Wild Cards: Aces Abroad

by George R. R. Martin

  Outside Zacualpa that word came. A young boy told them that the army had set up a roadblock with two tanks and five armored troop carriers. Two hundred heavily armed soldiers stood ready to stop their advance with light artillery and rockets.

  Xbalanque and Akabal called a meeting with the guerrilla leaders who had had combat experience. Their weapons, old rifles and shotguns, could not compete with the army’s M-16’s and rockets. Their only chance was to use the guerrilla experience they had to their advantage. Their troops were split up into teams and sent into the hills around Zacualpa. Messengers were sent to the town beyond Zacualpa in an effort to bring fighters in from behind the government army, but that would take time for the runners to take remote paths and circle back. Xbalanque would be the main defense and their inspiration. This would be his true test. If he won, he was suitable to be their leader. If he lost, he had led them only to death.

  Xbalanque went back to his jeep and got the stingray spine out of the compartment under the driver’s seat. Akabal tried to go with him into the jungle, but Xbalanque told him to stay. The soldiers could have snipers and both of them should not be at risk.

  It was mainly an excuse. Xbalanque was terrified that the power would not return. He needed the time to sacrifice again, anything that might help him focus on the strength he had had before and had not felt since. He knew that Akabal would almost certainly have him followed, but he had to be alone.

  Xbalanque found a tiny clearing formed by a circle of trees and sat down on the ground. He tried to regain the feeling he had had just before the other dream. He could not find a way to get even a bottle of beer out of the camp. What if being drunk was the key? It had to be the way the graduate students had explained it to him or everyone with him was dead. He had brought with him one of the white cotton shirts he had been given on the way. The intricate designs on it were done solely in bright red thread. It seemed appropriate. He put it on the dirt between his legs.

  His ear had healed very quickly and he had been wearing the earplug for a couple of days. Where could he get blood this time? He mentally went through a list of the sacred sites on his body that were traditionally used. Yes, that would do well. He cleaned off the carved spine with the shirt and then pulled out his lower lip. Pray­ing to every sacred name he could remember, he thrust the stingray spine down through his lip, brought it up part way, barbs tearing his flesh, and plunged it through again. Then he leaned over the shirt and let the blood course down the black spine onto the white shirt, making new designs as it flowed.

  When only drops of his blood were falling onto the shirt, he pushed the spine all the way through and out of his body. The sick­ening, copper taste of the blood flooded his mouth and he gagged. Closing his eyes and clenching his fists, he controlled himself and tried to close his throat to the blood in his mouth. Using the same lighter, he set fire to the shirt, starting flames from the four sides of the stained cloth packet.

  There weren’t any dreams of Xibalba this time. Or any dreams at all that he remembered. But the smoke and the loss of blood made him pass out again. When he awoke, the moon was high above and the night was more than half gone. This time he had no hangover, no pain as his muscles adjusted to forces they were not used to carrying. He felt good, he felt wonderful.

  He got up and crossed the clearing to the largest tree and struck the trunk with his bare fist. It exploded, showering the ground with splinters and branches as it fell. He lifted his face to the stars and thanked the gods.

  Xbalanque stopped on the trail back to the camp as a man stepped out from behind a tree onto the bare earth. For a moment he was afraid the army had found him, but the man bowed to him. Gun held high, the guard led Xbalanque back down to the others.

  For the rest of the night the sounds of the soldiers’ preparations kept all but the most experienced of his people awake. Akabal paced beside the jeep, listening to the roaring engines of the tanks as they shifted position or swung their guns to bear on another phantom target. The sounds echoed up into the mountains. Xbalanque watched him in silence for a while.

  “I can take them. I feel it.” Xbalanque tried to encourage Akabal. “All I have to do is hit them with the stones.”

  “You can’t protect everyone. You probably can’t even protect yourself. They’ve got rockets, lots of them. They have tanks. What are you going to do against a tank?”

