Land of the Dead Page 5
She considered her palms, and the glassy scars and nicks lining her fingers.
“Huh. Well, when five hundred thousand quills are verified in my mother’s Riksbank account, then I’d be happy to go with you. And that will be in advance, if you please.”
She felt his inward sigh of relief as a knot uncoiling. In the same moment, she felt a sharp pinch between her shoulder blades. Just the sort of feeling you got in the alpenstand when crossing the trail of a kilikat.
Ay, she realized, sweating suddenly, that was an easy catch for him. Goddamnit! We need that money, though. No, they need it. Gretchen turned her head, relieved to see the girls and Malakar crouched in front of the 3-v, arguing about the loading capacities of the latest mine crawlers. I don’t need anything anymore.
* * *
Much later, when Gretchen had sent out the last piece of reporting for her “paying work,” she stood up from the scarred kitchen table and turned off the dimming solar lamp.
“Hoooo, now.” The familiar alien voice spoke softly out of the shadows. “This old one does not trust this ‘friend’ of yours.”
Gretchen nodded ruefully. The scrape and rustle of the Jehanan’s long furred coat filled the doorway to the main hall. “You shouldn’t. He is not a nice man.” She moved to pass by, but Malakar placed a long, broad-fingered hand on her shoulder. Though old and hunched, the alien still outweighed Anderssen by twenty or thirty kilos.
“It stinks of disease and death.” The triply lidded eyes blinked slowly, revealing deep-set irises tucked into a bony integument. “Broken shells and ash—”
SHINEDO
Winter clung tight to the city. Icy fogs daily filled the darkened streets, driving most inhabitants to hearth and bed. This day the prostitutes were asleep, the bartender dozing. Listless, Hadeishi sat on the stage in the empty tea house, plinking away at a mournful tune. He was regretting the lack of even a few quills to purchase sheet music. How am I supposed to entertain, when—
The traditional cloth curtain at the front of the main room parted with the slight shimmer of an environment field, allowing in a gust of chill air and a sleek-haired woman dressed in a conservative pale blue winter suit over a black sweater, pants, and high boots.
“Konnichi-wa,” she said, drawing a 3-v card from inside her jacket. The woman held up the tiny pasteboard, which flickered to life when pressed between her thumb and forefinger. After an instant of intense scrutiny—comparing his own face to the picture—she nodded in satisfaction.
“Hadeishi-tzin? A pleasure to meet you.”
Hadeishi laid aside his instrument and returned the bow.
She tapped a modest pendant hanging at her neck, which generated a full-featured holo in the air before him. A duplicate of the woman’s face appeared, surrounded by blocks of text and a variety of commercial mon. In more refined circles, his comp would have exchanged greetings and security protocols with hers, verifying her identity. Here he was satisfied her amber-hued eyes matched tone and color from life to holocast.
“I am Bela Imwa, representing the Rusman Corporation. We provide crews for the major shipping concerns and liner companies. I understand you are Listed as an engineer’s mate?”
Hadeishi found himself nodding. Not for long years, woman—
“There is a ship—”
Hadeishi was nonplussed. His mind raced, trying to frame some response, but the woman continued, blithely unaware of the abrupt struggle between pride and raw greed that seized hold of his tongue and held him helpless.
“A small ship, which has need of a junior engineer. If you are not already contracted here”—Imwa indicated the bar, the sleeping prostitutes, and the spiderwebbed curtains with a wave of her fine-boned hand—“then we may fulfill our obligation by arranging your service.”
I’ve not served in Engineering since I was a cadet. My course seemed so promising then. Hadeishi realized he was gaping at her, while she waited patiently for his response. He resisted the urge to explain what he was doing playing samisen in a house of pleasure. Now it seems I cannot even rate as an officer on some tramp steamer.
“When—when does she lift?” He croaked out at last.
The Javan smiled prettily and drew a crisp-edged packet from the inner pocket of her jacket. “As soon as there are hands to fire the reactors.”
“I will consider it,” he said, and with another bow the young woman left.
Hadeishi scanned the papers to see if they were some kind of joke; then he sat down on the edge of the small, dark stage and read through them carefully. Now he regretted parting with his Fleet surplus comp and comm. Both would have made verifying the recruiting company and everything else about Miss Imwa and this … this ship … far easier.
