Sideways In Crime

by Sideways In Crime v2 lit

  “There are more than a few,” said Hoffa.

  “Even so, they’re just illegals. We’ve got fifteen million of them.”

  “These guys are a little more.”

  The President looked confused. “More illegal?”

  “More alien.”

  “Where is this list?” asked the President.

  “In a safe place,” said Hoffa. “Now, do we have a deal?”

  The President looked at Saddler, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “We have a deal,” said the President.

  And that is the story, true in every detail, of how Jimmy Hoffa faked his own death a second time and saved America from an alien invasion, the magnitude of which had not been seen since the prior year along the Mexican border.

  EPILOGUE

  Praslin Island really isn’t known for much except the Coco de Mer, and since this is a G-rated story, or at least PG, we’re not at liberty to tell you why all the Victorian explorers were fascinated by it. (But it’s a really neat story. Remember to ask us about it over drinks. Your treat.)

  Still, it’s a relatively untouched tropical paradise, and one of the things that remains most untouched is the burly, gray-haired gentleman with the brand-new face who spends most of his time lounging on the northern beach under a huge umbrella, his every need catered to by three unbelievably gorgeous bikini-clad women whose signet rings identify them as members of the most secret branch of the CIA.

  Occasionally some tourist finds himself within a couple of hundred yards of the burly gentleman, and is promptly carted away for questioning, then released on neighboring La Digue island with just enough time left on his visa to get home.

  Only one visitor is ever allowed to come closer. He usually carries a briefcase, and his suit and tie show him to be a stranger to the tropics. His passport displays only an initial for his first name, but no one ever challenges it.

  He was there again just the other day. The burly man welcomed him, had one of the girls fetch a pair of beers, and lit up a cigar.

  “What is it this time?”

  “Your information about the Kennedy brothers, John Lennon, James Dean, Amelia Earhart, and Alydar checked out, but I still have a couple of questions about the Garfield assassination. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Sure can,” said the man.

  “What is it going to cost this time?”

  “I don’t know,” said the burly man, leaning forward and smiling. “Let’s negotiate.”

  The People’s Machine:--Tobias S. Buckell

  Tobias S. Buckell is the author of three very fine books, Crystal Rain, Ragamuffin, and Sly Mongoose, stand-alone but linked adventure tales that collectively bring a refreshingly different Caribbean flavor to the science fiction genre. Aztecs and airships factor in to these stories as well, as they do in the tale that follows-- though not the same Aztecs and airships, mind you. I first met Tobias before any of his books let the wider world in on his talent, in San Jose in 2002, the same year that he was nominated for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New SF Writer, and to hear him tell it my inclusion of his story in this anthology makes good on a promise of working together I made five years ago at that time. Given the adventure that follows, I’d say it was worth the wait.

  Inquisitor, warrior, and priest, Ixtli’s fast-paced journey by airship began in Tenochtitlan, facing the solemn row of white-robed pipiltin. The rulers of the grandest city of the world had roused him from his house, burly Jaguar Scouts with rifles throwing open his doors and shouting him awake.

  “I’m to go to New Amsterdam?” Ixtli could hardly keep the distaste out of his voice. The colonies were cold now, and filthy, and smelly.

  Mecatl, the eldest of the pipiltin and rumored favorite of the Steel Emperor, explained. “There has been a murder there.”

  “And have the British lost the ability to police their own?” Ixtli had little love for the far north.

  “The murder is of a young man. His heart has been removed in what looks like an Eagle sacrifice. Find out the truth of the matter, and whether apostate priests have immigrated to New Amsterdam.”

  This was news to Ixtli. Followers of the sacrifice usually inhabited borderlands between cities, scattered and un-united. None of them tried to keep the old ways in any Mexica city.

  But in the chaos of a savage, foreign city like New Amsterdam, maybe they could rebuild their followers.

  “And if I find it’s so?” Ixtli asked the pipiltin.

