The Future Is Ours

by Hoch Edward D.

  “Good day, great Santa Anna,” the old man spoke. “How does the battle progress?” His words were an odd sort of Spanish, tempered with an accent that might have been French.

  “Who are you, old man?” Santa Anna asked. “And whatever brings you to this settlement of San Antonio, before the mission of the Alamo?”

  “Word reached me of your difficulties, great general. I only thought to offer my assistance.”

  Santa Anna smiled, revealing a crooked row of yellow teeth. “Your fighting days are over, old man. The battle today is for the younger.”

  But the old man stretched out a hand in protest. “I am but sixty-seven years of age, and can still ride a horse with the best of your men.”

  “What is one more man to me?” Santa Anna asked.

  “But I can win you the battle,” the little man insisted.

  “You are a soldier?”

  “I fought in Europe in my younger days. Many great battles!”

  Santa Anna nodded. “Some day the history books will remember this as a great battle, also.”

  * * * *

  The old man took the glass from his hands and peered through it toward the cluster of cottonwoods. “That is the Alamo Mission?”

  “Correct,” Santa Anna replied. “My objective since February 23. Only now it is more a fort than a mission.”

  “How many men do they have?”

  “Less than two hundred, I’m sure. And with them are men like Travis, Bowie, and Crockett. If I could wipe them off the map at a single stroke, there would be no more trouble with this idea of Texas independence.”

  The old man dropped the glass from his eye. “I will get it for you. Draw me a map in the sand to show me the layout of the mission. Quickly.”

  “Well,” Santa Anna began, “here are the walls…” He sketched quickly with his sword, somehow catching the eagerness of the old man at his side. “…and here is an old convent, with a courtyard. And a small hospital, and a chapel…”

  “I see…. Very well. How many men do you have?”

  “Thirty-five hundred. But it’s those walls—those confounded walls!”

  “You have tried to scale them?”

  “We have tried everything. For two weeks…”

  “But you have cannon.”

  “A few. More than the defenders, certainly.”

  “But you have been firing into the mission rather than at the walls! That was your trouble!”

  “And what would you suggest?” Santa Anna queried.

  The old man produced a dainty jeweled snuff box, encrusted with a glittering single letter N. “Direct all your cannons at a single point,” he said. “Breach the wall and pour your overwhelming forces through the hole.”

  Santa Anna listened, his eyes glued to the gems as the old man’s hands manipulated the snuff. “Will you ride with me?”

  “But a moment ago, you thought me too old.”

  “Never fear. Will you ride with me?”

  “How far, Santa Anna?”

  “Across all of Texas.”

  The old man’s eyes glistened. “I will ride farther. I will ride with you into Washington itself, where ten years from this date you will be emperor of all the continent.”

  “Then we ride!” he shouted. “José, prepare the cannon for firing….”

  And the air was filled with smoke and fire and screaming, roaring death, and soon the walls of the Alamo Mission trembled and shivered.

  “We ride,” Santa Anna shouted. “José, order a full attack. The horsemen and then the foot soldiers.”

  “This is the last attack?”

  “The last attack, José! The wall is breached….”

  And at his side, the old man wheeled his white horse high into the air. “Pass the word, Santa Anna. Not a defender must remain alive. We must wipe them out, to bring all of Texas to its knees….”

  And Santa Anna passed the word. And then they were thundering across the plain, past the deserted dirt roads, past the crumbling cottonwoods, toward the breach in the Alamo wall….

  “I feel victory in my bones,” Santa Anna shouted to the man at his side. “This is my day.”

  And the old man nodded as he spurred his great horse forward. “Victory, as long as we ride together. This time, I will make no mistake. This time… there will be no Waterloo….”

  ABOUT “THE MAIDEN’S SACRIFICE”

  It’s a well-known archeological fact that human sacrifice was practiced throughout pre-Columbian Central America, and that it was most prevalent among the Aztecs. But what if it was all a great misunderstanding?

  First publication—Famous Science Fiction, Fall 1968.

  THE MAIDEN’S SACRIFICE

  Now it came to pass that Cuitlazuma, a wise man of science, became ruler of the great Aztec nation. He had labored long among the scholars of the kingdom, helping to perfect their regulatory calendar and to bring a high degree of development to the educational methods of the temple. Now, in the prime of his life, he was to lead his people to even greater levels of accomplishment.

  “Tell me, Monto,” he asked one day, strolling with his aide near the great temple of Quetzalcoatl, “do you think others live beyond the jungles, across the waters?”

  “Surely, yes, Cuitlazuma,” the younger man replied. “A whole race of men who will someday come to our shore.”

  “And destroy all that we have built?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The conversation saddened Cuitlazuma, for he had seen the Aztec nation grow in his own lifetime to its present peak of learning. The highly developed social life of the community was matched by superior educational methods and learned studies in astronomy. The great calendar stones that surmounted their temples—upon which Cuitlazuma himself had labored—gave mute evidence of the progress of civilization. And yet, the ruler was troubled.

