Land of the Dead

by Thomas Harlan

  “Esteemed Ekbanz.” The man bowed precisely as low as required, then stood up straight with benign attention arrayed upon his face. “Guide me to Right Thought.”

  * * *

  “Right Thought? Right Thought?” The zhongdu Ekbanz’s brow furrowed sharply and his eyes gleamed with distaste. “Ever we are displeased to hear sacred words from your pitiful lips.” A massive hand cut the air sharply. “Though so you must address us, as guided by Law…” There was a long, high-pitched hiss as the creature exhaled through a set of multivalved nostrils.

  The nobleman neither spoke nor moved. He felt his own naturally smooth brown skin blotching and pitting with the cold in the audience room. He waited an unseemly period for the zhongdu to continue, but by continued slow breathing and a focused mind he kept from making an unwise movement, or showing any hint of the grim cold which was stealing into his limbs.

  At last, the zhongdu stirred from his contemplations and exposed a single claw tip. The appendage gleamed with red and black lacquer as it pointed at the man’s chest. “You have neglected Duty. You have broken the third agreement, human. By Law, this entire system should be forfeit to us—an example to be made, of cindered worlds and ashy skies.…”

  What has come to his attention? And more important, who was the messenger? “Esteemed—”

  “You cannot force harmony from this dissonance! My sources are accurate, timely, detailed in their facts.”

  Just fishing for information? I wonder. “The third agreement?”

  The zhongdu bared his teeth. Even at this distance, its breath was hot upon the Méxica’s face. “With proper concessions, We may be satisfied with a colony world serving as an example. What do you offer to restore proper balance between us?”

  “Esteemed, I still await the accusations.”

  The Hjo grimaced, revealing twin rows of tiny, cutting teeth. “You are a bold servant, human. But this is not a matter for a Speaker of the Law to adjudicate. This is between us. Our arrangements require that you provide us with all evidence of the Ones-Who-Wait in a prompt and forthright matter. If you have found anything…”

  Ahuizotl felt suddenly, unaccountably sad. An Imperial security breach. At the highest levels. The Mirror, I would think. Now there must be another purge. He straightened his shoulders. “Esteemed, I assure you that the evidence is quite poor. It consists only of three missing ships. We are mounting an effort to examine the area of space and determine if a permanent hazard to navigation exists, and if so, to determine what it might be that all might avoid the region in future.”

  The zhongdu settled back, wrinkling his long leathery snout, and took a protracted drag on a nargile sitting beside the chair. The sharp scent reaching the Méxica’s nostrils suggested opium, or another derivative of the poppy. No, not just opium. Something else less subtle. Probably synthetic. Remarkable how much psychoactivity Hjo physiology absorbs without noticeable effect. It is true that in his place I, too, should not be pleased. Nor surprised.

  After a moment, the creature issued a long, coiling stream of smoke from one nostril. Its eyes had settled back in their sockets, leaving only a faint, disgusted gleam.

  * * *

  Ekbanz considered the human with disgust. Look at the fragile, pink-skinned toy in the heavy jacket and fur-lined cloak! See how it mimics Us, as though taking our seeming would confer our strength! This one seems sick, too. Behold the yellowing of the eyes. But Right Thought has guided it to me, just as my patience with Sahâne wanes. Their ships are fragile—easily lost in the abyss—yes, there is Purpose to be found here.

  * * *

  “We shall send an expert to review the situation,” the zhongdu declared. “As we have great experience in such matters.”

  “Esteemed, such generosity is far beyond our—” the Méxica began.

  “Hsst! Your fleet’s departure requires our emissary aboard the flagship. Do not consider otherwise.”

  “Of course, Esteemed.” The Méxica bowed his head. I hope your agent is disposable. “The expedition’s departure is imminent. The last shuttle leaves this evening at the second dinner hour.”

  The zhongdu shook its head slowly. “You will wait until the emissary arrives. Go now and prepare. Your presence here is no longer required.”

