Land of the Dead

by Thomas Harlan

  Sixty-two minutes later, as the Naniwa completed her course correction, an alarm sounded from the Navigation station.

  “Chu-sa!” the navigator said sharply, looking up from his console. “Unknown signature on the plot! We have an intruder in our patrol box.”

  “Report,” Susan said, her voice calm and controlled. Her own displays were already adjusting, with threat analysis panes opening up. “Size—heading—something pertinent, Thai-i Holloway.”

  “Pretty small, kyo, about sixty meters long. It’s piggybacking in the Tlemitl’s wake. Signature is intermittent—” Holloway swallowed a curse, as the icon suddenly vanished from the threatwell.

  “Project location from the data we’ve already captured, Thai-i. Lock heading as soon as we’ve caught sight of her again.” Koshō looked to Pucatli, who was sitting in at comm for the usual first-watch officer. “Signal battle stations to all hands, Chu-i. Immediate intercept. Unauthorized ship of unknown flag. Guns live. This is not a drill. Load missile racks one and two. Direct So-cho Juarez to ready two teams for board and seizure.”

  Then she sat back, feeling a cold shiver of adrenaline course through her limbs as the Klaxon sounded, and her bad mood vanished like the morning frost from the eaves. Smartly now, she thought, watching the bridge crew in action. Mitsuharu would be pleased to see their progress.

  “Chu-sa?” Oc Chac looked up from his own console, his chiseled face gleaming as the overheads flashed three times. “Battlecast needs an update on our course correction. Should I—”

  She shook her head, no. “Let’s see what we’ve beaten from cover, first, Sho-sa. Then I’ll report to the various admirals.”

  For Keith Laumer, K. H. Scheer, and Walter Ernsting: That was some good reading!

  Tremendous thanks are owed to my able, witty, and good-looking advisors in matters scientific, mythological, and military: Martin, Annita, Cap’n Paul, Chris W., Chris C., and the “O.W.”

  A NOTE CONCERNING MEASUREMENTS

  Though her later victories rendered the full terms of the Lisbon Accords moot, the Méxica Empire abides by the common set of weights and measures set forth by the Accord in A.D. 1724. As a result, distances are in kilometers, weights in kilograms, and so on.

  A NOTE ABOUT IMPERIAL MÉXICA NAVY SHIP NAMES

  Capital ships—dreadnaughts, heavy carriers, and battleships—tend to have Méxica names, usually of gods, monsters, or famous generals from the Conquest.

  Midrange ships—strike and escort carriers and heavy cruisers—usually have Nisei, Mixtec, or Skawtish names. Very recently, some Provincial-class battle cruisers have come into service bearing city names.

  Smaller ships—light cruisers, destroyers, transports, and fleet tenders—come in a wide variety of classes and naming schemes, usually assigned as a sop to some organization or group outside of the Four Hundred families.

  THE CONCORDANCE

  A wealth of detail about the universe of the Sixth Sun can be found at: http://www.throneworld.com/wiki/index.php?title=Category:Concordance.

  FROM THE ANNALS OF CUAUHTITLAN

  In the beginning was the First Sun,

  4-Water was its sign;

  It was called the Sun of Water,

  For water covered the world,

  Leaving nothing but the dragonflies above

  And the fishy men below.

  The Second Sun was born,

  4-Jaguar was its sign;

  This was called the Sun of the Jaguars.

  In this Sun the heavens collapsed,

  So that the Sun could not move in its course.

  The world darkened, and when all was dark

  Then the people were devoured.

  The Giants perished, giving life to the Third Sun.

  4-Rain was its sign;

  It was called the Sun of Rain,

  For this Sun rained fire from bleeding eyes

  And the people were consumed.

  From the torrent of burning stones,

  The Fourth Sun was born.

  4-Wind was its sign, and it was called the Sun of Wind.

  In this Sun, all which stood on the earth was carried

  Away by terrible winds.

  The people were turned into monkeys,

  and scattered from their cities into the forest.

  Now, by sacrifice of the divine liquid, the Fifth Sun was born.

