Asimov's SF, July 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "And they're wrong,” Xochitl says, with a vehemence that surprises her.

  "Perhaps,” Tecipiani says. “And perhaps not. Would you rather take the risk of the world ending?” She looks up, into the sky. “Of all the stars falling down upon us, monsters eager to tear us apart?"

  There's silence, then. Xochitl tries to think of something, of anything to counter Tecipiani, but she can't. She's been too crafty. She always is.

  "If you believe that,” Onalli says, with a scowl, “why did you let him go?"

  Tecipiani shakes her head, and in her eyes is a shadow of what Xochitl saw, back in the marketplace—pity and hope. “I said I understood. Not that I approved. I wouldn't do anything I didn't believe in whole-heartedly. I never do."

  And that's the problem, Xochitl thinks. It will always be the problem. Tecipiani does what she believes in; but you're never sure what she's truly thinking.

  * * * *

  The cell was worryingly easy to enter, once Onalli had dealt with the two guards at the entrance—who, even though they were Jaguar Specialists barely a step above novices, really should have known better. She had gone for the windpipe of the first, and left a syringe stuck in the shoulder of the second, who was out in less time than it took her to open the door.

  Inside, it was dark, and stifling. A rank smell, like the mortuary of a hospital, rose as she walked.

  "Xochitl?” she whispered.

  There was no noise. But against the furthest wall was a dark lump—and, as she walked closer, it resolved into a slumped human shape.

  Black One, no. Please watch over her, watch over us all . . .

  Straps and chains held Xochitl against the wall, and thin tubes snaked upward, into a machine that thrummed like a beating heart.

  Teonanacatl, and peyotl, and truth-serum, and the gods knew what else. . . .

  It was only instinct that kept her going forward: a horrified, debased part of her that wouldn't stop, which had to analyze the situation no matter what. She found the IVs by touch—feeling the hard skin where the syringes had rubbed—the bruises on the face, the broken nose—the eyes that opened, not seeing her.

  "Xochitl. Xochitl. It's all right. I'm here. Everything is going to be all right. I promise."

  But the body was limp; the face distorted in a grimace of terror; and there was, indeed, nothing left of the picture she'd held on to for so long.

  "Come on, come on,” she whispered, fiddling with the straps—her sharpened nails catching on the leather, fumbling around the knots.

  The cold, detached part of her finally took control; and, forcing herself not to think of what she was doing, she cut through the straps, one by one—pulled out the IVs, and gently disengaged the body, catching its full weight on her arms.

  Xochitl shuddered, a spasm like that of a dying woman. “Tecipiani,” she whispered. “No. . . ."

  "She's not here,” Onalli said. Gently, carefully, she rose with Xochitl in her arms, cradling her close, like a hurt child.

  Black One take you, Tecipiani. Oblivion's too good for the likes of you. I hope you burn in the Christian Hell, with the sinners and the blasphemers and the traitors. I hope you burn. . . .

  She was halfway out of the House, trudging through the last courtyard before the novices’ quarters, when she became aware she wasn't alone.

  Too late.

  The lights came on, blinding, unforgiving.

  "I always knew you'd come back, Onalli,” a voice said. “No matter how hard I tried to send you away."

  Black One take her for a fool. Too easy. It had been too easy, from beginning to end: just another of her sick games.

  "Black One screw you,” Onalli spat into the brightness. “That's all you deserve, isn't it, Tecipiani?"

  The commander was just a silhouette—standing, by the sound of her, only a few paces away. But Xochitl lay in Onalli's arms, a limp weight she couldn't toss aside, even to strike.

  Tecipiani didn't speak; but of course she'd remain silent, talking only when it suited her.

  "You sold us all,” Onalli whispered. To the yellow-livered dogs and their master, to the cudgels and the syringes. . . . “Did she mean so little to you?"

  "As little or as much as the rest,” Tecipiani said.

  Onalli's eyes were slowly accustoming themselves to the light, enough to see that Tecipiani's arms were down, as if holding something. A new weapon—or just a means to call on her troops?

  And then, with a feeling like a blade of ice slid through her ribs, Onalli saw that it wasn't the case. She saw what Tecipiani was carrying: a body, just like her: the limp shape of the boy she'd downed in the courtyard.

