“So, Friday’s lesson…the purpose of that smack-down was what, exactly?”
Albright ran his worn fingers through the steam rising off his cup. “A wake-up call. Like Ms. Bathory, most of your Lambda squadmates rely on main force to carry them through their duels. Don’t get me wrong, son. They are all extremely talented—but therein lies the rub. Power breeds arrogance, and arrogance breeds complacency. There is a counter to every punch, no matter how potent and well crafted that punch may be. Those in need of such a lesson were broken and humiliated. At the same time, the most tentative members of the squad—the ones that Monique never even considered calling on—were forced to watch as their comrades were injured. They learned the true cost of weakness. Weakness forces you to stand by as those around you are harmed. It is a bitter lesson. One some responded quite well to.”
“Dante and Sadie?” I asked.
Albright nodded.
“How about Ichijo? Did you think he’s too benevolent?”
“Something like that.”
“And Monique?”
“For Monique, the lesson was a simple one: if she wants to lead, she cannot look at her subordinates as people. Subordinates are tools. Tools to complete one’s objective with.” Albright swept some of the snow off the table and set down his book. “If they must be spent, they must be spent.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Like when you told Jules to set off the fire alarm. What if your diversion had been insufficient?”
“Hey, I didn’t…” I felt like I was going to be ill. “I didn’t think Jules would get hurt.”
“Nor did you consider it. It didn’t even enter into your mental calculus, did it? You were mono-focused on your objective. You decided the priority was to alert the dorms before your colleagues were killed. Collateral damage? Risk to yourself or your teammate? You didn’t consider those factors. You chose the path you thought had the maximum probability of success, compartmentalized your feelings, executed your plan, and dealt with the emotional baggage later. As in New York, every action you took was hard to predict. But you also learned from your errors. This time, every strike you chose was overwhelming.” Albright chuckled to himself. “You traded in your pipe for a pipe bomb. No wonder you fascinate her. You two are like the opposite sides of the same coin.”
I stared across this table. This man…he’d talked to me jovially over dozens of cups of coffee. Discussions of biology and chemistry. Debates about the feasibility of the Death Star. I had felt so comfortable around him. Thought of him as a kindly academic. This was a bit too much to swallow.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but if that’s all…”
Albright raised his hands in surrender. “Of course, of course. I interrupted your studies. All I wanted to do was stop by and say hello.” He stood up and fluffed up his coat. “It’s gonna be a cold one this year.”
“How can you tell?”
“When you get to see two hundred of them, you’ll be able to see it in the trees.”
And just like that, dean of student affairs headed back across the lawn.
I stood. Damn it, I couldn’t help but bite.
“Dean Albright,” I shouted. “What about Jules and Maria? You didn’t test either of them.”
He turned around and smiled. “Sure I did. The only one I didn’t get around to was you.” He gave his sides a rub. “Now cold is cold. I’m heading inside for some chili. Adios, compadre.”
“What the fuck,” I muttered. “Did I not ask that bastard if he was sane or not?” And what kind of East Coast liberal eats chili, anyway? I plopped back down on the picnic bench. Wanting to get Albright out of my head as soon as possible, I took up my book and turned back to page forty.
The words were all in Spanish.
Confused, I checked the binding:
Lágrimas de Montezuma, by Diego C. Escutia
“What the heck?” I whined. “Where’d my book of mass death go?” This one was old and moth eaten. It smelled of mushrooms and soot. I flipped to the publishing info at the front:
Mexico City, 1850
“Wow,” I muttered. Escutia’s book was the oldest book I’d ever held. And it had a dedication too. In an elegant, looping script, the following words were written:
Kit,
May your hands never wash clean.
Escutia
I stared at the little green book and frowned. This couldn’t have been an accident. Albright must have switched them on purpose. I placed the thin volume into one of my robe’s ample outer pockets and gathered up my things. Whatever his motive, Albright had pricked my interest. I needed a Spanish-English dictionary and some reference books on the Mexican-American War.
