Ice, Iron and Gold

by S. M. Stirling

  Pasqua continued to describe the proper method of setting a man-killing trap wearing the happy, innocent expression of a woman explaining her favorite recipe.

  She was about to conclude with one of Guido's favorite expressions, And den ya watch da pieces fly upward, when she noticed their faces. Both their jaws had dropped and their eyes stared unblinking at her.

  Uh oh. "Y'know," she chirped, "I never noticed before how much alike you guys look. Paulo, you're going to grow up to be just as handsome as your father."

  They both blushed, glanced at each other, then looked away, turning their attention to preparing the campsite.

  Whew! she thought. I've got to watch my big mouth.

  The fire in Water-Monster's wounded mouth burned as hot as the fire in his heart each time he thought of his shame at allowing the servant of the Sun to escape. A shame his whole squad shared, but blamed exclusively on him. He could barely speak with his tongue so swollen and the frown of confusion on his second's face drove him to fury.

  "Th tacka! Ya ool. Wa da th tacka ay?"

  "Captain," the second's eyes slid rapidly north and south as he desperately tried to decipher Water-Monster's lispings. Inspiration struck before the captain did.

  "The trackers have found a definite trail leading from a small spring to a cave a half-mile away, lord."

  Water-Monster's smile of pleasure was like a spurt of venom.

  "Ooh ow!" he bellowed.

  The second's brows went up and he gritted his teeth, as behind the Captain's back he frantically signaled the puzzled troops to move out as commanded.

  They approached the cave with caution, ghosting through the twilight, moving as silently as the jaguar from whom they took their name despite the steep slope and the loose volcanic scree underfoot. It was quiet. Birds and insects stilled their cries in alarm as the men passed.

  Water-Monster frowned. It was possible that cave was deserted; their quarry might have rested and gone. The tracker had stated that the trail he followed was at least a day old. His nose flared. Yes, the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke. Their quarry had grown careless, building a fire that was too large and not made of thoroughly dry wood. His eyes scanned. Yes, a trace of smoke rising dark against the dark stone of the cliff ahead.

  Suddenly his second was beside him, whispering.

  "There are three, Captain, sleeping near a small fire."

  Water-Monster's heart leapt. "A ga?" he asked.

  "No, lord, no guard." The second smiled too, pleased at the ease of capture.

  Water-Monster moved up to where the foremost of his troops were and looked into the cave. He could see three humped shapes behind a very smoky fire. How can they stand it? he wondered. Down in the lowlands, it might have been a smudge fire to drive off mosquitoes. But why here, in these cold uplands? He gestured four of his men to move up and into the cave.

  They moved forward with exaggerated care, around piles of leaves and other debris, delicately placing their feet on the few spots of bare ground. They entered the cave like shadows, hugging its walls as they moved towards the sleepers.

  When they were well inside, Water-Monster rose and followed them. Striding arrogantly through brittle leaves and crackling brush he anticipated their quarry's horror when the noise of his passage woke them and they stared up into the implacable faces of his warriors.

  This pleasant image accompanied him to the underworld as the grenade beneath his feet went off, shredding his body before he could even cry out. The impact was less on the men farthest from him. They were able to scream again and again as ricocheting fragments of rock and metal tore through them.

  Water-Monster's second and two others came running, peering into the smoking interior of the cave just in time to receive the full blast of the second grenade, set to go off five seconds after the first.

  "Do you think it worked?" Paulo asked for perhaps the hundredth time, as they lurched down the slope.

  James looked wearily down at his son, who was gazing adoringly up at Pasqua. He stifled a spurt of jealousy. Ever since she'd allowed Paulo to help her set the booby trap for Seven-Deer's troops the boy's attitude towards her had changed drastically. I always thought I'd be the one to teach you the "arts of war" as Mom used to call 'em. He sighed, and Paulo looked up at him. James' eyesight had improved to the point where he could read the worry in his face.

  "It's nothing, son. I was just thinking about how you're growing up."

