Other Time

by Mack Reynolds

  The Captain-General, bearing a charmed life, was one of the few who survived. He staggered back, his horse dead, Cortes badly wounded in one arm.

  The new-born phalanx had taken its casualties. Possibly half of them had gone down. But so great had been the soldier's debacle that even the Spanish foot were demoralized. They covered their own retreat with crossbow and arquebuses, but their hearts weren't in it. They were driven, helter-skelter, back to the tecpan fortress.

  Don was atop the pyramid with Cuitlahuac.

  He said grimly, "Have the drummer increase the tempo of the kettledrums. And then summon the council of the war chiefs. Tonight the Spanish will attempt to break out and reach the mainland."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No. But if I was Malintzin, that is what I would do. His army must be demoralized and a good number of them wounded. He knows that after that success, tomorrow there will be two hundred warriors instead of sixty in our phalanx, and the next day, two thousand. Armed, of course, largely with lances tipped with obsidian or flint rather than with steel, but still more than a match for his few men." The full complement of war chiefs was in the dining hall of the Eagle clan's buildings. The process had been slow so that Don Fielding hadn't particularly noticed it, but for all practical purposes he had taken over the prerogatives of Cuitlahuac, the First Speaker. Not that the other took umbrage. He was enough of a commander not to argue with success, and this tall white man they now called Quetzalcoatl was giving them successes with his new weapons, his new tactics.

  Don stood, flanked by Cuitlahuac and Cuauhtemoc, while the others squatted Indian-fashion on the floor.

  He said, "Tonight, most likely the enemy will try to retreat to the mainland. Thus it is that the Tetzcucans and the Tlacopans and the rest of the allies, instead of returning to their own towns in their canoes for the night, must remain ready for the big fight. The Tlacopans will remain at their end of the causeway; when they hear the sounds of battle, they must dash down it and join the fray, preventing the Spanish from crossing. The Tetzcucans will all be in canoes on each side of the causeway, and they will drag down the enemy and carry them off."

  "Ha! Later to be sacrificed to the gods," one of the allied chiefs chortled.

  Don ignored him and went on. "We wish to capture as many of the Spanish as possible and the horses as well. Do not kill either a Spaniard or a horse unless absolutely necessary. The Tlaxcalans it would be best to kill, since those that escape will come back another day, using our new tactics perhaps. The Tenochas will remain in the city and pursue the army down the causeway from this end, once again capturing as many as possible."

  The Snake-Woman spoke up. "But how can they possibly expect to make the mainland when the bridges have all been raised?"

  "They have built a portable bridge in the tecpan. They plan to carry it with them. Each time they cross a break in the causeway they plan to put the bridge down, have the whole army file across, then pick it up again and carry it to the next break."

  "How do you know?" Cuappiatzin, chief of the House of Arrows, demanded.

  "I know," Don said. He added, "There is just one more thing. When the retreat begins, capture Malinche. Above all, capture Malinche unharmed! She is the strongest weapon in the Spanish arsenal."

  "But she is only a woman," someone blurted.

  "That makes no difference. She doesn't have to fight with a sword; she operates with her brain and it is the most dangerous brain in all the land. In the abilities of that girl lie the downfall of this city. Capture Malinche."

  Later, when the war council was over, Don took Cuauhtemoc aside.

  He said, "How many Tenocha women still remain inside the tecpan with the Spanish?"

  The other wasn't sure. "Perhaps a hundred. They were offered to the army as servants when the teteuh first arrived. Now they are kept on, in spite of themselves, as tlacotli slaves."

  Don thought it out. "So the Spanish are quite used to having these women about. Would it be possible to smuggle one more in?"

  "But why, giant brother?"

  "I want to get a message to Malinche."

  "It should be possible. In spite of our blockade, a few canoes get through to the teteuhs, bringing them food and other supplies. When we catch these, we kill them, but still a few attempt it, mostly women who have become infatuated by a teteuh and would do anything for the man she loves." He considered it. "Yes, she could enter with a canoe-load of food and undoubtedly the Spanish would welcome her. What is the message?"

