The Annihilators

by Donald Hamilton

  But the gods would see and we would see. And it was not fitting for a Priestess of the Jaguar and a Warrior of the Axe to cravenly betray their people and sneak away into the jungle to live like animals with a great nation, their great nation, lying dead behind them.

  I took the cup and drank and gave it back. I felt my death come quickly, but not before I had seen her drink deeply in her turn, smiling at me as she drank…

  19

  I came awake uneasily, feeling dazed and lost, not knowing where I was or where I had been; knowing only that it had been a long and harrowing journey. Then Frances moved beside me in the dark and turned toward me, sleepily indicating her wish to be held, as always in bed a trusting and vulnerable woman very different from the tall, cool, competent person I knew by daylight. But in the act of snuggling closer she came fully awake and sat up with a start.

  “Oh, my God! Darling, I had the damndest dream!…”

  We were in my bed in my hotel cottage without any clothes on. How we had got there I had no idea.

  “It was a dream, wasn’t it?” Frances said uncertainly.

  I rolled over and turned on the light. Our clothes were scattered untidily between the door and the bed as if we had fumbled our way out of them drunkenly—but of course it had not been drink, it had been that damned smoke. And perhaps a little hypnosis on the side? When I turned toward Frances, she looked suddenly a little sick. “Your face!… I guess it wasn’t really a dream, that part of it anyway. The cave part. Do I have… something on me, too?”

  She turned her face to the light; and a neat band of dried blood ran from her hairline down her nose and across her lips to the point of her chin. She saw the answer in my eyes and, quite pale, started to get out of bed hastily. I grabbed her arm.

  “Easy,” I said.

  “Damn it, I have to get it off before I…”

  “It’s not fuming nitric acid, sweetheart. Take it easy. Just sit right there and relax.”

  I got up and went into the bathroom and wet a washcloth, wrung it out partially, and brought it back. I turned her face to the light again and gently removed the red brown stripe. I took the cloth back, rinsed it out, and returned and knelt before her so she could do the same for me.

  “And why is that, any better than what I was going to do?” she asked a bit sulkily as I returned after disposing of the wet cloth.

  I stopped by the dresser and peeled the usual protective plastic film off the glasses, also plastic—after the strange places we’d been this night, the familiar modern motel-hotel junk was kind of reassuring—and poured out a couple of drinks, one of which I put into her hand. I sat down beside her on the edge of the bed.

  “Respect, doll,” I said. “Respect is the watchword.”

  “Respect for what? Are you still afraid of offending their damn old gods?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of the gods,” I said. “I was thinking of the people. They did us a considerable honor, remember; allowing us to participate in their secret ceremony. I wouldn’t want to give them the idea I didn’t appreciate that honor by removing the sacred mark in a hasty and disrespectful manner.”

  She looked at me for a moment; then she grinned. “You are without a doubt the weirdest man… All right. As an archaeologist I have to agree with you. I was being childish; I was forgetting my scientific objectivity. But in this room? How would they know when they can’t see us?”

  “Are you sure of that?” I asked. “We’ve had some very peculiar things happen. I’m not making any wild assumptions about what that old priest can and can’t see. Or the young one, either, for that matter. And I wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings for the world, if you know what I mean.”

  She took a gulp of her drink. “I know.”

  I hesitated. “How authentic was the sacrifice we saw?” I asked. “I’d always assumed they did it by hacking open the rib cage lengthwise, instead of just making that great transverse incision under the sternum and reaching up from below.”

  “Ugh,” she said, “it was very authentic, judging by the friezes and murals I’ve seen, but do we have to talk about it?”

  I grinned. “For a dedicated scientist who spends her life digging up dead bones, you are the most squeamish lady I have ever met. How the hell have you got as far as you have in your profession without realizing that those old bones were once surrounded by flesh and blood, lots of blood, and that a lot of them probably didn’t get to be old bones in an entirely peaceful manner?”

