Ice, Iron and Gold

by S. M. Stirling

  "Not too late."

  "Too late years ago."

  She swallowed and the pain seemed worse for it, hot and tight, beginning to rage out of control. She whimpered. I will not cry, she told herself. I will not! The pain spread, clawing at her vitals, spreading remorselessly until it filled her, left her standing dumbstruck and immobile as the captain drove away.

  She closed her eyes and gasped. When she opened them, her eldest son was smiling down at her, standing awkwardly with his hat clenched in his hands. The big master bedroom of the jefe's house was shuttered, and dim, light slashing in as hot bars between the louvers of the blinds. There was a sickbed smell of medicine, and her canes stood in one comer. Her M-35 was neatly racked above it, oiled and immaculate though she hadn't carried it in . . . how long? A decade?

  "You slept Mom, almost an hour, I think."

  She drank in his face; he looked so much like his father. Her breath rasped in her throat and her mouth was dry. She didn't ask for water. Swallowing was agony.

  "Mama?" said a voice from the opposite side of the bed.

  She turned, and there was her youngest, James, a wet cloth in his hands. He placed it between her parched lips, and as she sucked the moisture from it she thanked him with her eyes.

  She gritted her teeth and swallowed, tried to suppress her moan. When James took the cloth away she was panting as though she'd run a race.

  It was time.

  "Boys," she smiled briefly. They were not boys any longer, but married men. "My sons," Bethany began again, pride in her voice even now. "I want to talk to the Beast. Take me to it."

  "Mother," Joseph said, just a hint of asperity in his tone. "We can't move you. You're too sick." He frowned. "I can bring you a helmet . . ." he added reluctantly.

  "Mom?" James' lips drew back from his teeth in a parody of a grin as he struggled not to cry, his eyes were awash with tears. "Mom?" he said again.

  "Yes," she said gently. "I need to go." She was panting again. "Maybe—in some way—it can help. The autodoc . . ." Her voice faded away.

  James nodded helplessly, beyond speech.

  "All right," Joseph said at the end of a long, drawn-in breath. "It's worth a try."

  They lifted their mother with the featherbed she was lying on. The brothers' eyes snapped up and met in consternation. She was so light! They might have been lifting the bedding alone.

  "Move it!" Bethany snarled, partly to break the moment, partly to disguise her pain as they shifted her.

  The brothers smiled fondly at the tone of command. That was more like the mother they knew.

  Silently, the brothers carried their mother into the street. The people of Cacaxtla had been waiting all day, some for days before that; they gave way silently, many kneeling to pray and crossing themselves, many weeping. It had been thirty-five years since the lieutenant came, a generation of peace and plenty for Cacaxtla, amid a chaos which had eaten whole continents.

  Across the plaza the Bolo loomed above their heads like a mountain, its hundred and fifty tons stretching twenty-four feet in height. The late evening light threw the crags and hollows of its surface into high relief, emphasizing the brutal power of the great war-machine; the heavy crusting of hardened lava gave it a primeval look, like the spirit of some god of war. Behind it stretched the marks of its four treads, ground into the paving stones the day the captain had driven it to rescue the soldiers—and Cacaxtla—from the Jaguar Knights and the First Speaker, the man who'd brought the Old Faith back to bloody life here. It hadn't moved since that day.

  The people of Cacaxtla had painted its entire exterior surface with colorful depictions of that rescue, what had led to it and what had come after; it might have been a natural pyramid . . . except for the cannons.

  The three of them stared up the rough, bright side of the Bolo.

  "How're we going to get you up there, Mom?"

  Joseph had known it would be a struggle, but now he was here, he knew it to be plain impossible. He imagined ropes, and pulleys. "Maybe we could get some help." He looked away from his mother's contemptuous stare.

  "Don't even think it," she warned. "I don't want this—turned into—a circus." Bethany Martins lay gasping, her breath spent; her hatred of her own helplessness was a tangible force in the gathering night, like hot light on their hands.

  Joseph glared off into the darkness.

  "Mom," James leaned over her. "If I tie the featherbed around me and carried you up that way . . . would it hurt you too much?"