  "Malinche is to be told that the Spanish cause is lost. She has probably already come to that conclusion. She is to be told to drop behind when the Spanish retreat begins and to hide in what was formerly my room when I lived there. She knows where it is. She is to be told that the message comes from me."

  "But why all this?"

  "For two reasons, Cuauhtemoc. First, as I said, she is the most dangerous person in the Spanish army, save only Malintzin himself. Second, she is the woman I love."

  "Perhaps I understand, my giant brother."

  Don Fielding's prediction was correct. The Spanish army, shaken by the day's defeat, chose that night for its dash for freedom.

  From the top of the pyramid, well concealed, Don, Cuitlahuac, and Cuauhtemoc watched. The moon was still bright enough that they could make out the movement of the column below, which was maintaining a ghostly silence in spite of its numbers.

  Sandoval—Don thought he recognized the slim figure—led with a small group of horse and about two hundred Spanish foot. Cortes himself was evidently in command of the center, in which went some of the cannon and most of the baggage, probably including most of the treasure, Don decided. Pedro de Alvarado brought up the rear with the better part of the infantry.

  When the full column had departed the buildings which they had converted into a veritable fort, Pedro de Alvarado spurred his horse around and reentered. Don's eyes narrowed; he didn't like that.

  He said quickly, "There are three branches in the causeway before they reach Tlacopan. Let the full Spanish army get over the first one, then sound the conches. Then mount the attack. And remember, above all, capture as many as possible and as many of the horses."

  He stood, preparatory to descending the pyramid.

  "Where do you go, brother?" Cuauhtemoc said.

  "I am no longer needed for the time. All will be complete confusion until dawn and past, and it is only midnight now. I am going down into the deserted tecpan."

  Cuitlahuac looked at him strangely. He said, "To rescue my brother, Motechzoma, Cacama, and the others?"

  "Perhaps, if they are still alive," Don said, and left.

  The column had already disappeared down the street which led to the causeway, making remarkably little noise as it went. He darted across the square and into the entry, his Beretta .22 in one hand, his entrenching tool, unfolded, in the other.

  He gave another silent prayer to whoever looked after agnostics that there would be no Spanish stragglers who had possibly dropped behind to acquire one last ingot of the gold that Cortes had been forced to leave behind in the tecpan. There had been plenty, according to history.

  He tried desperately to remember the route to his former room. He had never been over it before at this time of night. He made several wrong turns but finally found the courtyard.

  He called desperately, "Malinche! Malinche!" Not knowing, actually, if she was here or not. Had her disillusionment with those she once thought gods reached a point where she would desert them? Had her regard for Hernando Cortes cooled to the point where she would give him up for a comparative stranger who had but twice kissed her?

  Her form materialized in the doorway. She had one fist to her mouth, obviously frightened.

  "Don Fielding!" she whispered.

  He hurried closer. "They're all gone," he said. "They have all fled."

  "No, they haven't," a voice rasped from behind him.

  Don spun.

  It was Pedro de Alvarado, his eyes glar
ing as they always glared when he looked at Don Fielding. His sword was naked and dripping with blood and there was an additional dark stain on his armor. He looked as though he had been literally wallowing in blood.

  "So," Don said flatly. "Motechzoma and the other prisoners are no more."

  Alvarado came forward with deliberation. "And soon neither will you be, Don Fielding." He took in Malinche. "Nor you, traitoress."

  Don brought up his Beretta and emptied its clip into the other. He had no time for aim.

  The small bullets splattered harmlessly on the oncoming swordsman's armor, giving him only a slight pause to register his astonishment.

  Alvarado stabbed, but Don, more through pure luck than anything else, faded to one side. He made a back-handed swipe with his entrenching tool and managed to miss as well. He dropped the gun to the courtyard floor, swearing at himself inwardly for not having aimed at the other's face. With that many shots in the magazine, he should have hit the swordsman at least once. Once would have been enough, in the face. He switched the entrenching tool from his left hand to right and stood back, crouched.

