Secret of the Slaves
Page 21
In front of Annja’s building lay a large, sunken plaza. Its terraced levels followed flowing organic contours rather than the usual strict rectilinear lines of most city squares she’d seen. Fountains played in broad pools. Masses of greenery formed irregular islands in the multilayered pavement. There were so many brightly colored flower patches that it looked at first glance as if the city had been bombarded with paint balloons from orbit.
She saw no vehicles. Plenty of people walked about or simply sat on benches and fountain-rims. Dozens of children, mostly wearing brightly colored smocks, raced here and there among the adult pedestrians. She heard the sounds of their laughter.
The buildings themselves particularly fascinated her. Their walls seemed slightly sloped. The general pattern suggested Mesoamerican architecture. Some buildings incorporated or were themselves outright step pyramids, the buildings truncated and broad topped. The structures that crowned some buildings came to near points.
She saw rounded features, as well, like towers of a Medieval castle. The city had a more graceful, less oppressive—or clunky—aspect than most excavated Central American buildings she had seen. The ancient Indians had been constrained by the limitations of available building materials, and by the fact that the rulers who built the great public structures wanted them to be oppressive—to remind all who saw them, whether potential invaders or their own subjects, just who was boss.
She also thought to see elements, strangely, of Nepalese and Tibetan architecture, in the odd dome or stepped tower or building with pagoda-like sweeps to the eaves. Disparate as the elements were, all fit together with wonderful harmony.
“It’s beautiful,” Annja said. “It looks like nowhere else on Earth.”
“It reflects our influences. The tribal cultures of Africa and Amazonia, the scientific and rationalistic cultures of the West, the spiritual learning—and millennia-old science, that Westerners always like to over-look—of India and China,” Xia said.
“How is that possible?”
Xia shrugged. “From our very inception, our predecessors realized the value of information. So we’ve spent centuries gathering all we can, whether through our own researches or trading for it from others. We take what serves us, and use it.” She gestured toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get out in it. You can stand to stretch your legs.”
“That’s the truth,” Annja said.
30
They found Patrizinho in front of the building, which seemed to be a sort of dormitory or apartment. He stood by a fountain surrounded by children. He held a laughing little boy up in the air and laughed with him. He smiled happily to see Annja and Xia, put the child back down, tousled his hair.
“Thank you,” he said to the boy. “Now I have to go play with my other friends.”
“Okay,” the boy said. He and his half-dozen little friends ran off laughing.
“Why did you thank him?” Annja asked.
“For sharing his laughter with me.”
“It was sweet of you to take time to play with them,” Annja said as they began walking down into the sunken plaza.
He grinned. “It’s part of my job.”
“It helps to realize,” Xia said, “that along with playing, he was teaching them basic physical science concepts. Here we teach our children from the start to regard learning as a form of play, rather than making it into a form of torture, the way they do in your world. But then, the goal where you come from is to instill habits of obedience. And after all, an eager curiosity and propensity to ask questions is quite counterproductive from that outlook, isn’t it?”
Frowning, Annja opened her mouth to defend her society and its education practices. But all the arguments that came to her mind struck her as feeble at best.
“You’ve got many questions,” Xia said. “We haven’t got much time. Choose your questions carefully—then ask them, Annja.”
Again, the questions thronged forward, jostling each other. Annja found her tongue tied when it came to the most important. So she skirted it.
“You always seem to be armed,” she said. “Is there danger to defend against on the streets of Promessa?”
Patrizinho smiled. “There’s danger everywhere humans are, Annja,” he said. “Surely you of all people know that.”
“It’s a tradition,” Xia said. “With practical roots. We had to fight to escape. We had to fight to stay free. We had to fight to survive. And after three centuries we must fight the greatest danger in our history.” Annja didn’t have to ask what—or why.
“We’re no pacifists,” Patrizinho said. “I know you’ve noticed that.”
“Did you kill Mafalda?” she blurted.
“Not personally,” Xia said. “Did Promessans kill her? Yes.”
“And if you wonder whether we approve of the killing,” Patrizinho said, “the answer is, reluctantly, yes.”
“But what was she doing to you?”
“It was what she had done,” Xia said. “She betrayed some of our people abroad. Sold them. They had to suicide to escape torture. Publico is not the first or only party to learn enough of our secrets to be willing to use extreme measures to learn more.”
“And the man in Feliz Lusitânia?”
“We went to bring him home,” Xia said, “not kill him. He was exiled for certain crimes, but none so dire that he’d be denied the mercy of dying among friends.”
“Most people who leave the city do so because they choose not to participate in our culture,” Patrizinho said. “The tiny number who are exiled for cause submit to having their memories suppressed, as do most outsiders allowed to visit here. As Reinhard Lindmüller did.”
“Advanced as our mind science is, it isn’t perfect. Sometimes the conditioning slips. Thus with our brother in Feliz Lusitânia,” Xia said.
“Why do you even take the risks of dealing with the outside world, then?” Annja asked.
“Trade both in goods and ideas is our lifeblood, as it is of all humankind,” Xia said.