“To the library!” I shouted (to no one in particular) and headed towards the giant bronze doors.
+
One of the benefits of kitchen work is you’re bound to pick up some Spanish. Unfortunately, kitchen banter and nerd speak rarely overlap. Phrases like “it is my contention” and “thus altering the course of human history” were a bit beyond me. It took me a few hours of translating before I settled into a rhythm. Lágrimas de Montezuma was a historical account of a particularly nasty battle that occurred during the Mexican-American War. The engagement was a brutal hand-to-hand affair on the outskirts of Mexico City near the end of the final great war for the West.
On September 13, 1847, 13,000 Americans faced off against 4,000 Mexican regulars under the command of General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. During the previous week, the Mexican forces had received a crushing blow at Molino del Rey, leaving the approach to Chapultepec Castle open to attack. Chapultepec Castle was crucial to the Mexican defense. If it were taken, the nation’s capital would be open to bombardment by artillery.
To this day, the Battle of Chapultepec has special meaning for the armed forces of both the United States and Mexico. The first line in the American Marine Corps' hymn, “From the Halls of Montezuma,” is a reference to Chapultepec Castle. There’s good reason for the Marines to remember it: 90% of their men died in combat that day. That factoid made my next discovery all the more interesting:
Chapultepec Castle was Mexico’s military academy.
Mexico’s forces were in dire straits. Mexico City was about to be overrun, and the defending armies were scattered across the countryside. Pressed for time, General Santa Anna was forced to scramble. He ordered the 200 or so cadets training at the academy into the fight. And perhaps the term “cadet” is a bit misleading. These weren’t college students; their average age was sixteen.
I flipped through the pages of Diego Escutia’s book in amazement. The American roster read like a greatest hits album of the American Civil War: Robert E. Lee helped plan the assault; George Pickett’s squad was assigned the task of breaching the castle’s walls; and a lieutenant by the name of Ulysses S. Grant single-handedly climbed a freaking bell tower, captured the enemy’s howitzer, and rained hell down upon its defenders. I shook my head in disbelief. I had no idea Rambo served a term as president.
But Lágrimas de Montezuma was really the story of the 200 cadets. As the assault began, the cadets were ordered to defend the castle along with the rest of the regular army. They fought bravely, and—to the surprise of many—they repulsed the initial advance. But it was not destined to be their day. The Americans were well-trained veterans, and they retained a particularly tenacious group of combat engineers.
It was during the quiet after the first wave that things went all to hell. Heavy smoke blotted out the sun, and in a daring move, George Pickett’s engineers snuck within range and overcame the walls. As the first shots were fired, chaos erupted in the Mexican ranks. A mixture of inexperience and wretched leadership allowed the battle lines to fall into total disarray. The fight descended into hand-to-hand, room-to-room slaughter. Some of the regulars fell back. Others found themselves cornered and surrendered. Sensing the battle was lost, the commander of the fortess ordered all the cadets to withdraw.
Most of the cade
ts disobeyed him, choosing to stand and fight. Among them were six of the youngest. They believed they had a higher responsibility, and they headed for the stairs. The rest was a cascade of human tragedy. According to Escutia’s account, the boys fell one after another as they struggled to press further and further into the overrun structure. Only the last two survived to the stairs. Exhausted—and with an American squad right on their heels—the two raced to the roof. Why was everyone charging to the top of the structure? Why were the American forces bothering to chase children through an already captured castle? To me, the answer was remarkable: They were fighting over a piece of cloth.
Escutia collected the rest of the story from American soldiers’ first hand accounts: Reaching the rooftop, the officer in charge ordered the cadets to surrender. The last two boys, a Francisco Márquez, age 13, and a Juan Escutia, age 16, again refused to yield. Márquez was seen to nod at Escutia. Escutia then nodded at Márquez, and using his own body as a shield, lunged into the Americans’ waiting bayonets. The soldiers were so stunned by the act that one of them ended up shot by his own gun. But Márquez’s sacrifice wasn’t for that purpose. It was merely to buy Juan Escutia time. Time to pull the Mexican colors from the flag poll. Time to wrap the tattered cloth about his body. Time to leap off the side of the building.