  Its sign was 4-Motion.

  As the Sun moved, following a course,

  The ancients called it the Sun of Motion.

  In the time of this Sun, there were

  Great earthquakes and famine,

  No maize grew, and the gods of the field

  Turned their eyes from the people,

  And all the people grew thin, and perished.

  The Lord of Heaven cut the heart from his living son,

  And so was born the Sixth Sun, which sustains

  The universe with infinite light.

  Its sign was 4-Flint.

  Those who watch the sky say this Sun

  Will end in annihilation, when the flint-knife

  Severs the birthcord of the Sun, plunging all

  Into darkness, where the people will

  Be cut to pieces and scattered.

  This is the time of the Sixth Sun.…

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Notes

  Military Ranks of the Imperial Méxica Fleet, Army, and Marines

  From the Annals of Cuauhtitlan

  The House of Fumeiyo-Ie

  In the Kuub

  Shinedo

  Tenochtitlán

  Dumfries Post Station

  Shinedo

  Tenochtitlán

  The Akbal Yards

  The Wilful

  The Naniwa

  Aboard the Moulins

  The Pinhole

  Aboard the Qalak

  Near the Pinhole

  The Naniwa

  Somewhere in the Kuub

  Aboard the Can

  The Naniwa

  The Wilful

  At the Pinhole

  The Wilful

  The Naniwa

  The Tlemitl

  The Naniwa

  In the Kuub

  Aboard the Naniwa

  The Wilful

  The Naniwa

  The Wilful

  The Land of the Dead

  The Wilful

  The Naniwa

  The Wilful

  Aboard the Naniwa

  Outside the Barrier

  The Naniwa

  Aboard the Khaid Cruiser

  The Naniwa

  Aboard the Kader

  Within the Sunflower

  The Kader

  The Naniwa

  Within the Sunflower

  The Kader

  Aboard the Moulins

  Deep within the Sunflower

  The Kuub

  The Naniwa

  On the Moulins

  The Kader

  Among the Fallen

  The Kader

  The Altar of the Undying Flame

  At the Pinhole Exit

  In the Dead Fleet

  The Pylon of Thought

  Aboard the Naniwa

  The Kader

  The Pylon

  Near the Sunflower

  The Thread

  Outside

  Aboard the Naniwa

  Tor Books by Thomas Harlan

  Copyright

  THE HOUSE OF FUMEIYO-IE

  TOROSON ADVANCED FLEET BASE, IMPERIAL MÉXICA SPACE

  A slim Nisei woman, her back straight as a sword blade, glossy black hair coiled at her neck, paused before a shoji-panel of laminate cedar and redwood. She took a moment to straighten the crisply starched cuffs of
her dress whites, to tuck her cap under one arm, and to adjust the four tiny golden skulls on her collar tabs. Then, prepared, she placed two fingers against the door itself.

  There was a quiet chime—the sound of a temple bell filtered through autumnal leaves—and the panel slid soundlessly to one side. The Imperial Méxica Navy Chu-sa stepped out onto a covered porch, walked down a flight of broad wooden steps and out into a perfectly manicured Tokuga-period garden. A glassite pressure dome vaulted overhead, half of the armored panels polarized against the glare of the twin primaries of the Michóacan binary. Her boots clicked on a curving stone bridge crossing a swift, silent brook—the recycled water clear as crystal, reeds and tadpoles wavering in the current running over mossy stones—and she passed beneath the rustling branches of a stand of hothouse aspen.

  A teahouse stood beneath the golden trees, ancient wood and paper walls meticulously assembled at the heart of the Fleet base, slate roof strewn with leaf litter. The newly minted captain knelt at the door and paused again—taking a measured breath—before drawing aside the old-fashioned panel of rice paper and varnished pine. The large interior room was quite barren. A tatami lay in the middle of the floor, a pale jute-colored island in a sea of gleaming dark fir planking. A man was kneeling on the mat, hands hidden in the folds of a plain civilian kimono. He lifted his head curiously at the sound of the opening door.

