Age of Aztec (9 page)

“Yes, yes, a history lesson,” said Stuart. “I already know all this. Everybody does.”

“You should not be so dismissive. It may have happened a long time ago, but it is as fresh in my people’s memory as if it were last week. We make sure to keep it that way. It is our duty as Mayans never to forget how we were treated. Other early Aztec conquests were mild by comparison. For us, they reserved a special contempt, perhaps because we were so civilised and they were not. Where they knew only aggression, we knew peace. Where they had their god-given technology, we had astronomy, sciences, art, all of which we had devised on our own. Where they had a single supreme ruler, we had a system of sovereign city states that worked collectively for the good of the nation as a whole. They loathed us for being all they could never be, and we paid for their envy by being abused like dogs and butchered like cattle.”

“Conquest is never pretty. You want to compare sob stories? How about Southampton, eh?”

“One city destroyed is hardly the equivalent of an entire race nearly wiped out.”

“The Aztecs flattened the place with fusion warheads. Well, the French navy did, on their behalf. I visited there once, sort of a pilgrimage. It’s marshland now, all the way to the sea. A few bits of building left standing, covered in moss. The spire of an old church. And no graves. Thousands upon thousands killed, all in a single day, and not a single headstone to mark it, because there were no bodies to be buried. They’d all been incinerated.”

“I see the outrage in your eyes, hear it in your voice. Southampton happened long before you were born, yet you feel considerable anger about it. You must understand it’s the same for us. The injury on the Maya was inflicted longer ago, but it was terrible, and we have not recovered.”

“We both hate the Empire, then. We have that in common.”

“We do. And we, my men and I, have been doing our bit to let the Aztecs at home know that their act of near-genocide has been neither forgotten nor forgiven.”

“So you’re, what, a local guerrilla faction?” said Stuart.

“Precisely.”

“I’ve heard the rumours. Rebels in the rainforest, carrying out hit-and-run raids on Empire targets. That’s you?”

“We’re one of several loosely affiliated Mayan groups who’ve made it their mission to harry the Aztecs in Anahuac – sabotaging installations, killing dignitaries, and so forth. It’s a thankless task. There are very few real Maya left. Most of the inhabitants of the Yucatan are so homogenised, so downtrodden, so under the yoke, that they regard us as traitors. Everybody around us scorns us and would rather we were dead. Yet we fight on, in the name of our distant ancestors, exacting revenge for their deaths and seeking to re-establish an independent Mayan state.”

“And of course the Empire reciprocates.”

“Violently, which doesn’t aid our cause one bit. The retaliation for our attacks is always wildly disproportionate. Ten civilians are killed for every one Aztec official we execute. Whole villages are razed to the ground on suspicion of harbouring rebels. People are tortured horribly if it’s believed they’re withholding information that could lead to our capture.” Chel raised his hands and let them drop into his lap. His eyes had lost some of their amiable twinkle. “It’s awful. I feel guilt for the deaths of these innocents as if I personally have slain each and every one of them. Yet we must soldier on, because our motives are good, our goal a noble one.”

“This is all very fascinating,” Stuart said, “but...”

“But how does it relate to you? We in Xibalba have been following the Conquistador’s activities for a while, Mr Reston. Following them closely.”

“Xibalba?”

“My group’s name. Taken from the Mayan word for the underworld, the land of the dead. We consider ourselves as belonging there. Our skull makeup is disguise, like your mask and armour, and is intended to unnerve and intimidate our enemies. But it also symbolises our creed. We are, we believe, as good as dead. Every raid we embark on could be our last. Each of us isn’t simply prepared to lay down his life, he has in effect done so in advance. ‘Only by dying do you leave leave Xibalba.’ That is our motto. We are committed to the hilt. We fight, liberated from fear by the knowledge that nobody can kill the man who is, in his mind, deceased already.”

