Ice, Iron and Gold

by S. M. Stirling

  Maybe it was the grease, maybe it was because the rope was thoroughly wet, maybe it was because she was so desperate to get that stuff off, but this time her hand, and not a little skin, came free.

  She rubbed her wrist off on her shirt; it didn't stop the burning. Frustrated, she turned to free her other hand. Bound as she was she could barely reach the knot. It had tightened with her struggles and with bearing her weight all day. A fingernail bent back and she suppressed a yelp of pain. She sucked the finger, then spat as her tongue began to burn again. The need to swear seemed almost as imperative as the need to breathe.

  With a sigh, Pasqua scooped up a handful of her supper and dumped it over her other wrist.

  After she'd freed her feet, Pasqua snatched the yellow scarf from her hair and rubbed off as much sauce as she could from her wrists and hands, though the flames were dying now. Then she tossed it aside, glad that her shirt and slacks were gray and unlikely to call attention to her in the darkening jungle.

  She moved carefully and quietly, keeping low, sometimes on hands and knees. The slaves were sleeping all around the gun carriage, so thickly that it was difficult to step between legs and arms and heads. In their exhaustion they slept through her quiet passage, even when she accidentally touched one of them.

  Her eyes were on the jungle when a man sat up and looked at her. Pasqua froze, a nasty, almost electrical shock frissoned over her and her breath stopped in her throat. The man's face was blue-gray in the darkness, his eyes black pits. He stared at her unmoving. Then he smiled, and silently, he lay back down.

  Thank you, God, Pasqua thought. As she moved into the jungle she made vague, but fervent, promises about being a better person hereafter.

  Sometimes, just before turning in, Sergeant Jenkins liked to wander around the village, to settle his mind and his aching bones for sleep. And on nights like this one when he was feeling especially solitary he'd stop to have a few words with the Bolo.

  Since Lieutenant Martins' death no one spoke to Markee. And occasionally Tops felt a little guilty about it. He knew that the Bolo wasn't lonely, didn't feel neglected or slighted being ignored by the populace, didn't feel anything at all in fact. It was as empty of self-awareness as a toaster.

  But when it spoke it sometimes seemed so like a person that he made a point of visiting from time to time. And if he took solace in knowing that it had seen him young and bore memories of his old comrades, well, so what? Besides, sometimes it picked up a faint radio broadcast from back in Reality and he enjoyed hearing them, weird as they were. The Lord of Philly had declared war on the Jersey Barons? Either that was a sports broadcast, or things had gotten unreal in Reality.

  "Good evening, Markee," Tops said, settling himself on a familiar outcropping on the Bolo's lower surface. "Tell me what's new with you?"

  "I've received a most disturbing message from Captain Martins, Sergeant. As follows . . ."

  James Martins' voice came from the Bolo's speakers, weakly, as though over some distance. "Unit Push. Conito, come in." There was a pause and then an impatient sigh. "Record. There's something weird here . . . and dangerous . . ." There was a sparkle of static and then nothing.

  "That's it?" Tops asked.

  "Yes. It has been ten hours and thirty-four minutes since I received this message. Nothing at all since. This is unlike Captain Martins, who is punctilious about following up on his recorded messages."

  "Hmph. Any other chatter on the unit push?"

  "Negative, Sergeant. As far as I can tell Conito has yet to hear this message."

  Tops straightened his spine, his eyes blazing with outrage. Lord knew Conito had his problems. His wife had died in childbirth leaving him with twin babies to take care of. But this kind of neglect was unheard of.

  "These damn kids," Tops muttered. "They're spoiled is what. We did our job too good. Think the world's their friend, never going to do 'em any harm." He stood up. "I'll see to it, Markee. Keep an ear out for the captain."

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  Joseph opened his door to find Tops on the doorstep, standing in the halo of bugs that orbited around the methane lantern above the door.

  "Hello, Tops," he said, surprised. "It's late," he said doubtfully. And the old man was in uniform, from boots to helmet.

  "I know what time it is, Jefe. I have something to tell you." Tops pushed past Joseph and into the house, then turned to face him.