  Paulo looked puzzled, and cocked his head dubiously, as though wondering where that had come from.

  "You have grown, you know," Pasqua said. "An experience like this changes you." She made herself stop talking before she annoyed everybody, including herself.

  They turned a corner. She stopped with an involuntary gasp. Both the others looked at her.

  "It's beautiful," she said.

  The valley was like a bowl—a bowl with a broken rim, a rim of forested hills, rising to one tall volcanic peak to the west. Rivers ran through it, silver in the evening light. Fields were squares of color, like a quilt ranging from yellow-gold wheat through infinite shades of green, from pasture to orchards and patches of woodlot. Tile-roofed, whitewashed houses stood scattered amid the fields; a larger clump made the village, around the open plaza and the vine-grown shape of the pyramid; the gardens and trees were splashes of color dividing the buildings. The scene breathed peace to her, like something from before the Collapse—long before.

  A second look revealed things even more unusual than the undisturbed pastoral scene.

  "You've got a power grid!" she said.

  "Well, of course," Paulo said. "We're not savages."

  James smiled. "Geothermal," he said. "Enough for essentials."

  Pasqua nodded soberly, impressed. The duchy was wealthy, but there was little electricity there outside the houses of the Family and the caporegime and consigliere class. This was something out of the ordinary, and to find it here, lost in the mountains . . .

  "The thermal springs are there," James said, pointing.

  "Unca Jamie!" a child shrieked.

  Pasqua jumped and her brows went up as a little yellow-dressed, dark-haired cannonball slammed into James, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  "Pick me up! Pick me up!" the little girl shouted and James stooped to comply.

  "This is my niece, Catherine," he said as the little girl rained kisses on his cheek. She turned to gaze at Pasqua with bright eyes.

  "Hi," Pasqua said.

  "Are you a fairy princess?" Catherine asked seriously.

  "Uh, no." Mafia princess maybe. Pasqua couldn't help smiling at the little girl. It was nice to be asked.

  "Captain!" A man in a camouflage uniform emerged from the trees, relief writ large on his homely face. "Good to see you, sir."

  "Good to see you too, Zapota. How's it going?"

  "Well, sir. Everyone's bivouacked around the old thermal pool and the work in town is progressing." His eyes flicked to Pasqua and back to the captain.

  Introductions followed; they turned a corner on the well-graveled road, past an old but well-maintained blockhouse, and into a clump of whitewashed houses. The smell of roasting meat drifted by, and Pasqua heard her stomach growl.

  "I want to eat, I want to bathe, I want to sleep."

  "No problem," Zapota said smiling. "My little helper there can guide you."

  "This way!" Catherine shouted, pointing imperiously. James winced slightly as she tugged at his hair, but he was smiling as he followed the chubby finger.

  Pasqua wiped the sweat from her forehead and chin with the end of her scarf, then looked wryly at her battered hands. This was far more like honest labor than anything she'd ever done before, and while the experience was interesting she couldn't see making a habit of it. It was a bit of a consolation that so many others were doing exactly the same work, but not much.

  Getting this damn pumice off the damn tank is practically a war in itself. The Family had a couple of Mark IIs in storage, but the
y were no preparation for the sheer size of this thing. It was difficult to convince your emotions that this was a machine, not part of the landscape.

  A familiar voice caught her attention and she looked down. Far below her James conferred with his brother, the Jefe of the village. She smiled slightly. A few days rest and some food had put him back on his feet and she had to admit, he was pretty. Pretty impressive, and just pretty. Straight features, olive tan, white teeth when he smiled, level brown eyes. Nice butt, too, she decided, then reflected that a couple of days rest and food had done her a world of good, too.

  "Yes, it's an assumption," James said. "But it's an educated guess. The gun was a prototype, they can't have much in the way of ammunition for it. Which means that we need that wall around the village."

  It was a mere palisade, constructed of raw trees and fence posts, but better than the nothing they'd started with. Joseph had fought them over every inch of it.

  "If we get the Bolo up and running the wall is irrelevant," Joseph insisted. "That's where we should concentrate our efforts."

