House of Reeds ittotss-2 Read online

  House of Reeds

  ( In the time of the sixth Sun - 2 )

  Thomas Harlan

  Thomas Harlan

  House of Reeds

  From the Annals of Cuauhtitlan

  In the beginning was the First Sun,

  4-Water was its sign;

  It was called the Sun of Water.

  For water covered the world,

  Leaving nothing but the dragonflies above

  And the fishy men below.

  The Second Sun was born,

  4-Jaguar was its sign;

  This was called the Sun of the Jaguars.

  In this Sun the heavens collapsed,

  So that the Sun could not move in its course.

  The world darkened, and when all was dark

  Then the people were devoured.

  The Giants perished, giving life to the Third Sun.

  4-Rain was its sign;

  It was called the Sun of Rain.

  For this Sun rained fire from bleeding eyes

  And the people were consumed.

  From the torrent of burning stones,

  The Fourth Sun was born.

  4-Wind was its sign, and it was called the Sun of Wind.

  In this Sun, all which stood on the earth was carried

  Away by terrible winds.

  The people were turned into monkeys,

  And scattered from their cities into the forest.

  Now, by sacrifice of the divine liquid, the Fifth Sun was born.

  Its sign was 4-Motion.

  As the Sun moved, following a course,

  The ancients called it the Sun of Motion.

  In the time of this Sun, there were

  Great earthquakes and famine,

  No maize grew, and the gods of the field

  Turned their eyes from the people.

  And all the people grew thin, and perished.

  The Lord of Heaven cut the heart from his living son,

  And so was born the Sixth Sun, which sustains

  The universe with infinite light.

  Its sign was 4-Flint.

  Those who watch the sky say this Sun

  Will end in annihilation, when the flint-knife

  Severs the birthcord of the Sun, plunging all

  Into darkness, where the people will

  Be cut to pieces and scattered.

  This is the time of the Sixth Sun…

  An Imperial Light Cruiser The Hittite Sector, Beyond the Edge of Imperial Space

  Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi, captain of the Henry R. Cornuelle, was sitting in the ruins of the senior officers' wardroom when his personal comm chimed. The thin little Nisei gentleman set down his cup of tea on a utility table covered with departmental readiness reports and tapped his comm-band live. "This is Hadeishi." "Bridge, kyo. We've picked up a Fleet message drone on long-range scan." The ensign standing third-watch communications didn't bother to hide his anticipation. The Cornuelle had been out in the wasteland of stars beyond the frontier for nearly nine months. The tachyon relay on the Imperial Mйxica Navy Astronomer-class light cruiser wasn't quite good enough to punch through to the big receivers at Ctesiphon Station or Tadmor. Unrepaired battle damage to the ship's systems had further degraded their ability to correspond in realtime with Fleet. The prospect of fresh news from home would be very welcome to everyone aboard. Though we're not suffering cabin fever, not yet. Hadeishi felt the crew had fallen into a good routine over the last six to seven weeks. Everyone was still sharp – no one was making silly mistakes or starting fights – and there was a certain confidence in the crisp way they'd dealt with the last two 'incidents.' The Megair weren't used to Imperial patrols ranging so far out from the frontier. "Is the drone intact?" Hadeishi reached to key up the main comm panel in the mess, but found an empty cavity in the wall instead. A Khaid penetrator had burrowed into his ship far enough to incinerate everything in the officers' dining room and surrounding passageways. Some amenities had been restored by looting the port-side Marine ready-room, but there weren't any spare comm panels to go around, not this far from a Fleet depot. "Hai, kyo. We're still negotiating security protocols, but we'll have a download soon." "Route anything flagged 'Fleet' or 'Priority' directly to my office panel," Hadeishi said, then drained his cup. The waxy black substance in the bottom would not count as 'tea' in the poorest inn on AnГЎhuac, but out here beyond the frontier? A mild stimulant in solution, the Chu-sa thought in amusement, and drinkable hot. Must be tea! Bridge-comm signed off and Hadeishi walked carefully along a pathway of fire-proof blankets laid down on jagged metal. The thought of mail cheered him – not necessarily for the contents, as Fleet would be sure to deluge him with demands for reports and reams of fresh regulations, but for the prospect of some news from the inner worlds. Mess conversation below decks would improve, he thought. Fresh zenball and tlachco scores and standings – very important – the men will have something new to wager on. Down in enlisted territory, thousands of quills of back-pay were riding on games played months ago. Only Fleet security codes and operational doctrine were more heavily encrypted on outgoing message drones than sports scores. Fleet orders weren't configured to release directly to the public infostream, either. Hadeishi thumbed into his quarters and could not help but smile broadly to see his personal comm panel filled with a fat list of 'new message received' glyphs, already sorted and coded for his attention.

