All That Lives Must Die mc-2

by Eric Nylund

  A flicker of irritation passed over Mr. Ma’s face as he turned and glanced up to the top of the gym structure. He then looked over Jeremy and Amanda.

  “A fine idea,” Mr. Ma said, “but there will be no practice for you today. Where is Mr. Farmington?”

  “No practice? We need it,” Fiona protested. “Team Scarab was signed up for this time.”

  She decided not to say anything about Robert’s phone call and his ditching. Why she was protecting him, though, she had no clue.

  “Team Scarab, yes,” Mr. Ma agreed. “But you are coming with me. There’s a special field trip for the Force of Arms class today.”

  “A trip?” Fiona said. “Where?”

  “South,” Mr. Ma told her. “We have a chance to study a revolutionary war in progress. . firsthand.”

  60 THE TROUBLE WITH TRUANCY

  Eliot had never ditched before, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Study? That was the only thing that came to mind. . but it sure seemed to defeat the purpose.

  It was nice to be out of class and in the sunlight, though. And when Robert had picked him up (in a sidecar attached to his Harley) outside the Monterey Fairgrounds, the outraged look on Sarah’s face had been great. Ms. DuPreé, though, had said nothing, looking almost as if she approved of this rebellion.

  He was sure he’d pay for it-but for now, he’d enjoy it while it lasted.

  Robert slowed his bike as they got to the exit of the fairgrounds’ parking lot. “So where to?”

  Eliot tried to think of something he’d always wanted to do, but never had the time or freedom for.

  “How about miniature golf?”

  Robert gave him a you’ve got to be kidding look.

  Eliot shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Robert snapped his fingers. “There’s a Mardi Gras-a real blowout bash. Just a bit south, if you don’t mind the drive to Costa Esmeralda.”

  There was something funny in Robert’s eyes, though; like this Mardi Gras thing was a deep memory surfacing. . as if he was in a trace.

  “Sounds good,” Eliot replied.

  “Cool.” Robert grinned, and the look vanished. “Hang on.”

  They drove fast-same as when Robert had chauffeured Uncle Henry’s limousine-breezing down the California coast to the border in ten minutes-then they blasted down the Pan-American Highway past cars and trucks, and through Mexico City traffic like it was frozen in amber.

  Rocketing just a foot off the ground in the sidecar was scary and fun. Eliot might as well have been strapped into the front seat of a first-class roller coaster that never stopped (not that he’d ever ridden a roller coaster, but this was how he imagined it’d feel).

  “That exit there!” Eliot shouted, and pointed.

  Robert veered onto the off-ramp. They raced past a sign that read

  COSTA ESMERALDA, CENTRO DE CIUDAD 8 KM

  Eliot recognized this stretch of jungle coastline. It was the same place Uncle Henry had driven him a month ago, crowded with palm trees and ferns and flowers, and flocks of parrots that called out to him. In the roar of the wind and surf, he heard his rejuvenating song echoing still.

  His guitar was wedged next to his thigh. He’d never be able to play such a delicate song on this new version of Lady Dawn, and almost regretted her transformation.

  Eliot ran his hand over the mirror-smooth wood, the bold brass fittings, felt a thrum with her coiled steel strings. But there was more power in her now. . or in him, and that was a good thing.

  The jungle thinned; there were patches of bare dirt, and then pavement, and small buildings that crystallized into suburbs: tiny houses with dark metal roofs. Clean, too-not a speck of trash or pollution.

  As they sped on, the houses became factories and then rose into clusters of office towers arranged in orderly rows.

  And all of them without color: faded black asphalt, concrete sidewalks and walls, bare iron pipes and lampposts-everything shades of gray. It was depressing.

  The strangest thing, though, was the traffic. There were three lanes full of honking cars and trucks, but all going north. On the southbound lane that they traveled on. . it was empty.

  Pretty weird, if there was a Mardi Gras.

  Robert slowed as they approach the end of the off-ramp and looked around. Down either side of the street was a towering canyon of office buildings. The only movement was papers blowing in the gutters. No people.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Eliot asked.

