Ice, Iron and Gold

by S. M. Stirling

  "Come, my beloved son," Seven-Deer said, his face solemn. "Hear the messages you must take to the land beyond the sun. Be happy! You will dwell as a hummingbird of paradise; you will not go down to Mictlan, or be destroyed in the Ninth Hell." He bent to whisper in the man's ear.

  Evidently the lowlander spoke a few words of Nahuatl, or he recognized the stone block for what it was, because he began to scream as the Feathered Snake priests cut his bonds and stretched him out over it on his back. That too was part of the rite.

  Obregon—Lord of the Mountain, First Speaker of the Sun People, he reminded himself—stepped up and drew the broad-bladed obsidian knife from his belt. There had been enough practice that he no longer feared the embarrassing hacking and haggling of the first few times. His original academic specialty had been geophysics, not anatomy, but the sudden stab down into the taut chest was precise as a surgeon's. There was a crisp popping sound as the knife sliced home, its edges of volcanic glass sharper than any steel. Ignoring the bulging eyes of the sacrifice, he plunged his hand into the chest cavity, past the fluttering pressure of the lungs, and gripped the heart. It beat one last time in his hands like a slippery wet balloon, then stilled as he slashed it free of the arteries.

  Blood fountained, smelling of iron and copper and salt, droplets warm and thick on his lips. He raised the heart to the Sun, and felt the pure clean ecstasy of the moment sweep over him. The Jaguar Knights gave a quick, deep shout as he wheeled to face them, red-spattered and gripping heart in one hand, knife in the other.

  "We have fed the Sun!" he proclaimed. "And so shall you, Our Lord's knights, be fed." The priests were already taking the body away, to be drained and butchered. "Our Lord Smoking Mirror shall fill you with His strength, and you will destroy the enemy—take many prisoners for the altar. Victory!" The Knights cried him hail.

  "Looks good," Martins murmured under her breath.

  The jungle thinned out around them as the UATVs struggled up the switchback road. Grassy glades and forests of pinion pine and oak replaced the denser lowland growth; the temperature dropped, down to something that was comfortable even in body armor. After years in the steambath lowland heat, it was almost indecently comfortable. The air carried scents of resin and cool damp soil and grass; for a moment she was back in the Sangre de Cristo, longing like a lump of scar-tissue beneath her breastbone. Then she caught a rotten-egg tang underneath it.

  "Air analysis," she keyed, on the Mark III's frequency.

  The tank was back downslope with McNaught and the other half of the Company, but it should be able to tell her something through the remote sensors she carried.

  "Variations from standard: excess concentrations of sulphur, sulphur dioxide, dilute sulfuric acid compounds, ozone," the Bolo said. "Seismic data indicate instabilities." A pause. "My geophysical data list no active vulcanism in this area."

  Which means it's as out of date as the street maps, Martins thought.

  She leaned a hand against the rollbar of the UATV, the long barrel of the autocannon on its pintle mount swaying about her, tasting the dust and sunlight, eyes squinting against it. The landscape looked empty but not uninhabited; the grass had been grazed, and there was animal dung by the side of the road—goat and cattle, from the look of it. It was a different world from the ghost-gray limestone scrub of San Gabriel, or the thick moist jungles they'd been passing through since. Telltales in her faceplate gave a running scan of the rocky hillsides. No indications of metal concentrations, no suspicious E-spectrum radiation. She cracked one of the seals of her body armor to let in the drier, cooler air.

  "Our athlete's foot and crotchrot will die if we're not careful, El-Tee," Jenkins said. "Doesn't look like much else in the way of danger so far."

  Martins nodded. "Objective A deserted," she broadcast.

  That was a small town near the top of the pass; a couple of thousand people once, maybe more in shack-tenements at the edges that had long since slumped into weed-grown heaps. There was the wreckage of an old colonial Baroque church and town hall near the center, and both might have been impressive once. The snags of two modest steel or concrete structures stood nearby. The buildings looked positively crushed, as if toppled by earthquake, but they had also been quite comprehensively looted. Stacks of girders and rebar hammered free from the concrete stood in orderly piles; there wasn't much rust on cut ends and joints, which meant the work had been going on until the last few weeks. Rubble had been shoveled back out of the main street.

