Blood Sport Page 13

  “It couldn’t have been,” I said. “Caco didn’t even know our names before yesterday. It was the first time we met, and we were the ones who initiated the meeting. And when the blood spirit attacked me, Caco was the one who saved me by . . .”

  Raf glowered. “Caco was gone by then. I was the one who pulled your hoop out of the fire.”

  “You didn’t hear Caco chanting?” I asked incredulously. “Nope.” Raf snorted.

  “Oh.” I shook my head and let it slide. The only explanation for our escape was that we’d had magic on our side—Caco’s magic. But I could see that I wasn’t going to persuade Rafael of that fact.

  “I don’t like Caco,” he continued stubbornly. “The fragger knew stuff about us that—”

  “Probably as a result of reading my thoughts,” I said, getting exasperated now at my friend’s stubbornness. “Besides, Angie recommended Caco. She said he was someone we could trust.”

  “Well, frag Angie, too.”

  I held my temper. Just. “You’re right about one thing, Raf,” I said in as concilliatory a tone as I could manage. “Someone did sell us out. I hate to say it, but it has to have been José.”

  “Null chance!” Raf snorted angrily. “That chummer was chill all the way. He—”

  “Think about it, Raf,” I urged. “José knew we were headed for Tenochtitlán. Even if he didn’t know why we wanted to sneak into Aztlan, he knew that we wanted to get in without anyone knowing, and that Rosalita Ramirez was your grandmother. If those two facts reached Vargas’ ears, he’d put one and one together and realize that we were coming after him. He’d try to eliminate us. And that attack in the pulquería stank of the Azzie priesthood. And of Vargas, specifically.”

  Before leaving Seattle, I had scanned some anthropology on the public databases, reading up on the ways the ancient Aztecs killed their sacrificial victims. They cut out their hearts and tossed them down pyramids by the thousands, tied them to altars and made them fight with useless, feather-tipped weapons against warriors armed with deadly obsidian blades, or tied them to an X-shaped framework and shot them full of arrows. The latter, which seemed to have been the source of the blood spirit that attacked us in the pulquería, was reminiscent of the ceremony I’d seen Vargas perform on the trid documentary. The arrows caused the captive to “rain” blood upon the earth, nourishing it and guaranteeing its fertility. It smacked of Vargas’ god, Xipe Totec.

  But why had Vargas chosen to send a spirit after us? As a priest, he was part of the establishment—a powerful man. Why not just call in the ACS heavies to do the job?

  I hated this case, and not just because it was dangerous to my health or because my adopted grandmother was the murder victim. This investigation was making me an expert in the macabre. I had already seen things that magicians north of the border considered to be impossible. The rumors of “blood magic” being practiced in Aztlan were scoffed at by law enforcement officers and thaumaturgical professors alike.

  And yet the magic that had animated the walking corpse was unquestionably the blood magic that the dragon Dunkelzahn had spoken of in its will when it offered a bounty on any blood mages captured alive, and a reward for verifiable accounts of blood magic use. And that made me pause and think. If I did follow through on my crazy idea of actually extracting Vargas from Aztlan, we could hand him over to the Dunkelzahn Institute of Magical Research and collect a bounty of one million nuyen.

  For a moment or two, my conscience warred with my greed. Whether Vargas was guilty of Mama G’s murder or not, we could turn him in and collect a cool million. If we really could extract the priest. . .

  I shook my head. I’d make that decision when—and if—that time ever came.

  Rafael was still grumbling about how José couldn’t possibly have betrayed us. And I must admit, I had a hard time with that one myself. It would have been simpler for the guy to turn us over to the Azzies as soon as we entered the country. Unless something had gone wrong. Like our bike hitting a land mine . . .

  All this speculation was making my brain numb. Better to deal with the here and now, instead.

  “How’d you get the ollamaliztli tickets, Raf?”

  He grunted as if he weren’t going to answer me. Then vanity got the better of him. He pulled a book of matches from his pocket and tossed them onto the mattress beside me.

  “Remember the cab driver?” he asked.

  I nodded as I picked up the matchbook.

