“That’s mine, you piece of shit!” Kylee called after it. Then she turned, asking, “What the hell happened here? What’s with the bits of broken bowl?”
Dortmund, despite the agony in his arm, laughed in a sudden sense of exhilaration. “It wanted me to put the bowl back together. Do you know what that means?”
“Nope.”
“And then it speared me!”
She was staring at the blood leaking between his fingers where he held his arm. “Yeah. We’d better get that sterilized or you’re going to know a whole new world of hurt.”
58
The air is warm and heavy with humidity. Talina can feel the branch sway as the breeze rises and falls. The calabash tree in which her head hangs pulses with life, somehow fed by her death. She can sense the itz, the life-bearing sap that rises in the trunk; it flows through the branches and is both nourished and replenished by the leaves.
Though she has no eyes, from her vantage point in the calabash tree she can see the ballcourt a few tens of meters away, and before it the stone paving where she was devoured and died.
She has known since that day when she shot Clemenceau that there is no more horrible fate than being eaten alive. Nothing equals the pain of having one’s vibrant body torn apart, ground between jaws, and swallowed. Knowing that the living cells are being digested, that the blood is still leaking from sundered bits of muscle, liver, kidney, and lungs. And to what fate?
The breeze shifts, gently playing with the branch on which Talina’s skull rests.
She has an unimpeded view of the temple above the ballcourt. Remembers the Lords of Death screaming in delight as they danced in celebration of her death. Odd memory, that. Talina can see each of their movements, the gyrating of their bodies, the placement of their feet and graceful undulation of their arms.
Among the ancient Maya, dance was prayer.
So many memories now fill the hollow of her skull, as if without the brain to take up space, there is more than enough room for them all. She has her own recollections, of course. Living with Mother, the sights and sounds of Chiapas, the smells of forest and cooking corn. The taste of recado rojo in the bean-and-beef enchiladas on Saturdays.
There are other memories as well. Quetzal memories. She savors the long past, experiencing the lives of quetzals eons dead. To her amazement she can call up knowledge of the time of fire, when drought turned the bush into a tinderbox. How the quetzals who survived overcame their fear and waded out into the rivers. Trembling in their terror, they kept their mouths above water, every effort spent to constantly force air down through their lungs to vent in noisy bubbles.
And now, for the first time, she can understand the quetzals’ fear of water. Their three lungs are just tubes after all, and they don’t have nostrils they can close. Water can run in from both ends.
Talina’s memories go back to Chiapas, thirty years ago. Quetzals remember differently. They live the past as an eternal now. Their sense of existence stretches into hundreds of years—not as an abstract, but as a tangible reality.
What they lose, however, is the sense of individuality. The identity of the quetzal who mimicked a rotten log to avoid a flock of mobbers is gone; only the memory of what he did remains without a linear chronology or timeline. And there are other memories of terrors she cannot understand. Visions of terrible beasts beyond imagination.
Talina can’t tell from which quetzal a given memory came. She can only place Rocket’s memories as his because they include Kylee or Mundo Base. Or her demon’s memory of eating Allison’s baby because she was there. Some event that she can use to tag a place in her own timeline.
Beyond that, visions of lightning, group hunts, or the murder and devouring of other, long-dead quetzals remains just that: events out of time. Valuable for the information they might impart, but without reference to its place in time.
Quetzals would write history in a very different manner than humans.
Had quetzals a Rome, what would have been important was not that it burned in 410 C.E., or that Alaric’s sacking of the city was the end of the empire in the west. To a quetzal, all that mattered was which strategies were useful in getting out of the city and saving oneself.
All of which put Talina’s demon in perspective. The intensity of the repetitive dream of eating Alison’s baby now acquired new meaning. What mattered was how to gain entry to Port Authority, which steps to take to ensure success, and most of all, how to escape with the knowledge and hopefully pass it on to future generations of quetzals.
To Talina’s way of thinking, her quetzal’s actions might not have been right in the grand scheme of things, but at least they could be placed within a context of understanding.
So, too, could the bitter battles between aging quetzals and their successors. Knowledge was status. Not to be surrendered lightly. Elders age knowing that as they gain status and wisdom, they are increasing the odds for their own murder.
And that put a whole new spin on Rocket’s death at the hands of Deb Spiro: All that information garnered from his interactions with humans was gone, only a fragment of it saved through Talina and Kylee.
The only universal was that random chance plays as much a role in quetzal planning as it does for humans.
Talina—now hanging as a skull in a calabash tree—can’t even smile in ironic amusement.
A calabash tree? Why there? In an ancestral story from a people who conceived of time as turning wheels. Perhaps that is the quetzals’ influence. That appreciation for the long-ago past as yesterday. What can be more ancient in Talina’s psyche than the Maya Creation story? These are her deep roots, the iconic stories of her ancestors: One Hunahpu being reborn as the Maize God after his death in Xibalba, emerging from a cracked turtle shell to raise the World Tree that would hold up the sky.
She wonders what the quetzals think of ancient Maya beliefs? Of gods, games, and buildings?