“And it’s a means whereby we can parcel our knowledge out to humankind as a whole—against the resistance of the powerful of the world, whose political and monetary power are based upon scarcity,” Patrizinho said.
“You mean you’re not deliberately withholding your knowledge? That’s what Sir Iain believes.”
“Is it?” Patrizinho shook his head. His smile was sad. “Don’t you suspect he knows exactly what the truth is?”
“Yes,” Annja admitted. “I guess I do. He told me at the airstrip, just before he tried to kill me. He wanted your secrets to use to bring himself power.” The memory made her stomach churn.
“Annja,” Xia said, “information is more than just a commodity to us. It’s life. It’s always been our life, our mainstay—as well as the source of our wealth.
“In the first days, when our ancestors ran away from their self-proclaimed owners, our brothers and sisters taken from the cities of West Africa pooled their knowledge of the arts of civilization. Their tribal cousins contributed knowledge of warfare and survival, the arts of wilderness. Later we traded our knowledge with the Indians for theirs.”
“What about the Indians? Didn’t they regard you as invaders?”
“Some did. And in truth not all of our ancestors were eager to embrace them—bigotry is a many-headed beast, and no people has a monopoly on it, or totally lacks it, or ever has. But necessity forced us to learn to get along with the natives of the land. Eventually we began to meld together.”
“You never fought them?”
Patrizinho shrugged. “Sometimes we did. Especially those of us driven from Palmares in 1694. After our Dutch trading partners betrayed us to our masters, the pioneers who founded the Quilombo dos Sonhos determined to put as much space as possible between themselves and the colonials. As they pushed up the river some of the tribes contested their passage, though they tried to keep to the river as much as possible and make no mark.”
“What about the Indians here?”
Annja sighed. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Yes,” Xia said. “And not much time to learn it. So why not go ahead and ask the question that’s really on your mind?”
“Such as why you do not hate me,” Patrizinho said. “For which I am thankful, by the way.”
She shook her head. She wasn’t ready.
“I’ll go ahead and play the bad guy,” Xia said, “and tell you the truth about your friend Dan.”
Annja looked at her with a mix of dread and eagerness.
“He branched out early on from violent street protests into extortion and the odd assassination,” Xia said. “The latter came after Sir Iain scooped him up and provided advanced training. He was an apt pupil, you might say.
“As Moran told you, Dan was his troubleshooter. I gather he didn’t fill in many details. Among other things, despite his tender years Dan served as advisor in such matters as the campaign of genocide against nomadic peoples certain African governments are waging, with the complicity of the UN and the West. Not unlike the way the Brazilian government is trying to destroy the Indians of Amazonas—and us—by wiping out the rain forest upon which we all depend for survival. Except the African governments cloak their crimes in the name of the Earth. The Brazilian government uses economics as its pretext.”
Annja walked between the magnificent buildings, hugging herself tightly. Her reflex was to reject all this information as slander.
Didn’t I notice disquieting things about Dan from the very outset? she asked herself. I suppressed them, in the heat of our shared cause.
“He was…a good man,” she said. “In his way.”
“But too angry,” Patrizinho said.
“Why—why would he take part in mass murder?” she asked.
“He did care deeply about his fellow humans, I think,” Patrizinho said. “What he saw they were capable of doing to each other disgusted and confused him. It became easy for him to rationalize anything, I suppose, as long as he believed it served his cause. I think that was largely what Sir Iain told him it should be.”
“So you’re saying he did terrible things because he was a good man?” Annja asked in confusion.
Xia shrugged. “The passionate best—or those who believe they know best—always commit the greatest crimes. For those who believe they serve some ultimate good, the sky’s the limit.”
“I regret that it came to pass that he and I fought,” Patrizinho said. “In that we did, I do not regret I killed him.”
Annja drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “I understand,” she said in a shaky voice. “I feel the same way about the people I killed.” She looked at them with tears blurring her eyes. “Why don’t you hate me, for killing your friends?”
“Some do,” Xia said. “Isis isn’t alone.”
“Yes,” Patrizinho said, nodding, for once unsmiling. “But we each walk our own path. Those whom you killed accepted the possibility of their own deaths the instant they set foot upon the warrior’s path.”
“As for responsibility for their deaths,” Xia said, “we bear our share. We chose to bring you here.”
Annja stopped and stared at them. “You’re saying you influenced Sir Iain to hire me?”
“Not at all,” Patrizinho said. “Once we knew he had recruited you, though, we made our decision. Xia, myself, certain others in the city. You have the potential to be an enormous force for good in the world, Annja. You carry the sword. We wanted to help you learn a bit about what that means. We also wished to try to show you how to avoid…certain pitfalls.”
“If it seems as if Patrizinho’s skating around the subject,” Xia said, “it’s because he doesn’t want to point out just how easy it would be for the sword to turn you into a monster.”
Annja looked down. “I know. There were times on this journey—”
She stopped and raised her head to stare at them. “Wait. You set this up as a test, didn’t you?”
“You had to earn your way here, Annja,” Patrizinho said. “If we gave you gifts without your proving worthy, we would compromise not just your destiny but our own.”