  "James is in trouble," he said shortly. "The Bolo intercepted a partial message from him. He said, 'there's something weird here, and dangerous,' then nothin' but static. That was over ten hours ago. Markee hasn't heard anything since."

  "Conito hasn't reported . . ."

  "Conito hasn't accessed his messages yet. Anymore than he's been monitoring the unit push. I heard the recording. It was broken off. He's in trouble."

  Joseph looked at him doubtfully. He licked his lips and looked away, then back again. "What do you expect me to do?" he asked.

  "I expect you to send help." Tops began to do a slow burn as the Jefe's eyes flicked away again.

  "Don't be lookin' away like I've done somethin' socially unacceptable. Your brother was cut off in mid-report and hasn't been heard from in hours. You have the power, and the responsibility, to send help." He stood glaring at Joseph. "And that's what I expect you to do."

  Joseph rolled his eyes. "Probably the UATV broke down. That one's on its last legs. And the helmet comms aren't much better. What's more," he said, spreading his hands and smiling reasonably, "the Bolo's in even worse shape than the UATV. It might have misheard James."

  "I heard the recording myself," Tops said through clenched teeth. "With my own ears. It was very distinct, Joseph. You could access that recording yourself if you wanted to."

  Joseph's shoulders slumped and his mouth twisted impatiently.

  "Querida?" a voice called from the hall stairs above. "Mi corazón?"

  "It's late . . ."he began.

  "Either you send someone to check this out or I'm going," Tops said fiercely, his breath beginning to come hard.

  "Will you relax, old man," Joseph said, putting his hand on Tops' shoulder and guiding him to the door. "There's nothing we can do tonight anyway. It'll have to wait till tomorrow."

  Tops' big fist flashed out and caught the jefe on the side of the head like a five-pound maul.

  Joseph heard the sound through the bones of his skull. It didn't hurt; mostly he was conscious of outrage, and surprise that the old man could still move that fast. He was older than Mother. But I can't hit him back—

  It was then that he realized he had dropped bonelessly to the floor. He thrashed helplessly in slow motion until the sense returned to his eyes, and the pain began. Then he stared up at the elderly man who'd flattened him.

  "That was from the El-Tee," Tops said furiously. "Cause she'da given you one those for even thinkin' about leaving one of your people hangin' fire after a message like that. Let alone your own brother."

  Tops' eyes flashed in the candlelight, yellow around smoky black irises.

  "You listen to me, little boy, it's a bad ol' world out there. And there's always a chance that trouble will find its way to your door. Now, to me it sounds like trouble is knockin', and it's knockin' real loud." He pointed one massive finger in Joseph's face. "Now you send someone out there to help your brother!"

  Joseph glared at him, rubbing his jaw and wondering if he should have Tops thrown in jail. Tops glared back with an outraged sincerity that finally penetrated the Jefe's hurt pride.

  "You're right," Joseph said grudgingly. "It does bear investigating." He picked himself up and headed for the door. "You needn't worry," he said over his shoulder as Tops started to follow him, "I'll see to it. They'll leave tonight."

  The woman's voice called again from upstairs. Tops flexed and shook his right hand as he walked out into the street and closed the door; it was lucky he hadn't popped a knuckle doing that. Normally he didn't believe in hitting a man with his bare hands, not unless
he was naked and had his feet nailed to the floor . . . but you did have to make allowances for the El-Tee's son.

  Paulo's whole body burned as his father's weight dragged at him again. It was so dark now he could barely see and he was trembling with exhaustion, as sweat-sodden as his father, sick with listening to the rasping breath of pain above him. He wanted to stop, to eat, to take a sip of the little bit of water in his father's canteen. He wanted to sit down and cry like a little kid. But I can't. Dad's hurting worse than me. I've got to keep up.

  As it had grown darker Paulo had concentrated on the ground before them, avoiding rocks and roots and vines with considerable efficiency, considering the gloom. Besides, tired as he was his head just naturally tended downward. The noises of the insects and frogs lulled at him, like he was home and had the window open, looking out at the moon . . .