  James turned and stared at him. "I've said it before, I'll say it again. One lucky shot and we don't have a Bolo." The two men glared at each other. "We're building the wall." James stalked off, leaving civilian authority stymied and enraged behind him.

  Pasqua's eyes met Tops' where he was engaged in a more delicate bit of chipping around the Bolo's infinite repeater ports. She smiled ruefully. "I'll bet the old girl loves to hear stuff like that," she said.

  Tops chuckled. "It doesn't mind," he said. "Markee, you don't take that kinda talk personally, do you?"

  "The captain has made an accurate evaluation of our situation, Sergeant Jenkins. If I were capable of taking offense I cannot imagine why the truth should cause it."

  "Be nice if people were that reasonable," Pasqua said.

  "Sergeant," the Bolo interrupted. "I have received a report from our scouts on the valley's perimeter. Seven-Deer is over the barrier. If he continues at this rate he should be here in two days."

  Fear rang like a silver bell, shrill and cold along her nerve endings.

  "Damn," Tops swore. "How'd they get through the lava so fast? Must be thirty, fifty feet thick."

  "Hypervelocity shot, Sergeant. They have expended three rounds."

  Pasqua redoubled the speed of her chipping.

  Seven-Deer gazed down from the pass at the village of Cacaxtla and sneered at the pathetic palisade that now surrounded it.

  It was a flimsy thing, backed by earth only in places. The great gun would sweep it aside like an anthill. His eyes lifted to where, in the center of the plaza, the Mountain that Walks was partially visible behind the buildings that surrounded it. It sat like a spider in its web. He squinted; attendants crawled over the spider's great body, doing things he couldn't discern at this distance.

  It is useless anyway, he thought smugly, whatever you are doing. Soon your blood shall slake Tezcatlipoca and Xipe Totec's thirst. A huge grin split his face. Tomorrow at dawn they would wheel the great gun into place and destroy the Mountain that Walks. And then . . .

  Ah, revenge is so sweet that even anticipating it is pleasure. The evening breeze lifted his hair and he inhaled deeply of its freshness.

  He turned back to his campsite; where screams indicated that they had begun to slaughter the slaves, lest their great numbers prove an inconvenience in the morning. Besides, his men were hungry. The gods would take the blood and hearts that were their due, and the Sun People the remainder.

  And Seven-Deer had always preferred liver, in any case. Grilled over an open fire, with some chilies and wild onions . . . delicious.

  That the attack would come in the morning everyone knew, with an instinct as sure as that which told them the sun would rise.

  Pasqua tossed and turned on her pallet in the women's great tent. She'd been put in with the combatants; those with young children were still up by the thermal springs. It was a compliment, in a way. It hadn't even occurred to anyone that she wanted to run. Finally she rose—exasperated and exhausted—but with energy thrumming through her body like a low-voltage electrocution.

  She slipped from the tent and the camp with no one the wiser, heading for the village and the command center, through the chill night. Sentries were no problem; one of them was smoking as he walked his rounds. Simply freezing in place was enough to send them on their way regardless.

  Jeez, she thought, if he wanted to, Seven-Deer could cut every throat in camp and nobody'd notice.

  These people were so good, so kind and wholesome. And so bloody helpless! It's going to be a slaughter in the morning. Maybe that wasn't fair. James was one tough hombre, if he was more typical than his brother . . .

  When did you ever see a place where the Jameses outnumbered the Josephs? she sneered.

  She stopped just outside the palisade, her palms sweating, heart beating frantically.

  I should run, she told herself. I should grab some food and a canteen and get the hell out of here. Staying was suicide. No sensible person would place themselves in danger for the benefit of strangers. She could picture the weary, disgusted look in her father's eyes if he but knew, and blushed with shame.

  She frowned. But he doesn't know. And Paulo and James are hardly strangers. More importantly, their danger is my fault. She squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

  "Alto! Who goes there?"

  "A friend," she said. Take me to Captain Martins."