  “I am told that the treads are the point of weakness. So I will first destroy the treads.” Xbalanque nodded at the teacher.

  “Akabal, the gods are with us. I am with you.”

  “You are with us. Since when are you a god?” Akabal glared at the man leaning on the jeep’s steering wheel.

  “I think I always have known it. It’s just taken some time for others to recognize my power.” Xbalanque looked dreamily up at the sky. “The morning star. That’s me, you know.”

  “Mary, Mother of God! You’ve gone mad!” Akabal stopped pacing long enough to shake his head at Xbalanque.

  “I don’t think any of us should say that anymore. It’s not . . . proper. All things considered.”

  “All things considered? You—” They were interrupted by a run­ner coming in from the town and the sounds of more activity from below.

  There was another quick consultation among the guerrilla lead­ers. Akabal went over Xbalanque’s part in the plan.

  “You’re going to be followed up to the bridge by the empty trucks. They’ll draw the army fire.” The former schoolteacher stared down into the impassive and calm face before him. Xbalanque felt no fear. There was only a euphoria that masked any other emotion. “But after the first few moments they will need more active opposition. That’s you. Your fire will protect our snipers in the hills.”

  His stones had been loaded onto rough sledges that he tied to the back of the jeep and the next truck back in line. As the campsite grew lighter, everyone went into position. The guerrilla drivers started their engines. Akabal walked up to the jeep.

  “Try not to get yourself killed. We need you.” He put out his hand in farewell.

  “Stop worrying. I’ll be fine.” Xbalanque touched Akabal’s shoulder. “Get into the hills.”

  Xbalanque’s move forward was the signal for the column, single-wide on the narrow road, to begin its short journey. Round­ing the corner, Xbalanque could see the bridge ahead and the tanks on either side with their guns pointed at him. As they fired, he jumped from the jeep, the increased weight of his body pounding dents into the pavement as he rolled away. The fragments of the jeep exploded toward him. He felt the power in every part of his body and the metal shrapnel bounced off. Still, he kept his head down as he scrambled for the sledge with his ammunition. Grabbing the first stone, he threw it into the air and batted it with his empty hand, sending it screaming through the air and into the hill-side above the army. It threw dirt on the soldiers, but that was all. Better aim. The next rock was painstakingly aimed and it broke the tread on the left-hand tank. The one after jammed the turret so that it could not turn. The Indian fighters had started firing now, and the soldiers were beginning to fall. He threw more stones into the ranks of the army and saw men go down. There was blood, more blood than he could ever give by himself. They brought up a rocket and he saw the man shot by an Indian sniper before the soldier could fire. He was throwing as fast and as hard as he could.

  Bullets occasionally struck him, but they were stopped by his skin. Xbalanque grew more reckless and stood facing his enemy without taking cover. His missiles were causing some damage, but most of the deaths were from the Indians on the slopes above the soldiers. The men in charge had seen this and were directing most of their fire up the hillsides. Great holes were appearing in the for­est where the tanks and rockets had reached. Despite his strength, Xbalanque could not stop the second tank. The angle was wrong. Nothing he threw could reach it.

  A new sound entered the battle. A helicopter was coming. Xbalanque realized that it could give the army the aerial spotting advanta
ge that could get his people killed. It came in low and fast above the battle. Xbalanque reached for a stone and found that only a few small pieces of rock were left. He searched the ground frantically for something to throw. Giving up, he tugged a piece of twisted metal from the wreckage of the jeep and sent it flying toward the chopper. The helicopter met the chunk of metal in midair and exploded. Both sides were hit with debris. The fireball that had been a machine fell into the ravine and flames shot up higher than the bridge.

  The engine on the remaining tank revved up and it started to back up. Soldiers moved out of the way and began retreating as well. Xbalanque could now get clear aim at the troop carriers. Using more pieces of metal he tore from the jeep, he destroyed two of them. Then he saw something that stopped all his fantasies of being a great warrior. A boy leapt down off the mountain onto the retreating tank. He swung open the hatch from the outside, and before he was shot, dropped a grenade within. There was an instant before the tank blew when the boy’s body was draped across the hatch’s opening like a flag across a coffin. Then the flames engulfed them both.