I will have to go see this scow for myself, he thought, amused.
Then he realized just how tightly he was holding the papers, and how fast his heart was beating.
* * *
Despite the poor weather—morning rains had turned to sleet and then a nasty, treacly slush in the streets—Mitsuharu found himself loitering across the cargo road from liftpad ninety-two later that afternoon. The bulk of the ship was visible behind a tattered razorwire fence and a series of tar-shingled warehouses held together by broadsheet advertisements.
Small, was his first thought, looking up the sixty-meter-high shape. Cramped inside … but lean. Those atmospheric drive fairings look a little big for this class of barge.
It felt strange, to be standing groundside, sizing up the tiny starship. He felt crippled, without the constant ebb and flow of data on the threatwell, the reassuring chatter of his bridge crew in his earbug. I’m the crew! he realized, and perversely the thought heartened him. Even as Musashi was always alone, yet never lacking companions. And what would the sword-saint think of this ship?
With a more critical eye, Hadeishi waited for the latest line of lorries to rumble past, then walked quickly across, his boots crunching in the icy slush. The air was thick with fumes and constantly hammered with enormous bursts of noise. Every ten or twelve minutes a ship or shuttle lifted off from somewhere in the sprawling expanse of the uchumon, and each time the whole world shuddered. The gate to the pad was half ajar, but he did not enter. Instead, he walked past, craning his head to see the flanks of the little ship, the way she sat on the blast-plates, whether there was rust or grime caking her intakes—what he could see of them, anyway.
The gangway into the lower cargo deck was foul with sooty ash and oil. The painted letters identifying the registration numbers and name were almost unreadable; micrometeoroid scaling had worn them away. He could still see, however, the outline of a string of katakana representing the word Wilful.
Musashi, he thought sourly, would be disappointed. This isn’t even a smugglers’ ship! It’s just … small, nondescript, and poorly maintained.
But in the back of his mind, a casual voice said: She is still a ship, and she can still make transit.
Hadeishi could not disagree, so he traced his way back to the gate. There he stood for a moment, turning the Rusman Corporation hiring packet over in his wiry hands. This one thing stood out in a peculiar way—the contract chits and packaging were all first rate, the agency far too expensive for the presumed owners of the battered old Wilful. There was no lack of “hiring agencies” in the office parks ringing uchumon, and none of them would employ an expensive-looking Javan … not for a contract as paltry as this.
“Hmm.” An intrigue of some kind. But whose? Standing in the cold slush, surrounded by the scents and sounds of the port, with an actual ship in front of him, he found he did not care. He pushed aside the half-open gate and went in search of the purser.
* * *
The crew did not take to Mitsuharu. The bosun, a stringy Frank in a stained shirt and nondescript work pants, directed Hadeishi to a hammock slung behind the number two heat exchanger, in a space previously inhabited by a refrigeration unit, and mostly filled with spare boxes of ration bars. A fine layer of grime co
ated the floor, overlaid by discarded litter, and the walls were mottled with dings and cracks.
The cubbyhole was mostly private and Mitsuharu settled in with his few remaining belongings, including the lamentable samisen. Some sticktack and spare wire scavenged from the bins under the engineer’s desk made a hanger for the instrument, and then he lay back in the hammock to consider the conclusion of his grand career as a musician. And well done with, he thought, relieved. His efforts had only embarrassed the shade of his father, which was doubtless now resting easily once more in the Western Paradise.
A day after Hadeishi had come aboard and been pointed to his hole, the engineer returned—he was a Marocâin, showing faint traces of Swedish blood, named Azulcay. The officer scowled at Mitsuharu, ordered him to “clean things up”—and then disappeared into the upper decks of the tiny ship to consult with the captain. Barely had Mitsuharu started stowing tools and making sure nothing was going to come loose the next time they turned over the engines, than the Bosun returned and detailed him off to help load cargo.
This led to a raised eyebrow on Mitsuharu’s part; the cargo holds were some kind of refit—a pair of modernized transfer bays sitting on opposite sides of the ship. Though they had a passable ground-loading configuration with extending ramps and a forklift, to his eye they were custom built for open-space resupply with a matching pair of z-g gantries in each hold.
