Wild Cards: Aces Abroad by George R. R. Martin

  For the last nine years or more she’d believed that.

  Yet Hartmann didn’t seem dangerous or malign now. He stood there patiently—a plain face, a high forehead threatening to recede and sweating from the fierce sun, a body soft around the waist from years of sitting behind administrative desks. He let her stare, let her search his gaze unflinchingly. Sara found that she couldn’t imagine him killing or hurting. A person who enjoyed pain in the way she’d imagined would show it somewhere: in his body lan­guage, his eyes, his voice. There was none of it in Hartmann. He had a presence, yes, a charisma, but he didn’t feel dangerous.

  Would he have told you about Succubus if he hadn’t cared? Would a murderer have opened himself that far to someone he didn’t know, a hostile reporter? Doesn’t violence follow everyone through life? Give him that much credit.

  “I . . . I have to think about this,” she said.

  “That’s all I ask,” he answered softly. He took a deep breath, looking around the sun-baked ruins. “I should get back to the oth­ers before everyone starts talking, I suppose. The way Downs is snooping around me, he’ll have all sorts of rumors started.” He smiled sadly.

  Hartmann moved toward the temple stairs. Sara watched him, frowning at the contradictory thoughts swirling inside her. As the senator passed her, he stopped.

  His hand touched her shoulder.

  His touch was gentle, warm, and his face was full of sympathy. “I put Andrea’s face on Succubus and I’m sorry that caused you anguish. It’s also plagued me.” His hand dropped; her shoulder was cool where he’d been. He glanced at the serpent’s heads to either side. “Pellman killed Andrea. No one else. I’m just a person accidentally caught up in your story. I think we’d make better friends than enemies.”

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if waiting for a reply. Sara was looking out to the pyramid, not trusting herself to say anything. All the conflicting emotions that were Andrea surged in her: outrage, an aching loss, bitterness, a thousand others. Sara kept her gaze averted from Hartmann, not wanting him to see.

  When she was sure he was gone, she sank down, sitting with her back against a serpent column. Her head on her knees, she let the tears come.

  At the bottom of the steps Gregg looked upward at the temple. A grim satisfaction filled him. Toward the end he had felt Sara’s hatred dissipate like fog in sunlight, leaving behind only a faint trace of its presence. I did it without you, he said to the power inside him. Her hatred flung you away, but it didn’t matter. She’s Succubus, she’s Andrea; I’ll make her come to me by myself. She’s mine. I don’t need you to force her to me.

  Puppetman was silent.

  BLOOD RIGHTS

  Leanne C. Harper

  The young Lacandon Maya coughed as the smoke followed him across the newly cleared field. Someone had to stay and watch the brush they had cut reduce to the ashes they would use to feed the ground of the milpa. The fire was burning evenly so he moved back out of range of the smoke. Everyone else was at home asleep in the afternoon, and the humid warmth made him drowsy too. Smoothing down his long white robe over his bare legs, he ate the cold tamales that were his dinner.

  Lying in the shade, he began to blink and fall under his dream’s spell once more. His dreams had taken him to the realm of the gods ever since he had been a boy, but it was rare that he remembered what the gods had said or done. José, the old shaman, became so angry when all he could recall were feelings or useless details from his latest vision. The only hope in it all was that the dream became more and more clear each time he had it. He had been denying to José that the dream had returned, waiting for the time when he could remember enough to impress even José, but the shaman knew he lied.

  The dream took him to Xibalba, the domain of Ah Puch, the Lord of Death. Xibalba always smelled of smoke and blood. He coughed as the atmosphere of death entered his lungs. The coughing awakened him, and it took him a moment to realize that he was no longer in the underworld. Eyes watering, he backed away from the fire, out of range of the smoke that the wind had sent to follow him. Maybe his ancestors were angry with him too.

  He stared at the flames, now slowly dying down, and moved a little closer to the bonfire in the center of the milpa. Wild-eyed, he slid into a crouch before the fire and watched it closely. José had told him again and again to trust what he felt and go where his intuition led him. This time, frightened but glad there was no one to see him, he would do it.

