. "No. Not yet. The 'Swedish' agents are still sounding out possible allies among the kujen. Do you want me to anticipate them?"
The old woman shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on one of the v-panes. The motion of her retinas caused the pane to unfold, filling the display with vibrant color and motion:
Hundreds of brightly painted kites were dancing above the rooftops – somewhere in the city where an Imperial spyeye was already aloft – weaving and ducking in grayish air. As she watched, one of the kites, diamond-shaped with a stubby tail, controlled from the ground by what seemed to be an adolescent Jaganite, swerved across the path of another. For a moment, their controlling strings tangled and Itzpalicue blinked – was that a spark? Then one cord parted and a black and white striped kite tumbled out of the sky, string cut.
The old woman's eyes unfocused as she took in dozens of screens. "Let them do their work. No wasted effort, child. And Lachlan-tzin, you're prudent to wait until dark to launch the other hives – the natives are fond of aerial sports. We must be able to see everything before we can begin our own operation."
And then, wrenching her attention away from the fluttering sky, perhaps I can find my…prey. Her hands splayed across the displays. An odd, tight feeling was growing in her chest. A constriction of breath, an irritation plucking beneath her breastbone. Cold…almost metallic. That is how you feel, my enemy. Not like a Swede or a Dane or any of the scattered nations defeated by the Empire. Slowly, she licked her lips, considering. I doubt there is a Hgkvarteret operative within thirty light-years…but within the week, every Imperial and Jaganite on this tired old world will think the shadows are crawling with HKV agents.
Itzpalicue closed both eyes, letting her mind settle. Will all this be enough? she wondered, trying to let her impression of the enemy come into focus. For the moment, there was only a confused sense of wrongness, of emptiness. I have nothing but a feeling – a half-felt disturbance in the pattern of this civilization – to incite this conflagration. Will I catch him – her – it – this time?
The old Mйxica wondered if the Flower Priests realized this world had been chosen for their War of Flowers at her insistence. That the arrival of Villeneuve and the prince had never been in doubt, not from the moment the Mirror began to act. I doubt it! Hmmm…I wonder…
She opened her eyes, fixing the patient Lachlan with a piercing look. "I need your researchers to find me something. A shrine or temple or great work of art. Something every Jehanan citizen knows by name…something beloved, an example of the glory of ancient Jagan. The closer to a city, the better."
"Does the size of the specific object matter?" The Iirishman's hands were already busy on his control panel. "Jehanan artifacts, or something from a previous period?"
"Size and source are inconsequential – name recognition and emotional response are more important."
Lachlan nodded, looking up. She could see he had already guessed her desire. "I offer you two possibilities, mi'lady: two Arthavan-period shrines – the 'Wind King Temple' at Fehrupurй and the great statues of 'Kharna and the Hundred Princes' at Jihnuma. Both are within city bounds."
Pictures of the edifices appeared on Itzpalicue's display. She pursed her lips in appreciation. "Exquisite." A finger drifted across the pictures. "This sky…the air is filled with pollution?"
"Every city within the valley of the Phison is plagued with smog, acidic rain and almost toxic levels of industrial vapor waste." Lachlan glanced sideways at one of his secondary displays. "Do you wish to see rates of decay and damage? We don't have them on file, but I'm sure…"
"The fact of the matter is inconsequential. How quickly can a xenoarchaeo-logical team be routed to Jagan?"
"No need." Lachlan tapped up a series of citizen profiles. "Civilization on Jagan is of sufficient age that the University of Tetzcoco already has a dig underway outside Fehrupurй. Apparently the remains of an Arthavan-period planetary capital are located there. Hmm…sixty University staff, about four thousand diggers…we can pull profiles on all the Imperials if need be."
"Not now." Itzpalicue brushed away the spyeye feeds open on her displays. "Only a thought. Now, how extensive is our infiltration of the rural, township-level communications networks?"
Landing Field Six The M й xica Mandate at Sobipur й , Jagan; End of the Northern Hemisphere Rainy Season
Waves of heat rippled up from the tarmac of a primitive shuttle field. Gretchen tipped back her field hat to wipe a sweat-drenched forehead. Her other hand waved a Shimanjai-made fan over the supine form of her communications technician, Magdalena, who was sprawled on the ragged earth border of the landing field. The black-pelted Hesht was panting furiously, purple-red tongue lolling from the side of her long mouth. The alien female's eyes were bare slits against the copper glare of the Jaganite sky.