  Despite an intense desire to begin running, the man held a measured pace as he removed himself from the chamber. Once outside, in the blue-lit tunnel, he clenched his jaw against a stabbing pain behind both temples. A migraine and no med-band to alleviate the pressure.

  * * *

  With the toy gone, Ekbanz glared down at the pitiful specimen his servitors now dragged before him. The zhongdu felt a painful throbbing in his forebrain, just from considering the doleful aspect of the Hjo at his feet. But, as was proper, he said nothing for a long moment, partaking of the bitter smoke provided by the water pipe.

  “A punishment is in order,” he declared at last, “for disturbing the right order of my heavens. You were sent here with great expectations, Sahâne, but you have only proven how low your noble line has fallen.” The zhongdu made a gesture indicating large and abiding regret. His nostrils flared wide to inhale the aspect of the young priest suffering deliciously from pure fear. Ekbanz felt almost repaid for having this embarrassment cluttering up the embassy for so many months. “The Hypothesis that brought all of this about was posited by you, and you will prove it out.”

  Sahâne’s nose quivered. “Esteemed, I only imagined…”

  “Pack your bags. You will accompany the local toys to investigate this anomaly.”

  “Yes, of course. Guide my Thoughts.”

  “They shall find Guidance.”

  * * *

  Sahâne shuffled out into the outer hallway and sank immediately into a dreadful depression. Isn’t it enough that I am exiled to this backwater? He fished about in his pouch for a box of opium pellets. I am too large of mind and body to be stuffed into a miniature spaceship! How shall I stand the smell and chatter of these ignorant toys? It will take too long—these foolish exercises are beyond the Rim. The universe is full of worthless stellar clusters. I am no astronomer! This is beneath the station of anyone in my family! Pah!

  “Ah, Most Honored One … word has it that you have received a crucial posting, a task from the zhongdu himself. Where are you going?”

  The young Hjo straightened up, seeing two older members of the embassy approaching. Their fur was lying quite flat and still, indicating hidden amusement and delight.

  “As you can well guess,” he replied, trying to keep his voice level, “this is a secret mission, and not to be bandied about. I must leave you now. There is little time to prepare.”

  He brushed past the others quickly, but still heard the sneering whisper: “Maybe the great Sahâne can bring Right Thought to the humans and their chattels!”

  “Yes, a task worthy of our esteemed holy one!”

  “I do not need servants to remind me of my family duties,” the young Hjo mumbled to himself. “More than a thousand generations of noble duty are more reputation than any one Hjogadim of the Sacred Line should have to bear.” Once safely inside his sleeping compartment Sahâne slumped against the hatchway. “Little is more useless,” he whispered bitterly to the nearest wall, “than the last priest of a race without need for Gods.”

  * * *

  A thousand meters away, the unmarked aircar lifted from the landing stage with a swirl of dust and sped away into the thick, humid sky. A constant layer of cloud lay over the city, trapped beneath the massive dome which enclosed the Capital. The vapors and exhalations of the millions living below rose upward, forming a microclimate beneath the glassite despite the presence of thousands of air circulators in the dome superstructure. The leaden clouds replied with a constant, stinging rain.

  Two kilometers from the skytower, four Tocatl-class airtanks dropped out of the gloom and settled into formation around the aircar. Now the entire convoy increased speed, racing northwest across the sprawl. In the comfor
table passenger compartment, the nobleman coughed harshly and rubbed his temples, trying to banish the remaining chill. The servants had dressed him on the platform, resealing his armored skinsuit, applying a fresh med-band, and pressing a cup of circulatory stimulant into his hands.

  The kaffe had gone into the disposal as soon as he was alone. He needed the warmth, but his stomach would not stand the acidity of the drink. And now his mind was full again, and ten thousand priorities vied for his attention.

  The zhongdu’s command, however, held sway in his thoughts.

