Ice, Iron and Gold

by S. M. Stirling

  Paulo frowned after his father. Why do I have to stay behind? he asked himself. I'm not a baby. And besides, I heard them first. Whoever they were. Paulo chewed his lip thoughtfully. Fair was fair, he had a right to take a look.

  Paulo reached into the UATV, grabbed his slingshot and bag of stones—in case—and padded into the woods after his father.

  He moved quickly, but kept some attention on where his feet were going; Dad had taught him that, and he was good at it. And . . . yes, there was a shape in camouflage-mottled fatigues and helmet. He's really quiet, Paulo thought, impressed. James turned around suddenly and he froze, though his cover was only a screen of thorny bushes. His father had told him that motion in such a circumstance was as bad as being in plain view. After a quick glance down his back-trail, James hurried on. Paulo found it hard to suppress his delighted laughter.

  Dad doesn't even know I'm here! he thought in wonder. It works!

  Paulo ghosted onward, silent—although his grin was the facial equivalent of a shout.

  The farther he went, the louder the singing became. James still couldn't make out any words, but thought there must be many, many voices to make that sound. His mouth was dry; he took a quick swig from his canteen and went down on one knee, acutely conscious of the sweat trickling down his flanks under the armor. What was it Mother said . . . Ah, yes. He licked a finger and checked the wind direction; very slow, but from the low ground up to him. In case they have dogs. He was approaching an overlook on the old road leading out of the valley; he dropped to his belly and leopard-crawled to the lip of the cliff. In response to his whisper the helmet-visor supplied times-four magnification, making everything nearby jerk and quiver disorientingly with each motion of his head.

  He grunted in surprise and felt his jaw drop. Below him, down below the boulder-strewn hillside and the sparse trees, was an army.

  An army of sweating men, perhaps as many as seven hundred, yoked to an enormous gun with long sisal ropes. Other men in tight, spotted-brown uniforms moved up and down the line of chanting pullers striking them ferociously with whips. He could see one stagger and fall; the uniformed men closed in, kicking and striking with the butts of their rifles—good rifles, M-35s like the one across his back, not the single-shot black-powder models the traders brought around these days. One of them stood back and fired a burst into the fallen laborer.

  I guess that means they're not volunteers, James thought.

  There was—he called for more magnification from the crystal-sandwich visor—a bound woman spread-eagled at the base of the cannon. Just above her head sat a man in an elaborate feather headdress and very little else, pounding an enormous drum.

  They'll never get that thing into the valley, he thought incredulously. The road was completely blocked by the old lava flow. Though thirty years had gentled its contours considerably, still, they couldn't possibly . . .

  He winced as he watched one of the spotted slave-drivers whip a cut right through one man's shirt. And skin, James thought as the blood began to flow. Yes, they did think they could get into the valley on this road. And with that kind of brutality they may be right.

  "Unit push," he whispered, though he doubted the strangers would hear him over the mournful singing. "Conito, come in." No answer. Someone was always supposed to man communications, but over time people grew lax. He'd skin the bastard who'd left the comm empty today. "Record," he ordered. "There's something weird here . . . and dangerous . . ."

  The world flashed white. There was a moment of dazzling pain, and then blackness.

  Paulo knew this place. It was near the cliff that overlooked the ancient road. He watched his father drop to his belly and crawl forward. Looking around he spotted a suitable tree and climbed. When he'd lodged himself comfortably in the crook of the tree Paulo looked out over the old road and lost his breath.

  Never had he seen or imagined anything like this. People were dragging a big, huge gun up the road. And other people were hitting them to make them do it! Paulo's stomach clenched and his mouth watered, he felt like throwing up. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths like his father had told him. And did feel a little better.

  He looked out over the road again, a flicker of movement caught his eye, something closer. Something close.

  A man was standing behind his father, one of the spotted men. A long shape was in his hand, a sort of wooden paddle with edges of shiny black rock. The blade shattered on the durachrome, but the helmet flew off and clattered down the steep hill. James' head dropped to the dirt.