  “Find the truth,” they told him. “If it is true, then we will have to root out the heresy from a distance. But if it is not true, we need to find out what is happening.”

  And seven hours later Ixtli was passing out of his father country and into the great swathe of territory the French called Louisiana, the large airship he’d booked passage on powering hard against the winds. After a refueling stop at the end of the first day’s travel it was over the Indian lands, and then, finally, they touched down on the edges of New Amsterdam airfield. Two days. The world was shrinking, Ixtli thought, and he did not know if that was a good thing.

  Pale faces looked up at Ixtli, colonials dressed in little more than rags, tying off the airship’s ropes as they fell down toward the trampled grass. They shouted in guttural languages: English, Dutch, French. Ixtli knew many of them from his days along the Mexica coast, fighting them all during the invasions of ‘89.

  The airship’s gondola finally kissed the earth, and ramps were pulled out.

  Ixtli walked off, porters following with his suitcases. The cold hit him and he shivered in his purple and red robes, the feather in his carefully tied hair twisted in the biting wind.

  A bulbous-nosed man in a thick wool cape and earmuffs strode confidently forward, his hand extended. “Gordon Doyle, sir, at your service!”

  Ixtli looked down and did not take the man’s hand in his own, but gave him a slight nod of his head. “I am Ixtli.”

  “Splendid, what’s your last name?”

  “I am just Ixtli.” He stared at Gordon, who rubbed his hand on his cape and fumbled around with a pipe.

  “Well, Ixtli, I just arrived from London the day before it happened. Scotland Yard needed me over here to find the Albany Rapist. Bad series of events, that. Poor urchins, bad way to end it, very sensational, all over the papers.”

  Gordon was a jittery man. “Did you solve it?” Ixtli asked.

  “Um, no, not yet. But come, I have a hansom waiting.”

  The murder site was in the Colonial Museum, a massive neo-Dutch structure embedded in the east side of New Amsterdam’s Central Park. The driver whipped the massive beast of a horse up to speed and took them down the Manhattan thoroughfares.

  “It’s such a vibrant city, this,” Gordon said, the acrid smell of his pipe wafting across over the smell of horseshit and garbage. The city, as packed and heavy with people as it was, placed its garbage on the streets to be picked up.

  At least the city had sewers.

  Ixtli leaned back, looking up at the buildings. This island was denser than Tenochtitlan. Large buildings, some over ten stories high and made of brick, lined the road on his left. Greenery and park, with cook fires and shantytowns that dotted it, lined his right.

  Gordon noticed Ixtli looking. “Revolutionaries. This year’s batch anyway. The Crown recently seized the land of the ‘Americans.’ Think they would have learned their lesson from the last time. Damn terrorists.”

  “You let them camp on your public lands?”

  “Well, the homeless are always a problem in big cities. They skulk around here hoping one day to rise up again.”

  The cab lurched to a stop and the horse farted. Ixtli leapt down into the mud and walked up to the giant, imposing steps of the Colonial Museum. He was chilled to the core and wanted to get out of the wind. “Have you investigated any of the revolutionaries in the park?”

  Gordon cleared his throat loudly. “Dear God, man, what do you take me for, a simpleton? Of course.�
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  Ixtli ignored the reaction and stepped through the brass doorframes and into the museum past waiting policemen. Come see the original colonial declaration of secession, a poster proclaimed, next to an encased poster that showed a snake cut in thirteen pieces. “Let’s see this.”

  The young man in question had been left for two days at the request of the Mexica via telegraph. There was the telltale sign of faint bloating. Both Gordon and Ixtli held handkerchiefs to their noses as they approached the body.

  Ixtli peered in at the body, then looked around. “The room has not been touched, or the floor cleaned? Was there blood on the floor apart from what the body pooled out?”

  “None of that nature,” Gordon confirmed.

  “The manner in which the chest has been split, while similar, is done in a much more calculated manner than any normal ceremonial practice. And then there is one other thing.”

  “Entrails are still in his body.” Gordon stabbed the air with his pipe. “Usually both are burnt, are they not?”

