Age of Aztec (38 page)

Tlanextic had sprung down from the topmost terrace to the one below, and now the three of them were squarely in his sights once more. The only reason he hadn’t fired yet was because the lightning gun was still powering up for its next shot.

“Listen, you two,” Reston said to Mal and Aaronson. “There isn’t time for this. If we don’t put distance between him and us, we’re dead, don’t you get it?”

“I can’t,” Aaronson said.

“You can,” Mal insisted.

“No,
you
can, boss. And you will.”

“What?”

“Go.” He said it softly, but in a way that brooked no argument.

“No,” Mal said, equally adamant.

“Yes. I can look after myself. Your best chance is Reston. You want to live? Go with him.”

“He’s got a point, Vaughn,” Reston said.

“Shut the fuck up. This has nothing to do with you.”

The l-gun’s whine reached its highest pitch, a constant shrill note signalling readiness. Tlanextic aimed carefully, determined not to miss a third time.

Reston straddled the parapet. Over Mal’s shoulder, Aaronson gave him the nod, and Reston wrapped his arms around her waist and kicked off backwards.

“No!” Mal screamed as they plunged together.

A table broke their fall, shattering to pieces under them. A servant who had been busy laying out lunchtime cutlery, yelped in fright and scuttled away.

Mal rose, groaning, from the splintered debris of the table, looking up just in time to see Tlanextic open fire at Aaronson. Aaronson darted to one side. It was a valiant but vain effort. The bolt of plasma found its target. A glancing blow, but a hit all the same, thumping into Aaronson’s shoulder and spinning him sideways. He fetched up against the parapet, sprawled half over it. A hole had been burned through his shirt, through which Mal could see blackened skin, fat white blisters, and raw red weeping patches. Worst of all was the smell that reached her, the stench of grilled meat, human meat, her friend and colleague’s.

Aaronson’s eyes rolled. Mal could scarcely imagine the pain he was in. She called to him, but he didn’t respond. His jaw was slack. Shock was setting in. If the parapet hadn’t been propping him up, he would have sunk to the floor.

And now Tlanextic came down a level, nimbly, l-gun singing in his hands. He strode to a vantage point directly overlooking Aaronson, moving with complete assurance, the air of a hunter who knew his prey was injured and helpless and going nowhere. His eyes were narrowed but deadly calm, not unlike the eyes of the moulded golden snake crowning his helmet.

Mal snatched up a leg of the table, the only throwing weapon she could find. She launched it at Tlanextic, but gravity and the angle of elevation were against her and she missed. He pretended not even to notice.

“I’m not what you said I am,” he told Aaronson. “Not at all.”

Aaronson, to his credit, managed to splutter out a reply. “Denial.”

Tlanextic pulled the trigger.

Aaronson’s body rocked as tremendous, searing heat pulsed through it. A hand convulsed into a claw, clutching the parapet, skin fusing to stone. Eyeballs erupted from their sockets like two boiled eggs bursting. Legs kicked.

Then it was over. Aaronson shuddered and lay still, a smoking, twisted wreckage of himself.

What Mal said next came from her gut, a howl of pure rage. “Tlanextic, you cocksucking, motherfucking cunt bastard!” She used her mother tongue. Nahuatl didn’t have as many swear words as English, and none of them was as truly satisfying.

In return, the Serpent colonel offered her a gloating grin. “I have no idea what you just said, Inspector Vaughn, but that’s your pal sorted. And guess what? You’re next.”

“I’ll fucking kill you.” She part drew her
macuahitl
. “Come down here. I’ll fucking have you, I will.”

“I’ve a better idea. I stay here, you stay there. Soon as my gun’s recharged, I’ll put you out of your misery.”

“Coward. Come down and fight.” Hot, angry tears were flooding down Mal’s cheeks, and she wasn’t ashamed of them. She didn’t care.

“I’d rather just stick where I am, if you don’t mind. High ground. Tactical advantage. Be patient. Couple of seconds from now, this’ll all be over.”

Reston tugged her arm. “Not like this,” he said. “We can’t win against him like this. He’s right, he’s holding all the aces. Let’s run. We can still get away.”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Reston.”

