He barked a laugh, he couldn't help it. "Naw. Not for a long time. I'm just goin' for a visit."
"You promise?"
Tops smiled, touched. She's loud, but she's really a nice little kid.
"I'll not only promise that, I'll promise not to tell anyone I saw you out so late. If," he held up one finger, "you promise not to tell anyone you saw me up here."
"Okay," Catherine said cheerfully, "I promise."
"You go home now," Tops, said and nodded.
"Okay." She turned and padded off into the darkness. Halfway down the street she turned and waved, smiling sweetly, then hurried on. He watched her open her door, she looked up and waved one more time, then entered.
Yeah, and I'll bet if I hadn't been watchin' you'd've bopped off into the night on some business of your own, wouldn't cha? The kid was just like the El-Tee, stubborn and fearless. He shook his head and resumed his climb.
He paused at the top and bit his lip, feeling like he was violating a tomb. Then he had to grin as he imagined Bethany Martins turning to just stare at him as if she'd known his thoughts. He shook his head.
"Open the hatch, Markee," he said.
The rush of cool dry air that flowed over him smelled every bit as bad as he'd expected. Like a long dead corpse to be exact. He wrinkled his nose disgustedly. This ain't going to be no day at the beach, he thought.
The near-mummified corpse in the command chair looked nothing like his old friend. Thank God for small favors, he thought. If anything he was surprised at how small it was. The El-Tee loomed much larger in his mind's eye.
He spread one of the blankets he'd brought over her and very gently began to pry her off the seat. It felt like moving furniture, there was nothing human-feeling about the shape under the blanket at all. Thank God they still had a few of the body bags left; they folded down to handkerchief size, but they sealed air-tight.
A gruesome few minutes later, a clean blanket covering the command seat, he sat down gingerly. "Key in the view from that helmet, Markee," he said. With a nervous glance at the body-bagged form beside him Tops settled in for his vigil.
In the "I need help," Olympics these indigs have got me beat, Pasqua decided. Why me? she wondered as her heart sank. A guy who's effectively blind and a scared kid. Does someone plan these disasters for me? Has Grandfather got the squeeze on God or something?
The thing to do was cut and run, she could think up a dozen plausible excuses without breaking a sweat. Some of them were even true.
"What did you say his name was?" the man—James—said.
He was lighter than the average around here, and spoke English with a mixture of accents, local and what sounded like old American. Crisper than her own Canal Street dialect. Good-looking guy in his early thirties, broad shoulders and a working-man's hands. Wearing an old United States uniform, of all things; Pasqua recognized the body armor. The Family had . . . inherited . . . a lot of Army equipment during the Collapse, and still had it stockpiled.
"It's got too many notes for me to say, but it comes out as Seven-Deer," she said cautiously.
Something about the man said he wasn't a friend of the Jungle Cardiac Removal League. The way both of them paled at the name confirmed it. The boy looked up at the man, and he put an arm around his son's shoulders.
"Okay, I'll help you get back home," Pasqua said, not believing the words as she heard them coming out of her own mouth.
She looked out at the tumbled mountains, at the tall volcano standing white-topped to the west. Above it a face seemed to loom in her mind's eye. Her father's.
"The last thing a Giacano needs," he'd said the last time she'd seen him, his dead-fish eyes weighing her like so much meat, "is a fuckin' conscience."
She'd flown to Central America the next day, losing herself down here and never expecting to see home again. Not wanting to, once she realized she was free.
James' mind went over and over the woman's story. When he'd heard her voice in the night he'd feared for a moment that it was some trick. Then she'd explained her presence.
" . . . Seven-Deer . . ."
His head had come up with a jerk that hurt him and he could feel the blood draining from his face. Paulo took his hand and squeezed it tightly and he'd been ashamed of his own fear. To the valley's children Seven-Deer was the bogeyman.
"You're sure his name was Seven-Deer?"
"Yes." Her voice was cautious, as though she feared they might be allied with him. "Why?"
