Nebula Awards Showcase 2015

by Greg Bear

  “What is a mulatto?” I asked.

  Loddington grinned at me. “Dark enough for a houseboy, but white enough you won’t lose him at night!”

  I didn’t understand his riddle, so I asked, “And his family works for you?”

  “Close enough,” Loddington replied. “He was born into our household. Marco was always special to Father.”

  “Ah!” I said, understanding. I looked at their faces again and saw proof. “You are brothers!”

  Marco’s eyes widened like a startled cat’s. Loddington’s face grew tight. “We are not brothers,” he said stiffly. “My mother is a Spanish-born lady of the noble house of de Godoy, who gave up her privilege to marry my father in the New World. Her bloodline traces back to cousins of Queen Isabella three centuries ago. Marco is my manservant and his mother is from Africa.”

  My heart pounded. Clearly I had offended Loddington in some major way. Marco ducked his head and busied himself with a strange leather bag, as if the contents needed immediate inspection. I quickly said, “Please forgive any offense I have caused. You must understand, my knowledge of English is limited to reading my grandfather’s Bible and speaking with him, and my knowledge of America is almost nothing. I do not have the education that Incan nobles receive, for I was raised on a farm and I achieved my status through luck. I regret the insult and ask only that you let me learn from you. I may not be born into privilege as you are, but I have worked hard to improve myself.”

  I felt I hadn’t said any magic words. But perhaps Loddington regained control of himself, because he said, “Please forgive my temper. I am very proud of my father and I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “What man should feel less for his father?” I asked, smiling at Marco to show I meant no harm. “I have a baby son myself, along with an older daughter, and I pray myself worthy of my boy’s respect.”

  “Please do join us in our carrier,” said Loddington. “I would like to learn more of the Incan people. I read widely before I came here, but naturally our histories are sparse after the Expulsion. How is it that your grandfather stayed here through the wrath of the Sapa Inca?”

  Gratefully, I joined him and Marco, where we passed the remaining ride in pleasant talk. I told them of how my grandfather had become so Incan in his ways that the villagers accepted him, and the soldiers from Cusco had never forced him out. A handful of men had escaped the Expulsion in this way. I improved my accent by copying Loddington’s speech—a longer sound than I was used to, deeper in the throat, with r’s that carried longer than seemed necessary. I thought then that I must be out of practice with English, though later I learned that Americans speak differently.

  I told him how I farmed some land with my wife’s family. He seemed very interested in our terraced landscapes, and I was able to point out several well-built ones on our journey, where peasants farmed food for the magnificent imperial palace at Machu Picchu. I learned that his two loves were farming and sailing; his crop was tobacco, which was a luxury in my land, and his waters were the sea called Atlantic. I asked how he managed both enterprises, and he said, “My wife manages the plantation and my men work the fields,” by which I concluded American families must be as broad and complex as our own.

  At one point on our journey, we crossed a thick stone bridge over a narrow stream. I noticed Marco eyeing the water hungrily, as if he wished to explore where its merry waters led. I leaned over and said, “We have reed rafts, if you wish at some point to travel the land with Imperial companions.”

  Marco grinned and glanced at Loddington, who shrugged. Marco said, “I don’t think I’ll have time for an adventure.”

  Loddington said, “We’ll be here a while, Marco, and traveling great distances to vaccinate the people. It’s possible you’ll get your wish.”

  “You’re that sure of your vaccine?” I asked.

  “Positive. It works. I have no fear as we head to your famed palace—although I note how easily we might mysteriously disappear on our way there, or back. Your ruler is no fool.”

  I couldn’t think of a diplomatic answer, so I just said, “You’re wise to see it.”

  By afternoon we’d reached a narrow path, from which Machu Picchu rose in the distance. A leafy canopy shaded us from the sun’s rays. On our left rose a vast stone wall; on the right the cliff dropped away to sheer rock and a distant crevice. Though I was used to the mountain heights, the sight floored me; no man could look down and forget his place in Viracocha’s creation. Loddington gave it the barest glance before settling back into comfort. Marco stared downwards, his eyes dancing like wild men. Slowly our carriers marched, step by step, toward this most sacred palace. It felt like the trees sank as we climbed.