  “There is also no blood on this floor, from ripping them out. This was done in a surgical manner, with the heart being removed and taken out in a waterproof container. No doubt to sensationalize and excite people in New Amsterdam,” Ixtli said. “This is not the work of a warrior priest.”

  And that was a relief.

  Gordon did not look as relieved, however. He made a face. “Well, I guess that rather leaves it all up in the air.”

  “Do you have any other leads?”

  “Nothing of any particular sorts,” Gordon said. “You were our best, as it would have allowed us to start questioning around certain areas.”

  Ixtli shook his head. “Round up the brown skinned?”

  Gordon at least had the decency of looking somewhat embarrassed. “One of the guards saw someone.”

  “Dark skinned.”

  “Red, is actually what he said.” Gordon hailed a hansom. Ixtli looked over at the curb, where a small group of dirty urchins had melted out of the bush to stare at them. Cold hard stares, devoid of curiosity.

  One of them held a small, stiff piece of paper in his left hand, fingering it reverently.

  “Red like me?” They melted back into the bushes of Central Park under Ixtli’s stare.

  The hansom shook as Gordon stepped in. “We didn’t pull out an artist’s palette and paints. When your embassy found the headline and details, and said they were sending you over, we had hoped they might know something. The method of death is... unique.” Gordon tapped the driver perched on the rear of the cab and gave him directions to the hotel Ixtli would be staying at.

  “Ah, you talk about the past, Mr. Doyle, and nothing but the past. You should know better.”

  And on this note, Gordon smiled. “And yet you are here, sir. So speedily. So sanctioned by your country. It suggests that there may have been something.”

  The man, Ixtli thought, didn’t miss much. “Do you know what I am, Mr. Doyle?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “I am no spy. I am an inquisitor. It is my job to find heretics. It is my job to find them and stop their heresy.” They clip-clopped their way down into the maze of New Amsterdam’s chaotic business. “When your people invaded--”

  “The Spanish, sir, the Spanish, not us...”

  Ixtli shrugged. To him one European was just like another. “They had several advantages against us. Guns, steel, disease, but most importantly, the numbers and fighters of Tlaxcala who hated our taxes and loss of life to the blade of the priest. When Cortez took our leader hostage and Moctezuma stood before our city and told us to bow to the Spanish, we stoned him to death and elected a new leader, and drove the white men from our city. We fought back and forth, dying of disease, but fighting for our existence.

  “We’d already killed our emperor. We were bound by tradition, and religion, but it kept hindering us. The living city leaders decided only radical new ways of thinking could save us, and the first was to renounce our taxes on tributary cities, and claim that we would no longer sacrifice the unwilling to our gods. And we made good with actions. It was bloody and long, Gordon, but an idea, an idea is something amazing. Particularly when it spreads.

  “So what I do is help that idea. That blood sacrifice isn’t required, that people are equal under the Mexica, and that we are an alternative to the way of the invaders. And those who want the old religions, the old ways, I hunt them down, Mr. Doyle, I hunt them down and exact a terrible price from them.”

  “And you are here to make sure your image as past savages isn’t continued?”

  “Something like that.” The Mexica made a point of stealing the brightest heretics from Europe over the last 300 years. You wouldn’t get burned in Tenochtitlan, you could print your seditions against European thought there, and anything useful, anything invented, all benefited the Mexica.

  Anything that faulted that haven needed to be destroyed.

  That was Ixtli’s job.

  In the sitting room of the cramped, smelly, dank hotel room that professed to be properly heated, Ixtli removed his colorful cape, hung the gold armband of his profession up, and sighed.

  Gordon Doyle followed him in and looked around. “Grand, this. I had a last thing. You never asked if we had identified the body.”

  “I had assumed you would tell me when you felt it was important. Is it?”

  “Important. Somewhat. The grandson of one of the prominent revolutionaries.” Gordon stood there, waiting for some reaction.