He'd told her and then insisted that they begin walking. The urgent need to warn his people burned within him.
Seven-Deer has a very old grudge. Not that he needed the excuse.
Pasqua was so thirsty she didn't think she could even cry. And she was tired enough to want to. They'd been walking, or rather, stumbling all day and the sun was beginning to set. God, I never imagined a path could be a luxury. Just to be able to walk five paces without tripping, she thought, suppressing a groan, I'd pay for the privilege. How could country with this much rainfall not have springs or rivers?
"Because we're sticking to the ridgelines," James said.
She started, realizing she'd spoken the last thought aloud. I must be more worn down than I realized.
"Stop," James said quietly, holding up his hands.
Pasqua looked back at him; from the way he held his head it was apparent he'd heard something. She looked around, straining her ears. All she could see were pine trees, scrubby on the upper slopes; further down were tropical oak, and a tormenting sound of rushing water. Sweat dried on her face and body, the rest letting her realize that although the sun was fierce the air-temperature wasn't much above seventy. Wind soughed through the trees, cool and fresh-smelling. She pushed away knowledge of aches and sore feet and paper-dry tongue. At last she heard a faint yipping.
"Coy-dogs?" she asked.
His lips pressed thin and he shook his head, then winced. His hand brushed his forehead.
"Voices," he said, very quietly.
Just then a stray breeze brought the sound of laughter and she stiffened. Her eyes flicked to Paulo but his expression was the same he'd worn all day, frightened and determined.
"We'd better keep moving," she said.
James shook his head and winced again.
"Will you just say things and quit wagging your head around," she said impatiently. "Why not keep moving?"
"They might be valley people," he said. "In which case we should warn them. They might even be looking for me . . . and Paulo," he added.
"In which case we should avoid them because they're making enough noise to attract Seven-Deer's whole cavalcade of fun. Or it could be a trap."
"Then we'd better find out," James said. "They might have water . . ." He let the thought dangle.
If she weren't so thirsty, Pasqua might have smiled. The man's a manipulator, she thought. A clumsy one, but when you have the right hook you don't have to be an artist. She licked dry lips and Paulo mirrored her action.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go."
The closer they got, the more obvious it became that there was some sort of sick celebration in progress. Sound echoed off the oaks, through the screens of hanging vines. The yipping and the laughter were interspersed with conversation and screaming; a hummingbird went by her head and hovered over a flower in cruel obliviousness. Pasqua grabbed James' arm.
"These are not your friends," she whispered urgently. "We've got to get out of here!"
"I need to know," James said, and started forward.
"No, you don't," she insisted. "If you want to know what's going on I can tell you. They're killing people! Okay? And they'll be happy to kill us too. Now that you know that, can we go?"
She yanked at his arm but he balked.
"We need to know how many there are and how they're armed," he persisted.
"I can tell you that too," Pasqua snapped. "I was their prisoner, remember. There'll be fifteen of them and they carry M-35s just like you do, as well as obsidian swo
rds and knives. Let's go."
"No," Paulo said unexpectedly. He took his father's hand. "Those are our friends. Maybe we can help."
"Help!" Pasqua squeaked, but she was talking to their backs. For a moment she stood there, immobilized, half of her wanting to head for the inner valley and the village, half wanting to follow.
"Shit," she muttered, and started after them. If they do happen to make it back to the village I won't win any hearts for having deserted them out here.
Right now, she needed friends . . . and these two weren't fit to be allowed out alone.
With a shrill, yipping cry the Jaguar Knight plunged the ball down on to a sharpened stake planted in the ground.
That's not a ball! Paulo thought, and gagged. It was a head, still encased in its helmet.
The stake was surrounded by the dead bodies of the Cacaxtla militia. The Jaguar Knights, yipping out their victory, did a little impromptu dance around the pile, then leaping and prancing they went to a UATV and one by one got in. One of them stood on the back, waving his M-35 and jigging enthusiastically until the UATV started and he tumbled backwards into the laps of his laughing fellows.