  "You—” she whispered.

  Tecipiani shifted. Her face, slowly coming into focus, could have been that of an Asian statue—the eyes dry and unreadable, the mouth thinned to a darker line against her skin. “Ezpetlatl, of the Atempan calpulli clan. Given into our keeping fifteen years ago."

  Shame warred with rage, and lost. “I don't care. You think it's going to atone for everything else you did?"

  "Perhaps,” Tecipiani said. “Perhaps not.” Her voice shook, slightly—a bare hint of emotion, not enough, never enough. “And you think rescuing Xochitl was worth his life?"

  Onalli scanned the darkness, trying to see how many guards were there—how many of Tecipiani's bloodless sycophants. She couldn't take them all—fire and blood, she wasn't even sure she could take Tecipiani. But the lights were set all around the courtyard—on the roofs of the buildings, no doubt—and she couldn't make out anything but the commander herself.

  As, no doubt, Tecipiani had meant all along. Bitch.

  "You're stalling, aren't you?” Onalli asked. “This isn't about me. It has never been about me.” About you, Tecipiani; about the House and the priests and Xochitl. . . .

  "No,” Tecipiani agreed, gravely. “Finally, something we can agree on."

  "Then why Xochitl?” A cold certainty was coalescing in her belly, like a snake of ice. “You wanted us both, didn't you?"

  "Oh, Onalli.” Tecipiani's voice was sad. “I though you'd understood. This isn't about you, or Xochitl. It's about the House."

  How could she say this? “You've killed the House,” Onalli spat.

  "You never could see into the future,” Tecipiani said. “Even two years ago, when you came back."

  "When you warned us about betrayal? You're the one who couldn't see the Revered Speaker was insane, you're the one who—"

  "Onalli.” Tecipiani's voice held the edge of a knife. “The House is still standing."

  "Because you sold it."

  "Because I compromised,” Tecipiani said.

  "You—” Onalli choked on all the words she was trying to say. “You poisoned it to the guts and the brain, and you're telling me about compromise?"

  "Yes. Something neither you or Xochitl ever understood, unfortunately."

  That was too much—irreparable. Without thought, Onalli shifted Xochitl onto her shoulder, and moved, her knife swinging free of its sheath—going for Tecipiani's throat. If she wouldn't move, wouldn't release her so-called precious life, too bad—it would be the last mistake she'd ever make—

  She'd half-expected Tecipiani to parry by raising the body in her arms—to sacrifice him, as she'd sacrificed so many of them—but the commander, as quick as a snake, knelt on the ground, laying the unconscious boy at her feet—and Onalli's first swing went wide, cutting only through air. By the time she'd recovered, Tecipiani was up on her feet again, a blade in her left hand.

  Onalli shifted, and pressed her again. Tecipiani parried; and again, and again.

  Neither of them should have the upper hand. They were both Jaguar Knights; Tecipiani might have been a little less fit, away from the field for so long—but Onalli was hampered by Xochitl's body, whom she had to keep cradled against her.

  Still—

  Still, Tecipiani's gestures were not as fast as they should have been. Another one of her games?

  Onalli di
dn't care, not anymore. In one of Tecipiani's over-wide gestures, she saw her opening—and took it. Her blade snaked through; connected, sinking deep above the wrist.

  Tecipiani jumped backward—her left hand dangled uselessly, but she'd shifted her knife to the right—and, like many left-handers, she was ambidextrous.

  "You're still good,” Tecipiani admitted, grudgingly.

  Onalli looked around once more—the lights were still on—and said, “You haven't brought anyone else, have you? It's just you and me."

  Tecipiani made a curt nod; but, when she answered, it had nothing to do with the question. “The House still stands.” There was such desperate intensity in her voice that it stopped Onalli, for a few seconds. “The Eagle Knights were burnt alive; the Otters dispersed into the silver mines to breathe dust until it killed them. The Coyotes died to a man, defending their House against the imperial guards."

  "They died with honor,” Onalli said.

  "Honor is a word without meaning,” Tecipiani said. Her voice was steady once more. “There are five hundred Knights in this House, out of which one hundred are unblooded children and novices. I had to think of the future."