“So you set up your own people for me to kill as a means of testing me?” Her voice rose with outrage.
“Blame me if it makes you feel better,” Xia said.
“You weren’t the only one being tested, Annja,” Patrizinho said. “Those whom you fought had their own tests to pass. Some did not. If that horrifies you, it saddens me, but so be it. We did not survive this long by making things easy on ourselves.” He smiled. “Don’t let our beautiful surroundings mislead you. We have provided comfort for ourselves. That is part of the reason we must continually test ourselves. That, and the desire to expand our understanding.”
They had halted by another fountain. Annja walked a few paces away from her escorts. Her thoughts were a turmoil. She was fighting against a feeling of overwhelming relief combined with guilt.
She sat down on the lip of the fountain and wept bitterly into her hands.
When she had cried herself out she raised her head. Patrizinho held out a hand to her. “Now—let us do what we can, while we can,” he said.
31
Away off in the night, a sudden nova flamed. Aircraft-engine whine turned to the scream of tortured metal as the plane plunged out of control. A comet of yellow flame arced down behind black trees to the east. A flash lit the sky. A column of cloud rose, underlit by a dancing orange glow.
“Attack airplane,” Xia said. “They’re flying out of a base near Lake Aiama.”
The forest and fields were quiet. The rumble of nearby battle had suppressed the normal nocturnal sounds. The Promessans and their Indian allies fought a hit-and-run battle against the Brazilian forces Publico had brought in. Even the bugs were quiet, except for the irrepressible buzzing of the small, and not so small, biting insects. Nothing except the city limits of Promessa daunted them, Annja had found.
I wonder what this war will do to Publico’s peace-activist image, she thought. Probably nothing, she had to admit. If word of his involvement ever got out, which was doubtful in itself, Sir Iain Moran employed phalanxes of expert spin doctors. For evidence she had only to recall the news broadcasts Xia had shown her several days earlier. Never had she heard mention of his name.
“That sounded like a propeller plane,” Annja said, puzzled.
“It was,” said Xia.
“You’re kidding. I thought Brazil had a pretty modern air force.”
“It’s the very latest thing in the Brazilian air force,” Xia said. “Embraer ALX, light attack fighter variant of the Super Tucano.”
“You sound like an enthusiast.”
Crouching there at the verge between jungle and another abandoned rubber field, Xia shrugged and grinned. “A girl has her hobbies. Even in Promessa.”
“Don’t they use jets?”
“They’re mostly too fast,” Patrizinho said. “Prop planes can fly slow enough to really see and hit smaller ground targets.” He shrugged. “Like us. This aircraft is designed to murder helpless native people on the ground, such as so-called insurgents, guerrillas and bandits,” he said.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Helpless? You shot it down! What was that, some kind of death beam?”
The dozen or so Promessans of the infiltration force laughed. “You want them to nuke us, outsider?” Isis asked. Her voice, not surprisingly, was not friendly.
“Shoulder-launched modern man-portable air-defense missile. Russian made. We tweak the nitrogen-cooled indium antimonide seeker head to give it all-aspect tracking capabilities against reciprocating engines—meaning, prop planes. They run lots cooler than jets. Another reason they’re better for close air support,” Burt, a yo
ung Asian-looking man who was one of their team of twelve, said.
“Our capabilities, advanced as they are, aren’t anywhere near sufficient for us to take on the whole world,” Xia said. “Not even the U.S., which still boasts a big chunk of the world’s military capacity. We’re using our energy hand weapons sparingly, because they’re not really anything that couldn’t be duplicated and we don’t want to announce to the world that, here we are, lost city with supertechnology, just waiting to be plundered. It’d be a feeding frenzy.”
“And that,” said Burt, “would be why we’re off on a good old-fashioned decapitation strike.”
ANNJA WAS UNSURE how far they had hiked. She knew Promessa lay well inland of the main river, although lesser streams skeined the land as they did most of the whole basin. She guessed it was at least twenty miles away; she didn’t know the quilombo’s full size. Xia and Patrizinho and the others she had met the past few days had smilingly refused to answer questions about specific locations.
Along with Annja and Xia and Patrizinho the group included Burt, stocky and round faced with his hair in a long queue down his back, and a pair of young women, Lys and Julia. Lys was blond and slender, a few inches shorter than Annja. Julia was average height, sturdy and broad shouldered, brown skinned and eyed and with short black hair. Everyone spoke English around Annja. Lys spoke with what sounded to Annja like a Midwest American accent.
Everyone was dressed in practical combat gear. She was told the specially developed fabric used the wearer’s own metabolic energy to optimize their body temperature. It was also waterproof, as the diminutive and very dark armorer explained as they were fitted for the suits. Likewise the combat suit resisted cuts and bullets—though was far from bulletproof—as well as fire. The clothing reduced the wearer’s heat signature, although since the team wasn’t using any kind of face masks or shielding, infrared detectors would see their heads as bright balloons bobbing above the ground. No one else seemed bothered by that, so Annja didn’t worry about it.