AZTECHS

by Lucius Shepard

  As we drove toward El Rayo, Z2 sat in a backwards-facing seat, Lupe beside him, with Frankie clinging upside-down to the roof, shooting the interview, such as it was. The spokesman answered every question with polite demurrals and a Jesus-loves-you smile. Whereas the stone head projected a feeling of gloom, its human twin had about him an aura of unflappable serenity. It was a nice way to be—for him, anyway—but I doubted that Ramiro Carbonell would be impressed. Z2’s answers grew increasingly nonresponsive. My anxieties had kicked in, and his beatific evasion was beginning to piss me off.

  “Hey,” I said, interrupting Lupe mid-question and addressing the spokesman. “What do people call you, man? Like when you’re havin’ a drink with friends, they go, ‘Pass the beer nuts, Zee Two?’ Or you gotta nickname?”

  Frankie whirred, likely adjusting his lens to include me in the shot.

  “Zee,” the spokesman said, unperturbed. “You may call me Zee.”

  “Zee. Okay. So what’s your story, Zee? Who were you ’fore you landed this gig?”

  “I am who I am,” he said.

  “Oh…sure. That clears things up. ’Cause, see, I was thinkin’ you were not who you were.”

  Zee’s smile was an emblem of infinite patience. “Would you ask a gourd filled with new wine how it was to be filled with dirty water?”

  “I wouldn’t ask a gourd shit,” I said. “That’d be stupid.”

  Zee spread his hands as if to say I had made his point.

  “But you ain’t no fuckin’ gourd,” I said.

  “Let me ask you this, Senor Poe…since you resist my analogy. How did you feel when you were an infant and soiled your diaper?”

  “I don’t remember. But I imagine it felt like shit.”

  Zee crossed his legs, smoothed the crease of his trousers. “I might be able to remember who I was, to work it out logically, but that would have little meaning. Will it satisfy you if I say I was no one?”

  “Might if you tell me who you are now.”

  “Language has its limits,” he said. “When it comes to expressing the inexpressible—the idea of God, the concept of infinity—mathematics is more useful.”

  “You tellin’ me you think you’re God?”

  Zee’s smile widened. “Are you always so literal-minded, Senor Poe?”

  “Only when he’s bein’ a dick!” Lupe tucked her legs up beneath her butt and frowned at me. “You gonna keep bein’ a dick, Eddie? Or you gon’ let me do my interview?”

  I didn’t know if she was performing or not. Her fans loved our little spats—they fleshed out our relationship for the simple-minded. But I wasn’t in the mood to play.

  “Y’know,” I said to Zee, “Ramiro’s gonna love your ass. Say what you want about him, say he’s insane, ruthless, a fuckin’ sadist…the man’s a sucker for that sound-of-one-hand-clappin’ bullshit you been spreadin’. Two of you gon’ get along fine.”

  “I have put substantial proposals before Senor Carbonell,” Zee said. “We have a great many topics of mutual interest to discuss. If this were not the case, we wouldn’t be meeting.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said. “Otherwise it’s gon’ be a short night.”

  Fifteen miles out, I could see El Rayo sketching a false horizon as far as the eye could see, a glowing wire stretching east to west. As we drew closer, the taller structures of the city lifted against the fire. The tallest within view was a cathedral that had formerly been known as Nuestra Senora del Rayo, this referring to an apparition of the Virgin that had manifested in the burning red light, witnessed by thousands of the devout. The church had been constructed without a back wall, open to the curtain of fire at the very spot where Our Lady had materialized, just in case She decided to do a second show. It was now a part of the Carbonell compound, organized religion having retreated to safer climes. Ramiro Carbonell and his two sons occupied the rectory, and the two buildings were connected by tunnels and roofed passageways to a dozen lesser buildings, and this warren was segregated from the remainder of Barrio Ningun by high, heavily-patrolled stone walls.