Realizing this, as he helped two other crewmen guide a heavy cargo pallet up the A-ramp, Hadeishi felt a tiny jolt of adrenaline and a tiny fragment of chambara rose out of his memory: Musashi sitting under a bridge, in the rain, with twenty or thirty other rootless men, listening to them complain about the weather, the lack of food, the cold. And marking they were all missing the same mon from their haori, and the underlying colors were all of a kind.
He started to whistle a little tune under his breath as they rolled the pallet into one of the holds.
* * *
When the loading was done, the Bosun failed to reappear, leaving Hadeishi an opportunity to investigate the farther corners of the Wilful. Much of the ship itself was a mess, showing signs of clumsy repair and refitting, but some things very much in order were not easy to hide. The overly large atmospheric drive fairings on the outer hull were matched by a series of interesting bulkheads ringing the hyperspace coil and the maneuvering drives.
He ran a hand along one of the bulkheads, feeling the metal tremble with the action of hidden engines. A little overpowered, I think. There’s something beyond the usual gear behind these walls.
Mitsuharu’s movements on the ship were limited—there were too many locked doors and hatchways to allow for all his curiosity—but he was beginning to feel her out.
She might be fast. He rubbed his hands together and grinned quietly. Not even the foul air seeping into his quarters from the fuel stowage dimmed his cheer. Sitting in the semidarkness, feeling the Wilful throbbing at his back, reactor idling in port, Hadeishi counted up the days and was ashamed to find his “abyss of despair” had lasted only twelve weeks. “Barely three months! Addict!”
His soft laugh drew a glare from Azulcay, who had returned from “upstairs.”
“You, Nisei. Make yourself useful. The below-decks mess needs a cook. The rest of us need dinner. Move.”
The mess proved to need more than a cook, but the simple act of opening the self-heating threesquares and doling out portions gave Mitsuharu a satisfaction out of proportion to the minimal nutrition obtained from the food. Out of long habit, he sat quietly watching the dozen men eating at the single long table while he nursed a cup of tea. Possibilities, he mused. Under the dirt and sloth. Something could be done with them.
The Wilful lumbered into space the next day and a shadow lifted from Mitsuharu’s mind. The tug of gravity faded, the ship shivered alive under hand and foot, and even though his spirits sagged momentarily at the tremulous moan the engine emitted, he smiled to be home again.
“Stop smirking,” barked the engineer, who was listening to the maneuver drives with a cocked head. “One of the translator circuits is going bad. Get that kit and follow me.”
TENOCHTITLÁN
OLD EARTH
High on the side of a skytower rising above the neon tumult of the Tlapocan district, a thin, darkly handsome Méxica of indeterminate years stepped from an unmarked aircar and onto a landing platform shining crimson with silken carpet. Six guardsmen had preceded him, each shrouded in combat armor, their faces invisible behind armored masks skinned as jaguars. The nobleman paused, waiting for his bodyguards to check their perimeter and signal an all-clear. While he waited on the open platform, a hot southern wind tousled his long, straight hair, carrying with it the stench of the largest city in the world—burning rubber and plastic, the smoke from countless fires, and the acrid tang of industrial solvents exuded from the endless kilometers of factories, workshops, foundries filling the old city districts climbing the surrounding mountains. Such was the heady air of the Valley of the Méxica people, Anáhuac.
The lead guardsman snapped shut a portable sensor and inclined his head towards the man standing quietly in the center of the platform.
“Clear, my lord,” growled the Jaguar-Knight. The nobleman nodded slightly, and then lifted his arms. A manservant stripped away his mantle and undertunic, leaving nothing but bare flesh. A second servant immediately ran his thumb—enhanced with a spurlike ring—along the man’s shoulders, arms, sides, and down to his heels. The first servant hurried back from the aircar and now gathered up the almost-invisible skinsuit puddling at the Méxica’s feet.