  Paulo felt his mouth drop open, and his hands trembled for an instant. Then he fumbled for his slingshot, loaded it with the heaviest stone that came to hand, whirled it around his head and let fly with a snapping twist of his body and arms. The same motion he used to hunt ducks . . .

  The club was raised for a killing blow when Paulo's stone struck the man's temple. The thock sound was clearly audible even twenty feet away, and he dropped limp across James' unconscious body.

  Paulo didn't see him fall, as he half slid, half fell out of the tree, his palms burning from scrapes as he scrabbled to save himself. Then he was racing towards them, his skin icy cold, his heart beating until his throat felt like it was being squeezed shut. Paulo's sight tunneled in on his father's boots where they stuck out from beneath the other man's body.

  "Dad!" he said, his voice shrill with alarm. "Dad?" he said again, touching the blood in James' hair warily. His father moaned softly. Paulo sprang up and began trying to move the man who lay across him, thinking he must be smothering his father.

  He yanked and pushed frantically, sobbing with frustration as the body refused to budge. The man's dead weight was so heavy! Finally Paulo sat down and kicked him off, the limp form rolling heavily against his sandals.

  James moaned again. Good! That must have been the right thing. Paulo pulled off his shirt and began to wrap it snugly around his father's head.

  "Dad?" he kept calling softly. "Dad?"

  James suddenly lifted his head with a gasp.

  "What . . . happened?"

  "This guy came up behind you and clobbered you with a club, so I beaned him with my slingshot," Paulo babbled. "He's right there."

  Paulo's father turned to him, head wobbling, his eyes unfocused and looking odd somehow. Then Paulo realized what it was, one pupil was noticeably larger than the other. Concussion! Oh no.

  Tops taught everyone about concussion in survival class. This was serious, maybe life-threatening. He held up two fingers.

  "How many fingers am I holding up?"

  His father looked at him owlishly.

  "Two," he said.

  Paulo let out his breath in a rush of relief. "Then you're okay. You can see all right."

  "No. People always hold up two fingers."

  "Daaa-ad."

  His father dropped his head and moaned again. This time it was echoed by the man who'd hit him. Paulo froze.

  "Dad?" he said, his lips stiff with terror. "Dad? He's alive."

  Wake up! James shouted in his own mind. The voice sounded like his mother's.

  Get moving, c'mon, on your feet, soldier!

  He fought the nausea that struck him every time he lifted his head and struggled to coordinate his limbs—which moved slowly and clumsily, however hard he willed them to obey.

  "Daaa-ad!" Paulo said, panic creeping into his voice. "He's waking up, Dad. What do I do?"

  Paulo pressed his lips firmly together as he looked frantically from his prone father to the stirring enemy beside him. He started looking around for a big rock. Too small, too small. Unngghh! Too big. Rotten stick. I don't believe this! he thought. All I want's a damn rock!

  James lifted his head and the world spun, grimly he pushed himself up on his elbows and waited for the dizziness to subside. He took deep breaths and the nausea abated somewhat. His head throbbed, and he tried to ignore the pain. He opened his eyes. The world was doubled, sometimes tripled and blurred. He might as well be blind. He c
losed his eyes.

  "Paulo. Help me up, son."

  Paulo was beside him in an instant, heaving like a hero. James laughed, and stopped when that made the world spin.

  "Easy, boy. I'll end up in a tree. Slow and easy does it. I can't see real good, so we've got to take things one step at a time."

  "Okay, Dad." But Paulo was anxiously watching the man on the ground. He wasn't moving much, he rocked a little, and twitched his hands and feet, but his eyes were still closed, so Paulo didn't know whether he was coming to or dying.

  Once on his feet, James swayed for a moment, his balance uncertain. Then he steadied, as much from sheer will as receding trauma. He fumbled at his equipment belt and pulled the bowie knife from its sheath. It was over a foot long and point heavy, and felt good in his hand. His mother had taught him how to use it, though he'd never had to, and had given it to him when he went on his first patrol.

  "Son," he said. "Lead me to him." I don't want to do this in front of you, he thought. I don't want to do this at all, but we have to. Better me than you.