  As the palace drew into view, Marco’s jaw dropped. Energy rushed through me, as if the gods themselves spoke in my body and declared me worthy. Never in my life had I dreamed of seeing this miracle, this beautiful jewel on the mask of the Incan people—me, from humble origins, whom fate had vaulted into this place. Even Loddington’s eyebrows went up at the sun-drenched stones, shaped into perfection over three centuries ago and faultless ever since.

  Now my child, let me tell you: though you have seen Machu Picchu before, you have not seen it through my eyes—on that day shortly before Midsummer, when the sun honored this incredible creation. You have run through its corridors with the sons of the Sapa Inca himself. To you perhaps Machu Picchu is a happy childhood memory, a place where noble cousins might play hide and seek with you. You have run your hands along the stones’ fitted edges, feeling no gap—yes, the palace proves the Incan mastery of stonework, before we’d ever heard of Europe or smallpox. Can you believe, child, that even today the Americans spread plaster on their stones, like thick llama guts, to glue their walls together?

  Ah, our Incan engineers, they surpassed even the modern European artisan! They built seventeen channels to splash water through the palace and siphon away the rainy season, so that the palace would never flood or erode. They reshaped the ground under this palace into graveled terraces, that the water might restore the earth. All of this, done in a few decades—solely because the Sapa Inca Pachacuti demanded it, and a god’s bidding must be done without question. Men gave their lives to ensure Machu Picchu would merit its holy location—for why else build a magnificent palace in the most unreachable mountains, other than to prove that one can?

  And those were my thoughts as we arrived—that Machu Picchu represented the peak accomplishment for the early Empire, before the European diseases wasted us so deeply that we spent a century regaining our lands. But Cusco and Machu Picchu had remained ours always, their glory crowning our legacy.

  I remained silent until our carriers reached the palace entrance, for I did not wish to disturb anyone’s thoughts. Marco drank in the sights like woolen yarn with dye; he looked as if he were memorizing everything he saw, as if it could sustain him through a lean period surrounded by white walls. Loddington’s eyes swept the plaza, from the gold-leaf pumas and carved birds to the massive stone pillars that marked the first step. Terraces rose above us like earthen warriors. Water splashed through the channels, and I knelt to refresh myself with a drink. I did not fear tainting the water, for this was the lowest point. Only the Sapa Inca could drink from the heights.

  Amaru and Paucar drew near, and Amaru addressed Loddington. “This is the imperial palace of Machu Picchu, summer home of the Sapa Inca himself. He has instructed us to show you the palace in all its glory.”

  “I thank you for the privilege,” said Loddington, but I detected a note of humor in his voice. I couldn’t understand it.

  Amaru and Paucar led our little processional, with Loddington following, and Marco and myself in back. Eight armed guards accompanied us, stone-faced and attentive; we Incas held a long memory after the treacherous Pizarro. Personally, I felt no danger that the Americans might harm us, but caution was wise.

  We toured endless terraces and plazas, each more glorious than the last, lined
with so many gold-leaf cornstalks I went cross-eyed. So much glamor overwhelmed me. I appreciated the beauty of isolated fountains, and the occasional secluded passage—but I thanked Inti for not making me Sapa Inca, for I think I would have perished of richness.

  Amaru discussed the palace’s history, and Paucar commented on its architecture. I learned much as I translated for the Americans, but mostly I spoke to Marco. He listened with shining eyes, as if I narrated legends rather than history. Loddington listened too, but his eyes were distant, and in time he drifted away to study the delicate gold sculptures lining the pools and archways.

  Amaru said, “We understand that gold is valuable in every known nation. Europeans—and Americans, it seems—trade it for earthly goods and services. But we consider it spiritual currency. Gold buys honor in Inti’s eyes; it is created by the sun itself, and is holy. Thus why Machu Picchu is laden with the sun’s sweat; it marks the hard work done to honor our Sapa Inca and the god Inti himself.”

  When I had translated this, Marco asked, “What do you use for money?”