  The Chu-sa's thin face twisted into a frown. Eyes narrowed in thought, he ran a hand pensively over a sharp black beard. In the harsh light of a temporary fixture hanging from the damaged roof his angular features seemed cast from bronze. A fat section of the messages on his pane reiterated a common theme – one which made his stomach churn. This is good news, he told himself, trying to control his initial despair. Good news. Time to break out the last of the sake and have Yejin try and cook a real meal. Time to reminisce about the things we've done and seen. Time to turn my ship towards home. Imperial Fleet Office of Personnel, Nineteenth Fleet, Toroson System: Be advised that Thai-i Hayes, Patrick; weapons officer, IMN Cornuelle; has been promoted to Sho-sa in recognition of time in service and exemplary duty to the Empire. Sho-sa Hayes is directed to report at first opportunity to Toroson Fleet Base for reassignment to the heavy cruiser Taiko… "Such good news! Gods of mountain and stream…" Hadeishi's nostrils flared. "…they're gutting my staff to the bone! Hayes, Smith, Isoroku…how will Susan and I -" His thumb tapped the 'down' glyph for the next message and everything seemed to freeze. Two more personnel orders were in queue, each accompanied by a noted marked 'Personal' from Thai-sho Hotategai at Nineteenth Fleet HQ. Hadeishi's hand moved away from the panel controls. The churning feeling in his stomach was gone, replaced by a cold, leaden sensation. One of the personnel reports was signed for him, and one for… His thumb moved violently and the message queue flashed red. A confirmation pane opened and he pressed his hand against the plate. A verbal counter-sign followed and Hadeishi, speaking quickly, in short, clearly enunciated phrases, confirmed dumping the whole slate of messages. Then he sat back, beads of sweat on his forehead, eyes closed. In the silence, in the darkness, Hadeishi could hear the ship all around him. Humming along, as it had for six faithful years. The faint gurgling sound of the recycler pipes running under the floor plates, the muted hum of the comm panels. A distant thunder – more felt than heard – of the maneuver drives and the reactors turning over. The sound of a well-tuned ship, lovingly tended by skilled men like Isoroku. Sounds and vibrations he'd lived with so long they'd faded into the seamless background fabric of reality, just as the sound of crickets and car horns had been omnipresent in his youth. After a long time, Hadeishi opened his eyes and tapped open a system control pane. Horribly weary – just sitting
forward exhausted him – he summoned up a set of dories in the comm system and set them to scrubbing all evidence of the mail packets from shipside records. MISMATCHED SECURITY KEY FAILURES, he keyed into the log. DAMAGED A NUMBER OF TRANSMISSIONS FROM FLEET. A RETRANSMIT REQUEST HAS BEEN QUEUED FOR NEXT MESSAGE DRONE INTERCEPT…

  Hadeishi tapped the comm pane closed and slumped back in his chair. I am suddenly so tired.

  Drowned Venice, Six Months Later… North Italian Military District, Anguhuac (Old Earth)

  The air throbbed with violent sound, the heavy beat of a thousand drums making the floor jump under prince Tezozуmoc's feet. The young Mйxica noble pushed through a crowd of gaily ornamented men and women. Feathered headdresses brushed against his face, brilliant paints and jewels flashed at his eyes. The sound grew louder, the basso droning of conch trumpets piercing the thunder of the dance-drums. An arched doorway appeared above the masked heads of the revelers, filled with a pulsating red light. The prince whooped, changing course, shoving aside writhing bare arms gleaming with sweat and scented oil. His bodyguards fell behind, trapped by the chattering mob.