  She shook her head. "At least one of you knows how to get things done," she rasped. "Do it, boy."

  James climbed as gently as he could, unnerved by the hot, light weight of his mother curled against his back. His heart thudded, fear making his palms wet and slippery against the lava and durachrome. Catching his breath on a sob, James gritted his teeth, unwilling to put his mother through the shaking she'd get if he broke down and cried. He looked up at Joseph, who was just reaching the hatch.

  "Mom," Joseph said softly, "it won't open for me."

  "Markee," came Bethany's muffled voice. "Open the hatch."

  With a sigh of hydraulics the hatch came up, releasing the scent of stale, dry air. A light went on below to guide their way down into the cramped interior.

  Joseph knelt on one crash-couch and carefully caught his mother as James untied the ends of the featherbed from around his shoulders and waist. Then he laid her gently on the other seat, propping her up against its straight back, though she winced with pain as he did so.

  "Markee," Bethany said hoarsely.

  She coughed once, then stopped herself, knowing how easily she could lose control and never stop. The bright smooth surfaces of the interior shone back at her, the flat-screen displays and touch-controls like a breath from the past. Thirty years, she thought. Thirty years of adobe and stone, wood and woven cotton . . . the high-tech womb was so strange, now . . . .

  "These are my sons. Register Martins, Joseph A., the village jefe and senior civilian on site. Log and identify. Say hello, Joseph."

  "Hello," Joseph said awkwardly. He sensed a flicker of light, touching his eyes too briefly for certainty.

  Bethany took a few moments to recover; her face was slicked with sweat, but the pain, for the moment, seemed to be abating. As much as it ever did.

  "Register Martins, James Q., he is the senior . . ." She pursed her lips in doubt. James had no official title, for all the village acknowledged his position in practice. "He's captain of the village militia." She grinned briefly to think of a lieutenant appointing her son a captain. "Log and identify."

  "Hello, Markee," James said.

  Bethany smiled, a rictus of thin lips over teeth. He was quick, her James.

  "Acknowledged," the Bolo said in a voice as sweet as warm honey. "Hello Jefe, hello Captain. I'm honored to make your acquaintance."

  James blinked. He'd spoken to the Bolo once or twice, to obtain information, or to report in from a distant site, asking the Bolo to relay a report. But this was different. The machine was acknowledging him personally. An interesting legacy, Mother.

  "It will recognize your authority now," Bethany said. "Leave now, come back for me later."

  "We can't leave you alone, Mother," Joseph said, his eyes wary.

  She looked at him. "I'm going to take off my shirt—for the sensors," she replied. "Half an hour, come back. I'll let you know if I'm ready." She sat drawing deep breaths, her gaze steady.

  Joseph had never been able to outstare his mother and he couldn't now. He turned his head and sighed, then turned and began to climb up the handholds to the hatch above.

  James leaned over her and whispered. "I don't want to go." His eyes pleaded to stay, to keep her safe, to help—somehow.

  "Go."

  He kissed her cheek and stood, his lips pressed into a straight white line.

  Bethany waited until the hatch sighed shut before speaking.

  "Markee bring up the autodoc, tell me what you see."

/>   "Blood pressure . . ."

  "In plain English."

  There was a pause. "You are in the last stages of terminal cancer. Six to eight weeks before complete failure of essential functions."

  That long! Six to eight weeks of this. Bethany remembered her mother describing how grandfather had died, how at the end he would beg for the painkillers even though they couldn't touch his agony. And we've got nothing that strong, she thought, her heart giving a little bump of panic. Eight weeks, losing her dignity, crying and screaming . . . and the pain. She swallowed hard and winced. It was already as much as she could bear. She imagined herself mewling and writhing—her sons' horrified, helpless faces.

  "Is there any medication left?" she asked.

  "Negative, Lieutenant. All that remains in the pharmacy is a single shot of fast acting poison to be used to avoid capture."

  Bethany closed her eyes in relief. Good, she thought.

  "I have instructions for you," she said.

  "Waiting."

  "I want you to defend the people of Cacaxtla from any outside aggressors. Someone from outside—comes here, kills and steals—you destroy them."