  With both hands he pushed his black hair back behind his ears and reached forward to pull a short leafy branch from the edge of the brush pile and put it on the ground before him. Slowly, left hand trembling slightly, he drew the machete from its stained leather scabbard at his side. Flexing his right hand, he held it chest-high in front of him. He clenched his jaws and turned his head slightly up and away from looking at his hand. The sweat from his forehead fell into his eyes and dripped off his aristocratic nose as he brought the machete down across the palm of his right hand.

  He made no sound. Nor did he move as the bright blood ran down his fingers to fall on the deep green of the leaves. Only his eyes narrowed and his chin lifted. When the branch was covered with his blood, he picked it up with his left hand and threw it into the flames. The air smelled of Xibalba again and of his ancestors’ ancient rituals, and he returned to the underworld once more.

  As always, a rabbit scribe greeted him, speaking in the ancient language of his people. Clutching the bark paper and brush to its furry chest, it told him in an odd, low voice to follow. Ahau Ah Puch awaited him.

  The air was scented by burning blood.

  The man and the rabbit had walked through a village of abandoned thatch huts, much like those of his own village. But here patches of thatch were missing from the roofs. The uncovered doorways gaped like the mouths of skulls, while the mud and grass of the walls fell away like the flesh from a decaying body.

  The rabbit led him between the high, stone walls of a ball court with carved stone rings set on the walls above his head. He did not remember ever having been in a ball court before, but he knew he could play here, had played here, had scored here. He felt again the hard rubber ball strike the cotton padding on his elbow and arc toward the serpent’s coils carved into the stone ring.

  He drew his eyes back from the serpent to the face of the Lord of Death, seated on a reed mat on the dais in front of him at the end of the ball court. Ah Puch’s eyes were black pits set in the white band across his skull. The Ahau’s mouth and nose opened on eternity, and the smells of blood and rotting flesh were strong upon him.

  “Hunapu. Ballplayer. You have returned to me.”

  The man knelt and put his forehead to the floor before Ah Puch, but he felt no fear. He felt nothing in this dream.

  “Hunapu. Son.” The man raised his head at the sound of the old woman’s voice to his left. Ix Chel and her even older husband, Itzamna, sat cross-legged on reed mats attended by the rabbit scribe. Their dais was supported by twin, huge turtles whose intermittently blinking eyes were all that showed they lived.

  “The cycle ends.” The grandmother continued to speak. “Change comes for the hach winik. The white stickmen have created their own downfall. You, Hunapu, brother to Xbalanque, are the mes­senger. Go to Kaminaljuyu and meet your brother. Your path will become clear, ballplayer.”

  “Do not forget us, ballplayer.” Ah Puch spoke and his voice was vicious and hollow as if he spoke through a mask. “Your blood is ours. Your enemies’ blood is ours.”

  For the first time real fear broke through Hunapu’s numbness. His hand throbbed in pain to the rhythm of Ah Puch’s words, but despite his fear he rose from his kneeling position. His eyes met the endless black of Ah Puch’s.

  Before he could speak, a ball whose every edge was a razor-sharp blade cut through the air toward him. Then Xibalba was gone and he was back at the dead fire, hearing the old god speak but one word.

  “Remember.”

  The stocky Mayan worker stood in th
e shadows of one of the work tents as he watched the last group of archaeological students and professors break up. As they wandered into their sleeping tents, he withdrew even farther into the protection of the tent. His classic Maya profile marked him as a pure-blood Indian, the lowest class in Guatemala’s social hierarchy; but here among the blonde students, it marked him as a conquest. It was rare that a student of the past got to sleep with a living example of a race of priest-kings. The worker, dressed in overlarge blue jeans and a filthy University of Pennsylvania T-shirt, saw no reason to discourage this impression. But he made himself as unattractive as possible to watch their simultaneous desire and repulsion. He walked carefully down the short passage between the tents to the sheet-metal storage shed.