"What's happening?" James ground out, his face grim.
"I'm going to assume the UATV is the valley's," Pasqua began.
"They're dead," Paulo near shouted, tears running down his cheeks. "They're all dead!"
James pulled his son into his arms, and brushed his free hand over the boy's hair.
"Hush, son. There may be listeners."
"They're all dead," Paulo insisted. Then he sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Those men rode off in the UATV. There isn't anybody here but us. Dad," he went on in a small voice, "they cut off somebody's head."
James hung his head. "Who, son?"
"I don't know, it's still got a helmet on."
James stiffened. "We've got to get that helmet," he said. "Then we can warn the others."
"Very noble of you," Pasqua drawled, knowing he wouldn't be the one to retrieve it. "But as you've already suggested they may have left watchers behind."
"Why watch the dead?" Paulo sneered, stung by her tone.
"To see if anyone approaches them," Pasqua answered through clenched teeth. "They know someone will come looking eventually. Why else make such a big deal out of this?"
"To intimidate us," James suggested, then he sighed. "We still need that helmet," he said firmly. "We can't count on our luck, such as it is, holding."
Pasqua made a sour face.
"I'll go," Paulo said, anger and pride in every syllable.
"Don't be ridiculous," Pasqua snapped. "You stay with your father." Then she dropped to her stomach and crawled off into the surrounding bushes.
James listened for a moment, and under the concealing bandages his brows went up in surprise. "She's good," he commented.
Paulo gave a little growl. "Well, I don't like her," he muttered.
James smiled. "Sometimes, son, people I haven't liked at first turned out to be my best friends."
Paulo stayed silent. He was in no mood for a little homily on understanding. Paulo wasn't going to like her.
He looked out over the field again, to where the bodies were piled and fury rose within him. These were people he knew! Familiar faces that he'd seen every day of his life. How dare they hurt them? He balled his hands into fists until the knuckles turned white and ground his teeth, his eyes blazing. If he could, he'd show them, he'd hurt them like they'd hurt the valley people. Worse! He'd . . .
One moment the head on the stake wore a helmet, the next it was just a head on a stake. Paulo turned away, feeling sick again.
James felt the tension in his son's body change.
"What is it?" he asked.
"She's got it," Paulo answered, then he turned his back on the bloody field.
Half an hour later Pasqua stood up and walked towards them, the helmet swinging by one strap.
"I'm not putting this on," she said.
"Give it to me," James said. Taking it he pulled off his bandage and wiped the wet inside of the helmet. Then he inverted it and put it very carefully on, wincing when it came into contact with his wounds.
"Unit push," he said.
"Go ahead, Captain Martins," replied the lush voice of the Bolo.
"Markee?" James was astonished.
"Never mind Markee," Tops said. "Where the hell are you?"
The squad of fifteen knelt before him, heads bowed, one fist and one knee on the ground, radiating shame as the Sun did heat. Seven-Deer stood before them, resplendent in jade nose and lip plugs, gold rings weighing down his ears, arms crossed over his brawny chest. His face was implacable, but a fear from the World Beyond the World tickled the back of his neck like a chill breeze.
The servant of the Sun had vanished. Oh, not vanished really, escaped. But it should not have been possible. Too many things had gone awry to allow that escape. She got free of her ropes, with no one noticing. She climbed down from the gun carriage, with no one noticing. She walked through the crowd of sleeping slaves, with no one noticing. And she slipped through the squad of fifteen kneeling before him . . . with no one noticing. As if she'd had supernatural help. Perhaps the people of the Sun were being led to their destruction?
Tezcatlipoca is a trickster, he thought. Smoking Mirror does what he does and no man can understand him. Seven-Deer had thought that he understood the will of Tezcatlipoca. Perhaps . . . perhaps it was a lesson, intended to punish my pride in thinking so. After all, the girl was not important now that they had the gun.
The tension within him released slowly. If this was true then he should not punish the men before him. This was also a relief. The people of the Sun were few and every man was needed. Nevertheless, Smoking Mirror's power must be acknowledged.