Looking down from the high tower, the Americans soldiers found Escutia’s crumpled body in the jagged rocks below, still wrapped in the Mexican colors. What had led to this madness? Why had these young boys decided to throw away their lives? It was simple really. Since they were very little, these six boys had been taught that battles could be won or lost, but a brave man—a heroic man—never surrendered the colors.
The battle itself ended in a rout. The Americans were mortaring Mexico City proper by the evening. By February of the next year, all of Mexico had capitulated. They lost 55% of their territory (aka: Wyoming, California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico), and in return, Mexico was given a token payment of 18 million dollars. The records did not state whether the Mexican leadership was forced to pick the banknotes up off the floor, but later in life, Ulysses S. Grant, the hero of the Battle of Chapultepec, stated that in his opinion the Mexican-American War was “one of the most unjust wars ever waged on a weaker nation by a stronger one.” It’s also why my native tongue is English rather than Spanish. I was mulling that strange thought over in my head when I reached the last page of Escutia’s book. There he had written the following dedication:
Dedicada a Juan Carrera Escutia, mi hermano valiente. Volar libre.
My blood ran cold. Juan Carrera Escutia. I closed the book with a shudder. Juan Carrera Escutia, the boy who leapt to his death, was Diego Carrera’s brother. Diego Carrera was the head of Talmax…how on earth had Albright managed to dig this up? And more importantly, how on earth was Carrera still alive? I counted the numbers on my fingers. To have written this book, Carrera had to be nearly 200 years old now. Wow. And who the hell was this Kit? There was no mention of any Kit in this book. Why had Carrera given him a copy?
My watch beeped signaling 11PM. The last fourteen hours had gone by in a blur. Albright had given me Carrera’s motive, but I had no idea what to do with the lovely little info-nugget. Bleary eyed, I flipped off the desk light and stumbled out of the library. Any more probing would have to wait. I had promised to meet Dante for dinner. He was having lady trouble.
+
I found Dante in the cafeteria. He looked to be on the mend, but Sundays were Salisbury steak night, and I expressed my deep concern that such poison might make him sicker.
Dante didn’t seem worried. He was devouring them like pancakes. “The medics say I’ll need one more week in the brace. Jules is actually pretty talented. It’s thanks to her that it’s healing faster.”
“That’s good to hear.” My stomach groaned. “Stars above, Dante, I think the steak’s mounting a counterattack.”
Dante smiled. “I guess I’m used to it. The Slump hit Kentucky pretty hard. You wouldn’t believe the stuff my family had to fry up. This is heaven compared to home.”
I grabbed my belly and groaned. “Well it sure might send you to heaven. I’m switchin’ to spuds.”
Dante chuckled. “So how’d the date go?” he asked.
Taters shot out my nose.
“Oh, lordy, I love doing that,” he said, laughing.
“Date?” I gasped. “What date?”
Dante rolled his eyes. “Are you dense? The dinner and the movie with Jules.” He shook his head sadly. “And here I thought I was gonna get up the nerve to ask Sheila out first.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I said hurriedly. “We had to go shopping, Dante. I didn’t even have a spare pair of underwear. It’s just that at the end of the day I had some extra cash, and—”
“And so you said, ‘Hey there little lady, would you like to go out for supper and a movie?’”
I frowned.
“Did I get it about right?”
“No. Well, yes. But it wasn’t like that. We went to see Harry Potter: Auror Squad 4.”
It was Dante’s turn to spit food. “‘Arry? ‘Arry Potter?” He started laughing.
I shrugged. “She likes the books.”
“Then you must like her a whole lot more. To sit through that? Oh, bud, you are sunk.”
