Land of the Dead (45 page)

The Mayan’s face was filled with delight as he shifted views, drilling down to successive levels of detail. “Looks like a
Chimalacatl
—the shield-reed, doesn’t it,
Chu-sa
?” he remarked, looking up as she approached.

Susan nodded.
If the Gods made sunflowers as big as a large moon, and gave them long, spiked metallic petals, and a center formed from triangles within triangles …

Xochitl’s face was visible on Chac’s console as well, his visage equally bright—though not with the joy of exploration or curiosity, but naked greed. “Each petal is comprised of hundreds of thousands of folds—do you see them? Set one within another … such scale! We’re still waiting for an estimate of age, but surely this is something from the First Sun!”

Kosh
ō
felt her gut clench. She looked to Pucatli. “No erosion rates from the surface?”

“Nothing,
kyo
. The skin should be pitted by micrometeoroids or cosmic ray impacts—but we’re seeing nothing at all—just like it came from the fab yesterday.”

“
Chu-sa
.” Oc Chac’s voice shaded into awe. He was indicating a fresh set of scan data, from shipborne receptors pointed towards the singularity itself. “Look at this.… A tether or beanstalk of some kind?”

Something with barely any cross section at all traced a hard, straight line down from the “flower” towards the boiling fury of the accretion disk and—one supposed—the event horizon of the black hole.

The Mayan rubbed a hand across the back of his head. “Could they be
powering
this structure from the electromagnetic field generated by the infall? Gods, that would give them almost unlimited capacity!”

“It is possible,” Susan replied, resisting the urge to fold her arms. Instead, she kept both hands clasped behind her back, forcing her mind to consider the implications of such a place to her ship. Her gut churned, triggering her med-band to dispense antianxiety meds in a sharp, cold burst.

*   *   *

Gretchen was standing in a portal, her tripartite shadow thrown sharp on a glassy floor by a harsh, brassy glare at her back. Before her, a massive chamber stretched off into a hazy distance, the room spined with endless ranks of sharp vaults. Everywhere there was motion—long streams of the white-garbed Chosen flowed up from the vaults below, and then passed out through the triangular exits, shepherded by guardsmen who loomed above them, armor glinting black and crimson. The air reverberated with the sound of their feet on the floor, their bright, carefree chatter, and heavy tread of the protectors watching over them. With stately grace, she descended a phalanx of steps. As she moved, the nearest of the Chosen looked up, their faces emerging from the haze like flowers opening before the rays of the first sun. Three of them cried out, seeing her, raising their hands in greeting. Now she was close enough to touch Isabelle’s hair, see Tristan’s bright blue eyes shining. Duncan was looking away, his attention caught by something speaking in enormous, earth-shaking tones. She put her hand on his shoulder, and he turned. Anderssen saw—

—the roof of the medbay as she blinked away tears. Anderssen gasped, drawing a ragged breath into lungs starved for air. A queer humming died away, replaced by the sound of someone drinking soup and the distant rattle and clink of men and women working in an enclosed space. The smell of the soup—picken, she guessed—struck her hard, turning her stomach into a twisted ball of hunger.

“Oh sweet Jesus.” Gretchen rolled sideways, feeling utterly drained. A parchment envelope slipped from her hands, landing amongst the blankets. “There had better be a liter of that for
me
, Crow, or I’ll murder you where you stand.”

Hummingbird looked back at her, dark green eyes curious over the edge of his bowl. “There has been a full breakfast the last two days, Anderssen, but you have been sleeping—so I’ve done you the favor of cleaning the plate.”

Lacking even the moisture to spit, Gretchen managed to sit up and found that—indeed—there was a full tray set beside her bed. More soup, a bowl of red gelatin, kaffe, two bottles of hydrofast. Fingers shaking a little, she popped the top from the first of the orange bottles and began sipping carefully.

After a few minutes, Hummingbird set down the bowl and Anderssen drained the last of her bottle.

“So, Hummingbird—I confess confusion about the purpose of the Judges. Once you said to me your duty was to protect humanity from those powers or even ideas which could destroy us, particularly alien influences we might encounter in the depths of space.”

He nodded minutely, watching her with an impassive face. Gretchen drifted her fingertips over the parchment envelope and the block hidden within. “What is this, then? An experiment with my mind, my physiology? Do you even know what this is?”

“A tool.” The old Náhuatl stood up, leaning heavily on the bed. “One you can operate, where others cannot—where I cannot.”

“Really?” The Swedish woman looked up at him sidelong, tasting deception in the air. “A tool that you needed working when you came—here, to this hidden place.”

He nodded, face somber. “My powers are not infinite, Dr. Anderssen. Even beyond your professional skills—which are well regarded, you should know—your other talents have not escaped notice.”

“By who?!” Gretchen felt chilled at the thought.
How long have I been under surveillance?
Another part of her mind answered, mockingly,
Always, idiot!

“Not all of the
nauallis
are … are Judges,” he said, framing his words carefully. “There are those who collate data, who watch for trends—not the trivial ones of concern to the Emperor or the Mirror—but who sift for changes in
who we are
.”

“Humanity, you mean?” Anderssen frowned, gaining an unmistakable impression he was skirting around a deep and slippery pit. “What kind of changes?”

Hummingbird did not answer immediately, pursing his lips and watching her with a steady, unwavering gaze. At last he said: “It is not well known, Doctor, but there are—in broad strokes—three perceptual capacities expressed within the human species. There are those who accept the conceptual framework of cultural memes, who perceive only the
nahualli
, the disguise or mask of the world; they live and work and bear their children happily within this house of paintings. What they perceive is
ahnelli
, unrooted, inauthentic, a montage of lies and expectations, merely the replication and self-deception of contagious beliefs. There are those—to take a specific example—who express a belief in the Heavenly Creator, in the Risen Lord, in God—if they are asked. These are the people who attend religious services because everyone else does—who find a sense of community there, a sense of sharing which comforts them, or an avenue to power over their fellow men.” He raised one finger.