"Look at me," he said to the kneeling men. "It is not I who must be propitiated. The gods demand their due." He looked into each man's eyes and saw that he was understood. "You shall give blood to Tezcatlipoca, but you may not impair your battle-worthiness. One of your number, a volunteer, or one selected by vote, will be permitted the honor of giving more on behalf of all."
The men looked at one another, then one by one they pointed until all were pointing at the same man, the squad leader, Water-Monster.
He rose with pride and stepped forward to stand at attention before Seven-Deer.
Two priests came forward in their stinking black robes; one bore a thin-bladed knife, the other a basket. The first gave the knife to Water-Monster, who bowed as he accepted the blade. Water-Monster took the blade and sang out a prayer, then he grasped his tongue in one hand and plunged the blade through its center with the other.
Blood ran down his chin and splattered his chest. His eyes filled with water, though he allowed no tears to fall, pupils contracted to pinpoints and his breath came fast.
The other priest came forward and presented the basket. Without taking his eyes from Seven-Deer's, Water-Monster's hand fumbled within it and caught the end of a rope studded with thorns. He fitted it carefully into the slit he'd made and began drawing the rope through. His face and body were slicked with a cold sweat and he trembled from the agony as foot by foot he dragged the lacerating rope through his tender flesh.
He bore the pain well, though to his shame he gagged once or twice. Behind him, his squad took out their knives and slit their ears, singing a song in praise of Tezcatlipoca.
"Tops? What—"
"Where are you, James? We've got a search party out looking for you."
"Where we are is too far from Cacaxtla to do any good," he said. "I've got bad news, Tops. The UATV you sent out . . . they won't be coming home."
There was silence for a moment. James could almost feel Tops' mind clicking into gear, long-disused reflexes opening smoothly. Then: "What are we up against, Captain?"
"Seven-Deer," James said succinctly. "And at least two hundred Jaguar Knights. In addition, they've got upwards of six hundred . . . slaves, I guess."
"Sl
aves?"
Why are you surprised? Tops asked himself. This is Seven-Deer we're talkin' about.
"They're dragging a weapon, Tops. It's a massive cannon. The chassis is mounted on eight balloon wheels, about chest height on me. The gun itself is strange," he paused. "It's about twenty feet long with two rectangular bars bracketing its entire length. And it's thin, looks more like a pipe than anything else. There's a seat for a gunner behind it. I'm assuming that the chassis contains some sort of mechanism for positioning the gun. That about wraps it up. I don't know how they expect to get it into the valley, but if they do, I think we're in deep trouble."
A good assessment, Pasqua thought. Even though James couldn't see her she kept her face immobile.
Tops sighed. "I can't even picture it, Captain. Did it look like something they cobbled together from parts?"
"Excuse me, Captain, Sergeant," the Bolo interrupted. "From the description I would say that the enemy have obtained an XM-17 Railgun. It was an experimental model that was undergoing its final testing phase just before this unit was dispatched to San Gabriel. At that time there were no plans for bringing one this far south."
"That's all you can say?" Tops asked.
Then, with an inward curse over the literal-mindedness of the Bolo, he asked: "What capabilities?"
"The XM-17 Railgun is capable of penetrating the armor of any known self-propelled vehicle at a distance of fifteen hundred meters."
After a long moment he asked carefully: "Including yours?"
"Yes, Sergeant," the Bolo said in its cheerfully sexy voice.
"Can you defend yourself against it?" James asked urgently.
Paulo stared at the dark, curved surface of the helmet's face plate and wished he could hear what was being said to his father. James' hands were bunched into fists and his voice was tight with anxiety.
"In my present state of repair, Captain, I would estimate that I have only a twelve percent chance of successfully defending myself. That estimate is my most optimistic, based on the assumption that the railgun will be facing me head on, giving my own guns a direct shot at it. I cannot turn, nor can I deploy my infinite repeaters owing to the heavy coating of lava stone on my chassis."
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