  The dirt streets through which we drove were thronged with heavily armed, heavily tattooed young guys. Carbonell affiliates. They moved aside grudgingly as the Rolls nosed toward the cathedral; they flicked lit cigarettes at us, flourished their pistols and spat, then—as we moved beyond them—turned back to their card games and their whores. Pariah dogs cast uneasy glances at us and skulked off into alley mouths; naked toddlers chewing sugar cane and tortillas stood in candlelit doorways and looked on in wonder; teenage hookers tried to peer at the rich people hidden behind the darkened glass. Pastel casitas with smoking charcoal stoves; drunks with bloody heads lying maybe dead in front of cantinas with no doors; a beshawled mother lifting a sick baby with fly-encrusted eyelids up to the red light and asking for a miracle. Soon the houses gave out into vast acreage of hovels made of plyboard and cardboard, tires, crates, what-have-you. Thin smoke rose from makeshift chimneys everywhere, like the issue of souls into the body of God: the oily gray cloud they formed overhead. And on the far side, towering above El Rayo like a last holy dream on the edge of hell, stood the cathedral. We could have driven through that place a hundred years before, and it would have been more-or-less the same. Poverty was humanity’s most enduring tradition, and Barrio Ningun one of its great temples.

  We pulled up beside the compound gate. I stepped out, showed myself to the two guards who stood atop it. “Eddie Poe,” I told them.

  One of the guards, a guy with some years on him, his chest bibbed with a salt-and-pepper beard, said, “You’re good, Poe, but Sammy don’t pass.”

  Behind me, Childers was standing on the running board of the personnel carrier. A couple of raggedy children were staring up at him and giggling.

  “I cleared this with Ramiro,” I said. “Sammy comes inside, or we head on back.”

  I gave a circular gesture to Childers. He spoke to someone in the carrier. Dennard, Morely, and Fetisov jumped out and established a perimeter. Childers joined them. The kids quit giggling when they saw Sammy’s guns, and the curiosity seekers who had crowded in behind us backed away.

  “Hijo,” I said to the guard. “Lemme in, or I’m gon’ tell Sammy to cut me a new road.”

  “Think I give a shit about these putos?” The guard laughed. “Kill ’em all. I don’t fuckin’ care.”

  The street cleared quickly; a handful of tattooed guys remained, too stoned or too stupid to worry about the consequences.

  “Three minutes,” I told the guard. “Then we’re leaving. You makin’ the wrong move. Better talk to Ramiro, or you gon’ be takin’ a ride on El Rayo tonight.”

  The two guards vanished; in much less than three minutes they returned. “Bueno,” said the bearded guy. “Pasen.”

  The gate rattled back and we drove into a courtyard paved with broken flagstones. A kid in baggy fatigues beckoned for us to pull up by the cathedral steps. The house of God had acquired a post-apocalyptic gloss since the last priest fled. Much of the ornamentation on the face of the building had been shot away or defaced with graffiti; sheets of metal had replaced the stained glass windows, and the white marble steps had been sprayed green, white and gold, and chains of black symbols, like magical equations, had been inscribed atop the paint. From the steeple flew a red banner bearing a black circle. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see demons peeking from behind the columns that flanked the carved wooden doors.

  Lupe scrambled out and began instructing Frankie to shoot this and that. “We’re goin’ live again,” she whispered to me. “Act like you care!”

  Except for our party, the only other person in the courtyard was the kid. He was scrawny, fourteen tops, with shoulder-length hair and a wispy mustache. Large dark eyes brimful of hate. A narrow chin and a beaklike nose a couple of sizes too large for his face. The Carbonell physiognomy. Probably, I thought, a grandson of Ramiro’s. He stared at me with a surly hauteur. Even the children were crazy. That’s why the Carbonells had risen s
o high. They outcrazied everyone else.

  I told Childers to check out the church. He and Fetisov sprinted up the steps and disappeared inside. Frankie was scuttling across the facade of the building, from broken angel to broken gargoyle, shooting down at Lupe, who was striking poses and delivering her introduction to the Carbonells, telling how Ramiro’s fortune, built on kidnapping and drugs, had evolved into an empire founded on vice but with heavy investment in legitimate concerns. Zee stood gazing up at the church. Judging by his contemplative expression, you might have thought he was planning to redecorate. The courtyard was enclosed by high whitewashed walls, some inset with dark doors that led into the family warren. The guards on the gate had disappeared. The sounds of the street were muted. I did not have a good feeling.