“Kind of fatalistic. Didn’t the Japanese have a similar philosophy during the Pacific Takeover years? And look at them now. Among the Empire’s most ardent supporters. The hub of Aztechnological development.”

“What are you implying? That resistance is futile? Doomed to failure? Ironic, coming from a man who so nearly got brought down by Jaguar Warriors last night. If we hadn’t rescued you...”

“I was doing fine,” Stuart snapped.

“Bah!” Chel snorted. “Delusion. The Jaguars had you at bay. You were incredibly lucky that Xibalba chose to stake out that show, expecting the Conquistador would put in an appearance. We at least had foreseen what you had not: the possibility that the whole thing was a setup, those priests imposters.”

“I realised there was a chance of that. It seemed remote, though, and the opportunity was too good, too juicy, to pass up. Twenty priests in one fell swoop.”

“Admit it, you got overconfident. You saw a big fat prize you couldn’t resist, and you didn’t think twice.”

Stuart kept his expression impassive, but inwardly he couldn’t deny the truth of Chel’s statement. He
had
got overconfident. Zeal had overcome prudence, and he had blundered straight into a trap. If not for Xibalba, right now he would be dead, the Conquistador’s campaign at an end.

“I’m not looking for gratitude,” Chel said. “I’m glad we were there and able to help out in your hour of need. But it does seem to me, as an observer, that you’ve been taking ever wilder risks. Your stunts are becoming more extreme by the day, as if you’re trying to outdo yourself. Sooner or later you’ll slip up, as you did last night – sorry,
nearly
did. You’ll be caught and killed, and I for one would hate to see that happen. You see, we’ve been admiring your handiwork greatly, Mr Reston. Inspiring stuff. In just a few short months you, on your own, have caused the Empire as much grief as Xibalba’s many members have in years. That’s why we’re here in Britain.”

“To congratulate me? Give me a medal?”

“Don’t be obtuse. To recruit you. We have need of your skills and expertise. Xibalba could truly do with a man like you in its ranks.”

“I’m a solo operator,” Stuart said immediately.

“I know, but –”

“It’s worked okay for me so far. I don’t think I could be part of a unit. I wouldn’t mesh well.”

“I would debate that. With your Eagle Warrior background, you know about giving and taking orders, chain of command, watching a comrade’s back, teamwork, all of that.”

“That was a long time ago. I’ve been my own boss ever since.”

“You’d still be an invaluable asset to us,” said Chel. “And, really, don’t you yearn for a chance to hit the Empire right at its very heart? Destroy it once and for all?” The Mayan paused, then smiled. “I saw it – that telltale flash of curiosity on your face, just before you concealed it. You were thinking, Is it possible? Is this funny little round man really saying he can bring down the Empire?”

“I’d like to think it can be done,” said Stuart. “Of course I would.”

“But you’d settle for simply liberating your own country from oppression? Free Britain and leave the rest of the world to sort itself out?”

“Why not?”

“Do you honestly, in your heart of hearts, think that’s going to happen? How?”

“The Conquistador’s example will spark an uprising. People have seen me kill priests. I’ve shown our government to be vulnerable. In time, there’ll be a groundswell, a mounting tide of anti-imperial sentiment that’ll become a full-fledged revolt.”

“Shouldn’t it have begun by now? Where are the protestors on the streets, Mr Reston? Where are the hordes of Conquistador-alikes emulating you?”

“Turning a large ship around takes a long time. If I keep at it, the public mood will shift eventually.”

“Well, perhaps. Or perhaps, if you’re really fortunate, a microbial infection will come along and wipe out all Aztecs, as it did the Martians in Wells’s novel. A somewhat unconvincing conclusion, I’ve always thought. It suggests the author was dredging up hope where he himself felt none. Nevertheless, my proposal to you is this. Come with us to Anahuac. Work alongside us. We have a plan of action that will finish the Empire, and we’d like your assistance is implementing it.”

“Go on, then,” said Stuart. “What is it? What’s the big idea?”