  "Halt," she said. This is serious. Bandits would steal food and jewelry, but this was salvage. That implied organization, and organization was dangerous.

  "Take a look. Make it good, troopers."

  She collated the reports. Everything gone, down to the window-frames. Truck and wagon tracks . . .

  "You," she said. It was her private name for the Bolo; she couldn't bring herself to give it the sort of nickname Vinatelli had. "How many, how long?"

  "I estimate that several thousand workers have been engaged in the salvage operation for over a year, Lieutenant Martins."

  Martins' lips shaped a soundless whistle.

  "You catch that, Captain?"

  He grunted. "We need more data."

  "Damn, that's impressive," Jenkins said.

  The cut through the lava flow wasn't what he meant, though it showed considerable engineering ability. The view of the valley a thousand feet below was. The road switchbacked down forest slopes; much of the forest was new, planted. The valley floor beyond was cultivated, with an intensity she hadn't seen in a long, long time. A rolling patchwork quilt of greens and yellows and brown volcanic soil rippled with contour-plowing. She cycled the magnification of her visor and saw the crops spring out in close view; corn, wheat, sugarcane, roots, orchards, pasture. There were people at work there, some with hand-tools or oxen, but there were tractors as well. Irrigation furrows threaded the fields, and so did power-lines.

  "Damn," Martins echoed. "They've got a grid, working down there."

  "Geothermal plant, I think," Jenkins said. "Over there by the town."

  There were several villages scattered through the valley, but the town was much larger. It lay in a semicircle around the base of the conical mountain, tiny as a map from this height. The usual hispano grid centered on a plaza, but very unusual otherwise. The buildings were freshly painted, and there was new construction off to one side, a whole new plaza ringed by public structures and some sort of monument, a stone heap fifteen meters on a side and covered in scaffolding.

  "Well, we ought to be able to get fuel here, right enough," McNaught's voice said in her ear, watching through the helmet pickups. "All we want. Maybe even spare parts."

  "If they'll give us what we need," Martins said slowly. They looked as if they could afford it, much more so than anyone else the Company had run across. But it was her experience that the more people had, the more ready they were to defend it. "I wish we could pay for it."

  "Maybe we can," McNaught said thoughtfully. "I've been thinking . . . the computer capacity in the Beast is pretty impressive. We could rest and refit, and pay our way with its services. Hell, maybe they need some earth-moving done. And if they won't deal—"

  Martins nodded. "Yessir."

  We have the firepower, she thought. Using it hadn't bothered her much before; the Company was all the friends and family she had. These people looked as if they'd hit bottom and started to build their way back up, though. The thought of what the Mark III could do to that town wasn't very pleasant. She'd seen too many ruins in San Gabriel, too much wreckage on the way north.

  "Well, we'd better go on down," she said. "But carefully. One gets you nine they're watching us with passive sensors; Eyeball Mark One, if nothing else."

  "No bet," Jenkins said, his voice returning to its usual flat pessimism.

  "Right, let's do it." She switched to the unit push. "Slow and careful, and don't start the dance unless it looks like the locals want to try us on. We fight if we have
to, but we're not here to fight."

  "Surely you see that precautions are reasonable," the old man said to her. "In these troubled times."

  He looked to be in his seventies, but healthy; white haired and lean, dressed in immaculate white cotton and neat sandals. The "precautions" consisted of several hundred mean-looking indios spread out along the fields behind him, digging in with considerable efficiency and sporting quite modern weapons, along with their odd spotted cammo uniforms. The helmet scanners had detected at least one multiple hypervelocity launcher, and the Mark III thought there was an automortar or light field-piece somewhere behind.