  His thin face, pale and seamed from long exhaustion, was calm.

  Then he recognized her and everything sure and composed about him disappeared in a jolt of surprise—delight—and then slowly dawning grief.

  The woman removed her boots and padded across the spotless floor to the edge of the mat.

  “Oh Sho-sa,” the man said, shaking his head. “You should not have brought me the honorable blades. A fine gesture, truthfully, but—”

  “I bear no swords,” Susan Koshō said, kneeling gracefully and drawing a parchment envelope from the inner pocket of her uniform jacket. “The Admiralty tribunal has concluded its deliberations. You will not satisfy the Emperor’s Honor for the loss of our ship. As of only an hour ago, you are free to leave this place at any time you please.” She set down the envelope, touching the corners to align the rectangle properly between them.

  “What is this?” Mitsuharu Hadeishi, recently captain of the ill-starred IMN Astronomer-class light cruiser Henry R. Cornuelle, eyed the parchment suspiciously. “This is not an orders packet.”

  Koshō shook her head no, gaze politely averted from his, attention unerringly fixed on the hem of his kimono, which was frayed and showing a small tear. She wondered, seeing how shabby his clothing was, what had happened to the old manservant who had tended Hadeishi’s personal affairs aboard the Cornuelle. The rest of the crew—those who had lived through the disaster over Jagan—had scattered to the five directions. Even my feet, she thought, are on a strange road, every compass awry with the influence of the fates. With every step, a crossroads appears out of the darkness.…

  “I have been retired?” Hadeishi’s voice was thin with distress.

  “No.” Susan met his eyes at last. “You have been placed on reserve duty, pending the needs of the Fleet. Your record … your service jacket is … all references to the incident at Jagan have been removed. A compromise was reached—”

  “But I have no ship,” he said, blinking, trying to take in the abrupt end of his career as a plain envelope pinched between thumb and forefinger. “No duty, no … no…”

  He stopped, lips pursed, dark eyebrows narrowed over puzzled, wounded eyes. Susan could feel his mind whirling—imagined touching his brow would reveal a terrible, fruitless heat—and her own face became glacially impassive in response to his distress.

  After a moment, Hadeishi’s eyes focused, found her, remembered her words, and his head tilted a little to one side. “What of the others? Or am I the only one small enough to be caught in the net of accountability?”

  The corners of Koshō’s eyes crinkled very slightly. “Great care was taken that no Imperial agency be found at fault. The Fleet Book shows you fought the Cornuelle against vicious odds—”

  Hadeishi stiffened, astonished. “Fought? Fought! I was taken unawares by a weather satellite network—our ship crippled, our crew decimated—our only struggle was to stay alive while repairs were underway and the ship kept her nose up!”

  Susan nodded, saying. “Representatives of the Mirror-Which-Reveals-The-Truth mentioned this on several occasions—as a mark against you. But the Admiralty has no love for spies and informers, or for the clumsy Flower War priests who sparked the Bharat revolt. They would not let you hang for a botched Mirror project. Not when it meant a smudge on their own mantle!”

  “But—”

  “They cannot give you a ship, Chu-sa. Not with so many powers quarreling over the blame.” Susan frowned, then allowed herself a very small sigh. “Colonel Yacatolli fared no better—he’s been posted to a sub-arctic garrison command on Helmand—while Admiral Villeneuve was actually reprimanded, with a black mark struck on his duty jacket for failing to provide Cornuelle with munitions resupply—and Ambassador Petrel has simply left the diplomatic service.”

  Hadeishi’s eyes flickered briefly with anger, before he snorted in cynical amusement.

  “Did the tribunal assign any blame in this wretched turn of events?”

  Susan nodded. “HKV agitators have been blamed for inciting the local population to rebellion against the Empire.”

  “The—they are blaming the Europeans for this?” Astonishment flushed Hadeishi’s countenance with a pale rose-colored bloom. “There has not been a European resistance movement in extra-Solar space for nearly fifteen years! Not since—”

  “I know.” Susan’s voice was gentle. “Nonetheless, the tribunal has declared a Finn named Timonen ringleader of the whole sorry affair—and he is conveniently dead, his body disintegrated.”