  “Positive,” Robert answered, annoyed. He sounded unsure now about the reliability of his sure thing Mardi Gras tip.

  A few blocks away, thumps echoed from the city center.

  “Come on,” Robert muttered. “Sounds like something’s going down. Maybe the party’s started or it’s a parade.”

  Eliot nodded, but he detected something in Robert’s voice he didn’t often hear: worry.

  Eliot’s hand rested on Lady Dawn’s strings, just in case.

  Robert eased the Harley into gear and went slow, the bike’s engine shaking the frame.

  Eliot had an urge to get out and walk, so, if nothing else, he could properly hold his guitar. It was claustrophobic in this sidecar. Sure, the leather padding was comfortable. . but it kind of reminded him of a coffin on wheels.

  On the other hand, maybe it was best to stay in the vehicle that could accelerate past the sound barrier-in case they had to make a quick exit.

  They moved closer to the downtown office towers, each with the same dirty square windows, the same square entryways. There were, however, splotches of color here and there. Plastered on the walls were posters. In them, a man stood in a heroic pose holding a pistol in one hand, a sword in the other. He was drawn in angular red, white, and black lines. A red flag waved behind him. At the bottom of each poster, black bold letters proclaimed: COL. V. C. BALBOA. PRESIDENTE DE POR VIDA.

  This guy gave Eliot the creeps.

  Robert pulled up to a four-way stop and predictably rolled through the ALTO sign into the intersection. This gave them an unobstructed view into the center of Costa Esmeralda.

  And they saw exactly who was throwing this “Mardi Gras.”

  There were hundreds of soldiers. They wore faded green uniforms and held rifles with bayonets. A few hefted bazookas. Squads moved among the buildings, rounding up civilians and ordering them to stand against a wall.

  One man shouted at the soldiers-and got clubbed to the ground for his trouble.

  Eliot’s hands rolled into fists. Seeing this enraged him more than anything, even the unfair, potentially lethal classes at Paxington-those students were there because they wanted to be. They knew the risks. This was just a bunch of bullies picking on people.

  Eliot wanted to climb out, grab Lady Dawn, and. .

  All his heroic thoughts ground to a halt.

  On a corner three blocks away squatted an armored tank, its muzzle pointed down the street at head level. . at them.

  Robert gunned the Harley, spun around, and roared down a side street.

  They went fast, but it was just fast. Not the fast that Eliot knew they could go-fast that made the rest of the world stand still.

  They raced for two blocks, screamed around three corners, and Robert skidded to a halt. He doubled over, examining the bike’s exposed V-pistons.

  “Something’s wrong,” Robert murmured.

  A block behind them, two primer gray Humvees careened through an intersection.

  Gunshots cracked.

  Holes chipped in the wall over Eliot’s head. “No kidding something’s wrong! Just go!”

  Robert twisted the throttle and they sped off, quickly outpacing the larger vehicles-slalomed around two corners-then down an alley.

  Rolling to block the alley’s exit, however, were two more Humvees. These had their tops off, roll bars exposed. . with mounted fifty-caliber machine guns. They fired.

  “Holy-!” Robert ducked, spun them around, and peeled out,
scraping the alley’s wall.

  Behind them, gunfire chewed through the concrete. Eliot instinctively crouched deeper into the sidecar (as if the fiberglass were going to stop a bullet).

  Robert plowed through a row of trash cans.

  Sparks flew and bullets puckered the metal. . both cans and the bike’s frame.

  Then the Harley was around the corner.

  Robert accelerated to ninety miles an hour. . still nowhere near the magical speed Eliot wished they were going.

  Four blocks away, a helicopter skimmed over the rooftops. It rose, spun, and angled toward them.

  Robert spotted it, too. He pressed his body low and went faster.

  But there was no way they’d outrun a helicopter. They needed another option.

  Eliot gripped Lady Dawn. He could summon Napoléon-era cannoneers and cavalry. Or that ghostly fog. At least that’d give them some cover.

  But nineteenth-century artillery and soldiers on horseback against automatic weapons, bazookas, or armored tanks? They wouldn’t last two seconds. Fog would get blown away by the helicopter, and besides. . the spirits inside that fog wouldn’t care if they attacked soldiers or civilians.