  She looked at me and smiled a bit uncertainly. “Criticism acknowledged,” she said softly. “I have thought of it. But the crude gory reality was… was just a little much for a sheltered Ph.D. who got most of her education out of books and museums. I’m sure it was a very valuable experience, but I need a little time to assimilate it.” She hesitated. “We both saw the sacrifice, didn’t we? That was real. The blood we just washed off was real blood. I presume they went ahead and… and did it to the other two prisoners; but I wasn’t, well, really there after the first one. Were you? Or did you have a very strange and vivid dream instead?” When I nodded, she said, “To be scientific about it, we should both write down what we remember, independently, and then compare our dreams, if they really were dreams and not some kind of hypnotic suggestions. But I don’t think I’m up to the scientific method right now. Was I in your dream?”

  “Yes,” I said. “In a manner of speaking. You were shorter and browner, you had lovely coal-black hair and beautiful brown eyes, and you were one of the high priestesses of Ixchal; but in some way I knew it was you. Was I in yours?” When she nodded, I asked, “What was I?”

  “You were the handsome captain of the Dog Squadron of the King’s Axes. And you had no business at all, you wicked man, seducing a virgin priestess of the royal blood.” She was not looking at me; and there was color in her face. She spoke dryly: “Apparently I’m just a pushover in every incarnation. But anyway, we seem to have shared pretty much the same dream experience, wouldn’t you say?” She drew a long breath and turned to look at me. “Give me a critique of our joint dream, Sam. I know what I think of it as an archaeologist; what do you think of it as a layman? Did you believe what you were dreaming?”

  I said, “If you put it that way, yes. While I was dreaming it, I believed in it completely. I could hardly bear to drink the poison out of the cup you gave me, not because I feared death, but because it would part me from you, my true love, my only love. I even considered betraying my people, and my honor as a warrior, for your sweet sake.”

  She was smiling a little. “And now that you’re awake?”

  I said bluntly, “I think most of it was a lot of Hollywood crap.”

  She didn’t seem startled. She was watching me steadily. “Tell me why.”

  I said, “Jesus, that one about the virile warrior and the virgin priestess has whiskers on it! The doomed lovers and the love that endures beyond the grave! Do you really think they entertained such romantic notions back in those early days? You know more about primitive people than I do, but I have a hunch they fucked when they felt like fucking, and maybe sometimes they felt like it enough to break a sacred taboo or two, but they didn’t make a tender production of it the way we like to. They didn’t lead that kind of sheltered dreamy live or think that kind of mushy thoughts. Or, dammit read that kind of slushy novel. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not wrong. Anything else?”

  I said, “Again, you’re the expert, but the military business was nonsense, in my opinion. Regiments of soldiers standing rigidly at attention three thousand years B.C.? Opening and closing their formations smartly? One unit trained to let another pass through, and then reform on command? I’m not even sure an experienced Roman legion could have pulled off that evolution successfully; and the disciplined legions came a good many dozen centuries later. I’m just guessing, but I’m willing to bet a small sum that the Melmecs never even thought in terms of that kind of rigid military discipline. Judging by what I’ve seen an
d read on this trip, they dressed their wars up with very fancy costumes, and maybe even with their own ideas of martial music, and certainly with a lot of religious ceremonies; but basically their battles were just one disorganized bunch of guys clubbing and knifing and spearing another bunch until somebody’d had enough and ran away. Or somebody saw an omen in the sky saying his side had lost and it was time to quit. As jungle fighters go, they may have been terrific with sneak attacks and ambushes; but when it came to close-order drill, forget it.” I looked at her for a moment. “Your turn,” I said.