  BONK!

  "Aaauggh!"

  James' head had connected solidly with a low-slung branch. The pain from his forehead telegraphed itself to the wound on the back of his skull and the agony washed back and forth like reciprocal tidal waves. He fell to the ground uttering a shrill, almost silent, scream.

  Paulo fell to his knees beside his father. "Dad!" His hands hovered uncertainly over the writhing form and tears began to fill his eyes. "Dad?" he said again, his voice tight with desperation and tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He broke down and began to cry, ashamed and unable to stop. He pushed his hands against his mouth to stifle the uncontrollable sobs. If he could stop them his eyes would quickly dry, he knew.

  Suddenly his father rolled to his knees and began to retch; straining mightily to no effect as his stomach was utterly empty. At last the spasm passed and he rolled to his side, groaning.

  "Dad?" Paulo's voice was very small.

  "S'all right," James said, panting. "C'mere." He lifted his arm and Paulo collapsed next to him.

  James folded his arm around his son. "Not your fault, kid. You're doin' okay."

  The pain was receding to an echoing ache and he was horribly aware of his own pulse as it beat through his head. White dots sparked behind his eyelids and the nausea was definitely back to stay for a while.

  "Gotta rest," he said quietly. Shame brought heat to his cheeks as he realized he had to place yet another burden on Paulo's shoulders. "You've got to find us some shelter, son. Doesn't have to be much. Just good cover, with maybe a wall at our backs. Don't go far."

  He tightened his arm at the thought of losing his son out here in the dark. "If you don't find something quickly, come back, we'll just spend the night here."

  Paulo sat up. "Okay, Dad."

  "Here," James said. "Take a drink," and he passed over the canteen.

  Paulo took it gratefully and allowed himself two swallows, holding the second in his mouth a moment to saturate his dry tongue.

  "I'll be quick," he said, and leaned forward to kiss his father's cheek, startling him.

  He hasn't done that since his mother died, James thought as the sound of Paulo's footsteps faded away.

  It seemed only an instant later that Paulo shook his sleeve, "Dad. I've found it," he said.

  James struggled to his feet and Paulo led him, being particularly careful to watch above as well as below this time.

  A short distance later Paulo drew them to a halt.

  "There's these bushes," he explained, "you have to crouch down and crawl. But it's like a hollow behind 'em and there's a wall with an overhang. It's almost like a cave," he ended eagerly.

  "Good job, son," James said. "You go first." He got on his hands and knees and followed his son through the bushes. "This is good," he said once inside the hollow, noting the dryness of the thick bed of leaves and the absence of any musky animal smell. "You rest."

  "You need to rest more'n I do," Paulo protested, determined to stay on guard all night if necessary.

  "I couldn't, son. My head won't let me." James knew that Paulo was at the end of his strength and would soon be asleep whether he wished to be or not. Besides, once they got within sight of an unmistakable landmark, if his eyes were still useless, he intended to send Paulo on alone. The boy would need his strength for that. "Go to sleep."

  With a relieved sigh, Paulo surrendered and lay down on his side, curling up as comfortably as he could.

  James heard his son's breathing change to the rhythm of sleep and then he knew no more.

  Moving quickly, but quietly, Pasqua pressed on. She was half in a dream state, but breathing comfortably and moving efficiently, body wolf-trotting without being told to. A method one of her father's bodyguards had taught her, part of her survival training. She was skirting the trail that led into the valley, approaching only close enough to see it every two hundred paces, then fading back into the jungle. Woods, actually. They were pretty high up here. The weather was nice, not like the steambath down below; that had been as bad as summer back home. This was like October on the Bayou Teche, or over in the piney woods on the Gulf Coast; the Family had hunting lodges there.

  If I warn whoever's in the valley about the Knave of Hearts and his laughing boys, I'm a hero, she reasoned. If I try to get back to the coast I run into the very unhappy people he's run that damned gun over and I'm toast. Tough choice.