  “His cousin came through. I went to the Deportista Virtual and asked for Hector’s cousin Eriqueta. She put me in touch with a scalper named Fede. He lived up to his nickname, too. Ugliest fragger I ever saw. His face was a solid mass of scar tissue, as if it had been burned. Anyway, he scored me the tickets to the fifth game in the ollamaliztli finals. Fede was going to charge me five hundred thousand pesos apiece for them, but I bartered him down to half that. It meant giving up my lucky Seattle Timber Wolves flag, but it’s worth it if it gets us a shot at Vargas.”

  I sighed. “And suppose we go to the ollamaliztli game, Raf. If we use those tickets, we have to go through the hardest-hooped security on the planet. They’re going to make sure we enter that stadium empty-handed and that we stay in our seats and not go wandering off anywhere. But supposing we do manage to sneak away from our seats and corner Vargas somewhere. What do we do then? Take his hand, click our heels three times, and say, ‘There’s no place like home?' ”

  The allusion was lost on Rafael. He gave me a blank look. “We’ll think of something,” he growled. “Besides, Fede says he can help us, if the price is right. He’s been around ollamaliztli all his life and says he knows the Tenochtitlán ball court inside and out. He knows a way past the security points, and figures he can get us into the teocalli itself. He’s even willing to help us—”

  “Gods and spirits, Rafael—are you loco? You told some scalper that we’re planning to confront a high priest at the ollamaliztli finals? Did somebody brainwipe you when I wasn’t looking?”

  “It’s not like I gave him Vargas’ name or anything.” Rafael chewed his lip petulantly with an oversized canine. Normally I found his contrite expression cute, but I was too angry at him and wasn’t entirely sure he was telling the truth. Whether or not he had spilled Vargas’ name, the scalper would certainly be able to figure out that a priest was our intended target, given our interest in getting into the teocalli. He could have been selling the information to Aztechnology as we spoke.

  I’d expected more of Rafael—expected him to use the wetware the gods had given him. Now I knew why his girlfriends loved him for his brawn and not his brain. The latter only seemed to function part of the time.

  “We’re not going to the game, even just to watch it,” I said firmly. “It’s not worth the risk. We’ll hold off, pray that we aren’t being sold out, and wait for another opportun—” Suddenly the floor wasn’t where it used to be. Everything was in motion. I fell to my knees on the mattress and saw Rafael fall sideways and clutch at the wall for support. The air was filled with a low rumbling sound, overlaid with other noises: breaking glass, the groaning of stressed ferrocrete, and something on the floor above falling over with a heavy thud. From the autoroute above the hotel came the sound of squealing tires and the crunch of metal on metal.

  I clawed my way back to my feet as the shaking stopped. “What the—”

  “Earthquake!” Rafael shouted. He threw open the door. “Let’s get the frag out of here, Leni. This place is a deathtrap. It’s likely to pancake on us.”

  Visions of the last big earthquake that hit Tenochtitlán immediately filled my mind. In 2029 they’d lost the national palace, what remained of the subway system—and an entire neighborhood of residential apartment buildings that had been a lot sturdier than our hotel. I was right behind Rafael as he ran out of the room and down the corridor. A handful of people—most of them European or Asian males and all of them in various stages of undress—seemed to have the same idea. They jostled past us as we ran down the
rickety steps at the far end of the hallway and out the front door.

  We emerged onto a sunlit street and a city that was grid-locked in the morning rush hour. All around us horns blared as traffic surged back into motion, weaving its way without stopping around the traffic signs and chunks of masonry that had fallen into the street. Street vendors paused as the earth wobbled under us once more—a less violent tremor than the first one—then went back to calling out their wares.

  Above us, a window in the hotel slid open and a woman in heavy makeup leaned out of it and laughed. “Hey, gringo!” she shouted down at an embarrassed-looking Euro who stood beside us in his underwear. “Come back and get what you paid for. Let’s see if you can make the earth move for me again, hey, big boy?”

  A kid sitting on the hood of a stripped-down car echoed her laughter. He was maybe eight years old, but he already had the street-smart look of a ganger. A nasty-looking snap blade hung on a chain from his belt. His hair was slicked straight back with gel and a dark bruise marked his cheek. He wiped his nose frequently and smelled faintly of solvent. But he seemed steady enough on his feet as he hopped off the car and swaggered over to where we stood.