“Simple. Kill the Great Speaker.”

S
TUART WAS SILENT
for a full minute.

Then, shaking his head, he whistled softly and said, “You’re crazy.”

“Am I?”

“It’s not possible. Can’t be done. Tenochtitlan, the guards, the levels of security around him, not to mention his palace is stuck in the middle of a fucking great lake... Out of the question.”

“But if it
could
be done, would you join us?”

“No.”

“You’re not even tempted? You’ve been a gadfly to the Empire, and that’s all well and good, but what if you could help be its executioner? Kill the Great Speaker, cut off the Empire’s head, and the Empire itself will surely wither and collapse.”

“Still no. It sounds like a recipe for suicide. Pointless suicide. You’d never get anywhere near the Great Speaker. Certainly never get within striking range.”

Chel sighed with heavy emphasis. “Then, alas, it seems I’ve had a wasted journey. Well, not entirely wasted. I’ve met the Conquistador in person, and managed to ensure that he can continue his dissidence a little while longer. That’s something.”

He rose and held out his hand.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Reston,” he said as they shook. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed by the outcome of our chat, but” – he shrugged – “win some, lose some. Oh, we still have your armour, don’t we? I know you have those other suits, but would you like it back?”

“Yes. They don’t come cheap.”

“Let us arrange its return. We’ll be discreet, I assure you. In the meantime, please give further consideration to what I’m suggesting. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t,” said Stuart.

“You might just,” said Chel. “I’ll see myself out.”

SIX

Same Day

M
AL AWOKE WITH
a clanging hangover, her head throbbing as though there was a chainmailed fist inside trying to punch its way out. She made it to the bathroom just in time. Bent double over the toilet, she vomited until there seemed to be nothing left to come up but stomach lining.

A whole bottle of
pulque
would do that to you.

Trembling, her entire skeleton feeling as brittle as chalk, she fixed herself a mug of coca tea. She sat at the kitchen table, staring out of the window at the glow of yet another furnace-hot day. When the phone rang, she refused to answer it. It would be work calling. Probably Kellaway himself, full of spite and spittle.
Where the hell are you, chief inspector? Drag your sorry arse down to the Yard immediately!

Twice more in the next half hour the phone rang. The sound bored into her ears like an electric drill. She nearly picked up the receiver just to stop the pain.

She was tempted to go back to bed, haul the covers over her head, and sleep for as long as she could. But her troubles weren’t going to magically disappear, however hard she ignored them. The fiasco at Regent’s Park had happened, and wishing it hadn’t couldn’t
un
happen it.

She showered, turning the water as cold as it would go. By means of this chilly dousing and more coca tea, she wrestled the hangover into submission. By the time she was dressed, Mal had regained some semblance of normality.

The phone rang yet again, and now she picked up. Bracing herself for the chief super at full blast, she was relieved to hear Aaronson’s voice instead.

“Boss? Finally. It’s gone ten. Why aren’t you at work yet?”

“Why are you? You’re supposed to be in hospital recovering.”

“Aah, I discharged myself. It was fucking boring. Not a decent-looking doctor in sight, not like on the TV shows.”

“But they said something about running more tests. On all of you who got poison-darted.”

“For what? It was heavily-diluted curare. Enough of a dose to turn your muscles to noodles, but that’s all, nothing worse. It wasn’t much fun lying there unable to move, and I feel like shit now, but hey, I’m not dead. How about you?”

“Aftereffects of mild concussion. I’ve got a couple of goose-egg bruises on my skull, but I spent most of the night self-medicating. I’ll be fine.”

“Paying your respects to Mayahuel?”

“The goddess of the fermented agave plant did get a good deal of worshipping, yes,” said Mal. “What’s the mood like over there? Dare I show my face?”

“Everyone’s still a bit staggered. Can’t quite figure out how it all went so wrong, just when it looked like we were about to pull it off. Nobody’s blaming you, but... Permission to speak freely?”