  She shrugged mentally. The weather's better up here anyway. Later, she could loop around and back to the coast and pick up her stuff. Nobody would have touched it; not when her name was Giacano. Even if she'd severed formal connection with the Family, nobody had put an open contract on her. And nobody would want one of the Duke's schooners to pay a visit, which they would if news came back that she'd been ripped off. Just on general principles, mind, not out of familial affection.

  Pasqua gauged her level of exhaustion and decided to find somewhere to sleep for a couple of hours. She slowed down and almost immediately her limbs felt weighted with sand, her chest aching with the effort of breathing the thin upland air. Sleep, she thought, what a concept.

  AAWwwnkkk!

  My God! She froze, but her heart went into overdrive. She could almost feel it on the back of her tongue.

  AAWwwnkkk!

  Snoring! But was it human?

  Creeping forward, though her gut insisted she should run, Pasqua came upon a lush growth of bushes pressed against an overhang.

  If I were a bear, she thought, this is where I'd sleep. Did they have bears in this country?

  AAWwwnkkk!

  Human, she thought and straightened, her mouth a grim line. The switchblade went snick in her hand, oiled deadliness. Maybe one of the Lord of Multiculturalism's merry crew. Cautiously she began to move back. The satisfaction of giving one of them an extra mouth wasn't worth the risk.

  "Daaaa-ad," a sleepy child's voice said. "Y'r snorin'."

  A grin spread slowly across Pasqua's face and her eyes gleamed. Hunters maybe, she thought. Definitely not Jaguar Knights. Maybe marks.

  "Hey," she whispered, and could almost feel them come aware. "I need help."

  "Hey! Conito!" Tops trotted out into the road and the UATV stopped. He suppressed a smile at the sight of Conito's weary face and the carload of militia around him.

  Hey, poetic justice, pal, he thought, pleased at how the punishment fit the crime.

  Conito was looking at him dubiously. "You can't come with us, Sergeant Jenkins." His voice was respectful, his attitude courteous.

  Tops was surprised at how good the respect felt. Has it been that long since someone talked to me like I'm a grown man? Still, he was being brushed off, told to go away like a good little nuisance so the responsible people could get their work done. This from Conito! A guy who'd never finished anything except getting his poor wife pregnant. The guy who'd left the unit push unmonitored probably since James had gone out.

  "Well, thank you for the invite, son, but I've got some sleep to catch up on." Conito's tired eyes narrowed slightly. "Maybe some other time. What I wanted was to give you this." He held up his own helmet. "I've been workin' on it and it's probably the best one in
the village right now. It's also hooked into the Bolo."

  Conito had taken the helmet with pleasure and had passed his own, marginally working one to his second. But his head came up at that.

  "Why's that?" he asked. "Nobody talks to the Beast."

  Tops forced himself not to be sarcastic. It was an honest question, nobody had spoken to the Bolo for years. He set his hands on his hips and looked down at Conito, just a bit longer than was comfortable for the younger man.

  "I don't know why we didn't think of it before," Tops said mildly, "the Bolo can monitor the unit push twenty-four hours a day. If something urgent comes through it can set off an alarm. Oh, yeah, the Beast says the last transmission came from the cliff that overlooks the old road out of the valley." He turned and headed back to his house.

  "That oughta make it easier to find 'em," he said over his shoulder. He didn't grin at Conito's stupefied expression until he'd turned his head away.

  Tops was halfway up the Bolo's craggy side when a child's voice asked severely, "Where are you going, Sergeant Tops?"

  Startled he looked down into the big brown eyes of Joseph's youngest daughter. Catherine was frowning fiercely, her arms crossed over her chest, one pudgy bare foot tapping impatiently.

  "What are you doing out here so late?" he countered, keeping his voice low.

  "You had a fight with my daddy," she accused. "You woke me up and I couldn't sleep anymore."

  "Does he know you're out here?" Tops whispered. Quiet down kid, you'll wake up the whole town.

  She looked disconcerted, but her head went down like a little bull's. "Where are you going?" she repeated.

  "Shhhhh! I'm going to visit your grandma," he said.

  A look of absolute horror went over the little face.

  "Are you going to die?" Her eyes were huge.