Land of the Dead

by Thomas Harlan

Gretchen was interested in Locke’s reaction—Hummingbird had given direct orders on his bridge—but the freighter captain seemed unperturbed. If he’d noticed at all? Anderssen found that peculiar, but the captain had been treating the old nauallis very deferentially for the last week. I need to look up what Præceptor means.

  The icon on the navigation board continued to show swift progress and Gretchen, peering over Hummingbird’s shoulder, suddenly realized that another icon—one shining green with a blue band around it—must be the Moulins. Which meant …

  On the camera screens, a point of blue-violet light suddenly became visible. As she watched, it grew in size, resolving into a black speck surrounded by a brilliantly colored corona of violently excited particles. The wake of the approaching starship quickly became apparent as a corkscrew-like fan of burning motes.

  The pilot cursed, looking first to Locke and then to Hummingbird. “Radiation from that drive plume is going to slam us hard. We need to—”

  “Hold position.” The Crow’s voice was steely and his demeanor inflexible. “They are blinding their own sensors with all that electromagnetic trash. If we remain still, they will race past, unknowing. Otherwise, we’ll be a fine target for a sprint missile or particle beam practice.”

  Locke nodded, swallowing hard. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

  Gretchen was glad—she’d had the thought before—she’d already had her quota of children. Though just one more … no, it’s too late for that.

  Twelve minutes later the Moulins groaned, her hull hammered by successive waves of particles—all hot and glowing with borrowed radiation—as the massive ship rolled past.

  “A super-dreadnaught,” whispered the pilot in awe, camera interpolation yielding an enormous outline through the curtains of fire. “It must be four kilometers long, or more!”

  Hummingbird was working his stylus in a quick, efficient blur on a hand comp. A lead had been jacked from the unit into the control consoles and Gretchen jumped slightly when he suddenly cursed aloud. Locke and the pilot turned in alarm.

  “Xochitl!” The sound was harsh, abrupt.

  Hummingbird stared at his comp, right eyelid twitching. Then, after a stiff moment with everyone staring at him, he looked up. “Captain Locke, spin up the mains as soon as we’re in the thrust shadow of that monster.”

  “Delicate flower?” Gretchen ventured. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “One of the Princes Imperial has arrived,” the old nauallis answered, looking at her sidelong. She had been around him long enough to glimpse anger and unease behind his usual stoic mask. Could our all-seeing sorcerer be worried? Gretchen struggled to suppress a grin.

  “We have to get in there immediately.” Hummingbird glared at Locke.

  Xochitl—I remember, that’s “precious flower”—now where … Ah! Of course.

  A flurry of 3-v magazine covers, each more lurid than the last, came to mind. Page after page of Temple of Truth filled with “candid” snaps of a young, heartbreakingly handsome man. The foremost of the Emperor’s “Mighty Sons,” Prince Xochitl was not the eldest, but he did shine the brightest in popular culture. A victorious Fleet commander—he’d driven the Kroomākh back from Al-Haram, recapturing two colony worlds and a series of critical mining stations—and a notorious duelist who had left a long trail of broken hearts and honorable deaths behind him.

  So, she thought, feeling Hummingbird’s tension ratcheting up with each second. The pilot had the maneuver engines on restart and Captain Locke had pitched in to bring up the hyperspace coil. But she could tell it was all going far, far too slowly for the Crow’s frayed patience.

  “Hm,” she said, drawing a baleful gaze. “He’s the pretty one, isn’t he? With the hair?”

  THE NANIWA

  Koshō happened to be reviewing battle-group dispositions in preparation for ordering a change in heading for the next leg of their patrol pattern, when a bright spark popped into view on the threatwell. Her eyes widened, then flicked to the ident code glyphs popping up around the speeding mote.

  “Kiken-na!” she snapped, outraged. “Evasive action, Thai-i, cut to starboard at maximum burn.”

  The lieutenants at the navigation and pilot stations were already in motion and acceleration alarm Klaxons blared the length of the ship. Naniwa’s frame groaned, antimatter-powered drives kicking into maximum thrust, and Koshō watched, face impassive, as they cut away from intercept.

  A moment later, as the g-decking stabilized, Sho-sa Oc Chac was in Command as well, sliding into his own shockchair. He seemed a little wide-eyed, given the abrupt maneuver.

  “Chu-sa?”

  Susan did not answer for a moment, her face hard-set, brows furrowed. She was watching the conversation between the Naniwa’s ’cast system and the intruder. Camera images of the oncoming ship began to unfold on her panel, and the ident system chirped, yielding a verified identification.

  “IMN SDN-6 Tlemitl has joined the battle-group,” she said at last, her lips a tight, hard line. “Under the command of the Prince Imperial Xochitl, Admiral of the Fleet.” She sat back in her shockchair and forced her hands to stillness. “What is he doing here in the Firearrow? There isn’t a 3-v camera within light-years! I should…”

  “Kyo,” Oc Chac ventured to interrupt, his black eyes curious. “Do you know the Gensui?”