  Paulo took his hand and put it on the stricken man's body. James felt his way to the man's throat. He placed the knife carefully, making sure his other hand was out of the way of the razor-sharp edge of the blade. Pressing his lips together he applied pressure and dragged the knife towards him.

  There was a bizarre and ugly sound from the severed windpipe and hot fluid cascaded over his free hand.

  James gasped and fell back on his heels.

  "C'mon, son," he said, "let's get back to the UATV. We've got to warn the village."

  Paulo was staring at the dying man. There's so much blood, he thought. He'd seen animals die, he should have expected it, but . . . His mind whirled and for a moment, the man's throat seemed to be the only thing visible at the end of a long tunnel. He'd never missed his mother more, he wanted to feel the safety of her arms around him, lifting this horror out of his mind forever.

  "Son!"

  Paulo stared at his father's blood-drenched right hand, reaching out for his.

  "Here I am," he said, and took it.

  We might as well be advancing in the damned Bolo! James thought as he noisily stumbled for perhaps the fortieth time.

  "I'm sorry, Dad!"

  "It's all right, son, it's not your fault. Let's rest a moment." He started to squat when Paulo yanked at his arm.

  "Not there, Dad." He pulled his father away from the anthill. "Here's okay."

  James sank down with gratitude, feeling weak and cold. Maybe a little shocky, he thought, wishing he could sleep for a few hours.

  "How close are we?" he whispered.

  "Not far," Paulo said. "Just down there." He pointed, then whipped his arm down, blushing. "And through some trees," he added hastily to cover his error.

  James thrust his chin forward and put his hand on Paulo's shoulder. "Son," he said, "I'm . . . going to send you on ahead to scout. I'm making too much noise and that guy back there must have friends. So I want you to sneak up on the UATV, wait for a few minutes to see if there's anybody around—do not break cover—and report back to me. Can you do that?"

  "Yessir. I'll be careful," he said quickly, anticipating his father's next words.

  "See that you are," James growled.

  Paulo looked back from the bend of the trail to where his father sat waiting, his arms loosely draped over his knees, eyes closed, his face gray with fatigue. Should I go back and hide him? he wondered. Dad looked so vulnerable. Paulo wavered, looked down the trail towards the UATV. No, he'll say I'm wasting time, or something. And he'll be embarrassed. Resolving to hurry, Paulo moved on.

  Paulo knew they were there before he saw them. The spotted men were talking and laughing like they had no reason not to. They were speaking pure Nahuatl, he realized, unmixed with English or Spanish as it was in Cacaxtla.

  Paulo dropped and began to crawl. Sneaking-through-the-woods was the best part of school, and he'd always done well on the tests. He peered through the bushes, keeping his head low to the ground.

  There were five of them, stripping the UATV with surprising efficiency for men who were making so much careless noise. I wish they were as clumsy as they are stupid, Paulo thought bitterly. He didn't understand this. Why were they being so obvious? Surely they knew someone would be coming back for the vehicle.

  Then realization hit him with a chill like snow down his back. "The answer is implicit in the question," his father was fond of saying. "Your grandmother taught me that." This was a trap. Their noise was intended to draw someone carelessly into the open, too intent on the outrage before them to think about an ambush.

  He almost panicked. That meant that somewhere around him were other men in spotted uniforms. Deliberately he squeezed his fear into a small box inside himself. Later, he promised himself, later. Then, moving with exquisite care, he hurried back to his father.

  "Damn!" James smacked his fist into his other hand, and swore more ripely and bitterly inside his mind. "So now our second line of communication is cut off." There's only one thing left to do, he thought. Paulo will have to go alone. Given a day and a half, cutting directly across the hills and moving as fast as he could go, James figured the boy could reach the village with a warning.

  No, that's too optimistic. Two days. Maybe. At least the gun people won't be able to move too fast. That ought to give us some time to prepare.

  He wondered if the Bolo could still defend itself, let alone the people of Cacaxtla, neglected as it was.

  "Son," he said, and reached out for Paulo, who grasped his hand. "We've got to warn the village, so they have time to prepare for this." He paused, his face set.

  "I know, Dad." Paulo looked at him warily, wondering what was coming.

  "You've got to go alone. I'll only hold you back . . ."

