Shaking Earth

by James Axler

  A hill rose like a ramp practically from the western shore of the lake, rising gradually to a height of a few hundred feet above the surrounding farmland and lava badlands that veined it. At the far end, perched at the verge of a cliff, lay the jumbled ruins of an old palace. The ruin was called Chapúltepec Castle, after the hill itself; chapúltepec, they were told, meant “place of the grasshopper.” Don Hector had his current headquarters in a much more modest but still sizable villa built of wood or adobe in some woods east of the castle, which had either better weathered the earthquakes caused by the Soviet nuke charges or been rebuilt or even constructed entirely since the war.

  The practice ground lay east of that, at the foot of a small rise. The companions, their host and his small retinue stood or sat in the shade of a stand on the top of the low hill, basically uprights of PVC pipe stuck in the ground and holding up a roof of corrugated fiberglass of an unusually unpleasant shade of green. Two servants, a young man and young woman in white robes, stood by, serving them from pitchers of lemonade and plates of fruit, some of them exotic kinds Ryan had never encountered before.

  The cacique had no guards, leaving aside the thirty or so fanatic man-chillers drilling on the grounds below them. His sec boss, Mendoza, had accompanied them, however, and now sat at a salvaged tubular-steel-and-plastic picnic table downing lemonade in great gulps and dabbing his broad sweaty forehead with a succession of handkerchiefs.

  Ryan had heard Tenorio, who didn’t usually seem to go in for uncharitable assessments, describe his rival’s sec boss as a “gross beast.” The description was adequate, if a trifle underdone. There was a good four hundred pounds of him stuffed into his khaki uniform and spilling off both sides of the camp stool that tremulously supported him. There were huge, dark halfmoons of sweat stained into the fabric beneath his arms. His face was immensely wide, a blurred square, that looked as if it had started out strong and maybe even handsome and subsequently bloated up like a corpse’s. The contrast to his own boss and the sec men nominally under his command, all of whom looked as if they’d stepped off posters for some predark health spa, couldn’t have been more comically extreme.

  The hair matted to his head and in his profuse mustache was a deep, rich red with metallic undertones. His dark olive face was spattered with darker freckles, concentrated on a nose that looked as if it had been broken often enough that it had just given over any pretense of having some kind of shape, like the rest of him. Only in the hues of his hair and skin did he bear any noticeable resemblance to his human panther of a daughter.

  Don Hector ignored his obese sec chief, seeming to enjoy strutting and holding forth for his outland visitors. He gestured down at the warriors struggling and shining and sweating in the sun.

  “My Eagle Knights,” he declared. “My personal bodyguard and commandos, all devoted to me. Not that all my people aren’t, of course. But these in particular have demonstrated their total commitment and zeal.”

  “Interesting you train them so extensively with knives and clubs and whatnot, when some of them carry lasers,” J.B. remarked, polishing his steel-rimmed spectacles with his handkerchief.

  “They practice the traditional martial arts of their forebears. It strengthens their cultural identity as well as their bodies and minds. And also, of course, training in the use of simple weapons or no weapons at all serves the most practical of purposes. More technologically advanced weapons may break or run out of ammunition or energy. And then a warrior must fall back on his fists and feet and cunning. And his warrior spirit.”

  “That’s surely true,” the Armorer said, “but a good many people don’t know it.”

  He put his glasses back on. “Where did your boys get those fancy laser bracelets we saw in that abandoned ville, anyways, if you don’t mind my asking? They’re about the most advanced I’ve seen or cut sign of.”

  “We discovered them in a hidden laboratory, one that was apparently buried underground even before the war. Our scientists are working on duplicating them, of course.”

  The companions looked at one another, trying not to be obvious about it. Was there another redoubt hidden hereabouts? Had Don Hector and his people been the ones to clear out the base on Popocatépetl’s flank?

  “It’s a very impressive show, Don Hector,” Ryan said. “But I have to wonder why you’re going to the trouble of showing it to us. After all, we’re pretty much just visiting.”