  “Monto, we must build against that day—against the day when all this is threatened, when our way of life crumbles.” They had climbed to the top of the wide temple steps, and the ruler said, “Look here at what we have—streets and shops and buildings being constructed on every side, the flow of traffic regulated to a high degree. We take a census of our people, and govern them with a wise hand. Are we—and they—to lose all this?”

  “Our generations will pass. Our children will die.”

  “But do they have to, Monto? Do they really have to?” The idea, only now beginning to form, excited him to a high degree. “Monto, call me a council of our wisest priests and men of science. I wish to speak to them.”

  “On what topic, Cuitlazuma?”

  “Ah, on the topic of eternal life, of course.”

  And so they gathered to speak of it, and the most learned of the Aztec men of science were heard from. After two days of discussing the problem, with all of its religious and medical implications, a decision was reached. Their people died because the heart stopped beating within them. Find a way of keeping the heart alive, and the eternal life they dreamed of would be possible. And with eternal life would go the hope of maintaining the Aztec civilization for all days to come, even against the enemy from across the sea.

  “The heart, the heart,” Cuitlazuma said. “That is the key to everything. Go among the people, especially the younger people, and find those willing to help us with our experiments.”

  And after some days a young girl was shown into Cuitlazuma’s chamber. She was called Notia and she was very beautiful. “They have explained to you what is needed?” he asked.

  “It is an honor to serve my ruler, oh sir.”

  “You are only a maiden. Do you realize what it is you will be sacrificing?”

  “Of course, oh sir.”

  “Very well.”

  And so a place was prepared, at the very top
of the temple steps where all could see—because Cuitlazuma would not do this thing in secret. The girl Notia was prepared, dressed all in a gown that billowed behind her as she walked.

  And on the day when it was to happen, Cuitlazuma spoke with the doctors and the medical men. And then they went together to visit old Quizal, the woman who was dying. “My heart is worn, oh sir,” she murmured from her pallet.

  “Woman, we will try to remedy that today.”

  And later the doctors spoke to Cuitlazuma, because they feared this thing he was about to do. “What if it fails?” they asked.

  “Then we will try again. And again.”

  The doctor nodded. There was nothing more to be said.

  And later Monto came to his leader’s quarters. “The maiden is prepared. Old Quizal is prepared. You will do it?”

  Cuitlazuma picked up the sharpest of his knives, the ceremonial dagger he had never used. “I will do it. Only I should have the responsibility.”

  “How will you do it?”

  Cuitlazuma leaned against the cold wall, resting his forehead for a moment against his arm. “I will cut into her chest as she lies there, and remove the living heart from her body. Then I will place it in the chest of old Quizal to give her more years of life. The doctors will be there to connect the heart and close the wound.”

  “If you succeed, Cuitlazuma, it will be the beginning of eternal life for our people.”

  Cuitlazuma nodded and picked up the dagger. It was time to go, to meet with the maiden Notia on the temple steps. “And if I fail what we begin here today…”

  “If you fail?”

  “If I fail, there will be only the deed to be remembered, and not its purpose. And centuries from now some writer of histories will look back and say that the Aztecs practiced human sacrifice.”

  ABOUT “THE OTHER PHANTOM”

  In his day, mystery novelist Gaston Leroux was known as France’s answer to Arthur Conan Doyle. But his most famous novel, Le Fantôme de l’Opéra (1909-1910), is associated more with horror, perhaps on account of film adaptations starring Lon Chaney (1925) and Claude Raines (1943). It was during the height of the popularity of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Phantom (1986) that anthologist Martin Greenberg commissioned Ed to write a piece for a collection of stories inspired by The Phantom of the Opera.

  First publication—Phantoms, ed. Martin H. Greenberg & Rosalind M. Greenberg; DAW, 1989.

  THE OTHER PHANTOM

  At this time the Opera ghost had not been seen for nearly a year, and there were those who believed him to have been a flesh-and-blood creature who had died, deep underground near the lake where he was rumored to have lived. Others, however, offered a much simpler explanation. The great Paris Opera had simply been closed for three months, between engagements, while some needed painting and maintenance work were completed. Those who held to this theory were convinced the ghost or phantom would return quickly enough once the new season got under way.

  In that summer of 1887 the attention of many was focused instead upon construction of the Eiffel Tower in preparation for the 1889 International Exposition. Gustave Eiffel’s structure, the tallest on earth, was the center of controversy, denounced by Dumas, de Maupassant, and even Charles Garnier, architect of the Paris Opera. They viewed it as an intrusion onto the city’s skyline, “arrogant ironmongery” that should not be tolerated. The city promised to demolish the Tower in twenty years, but there were those who doubted the promise would ever be kept.

  One such doubter was Franz Vinding, who’d made something of a career of being the city’s chief cynic. His column in the daily press had taken the lead in opposing construction of the Eiffel Tower, and now that the first girders were going up he’d taken to lunching in a small café across the way, where he expressed his views to anyone within earshot.

  “Are you still at it, Franz?” Bernard Mosaven asked, stopping by the table where Vinding was dining alone. “Why do you come here if the sight of the Tower upsets you so much?”