Now the second servant produced a slim metallic wand and carefully ran the device around the periphery of the man’s limbs, eyes fixed on a tiny readout. When he was done, the servant nodded sharply to the Méxica, who let out an infinitely small breath of relief. He shrugged his shoulders, loosening the muscles, and then beckoned for the heavy Tatarsky coat just carried from the aircar. A sleek ermine-fur hat followed, and both servants made a careful check of cuffs, belt, and boots before whispering “all is well” in the man’s ear.
The pattern word made something click in his mind, and the omnipresent exocortex overlay that daily informed his vision faded away.
The Jaguar-Knight stepped away from the man’s side, his heavy Yaomitl plasma-rifle at half port. The safety interlock was sealed and peace-bonded with a texite strap, but none of the guardsmen could bear to leave their weapons behind, not even here. The circle of iron parted, allowing the Méxica to approach the single door exiting the platform.
The portal was massive—six meters high—and formed of a single anthracite slab. The walls on either side gleamed dully, showing the refractive sheen of battlemetal. When the man’s step reached a hand-span from the door, there was a soft hissing sound and the entire massive structure folded up and away into a hidden cavity. Beyond, a dark corridor receded, lit only by a line of pale blue lights on the floor. Chill air billowed out around the nobleman, biting at his high cheekbones and stinging his lips. Eddies of fog formed as the near-freezing atmosphere inside the corridor mixed with the thick, warm air of central México.
“Await me,” the man said to the Jaguar-Knight before stepping away and pacing down the corridor, fog boiling at his heels. “I will return in due time.”
* * *
The twenty-meter-long passage was entirely empty—and in truth, in the whole of the man’s life this was possibly the only time he was truly alone—and ended in a second titanic slab of stone. As the first had risen, this one receded into the floor at his approach and again the temperature dropped. Hoar-frost now rimed the walls, though the chamber beyond was well appointed with large, heavily constructed chairs, a pair of low waiting tables, and behind them—on walls cloaked in heavy silken tapestries—a vast collection of curious artifacts.
Gorgeous masks and finely wrought amulets, tiny figurines of gold and silver, one or two delicate statues in glossy marble—a collection of treasures, all drawn from the cities,
nations, and principalities of Anáhuac—and all well known to the Méxica, who had spent many interminable hours considering them as he waited in this very room.
Thus are our museums plundered, he thought drily. Any anger had long since been schooled from him. And our history held up to mock us.
This time he did not pace along the walls, but rather stood quietly, attempting to conserve some vestige of the summer heat in the folds of his coat. The first time the nobleman had entered this chamber—sixty years ago, more or less—he’d come close to hypothermia and he had no desire to lose fingers or toes to hastiness.
A breathing technique, imparted by a nauallis of his acquaintance, settled his mind, slowing his heartbeat and moderating his metabolism. His mind, usually filled to capacity with a thousand and one details, all warring with one another for his attention, fell quiet as well. In other circumstances, the Méxica would have welcomed a moment of quiet meditation.
Here, however, such efforts were part and parcel of his preparations.
* * *
No more than an hour later, a creature appeared out of one of the passages opening into the waiting area, and the Méxica was curiously surprised. He guessed—and a review of historical records would later confirm—this was the shortest that either he, or one of his predecessors, had ever waited.
Odd, he allowed himself to think.
The servitor gestured sharply with a wrinkled gray-black hand and then turned away. The Méxica followed without hesitation and moments later had climbed a flight of steep, granite steps into a second room—this one well known to him, and occupied by a being he knew far too well. Like the servitor, the creature, sitting upon a large chair of some bloodred wood, was wrinkled and gray-black with a heavy, close-napped fur. To a human, it seemed as though a two- or three-meter-high tapir had found hind legs and stood up. A pair of shiny, feverish eyes was placed far back in deep sockets on either side of a long, tapering skull which ended in a pair of slit-like nostrils. Though his scientists had not dared to dissect the rare Hjo which fell prey to misfortune in Imperial space, the Méxica knew the alien could withstand tremendously cold temperatures, that it was very fast when startled, and stronger—kilo for kilo—than an equivalent human. In other circumstances, the suffering the Hjo must endure in the Anáhuac summer might have drawn a drop of compassion from the Méxica, but in this case—he often prayed for even worse heat and drought to afflict his city.