  Frances drew a long breath. “The priestesses,” she said. “We’ve found evidence indicating that women did take some part in their ceremonies; but that chorus line of lovely bare-breasted maidens gliding seductively down the pyramid steps!” She shook her head quickly. “Do you know what it reminded me of? Not when I was dreaming it, of course; like you I believed in it completely at the time; but now that I think back on it, well, you remember the Ballet Folklorica in Mexico City that I advised you not to see; and we found… something else to do that night instead.” There was color in her face again, but she went on steadily: “Well, I saw the performance the previous time I was there, and they had a supposedly, authentic Aztec dance that looked just like that, about as genuinely ancient and ethnic as Radio City Music Hall.”

  “Yes, I agree that the death dance of the virgins was a bit much,” I said when she paused. “And then there was that business of the axes. I’m kind of weapons-oriented, and I’ve been looking carefully at the stuff you’ve been showing us. I haven’t seen a single war axe of any kind, either as an artifact or carved on a wall. Up in what is now the U.S. they used the tomahawk, sure, but that was a little one-hand job for throwing and close-quarters hacking. What my Melmec warriors and I were armed with, in my dream, was a king-sized battle-chopper such as the Vikings sometimes used, except that the head was stone instead of steel.”

  There was a little silence in the room; and no sound came from outside. There were no cars driving on the single road leading into this hotel; there were no birds or animals communicating in the surrounding jungle. Frances gave an abrupt laugh, looking down at herself.

  “Do you realize that we’re indulging in this scholarly discussion without a stitch on? You’d better toss me my shirt; and make me another drink, please. And you put something on, please, and don’t sit quite so close, and look straight ahead, because I’m going to tell you something that embarrasses me dreadfully and I don’t want you looking at me.”

  I followed her instructions, pulling on my shorts and refilling our glasses. When I was seated at the indicated distance, facing in the indicated direction, I said, “Carry on.”

  “You must bear with me, Sam,” she said. “This is all going to be very personal, but it connects… I was a tall, shy child, darling, and I grew up to be a tall, shy schoolgirl. And bright, dammit, bright enough that I could hide my shyness by acting very snooty and superior. I was the smartest kid in class, wasn’t I? A totally unpleasant little monster, well, big monster. Taller than practically all the boys. And being so smart and so superior, being so tall, how could I learn about… about certain things like the pretty little dumb girls around me? I mean, how could I let a boy much smaller than I, and stupider, smear my lipstick and muss my dress and… and fumble with my undies? I’d have been, making myself totally ridiculous; or I thought I would. So I stuck with my snooty act, and I became terribly afraid that somebody would learn what a fraud. I was; that some night I’d find myself wrestling with a boy all sweaty and untidy and half-undressed and suddenly he would realize that the tall, self-possessed young lady who’d condescended to… to cooperate graciously out of the kindness of her heart was really a very frightened and inexperienced girl who didn’t know a damn thing about anything. And he would laugh and laugh and laugh and tell all his friends, and I would simply die of shame and humiliation.”

  She took a swallow from her glass and stared down into it for a moment. I did not speak or look at her directly.

  Presently she went on: “So I rationalized it. I told myself that sex was really a very undignified and disgusting business and to hell with it. But in secret I read endless mushy novels about unrequited love, and Elaine the Lily Maid of Astolat, and Lancelot and Guinevere—well, I guess their love wasn’t exactly unrequited—and I waited for the handsome, understanding prince who would liberate me from my dark prison tower and appreciate my unblemished purity.” She made a face. “I don’t suppose this is very interesting to anybody but me.”

  “I’m not bored,” I said.

  She glanced at me warily and went on: “It’s funny how one can be very tough and smart and hardheaded on one level—I got my degrees in record time with all kinds of honors—and still be a totally mixed-up mess on another. Of course, around the universities I attended, I was known as the original ice maiden. And by this time I’d really painted myself into a corner, to scramble a metaphor. I mean, I was twenty-six years old, apparently a very sophisticated and competent and successful young woman; how the hell could I tell a man who took me out that I’d never done it and the very idea frightened me silly, even made me a little sick, but… but that I was perfectly willing to try it, well, reluctantly willing to try it, because I was beginning to realize that the way I was just wasn’t any good. But please, Mister, be gentle, be kind and understanding. How could I bare my soul and my fears, not to mention my body, to a stray male character who’d bargained only for a pleasant evening with the lady, not a session of psychiatric therapy?”