  Alvarado was an experienced swordsman and had undoubtedly in his time come up against many a far-out weapon, but obviously he had never seen anything like the folding spade. It must have seemed a strange combination of battle mace and short sword. He eyed it for a moment before boring in again, his saber in practiced position.

  Don wasn't going to get out of this one, he knew. It was all very well his having finished off the assassin in Cempoala, in the darkness of the small room, and all very well his having clipped the sentry in the tecpan while the other's back was turned, but this was an experienced swordsman, veteran of a hundred person-to-person combats. A bloody damned sure-enough Spanish hero.

  He hissed over to his shoulder to Malinche, "Run!" Pedro de Alvarado laughed aloud and in joy and came lunging in.

  And an arrow transfixed his throat.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cuauhtemoc said, "I, too, saw Tonatiuh reenter this building, my giant brother. I have just been to the room where Motechzoma and the others were held in chains. They carried their chains to the afterlife."

  Don Fielding sat down on the steps which led up from the courtyard to the level on which his former room was located. He looked back. Malinche stood there. She hadn't run. Face it, he told himself, she's more of a fighter than you are. Hell, he wasn't a fighter at all.

  He said, "Thank you, blood brother," his voice shaky.

  Cuauhtemoc said, and the question was not rhetorical, "For what?"

  It was at that moment that the kettledrums, for the first time in a week, fell silent. And then the conches sounded the attack.

  The Indian chief said quickly, "I must go. The battle begins."

  Don came to his feet, complete exhaustion upon him. "Yes," he said, picking up his small gun again and reaching for his diminished box of shells.

  "No," Cuauhtemoc said.

  Don looked at him.

  Cuauhtemoc said, "We cannot risk you in the fight. It is as you said on the pyramid. Some cannot be risked, and you have proven over and over again, giant brother, that you cannot be risked. For in you lies the only hope of all the lands."

  Don opened his mouth to protest and closed it again. There was simply nothing to say.

  Cuauhtemoc turned quickly and hurried away.

  The girl looked at Don Fielding. "Would you, then, let your blood brother go into the fray against the teteuhs and you refrain?"

  His shoulders slumped in dejection. "Yes," he said. "He is expendable. I am not. It is not easy."

  "I do not know what your words mean."

  "No, of course not."

  He turned. "Come. I'll take you to quarters in the house of my ... clan."

  "I am not sure I wish to go with you, Don Fielding."

  From the distance came the blast of cannon, the booming of arquebuses, shouts and screams, above them all the hooting of the conches and the ululations and shrillings of pipes and whistles, the battle music of the Tenochas.

  "I'm afraid it is too late to change your mind now," Don told her, the utter tiredness still in his voice. Thousands would die or be wounded tonight. Was it history ... or his machinations?

  He took her to the home of the Eagle clan and saw that she was given quarters and then returned to his own room and flung himself on his bed. If possible, he was going to have to get some rest. There was a multitude of things that had to be done the next day.

  But the thought came to him before he fell into exhausted sleep: there is no doubt at all now; history can be changed and is being changed. In the history he had studied, Pedro de Alvarado survived the battle and lived later to become the conqueror of Guatemala. Malinche had remained with the Spanish army continuing to be its tongue and the alter ego of Hernando Cortes.

  Just before he fell off into sleep, a memory came back to him from school days. The memory of the so-called Dichotomy. Zeno had propounded it some five hundred years B.C. According to the Greek philosopher it was impossible to cover any given distance. The argument: First, half the distance must be traversed; then, half of the remaining distance; then, again half of what remains, and so on. It followed that some portion of the distance to be covered always remains and therefore reaching a goal was impossible. It was not until comparatively modem times that the mathematicians solved the paradox. The Greek had assumed that any totality composed of an infinite number of parts must, itself, be infinite, whereas the later mathematicians decided that an infinite number of elements make up a finite total. But the point was that although the Greeks could not explain the paradox, and supposedly had logical proof that motion was impossible, that didn't prevent them from utilizing motion. So it was with his time travel paradox. He couldn't understand it and doubted if anybody else did, in any age, but if he understood it or not, he was utilizing it, willy-nilly.