  “We were in school together,” Koshō bit out. And I will not tell you what I think of the Flowery Prince, his personal attributes, or his social history. She tapped her earbug angrily.

  “Chu-i Pucatli, please send appropriate greetings to Prince Xochitl aboard Tlemitl on behalf of myself and the crew of Naniwa.”

  Then she turned back to her XO. “Sho-sa Oc, get us out of the Firearrow’s drive plume. Send Naniwa wide, then curve back to the patrol pattern. That should avoid any radiation wake behind that behemoth.”

  “Hai, Chu-sa!”

  Susan tried to turn her attention back to reviewing the latest supplies and munitions projections from Logistics, but the constant chatter on the battle-group stellarcast—which she had spooling on one of her earbug channels—was afire with speculation. Tlemitl had not ’cast the usual greeting or pleasantries, though the massive ship’s course was clear—dead on to the Can.

  The thought of Xocoyotl’s reaction to being usurped by the Prince, who outranked the vice admiral in every possible way, did lighten her mood a little. But she did not relish the prospect of managing both of them.

  * * *

  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.”

  “Where?” Thai-i Konev at Weapons looked keen to exercise his systems.

  “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 Socho 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 fa
ce 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.”

  * * *

  The Naniwa cut in quite nimbly, Susan was pleased to see, using the particle storm kicked up by the Tlemitl’s passage as a hunting screen, and Juarez’ combat teams had dropped alongside the tiny ship with two shuttles before there was any indication the intruders realized they’d been seen.

  Koshō listened intently, a constellation of v-feeds from marine armor cameras unspooling on her main console, as the Socho and his men cracked two airlocks simultaneously and secured the ship. There was some chatter from the inhabitants, but by then the engines were locked out.

  She raised an eyebrow, looking questioningly at Oc Chac.

  “Registry, Sho-sa?”

  “The Moulins, kyo. A ‘merchanter for hire’ out of Denby 47. No more than an asteroid with a hydrogen cracking station and fueling gantry. If memory serves, Denby lies within the jurisdiction of New Malta.”

  “A Templar ship?” Koshō was intrigued. “Or even Norsk?”

  Oc Chac grimaced. “The Europeans would be mad to meddle in the Prince’s affairs, kyo. But the knight-priests? They might find it amusing to trick about at his tail, all unseen.”

  Susan folded her slim arms and stared apprehensively at the multiplane view afforded by the threatwell. This place is drawing far too many players. All for a hazard to navigation? No—the Mirror must think they can gain control of the weapon, or whatever it is, and turn it to our use. But why did the Prince arrive so late? He was never late to any affaire or affray before … curious. Very curious. She tapped open the Marine command circuit.

  “Socho Juarez, what do we have for passengers?”

  His report, brisk and efficient as it was, was not what Koshō wanted to hear. Her expression turned quite remarkably sour, as though she’d bitten into a rotten persimmon. Oc Chac waited, his curiosity obvious, while the Chu-sa stared distantly at the threatwell. When she turned to him, he straightened, hands clasped behind his back. “Kyo?”

  “Loading bay one between the engine ring and the main holds—do we have something stowed there?”

  “Iie, Kyo, Fleet regulations indicate the exterior bays are only for—”

  “Sho-sa, prep the bay to tether that ship. I want it inside our coil field as quickly as we can.” She looked away. “Socho Juarez, we’re bringing you inboard, but I want a squad on-board at all times, and bring in some Zosen to tear it apart—hidden compartments, look for everything.…”

  “Hai, kyo!”

  * * *

  On the bridge of the Moulins, Hummingbird watched with equanimity as the gaping maw of the battle-cruiser’s rear cargo hold enveloped them. He was keeping an eye on his comp, which chirped pleasantly a moment after they were fully inside the Imperial ship. Anderssen frowned—her hands were clasped on the top of her head, just like Captain Locke and the pilot—and she was staring down the barrel of an Imperial shipgun. The nauallis’ comp was sitting on a side console, still plugged into the freighter’s shipnet, and seemed to be quite busy.

  “Who are you talking to with that thing?” she hissed out of the side of her mouth.

  “There has been correspondence with the battle-cruiser’s navigational system,” the nauallis said. “Are your bags packed?”

  “Of course,” she growled, and then fell silent. One of the marines—his black-on-black nameplate seemed to say Juarez—had noticed their conversation and came over, expression grim.

  Before the Imperial could say anything, however, Hummingbird nodded pleasantly and said: “Socho, please consider my credentials before doing anything rash. I am an Imperial Tlamantinime—a Judge—on official business. This woman is my assistant and we appreciate your commander’s efforts in picking us up.” He twisted his wrist, exposing a comm band, and then submitted quietly as the marine scanned his various forms of identification.

  “Huh.” Juarez pursed his lips, looked the motley set of them over, and then turned away, speaking into his throatmike.

  Gretchen snorted in disgust, knowing full well there was no way the old Méxica had planned this. “You know, Crow, you remind me of my first field instructor. She really didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t plan. She was clumsy and forgetful. Disasters followed her everywhere, but something always happened to make her look great. She eventually wandered up a pyramid on Go-Long in the rainy season and was struck by lightning.”