  “I have no theories, certainly there is no reason I know that my country would need some dissident killed in a way that makes us look culpable.” Ixtli shivered. This was like standing up on a mountain. “Isn’t our business over, now? You can go find some other brown-skinned people as your suspects.”

  With a tap of a finger on his awkwardly sized hat Gordon backed out the door. “I’ll give you a ride in the morning to the airfield.”

  “My thanks.”

  Ixtli sat near the heater for a while, trying to warm up, and then finally gave up the attempt as futile and crawled under the thick and scratchy woolen blankets.

  His feet never seemed to stop aching, but after a while he relaxed and fell into a light sleep with the odd shiver or two spaced a few minutes apart.

  That was until he heard a foot creak on a nearby floorboard.

  Ixtli rolled off and under his bed just as a large club smacked into his pillow. Just as quickly he rolled back out and swept the attacker off his feet with one good kick to the nearest kneecap and a sweeping motion with his other leg.

  He was rewarded with a half-hearted jab to his thigh with the club. Stone chips ripped at his skin.

  It was a macehuitl, the club.

  What on earth was someone doing with a museum piece like that?

  But it was just a feint. The attacker grabbed him for a takedown, and they were both on the floor, rolling around, Ixtli realizing that the man’s heavy weight lent him a major advantage.

  It was a scraping, heaving, bloody bashing fight that resembled something between a Grecian wrestling match and a cock fight, and it ended only when Ixtli wrestled the macehuitl away and clubbed the man in his face.

  Ixtli looked something like a stereotype when Gordon responded to his urgent message, delivered to the concierge by the pneumatic speaking tube in his room: he sat on his bed, still holding the squat fighting club with the sharp stone bits embedded on its sides, blood dripping, the vanquished foe by his feet.

  “Dear God!” Gordon said.

  “He isn’t Mexica,” Ixtli said.

  “Well, someone is working awfully hard to make sure it looks like that.”

  Ixtli looked down at the man and bent to rifle his pockets. No papers of any sort. Except for a stiff, beige card with holes poked through it. Ixtli held it up. “But we do have something here.”

  Gordon looked at it. “A loom card?”

  Ixtli nodded. “It’s your best clue yet, they didn’t count on an Ambassado
r being a skilled warrior. Find out who makes it, or even who purchased it. We don’t have much time before they find out their man is dead.”

  “I’ll get right on it. I’ll send some men up to get the body. They’ll also stay and keep guard in a new room that we’ll be getting you into.”

  “Thank you.” But Ixtli didn’t think he would be sleeping.

  He called down to the concierge to pass on the message that he would not be taking the next airship home. Ixtli would see this to its end.

  Gordon found him in the restaurant before sunbreak poring over hot coffee, the closest thing Ixtli could get to cacoa. It warmed him.

  “I heard you weren’t returning to your homeland?” Gordon asked.

  “News travels quickly.” Ixtli stirred in honey. “I want to know who wants me dead. A professional courtesy, I had hoped you would understand.”

  “A case could take weeks, or months, to crack. It’s not a case of roughing up the bystanders and accusing people of crimes. It’s a methodical thing, filled with suppositions and theories that need to be validated or checked. One must be cool and moderate, and uninvolved.”

  “By then your trail will have gone cold.” Ixtli sipped the coffee. Passable. Very passable. He smiled for the first time in the last two days. “I think, Mr. Doyle, that you and I have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re both children of the enlightenment.”

  Gordon stiffened. “I wouldn’t say that around here. French revolutionaries and colonialist terrorists were the children of the enlightenment.”

  Ixtli laughed. “Not politically. I am speaking of your reverence for the truth, the interest in where the trail will lead. And now I have the greatest mystery in front of me: someone wants me dead. I admit, I’m very curious.”

  Gordon didn’t look so sure. Ixtli kept a mask of geniality on. It was not quite true, what he’d said. Underneath he simmered to find the true assassin behind all this.

  “Okay,” Gordon said. “But you are unarmed, right? I don’t want you causing any trouble.”