Age of Aztec a-4

by James Lovegrove

  “You. You. And you. You as well. And you, the one trying to hide — yes, you.”

  Mal swept through the department, pulling junior officers from their desks.

  “Drop what you’re doing. Whatever it is, it’s not important right now. As of this moment, you’re on my detail. You answer to me. And if you want to whinge about it, take it up with the chief super. Then watch him wrench off some vital part of your anatomy along with your badge.”

  She commandeered a situation room, and addressed her small task force of new recruits.

  “Here’s how it is,” she said. “By tonight I want you to have compiled a list of potential Conquistadors. We don’t have a lot to go on, but we do know this about him. He’s male. About six one, solidly built, thirteen, fourteen stone, something like that. In his late twenties, early thirties. Military background. I know, I know, that could describe thousands of people, but we can whittle it down further. He’s local, that’s almost certain. Almost all of his attacks have occurred in and around the capital. It’d be reasonable to assume he’s a Londoner. Also, he has a fair bit of dosh. Not rich, necessarily, but he abandoned a suit of armour the other day and turned up in another one yesterday evening. Those things must cost a bob or two, so we can assume he’s not penniless. Finally, he’s nursing some sort of deep-felt grudge against the Empire. Don’t know what, don’t know why, but it’ll flag itself up when combined with all the other criteria. Questions?”

  There was a way of asking “Questions?” that indicated you weren’t actually interested in hearing any. Mal used it.

  “Then what are you waiting for, ladies and gentlemen? Quetzalcoatl to return? Move your arses.”

  It was a long day, and it stretched well into the evening. Mal coaxed, chivvied and cajoled throughout, fuelled by the cups of coca Aaronson fetched for her, every hour, on the hour. Her team went through criminal records, military records, financial records, sifting, sorting, cross-referencing. When she saw their energy levels begin to wane, she pushed them to redouble their efforts. She led by example, refusing to show an ounce of the bone-deep tiredness she was feeling. The bruises left by the bolas balls ached. Just to hold her head up required superhuman stamina. But she could not flag, could not fail. There was so much at stake here, not least her own life. She was thirty-two. Not ready for Tamoanchan yet, or even the other place. And the chief super was depending on her, the commissioner too, the High Priest himself. She wasn’t going to let anyone down.

  Finally, verging on midnight, she sent everyone home, Aaronson included. They’d all put in a good day’s work, and plenty of overtime, and between them they’d managed to rustle up a list of thirty-odd candidates each of whom fit the profile for the Conquistador.

  Mal herself would gladly have gone home too. She was so exhausted she could barely see straight. Her coca buzz was fading and she knew that if she drank any more of the stuff she could pass out and maybe even end up in hospital with cardiac arrhythmia. It was down to just her now, her and her own inner resources.

  She arranged the candidate dossiers on a table. Some had mugshots clipped to them, others not. She read through each one carefully. In many instances, the sum total of knowledge about the man amounted to no more than a few lines of text. With others, particularly those who had spent time being detained at His Very Holiness’s pleasure, there was a great deal of information, none of it painting them in a flattering light. Her gut instinct told her that the Conquistador wasn’t likely to be part of this parade of model citizens — stalkers, pub brawlers, wife beaters, flashers, kiddie fiddlers. They all of them used to be lower-ranked Eagle Warriors, non-coms, cannon fodder. Given his cunning and his articulacy, the Conquistador would have been higher up the pecking order, officer class.

  By this process of elimination she was able to cut the number of suspects by half. That still left nigh-on twenty possibles, however, and no amount of filtering or compare-and-contrasting could seem to get that total any lower. Each man was as much Conquistador material as the next. The business executive? The blueblood? The publishing tycoon? The tlachtli team manager? Which?