  Socho Juarez returned, his expression thunderous. “The Chu-sa will speak with you.” He jerked an armored thumb at two of the marines. “Heicho Gozen, Chayle, the captain is waiting for them in the loading bay overlook.”

  “We’ll need our luggage,” Hummingbird interjected, radiating an aura of perfect reasonability. “It will only take a moment, and save time later.” Juarez just stared in bafflement. The nauallis slowly lowered his hands, gathered up his spare mantle, the hand comp, and gestured for Gretchen to precede him out of the control space. Both marine corporals—shipguns at the ready—followed along, a little nonplussed themselves.

  Behind them, Juarez shook his head, finger to his earbug. “Are you sure, Chu-sa? This whole ship stinks of an infiltrator.… Hai, hai. They’re on their way.”

  Clattering down the gangway from the Moulins, half-blinded by the brilliant glare of the spotlights illuminating the enormous hold, Gretchen shifted her duffle and backpack, feeling the straps dig into her shoulder. “But the native people that lived nearby said they had seen a bright angel escape from her body. So they built a shrine so they could pray to her for good luck.”

  Hummingbird said nothing, breath frosting in the chill air, his attention fixed on a petite figure in dress-whites looking down upon them from a glassite window halfway up the side of the bay. His two travel bags—made from some heavy synthetic and badly worn, some holes patched over with dozens of transfer stickers—hung heavy in his hands as he walked.

  “I like that story,” he replied, after a moment. The marines keyed open a passenger door and they stepped aboard the Naniwa.

  * * *

  The overlook was entirely lacking any amenities—no chairs, no soft couches, no dispenser filled with cold drinks. No heat to speak of, as the cargo hold was actually part of the exterior hull of the warship, which carried the shipskin, weapons, boat and cargo bays, and so on. The secondary hull—probably twenty meters inward from their current position—would be warm and toasty. Gretchen looked around, sighed, and parked her duffle and backpack against the foot of a control console. Then Anderssen leaned back against the metal, arms crossed, and nodded politely to the Imperial ship captain. This one looks very familiar, where … ah now, it’s Captain Hadeishi’s second! I haven’t seen her since that embassy reception on Jagan.

  Koshō’s attention was wholly upon Green Hummingbird, and she radiated an icy distaste which matched the room temperature. The strength of her animosity was refreshing to Gretchen, for the Nisei woman evinced not the slightest fear, respect, or deference for the old Crow. That is more like it!

  “I see,” the Chu-sa said, lifting her chin slightly. “Now everything is perfectly clear to me.”

  “Excellent,” Hummingbird replied, setting down his own luggage. “Then I need not explain. We require a private room with bath, shipnet access, and transport to the science station I believe the Mirror Which Reveals is operating not too far from here. And quietly, too,” Hummingbird said. “This is a privy matter.”

  “Is it?” Koshō gave him a steely glare. “I am entirely familiar with my operational orders, Hummingbird-tzin. Your … faction … is not welcome here—your presence forbidden.” The faintest smile threatened to disturb the cold perfection of her lips. “I could have you both shot, buying myself the favor of the Mirror with the same flechette. A bargain, I think!”

  Hummingbird became very still. Gretchen
watched, wide-eyed, wondering if the sense of sharp, coiled fury she felt from the Imperial officer was apparent to the nauallis. Damn, Anderssen thought, her fingertips are on her sidearm! Is she going to chop him down right here?

  The old Méxica’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his stance subtly. Then, apparently rallying himself, he said: “Your sensei still lives, Chu-sa, as I promised. And he prospers.”

  “Proof?” Susan tilted her head slightly to one side, almond-shaped eyes bare slits gleaming with reflected light from the boat-bay.

  “My word upon it.”

  “Utterly without value.” Koshō’s free hand made a chopping motion. Then she glanced over at Gretchen. “Dr. Anderssen, a pleasure to see you again. Do you know what is happening here? What all of this is about?”

  “I do,” Hummingbird interrupted at once.

  The Chu-sa flashed a tiny, cold smile.

  Gretchen wanted to smile, too, but thought it wise to mind her own business. She could feel Hummingbird’s anger starting to rise. She knew perfectly well the nauallis did not like to barter. He needs something very badly, or he would not be prepared to horse-trade. She sat down on her duffle—the console was like ice—and reached into her jacket for a Gogozen bar. Maybe I should record this, she mused, for posterity.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE KUUB

  Hadeishi sat in deep gloom, only the barest slivers of light shining on the pipes overhead. One boot was edged against the fuel valve at the top of an enormous tank of reaction mass, the other tucked under him as a makeshift seat. De Molay, tucked into the hammock again, was only a hand-span away, almost invisible in the darkness. The string net was suspended from a series of overhead pipes. Below them, intermittent sounds echoed up from the engineering spaces as two Khaid engineers banged around, trying to decipher the Wilful’s control systems. Hadeishi had put the rest of their supplies—everything he could gather up in the time allowed—in another bag, which also hung from a lanyard.