“Seriously, Dante,” I said, waving my arms and laughing, “I don’t like Rei that way! We’re just friends…but I will say one thing. The food at Hogwarts sure looked better than this slop.”
I noticed Dante was looking at me kinda funny.
“What?” I asked.
“Dieter, who was talking about Rei?”
“No one was. We were talking about Jules.”
He shook his head. “Bud, you just said, and I shall repeat: ‘I don’t like Rei that way.’”
“Oh.” Freud me. My ears felt hot. Why had I mixed up their names? It must have been all that translating. I really needed to rest my eyes.
Dante leaned forward, squinting. “No way.” His eyes widened. “No freakin’ way!” An evil grin grew across his face. “You can’t be serious. Bud, you are aware she’s a vampire, correct?”
I buried my head in my hands. “Yea, I figured that part out. And yea, I know what you mean, they make real bad kissers.”
“What!” Dante exclaimed. Heads around the cafeteria snapped in our direction. There was gossip afoot, and woe to the Elliotite that missed it. I mimed for Dante to be quiet. He leaned forward and whispered, “You did what?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Comment withdrawn.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Bud, you better spill, or I’ll hide your precious new underwear somewhere you’ll never find them.”
I frowned. I was really attached to my underwear—they were hole free. “Fine. But I swear, Dante, if you tell anyone, I’m not the only one who’s getting killed.”
“Bud, I come from a border state, a fanger will probably get my goose anyway. Now spill.”
“It was the day after the raid. I went for a walk after the briefing. Stuff happened. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I um…I kissed her.”
“Well?” Dante asked, leaning even closer. “How was it?”
I shrugged. “It sucked.”
Dante gave both sides of my neck a casual glance. “Un-freaking believable. I can’t even manage a date and here you are with two on the line. Next you’re gonna tell me you’ve got a Were on the side.” He frowned and cradled his head, then squinted and pointed at me accusingly. “If Rei ghouls you, you better not eat my guts.”
I blinked. “Hold the phone. Ghouls are real too?”
“Honestly, Dieter, you really oughta consider taking History of Magic, and maybe Bestiary too.”
“So I’m told…but seriously?”
“Well, you are unfailingly loyal…” Noting that my face was going ivory, Dante added, “But a ghoul is a carrion eater. They’re powered by pounding down rotten flesh—not pancakes. Plus, if you were Rei’s ghoul, there
’d be no way you could have disobeyed one of her compulsions. Remember your “Adrian!” moment? If a ghoul was given an order like that, it’d just sit there like a puppy. Oh, and your frank and beans would have fallen off too.”
I double-checked. All was well on the southern front. “Ghouls and Weres…” I shook my head. “Never would have believed it. Speaking of which, when are you gonna ask Sheila out?”
Dante shrank down. “I don’t know, man. It’s freakin’ hard. I kinda freeze up when I’m with her. Plus, I can’t decide where to take her. What kind of date would Sheila Mordred want to go on exactly?”
I scratched my head. What would Sheila like to do?
A romantic incursion into a goblin lair came to mind.
“Does she have any hobbies?”
“Well, she’s the captain of the fencing team, a member of the trebuchet club, and—”
“How about a movie?”
“Yea,” Dante said, nodding. “Yea, a movie, that sounds…safe.”
“Dante, my friend, we are surrounded on all sides by dangerous women.”
“Tell me about it.”
+
I rubbed my stomach. Salisbury steak night had not been kind. Spinoza paced back-and-forth with his clipboard. His long riding coat flapped around behind him. It was like a pseudo-cape. I had always hoped capes would make a comeback. This guy was giving me hope.
“Forty-five days. We have forty-five days.”
I looked at the remnants of Lambda Squad. Sadie was picking at the enormous wrap around her right arm. Roster was slouching on his cot. Sheila and Dante were re-adjusting one another’s ice packs…how romantic.
“Ms. Rice,” Spinoza growled. “Can you please tell me what happens in forty-five days?”
Zero Sum Page 10