  There was nothing else for it. Mal jotted down the remaining candidates’ names on a sheet of paper, then left the building. She went out into Campbell-Bannerman Street, the broad thoroughfare formerly known as Victoria Street, renamed after the prime minister who signed the peace accord with the Empire, embraced the faith and became Britain’s first ever High Priest — all on the same day. A few blocks down from the Yard, there was a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Mal approached the counter and asked for a vision quest package. The pharmacist demanded to be shown ID. The sight of Mal’s Jaguar Warrior badge knocked some of the snootiness out of him.

  “That seems to be in order, madam,” he said. “One has to be careful. One doesn’t sell vision quest packages to just anybody. The law prohibits… but then you already know what the law prohibits.” He was flustered.

  “Don’t panic, I’m not here to bust you. Unless you’ve been selling drug tinctures to people who aren’t certified sane enough to use, which I’m sure you haven’t.”

  “Indeed not! Never!”

  “Then we’re fine. I really am here to buy a package, that’s all.”

  “Then let me be of service. Any particular preference? What sort of vision are you hoping to achieve? Prognostication? Communion with the gods? Self-realisation? Recreation? We have tinctures to suit all sorts, all of them naturally sourced and prepared according to time-honoured recipes.”

  “I’m looking for answers. I need to make a choice.”

  “Any specific choice?”

  “Between men.”

  The pharmacist interpreted this in a certain way and raised an eyebrow. “You’re after a husband?”

  “No, I’m not. And I hope you’re not volunteering.”

  He wanted to snipe back at her, but couldn’t. It didn’t pay to get lippy with a Jaguar. “I misunderstood. I beg your pardon.”

  “I’m just after… clarity, I suppose. Insight into a dilemma.”

  “Ah. Might I recommend, then, a draught of psilocybin mixed with honey? It’s traditional, highly palatable, goes down a treat, and the effects are gentle but potent. I prepare it specially myself, from mushrooms grown by reputable wholesalers, and my customers report back that the results are always satisfactory and that — ahem — ‘bad trips’ are rare.”

  “Okay. If that fits the bill. I’ll take one dose.”

  “Might I enquire whether you’ve had experience with hallucinogens before, madam?”

  “A little. I used to dabble. Nowadays, not so much.”

  “Are you on any medication?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any underlying chronic health problems?”

  “No.”

  “Any ailments or diseases you’re presently suffering from?”

  “Only premature mortality syndrome,” Mal muttered under her breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. No diseases.”

  “Splendid. I’ve just mixed up a fresh batch of ‘magic honey,’ as it happens. It’s in the cold store. Back in a jiffy.”

  Mal took the psilocybin-honey draught home. The pharmacist recommended using it in a familiar, comfortable environment. That would help anchor her, in the event of “problems” occurring. He also suggested she void bladder and bowels beforehand, wear a loose-fitting garment, keep the telephone to hand just in case, and light a single candle but place it well out of reach where it couldn’t be accidentally knocked over. He wished her luck on her vision quest and handed her a receipt so that she could claim back the cost of the trip on expenses.

  Mal set everything up as suggested. She sat herself cross-legged on the floor in a cotton kimono. The candle flickered on the mantelshelf. She held up the little phial of amber-yellow liquid, studying it by the dim flame light. At last she unstoppered it, raised it to her lips, took a deep breath, then swigged the tincture down in one gulp.

  This was
it. No going back now.

  She placed the sheet of paper with the suspects’ names on it in front of her, propping it up against a cushion. She ran her gaze over the list countless times until she had memorised them all. Then she closed her eyes.

  The sickly-sweet taste of the tincture clogged the back of her throat. She listened to the sounds in the flat — the whir of the air conditioning in the bedroom, the churn of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the occasional moth’s wingbeat of the candle as it guttered. She listened to the city noises outside too, and the floorboard-creaking footfalls of the young couple in the flat above as they prepared for bed. She hoped they weren’t about to indulge in one of their marathon sex sessions. That could definitely mess with her trip, hearing the accelerating thudding of bedstead against wall and the rising moans and groans that seemed to last forever.

  The names, Mal told herself. Fix your focus on the names, nothing else.