  This close the town looked even better than it had from the pass. The additions upslope, near the black slaggy-looking lava flows, looked even odder. The building beneath the scaffolding was roughly the shape of her Bolo; a memory tugged at her mind, then filtered away. There was a delegation of townsfolk with the leader, complete with little girls carrying bouquets of flowers. It made her suddenly conscious of the ragged uniforms patched with bits of this and that that her Company wore. The only parts of them that weren't covered in dust were the faceshields of their helmets, and those were kept clear by static charges.

  The spruce locals also made her conscious of the twenty-odd troopers behind her in the UATVs; if the shit hit the fan the rest of the outfit and the Mark III would come in and kick butt, but it could get very hairy between times.

  "Hard times, right enough, señor," she answered politely. Some of the crowd were murmuring, but not in Spanish. She caught something guttural and choppy, full of tz sounds.

  "You've done very well here," Martins went on, removing her helmet. A face generally looked less threatening than a blank stretch of curved synthetic.

  The old man smiled. "We seek to keep ourselves isolated from the troubles of the world," he said. "To follow our own customs."

  Looking around at the rich fields and well-fed people, Martins could sympathize. The well-kept weapons argued that these folks were realistic about it, too.

  "You've also got a lot of modern equipment," she said. "Not just weapons either, I'd guess."

  The jefe of the valley spread his hands. "I went from here to the university, many years ago," he said. "There I had some success, and returned much of what I earned to better the lives of my people here. When the troubles came, I foresaw that they would be long and fierce; I and my friends made preparations. Luckily, the eruption sealed the main pass into the valley of Cacaxtla when the government was no longer able to reopen it, so we were spared the worst of the collapse. But come, what can we do for you?"

  That's a switch. "We're traveling north, home," she said. "We need fuel—anything will do, whatever your vehicles are running on—"

  "Cane spirit," the local said helpfully.

  "—that'll do fine. Some food. We have spare medical supplies, and our troops include a lot of specialists; in electronic repairs, for example."

  Actually the self-repair fabricators of the Mark III were their main resource in that field, but no need to reveal everything.

  "You are welcome," the jefe said. "The more so as it is wise to—how do you say in English—speed the parting guest." He looked behind the brace of UATVs. "I notice that not all your troops are here, señora , or the large tank."

  Large tank, Martins thought. Nobody really believes in that mother until they see it.

  She inclined her head politely. "Surely you see that precautions are reasonable," she said. "In these troubled times."

  The jefe's laugh was full and unforced. "I am glad that we understand each other, teniente Martins. If you will follow me . . ."

  Fearless, he stepped into her UATV; the children threw their bouquets into it, or hung necklaces of flowers around her neck and those of the other troopers. Martins sneezed and looked around. The jefe noted her interest.

  "As you say, a geothermal unit," he said, pointing out a low blocky building. "The waste water is still hot enough for domestic use, and also for fishponds and other uses. Very simple. We have a few shops, as you see, and small workshops to make what household goods we need."

  There were actual open shops along the streets, selling clothing and leather goods, tools and food—something she hadn't seen for years. And people selling flowers. That shook her a bit, that anyone could still devote time and energy to a luxury like that.

  "We issue our own money, as a convenience for exchange; but everyone contributes to things of public worth," he went on. "As our guests, your needs will be met from the public treasury; and first, since you have traveled far, baths and refreshment. Then you must join us for dinner; tomorrow, we will see to the fuel and traveling supplies you need."

  Martins and Jenkins looked at each other and the spacious, airy house the Americans had been assigned.

  "Is it just my sour disposition, Tops," she said meditatively, "or does what looks too good to be true—"

  "—probably too good to be true, El-Tee," the sergeant said.

  "See to it."

  "All right. Listen up, shitheels! Nobody gets out of reach of his weapon. Nobody gets out of sight of his squad—washing, crapping, I don't care what. Nobody takes more than one drink; and you keep it in your pants, I don't care what the local señoritas say, understand me? Michaels, Wong, you're first guard on the vehicles. Smith, McAllister, Sanchez, overwatch from the roof. Move it!"

  "Omigod," Jenkins muttered. "Beer. Real, actual, honest-to-God-not-pulque-piss beer."