  In the morning, the battle over and the remnants of the Spanish army retreating in exhaustion up the side of the lake to the north, the war chiefs of the victorious Indians held another council.

  Cihuaca, Tlacochcalcatl of Texcuco, was all in favor of immediate pursuit.

  "No," Don said. "In spite of the fact that we have killed or captured at least two-thirds of their force, we are still no match for them in the open field. Their discipline and training gives them too much the advantage and they still have some horse cavalry."

  Don's domination of the Tenochas was greater than of the allies, who didn't know him nearly so well. Cihuaca was stubborn. "We can descend upon them in all our numbers and end them once and for all. We could come around the other side of the lake and waylay them at Otumba."

  "No," Don said. "We aren't ready for them yet. We have to build up our phalanx, acquire better weapons, recruit more allies." He turned to Cuitlahuac. "This is my advice."

  The First Speaker turned to the Tetzcucan. "The forces of the confederacy will not pursue Malintzin."

  Cihuaca was infuriated. "Then the forces of Tetzcuco alone will do so and win all the glory and plunder."

  "That is your right," Cuitlahuac said evenly. "We wish you well."

  The Tetzcucan stormed out, followed by his subchiefs. One of the other allied chiefs said, "We have taken many prisoners and many horses. Now is the time to turn them over to the priests of Huitzilopochtli so that they may be sacrificed."

  Here they went again. Don shook his head emphatically. "No. There is to be no more human sacrifice. You have seen the advantage of our sparing the first twenty prisoners. They teach the warriors the use of the weapons of the Spanish and we must continue to use them. The others can teach us the use of other things the Spanish have but we have not. You saw the advantage of using the spears tipped with steel rather than obsidian. What if one of our prisoners can show us how to obtain steel—or gunpowder?" Most of them didn't like it, though the Tenochas present had already accepted the situation.

  One said in irritation, "We can at least sacrifice the captured deer
upon which the teteuhs ride."

  "The horses! Are you mad? Sacrifice them! We must learn to ride them as the Spanish ride them. We must use them to pull the new wheeled vehicles I have introduced.

  We must learn to breed them and fill the land with their descendants."

  Xochitl, the head priest, obviously put out by Don's rejection of sacrificing the captured white men, said, "No man in all the land has ever ridden one of these animals. It is not the way of the Tenochas, nor the Tlacopans, nor the..."

  "That's too bad," Don said grimly. "But ride them we will. We must learn."

  The Snake-Woman said, "I agree with you that it is best not to kill the teteuh prisoners. We can force them to teach us their secret arts. However, this does not apply to our traditional enemies, the Tlaxcalans. These can be sacrificed and we have captured perhaps a thousand of them." Don was still shaking his head. "No. They too must not be sacrificed."

  Even his supporter, Cuitlahuac, was taken aback by that, and Cuauhtemoc as well.

  Cuitlahuac said, "But what can we do with these people? If we keep them, they eat our food and take up room in our quarters. If we turn them loose, they will return to Tlaxcala and one day come back to fight us again." It was the same argument that Cuauhtemoc had given Don once before.

  Don said, "We'll put them to work, helping us repair the city and to build new fortifications. We'll put them to work on the roads which must be widened and improved so that the new vehicles can utilize them. We will feed them as well as we feed our own people and clothe them and see that they have adequate shelter. Then, when the war is over, we will turn them loose and let them return to their own land where they will tell the people how well they were treated and the great advances we have made. For, you see, sooner or later we have to make our peace with the Tlaxcalans." He added under his breath, in English, "The whole thing is known as good propaganda."