In Talina’s version of the story, she has been devoured by the Lords of Death: the quetzals. The same quetzals that lived within her body. The Creation stories of the Maya? The molecular memories of the quetzals? They are all about resurrection.
Call it a fundamental truth: One can’t be resurrected into something new until after he or she dies. In Mayan mythology it took Hun Ajaw and Xbalanque to teach that lesson to the Xibalbans.
The warm breeze continues to bathe Talina’s skull, whispers along zygomatic arches, caresses the cavities of her eye sockets, and slips through the hollows of her empty nose.
Talina first glimpses the young woman as she appears at the far end of the ballcourt. She is a slender thing, wearing a wraparound skirt woven in bands of bright yellow, scarlet, deepest indigo, and royal blue. The luminescent fabric glows of its own light. Black hair hangs down in a flowing wealth behind her, and she wears oversized shell ear ornaments of pearlescent white. Her round breasts are bared, with large aureoles and prominent nipples.
Talina watches the young woman cross the empty ballcourt, her hips swinging with each step. Curiosity burns behind the woman’s eyes as she reaches the spot where Talina was devoured. The young woman hesitates for a moment, looks down at the stained stones where Talina’s blood had pooled.
Then she walks up to the tree.
She might be in her late teens, her youthful skin flush with life. When Talina stares into the woman’s face, it is to see herself as she was half a lifetime ago: vital with the bloom of youth.
“I’m looking for the fruit this tree is said to bear.”
“I’m only a skull. What would you want with old bones?”
“I want to know what you know.”
“Such knowledge comes with a terrible price.”
“I would still know it.”
“Then open your hand and extend it to me.”
Talina watches her younger self extend her slim brown arm without hesitation and o
pen her hand. Those familiar dark eyes glisten with excitement. Fearless. Driven by the same spirit that goaded young Talina Perez to cross thirty light-years to an alien planet.
As in the ancient Mayan stories, it doesn’t matter that she is only a skull. Talina spits into the young woman’s palm. As she does, images, like echoes, play through her empty braincase. Time after time, each instance is recalled when she spit in her hand: for Rocket; for Whitey; for Flash, Diamond, and Leaper. For the Rork Springs quetzals.
The bitter and overpowering taste of peppermint floods her senses, almost leaves her reeling with its intensity.
“There is no end and no beginning,” Talina tells her younger self as the woman inspects the saliva in her hand. “You have what you need to fix the pot. Keep the words of the ancestors. You are my legacy.”
Talina watches her younger self raise her hand to her nose, sniff, and then look in disbelief as she realizes the spittle has vanished.
Yes, it is absorbed. You have become one with that knowledge.
Young Talina nods, a faint smile on her full lips. Then she turns, her skirt flashing with light as she walks away with a saucy swing of the hips.
“What do you think?” Rocket asks where he appears near the trunk of the calabash tree.
“I think I have been reborn,” Talina tells him.
In the vision of her sightless eyes she can see the Way glyph: the transformer, the symbol of spiritual co-essence, animal spirit possession, and the spirit dreamer. So many meanings, all packed into that one remarkable ancient symbol.
59
Hard to believe that it had been this easy. But then, if the Supervisor’s office was any indication of his new status, Tamarland was now lord of a dung heap. The room was maybe thirty-five square meters in size, the back wall cramped as it was part of the dome’s curving radius. He had a one-by-two-meter window behind the scarred desk. From the green stain on the wall below the sill, it leaked.
His first official action had been to move the desk so that his back wasn’t to the window. Apparently he wasn’t the first to fear a shot through the glass. The scars on the floor showed that some previous occupant had placed the desk so that his back was safely to the wall.
The only view was of the chain-link fence that surrounded the shuttle field. A series of shelves stood along one wall, and were filled with various odds and ends. An empty weapons rack was bolted next to the door.
He had five chairs of various makes and colors, including the auto-adjusting office chair behind the desk. He’d immediately discovered that the auto-adjust didn’t work. The only piece of functioning equipment seemed to be the holo-projector.
It now displayed the colony records. Yvette had sent him the files on various Port Authority personnel. To call the information lacking was an understatement. Also sobering were the number of names listed as “deceased.” That led to the looming problem of registration and organization. How the hell was he going to govern Port Authority when he hadn’t a clue as to who had which skills? Just ask them during the registration process? And more to the point, he needed enforcers, hard people who wouldn’t mind breaking a few heads to get the masses under some semblance of control.
He’d looked up Dan Wirth first thing. All the records stated was: Transportee: Wirth, Dan. Arrived: Turalon. Occupation: Livestock Technician II.
Or take the man named Rude Marsdome. Arrived: Phantom. Occupation: Cordwainer.
What the hell was a cordwainer? Tam had had to look it up: cobbler. Which he’d also had to look up. Turns out the guy made footwear. Where did they come up with these terms anyway?
He sighed, pushed back in his broken chair, and stared out the window. Vixen’s shuttle was sitting in the middle of the field, its ramp down. Someone was unloading crates of something from one of the loaders. Probably food. Next to it, the Corporate Mine shuttle was unloading spools of cable after having disgorged its passengers for their rotational R&R.