  The baron laughed. A big, echoing sound. “That in itself makes you special! We have had so few visitors the last hundred years or so.”

  He gestured for the maidservant to refill his goblet, which was massive, carved from milky quartz. “You displayed great courage and resourcefulness in making your way here, my friends. That causes you to be of interest to me, a man much in need of those very traits to meet the current emergency. And my good friend Don Tenorio seems to regard you highly—and while I admit to questioning his military and political acumen, he does have a very keen judgment where value is concerned. And indeed, why may I not, as I gather he has, indulge my curiosity for tidings of the world north of the radiation belts and lethal chemical storms?”

  “Your people didn’t seem to have in mind inviting us here as honored guests when we first ran across them, Don Hector,” Mildred said.

  The cacique drank. “Surely a woman as perceptive as yourself can understand our need for caution. We are at war. And as you may have heard, rare as they are, we have received visitors from el norte before—and not all of them so well-intentioned as yourselves. Apparently they thought to reenact the great myth of Cortés, in which a handful of white men conquers a whole land full of red men.”

  “Then again, we’re not exactly all white men,” Mildred said.

  Hector laughed again. “Indeed, indeed.”

  He set his stone goblet down a bit forcefully. “Mistakes have been made. That much is certain.”

  “What can you tell us about these muties who’re invading your valley, Don Hector?” Ryan asked.

  Hector raised an eyebrow in showy surprise. “Don Tenorio has told you little? But I see it must be so. How typical of the man. A great man, a visionary and genius beyond doubt. But otherworldly. Totally unprepared to face the often brutal challenges of the real world in which we live. Thus he prefers to hide from facts, to avoid dealing with or speaking of the threat we all face. Here is an example of why the people and the valley must be united under my rule—I do not shrink from the truth!”

  He was pacing back and forth in front of them, emphasizing his words with thrusts of a thick forefinger. Ryan reflected that Tenorio had to have a little more taste for confronting harsh reality than his rival baron had let on. He had chosen to grind his face right into it when he had led the first scavvies into the haunted, mutant-riddled artificial canyons and canals of the City in the Lake. Ryan and the others had seen him in action the day before, plunging into danger without hesitation when he thought his people needed aid. Nor had the alcade frozen or played the coward when they were ambushed; the fact that he had fired his handblaster to slidelock showed he possessed all the courage and presence of mind any man could use, whether or not he was a particularly efficacious fighter.

  The problem, though, was that Ryan was inclined to agree with Don Hector’s larger thesis. For all his strengths, Tenorio didn’t strike him as the man to face down the Chichimec horde. There it was, the bare fact, as ugly as a stickie and smelling twice as bad. It was also true that in their time as Don Tenorio’s guests, though they had spent many hours in conversation concerning both life in the Deathlands and in the valley and city, scarcely a word had been uttered concerning the invaders.

  There was a difference, Trader had taught him long ago when he was an untried pup, between physical courage and moral courage. Despite the fact he was no man of action, was it possible Don Tenorio possessed more of the former than the latter?

  The tall, handsome baron said something to his sweltering sec boss in Spanish. Mendoza replied in the s
ame language, sounding despondent. Doc sidled up next to Ryan.

  “I trust, my dear Ryan, that just because yon hulk does not appear to understand English,” he said from the side of his mouth, “that we do not take it on faith he truly does not comprehend everything we might say.”

  Ryan grinned. “Thanks, Doc, but I’m there already. A baron’s gratitude, the honesty of a sec boss…”

  “Alike chimerical. You are a wise young man, Ryan. Still, I did not wish to take aught for granted—”

  Ryan slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Anytime you think you see something I miss, speak right up, Doc.”

  The old man nodded gravely.

  Hector finished his conversation with Mendoza, who now began to eat green grapes from a silver bowl on the table. He stepped up in front of his guests as though mounting a stage.

  “For years we have had dealings with the Indian tribes to the north, the people we call Chichimecs. Sometimes we traded with them. Sometimes they raided us for our crops and wealth. Sometimes we sent military expeditions north to discourage them from such acts. But for the most part they stayed in the deserts on their side of the mountains, and we on ours.