  “I glory in bad taste,” the journalist responded. “Come, Bernard, sit and drink a glass of wine with me.”

  “Only for a few moments.” Mosaven pulled out a chair. “At least the building of the Tower has given you something to write about other than the Opera ghost.”

  Franz Vinding chuckled, revealing a row of irregular teeth in need of dental work. He was a stout man whose love of food seemed reflected in the gradual deterioration of his body. “The Opera ghost! Must the public forever suffer these foolish illusions? There never was a ghost of any sort, and there most certainly was never an Opera ghost! My colleagues in the press have much to answer for.”

  “Perhaps you’d change your mind if you ever came face to face with the Phantom yourself.” Bernard Mosaven delighted in tormenting the older man. Their longstanding rivalry dated from the time a few years back when they’d reviewed the Opera productions for competing Paris newspapers. Mosaven was out of journalism now, employed by the company building the Eiffel Tower.

  “I would love to meet the charlatan!” Vinding replied.

  “You would run! You would die of heart failure!”

  The journalist’s eyes glistened angrily. “Are you issuing me a challenge, Bernard?”

  “Take it as you wish.”

  “Call up your Phantom of the Opera from his depths and I will happily face him! It should provide me with an amusing column for my paper.”

  “The Opera ghost has not been seen of late,” Mosaven admitted. “But I have no doubt he is still in his lair deep underground.”

  “I will go to the Opera. I will spend the night there and dare him to show himself. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone! If I survive you will pay me twenty-five gold louis. I will use the money to campaign against your Tower. Agreed?”

  Bernard Mosaven hesitated only an instant. “Agreed!” He reached across the table and the two men shook hands.

  * * * *

  When Nadine Bucher heard of the bet she was furious. She stormed into the newspaper office where Vinding was working on the following day’s column, a comely blond tempest not to be turned aside.

  “Franz, what is this foolishness about a wager with Bernard? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Not at all, my dear,” he told her with a smile. “It seemed an easy way to earn twenty-five louis.”

  “By spending the night alone in the Paris Opera? You must be crazy. People have died there. Remember all the trouble back in ’81?”

  “The Phantom has not been seen in nearly a year. The madman has died of old age, or merely tired of his game.”

  “And if it is a real ghost?”

  “Then I will have an exclusive story for Friday’s edition.”

  Nadine Bucher had been a friend of both men for several years, and Vinding suspected she was more than a friend to Bernard. He was touched by her concern for him, but of course it did nothing to change his mind. He would rather have been championing some more immediate cause like the demolition of the Eiffel Tower, but the Opera ghost would have to do. If he could humiliate Bernard in Nadine’s eyes, it would be well worth a night without sleep.

  She eyed him now across the desk. “You are a stubborn old man!” she told him and turned on her heel. She did not see the look of genuine anguish her words caused. Franz Vinding was still in his fifties, and until that moment had never thought of himself as being old. To be branded as such by this woman he admired was a terrible blow to his pride.

  “I’ll show them,” he decided. “I’ll show them both. If the Opera ghost does appear, I will be ready.”

  * * * *

  A distinguished journalist like Vinding had no trouble gaining permission to spend the night alone at the Paris Opera. The watchman, a gray-haired old actor named Ramos Chastel,
met him at the door shortly after eight. “Come in, sir. Your friend Bernard Mosaven has already arrived and is waiting for you.”

  Chastel led the way backstage, past the scaffolding that had been erected for the painters. Franz glanced up. “It seems a shame the Opera House must be repainted less than ten years after its opening.”

  “It is a good time to touch things up, to keep it as new and sparkling as it has always been,” Chastel told him. “It will be ready for the September opening of Don Carlos.”

  “I hope so. I’m planning to be here on opening night.”

  The scenery for the opera had already begun to arrive backstage, in the building’s huge storage area. They passed large flat crates marked Don Carlos Act III and Don Carlos Act V. Finally they reached the great dark stage itself. “Do you want a lantern?” the watchman asked.

  “I’ve brought my own,” Vinding said.

  Suddenly from the front of the orchestra came the sound of hands clapping. “Bravo, Franz!” Bernard Mosaven shouted. “Bravo! You have lit up the stage!”

  “I’m here as we agreed,” the journalist answered sourly. “If you are to join me for the night’s stay, I will no longer be alone.”

  “Never fear, I will leave you to the Phantom. You will see me again at dawn, if you are still alive!”

  “Bring the twenty-five gold louis with you,” Vinding reminded him as the younger man made his way up the aisle to the exit.

  The watchman left him, too, and Franz settled down at a little table and chair on the stage, his lantern casting a circle of light that seemed a slight barricade against the surrounding darkness.

  Vinding had been sitting there for some time, half dozing as the hour approached midnight. Suddenly he awakened with a start. There may have been a noise, or perhaps it was only his subconscious mind that signaled a message. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out the army revolver with which he’d equipped himself. Then he stood up and stared for a moment into the darkness.