  Countless voices were singing, a hoarse, bellowing roar:

  So it has been said by the Lord of the World,

  Huitzilopochtli,

  Only a subject,

  Only a mortal was.

  Tezozуmoc's long coat snagged on a woman's emerald-encrusted snake-bodice, and he let the heavy, armor-reinforced leather garment fall away. Heated air flushed against newly bared skin, and the prince felt a rush of relief. He was glad to be out of the chill winter air and into comfortable heat. Strobing lights blazed on his chest and shoulders, making vertical stripes of red and orange paint blaze. Turquoise bracelets shimmered at his wrists. He pressed through the arch, long-fingered hands trailing across the exposed bellies of two girls writhing to the all-encompassing sound.

  For an instant, standing at the top of a tall staircase, vaulted roof booming overhead with the roar of the crowd, staring down at the surging mass of painted, feathered, jeweled humanity dancing below, the prince felt alive – transported, wrenched free from his miserable skin, elevated even beyond the humming buzz of the oliohuiqui coursing through his blood – and he threw back his head in a long, wailing howl.

  The priests were singing:

  A magician,

  A terror,

  A stirrer of strife,

  A deceiver,

  A maker of war,

  An arranger of battles,

  A lord of battles.

  The sound was lost in the throbbing beat, the countless flutes, braying horns, the shaking roar of rattles and gourds. On the floor of the ancient Catholic cathedral, a line of four hundred dancers began to circulate, horned masks bobbing, powdered feet stamping, stiff arms thrown up in the stylized motions of the ancient barbarians. Tezozуmoc grasped the shoulders of two revelers – were they Italians? Beneath their feathered mantle-cloaks and elaborate masks, who could tell? – and leapt up onto the balustrade of the staircase. Marble polished to glass by hundreds of years of use slipped under his bare feet, making the prince stagger and lurch for balance.

  A flush of heat surged through him, morning-glory extract mixing with adrenaline, and the vast chamber spun around. The prince laughed queasily, trim brown arms reaching out. Balance returned, helped by a forest of hands reaching up to grasp his legs. Countless gleaming eyes stared up at him in surprise, every face hidden behind fantastical masks.

  "I run!" he screeched, swinging his head round. "I run!"

  Against the antics of the four hundred dancers, the red-masked priests droned with one voice:

  And of him it was said

  That he hurled

  His flaming serpent,

  His fire stick;

  Which means war,

  Blood and burning;

  Throwing his arms wide, Tezozуmoc sprang down the marble banister, nimble feet light on ancient, moss-corroded stone. Within a breath he lost control and, unable to stop, plunged headlong into the close-packed crowd. At the same moment, a veritable forest of maroon banners sprang up from the revelers. The drums rattled to a crescendo as the circle of dancers at the middle of the vast floor fell to hands and knees. A brawny man – nearly seven feet tall, dyed blue from head to toe, his shoulders and arms covered with a coat of glued iridescent feathers – sprang up, raising a curling, snapping banner bearing an azure hummingbird. Muscles flexing, he whirled the banner around his head with great speed. As he did, another man – no more than a youth – darted from the crowd, racing counterclockwise around the ring of fallen dancers. Like the prince, he was painted with vertical red and orange stripes.

  The blare of horns and conch trumpets faded away, and now only a single massive beat of the drums punctuated the chanting of the priests:

  And when his festival was celebrated,

  Captives were slain,

  Washed slaves were slain,

  The merchants washed them.

  Tezozуmoc crashed into one banner, tearing the cloth from the hands of a startled celebrant, then into another. His cry of pain was lost in a tumult of sound as the banner-men raised a mighty shout, shaking their flags violently. The prince scrabbled at the hard-muscled bodies tangled around him, kicking fruitlessly, narrow chest heaving with effort. He could see nothing but a forest of bare, dyed legs and the strobing flash of arc lights on the distant ceiling. Someone kicked him in the side and his own mask slipped sideways, blinding him.

  "Ahh…curst peasants! Get off!"

  The booming rattle of the drums began to pick up, and the voices of the priests melded into one thundering roar of sound:

  And thus he was arrayed:

  With headdress of green feathers,

  Holding his serpent torch,

  Girded with a belt,

  Bracelets upon his arms,

  Wearing turquoises,

  As a master of messengers.