  She felt odd. She felt light-headed. It passed. Then it returned, and her consciousness seemed to narrow inside her brain, becoming attenuated, like a wisp of smoke. There was herself and another self. She was Mal Vaughn, the physical entity, and a separate Mal Vaughn, a traveller in her body, a driver, a woman at the wheel who was gradually taking her hands off the controls. The car was coasting to a halt. It was on a night road somewhere, at a clifftop, far above a crashing sea. The cliff was extraordinarily tall, so high she couldn’t hear the sea any more. There were only stars. She was up among constellations, where the gods flew. The stars were points of ice, not suns. They had no heat. If you touched them they could cut like diamonds. You could pluck them out of the earth, if you wished to, like a miner in a mine. With your rock hammer and chisel you could dig pure raw starstuff out of the ground, the elements of creation, brilliant glints in the darkness. Mal was down below and up above at once, at the same time, in a confined space and surrounded by infinite space. Two things simultaneously. Opposites. Oneness in duality.

  Almost as if on instinct, she latched on to that. Oneness in duality. A basic tenet of faith. One of the fundamentals of the Aztec religion. But also the Conquistador. What was he but two people in one, one person acting as two? He was contradiction. He had his real face and his public face. He had the face he saw in the mirror every day and his other face, his masked face, his not-face, the one he was famed for. He was a known unknown. He was a presence who was an absence. He was a celebrity whose identity was a secret. His truth was a falsehood. His pretence was a fact. His existence was nonexistent.

  Who are you?

  The names cycled through Mal’s mind. The names had colours. No, the names were colours. Each came with its own particular shade, its own suite of emotions and resonances. Some were brighter, brasher than others. They flared and swirled. Some came to the fore, others retreated into the background. They were like a painting she could walk through. Some were hot to the touch, others cool. They formed arches, corridors, labyrinthine crystalline structures.

  Who are you? Tell me.

  The names blurred and sharpened as though a camera was pulling focus, trying to zoom in on distant objects, fathoming depth of field. They echoed, speaking themselves. They became a jumble of syllables, overlapping, fusing together in new and unintelligible amalgamations. She was losing hold. Her grip on the vision was slipping. The names were melting, growing meaningless, the blabbering idiolect of a pre-speech infant.

  Come on!

  One of them must be her man. One of them, she was sure, had to be the key to the Conquistador.

  Remember them. Remember the names.

  There was Charles Wooding. There was Christopher Martin. There was Christopher Wooding. No. Martin Christopher. Christin Martopher. Inopher Chrismart.

  No. Try again. Try harder.

  Will Wood. No. Will Wilson. No. Wilson Willing.

  Concentrate.

  There was Mick Land. No, no such person. She was thinking of Mictlan. There was Stuart Land. No, not Land. But Stuart someone, definitely. There was Chal Wooding. Yes. Chal. Full forename Chalchiuhtotolin, after an aspect of Quetzalcoatl.

  Him?

  No. Cold blue. Hazy. Like a far-off view of mountains. Not him.

  Keep trying. Go on.

  She fought to keep the names orderly, in shape. She forced herself to pay attention only to the hot ones, the clear ones, that ones that proclaimed themselves more loudly than the rest. She beckoned them towards her like cats, charmed them like snakes, banana-bribed them like monkeys.

  One of you. It’s one of you.

  And now she could feel the honeyed psilocybin wearing off. The magic mushrooms were losing their abracadabra. Gross physicality was setting in, the blood rush and lung heave and wet digestiveness of the body. Her kimono’s cotton grated coarsely on her skin. The sounds around her — and yes, the couple upstairs were in the throes of full-throttle nookie — were deafening. Could a humble candle really shine as brilliantly as the sun?

  One of you.

  It hovered close. The name. Oh, that name. She must make a grab for it, snatch it now, otherwise it would recede, fade, be gone for good.

  One of…

  A desperate mental lunge. A clawing at a thing that was almost vanished. A grasping at vapour.

  …you.

  She had it. She had it!

  The name in her mind’s hand.