“We run now, we can get him later. It’s the only course of action that makes any sense. Otherwise you’re just going to die, and there’ll be no chance of payback for what he did to your sergeant.”

“Ah, here we go,” said Tlanextic. Yet again, the gun was ready. “Why don’t you two stay standing next to each other like that? Nice and convenient. I can probably get you both with the one shot.”

“Vaughn,” Reston hissed. “Think logically. Don’t just throw everything away.”

Mal wasn’t conscious of making the choice. All she knew was that, suddenly, she was making a dash for the parapet. An l-gun bolt exploded somewhere just behind her, close enough that she could feel the blast impact in her heels.

F
OR THE NEXT
five minutes, she jumped and ran, jumped and ran, keeping pace with Reston. Her knees began to throb from the repeated jarring of twelve-foot drop after twelve-foot drop. Tier by tier they descended the ziggurat palace, with Tlanextic still tenaciously giving chase. Now and then a lightning gun bolt came their way, but the shots were always wild, Tlanextic taking them on the hoof, hoping for rather than expecting a hit. The benefit from this was that, however briefly he paused to fire, each time it put that little bit more distance between them and him. When they finally made the last jump down to ground level, he was a full five tiers behind.

They were on an open plaza, with nothing to take cover behind other than a couple of ornamental fig trees in cubic urns. Tlanextic would have a clear line of fire once he had reached the plaza himself, which would be in mere moments.

Reston didn’t hesitate. He had spied something across the plaza. Without a word he shepherded Mal towards it. She went uncomplainingly, her own survival instincts telling her she was best off deferring to
his
survival instincts.

One of the monorail trains had just pulled in at the plaza. Its passengers were a janitorial crew toting mops, buckets and brooms. Reston barged past them up the platform steps, scattering them and their cleaning implements, and leapt into the carriage behind the driver.

“Tell me how this thing works,” he ordered the startled man. “Now!”

“Who the hell are –”

“Oh, sod it.” Reston yanked the man out of his seat by his tunic and tossed him out onto the platform. “How hard can it be? Vaughn. Get in.”

Mal stepped aboard while Reston slipped into the newly vacated driving seat.

“Hey,” the driver said hotly, springing to his feet. “You can’t do that. That’s my train.”

He tried to climb back in. Mal decked him with a single punch, knocking him cold.

At the same time, Tlanextic’s voice rang out across the plaza. “Halt! You fucking stop right there!”

Reston was still studying the control console.

“Reston...” Mal said.

“Give me a moment.”

“We don’t have a moment. Tlanextic’s coming.”

“I know. I’m just trying to figure out which lever’s the brake and which is the throttle.”

“Oh for – !” Mal leaned over and thrust forwards the lever that was marked in increments from 1 to 8. The train gave a jerk and began to move.

“How did you know that was the right one?”

“It couldn’t be more obvious. And I was paying attention on the way over here. I watched what the driver did.”

Reston made a face. “Ah. At that point I wasn’t really bothered about much.” He pushed the throttle lever further forwards as the train drew away from the platform. There was a clear, straight stretch of track ahead and the train eagerly gathered speed.

Tlanextic charged to the very tip of the platform and launched yet another plasma bolt at them. It fell well short of its target, and his subsequent loud grunt of exasperation told them that the shot had finally drained the battery pack. The l-gun was now dead. Enraged, he hurled it impotently after them. It bounced and clattered along the track and fell off, fetching up at the foot of the support pylon below.

Mal allowed herself a smile. They had escaped the bastard. He stood no chance of catching up with them now.

She said as much to Reston.

He glanced over his shoulder, past her. “Don’t speak too soon,” he said.

A second train was arriving at the plaza, transporting a quartet of Serpent Warriors. Tlanextic commandeered it, flagging the driver down and telling him not to stop. Taking up position beside the driver, he instructed him to pour on speed. “Those two in front are criminals – enemies of the state. The Great Speaker wants them dead. Get us as near to them as you can.”

The driver gunned the engine. Meanwhile, Tlanextic ordered all four Serpent Warriors to draw and prime their l-guns. Not antipersonnel; full charge, kinetic component. They were to blow that train to hell.

“Well, this just got a whole lot fucking better,” Mal muttered.