And what was he going to do about that? Aguila considered him a criminal, so did he want her people wandering around PA? Or should he shut down the whole thing? Teach Aguila a lesson about what it cost to cross him?
No, best to leave it as it was for now. The time was going to come when he’d have to move against her. And to do that would take preparation. He’d have to remake Port Authority first, solidify his position. Only then could he assassinate her and move his people into place down at the mine.
And that brought his thoughts back to Port Authority, pathetic as it was.
Hard to believe that my life has come to this.
Memories of Transluna played in the back of his mind: fine meals, the melodic sound of Shayne’s laughter, shared intimacy as she stared into his eyes, a smile on her full lips. The exotic luxury of the Solar Elan Hotel with its transparent room walls high over the city. He had always loved the penthouse, adorned as it was with water sculptures, free-floating orchids, and sensational staff.
“Shayne, if you only knew.” He pictured her smile, could imagine her amusement at the knowledge that instead of ruling Solar System, he’d only managed to conquer a failing colony. In that moment, he ached with grief. Wished with all of his might that she might be here, that he might once again look into her eyes, hold her body against his. But all he had was a dingy office in a leaky dome on a faraway world thirty light-years from anything.
“Not quite what we planned, is it my love?”
I could walk out to the shuttle field, have Wilson fly me up to Vixen. Once aboard, if I put a gun to his head, Torgussen would space us back to Solar System.
“It would be another fifty years in the future,” he told himself. “Into a changed universe.”
The rules might be completely different. A whole new political structure. And would The Corporation enforce a century-old death penalty? Or could he have the charges dropped in exchange for an offer of service to whomever was currently in power?
That was the choice. A wager on that future against the dubious honor of serving as high potentate of this crummy shithole with its four hundred people.
What value was a pile of rubies, emeralds, diamonds, gold, and platinum when all it would buy him was a chamois steak and a bottle of Inga Lock’s wine?
He actually, if momentarily, wondered whether Shayne had done him any favors by sending him to Vixen.
“Don’t be an idiot. Had Artollia not saved you, you’d be fifty years dead.”
At the sound of steps in the hallway, he looked up. To his surprise Supervisor Aguila entered, followed by two of her marines and that shit of a captain, Torgussen. She stopped short, an eyebrow lifting in irritation and recognition.
She wore a black form-fitting pantsuit, her hair tumbling down her back in a dark wave. The familiar pistol hung at her side, and the utility belt with its pouches canted at an angle on her hips. A look of distaste marred her scarred features.
“What the hell are you doing in my chair?”
“Your chair?” Tam asked. “My chair.” He gestured around. “My office.”
“It’s the Supervisor’s. My space in Port Authority. Get out.”
Tam chuckled, leaned back to allow quick access to his Talon. “There’s been a change of management. From here on out, you may address me as Director. And as to your continued presence in Port Authority, that may well become a matter of discussion.”
In the background, Torgussen looked like he was chewing nails. The marines were stony faced.
Aguila frowned, tapped her fingers on her pistol butt. “That will be a most interesting discussion. What have you done with Shig and Yvette?”
“I have them assembling census data. Port Authority isn’t much, but it turns out to be the only game on the planet. It may appear hopeless at the moment, but I fully intend on organizing these clods into an efficient workforce. Can’t order changes until I know who to assign where.” He shifted just
enough that his coat fell open so that it no longer impeded his draw.
“Dushane and Mosadek are not in their offices.”
“Then they’re about their duties. You should see these records. An absolute shambles. Hard to believe these people have managed as well as they have given the total lack of direction.”
“And you’re going to manage them? Think you’ll run Donovan the way you and Shayne planned to run the Corporate Board? What did you do? Threaten Shig and Yvette with murder? Some sort of coercion?”
“Let’s just say that they saw the light. As I would hope that you would. From here on out, things are going to be different in Port Authority. I imagine that, given your marines, you were able to dictate whatever terms you wanted. I come from a different world where the uses of power take on a more subtle and sophisticated orchestration.”
“Ah yes, the fabled scorpion. Shayne’s feared weapon.” Aguila seemed to digest that, considered, and then burst into laughter. She turned, saying, “Tompzen, go check with Two Spot. Tell him I need to locate Mosadek and Dushane.”
The marine saluted, pushed past Torgussen, and left the room. Aguila shot Tam a hard look. “God help you if you’ve harmed either one of them.”
“Haven’t touched a hair on their heads. Didn’t need to. Both of them, it seems, are fully rational and understand just where their best interests lie. They even kept a lid on that silly kid, Monagan, lest she demonstrate a lack of good sense.”
“I’ll bet.” Aguila had an amused look on her face. “So you’re planning on breaking the troublesome Donovanians to halter, are you? Going to try and capture the wind in a can?”
“Ultimately, Supervisor, everything boils down to a triumph of the will. I’ve made a study of social management. Fortunately for me, others have not only pioneered but mastered the process.”
Pariah Page 35