  The jefe—he'd answered to Manuel Obregon, but the locals called him by something unpronounceable—smiled and nodded and took a swallow from his own earthenware pitcher. There were more smiles and nods from all around, from the tables set out across the plaza. Much of the town's population seemed to be taking this chance for a fiesta. They were certainly dressed for one, although the clothes were like nothing she'd seen in the back-country, and very fancy. The food was good enough that she'd had to let out the catches of her armor—nobody had objected to the troopers wearing their kit, or seemed to notice their M-35s and grenade launchers—roast pork, salads, hot vegetable stews, spicy concoctions of meats and tomatoes and chilies.

  Obregon sat at their table, and quietly took a sampling of everything they were offered, testing before they did. Martins appreciated the gesture, although not enough to take more than a mug or two of the beer; Jenkins' eagle eye and the corporals' made sure nobody else did either. It was intoxicating enough just to feel clean, and have a decent meal under her belt.

  "I notice you don't seem to have a church," she said.

  Obregon smiled expansively. "The Church always sat lightly on the people here," he said. "When the campesinos prayed to the Virgin, they called her Tonantzin, the Moon. Always I hated what the foreigners—the Spaniards—had done here. Since my people made me their leader, I have spoken to them of the old ways, the ancient ways of our ancestors; what we always new , and what I learned of the truth in the university in my youth, things which the Ladinos and their priests tried to suppress."

  Can't argue with success, Martins thought.

  The helmet beside her on the table cheeped. She took another mouthful of the coffee, thick with fresh cream, and slid it on.

  "Lieutenant Martins," the Mark III's voice said.

  "What now?" she snapped. Damn, I'm tired. It had been a long day, and the soak in hot water seemed to be turning her muscles to butter even hours later.

  "Please extend the sensor wand to the liquids consumed."

  Nothing showed on Martins' face; except perhaps a too-careful blankness, as she unclipped the hand-sized probe and dipped it into the beer.

  "Alkaloids," the computer-voice said calmly. "Sufficient to cause unconsciousness."

  "But the jefe—"

  "Partial immunity through sustained ingestion," it said. "Have you any instructions, Lieutenant Martins?"

  Bethany Martins tried to shout and pull the knife sheathed across the small of her back in the same instant. Somewhere a single shot cracked; she was
vaguely conscious of Jenkins toppling over backwards, buried under a heap of locals. Her tongue was thick in her head, and hands gripped her. Obregon stood watching, steadying himself with one hand against the table, his eyes steady.

  "Basser sumbitch," Martins slurred. "Help—"

  The helmet came off her head, with a wrench that flopped her neck backward. Blackness.

  A confused babble came through the pickups. Captain McNaught stiffened in the strait confines of the Mark III's fighting compartment. His leg knocked against a projecting surface in a blaze of pain.

  "Get through, get me through!"

  "None of the scouting party are responding, Captain," the tank said in its incongruous sex-kitten voice.

  The pickups from the UATVs showed bustling activity, and a few bodies in American uniform being carried by, unconscious or dead—until thick tarpaulins were thrown over the war-cars. The helmets showed similar blackness; IR and sonic gave the inside of a steel box and nothing more. Until one was taken out.

  "Greetings, Captain," Manuel Obregon's voice said.

  His face loomed large in the screen, then receded as the helmet was set on a surface and the local chieftain sank back in a chair. The voice was slurred, but with tongue-numbness, not alcohol, and his black eyes were level and expressionless as a snake's.

  "Release my troops and I won't kill anyone but you," McNaught said, his voice like millstones. "Harm them, and we'll blow that shit heap town of yours down around your lying head."

  Obregon spread hands. "A regrettable ruse of war," he said. "Come now, mi capitán. I have more than a third of your personnel and equipment, and your second-in-command. It is only logical, if distressing from your point of view, that you listen to my terms. I cannot in all conscience allow a large armed body—which has already plundered and killed—to operate in the vicinity of my people."

  "I repeat; release them immediately. You have no conception of our resources."