  The Indian once again assured himself that there were no observers before grasping the padlock and thrusting his pick into the keyhole. Squinting against the flickering firelight, he probed a few times and the lock was open. He flashed bright teeth in a contemp­tuous look back at the professors’ tent. Slipping the lock into a pocket of his jeans, he opened the door and eased himself sideways into the shed. Unlike the archaeologists, he didn’t need to stoop.

  He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust before tugging a flashlight from his back pocket. The end of the light was covered by a torn piece of cloth secured by a rubber band. The dim circle of light roamed around the room almost at random until it froze on a shelf crowded with objects taken from the tombs and trenches dug around the city. The thief moved sideways along the narrow center aisle, careful not to disturb the pots, statues, and other partially cleaned artifacts on the shelves to either side. The small man pulled half a dozen small pots and miniature statutes off the shelves. None were located at the front of a shelf nor were they the finest examples, but all were intact, if somewhat the worse for their long burial. He put them into a cotton drawstring sack.

  Sneering at the rows of ceramics and jade carvings, he won­dered why the norteamericanos could curse the grave-robbers of the past when they were so efficient at the same thing. He sidled back up the aisle, catching a red-and-black-painted pot as his movement caused it to rock dangerously near the edge. Quick hands picked up a battered jade earplug and he paused, running the flashlight beam around the narrow room once more. Two things caught his eyes, a stingray spine and a bottle of Tanqueray gin kept locked up away from the workers.

  Clutching the bottle and the spine against his chest, he listened, head leaned against the door, for any stray noises. All he heard was the muffled sound of lovemaking from a nearby tent. It sounded like the tall redhead. Satisfied that no one would observe him, he slid outside and replaced the lock.

  He waited to open the gin until he had climbed up one of the larger hills. The professors said the hills were all temples. He had seen their drawings of what this place had once been. He didn’t believe what he had been shown: plazas and tall temples with roof combs, all painted in yellow and red. He especially didn’t believe the tall, thin men who presided over the temples. They didn’t look like him, anyone he knew, or even much like the murals painted on some of the temple walls, but the professors said that they were his ancestors. It was typical of the norteamericanos. But it meant that he was only stealing his inheritance.

  Something poked his side as he leaned over to open the bottle. He pulled the stingray spine out of his pocket. One of the blondes, no, the redhead, had told him what the old kings had done. Guh­ross, she had said. He had privately agreed. The norteamericano women with whom he slept always asked lots of questions about the ways of the old ones. They seemed to think that he should have the knowledge of a brujo just because he was an Indian. Gringas. He learned more from them than anyone in his family. They had taught him what was valuable, and more important, what would be immediately missed. He had a nice little collection now. He would be rich after he sold them in Guatemala.

  The gin was good. He leaned back against a convenient tree trunk and watched the moon. Ix Chel, the Old Woman, was the moon goddess. The old ones’ gods were ugly, not like the Virgin Mary or Jesus or even God in the Church where he had been raised. He picked up the stingray spine. Someone had brought it long ago up to this city in the Highlands. It was carved with intricate designs along its entire length. He held it beside his leg, measuring it against his thigh. It ran the full length. All those stories. He reached out for the gin bottle, but he missed and fell forward, catching himself with his free hand. He was drunk.

  The moonlight shone off his sweating torso as he pulled off his T-shirt and folded it none too neatly into a pad. He put the shirt on his right shoulder. Closing his eyes, he weaved to the left and reopened them, blinking rapidly. He tried to pull his legs up into the position he had seen in so many paintings. It took maneuver­ing. He had to brace himself against the rock and hold his legs in place with his right hand. He secured the shirt with his jaw and his raised shoulder.

  With a sureness that belied his intoxication, he brought up the spine and pierced his right ear.

  He gasped and swore at the pain. It swept through him, driving out the alcohol and bringing on a euphoria as the blood flowed from his shredded earlobe and was absorbed by the T-shirt. The high made him tremble. It was better than the gin, better than the marijuana the graduate students had, better than the professor’s cocaine he had once stolen and snorted.