  She was silent again, and I said, “But your prince came along.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Archie came along. We met professionally on an expedition into… Well, it doesn’t matter where. There were other people, of course, the men sleeping in one tent and the women, in another, so there was no question of… Anyway, we just talked. And talked. And talked. Whenever we had a chance to be together. I don’t know what we talked about. Everything. And when we got back he asked me to marry him.” She paused to clear her throat. “I said… I said that I was perfectly willing, but he should know he’d be getting a frozen twenty-six-year-old female freak who’d hardly been kissed, let alone… bedded. It was as easy as that, telling him. He said, well, we could take care of the kissing right now; and the rest would undoubtedly take care of itself. Of course it didn’t. It was… rather difficult for a while, I was really a mess, but he was endlessly gentle, endlessly patient, and in the end it worked very well indeed. I was very lucky, Sam. If it had been another man, just a little overeager and impatient, just a little rough and demanding, I’d probably have spent the rest of my life as an emotional cripple. I owe my husband a great deal. He’s a wonderful person. I really… really love him very much in spite of the way I…”

  Her voice trailed off. We were getting pretty far from the subject originally under discussion; but I sensed that she had motives for telling me this quite apart from the problems of the night. I sensed also that I wouldn’t like those motives very much when I understood them. In the meantime I wasn’t all that impressed with Professor Archibald Dillman’s shining nobility. Being granted the privilege of introducing a woman like this one belatedly to the joys of love shouldn’t really, I reflected sourly, qualify a man for hardship pay, or a saint’s halo. But it didn’t seem advisable for me to say it; anyway, I was probably a bit jealous of Bonnie Prince Archie.

  Frances laughed sharply, with sudden self-contempt. “And owing him a great deal, loving him very much, I’m sitting on another man’s bed without any pants on! I guess perhaps he overdid the treatment a little; or maybe I’m just compulsively making up for all the lost, loveless years. But the point is, Sam, don’t you recognize the basic elements of our dream scenario? The awakened virgin scientist-lady—read priestess. The romantic notion of star-crossed love, out of all those mushy books I read. The pretty ballet on the pyramids, from the show I saw. Dammit, Sam, that lousy old man just picked my brains—our brains—and fed us back our
own sentimental TV notions in that so-called dream he sent us! I’ll bet if you scrounge around in your mind, you’ll find an axe in there somewhere. Obviously he did. What about those Vikings you mentioned?”

  I nodded slowly. “You may be right. My parents were Scandinavian, you know; and I was a red-hot Viking aficionado as a kid. I read every gory old Norse saga I could get my hands on. And the battle-axe was certainly one of their weapons, but… Wait a minute! I’ve got it. H. Rider Haggard.”

  “Who?”

  “Not your type of escape literature, doll. African adventure was his bag. His best-known book is probably King Solomon’s Mines, but I read them all; and the one I remember best was called Allan Quartermain. Allan was the wise white hunter, and his native sidekick was the great Zulu warrior Umslopogaas, one of my favorite fictional characters at that youthful time. Umslopogaas carried an outsized battle-axe and died nobly, shattered axe in hand, holding a palace stairway against overwhelming odds. And the inhabitants of Umslopogaas’s home village were known as the People of the Axe.”

  Frances drained her glass and set it carefully on the bedside table; then she drew the thin red shirt around her and shivered slightly.

  “The idea of people rummaging around in my mind gives me the creeps,” she said. “But I guess I’ve got to accept the fact that there are things that can’t be explained scientifically, at least not yet.” She looked at me sideways and spoke in a different tone. “Well, Sam?”

  “Well, what?” She waited without speaking, and I said, “Oh, you mean about the dream?”

  “Yes. We’ve pretty well picked it apart, haven’t we? All except…”