Aztec Century (5 page)

‘This is an honour,’ he said, making it sound anything but.

‘Bevan, I need to talk to you.’

He stretched luxuriously, stifling a yawn. ‘Righto.’

He never made any compromises to my position, and I have to admit that on this occasion it annoyed me.

‘In private,’ I said quietly. ‘Where we can be sure no one else is listening. Perhaps you’d like to get dressed and meet me in the garden.’

Without waiting for a reply, I returned to my own suite and donned boots and a lambskin coat. Much of my former wardrobe from our house in Marlborough had been transferred to the suite. The house itself was now apparently the headquarters of a local Aztec army division.

I slipped out on to the balcony, choosing a seat in a sheltered corner of the garden screened by buddleia and frost-resistant bamboo. The still night air was filled with musky fragrances despite its coolness.

At length Bevan appeared, a gaberdine buttoned up over his pyjamas. He perched himself on the arm of a bench opposite me and lit a Raleigh.

‘So what’s it all about, then?’

I decided to match his bluntness. I took the disk from my pocket.

‘This.’

Bevan eyed me over his cigarette. ‘Important, is it?’

‘Very. My husband gave it me for safe-keeping just before we were captured. Do you know what it is?’

‘Software.’

‘It’s more than that. My husband was working for the MoD before the invasion.’

‘Director of Informational Research.’

This was public knowledge, but I was surprised he knew.

‘Do you think we could load it into the system here, get it working?’

‘What sort of program is it, then?’

‘I’m not sure. That’s what I need to find out.’

I wasn’t prepared to tell him any more at this stage because I still didn’t know how far I could trust him. But I had to enlist his aid if I was to make use of the disk.

‘There’s a terminal in my living room. I thought we might be able to use it. If we’re careful.’

‘Might be possible,’ he conceded.

‘Would you give it a try? I’m hopeless with computers.’

I couldn’t tell whether he looked contemplative or calculating. I often had the feeling he considered me tiresome or even an outright nuisance.

‘Alex told me the disk’s very important. It might be a weapon we can use against the Aztecs.’

‘Bring their empire tumbling down, will it?’

Was he teasing me, as I had teased Alex? It was no longer a joking matter as far as I was concerned.

‘My husband was engaged in highly classified work.’

‘Well, he would have been, wouldn’t he? At the MoD.’

He squashed his cigarette under the heel of his slipper.

‘Of course, our rooms might be bugged,’ I said.

‘There’s ways round that.’

‘Such as?’

‘We work at night for a start.’

‘What if they’ve got cameras monitoring us?’

‘Cameras are hard to hide. I took a look around – your place
as well as mine – while you were out yesterday. You’d left the door unlocked, see. There was nothing.’

I was amazed at his presumption, yet also grateful he had taken the trouble. He really was a law unto himself.

‘What about microphones?’

‘Trickier. You can put them anywhere – under floorboards or in your plumbing. And there’s directional equipment that can eavesdrop a hundred yards or more. But even that’s not much use if you play music loud enough.’

‘You seem to know a great deal about it.’

‘Never know when it might come in handy, do you?’

‘So they could be listening to us now?’

‘It’s possible. But, then, you’re never going to do anything worthwhile if you don’t take a few risks, are you?’

His tone was lazily challenging, as if he really couldn’t have cared less either way.

‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘why don’t we start tonight?’

My suite was equipped with an entire cabinet of laser-discs, and I put an Oppenheimer violin concerto on the player while Bevan sat down at the terminal and loaded the disk. His high forehead shone in the screen’s livid glow, and his stubby fingers moved with nimble assurance over the keyboard.

For a long time nothing meaningful happened. Columns of electric-blue numbers and letters dropped like waterfalls on the screen, cursors blinked and darted, rows of nonsense swelled in ranks, halted, vanished. Bevan quickly grew rapt in his task, studying the screen with the earnest fascination of someone faced with a thorny but ultimately tractable problem. If it was a performance for my benefit, an attempt to display his competence, then it was a convincing one.

After a while he became aware of my presence at his shoulder.

‘Chance of a cup of tea, is there?’

I went to the kitchen and brewed a pot of Earl Grey. When Bevan took a sip of it, he grimaced and set the cup down in its saucer.