  But what could be done? If the Hjogadim wanted to interfere, then he must let them. “There is too much set on this throw to provoke another crisis,” he said aloud to the mauve and gunmetal blue compartment.

  “Would you care for hot cacahuatl?” the CabinComp asked in a soothing feminine voice.

  “Later.” The Méxica tapped up a panel showing the faces of five men. Four were quite alike, handsome and clear-faced, flint-eyed, each radiating a sureness of spirit which would have made another father positively glow with joy. The last was a sallow, dissolute wreck with puffy features and lank hair. Despite his intent, the man’s eyes settled there and remained for a long time.

  “Tezozómoc, my son,” the Méxica breathed at last, running the edge of his little finger along the side of the 3-v pane. “You were such a beautiful child.…” Great sadness suffused the Tlaltecutli’s face, here in this false privacy. The image before him melted into that of a little black-haired baby held in a woman’s arms. His large, bright eyes looked out from the folds of a blanket. “Now look at you … my little, little boy. What has become of you?”

  After a long moment, the Emperor passed his hand over the pane and it folded away. Only the four mighty brothers remained. Outside the armored windows, the convoy threaded between soaring towers aglow with neon and searchlights. Tenochtitlán the Eternal sprawled out to fill the bowl of the Valley of the Méxica like a lake of living gold. The cold fire of his city lighted Ahuizotl’s face while he considered each of his sons in turn. Four of the finest warriors we can produce, he mused. Equipped with the finest training, with dearly bought exocortex overlays, genetically enhanced … which should I spend on this useless exercise? Who goes to the eagle’s stone?

  Minutes later, he reached out from deep thought to com Xochitl, his second-eldest, popularly know as “precious flower.”

  “My son,” he began without greeting. “I have a task, a mission which I wish you to undertake.”

  “My father, I…”

  The Emperor did not permit a response. “Someone exceptionally trustworthy must convey an agent of the zhongdu beyond the Rim. It is possible that a weapon of the First Sun has been found. Considering your capabilities, I am confident that no one else will serve. Understand that the Mirror is already on station, monitoring the device … and a Fleet battle-squadron will be underway within the hour.”

  Ahuizotl could see the combined suspicion and pleasure in Xochitl’s face. His tutors did train him to be ever wary. But he is my son, and he wishes to earn my good regard.

  “Surely one of the Admiralty would…”

  “This is family business. You must understand that. None else can assume the responsibility.” Ahuizotl smiled. “And who, then, should I send? Tezozómoc the Glorious? To command the Tlemitl?”

  Xochitl laughed nastily. Pleasure at his father’s apparent favor flushed his face. “The Tlemitl, you say?”

  “Yes. She has just cleared the fitting yards. And it is only proper that you should command her. But carefully now,” the Emperor went on, a serious tone creeping into his voice. “The Scout Service may have found something real out in the back of beyond, and if they have, the single most important thing you must do is make sure this Hjogadim emissary does not find out what it is. Too, he must be returned safely to Anáhuac. And of course, we must secure the relic or object for our own use. You understand?”

  Xochitl nodded.

  Ahuizotl knew his son’s blood would be afire with the prospect of reaching high enough to touch the face of Tonatiuh itself. As for himself, the Emperor felt exhaustion and sadness settle deeper into his bones. We cannot afford the loss of a ship like the Firearrow … not now. I can spare a son, but not her … curse the Mirror, the Judges, and all meddlers!

  He tapped the channel closed, an old song coming to mind—something he’d heard long ago, in his innocence, from one of the elders at Chapultepec:

  Oh youths, here there are skilled men with shield-reeds,

  In the flowers of the pendant eagle plume,

  The yellow flowers they grasp; they pour forth noble songs,

  Noble flowers;

  They make payment with their blood,

  With their bare breasts

  They seek the bloody field of war.

  And you, O friends, put on your black paint

  For war, for the path of victory;

  Let us lay hands on our shields,

  Raise aloft our strength and courage.