  Amaru answered, “We have bartered since the early days of the Empire. When Europeans arrived, they nearly destroyed us—but our Empire survived, and eventually welcomed the Europeans. We quickly saw the value of a single tradable item, useful in any context. So the Sapa Inca—this was Ronpa’s reign, in 1543—declared silver as our currency. Gold is reserved for religious and imperial use. Of course some nobles buy and sell gold, but it is not demeaned with everyday economic use.”

  “So if you pay us in gold,” said Marco thoughtfully, “it’s like selling us a piece of heaven.”

  “Marco!” exclaimed Loddington. “Come here. I need you immediately.”

  The boy went to his leader, and Amaru asked me quietly, “Have you learned anything of interest yet?”

  “No,” I said, worrying that I’d been given a too-difficult task. I couldn’t see why Loddington might tell me anything surprising. He seemed too smart a man to reveal any clues to his thinking.

  “Unless I miss my guess, he will open to you,” said Amaru, smiling. “Keep translating for me, please.”

  I bowed slightly, still bothered by Marco’s words. It was true—if we paid in gold, we were selling our gods for the people’s health. No wonder the Sapa Inca felt we should make a hundredfold child sacrifice. Without that additional gift, the gods would be angry at our heathen choice—and a new illness might strike us down.

  We headed next to the great Temple of the Three Windows, where all the former Sapa Incas lived. Their lovingly-wrapped mummies once lived in the Coricancha to advise the Sapa Inca, but they had been moved here in 1766 for peace and privacy. Now I felt Machu Picchu’s true power, and my knees grew weak. Amaru led us through winding passages towards the rulers’ alcoves, and he chose Ronpa’s nook first.

  I admired Ronpa’s clean wrappings, and I imagined the living god standing before us. Amaru droned on and on, describing the complex family relationships among the various rulers—most were cousins of some fashion—and stressing the importance of good imperial heritage. I translated mindlessly; family terms and names were easy, without nuance, and could vanish from my head once spoken. Loddington looked exceptionally bored during this part, and even Marco’s eyes dulled a bit. As I explained how the Sapa Inca and the High Priest were often brothers, and the current Coya Inca was their sister, Loddington snapped to attention.

  “Do you mean to tell me that your rulers are siblings?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, taken aback. “It’s always been this way.”

  Loddington looked like he wanted to say something angry, but he controlled himself with tight lips and narrow eyes. Marco just looked confused, as if he couldn’t understand how such a thing were possible. Amaru asked, “Is there a problem?”

  “They wished to clarify my translation,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. “We will tour the upper fountains and the plaza next, and then we can rest. I suspect our guests need it.”

  Indeed, Loddington looked exhausted, and even Marco looked worn down. But Amaru spent the entire afternoon lecturing on the sights at Machu Picchu. I thought my eyes couldn’t handle any more gold. As the sun dropped lower, Amaru stopped in a room with a lovely window, which framed a dropaway landscape of the valley and the setting sun. I couldn’t even appreciate it anymore; I was numb with awe.

  “You may rest here,” he told the Americans. “Lanchi will stay in case you need anything. Paucar and I will attend to the High Priest.” He handed me two more coca leaves and departed.

  When we were alone, Loddington sat on a bench and took a deep breath, looking pale. Marco sat next to him and leaned against the wall. Marco had carried all of Loddington’s bundles up hundreds of flights of stairs, so I offered him the coca leaves. He took them and offered both to Loddington, who glanced at me and chose only one leaf.

  He chewed it roughly, like it angered him. “Royalty is the same anywhere you look,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure if he addressed Marco or me. When the boy didn’t answer, I said, “How do the royals act in the colonies where you live?”

  “Uppity. They think they own us. Nobles think it’s all about the family you’re born into. Did you hear him going on about the lineage of each ruler? It’s like that heritage mattered more than what the man actually did.”

  I thought this odd from a man so proud of his noble Spanish mother, but didn’t say so. “According to legend, we Incas appeared on earth at the end of a golden rod,” I told him. “The nobles ensure that our rulers always connect back to Manco Inca and the other seven original people.”