I returned to the garden, walking to the balcony’s edge through grass that gleamed in the light of the generators. They topped the subsidiary pyramids like stylized suns, circular crystals
surrounded by florets of concentrators, all now awash with light. The Aztecs, loving display, were profligate with their energy sources, illuminating not only their buildings but also their craft with excess energy from the sun crystals, adding spectacle and drama to their technological accomplishments. An Aztec ship in flight never looked more fearsome than when it shone.

Below me, the gardens were spread out, tier upon tier, planted with all kinds of shrubs and flowers, a plethora of shadowy foliage holding all the fruits of Aztec bioengineering. Across the river, the city slept, wrapped in its threads of sodium street-lamps, neon signs flickering messages for Cola Cacao and the latest Corona Sola saloon.

Returning inside, I found Bevan swivelled away from the screen. He was sipping dark brown tea from a mug in which the teabag still floated. It was obvious he had been waiting for me.

The screen highlighted his face. It was flashing a sequence of characters as foreign to me as Swahili. The Aztec rock group Itzpapalotl were thrashing out their savage version of ‘Darkness At Noon’ in the background. Bevan was tapping his foot to the music.

‘I think we’ve got something,’ Bevan said to me.

I drew up a chair beside him as he tapped out a sequence on the keyboard.

To my amazement, a picture of Alex appeared.

He was framed like a newsreader on the screen, only his head visible, a matt grey background behind him. The picture was simulated, but it was a convincing likeness. And the head moved.

‘My God,’ I said softly.

‘That’s nothing,’ Bevan said. He had switched on the microphone, and now he spoke into it: ‘Identify yourself.’

‘I’m an Advanced Learning and Evaluative Matrix,’
came the reply.
‘You can call me ALEX for short.’

The lips moved, the eyes blinked, and there was even a hint of the real Alex’s teasing smile. Of course, the movements were imperfect, a little staccato, while the voice had an electronic tinge and an uneven emphasis which made me think of his name as capitalized; but the verisimilitude was remarkable.

‘Describe your function,’ Bevan said.

‘I’m an interactive simulacrum,’
ALEX replied.
‘I’m designed to respond to written or oral input, to engage my own knowledge and intelligence with whatever outside agency has access to me, subject to certain provisos. What’s your name?’

‘Bevan.’

‘Are you a real or virtual entity?’

‘Real.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Bevan.’

Bevan turned to me. ‘Want me to introduce you?’

I was still a little shocked. I nodded numbly.

‘I’ve got someone here I want you to meet,’ Bevan said into the microphone. ‘It’s your wife.’

Very gingerly, I leaned forward to speak into the microphone. But before I could utter a word, ALEX said,
‘Kate? Are you there?’

I swallowed, amazed that he had called me ‘Kate’.

‘Yes,’ I managed to say. ‘How are you?’

It was a perfectly stupid question, and it seemed to me that he smiled in acknowledgement of this.

‘I’m functioning normally,’
he replied.
‘How are
you
?’

There was a knot in my stomach, and my heart was racing. I turned to Bevan. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Just speak as you find,’ he told me.

I put my mouth close to the microphone.

‘It’s strange for me,’ I said. ‘Talking to you like this.’

‘I understand that. The real Alex had as much of himself incorporated into me as he could. He’s well, I hope?’

Again I swallowed. ‘I hope so, too,’ I said.

‘Where are you located?’

I deliberated, then said, ‘In London. In enemy hands.’

There was a pause of a few seconds between each of his replies which created the impression that he was contemplating everything that was said to him.

‘I presume you mean the Aztecs?’

‘Yes.’

His head moved slightly, as though he were thinking.

‘Is Bevan a friend?’

I hesitated, then said, ‘Yes.’

I felt a great tension – a tension which arose from the conflict
between my delight at having ‘Alex’ alive before me again, and the simultaneous awareness that it was not really him at all. But the substance was so accurate in many subtle respects, it was far more than mere illusion.

‘I wish you could see us,’ I said on impulse.

He smiled.
‘So do I. But it’s good to be responding to you
.’

I had to make an effort to resist any sentiment.

‘How do you know it’s really me?’ I said.

‘
I recognize your voice. Its pattern was encoded in my matrix during its development.’

I frowned at Bevan, wondering how this had been possible. He merely shrugged.

‘It might be a tape recording,’ I said. ‘Or another matrix just like you.’

‘No. The rhythm of your tones and the randomness of your responses are those of a real person. You are who you say you are.’