  Onalli's hands clenched. “And Xochitl wasn't part of the future?"

  Tecipiani didn't move. “Sacrifices were necessary. Who would turn on their own, except men loyal to the Revered Speaker?"

  The cold was back in her guts, and in her heart. “You're sick,” Onalli said. “This wasn't worth the price of our survival—this wasn't—"

  "Perhaps,” Tecipiani said. “Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do. But we won't know until long after this, will we?"

  That gave her pause—so unlike Tecipiani, to admit she'd been wrong, to put her acts into question. But still—still, it changed nothing.

  "And now what?” Onalli asked. “You've had your game, Tecipiani. Because that's all we two were ever to you, weren't we?"

  Tecipiani didn't move. At last, she made a dismissive gesture. “It could have gone both ways. Two Knights, killed in an escape attempt tragically gone wrong . . .” She spoke as if nothing mattered anymore; her voice cool, emotionless—and that, in many ways, was the most terrifying. “Or a success, perhaps, from your point of view."

  "I could kill you,” Onalli said, and knew it was the truth. No one was perfectly ambidextrous, and, were Onalli to drop Xochitl as Tecipiani had dropped the boy, she'd have the full range of her abilities to call upon.

  "Yes,” Tecipiani said. A statement of fact, nothing more. “Or you could escape."

  "Fuck you,” Onalli said. She wanted to say something else—that, when the Revered Speaker was finally dead, she and Xochitl would come back and level the House, but she realized, then, that it was only thanks to Tecipiani that there would still be a House to tear down.

  But it still wasn't worth it. It couldn't have been.

  Gently, she shifted Xochitl, catching her in her arms once more, like a hurt child. “I didn't come here to kill you,” she said, finally. “But I still hope you burn, Tecipiani, for all you've done. Whether it was worth it or not."

  She walked to the end of the courtyard, into the blinding light—to the wall and the ball-court and the exit. Tecipiani made no attempt to stop her; she still stood next to the unconscious body of the boy, looking at some point in the distance.

  And, all the way out—into the suburbs of Tenochtitlan, in the aircar Atcoatl was driving—she couldn't get Tecipiani's answer out of her mind, nor the burning despair she'd heard in her friend's voice.

  What makes you think I don't already burn?

  She'd always been too good an actress. “Black One take you,” Onalli said, aloud. And she wasn't really sure anymore if she was asking for suffering, or for mercy.

  * * * *

  Alone in her office once more, her hands—her thin, skeletal hands—reach for the shriveled mushrooms of the teonanacatl—and everything slowly dissolves into colored patterns, into meaningless dreams.

  Even in the dreams, though, she knows what she's done. The gods have turned Their faces away from her; and every night she wakes up with the memories of the torture chambers—the consequences of what she's ordered, the consequences she has forced herself to face, like a true warrior.

  Here's the thing: she's not sure how long she can last.

  She burns—every day of her life, wondering if what she did was worth it—if she preserved the House, or corrupted it beyond recognition.

  No. No.

  Only this is worth remembering: that, like the escaped prisoner, Onalli and Xochitl will survive—going north, into the desert, into some other, more welcoming country, keeping alive the memories of their days together.

  And, over Greater Mexica, Tonatiuh the sun will rise again and again, marking all the days of the Revered Speaker's reign—the rising tide of fear and discontent that will one day topple him. And when it's finally over, the House that she has saved will go on, into the future of a new Age: a pure and glorious Age, where people like her will have no place.

  This is a thought the mind can hold.

  Copyright © 2010 Aliette de Bodard

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  Department: NEXT ISSUE

  AUGUST ISSUE

  Three big novelettes form the centerpiece of our August issue, perfect for the beach or poolside, (and the cabana, if you don't care for the sun). The first features the return of recent Asimov's discovery Gregory Norman Bossert and his “Slow Boat"—the boat here is on its leisurely way to Mars containing a most unwilling passenger, a young woman threatened with interplanetary exile for her hackerly ways. Can she, with little but her own wits, turn the tides on her mysterious captors? Next, in “Crimes, Follies, Misfortunes, and Love,” Ian Creasey takes us to the not-so-distant future, where our poor post-semi-apocalypse descendants must sift through old blog entries and internet detritus to uncover their cultural heritage. We can only hope they won't find 4Chan somewhere down there. . . . You won't find anything harmful or offensive in Alexander Jablokov's latest—quite the opposite, in fact, as everything in this particular world carries a “Warning Label,” which can nevertheless cause some significant problems for progressive politicians.