  The Harley flashed through an intersection.

  Eliot looked for more Humvees or tanks. The adjacent street was a blur of concrete gray and iron black-except for a spot of gleaming white and chrome.

  He knew those colors. Not what specifically they belonged to, just that he had seen them before.

  He tapped Robert and made a circle around motion.

  Robert nodded. He braked, turned, and gunned the bike back the way they’d come.

  The helicopter thundered overhead, overshooting their position.

  Eliot pointed down the side street. Robert leaned the bike into the turn so far that the sidecar wheels lifted.

  One building on this street was different. It was three stories, and on top was an enclosed glass atrium, gleaming in the tropical sun. There was an iron statue in front: the same gun and sword-wielding Presidente in the posters. Red flags fluttered alongside the wide stairs that led to steel double doors.

  But this is not what Eliot had recognized, not what now made his heart catch.

  Parked in front of the building was a 1933 Rolls-Royce limousine, all white curves that seemed to never end, chrome that looked like dripping quicksilver, and the woman-with-wings-swept-back-and-arms-held-forward hood ornament.

  It was Laurabelle. Uncle Henry’s car.

  “Hang on and duck!” Robert shouted.

  He veered past the limo’s bumper-over the curb, shot up the stairs, and crashed though the double doors.

  The Harley flopped over and skidded into a wall. The engine coughed and died.

  Eliot tumbled out, Lady Dawn in one hand. . the room spinning.

  He was in was a lobby with more flags and oil paintings of Colonel V. C. Balboa, Presidente de por vida, but otherwise it was deserted.

  Robert went to the doors that hung askew in their frames and shoved them back (more or less) into place.

  Eliot looked over his shoulder. There was a thump as that helicopter passed overhead and faded-then the shadow of a jet flashed across the street and there was a teeth-shaking rumble-followed by three Humvees that rolled by. They didn’t stop.

  Eliot sighed and opened his mouth to ask Robert a million questions.

  Robert shook his head. He pulled out a gun from the holster in the small of his back. He pointed his eyes and the up and down the lobby.

  Eliot nodded, hung back, and slung Lady Dawn over his shoulder. . fingers just over her strings.

  Robert checked one end of the lobby, then came back and motioned Eliot to follow.

  Eliot took one last glance outside. He didn’t see any pursuing soldiers.

  He and Robert entered an abandoned courtroom. They crept past rows of seats, flags and official seals, and through the curtain behind the raised judge’s bench.

  They found an office with walls of legal books. There was a mahogany desk upon which sat a drained bottle with hand-painted gold leaves embellishing a label that proclaimed: TEQUILA.

  Robert nodded toward stairs that led up. A second bottle lay on the steps, liquor spilled, smelling smoky and pungent.

  Uncle Henry had to be up there, or someone, at least, who had his car. Either way, there were answers, and maybe a way out of sunny, festive Costa Esmeralda.

  They climbed up. Robert swept his aim as the stairs angled back and forth.

  Two more flights. This reminded Eliot of the obstacle course in gym, and adrenaline surged though his blood and his fingertips lit upon Lady Dawn’s strings. The barest subsonic resonant thrum came in response to his feather touch. The paint on the walls crackled.

  Robert looked at him, but said nothing.

  They eased along the last steps to a glass door, pausing to let their eyes adjust to the sunlight.

  On the other side was a garden of palm trees, cacti, and bromeliads with flowers like fanged mouths. There was a table with shade umbrella, and lounging there with his back to them was Uncle Henry in his white suit (his jacket off) and straw hat, shot glass tilted in his hand, its contents dribbling down his arm.

  Robert eased open the door, scanned the garden right to left.

  There was no one else there, but he didn’t lower his aim.

  Eliot didn’t understand. It was Uncle Henry. He tapped Robert and gave him a What are you doing? look.

  Robert shrugged him off and shot back a glare that could have given Fiona a run for her money in the withering-flesh department.