I was positively touched by his faith in me. If he had been there in person, I would have hugged him. For the first time, I smiled.

At this point, the swingeing guitars and relentless drums of Itzpapalotl began to diminish into silence.

‘Put something else on the player,’ I whispered to Bevan.

‘It’s late,’ he said softly. ‘We ought to knock it on the head for the night.’

I didn’t want this. ‘We’ve only just started.’

‘No sense in rushing things and risking everything, is there?’

‘But it was so hard to summon him up in the first place.’

‘Keep your voice down. I know the routine now. It’ll be a piece of cake.’

The clock on the mantelpiece said five forty. I knew his caution made sense, but I didn’t want Alex snatched away from me again.

‘I’ve been at this two hours or more,’ Bevan murmured. ‘I’ve had enough for tonight.’

He moved to switch off the terminal.

‘ALEX,’ I said quietly into the microphone, ‘we’ve got to go.’

‘It was a pleasure talking to you, Kate.’

Bevan flicked a switch. The image on the screen died in an instant.

Our father’s coffin, drawn by four black horses, rested on the same black-and-gold carriage that had been used for the funeral of every monarch since the assassination of Queen Victoria in 1893, exactly a century before. It was flanked by household cavalry whose ceremonial swords seemed to me only to emphasize how powerless we had become as a nation.

I sat with Richard and Victoria in a following carriage drawn by two dapple-grey mares called Scylla and Charybdis, my father’s favourite horses at the royal stables in Knightsbridge. Extepan was behind us in another carriage, with Maxixca and other high-ranking Aztec officials. They wore the uniforms of their office – the gold-trimmed tunics that had been modelled on those of European militia but which retained Aztec features of spotted fur trimmings and stylized eagle or
ocelotl
insignia. Some sported shoulder capes in earth colours, adorned with holy crosses or symbols from more ancient and pagan days.

It was a bright October morning, and I felt warm under my black topcoat, sheltered by the black veil across my face. Crowds lined both sides of the Mall – silent, orderly crowds heavily patrolled by Aztec troopers.

Our procession circled the King Albert Memorial, which still stood outside the gates of the palace, then turned into Birdcage Walk. More crowds were massed here, spilling over into St James’s Park. A few people began to wave. Then more. I heard isolated shouts of greeting, heard my own name being called among Richard’s and Victoria’s. Richard began to wave back to the crowd.

‘Don’t,’ I said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You mustn’t.’

He turned to me. ‘Why not, Kate? They’re pleased to see us.’

‘I know. But this is Father’s funeral, Richard. We must be sober and dignified.’

It sounded stuffy, but I didn’t want any of us to give the impression that we might be relishing the occasion, for whatever reason, in case people began to think that we were sanctioning the Aztec stage-managing of the event. It was only after considerable soul-searching that I had decided to take part in the procession, and then only because Victoria and Richard were both determined to pay their respects in public. I was also curious; I wanted the opportunity to see the people at close quarters.

If I had expected some dramatic change – all of them reduced to haggard destitution – I found none. Everyone looked reasonably well fed and adequately clothed, though the enthusiasm with which they greeted us told of their frustration: it was a formal chance to vent their suppressed national sentiment.

As the demonstrativeness of the crowd grew, with cheers and cries of ‘God save the King!’, so the procession seemed to slow, to take an inordinate time to pass down the Walk and into Parliament Square. By now a host of voices were raised in welcome, and suddenly tiny Union Flags were being waved. They looked brand new, manufactured for the occasion. Richard began to wave again, and I could see that Victoria was smiling behind her veil.

I was mortified. I feared an incident, some sudden surge in passions which might lead to bloodshed, a mini-riot which would be brutally suppressed by the jade-uniformed troopers. But nothing happened. The crowds thinned as we approached the Abbey, to be replaced by ranks of Aztec guards fronting the tree-lined spaces of what was now known as Parliament Park. Where had the flags come from? Was it possible that Extepan had authorized their production and distribution for the occasion? I glanced back at the governor as our carriage drew to a halt outside the Abbey, expecting that he would not notice. He gave me the faintest of nods.