  “Hola, señor, señorita,” he said, a wide grin on his face. “You’re not from Aztlan, are you? If you were, you’d know that we always get los temblores at this time of year. I think you need a guide, sí? Someone who knows his way around the barrios and can show you around Tenochtitlán.”

  “Come on, Raf,” I said, ignoring the kid. “Let’s walk.”

  We tried to give the kid the brush-off, but he clung to us like the glue he’d probably been sniffing. He dogged our footsteps, following us down the street and repeating his offer to guide us. Raf finally turned and pressed a handful of pesos into the kid’s hands.

  “Go away, kid,” he told the boy. “We’re not interested.” The boy continued to follow us.

  Now I was really angry. The earthquake had rattled my nerves, as well as shaken my body. “Leave us alone!” I shouted in Spanish at the boy while trying at the same time to wave down one of the battered-looking taxis that were the only rental vehicles brave enough to venture into this area. “We’re leaving Tenochtitlán. We don’t need a guide.”

  “Hokay, señorita, hokay.” Then he cocked his head and grinned. “But the Chiclets lady would like you to know that what happened yesterday wasn’t her fault. If she’d wanted to kill you, she could have had the job done, easy.” He swung the chain at his belt, and the snap blade sprang open. In one smooth motion he flipped it into his hand, catching it and folding it shut. “She wants you to know she’s still working for you.”

  Then he turned and bolted away, running as fast as his feet could carry him. “Thanks for the pesos, babosos!” he yelled back over his shoulder. Before I could recover from my surprise, he’d rounded a corner and disappeared.

  The driver of a derelict-looking taxi finally saw me waving. As he ground his gears, putting his vehicle into reverse and backing up to the curb for us, I saw him surreptitiously tucking a string of what looked like rosary beads into his pocket. He’d probably pulled them out to pray when the earthquake struck. The sight reminded me of Hector, the driver who had recommended the sports bar, and his fearful cringe after making the sign of the cross. Catholicism might be officially banned in Aztlan, but it was far from dead.

  Rafael looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  I hadn’t known until that moment. “To the Yucatán,” I told him. “To the town of Izamal. The feathered serpent told us that it was the home of the sacerdote who found Mama Grande after she lost her magic and memories. I didn’t understand the comment at the time—it didn’t make sense that the Aztlaner priests would let a rebel sympathizer like Mama Grande go free again. But I just figured that they didn’t know who she was.

  “Now that I think about it some more, I realize that there are two types of priests in Aztlan. Those who follow the Path of the Sun, and those who follow a different path: Christianity. If the priest who found her was Catholic, it would explain why Mama Grande brought the holo of Jesus north with her when she fled from Aztlan. Because it meant something to her. It represented hope, rescue—the person who had helped her after her memory became glitched.”

  Rafael nodded, at last understanding. “The sacerdote—the priest who found her. If we can track him down, we might be able to learn more about why Mama Grande was killed. Maybe she hadn’t lost all of her memories yet, and was still able to tell the priest whatever it was the cultists were after. If we can find out what it is . . .”

  I completed the thought for him. “Whatever Mama Grande knew, Vargas learned it. He wouldn’t have killed her, otherwise. And judging by the simsense images the cultists used to trigger Mama Grande’s memory, it’s a place. It’s a safe bet that both they and Vargas were looking for something—and that Vargas will go to that location, now that he knows where it is. If we can figure out where he’s headed . . .”

  Rafael smiled. “We can get to him.”

  I paused before opening the door of the cab. As Caco had said, the city had ears. “And the best part of it is,” I said in a low voice, “if your scalper or our friend Caco does sell us out, our ‘target’ will be expecting us to make our move at the ollamaliztli finals. We’ll have the element of surprise on our side if we strike before then.”

  I was wrong, of course. We were the ones who were going to be surprised. And more than once.