  As the fighting at the bridge died down with the soldiers’ retreat, the Indians began coming down out of the forest and mov­ing toward the bridge. It became quiet. The moaning of the wounded broke the silence and was joined by the sounds of the birds who returned to their nests with the peace.

  Akabal leapt down the road cut to join Xbalanque. He was laughing.

  “We won! It worked! You were magnificent.” Akabal grabbed Xbalanque and tried to shake him, only to find that the smaller man was immovable.

  “Too much blood.” With the boy’s death Xbalanque had lost his desire to celebrate their victory.

  “But it was Ladino blood. That is what matters.” One of their lieutenants had come up to join them.

  “Not all of it.”

  “But enough of it.” The lieutenant looked more closely at Xbalanque. “You have not seen anything like this before, have you? You must not let our people see you this way. You are a hero. That is your duty.”

  “The old gods will feed well today.” Xbalanque stared across the expanse of the bridge to the bodies on the other side. “Perhaps that is all they were after.”

  Xbalanque was caught up in the rush across the bridge. He didn’t have time to stop for the body of the boy who really had destroyed a tank. This time his people were taking him along.

  The press found them before the army did. Hunapu, Chan K’in, and Bol stood outside their tent in the early morning chill and watched the two helicopters come in over the hills to the south. One landed in the open area where, last night, the dances and speeches had been held. The other set down near the horses. Hunapu had seen the occasional Ladino airplane, but never these strange machines. Another Ladino perversion of nature in an attempt to gain the level of gods.

  Crowds began to gather around the two helicopters. The camp consisted of a few tents and some old and decrepit trucks, but there were now hundreds of people living there. Most slept on the ground. Many of his people were god-touched and had to be helped to the groups by others. It was sad to see so much pain, but it was clear that the gods had begun taking a greater role in the people’s lives even before he had been chosen. With so many who were so close to the gods accompanying him, he felt strong and determined. He had to be following the gods’ ways.

  Maria came up to him and laid her hand on his arm, the tiny feathers covering her brushing lightly against his skin.

  “What do they want with us?” Maria was uneasy. She had seen the Ladino reaction to the god-touched before.

  “They want to make us into one of their circuses, a show for their amusement,” Chan K’in angrily replied. This intrusion into their march toward Kaminaljuyu was unwanted.

  “We will find out what they want, Maria. Do not fear them. They are stickmen without strength or true souls.” Hunapu stroked the woman’s shoulder. “Stay here and help keep the people calm.”

  Hunapu and Chan K’in began walking toward the helicopter at the center of the encampment. Bol followed, as silent as usual, carrying his rifle and watching the men with cameras as they piled out of the helicopter and stood staring at the quiet mass of people who faced them. When the helicopter’s blades swung to a halt, there was almost no noise.

  The three men made their way through the crowd slowly. They were careful not to move forward more quickly than someone could get out of their way. Hands, paws, wings, twisted limbs reached out to Hunapu as he passed. He tried to touch them all, but he could not pause to speak or he knew he would never get to the helicopter.

  When they reached the machine, painted with a large, hand-lettered PRESS on each side and the bottom, the reporters were huddled against the helicopter. There was fear and revulsion in their eyes. When one of the god-touched moved forward, they all drew back. They did not understand that the god-touched were truer men than themselves. It was typical of the Ladinos to be so blind to the truth.

  “I am Hunapu. Who are you and why have you come here?” Hunapu spoke first in Maya, then repeated his question in Spanish. He wore the cotton armor as he stood before the reporters and cam­eramen. The cameras had begun filming as soon as they could pick him out of the crowd.