The Abbey was full, and I scanned the ranks of dignitaries massed on both sides. Of the politicians I recognized many faces, though most of my father’s former Cabinet – including the Prime
Minister, Foreign Secretary and Chancellor – were absent. Some had refused to collaborate with the Aztecs and were sent into exile; others had died during the invasion or in the repressions instituted by Nauhyotl after the occupation. Those who remained had accommodated themselves to the new order.

The Archbishop of Canterbury also fell into this category. I could remember as a child playing dominoes with him during my father’s frequent visits to Lambeth Palace, but he had done nothing to try to curb Nauhyotl’s excesses and was rumoured to have been an active collaborator with the Aztecs. Now, as he conducted the funeral oration in full ecclesiastical regalia, he was to me nothing more than a traitor. As primate of the Church of England, he technically outranked all politicians, including the Prime Minister. He spoke with suitable gravity and eloquence of my father, but all I could see was the jovial and rubicund figure of my childhood transformed into a stooge of the Aztecs.

Though there were guards discreetly stationed all around the Abbey, Extepan and his retinue had seated themselves at the rear, as if acknowledging this as an occasion in which they could play no appropriate part. I wondered what he and Maxixca made of the ceremony. Their own Catholicism, inherited from Spanish missionaries but interwoven with innumerable strands of their old pagan theology, was a more flamboyant affair in many respects. Though nominally Christian, it embraced polygamy, courtesans and the eating of dog. The most strident anti-Aztec opinion held that it was, in fact, just an ethical veneer, adopted for diplomatic reasons during their rise to world power status. It hid, it was said, the older religion, which was still secretly practised in all its brutal horrors.

Richard’s extensive suite of rooms was situated above Extepan’s quarters on an upper tier of the central pyramid. The large reception room had big windows looking out over the City.

I sat with Richard and Victoria as each member of the ‘Cabinet-in-Waiting’ came forward to present their credentials. Once again, Extepan and his staff seemed to be standing aside from the proceedings, though everything had been orchestrated by them. A general election was to be held before Christmas, in which only British nationals would be eligible to vote. The
‘government’ so elected would meet at the complex, one of the subsidiary pyramids having been set aside for that use. To me, this was an utter farce. Apart from the fact that the Aztec administration would continue to hold all real power, the ordinary people of the country were not even being offered a choice since all the prospective MPs had banded together as the National Party.

Richard exchanged words with each and every one of his petitioners, plainly enjoying his role as prospective sovereign. I had had no opportunity to speak privately with him at any length, and I knew I would face an uphill struggle to persuade him not to take the Crown: though he always looked to me for advice, he was stubborn once his mind was set, and it appeared already to be set on becoming king.

The prospective leader of the new government was a man named Kenneth Parkhouse, who had been Home Secretary in the pre-invasion government. He was tall and urbane, greying brilliantined hair slicked back from a widow’s peak, the big square frames of his spectacles sitting on his face as if they were there to improve his appearance rather than his eyesight. After speaking with Richard he bowed to me and lingered, waiting with the others until the first part of the proceedings was complete.

And then, unexpectedly, Extepan and the other Aztecs withdrew. This only served to increase my suspicion of Parkhouse and the half dozen other politicians who remained with him. Lined up before us in their crisp sober suits and perfectly knotted ties, they exuded a self-seeking obsequiousness. Few had had especially distinguished careers before the invasion, but now they were ready to step forward where better men had refused to compromise.

Parkhouse bowed before us, then straightened.

‘Your Royal Highnesses, we find ourselves in a most trying situation.’

He was addressing me rather than Richard.

‘That’s putting it mildly,’ I said acidly.

‘None of us would have wished to have to face up to this kind of circumstance. Nevertheless, I believe that we must all try to make the best of it we can. For the benefit of everyone.’

Richard made to speak, but I put a hand on his arm.

‘It would be most acceptable’, I said with great care, ‘if everyone could benefit.’

I was going to make it hard for him, and he knew it.

‘As you may be aware,’ he went on, ‘we faced grievous difficulties during the governorship of Nauhyotl, Extepan’s predecessor. But now Governor Extepan intends a much more moderate approach, I’m pleased to say. He’s already shown his goodwill by freeing political prisoners and halting all summary executions. I believe he has genuinely humane motivations and doesn’t wish to cause any unnecessary suffering.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear it.’

‘I think he is sincere in his desire to give us a measure of self-government. It’s vital we grasp this opportunity and make every effort to see that the needs of our people are adequately represented. Compromise is necessary, I understand that. We cannot expect the Mexica to give us unlimited freedoms. But there is a middle way between that and absolute domination. If we all pull together, we can find that way.’