  Mal snapped back into the world, fully awake.

  Gotcha.

  SEVEN

  9 Rain 1 Monkey 1 House

  (Friday 30th November 2012)

  “Mr Reston? There’s someone in the lobby for you. A Miss Malinalli Vaughn.”

  “I don’t know any Malinalli Vaughn. Does she have an appointment?”

  “Nothing down in the diary, sir, but she says you’ll want to see her. A matter of some urgency, she says.”

  “I’ve a lot on my plate. Book her in for another time, Helen, whoever she is.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Stuart resumed his perusal of the papers relating to the CCMM buyout. The owners of the Mount Etna lode were pushing for some kind of share swap deal with Reston Rhyolitic. This would materially advantage them but not him, and he was loath to accept it. He was already offering a decent price, well above market value, and what with that and the bribes for local officials he didn’t feel obliged to throw in any more sweeteners. If Signor Addario’s employers weren’t happy with the terms of the contract as it stood, all Stuart had to do was tear it up and walk away. Let them find another buyer with the financial leverage and pre-existing infrastructure he had. Good luck with that.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed again.

  “Sir. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “What, Helen?”

  The receptionist coughed and lowered her voice. “This Miss Vaughn. She’s very insistent. She’s, erm, she’s a Jaguar Warrior. Plainclothes. Says she’ll make a fuss, rather loudly, if she doesn’t see you immediately.”

  “Jaguar? You’re sure?”

  “She has a badge.”

  “Did she mention what this is in connection with?”

  “No, sir. Should I ask?”

  “No. No, don’t. Just send her up.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Stuart shunted the CCMM papers aside. He straightened his tie and smoothed down the lapels of his jacket. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then flexed all his fingers, like a concert pianist warming up to play some complex etude.

  It could be nothing. Routine Jaguar business. They liked to poke their noses into other people’s affairs every now and then, just because they could. Rummage about. Throw their weight around. Remind everyone who was boss.

  But if it wasn’t that…

  He could front it out. Easily. They had nothing on him. He’d left no tracks.

  At worst, this was a fishing expedition. And the Vaughn woman could dangle her line all she liked, she wouldn’t be getting so much as a nibble.

  His PA, Tara, escorted the Jaguar Warrior from the lift, through her o
wn antechamber office and into her boss’s much larger and plusher office. She enquired if she could fetch anyone anything. Drink? Snack? Stuart dismissed her.

  “Mal Vaughn. Detective chief inspector, Metropolitan Jaguar CID.”

  “Mind if I see credentials?”

  “Of course not.” She showed him a gold badge in a wallet — the yowling cat’s head — with her photograph and warrant number on a card next to it. “Satisfied?”

  “Looks authentic enough.”

  “Believe me, Mr Reston, the person who carries a forged one of these is living on borrowed time.”

  Chief Inspector Vaughn was broad-shouldered, short-necked, perhaps running to fat a little, but with a bosom and bum like hers that was no sin. She had fulsome lips and a close-cropped bob with a severe fringe. Her eyes were large and round, the irises steel grey. From first impressions she was, Stuart thought, his type. Intelligent without being cerebral, slightly dissolute, physically assured, in control of herself and well able to keep her neuroses in check. She was the polar opposite of Sofia, whom he had loved dearly and should never have married.

  As he sized her up, he could see her doing the same to him. Her job demanded she look unimpressed, but she didn’t quite manage to pull it off.

  “Nice place,” she said, glancing around. “Triple aspect. Amazing views. You’re a lucky man, Mr Reston.”

  “I had a good start in life, but it’s my own acumen that’s kept me and my company on top. Luck’s had nothing to do with it.”

  “Good thing obsidian is so popular with the regime. Where would we all be without it?”

  “You wouldn’t have a sword, for starters.”

  “True. Not that I carry one in the normal course of duty.”

  “You leave that to the uniforms.”

  “Right. I only wear mine on special occasions. Like, for instance, when I’m hot on the trail of a felon.”