  Penetrating his shadowed mind was the impression that he was no longer alone on the temple. He opened his eyes, not realizing that he had closed them. For just a moment the temple as it had once stood glowed in the moonlight. The bright reds were muted by the dim light. His wife knelt before him with a rope of thorns drawn through her tongue. Attendants surrounded them. His heavy ornamental head-dress covered his eyes. He blinked.

  The temple was a pile of stone covered by the jungle. There was no wife wearing jade, no attendants. He was wearing dirty jeans again. He shook his head sharply to clear away the last of the vision. That hurt, aiee, did it hurt. It must have been the gin and listening to those women. According to what they had said, he’d messed up the old rites anyway. The power was supposed to be in the burning blood.

  The shirt had fallen from his shoulder. It was bright red and sodden with his blood. He thought about it a moment, then pulled out a cigarette lighter he had stolen from one of the professors and tried to burn the shirt. It was too wet; the flames kept going out. Instead he made a fire with some sticks he picked up off the ground. When he finally had a small fire going, he threw on the shirt. The burning blood gave off smoke and a stench that nearly made him sick. Mostly in jest he sat in front of the blaze and aped the cross-legged position he had seen on so many pots, one hand cross-legged toward the flames. He was starting to get very tired and staring at the fire mesmerized him.

  What little he knew of Xibalba led him to believe that it was a place of darkness and flames, like the hell the fathers warned him about as a child. It wasn’t. It most resembled a remote village where they still lived by the old ways. No television antennas, no radios blaring the latest in rock and roll from Guatemala. All was silent. He saw no one as he walked about the small group of huts. The only movement he saw was a bat flying out of the low doorway of one of the thatch-roofed houses. The roofs were pitched like the ceilings of the temple rooms, high and narrow, rising almost to a point. He felt as if he were walking through a mural on a temple wall. It was all so familiar. He remembered that none of his usual drunken dreams had this clarity.

  A rhythmic ga-pow, ga-pow brought him through the quiet to a ball court. Three human figures sat on the platform on top of the walls. He recognized them as Ah Puch, Itzamna, and Ix Chel—the Death God, the Old Man, and the Old Woman, supreme in the Mayan pantheon, or as supreme as any of the many deities were. The three were surrounded by animals who assisted them as scribes and servants. Drawing his gaze back down the stone walls to the packed-dirt court itself, he saw the source of the noise. Not deign­ing to notice him, a creature that was half-human, half-jaguar repeatedly attempted to k
nock a ball through one of the intricately carved stone hoops high on the walls of the court. The creature never used its paws. Instead it used head, hips, elbows, and knees to send the ball bouncing up the wall toward the ring. The jaguarman and its fangs frightened him. Since the dream had begun, it was the first thing he had felt besides curiosity and wondering how he could steal those stone rings. He watched the muscles beneath the black spots bunch and release as he considered why none of this seemed strange in the least. He lifted his head and stared up at the watchers.

  From one corner of his eye he saw the ball coming toward him. Moving in patterns that seemed as familiar as the village, he swung away from it before bringing his elbow up and under the ball and launching it toward the nearest ring. It arched through the goal without touching the stone. The watchers gasped and mur­mured to each other. He was just as surprised, but he decided that discretion was the best course here.

  “Ai! Not bad!” He yelled up at them in Spanish. Lord Death shook his head and glared at the old couple. Itzamna spoke to him in pure Maya. Although he had never spoken the language before in his life, he recognized it and understood it.

  “Welcome, Xbalanque, to Xibalba. You are as fine a ballplayer as your namesake.”

  “My name’s not Xbalanque.”

  “From this time, it is.” The black death-mask of Ah Puch glared down at him and he swallowed his next comment.

  “Sí, this is a dream and I am Xbalanque.” He spread his hands and nodded. “Whatever you say.”

  Ah Puch looked away.

  “You are different; you have always known this.” Ix Chel smiled down at him. It was the smile of a crocodile, not a grandmother. He grinned up at her, wishing he’d wake up. Now.

  “You are a thief.”

  He began thinking about how he was going to get out of this dream. He had remembered the more troublesome parts of the ancient myths—the decapitations, the houses of multiple horrors . . .