Reston pushed the throttle all the way to 8. The train thrummed hard, accelerating.

“There’s six of them and only two of us,” Mal said, eyeing their pursuers. “Our train’s lighter so we can go faster, right?”

“Negative mass is negative mass,” Reston replied. “The greater the weight, the more charge you need to counteract it, but once that’s achieved, the amount of energy required to generate impetus is much the same. We may have a slight edge over them in terms of power drain, but you can measure the difference in micro-wattage.”

“But they can’t actually gain ground on us.”

“Not as long as we keep going flat out. The question is, are we out of firing range?”

A bolt zapped the track a few metres to the rear of the train.

“And there’s the answer,” Reston said. “Only just.”

“Only just is good enough.”

“Yes. Problem is, at some point we’ll come to a corner and have to slow down. We’ll decelerate before they do, and there’s our lead gone. They’ll have a window of opportunity.”

“Then we don’t slow down.”

“I don’t know much about trains but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t be wise.”

“Let’s put it to the test, shall we?” said Mal, pointing ahead.

Roughly two hundred metres from where they were, the track began describing a long, gentle curve to the right, winding between the bases of two buildings. Reston clamped his lips grimly together, clearly having to resist the urge to pull the throttle lever back from 8. The train was travelling at a fair lick, perhaps fifty miles per hour, levitating effortlessly along the broad silvery rail. As it hit the start of the turn it began to shimmy, and as the curve deepened the motion became a seasickly sway. The train’s apron scraped against the rail’s outer edge. There were stuttering, burping squeals of metal on metal. Sparks flew. The centrifugal force was tremendous and Mal bent hard to the side to counteract it. Looking back, she saw the Serpent train falling behind. The driver had automatically curbed speed when approaching the bend. Tlanextic berated him, cuffing him round the head and telling him not to be such a fucking wimp.

Their own train was shaking wildly from side to side now and seemed keen to part company with the track. Then the curve straightened out and the noise and disturbance gradually subsided.

“Yeah!” Mal shouted to their pursuers. “How’s about that, arseholes? You’re never going to get us. Might as well fuck off back home and polish your helmets.”

“What did I tell you about speaking too soon?”

Mal looked back round and saw to her dismay that there was another bend coming up. This one was a full ninety-degree turn, snaking to the left.

“I’ll have to rein it in,” Reston said. “Otherwise we’ll fly clean off.” He drew the throttle down a notch to 7, then for good measure to 6. “We’ll still be going too fast, though. And...”

“And what?”

“Simple geometry. As we hit the apex of the turn, the angle will bring us closer to them.”

“Fuck my luck.”

“Succinctly put. Hang on. This is going to get bumpy.”

It did indeed get bumpy, so much so that Mal had to cling onto the headrest of the driving seat in order to keep her balance. The screeching was deafening. Several times it seemed as though the train was going to tear free of the track. She could feel it twisting against itself, inner torque juddering mightily through it.

And then, halfway through the turn, as Reston had predicted, the Serpents opened fire. Their train was just hitting the bend. They had a chance and they didn’t squander it.

Bolts arced across from their train to the one Mal and Reston were in. The Serpents had time to loose off only one shot apiece, four shots in all.

All four came close, strafing, blitzing, simultaneously, blindingly.

One made contact.

Fortunately, the bolt struck the end of the train, nowhere near the drive mechanism – the power cells and neg-mass exciter – which was located in the middle, beneath the passengers’ feet. Damage was done, but not instantaneously catastrophic damage. The train’s tail end exploded outwards, shards of metal caroming and ricocheting back along the track. Mal was thrown to the floor. She got up to find the train didn’t have a back any more, just a jagged gap that looked as though a shark had chewed a whole section of bodywork off. The rearmost bank of seats was bent up at a crazy angle. Smoke trailed behind them.

But they were still going. The train was making terrible noises, a ragged-edged keen of protest, but it was still moving forwards and didn’t appear to have lost much in the way of momentum. Coming out of the curve, Reston nudged the throttle back up to 7, and the train jerkily responded. He tried 8, and the noises worsened but there was a further hike in speed nonetheless.

They entered another straight section.

“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” Mal said, shouting to make herself heard above the train’s caterwauling.