“Then there are those who do not partake of these collective memetic frameworks, who must question, seek out for themselves the
nelli
—the rooted, true, authentic cosmos. They must look beyond the world of dreams and illusion towards the
teotl
—the heart of things. They seek, but few succeed. A
tlamatini
instructs and teaches his pupil, but he cannot lead them beyond the disguise unless their heart opens of itself to become
neltiliztli
—well-rooted, authentic. When the second group express their belief it is not because they are infected by communal memes. When they worship, they do not do so because all around them do, but because of their own undiluted vision, whether it be false or true. If they do not believe in a thing, you cannot make them. For them the Mother of Tepeyac is seen to come down Her hill, roses rising with each footstep, to lift their chin and pour mercy into their eyes,
or
She does not. You
cannot
make them become believers, though they may
tell
you that they are believers—but if they are not, they cannot become so, even under the lash or when put in irons.” A second finger raised.

Gretchen snorted. “I know both of those sets of people!”

“Then there is the third group who are born with the potential for full wisdom and revelation,” and now the old Náhuatl’s voice shaded into an unconscious gravity. “Who need neither a church, nor a sermon, nor a book. They
know
the truth, the flower-and-song of reality, the constant becoming and motion of the world, and only the confusion of men and machines and the roar and tumult of society drives this sight from their minds.” The third finger joined the first two. “And these men and women are whence the saints and prophets come, the greatest artists and poets, the worst madmen and monsters without conscience or humanity—for they see that which most cannot, finding either everlasting splendor or unending horror behind the placid mask of the universe.”

Anderssen made a face, drawing back from Hummingbird, whose face had contorted into a tight forbidding expression. “You,” he continued, “are among a minute fraction of the third population—a genetic pool which is quite small to begin with—but then hidden among them, are those with the propensity to
see
.”

“You have got to be—”

“I am
not
joking, Doctor Anderssen.” The Crow’s voice was hard and flat, cutting her off. “I may be able to focus my mind, attain clarity of vision which eludes other men, perform feats which seem miraculous—but I am only a Second, not a Third. I was
taught
the arts of intuition to perceive the authentic world. And thus…” He gestured at the parchment envelope. “Such mechanisms are beyond my capacity to understand.”

“That,” Gretchen said, drawing a breath to steady herself, “is the kind of insanity which gives rise to racial genocide, and forced breeding, and tyranny! Human beings are
all the same
at the genetic level, Crow! That’s been shown thousands of times, on multiple worlds! Our differences are minute, one or two pairs of chromosomes fallen out in some random coupling of mitochondrial mitosis!”

The old Náhuatl shook his head in disagreement. Anderssen found herself reduced to glaring at him in outrage.

“This,” he said at last, “is not so. There are distinct and identifiable differences between the Firsts, Seconds, and Thirds. There is—” Hummingbird paused, jaw clenched against what he had almost said. “I cannot provide you proof
out here
, Doctor. But it does exist. You are a Third and the only one with your specific gift we have yet found amongst the current human population.”

“Current?” Anderssen gave him a mocking look. “What about the past, then? Who falls into your special society that I might, say, know from a history book? Or have seen on the 3-d, or perused in some wet-dream
manga
peddled by evil old meddlers like yourself!”

Her shout echoed from the walls of the medbay and Gretchen was suddenly aware that all of the noise outside, in the main sickbay, had stopped. She felt furious—used and deceived—and it was an effort to keep from picking up her breakfast tray and smashing it across Hummingbird’s masklike face.

In the moment before the door opened, the old Náhuatl said: “One of your distant relatives had a similar power—she could see what other men intended, sometimes even before they decided a course of action themselves. You would know her—the brightest star in the firmament of your people’s history—for she saved mankind from a truly dark path. But over seven hundred years have passed since—”

One of the medical orderlies opened the door and poked his head in, a professionally cheerful smile on his olive-skinned face. “Up and around, are we? Feeling better? Excellent—
Chu-sa
Kosh
ō
has been comming me for your status, Doctor Anderssen, at regular intervals.”

“Great.” Gretchen looked around for her jacket, fingering the medical tunic they’d put on her. “Where did my clothes go?”

The orderly was about to answer when a sudden noise erupted in the corridor outside. Someone shouted: “Ho there! Corpsman, secure quarters for the ambassador immediately!”

Gretchen peered out to see a pair of marines escorting a wretched-looking creature—obviously nonhuman, nose deep in a white plastic bucket—into the adjoining medbay. Medical staff converged on the alien from all directions, though most of them were taken aback by its peculiar appearance. To Anderssen it seemed most closely to resemble a grayish black anteater or perhaps a kind of erect sloth or tapir. A cloud of alcohol fumes drifted in their door and she grimaced at the smell of regurgitated rum. Then Hummingbird quietly closed the door, his head tilted in an attitude of listening.

“A heavy guard for such a pitiful-looking specimen,” the Crow said after a moment.

“It doesn’t look particularly dangerous. What species is it?”

Hummingbird gave her a considering look. “You heard the soldiers—an ambassador.”

“From where? Out here?” Gretchen’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Wait a moment … is this whole business an embassy to—whatever is hiding in this place?”

The old Náhuatl tilted his hand this way and that. “The Flowery Prince brought this one along at another’s command. But despite his poor appearance, the ambassador is quite dangerous—to us, to humanity. He is Hjogadim and they are quite rare in Imperial space.”