  "Understood, Lieutenant. What about aggressors from inside Cacaxtla? My programs indicate that there are often internal pressures in a community that might lead to aggression."

  "Let the people work it out for 'emselves. Can't protect people from—stupidity. Just don't let 'em be—victimized by outsiders."

  "Yes, Lieutenant."

  "I want that shot now." Bethany closed her eyes, breathing hard and waited.

  "You are in danger of capture?" the Bolo asked. "I detect no enemy activity." The machine could not sound confused . . . Bethany smiled again through the pain, remembering the computer-geek corporal who'd first programmed in that sultry voice. Vinatelli was thirty years dead, but the Bolo Mark III still bore the mark of his lonely fantasies. "You entered with family members."

  "In danger of extreme torture," Bethany said.

  "From outside the community?"

  "From inside me!" Bethany snapped, knowing the autodoc would confirm that she was telling the truth. "Give me the damn shot. Now!"

  There was a slight hiss, but no prick of a needle. Then she felt a warmth begin to flood her veins, followed by cold. It became a little harder to breathe, her heart faltered. Bethany gasped and widened her eyes. Breathed out once more and slumped unblinking in the command chair.

  The brothers had been pacing for over an hour. The mountain air was becoming distinctly chill, and still the people waited behind them, some wrapped in shawls or blankets, others simply standing.

  "Maybe she's fallen asleep," Joseph said. He frowned. "I wouldn't want to wake her."

  He and James looked at each other.

  "Markee," James said, "is Lieutenant Martins asleep?"

  "No, Captain."

  It was their mother's voice, younger and stronger than they'd heard it in years. Both men straightened and stared at each other in astonishment, hopeful smiles beginning to curl their lips.

  "Mom," Joseph said, and began to climb.

  "You're all right, Mom?" James said, his heart lifting, trying not to hope too much.

  This time it was the sultry sweet voice of the Bolo that answered. "Lieutenant Bethany Martins cannot answer at this time."

  Joseph froze on the ladder and James slapped the side of the tank like an angry child.

  "What do you mean she can't answer?" he demanded. "If she's not asleep why can't she?" His eyes widened. "Does she need help?"

  "No sir," Bethany's voice answered, "no help is required."

  Joseph climbed back down and slumped against the side of the Bolo.

  "She's dead," he said flatly.

  "What are you talking about?" James snapped. "She sounds fine." She does! he insisted to himself, ignoring the inner voice that told him she wasn't making sense. He started up the Bolo's craggy side.

  "Markee," Joseph said, "please confirm. Is Lieutenant Bethany Martins dead or alive?"

  "Lieutenant Bethany Martins is dead, sir," the Bolo murmured in its soft voice.

  James' breath exploded out in shock, as if he'd been punched in the gut, up under the breastbone. His body hunched around the pain. He turned to stare down at his brother who stood with his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking.

  He stumbled back down, almost falling off. James started to walk away, numb with shock when Joseph's hand stopped him.

  "We've got to bring her out," Joseph said, his voice high and tight.

  James flung off his brother's hand.

  "She didn't even say goodbye," he snarled, his face red with fury. "She knew she was going to do it and she didn't even say goodbye."

  Joseph's face was white and blank.

  "You think she committed suicide?" The idea had obviously never occurred to him. "She tricked us into bringing her here for help . . . and then . . .?"

  James continued as though he didn't hear him: "She didn't trust us, dammit! She wanted to come here so bad, let her stay here. Let her rot here! I don't want to see her face again."

  "We can't just . . ."

  "Yes we can. Let the damn thing be her tomb! Can you think of a better one? And while we're on the subject of the Bolo, why the hell was that thing talking in our mother's voice? Huh? Why would she do that to us?" James' eyes were bright with tears and the certainty of betrayal.

  "The stories . . . Remember? The guy who first programmed it had it fixed to answer certain questions put to it by superior officers in a way that would make them think he was awake and sober. Apparently when we—superior officers—asked the right questions it supplied pre-programmed answers."