  ALSO IN AUGUST

  Acclaimed historical novelist Alan Wall makes a surprising and welcome Asimov's debut with “Superluminosity,” a literate and amusing tale of a man thrown far back in time through a beautifully rendered past London; Carol Emshwiller, gives us a disturbing look at a moral conflict between the truly alien and a crew of unsupecting humans in “The Lovely Ugly"; Pamela Rentz, making her Asimov's debut, with a wistful alternate history in which Native Americans hold a much different place in the American narrative, one in which they are able to participate in “The Battle of Little Big Science"; Julia Sidorova, making her Asimov's debut, “The Witch, the Tinman, the Flies,” describes the unfortunate travails a group of geneticists must persevere while working behind the iron curtain of Communist Russia;and Nick Wolven follows the tragic tale of a prisoner whose valuable talents are exploited by his captors in “On the Horizon."

  OUR EXCITING FEATURES

  Robert Silverberg's Reflections explores some recent SF scholarship in “Brave New Words"; James Patrick Kelly, not to be outdone, explores “Brave New Worlds” in On the Net; Peter Heck contributes “On Books"; plus an array of poetry you're sure to enjoy. Look for our August issue on sale at newsstands on June 22, 2010. Or you can subscribe to Asimov's—in classy and elegant paper format or those new-fangled downloadable varieties, by visiting us online at www.asimovs.com. We're also available on Amazon.com's Kindle!

  COMING SOON

  new stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Mike Resnick, Tom Purdom, Mary Robinette Kowal, Sara Genge, Robert Reed, Will McIntosh, Eugene Mirabelli, Geoffrey A. Landis, and many others!

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  Short Story: EDDIE'S ANTS by D.T. Mitenko

  D.T. Mitenko is a writer and traveler who has made his home in the Maldives, Nepal, and Mongo
lia. Most recently, he's settled down in Vancouver to complete a Masters in Global Health, a perfect addition to his BSc in Computer Science. David has sold fiction to Afterburn SF, OnSpec, and Bewildering Stories. His first tale for Asimov's is the quirky story of an alien hive-mind and the man who is trying to kill it.

  Edward laughs when he finds out what a gun does. He does this as I press the weapon against his forehead. A Colt .38. It can put a hole through six inches of concrete and he finds this funny.

  "A tiny blob of metal? I don't care how fast you can accelerate it, that's horribly ineffective as a weapon,” he says in his creaky voice.

  I tell him that it seems to work all right on humans and blow his head off. The crack of the shot is so much louder than expected and I bolt for the exit in a panic. I poke my head out the door and the Stritts, lord and lady of the strata council, poke their heads out at the same time. We look at each other and then duck back inside our respective apartments.

  A short time later the police arrive. Then the Stritts. By the time Aleksa comes home it's a regular social scene. “My couch! What's happened to the couch!?” She tears her tortured gaze from the wounded davenport and finds me. “You!” she fumes. “What are you doing here?"

  "Well, technically, nothing too illegal,” the poor cop tells her. He scratches his head. “Are you sure you shot him?"

  "Allow me to explain, gentlemen,” a squeaky Oxford accent interjects. Edward sits up and takes his hand off the puckered suture still sealing itself across his face. I would have shot him again if they hadn't already taken the gun from me. “Matthias here—"

  "Just Matt, thank you."

  "Matt here made a common mistake in assuming my nervous system was as primit . . . ahem, as centralized as yours. Really, putting a bullet through my face was as life-threatening as say, cutting off a finger."

  The cop takes his eyes away from Edward's sucking wound to check his pad. “We could go with reckless endangerment, I guess."

  "Oh please,” Edward holds his hands up placatingly. There's a collective gasp as his wound contorts around the semblance of a smile. “Matt only pulled the trigger at my insistence. It was really just a big misunderstanding. There was no harm done—"