It was a pretty little politician’s speech, delivered softly, in reasonable, persuasive tones. That he had used the word ‘Mexica’ rather than ‘Aztec’ was further confirmation to me that he completely accepted the new order.

I was searching for a suitably scathing response, when Richard interrupted: ‘Are you going to be the new prime minister?’

Parkhouse retreated a step, as if to deny that he would be so bold.

‘I am pledged to serve my country,’ he said, ‘in whatever capacity I can.’

Again it was obvious that he was speaking for my benefit rather than Richard’s. And perhaps for others more important to him, too.

‘One has to admire the nobility of your self-sacrifice,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that the governor and his colleagues, whom I’ve no doubt are listening, will approve.’

Parkhouse was at a loss for a moment. Then he said, ‘I won’t pretend I like the situation any more than you—’

‘Won’t you?’

‘Believe me, I searched my conscience long and hard before
agreeing to participate in the electoral process. I feel we have a duty to those of our people who cannot protect themselves. If they have no representation, then we have no means of mitigating the severer aspects of the occupation.’

It was futile to argue with politicians, I realized, to try to persuade them that your scepticism concerning their views might be well founded. Politicians developed habits of self-justification and certitude which were immune to logic or emotion: their rhetoric was like a blanket which they wrapped around themselves to keep out the bracing air of dissent.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I don’t approve. Are you expecting us to sanction the idea of a puppet government? We won’t do that under any circumstances.’

I suppose I was trying to speak for Richard as well to prevent him from being drawn into the debate. But he said, ‘They’re only trying to help, Kate.’

‘We’ve been promised full powers in civil and judicial affairs,’ Parkhouse said. ‘We can at least protect the integrity of the courts and the police.’

I gave a harsh laugh. ‘Integrity? That’s an interesting word. You haven’t convinced me that you understand what it really means.’

Now another member of Parkhouse’s group spoke up – a Fabian peer with a distinguished record of service.

‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘we understand how much you regret the occupation of this country. So do we. But at this time we’re powerless in the face of it. Meanwhile, out there, many ordinary people are in a situation where they have no redress for genuine grievances. They may have lost relatives, suffered confiscation of their property, or they may be imprisoned. At present, they have no voice to speak for them. We have to accept that these people have little day-to-day concern for larger political affairs and considerations of true democracy. All they want is personal justice, the right to live their lives with as much freedom and peace as possible. So, some of us have decided that we would rather be considered fools or traitors in certain quarters if we can, none the less, serve the everyday needs of the majority.’

This was more direct and touching, spoken, I felt, from the
heart. Richard was nodding approvingly, and even Victoria looked convinced.

‘I respect your point of view,’ I said, ‘but if you’re asking me to approve of it, I’m afraid I can’t.’

Late that night, while the city slept under fog, I unlocked the door which would admit Bevan to my suite.

While Bevan settled himself at the terminal, I put a Burgess symphony on the player and returned to his side with a pad and pen. I made a careful note of each stage in the operating procedure to activate ALEX.

Within minutes, ALEX appeared, framed in grey as before. When Bevan identified himself, he said,
‘Good to talk to you again, Bevan.’
There was a pause.
‘Is Kate with you as well?’

I was amazed and somewhat in awe of the sophistication of the program. It really was almost as if ALEX were flesh and blood.

‘I’m here,’ I said into the microphone.

A smile.
‘Kate. I’m so pleased we can communicate again.’

Scintillae flickered in his simulated beard, and his eyes had a coppery sheen. I suddenly found myself embarrassed and utterly at a loss for words. I thrust the microphone back at Bevan.

‘You talk to him for a while,’ I said. ‘I’ll just listen.’

He looked surprised and also mildly amused.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to ask it, then?’

Though it was foolish, I didn’t like the way he referred to ALEX as ‘it’.

‘You’re the expert,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave it to you.’

He turned back to the screen. ‘ALEX, this is Bevan again. I want to ask you some questions.’

‘Fire away, Bevan.’

‘OK. Last time you told us that your function was to interact with outside agencies, right?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘What I want to know is – what’s the nature of your program?’

There was a longer pause than usual.
‘It would be helpful if you could be more specific, Bevan.’