  THE AKBAL YARDS

  OFF EUROPA, THE JOVIAN SYSTEM

  Koshō entered the temporary officer’s mess on the Naniwa balancing a tray of tea, rice pudding, and sliced fruit on her right hand, while a heavy set of construction binders were tucked under her left arm. The room seemed enormous to her after the cramped quarters on the Cornuelle. Due to the rush of work underway to complete fitting out the ship, there were sections of wall panel missing, and several ceiling tiles were pulled up, exposing bundles of comm and power conduit.

  Two long tables ran the length of the room and both were crowded with officers of all stripes, busily digging into bowls of rice, fried egg, picken, and chillis. As soon as she’d stepped across the threshold, the nearest ensign shot up out of his place on the tatami and bawled, “Chu-sa on deck!”

  Everyone paused, chopsticks in midair, and the veterans cast amused looks at the clean-shaven young man, so fresh from Academy. No one else stood up, though everyone was paying close attention to the new commander’s response.

  “As you were,” Susan announced to the room, which brought a rustling sound as everyone relaxed. Then she nodded politely to the ensign, saying: “We are not so formal at mealtimes, Sho-i Deskae. A well-fed crew is a hardworking crew. Please continue with your breakfast.”

  The boy was back at his bowl of noodles faster than the eye could follow, bronzed skin darkening in embarrassment. Susan hid a smile as she paced along the tables towards her place at the far end. After a dozen paces she slowed, noting an empty zabuton between two senior petty officers from Engineering—but there was a little, mahogany-skinned man sitting cross-legged on the floor in just such a way as to block anyone else from sitting on the cushion.

  Koshō stopped, looking down at his bald head and was dismayed to glimpse her own reflection. Ay, I look haggard as a fishwife, she thought. Three months of sixteen-hour days wears … that it does.

  Her initial postings to the destroyer Ceatl, and then the Cornuelle, had begun nearly a decade after the light cruiser’s commissioning, and though they’d been in dry dock or offlined for repairs many times, Hadeishi had always been in the middle of the actual repair work, leaving her to manage the local authorities and run security while he crawled around in the engines with Isoroku and the grease-monkeys. Under normal conditions, she’d have had the option to task her XO with the engineering review or take it herself—but Sho-sa MacMillan had not yet arrived from his previous command—and that left her very shorthanded.

  Now she was the one in the conduits, banging her head and shuffling around after the construction foremen and Kikan-cho Hennig while the engineers talked nonstop about kinetic absorption rates in the between-frame armor and the spalling tendencies of the new model g-decking.

  She had never felt better in her entire life, or more exhausted. Every cell in her brain had been stretched in three or four directions, and then snapped back into place. But she’s my ship, and I have—at last—my own command.

  It
had not really occurred to her, until now, how long she’d spent on the Cornuelle, banging around in the dark, out beyond the fringes of Imperial control. She was years behind the others from her Academy class in achieving a ship command—but there is a balance, Koshō reminded herself, none of the others were given a battle-cruiser. None of them had her combat experience.

  “Chu-sa Koshō,” the man said, peering up at her with a pair of black eyes. The pupil and irises were almost exactly the same peat-dark brown, leaving only a thin white ring to outline them against his skin. He was wearing the somber black uniform of the Engineering service—not the shipboard branch, which was under the purview of the Fleet, but the station-side arm, which ran the sprawling complex of orbital habitats, forges, construction frames, and fitting stations which comprised the Akbal yards.

  A Mayan, she thought with interest. Of an old, old family. What an astounding profile.

  “Oc Chac, kyo,” he said, bowing stiffly to her once he’d stood.

  “A pleasure,” she replied, then paused a split second before saying: “Is there something wrong with this zabuton?”

  Chac nodded, lips thinning.

  “Should it be replaced?”

  He shook his head, no.

  His silence was both amusing and irritating at the same time, and she was hungry.