  Without turning, Uncle Henry said, “Robert’s quite right to be wary, Eliot. This is a war, after all.” He gave a dramatic wave that sloshed out the remains of the tequila. “Dangerous elements loose in the streets. .” He reached for the bottle and knocked it over. “Can’t even trust one’s liquor to stand still at such times.”

  Robert sighed, clicked on his gun’s safety, and lowered it.

  They went to Henry. Eliot plucked up the bottle and set it right.

  “You’re drunk,” Robert said.

  “I certainly hope so. Otherwise a perfect waste of several bottles of Tequila Casa Noble Extra Anejo.”

  Eliot surveyed the city from behind the glass walls. Tanks and Humvees rolled into the city center where he and Robert had stopped. There were more people in the streets, and more soldiers shoving them around, and one thing he hadn’t seen on the far side of the city’s center square: an older section with a cobblestone courtyard and church that looked like it could have been built by the original Spanish missionaries. Dozens of people streamed toward the church, taking shelter within-scared people, crying people, children, and women carrying bundled babies.

  Eliot set a hand on the glass, wanting to help them.

  “You said this was going to be a party. .,” Robert told Henry, stabbing at him with a finger.

  “Did I?” Henry crinkled his brow. “Oh, perhaps I did at that.” He frowned. “Really, Robert, you know better than to take me literally. This is more of a wake for a friend, actually.”

  Eliot turned. “Why is the League doing this? Why are you letting them?”

  It was just a guess the League was involved-but a darned good guess in Eliot’s estimation. All the organized violence. Uncle Henry here, doing. . whatever he was doing.

  “I had not the time or the strength to stop them,” Henry whispered. “They’re right, of course: Balboa must go. But you’re right, too, Eliot; there were other ways for those with patience.” He shook his head. “And I have so few friends left. Even if the Colonel had all those nasty habits-suppression of free speech-communism-a taste for women a tad too young.”

  Henry took a deep breath and continued. “Alas, he committed the one unpardonable sin: not following the exact letter of the League’s bidding.”

  He studied his empty shot glass, surprised it was no longer full. “And communism-ha! — that has never worked among mortals. Even among the Immortals-Zeus and his �
��fair’ autocracy. . what a farce. Only the Bright Ones ever came close.”[55]

  Robert’s eyes widened with realization. “Balboa has one of your cars.”

  “Yes,” Henry said with a sigh. “The 1970 Shelby. So naturally, the League sent me here to prevent him from spiriting away.”

  “That’s why the bike didn’t work,” Robert muttered to Eliot. “Henry’s blocking.”

  Eliot didn’t understand completely, but he did enough to know they’d be stuck here until Uncle Henry let them go.

  “If this is a League-sponsored revolution,” Eliot asked, “why use the military? Why not just let people vote?”

  Uncle Henry wobbled to his feet and joined Eliot by the glass wall. “I do love you, child, and your idealism. It is one of the few fragile joys left to me.”

  “You could’ve taken Balboa out neat and easy,” Robert spat out. “The only problem is, it might’ve left tracks-and the League couldn’t have that. Nothing covers tracks like a little blood, huh, Mr. Mimes?”

  Uncle Henry sobered. “Yes. And even better than a little is a lot. I do wish there was a way to stop this, but set in motion, these things take on a life of their own, I’m afraid.”

  Eliot didn’t know what to think. He detected no lie in Uncle Henry’s words. And he did indeed look remorseful (or maybe he was just drunk like Robert said). Still, this situation seemed utterly wrong.

  “Look here,” Uncle Henry said, and fished a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. It was a stamp, triangle shaped, with a pineapple printed on it. He ran a finger over its perforated edges. “Every conflict between two forces has three outcomes. One side can win. Or the other side can.”

  He placed the stamp in Eliot’s hand and closed his fingers over it.

  “What’s the third option?” Eliot asked.

  “Haven’t a clue,” Henry replied. “But I do know there’s always a third option. People just never seem interested in looking long enough to find it.”

  Eliot didn’t understand. . but his hand closed about the stamp. He’d keep it.

  He turned and watched as soldiers moved toward the church. One of them shot at a shadow moving behind a stained glass window. Rainbow fragments littered the ground, out of place in this city of gray.