  "No!" Paulo snatched his hand away in horror. Leave him? Leave his own father out here blind and all alone. "I can't."

  "You have to. The village is more important than any one person," James said calmly.

  "No. I mean I can't. I don't know the way."

  James frowned. "The valley's not that big, son. I don't think you can get lost."

  "Dad, it's huge. And this is only my second time on patrol with you, I've been this far from the village only once before. And I didn't pay that much attention, I mean, I didn't know I'd have to. Honest, Dad, I'll get lost. Don't make me do this, please." He was panting when he finished speaking and shaking with pure terror. He knew that leaving his father alone out here would be like killing him. And he couldn't bear to lose his father, too.

  "Son . . ."

  "I can't. You know the landmarks, you can guide me. We'll go together."

  For a moment there'd been something so like his grandmother in Paulo's voice that James blinked.

  "Okay," he said slowly. "Then we'd better get started." James pulled some of his makeshift bandage down over his eyes. It was easier that way, without the blurring, shifting light to confuse him.

  "First, look for the peak of the old volcano. Can you see it from here?"

  Seven-Deer had taken upon himself the task of feeding the servant of the Sun. It pleased him mightily that Tezcatlipoca had chosen a yanqui, one of those who had brought about the downfall of his people, as an instrument of vengeance. He took it as a sign of favor that the god would make such a joke. Smoking Mirror had a sense of humor; it made Seven-Deer slightly ashamed that he'd never been able to emulate his god in that.

  "A full bowl," he said, and the cook-slave dipped his ladle once more.

  The First Speaker of the Sun threaded his way through the encampment; it was crowded and noisy, inevitable with so many slaves along. The stink was not as bad as it would have been down in the lowlands. They must have climbed at least five hundred meters already; the air began to remind Seven-Deer of his youth in the cool uplands of Cacaxtla.

  "I have brought food," he said, as he gracefully mounted the gun carriage, disdaining to use his hands for climbing. The rungs
that led up the side of the wheeled gun's boxy mounting were cool beneath his iron-hard soles, not like metal or stone.

  "I'm not hungry," Pasqua said coldly.

  "You will like it," he said cheerfully, sinking into a crouch beside her head. "It comes from my own table." He filled the spoon and thrust it at her mouth.

  Pasqua turned her head away and the spoon relentlessly followed. She turned to glare at him and he smiled benevolently.

  If she'd had appetite, the sight of him would have killed it. He still was smeared with Gary's blood, his hair was caked with it and the sweetish smell of rot was thick on his hands.

  She opened her mouth to say, "I don't want it," and Seven-Deer thrust the spoon home. Immediately she spat it out. Not on him, though she'd have liked to, but she didn't want to inspire him to anything too creative. The Duke of New Orleans had some extremely creative people on his staff, and she'd had to attend those events as a child, like anyone in the Family.

  "I'm nauseous," she snapped. "I can't eat, okay? You wouldn't want me to choke on my own vomit before you get to cut my heart out. Now would you, babe?"

  Seven-Deer's face stiffened with offense. To be refused thus by this ignorant yanqui slut was . . . a test perhaps. The Sun sought to determine his worthiness. He placed the bowl down gently near her bound right hand.

  "Very well," he said quietly. "Let the insects have it. And may its scent torment you. Perhaps tomorrow you will have a better appetite."

  He rose and descended the steep gun carriage as gracefully as he'd come. Pasqua would have paid any price to see him slip and fall flat on his face.

  Her lips and the inside of her mouth were burning fiercely from the spoonful of food he'd forced on her. It brought tears to her eyes. She waited; the camp grew quieter, fires died down, only a few sentries moved. Her mouth still burned.

  Jeez, she thought, that stuff would burn through steel. She turned her head and looked consideringly at the abandoned bowl. You don't suppose . . .

  Her numb hand plopped into the bowl and scooped up some of the contents, bending her wrist as far as she could. Pasqua slid the mess onto the vegetable fiber ropes that bound her. "Whoooo!" she yelped as the chili sauce penetrated to burn the chafed and bleeding skin below. Which motivated her to yank her bound hand frantically.