  “What does it matter, though? A man’s worth is in his deeds. It doesn’t matter if he was born a king or a shoemaker. A good man proves his worth regardless of his station.”

  “That much is true,” I agreed. “I have known peasants who were kinder than I deserved, and nobles who angered at nothing.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Loddington. “Do you think these nobles deserve all this wealth? Look at the gold in this place. Every man in your nation could be rich. Yet your people toil in the fields to support the Sapa Inca, and they have no say in their future. Do you think that’s fair?”

  “The Sapa Inca deserves the best of everything,” I told him. “The gods choose him to rule us, and he must lack for nothing.”

  “But why should an ordinary man suffer to offer him such tremendous wealth? When there is no chance of that man becoming noble himself, unless disease should spare his family, as happened to you?”

  “It’s an interesting question,” I said cautiously, as Amaru’s wisdom dawned on me. “It is true that a man can find great strength by doing things for himself. Many nobles don’t understand this.”

  “Exactly,” said Loddington. “Marco, fetch me some water from that fountain, will you? I’ve developed enough great strength for a week after those stairs.”

  “Most nobles are born with everything—all that they might want, and they never question that. I have more humble origins, and I still feel awkward among them.”

  “Really?” asked Loddington, sounding interested. Marco slipped a cup out of his pack and filled it with water. “How did you arrive at court?”

  “I’m not really part of court,” I said. I told him of the day I left for a hunt, and came back a man. When I reached the part about my younger sisters contracting smallpox, he listened very acutely. A bird flew in the window and he barely noticed; he listened as I described the horror of finding my sisters maimed and my father dead.

  “That must have been a nightmare,” he said quietly, sipping water. “You’re lucky you were never exposed to the disease. It might have killed you. God willing, your Sapa Inca will make this deal, and spare your people such suffering. Smallpox has always been cruel, but particularly so to your people. No one knows why.”

  “I sincerely hope the vaccine will work for us,” I said, “though my heart aches at my personal grief, should that be true.”

>   “How so?”

  I was torn by uncertainty. I wanted to tell him about the Sapa Inca’s plan to sacrifice twelve hundred children at Atun Cusqui, and that my Chaska was likely to be chosen for this honor. On one hand, Amaru had instructed me to befriend the man and learn his secrets, and what better way to open a man than to open oneself? Yet on the other, perhaps in discussing the true cost of his demand, I would harm future negotiations.

  I’m not sure what decided me. I think something in Marco’s face moved me to share my fears, something about his innocence mixed with excitement. Somewhere, I thought, this boy’s mother has released him into the world to become a man, and she must miss him terribly. Besides, perhaps if Loddington knew the full consequences, he might lower his price. Surely a mere thousand times his own weight in gold would buy a whole kingdom.

  So I told Loddington and Marco of their vaccine’s ultimate cost, and Loddington’s face turned solid white. He stood and paced the room, then leaned against the window looking at the view.

  “That’s horrible,” whispered Marco. “Those poor kids—they’re killed? For what purpose?”

  “To appease the gods,” I said. “Because if we pay the price requested, we are spending divinity itself. Gold is not money to us.”

  “Barbarians,” said Loddington, almost inaudibly.

  Now I feared I had done terrible damage. I said, “Perhaps there is another way that my nation could pay, with silver? Or a smaller amount, or—”

  “Silver would be too heavy in the amount I need,” he said. “I can’t transport it. Besides, it’s useless for backing our money. Military service wouldn’t help either; you don’t know our terrain the way we do, and— Ugh! Child sacrifice and incestuous marriage. Jesus protect us.”

  Greatly worried, I said, “Perhaps the Sapa Inca will change his plan, or—”

  “It’s not my business,” he said sharply. “My job is to make this deal and fund our war. There’s more than twelve hundred American children praying for me to succeed. They’re praying for an independent land, free of unfair tax policies and royal meddling—a land of brotherhood and equality. And in my homeland, each of those children has value for who they are. Any boy can work hard and be a landowner, like my father did to earn his plantation. And that’s a cause worth fighting for, even if the price is far too high. Every life has value—even if the Sapa Inca cannot understand that. But you understand, I think.”