  A hand reached down, seizing his wrist, and Tezozуmoc felt himself dragged to his feet.

  "You're strong…" the prince started to exclaim, stripping away his sweat-soaked mask. Then he stopped, surprised.

  An oval-faced girl wearing little more than long glossy black hair smiled up at him. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear anything, only the crushing thunder of drums and horns and a thousand hoarse voices shouting their praises of red-and-black-faced Christ the Warrior. Tezozуmoc shook his head, grinning, and pulled her close. Her hip rubbed across his thigh, slippery with oil. To his delight, she pressed close, nails scraping his chest and back. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head, lips pressed to his ear.

  "Isn't it bad luck to have two of the same god at the festival?" he heard – a strong, breathy voice with an indefinable accent. Not a Mйxica girl, then. Tezozуmoc felt a flash of disappointment, immediately lost in a surge of desire as her tongue flicked against his earlobe.

  "There's another Painal the Runner here?" he asked, confused, turning to put lips to her ear.

  "Of course," she laughed, slim body undulating against his. Oddly, her skin felt almost glassy under the oil. "Doesn't Raising-the-Banners celebrate his race around the Valley to summon the allies of the Mйxica to battle? Isn't this his festival?"

  "Yes…" Tezozуmoc said, blushing. His face crumpled a little. "It is. I just thought…"

  "A prince should be able to come in any costume he wants," she breathed, caressing his face with one hand. Oil and paint smeared across his cheekbone. "Do you like girls?"

  "What do you think?" The prince replied, chagrin washing away, and thrust himself against her. His heart was beating faster, almost as fast as the hands of the drummers on deer hide. His skin felt hot, hotter than the bitter, smoky air.

  "You do!" The girl laughed, drawing away, pulling him with her, hands clasped tight around his wrists. Again, Tezozуmoc was surprised by the strength of her grip, but before he could follow the thought a cloud of other girls, all silvered hair and glossy, scale-painted skin, emerged from the
surging, dancing crowd.

  They swirled, flashing smiles and pert golden breasts, around him. All alike they were, shimmering with scales and sparkling indigo dust in their hair. "Come with us," they cried, weaving and bobbing in a stamping, quick-footed spiral. Their hands were on him before the prince could react and he giggled, starting to feel alive again, as they swept him away towards the ancient, crumbling edifice of the altar of San Marco. A quartet of bronze horses reared above him, festooned with garlands of flowers and paper lanterns.

  Amazingly, the crowd parted in front of them, as though the sea ebbed before his majesty.

  "Wait!" The prince stared around in dismay, seeing nothing but a frenetic sea of heads, banners, masks, feather headdresses and upraised arms. "Where did she go?"

  The woman with long hair had disappeared.

  "You'll see her again," chimed the ring of scaled girls holding him tight. "Soon!"

  Mumbling a constant, unintelligible litany of curses, a tall, elderly, lean-faced man shoved his way through the crowd. Despite the rolling waves of heat rising from the mob of dancers, he had not cast aside his heavy leather coat. Immediately behind him, a shorter man with wild dark brown hair and a dyspeptic expression tried to follow.

  "D'ye see him?" Master Sergeant Lorne Colmuir spat out the wet, crushed remains of a tabac, his head in constant movement, trying to pick out one depressingly familiar brown visage among all the masks and painted faces bobbing on the dance floor. "Our wee-wee bairn?"

  "I can't see anything," Sergeant Leslie Dawd answered, bulling his way to his companion's side. He tried to stand on tiptoe and was immediately crushed into the Skawtsman's side. Furious, the Eagle Knight lashed out, knocking down a drunken man with an elephant-face mask. Colmuir lent a hand, dragging the shorter man to his feet.

  "Circle roight," Lorne growled, already moving left, leading with an elbow and pressing through the crowd.

  " 'Roight.' Learn to speak properly…" Dawd grumbled, smoothing back his disordered, sweat-stiff hair. Leading with both hands, he jammed through a line of copper-skinned men, tall prongs of multi-colored feathers dancing against their backs. "Useless, useless waste of a prince…"