  "Yeah?" James growled. He strode to the Bolo and shouted up at it. "You are never to use Bethany Martins' voice again! Is that understood, Markee?"

  "Affirmative, Captain."

  "And you are never to speak to anyone again unless you are directly spoken to and required to answer. Do you understand?"

  "Affirmative, Captain."

  Then James spun on his heel and stopped at the staring eyes. The crowd was looking at him, and he could see their bewilderment and fear. He drew a deep breath.

  "Lieutenant Martins is dead," he said. A murmur went through the crowd like a giant's sigh, louder than a wail might have been. He licked dry lips. What would Mom have said? "We'll carry on."

  Unit #27A22245 Mk. III

  Communications—negative broadband scan.

  Systems check. 03/02/2045; 0700 hours.

  Power: 99.3% capacity. Nominal.

  Mobility: restricted. Tread 12 broken; treads 11, r1, r2 jammed. Drive and suspension, nominal.

  Weapons: main gun—nominal.

  infinite repeaters—units 1-7 nominal.

  —units 7-12 nonoperational.

  Sensors: 32.3% capacity.

  AI: 97.3% optimum. Nominal.

  Query: resume standby yes/no.

  : [decision tree]—affirmative.

  Unit #27A22245 Mk. III resuming standby status.

  "We thought it was the end," Tops said, his voice only slightly cracked with age.

  The sun felt good, though. He could feel his bones creak as he stretched and the waiting circle of children leaned forward for the end of the story. Wryly, he flexed his great knobby hands. Hell, who'd have expected me to live long enough to die of old age? A few of the youngsters shifted restlessly. He looked up at the bulk of the pyramid, shaggy under its coating of green, and continued:

  "The Glorios were all around us and throwing everything they'd been saving up our way. It wasn't enough for them that we were pulling out of San Gabriel; they wanted our heads. When the 'plane came to take us home there was no way that flyboy could land and Captain McNaught told him: 'Get away from here, you can still save some others.' And that was a hard thing to hear . . ."

  "Sergeant Jenkins," a boy called. "I have some questions."

  Tops sighed in weary irritation. It was Bethany's grandson, Paulo. Who was t
en, the age of extreme obnoxiousness.

  "What is it?" he asked warily.

  "Why do they call the Bolo 'the Mountain that Walks,' when it can't even move?" Paulo paused long enough that Tops had opened his mouth to answer when he asked: "Or why is it called the Beast, when it's not alive and never has been?"

  Tops tried to wait him out, but the smaller children who'd been listening to his story began to get restless.

  Just as he started to speak, Paulo, his young face as innocent as a puppy's, said, "And why, please tell me, is it called the Beautiful One, when, even with the paintings, it's ugly as sin?"

  "It's called the Beautiful One for its voice, Paulo," James said from behind him.

  Paulo gasped and spun around guiltily.

  "Please excuse my son, Tops. He doesn't want answers, he wants to get out of his lessons."

  Paulo's face turned red.

  "As you don't want to study, Paulo, come with me. I'm going on patrol and you can do the camp chores for me. Perhaps when we get back you'll be more appreciative of the opportunity to study with Sergeant Jenkins, eh?"

  Well, that's some punishment, Tops thought. You could see the kid trying not to skip as his father led him away. Maybe I'm turning into a boring old fart. Maybe he should tell his war stories less often. He shifted to a sun-warmed bit of the Bolo he was leaning against; the heat soothed the stiffness in his back.

  "All right boys and girls, let's get back to work," he said.

  Seven-Deer danced. Though he was almost fifty his battle-scarred body was lean and muscular, lithe and graceful in the dance. It was a rare strand of silver that marred the jet black of his gleaming hair and his grimly set face bore few marks of age.

  As he danced he sang the sorrows of his people, his voice rough with grief. The children sat enraptured, their dark eyes glowing as he unfolded the history of the people of the Sixth Sun. How the First Speaker had brought them back to truth and the rightful ways of service to the gods, after the Ladinos brought disaster on the world by leading the people astray, making them serve Quetzalcoatl-Jesus. How the First Speaker had led them to the upland valley where his command of the volcano kept them safe.