"Can she die from overheating?" Parker shuffled his boots on the pavement. The Company pilot's shirt clung damply to a thin body. He was standing between Magdalena and the swollen red disk of the sun, though he cast very little shade at all.
"I don't know," Gretchen said. "But she's suffering. I wish we had our heavy equipment here – at least we could put up a shade."
Parker shrugged, plucking a dying tabac from his mouth and flicking the butt through a nearby fence. Beyond the hexagonal wooden barrier, ten meters of dusty red earth choked with waste paper, discarded glass bottles, scraps of shuttle tire and tangles of glittering cotton string separated them from a row of houses. The shacks were little more than sections of cargo container – most of them bearing the faded, cracking labels of Imperial shipping concerns – turned on their sides and tacked together with extruded foam glue.
The slums sprawling away from the edge of the spaceport did not impress the Company pilot. There were no skyscraping towers, no gravity-defying buildings of alien hue. Nothing over a story in height. Only a mass of tiny, squalid-looking buildings reaching off into a choking brown haze.
"Wouldn't do anything about the thickness of this air, boss." The pilot looked left and right, mirrored glasses catching the heat-haze boiling up from the tarmac. "At least out here, if there's a breeze, we might catch a little of it. In there…" He pointed at the teeming city crouched just beyond the barrier. "…you can't even breathe."
The smell from the city was already overpowering; a thick soup of hydrocarbon exhaust, smoke from cooking fires, a harsh, unexpected smell like cinnamon and the sharp tang of solvents and heated metal.
Ahead of them, some of the other passengers moved up, sending a slow, jerky ripple down the line. Parker was quick to snatch up their bags – one huge duffel each – and drag them forward before the Taborite missionaries behind them could dodge into the gap. Gretchen reached down, took hold of Maggie's upper arms and grunted, hauling the Hesht to her feet.
"Yrrrrowwl-urch," Magdalena groaned in near-delirium, long tongue disappearing behind rows of grinding teeth. One paw batted listlessly at the air. "Sister…just put the gun to my head and trigger-pull. Then…then take my pelt and make a sun-shade for your cubs… Remember me, when you sing at the hunting-fire…"
"Oh, be quiet." Gretchen shook her head in dismay, helping the Hesht forward. The line moved two, perhaps three meters towards the Customs House at the end of the runway. "We'll be in the shade soon, and then, eventually, we can get to our hotel."
Parker snorted, tapping another tabac out of the pack in his shirt pocket. "I think anything called a 'hotel' on this planet will be a sore disappointment." He sighed, shifting to put himself between the sweltering glare of the red giant filling the western sky and the panting Hesht. "After Shimanji n…maybe Mags should have stayed and taken her vacation time there."
Gretchen shook her head, squatting, feeling the asphalt give queasily under her boots. Heat radiati
ng from the tarmac burned the soles of her feet and beat against her face; the landing strip was an oven a thousand meters long and fifty wide. "There will be places like Hofukai on this world, too. Clean, cool, nearpine swaying in a shore breeze, crisp white linens on immaculately made beds… But not down here in this…hole."
"Stupid-ass Company," Parker said, thin lips twisted twisted into a scowl. "You don't suppose we're being punished for doing a good job on Shimanjin? No…what about that business on Ephesus Three? Maybe they're dinging you for all the data the Imperials confisca -"
An accelerating blast of sound drowned out his voice and everyone in the customs line jerked in surprise. As one, the six hundred passengers recently disem-barked from the Imperial passenger liner Star of Naxos turned, staring in alarm at the northern sky.
There, beyond a kilometer of open ground – high springy grass poking up between scattered stubs of eroding concrete, some kind of small horned ruminant grazing on low-lying furze – lay four more shuttle runways – all empty. Beyond them, in turn, a line of gleaming, modern buildings marked the 'main terminal' of the Sobipurй spaceport.
The thundering roar resolved into the shriek of shuttle engines – not just one, but dozens. The northern sky split open, smoky clouds peeling aside as four enormous slate-gray shuttles dropped down through the haze over the sprawling city. The first shuttle tilted back, landing thrusters howling, and a hot, metallic-tasting wind swept across the field.
Gretchen turned her head away as overpressure whipped around her, tugging long blonde hair loose from her field hat, filling her nose with the bitter smell of engine exhaust. A sharp clattering rose from the rows of shacks beyond the fence. The ground trembled as the first Fleet assault shuttle cracked down, enormous wheels spitting sparks.
House of Reeds ittotss-2 Page 4