  "You what?"

  James' cry echoed back from the plastered walls of the room; from the looks of it, it had been his living room before the emergency. Maps and documents covered everything now, except a charcoal portrait of a smiling dark-haired woman. Paulo's mother, I suppose, Pasqua thought

  She held her hands up placatingly. "We owned the gun, but he stole it from us," she insisted.

  "But you were going to sell it to him. Isn't that right?"

  She put her hands on her hips and bit her lip, closing her eyes to avoid his.

  "We were arms dealers. Yes—we would have sold it to him. Just as we would have sold it to you."

  "But he is an insane mass murderer bent on conquest and bloodshed, while we are farmers who only want to live and work in peace." James glared at her.

  "Well," she said, still not meeting his eyes. "Arms dealers are known for their flexible attitude and lack of curiosity about end-use intentions."

  He turned from her with a sound of disgust and Pasqua thanked heaven that she'd asked to see him alone. If the others were here I'd be dancing at the end of a rope by now.

  He ran his hands through his hair. "Why are you telling me now?" he asked, with his back to her.

  She pressed her lips into a tight line, then forced herself to speak calmly. "He fired off a shot to test the gun the day he stole it. I think it's probable that he used it to clear the road when he got to the lava flow—the Bolo thinks so, too. Three shots should have been enough. Which leaves him with eight."

  He turned and slumped into his chair, then he glanced at her guilty face. "It would have saved some arguing with my brother if I'd known that," he muttered sardonically. "It's nice to know that his resources are limited, but otherwise . . ." He made a gesture implying the irrelevance of the information.

  "Know your enemy," she quoted.

  "Yeah," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Sometimes it's a little hard to identify 'em at first."

  "I'm not your enemy," she said through gritted teeth. "I just wanted to make a clean breast of things."

  "I look like a priest to you?"

  "Dammit, James! I want to help."

  "Oh you will, lady. You're going to be right by my side when Seven-Deer and his men come pouring over the hill. For now," he said rising and taking her arm, "go and get some rest."

  "I'm sorry," she said impulsively. "I am so sorry."

  He smiled tiredly. "Sometimes you can find absolution under fire. My mother used to say that."

  The remaining fifty slaves a
nd even some of the Jaguar Knights heaved on ropes fed through massive pulleys anchored to huge posts they'd driven into the ground. The slaves, though few, were the strongest and their will to live was evident in the way they struggled to pull the great gun to the top of the ridge. The balloon tires turned slowly, inch by inch, dragging the weight of synthetic and metal forward. The turbogenerator whined, burning the last of their cane-spirit and pumping the capacitor full of energy.

  Seven-Deer smiled benignly. He had ordered the slaves whipped, and the Jaguar Knights assisting them, so that their blood might be a gift to Tezcatlipoca, earning his good will. When the gun was in place, the rest of the slaves would be destroyed.

  "Pull!" he shouted. "Bring forth the instrument of our vengeance so that our enemies' hearts may rot within them. Know, my people, that this dawn will be our enemies' last!"

  The Jaguar Knights cried out in exultation, and smiling at their acclamation, Seven-Deer turned and stood with his arms crossed on his breast, legs apart, his head high and a smile of victory already brightening his face.

  The railgun rose over the hill, haloed by the sun. The long thin tube, bracketed by the two rails, looked unimaginably strange as it seemed to pierce the ball of the sun.

  "Does that thing have a body?" one of the men asked.

  "Jeez, Hernando, I thought you said you had the biggest equipment around," a woman commented to general laughter.

  James powered up his helmet. "Tops," he said, "can the Bolo tell where that thing is going to hit?"

  "You'll have to ask the Beast that," Tops answered. "It knows what it can see."

  James scowled, he didn't like talking to the Bolo. "Markee, can you see where they're aiming?"

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Can you advise us in time for us to move out of the way?"

  "Negative, Captain. The XM-17's aiming system is very simple to operate, a target can be obtained in seconds. I believe there would be insufficient time for humans to react to my warnings."