  12

  The motorcycle bumped its way along the poorly paved road, its plastic fenders rattling. I sat on the back of the tape-patched seat, my arms around Rafael’s waist. We’d been trying to pass a poultry truck for some time now, but its driver was barreling along at loco speeds and refusing to let us by. I wondered what his hurry was. The chickens stuffed into the wire cages strapped on the flatbed of the truck smelled terrible and the heavy wheels of the vehicle were churning up dust like crazy every time the driver cut a corner too tightly and veered onto the gravel shoulder of the road. I was glad for my breather, which kept out the worst of the dust and diesel fumes. Wearing it meant not being able to wear the full-face helmet that had come with the bike, but I was more than willing to sacrifice safety in order to breathe filtered air and feel the wind through my hair.

  We’d decided to travel to Izamal by motorcycle. The town lay nearly twelve hundred klicks from Mexico City, near the northern end of the Yucatán peninsula, but I didn’t want to risk taking a flight into Mérida, the principal airport in the region. The Yucatán peninsula was the flash point of the civil war, and the Aztlan Armed Forces (yet another subdivision of Aztechnology Corporate Security) would be highly suspicious of “tourists” entering what amounted to a low-level war zone. Traveling by motorcycle offered us a lower profile. We could take the back roads and avoid most of the military checkpoints.

  We’d picked up the motorcycle for a cheap price in Tenochtitlán on the day the earthquake hit, and set out early the next morning. It was now Friday, and we were in the middle of our third eight-hour day of riding. The bike was a Dodge Sidewinder, painted with a distinctive diamond pattern that mimicked the rattlesnake after which it was named. I’d wanted a bike with a more comfortable seat—I could feel every bump and pothole through the worn padding—but Rafael had considered the bike a lucky find and had insisted that we buy it. It seemed appropriate, somehow, that we were using a bike named for Mama G’s totem animal.

  We were well into the Yucatán now, on a secondary highway that would take us to Mérida. All around us was flat, sun-baked desert—a vast expanse of scrub-dotted limestone and yellow soil, unbroken by rivers or lakes. The only “hills” in the region were the ruins of ancient cities—bleached mounds of rubble that mark where a building or temple once stood. The other landmarks were of more recent manufacture—power lines, oil rigs, razor-wire fences that marked the edge of civilian no-go zones, and the occasional radar dish or military landing pad, surrounded by security fencing and low bunke
rs that I guessed held light tanks, troops, or LAVs.

  It’s hot in the Yucatán—even the air flowing past us as we rode along failed to cool me. The sweat evaporated instantly from my exposed skin, but was pooling under my breasts and against my stomach where my leather jacket trapped it against my body.

  We’d already drunk most of our bottled water—liters and liters of it—and only a centimeter or two of bathtub-hot liquid remained. I yanked a plastic container out from under a bungie cord and poured the last of the water it held onto the bandannas that Rafael and I wore around our necks. Most of the liquid slopped onto the bike or ground as we hit a bump, but enough soaked the scarves to cool our necks for a few blissful seconds.

  I wondered again how Rafael could ride for so long with a sprained wrist. The vibrations of the bike must have hurt like drek, let alone using his wrist every time he revved the engine or braked. But I’d frequently seen Rafael continue an athletic competition or game regardless of aches, pains, or injuries. I suspected his will to carry on bordered on the abilities of a physical adept—maybe he’d inherited a natural magical talent from Mama Grande. But I’d never mention this to him. Rafael considered himself a “pure” athlete, unsullied by implants, augmentations—or magic.

  The wheels of the truck ahead of us threw up yet another cloud of eye-stinging yellow dust, and I could hear Rafael curse. When we hit a straight stretch, he shouted, “Hang on, Leni!” and gunned the motorcycle more fiercely than before. We pulled out to one side of the truck, surged past it—and emerged from its dust cloud only to find the road ahead blocked by an armored personnel carrier, a jeep, and the concrete barriers and striped fencing of a military checkpoint. Rafael jammed on the brakes, sending us into a skid. I gasped and ducked my head behind his broad back, thinking we were about to crash. He kept the bike under control—barely. But by the time we stopped, we’d knocked over a number of bright orange cones that had been set up to direct traffic. I looked up to find that we were dead-center in the checkpoint, only a pace or two away from a very slotted-off looking military officer.