  Childers appeared at the cathedral door, trotted down the stairs to my side. “The suppressor field’s on. The minute we got inside, the weapons computers went screwy. Fetisov scanned the place. No trace of noncomputerized weaponry. Felix is packing a knife, but that’s not a problem.”

  “If the suppressor field goes off,” I said, “you got my permission to fuck ’em up.”

  Childers shot me a bemused look. “You know what will happen if we waste the Carbonells.”

  “Nobody’s gonna waste anyone. That’s why I hired you people. To make sure of that. Even the Carbonell family’s not gonna wage war on Sammy.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Childers, deadpan. “They’d have to be nuts.”

  “Okay, man,” I said, turning to Zee. “It’s your party.”

  He blessed me with a smile, started up the steps. Lupe followed, chattering into her throat mike. Sammy and I brought up the rear.

  The Carbonells had gutted the body of the church, replacing pews with a long mahogany Spanish Colonial banquet table and matching chairs; but they had left the altar intact, and it was a sight that might reorder anyone’s notion of a benign Christianity. Draped in white silk, appointed with four golden candlesticks and an intricately carved gold chalice, and surmounted by a thirty-foot-tall golden cross. Supported by invisible wires, it appeared to have materialized from the wall of red fire that supplanted the rear wall. The other walls were scorched and pocked with bullet holes. A scent of old explosions hung in the air. Our Lady of Napalm, I thought. Nuestra Senora de la Guerra Mundial. The banquet table was situated directly beneath the altar, so close you could hear the hum and feel the heat of El Rayo on your skin. Sitting along one side of it were Ramiro Carbonell, his sons Felix and Ruy, and two guys of about Ramiro’s age, late fifties, who I assumed were his advisors.

  Ramiro was a big prideful-looking brown-skinned man, his body settling into slabs of fat, with a thick head of sleeked-back gray hair and a bushy mustache. He wore white slacks and a tight-fitting shirt of mauve silk that accentuated the bulge of his belly. Gold rings, chains, a crucifix. Felix and Ruy were leaner, taller, clean-shaven versions of their papa, but their personal styles were so at variance, they seemed dissimilar. Ruy’s dark blue suit made him look like a mestizo undertaker, but Felix reminded me of the little stores full of cheap flashy souvenirs I’d passed on the way to Cruzados. He was shirtless, dressed in a black leather vest and matching pants. His chest was adorned with a live ink tattoo that flowed between the image of a rainbow-colored scorpion and what seemed a depiction of a man raping a full-breasted woman. His hair fell in long whiplike braids into which chunks of gold had been woven; his sunglasses were tinted purple, and he probably had on five pounds of chains and bracelets and rings. Whereas Ruy sat straight and alert on his papa’s right hand, Felix—on the left—slouched in his chair and affected disinterest in the proceeding. A dozen bodyguards, representative of the tattooed minions we’d seen in the streets, stood a distance behind the Carbonells. Judging by the anxious way they followed Sammy’s every move, I had the suspicion that they felt outnumbered. This set off my detectors. It wasn’t like Ramiro to be casual in his attention to security.

  Ramiro was all smiles during the introductions, especially when it came to Lupe. “I never miss your show, Senorita Bernal,” he said, taking her hand. “It’s a great privilege to be a part of The Border Rose.”

  “Mucho gusto,” said Lupe. “You know my associate, Mister Poe.”

  “We have spoken,” Ramiro said, his eyes not straying from Lupe’s cleavage. He introduced Lupe to Ruy, who bowed, and Felix, who said nothing, only stared. “Well, then!” Ramiro rubbed his hands together and beamed. “To business!”

  Once everyone was seated, Ramiro leaned forward, folded his hands on the table and engaged Zee. “We have studied your economic projections, Senor. All your paperwork. We find it intriguing. But the idea of revolution…”

  “Not a revolution so much as an economic takeover,” said Zee.

  Ramiro did not like being interrupted. “Very well. We find the idea of an ‘economic takeover’ unnecessary. We control forty percent of El Rayo. As we grow, we will naturally extend our control. Eventually we will run the entire border.” He arched an eyebrow. “Why then should we align ourselves with AZTECHS?”

  “May I speak freely?” asked Zee.

  “Of course,” said Ramiro.

  “In the first place,” said Zee, “the Guzman family and Los de Abajo will contest your expansion. Unsuccessfully, no doubt. But you will lose many soldiers.”