  “Christ, he really does think he’s one of those Hero Twins.” The comment in bad Spanish had come from one of the men in front of him. He looked across the huddled group. Not even having the man they wanted in front of them lessened their uneasiness.

  “I am Hunapu,” he repeated.

  “I’m Tom Peterson from NBC, Central American bureau. We’ve heard that you have a joker crusade out here. Well, jokers and Indi­ans. That’s obviously true.” The tall, blond man looked over Hunapu’s shoulder at the crowd. His Spanish had an odd accent. He spoke slowly and drawled in a way Hunapu had never heard before. “I take it you’re in charge. We’d like to talk to you about your plans. Maybe there’s someplace where it would be more quiet?”

  “We will speak to you here.” Chan K’in stared up at the man dressed in a white cotton European suit. Peterson had ignored the dwarf at Hunapu’s side. Their eyes met and it was the blond man who backed down.

  “Right. Here is just fine. Joe, make sure you get good sound on this.” Another man moved between Peterson and Hunapu and held a microphone pointed at Peterson, waiting for his next words. But Hunapu’s attention had been drawn away.

  The reporters from the second helicopter had caught on to what was happening in the center and had begun shoving their way through the people to get to Hunapu. He turned to the men and women holding their equipment up out of the reach of his people as if they were crossing a river.

  “Stop.” He spoke in Maya, but his voice caught the attention of the reporters as well as his own people. Everything halted and all eyes turned toward him. “Bol, bring them here.”

  Bol glanced down at his brother before starting for the reporters. The crowd parted for him as he moved forward and again as he brought the journalists to join their fellows. He motioned them to stay put with his rifle before returning to Hunapu and Chan K’in.

  Peterson began his questions again.

  “What is your destination?”

  “We go to Kaminaljuyu.”

  “That’s right outside Guatemala City, isn’t it? Why there?”

  “I will meet my brother there.”

  “Well, what are you going to do when you meet your brother?”

  Before Hunapu could answer the question, one of the women from the second helicopter interrupted.

  “Maxine Chen, CBS. What are your feelings about your brother Xbalanque’s victory over the soldiers sent to stop him?”

  “Xbalanque is fighting the army?”

  “You hadn’t heard? He’s coming through the Highlands and pulling in every Indian revolutionary group that exists. His army has defeated the government every time they’ve clashed. The Highlands are in a state of emergency and that hasn’t even slowed Xbalanque down.” The Oriental woman was no talle
r than Hunapu. She looked around at his followers.

  “There’s a rebel behind every tree in the Highlands, has been for years. Down here in the Peten, it’s always been quiet. Before now. What’s your goal?” Her attention shot back to him.

  “When I see my brother Xbalanque, we will decide what we want.”

  “In the meantime, what do you plan to do about the army unit sent to stop you?”

  Hunapu exchanged a glance with Chan K’in.

  “Don’t you know about that either? Jesus, they’re just hours away. Why do you think all of us were so hot to get to you? You may not be here by sundown.”

  The dwarf began questioning Maxine Chen.

  “How many and how far away?” Chan K’in fixed his impassive black eyes on hers.

  “Maybe sixty men, a few more; they don’t keep any real forces down here—”

  “Maxine!” Peterson had lost his journalistic detachment. “Stay out of this, for God’s sake. You’ll get us all arrested.”

  “Stuff it, Peterson. You know as well as I do that they’ve been committing genocide here for years. These people are finally fighting back. Good for them.” She knelt in the dirt and began drawing a map on the ground for Hunapu and Chan K’in.

  “I’m getting out of here.” Peterson waved his hand in the air and the helicopter’s rotors began turning. The reporters and cameramen climbed back into the helicopter or began running for the one in the horse paddock.

  Maxine looked up from the map toward her cameraman.

  “Robert, stay with me and we’ll have an exclusive.”

  The cameraman grabbed sound equipment off a technician ready to bolt and strapped it on.

  “Maxine, you’re gonna get me killed one day, and I’m gonna come back and haunt you.”