  Mitsuharu snorted again, dismayed. “Do they even care what actually happened?”

  Susan shook her head. “They are overjoyed with the Prince’s performance.”

  “The P— No, you make a poor, poor jest, Sho-sa. Not—”

  Koshō—at last—let her properly impassive countenance slip, showing a flash of dismay. She dug into her jacket and produced a carefully folded tabloid. The busyink lay quiescent while Hadeishi unfolded the paper, before flashing alive with colorful diagrams, animated graphs, tiny low-res videos … all the appurtenances of modern news.

  A sallow-faced youth with unmistakable Méxica features popped out, pockmarked walls visible behind his shoulder, smoke coiling away from hundreds of bullet holes, the glossy black of his Fleet shipskin spattered with blood, a heavy HK-45B assault rifle slung over one shoulder. The boy—he must have been in his late twenties, but he seemed much younger—was grinning triumphantly.

  “The hero of the hour,” Koshō drawled, “savior of the legation, captor of the native ringleaders … Tezozómoc’s public image is shining and bright this week. Someone, somewhere, is very pleased with themselves for this bit of … editing.”

  Hadeishi stared at the picture, impassive, eyes hooded, and then turned the tabloid facedown on the mat beside the parchment envelope. For a moment he pressed both palms against his eyes, head down, breathing through his nose. Koshō waited, wondering if her old captain would react as she had. I should have brought a sidearm, a ship-pistol, something … to stun him with. When he becomes violently angry. When he threatens to—

  “All this…” Mitsuharu did not look up. “Our dead—our broken ship—the wreckage on the surface—my career—it was all for him? To polish his reputation, to give this dissolute Prince some respectability in the eyes of the public?”

  “The Four Hundred families cannot allow a Prince Imperial,” Susan replied, voice carefully neutral, “to seem the buffoon, to be known as a wastrel, a drunkard, a party-addict … the Emperor is no fool. Even the least, most laughable member of the Imperial Clan must be seen by the general populace as a potentia
lly terrifying warrior of unsurpassed skill. Particularly when Temple of Truth runs a popular weekly featurette detailing his latest lewd binge.…”

  Hadeishi rocked back, eyes still closed, fists clenched white to the knuckle. Susan waited, feeling a tight, singing tension rise in the pit of her stomach. After ten minutes had passed, the man’s eyes opened and his shoulders slumped. Hastily, Koshō looked away, giving her old commander the illusion of privacy, though they were no more than a meter apart.

  “So I am the last, least fish caught in this flowery net.”

  Susan did not reply, her gaze fixed on the rear wall of the teahouse.

  “And I am left with nothing.” There was the crisp rustle of parchment. “You are to await the pleasure of the Emperor,” he read, “should he have need of your service.” Hadeishi sounded utterly spent. “How long, Sho-sa, do you think I will wait? A year? Two years?”

  Forever, she thought, feeling the tension in her stomach turn tighter and tighter. You will be forgotten, like so many other disgraced captains before you.

  “There is nothing to say, is there?” Hadeishi lifted a hand and scratched slowly at the stubble on his chin. “There are never enough combat commands for all those who desire them … who need them. Not without some great war to force the hand of the Admiralty and inspire a new building program.” A tiny spark of anger began to lift the leaden tone from his words. “Not when political favor can be exchanged to see some well-connected clan-scion at the helm of a ship of war—”

  He stopped abruptly. For the first time, Mitsuharu focused fully on Koshō’s face. A clear sort of penetrating light came into his eyes, wiping aside the despair, but leaving something far more tragic in its place.

  “You’ve your fourth zugaikotsu,” he whispered, lifting his chin at the gleaming skulls on her collar. “At last.”

  Hadeishi bowed in place, as one honorable officer might to another. “Sho-sa, I regret the words just spoken. I do not impugn the nobility of your birth. Of any man or woman in the Fleet who has borne my acquaintance, you—you are worthy of a ship.”