  “The Great Chichimeca is a savage place. As you may know, the north of our once-great country received more direct damage from the war than did our capital—the price it paid for proximity to America del norte and the military bases in Texas especially. The radiation belts and chemical storms that so afflict your homeland extend to the northern reaches of Chichimec territory. Enough that mutants are frequently born into their tribes, especially the more northern ones. These traditionally have been considered witches—evil, but unlucky to kill. So mutant babies are taken out into the scrub and left. Other mutants would come and collect them—or not. Thus the surviving mutants formed bands of their own, living in uneasy coexistence with their fully human kin, sometimes clashing, more often trying to ignore one another. Would you care for food?”

  Ryan looked around. “I wouldn’t mind some fruit,” J.B. said. He went to the table and rooted in a bowl. “What’s this one?”

  “It’s a papaya,” Don Hector said.

  J.B. took a bite. “Mite sour, but not too bad.”

  The earth shifted beneath their feet. Out on the training ground, the combat practice continued without notice. Ryan reflexively took a step toward Krysty. She smiled and made a tiny gesture with her hand to indicate she was fine. More than that: it appeared spots of color had come to her cheeks and she was standing a trifle straighter than before. Her hair was stirring around her shoulders in a way that made the servants stare while trying to conceal the fact. Ryan realized the temblors were acting on her like mini doses of jolt. The wound in her shoulder had almost completely healed, although Mildred still had her in bandages and her left arm in its sling.

  He turned to see Don Hector eyeing Krysty with keen interest. It wasn’t unusual or unexpected; barons taking a fancy to the exotic and stunningly beautiful redhead had caused them more than a few close moments in the past and doubtless would again, if they survived long enough. Still, Ryan had a strange sense there was something beyond simple desire in the sharpness with which those obsidian-flake eyes fixed on Krysty. He went to her side and put an arm around her as if in a casual gesture of affection. She leaned against him.

  “Several years ago,” the cacique continued, taking another drink from his quartz goblet, “a child was born into one of the northernmost Chichimec tribes. It was clearly a mutant, white-skinned, outsize, mute from birth. And yet the people could not bear to expose it as they always had mutant children in the past. No one who came into its presence could think of harming it. The child could influence the emotions of the people. As it grew, it demonstrated the ability to control the feelings of animals and mutant humanoids, as well. The Chichimecs came to call it the Holy Child and to worship it as a gift of the gods.

  “Then, a year or so ago, a wandering self-proclaimed priest—a madman, more like—came among the Chichimecs. Nezahualcoyótl, he called himself, meaning ‘Howling Wolf’ in the old tongue. He claimed to be able to read the thoughts of the Holy Child and to read the future, as well.”

  “Doomie,” Jak said. He had been watching the fighting practice with what appeared total absorption. But perfect feral hunter that he was, he was always keenly aware of his surroundings and what went on among them.

  “Or just plain old-fashioned charlatan,” J.B. said, doffing his fedora to scratch at his bald spot.

  “Or both,” Ryan added.

  Don Hector nodded judiciously. “Whatever his true abilities, Howling Wolf persuaded the Chichimecs—and it appeared, their Holy Child, as well. It was their destiny to join together with the witches—the ones you would call ‘muties’—and conquer the valley. And then, who knows? Perhaps the whole wide world.”

  He smiled grimly. “This self-proclaimed prophet may or may not have the slightest notion of how big the world is. But he has assembled a force large enough to conquer the valley, unless we act decisively—and together. Even monstrous mutant creatures, such as the viborón, the giant rattlesnake you said you encountered on your journey into the valley, have come to join the horde. All serve the Holy Child with fanatical devotion.”

  He took a flower from a basketful on the table and held it daintily to his nose. “Which means they serve Howling Wolf.”

  “So that’s what you’re up against, Don Hector,” J.B. said, helping himself to another piece of fruit. “What’re your chances?”