  “Hombre! That’s what soldiers are for,” said Ruy.

  Ramiro nodded approvingly.

  “As you say,” said Zee. “But you are a business, and every loss, no matter how predictable, how trivial, is a loss. Then there is the matter of legitimacy.”

  Ruy started to his feet, but Ramiro restrained him with a gesture. “In what way,” he said coldly, “do you consider us illegitimate?”

  “In the way of nations,” replied Zee. “What you are presented with now is a unique opportunity. The south of the country is occupied with the Pan-Mayan War, and promises to be so occupied for quite some time.

  The central region, including Mexico City, has been drained of resources and wields an empty authority…an authority that cannot withstand a significant challenge. AZTECHS holds contracts with the government that will enable us to neutralize any resistance to the creation of a border state. Even if they could recommit forces now fighting in the south, we can guarantee that they will not have the funds to provision them. In a matter of months you could be not the most powerful man on the border, but the president of an emerging nation. A nation that in a few years will become among the wealthiest on the planet.”

  “You flatter yourself, senor. AZTECHS technology has changed our lives—revolutionized them—and surely it is a wealthy corporation. But a wealthy nation…?” Ramiro snorted in amusement. “What of the Americans? What will they say about all this?”

  “The Americans want stability,” Zee said. “What causes them alarm is that the warfare among the Carbonells, the Guzmans, and Los de Abajo spills over into their territory. Dealing with one government, not three criminal organizations…this would seem to them an improvement. It would afford them more control of the flow of drugs across their borders.”

  Ruy made a disgusted noise, and Felix, with marginal animation, said, “Papa, we don’t need this shit.” Ramiro regarded Zee with a questioning stare.

  “Senor Carbonell,” Zee said. “You know as well as I the Americans do not want to stop the flow of drugs. They merely wish to have a voice in directing that flow. This may eventually reduce the amount of drugs that cross the border, but…”

  Ramiro glowered.

  “But,” Zee went on, “the monies that will come to you as a result of this cooperation will compensate a hundred times over for any loss you experience.”

  “You’re asking us to give up our strength,” said Ramiro.

  “That’s the truth, man!” said Ruy, and Felix nodded.

  “Not at all,” Zee said. “I’m asking you to temper strength with a restraint born of wisdom. I’m asking to make your entrance on the world’s stage.”

&
nbsp; Ramiro turned to Lupe, who was sitting on Zee’s right, doing a whispered commentary, and said, “Quit running your mouth, bitch.”

  Lupe’s voice faltered, then stopped altogether.

  Perhaps expecting violence, perhaps merely wanting a wider angle, Frankie scooted off along the table.

  “You are asking us to give up our strength,” Ramiro said calmly to Zee. “Don’t try to persuade me otherwise. A president is not a king. I am a king, and these”—he clapped Ruy and Felix on the shoulders—“these are my princes.”

  The three of them glared with uniform malevolence at Zee, like three wolves eyeing a dog with a broken hind leg. A silence ensued, one in which the humming of El Rayo seemed to grow louder. I had the idea things were falling apart. Zee didn’t get it—he was droning on about the joys of nationhood, oblivious to the fact that the hostile energy in the room had intensified.

  “You can earn a significant place in history…” Zee was saying.

  “Fuck history,” said Felix.

  “…by founding a nation,” Zee went on. “You can increase your wealth, your power, a hundredfold. And you can do all this simply by agreeing to do it.”

  “Explain,” said Ramiro, still holding Zee with his gaze.

  “The instant you agree to the contract, AZTECHS will pay a sum of money into bank accounts belonging to Los de Abajo and the Guzmans. Simultaneously they will cede their interests—in their entirety—to the Carbonells.”

  “You’ve talked with them?” Ramiro asked.

  “Everything is arranged,” said Zee.

  “And they have agreed to walk away.”

  “They’re being very well paid to walk away.”

  “Cono!” Felix kicked back his chair and came to his feet; he rested both hands on the table and cursed Zee. “Pinche cabron!”

  The ragged line of bodyguards shifted in anticipation.

  “Wait!” Ramiro gestured Felix to silence, but Felix said, “This is bullshit, Papa! This asshole makes deals behind our backs…”