  “We will win,” the cacique said. “We must. They have numbers on their side, and mindless courage. We have, as you are aware, a decent if not inexhaustible supply of modern small arms. Most importantly we have training, will and discipline—even our common troops, although they are not honed to such a flawless edge as these my Eagle Knights you see in front of you. But—”

  He held up a blunt strong finger. “We must have unity. Of action and purpose, which means, unity of command. And that, my friends, is why Don Tenorio and his people must submit. As surely you must see, being wise in the ways of the world yourselves.”

  “Unity of command’s an important principle, Don Hector,” Ryan said, “right enough.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended. Ryan hadn’t yet agreed to serve as actual emissary for Don Tenorio, although he had consented to see if he could talk the cacique into reopening communications with his rival the alcade. The companions’ very survival dictated maintaining neutrality for the moment, especially here in the very shadow of Don Hector’s palace in the presence of a couple dozen of his bodyguards. Although he personally saw the force in Hector’s arguments, Ryan was unwilling to say anything at this point that might seem to commit Don Tenorio to any course of action.

  “What do you call those obsidian-edged clubs?” J.B. asked. “I noticed some of the Chichimecs were carrying them, too.”

  “Ah, yes,” Don Hector said. “The macahuitl.”

  The companions looked at one another. The baron pronounced the word “makaweetle,” rhyming with “beetle.” It was what Felicidad had called for yesterday when her tiny handblaster proved useless against the tentacled unknown that had held her.

  Don Hector called out something in a guttural language Ryan knew wasn’t Spanish. One of the three sergeants or cadremen turned and came trotting up the slope. Sure enough, it was their old friend Two Arrow.

  At Don Hector’s command, the big Eagle Knight pulled the weapon slung at his belt and handed it over. At close range Ryan realized the odd yoke and arm and shin-guards that made up the Eagle Knight armor were molded out of plastic. The baron examined the weapon a moment, then proffered it to Ryan by laying it across his own left forearm hilt-first.

  Ryan picked up the weapon gingerly. It was about the weight and dimension of a conventional metal machete, maybe two feet long and two to three pounds in weight. The thin flakes of obsidian had been cunningly fitted so as to form an almost continuous edge down both sides of the flat hardwood club. The wea
pon was square-tipped and while handy was blade-heavy, as only made sense for a dedicated hacking-and-slashing weapon.

  Ryan handed it off to J.B. Mildred came close to study it over his shoulder. Firearms were her first love when it came to weaponry, but no graduate of med school who had studied and practiced surgery could remain neutral about cutting implements.

  “Nice heft,” J.B. said. “Do some damage with this, no mistake.” He took a couple of passes in the air with the weapon.

  He handed the weapon to Mildred. “But stone for a cutting edge?”

  “It’s a form of glass,” Mildred said. “Glass will take a sharper edge than any metal alloy. I’ve known some docs, mostly Latinos who knew their history, who insisted on the surgeons using obsidian blades when they had to go under the knife themselves. Cuts were finer, cleaner, healed quicker.”

  She turned the macahuitl in her hand and grinned. “Not that I suppose that’s a big issue for this baby, huh?”

  “As you perceive. The vulnerable point of such weapons is not their ability to hold an edge, but a regrettable tendency to break. Still, my elite warriors—and the Chichimecs—are devoted to them, and not solely because of their traditional resonance with our people.”

  Mildred handed the weapon back to J.B., who passed it hilt-foremost to Hector. The cacique pivoted and said something in the guttural tongue to Two Arrow, who had been standing staring at the outsiders with a hint of unpleasant smirk and more than a hint of savage gleam in his eyes. The warrior knelt and accepted the weapon back, then stood quiveringly straight.

  “Your behavior inconvenienced our guests,” the cacique said in English. “However, you have served me bravely and faithfully. I have decided to accept your flowery sacrifice.

  “Cut your throat.”

  Two Arrow’s brown hand snapped up. The obsidian blade bit into his neck. Ryan clearly heard the stone grate against bone.