Blood Sport Read online

  It seemed to be our destination. With powerful backstrokes of its feathered wings, the dragon hovered a moment above the flat area at the top of the funicular tracks. Then, when we were still two or three meters above the ground, the dragon released its grip and Rafael and I fell. After so long in the air, my legs were like jelly. I landed on my feet, but immediately collapsed to my knees and had to throw out my hands to stop myself from falling flat on my face. Rafael had also landed hard, but at the same time was scrabbling for the weapon in his boot. Cursing his injured wrist, he at last hauled the Streetline Special from its hiding place. I rolled behind a rock, reaching into my jacket for my Beretta as I did. Drawing it and flicking off the safety, I braced my weapon as the feathered serpent landed and aimed for its eye. I figured I’d only get one shot.

  Before my finger could twitch, my adrenaline-fired fear was suddenly gone. In its place I felt a wave of calm sweep over me. The trembling in my arms stopped, my hands relaxed their grip on the Beretta, and I actually smiled, so at ease did I feel. It was like the mellow rush of a tranq patch, hitting with a rush that affected body and mind at once. My muscles felt as relaxed as if I’d just been given an hour-long massage, and my mind had entered the calm you experience just before a sound night’s sleep .. .

  I tried to summon up some fear, to shake off the effect. A tiny part of me recognized that the dragon was using magic to mess up my emotions, and was angry. But it was a distant voice, shouting a warning from far away. It was all I could do to glance over at Rafael, to see that he too had lowered his weapon. If I hadn’t been feeling so good, I would have cried to see my powerful half-ork friend reduced to a complacent piece of prey, just waiting to be eaten.

  Then the dragon “spoke” again. Do not be afraid. The kinswoman Rosalita was a friend. No harm comes to you here. Follow.

  Turning away from us, the feathered serpent folded its wings and scuttled into the hole in the hillside. It moved on two short legs, but at the same time undulated its body like a snake, slithering with a whisper of feathers against stone. As the tip of its plumed tail disappeared into the cave, the spell broke and my heart pounded in my chest.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Rafael exclaimed violently. He lurched to his feet. “It knew Mama Grande!”

  I stood and shoved my Beretta back into its shoulder holster. A gun wasn’t much good when your mind couldn’t give your finger the command to pull the trigger. “Come on,” I said to Rafael. “Let’s find out what it wants.”

  Telling myself to calm down—that if the dragon wanted to make a meal of us it would have done so by now—I stepped over the rubble that half-blocked the entrance to the cave and clambered inside. Rafael flicked on the silver lighter that his father had given him, years ago, and that he carried everywhere with him still. It illuminated the cave with a fitful yellow light.

  A more or less flat path wound its way between fantastic formations of stalagmites and stalactites. Some of the shapes suggested hulking beasts or demonic faces, while others were more benign, reminiscent of mounded ice cream cones. Water dripped from the ceiling in places, plinking against the stone below in a steady drip. Above the path, the ceiling of the cave was hung with an electric wire, from which drooped a series of burned out or broken light bulbs. I sharpened the gain on my cyberear and could just hear the slithering whisper of the dragon as it disappeared into a deeper cave. Tipping my head in that direction, I beckoned for Rafael to follow.

  The path wound through a series of caves, some still marked with rusted signs that bore such fanciful names as “Chamber of Clouds” or “The Eighth Wonder.” I tried to picture this as the tourist attraction it must once have been, with happy families chattering and shooting trid—or whatever they’d used to record holiday memories decades ago. Now the floor was rough underfoot with fallen stone, and the system of caverns was a damp, dark, eerie place. Despite the dragon’s words of reassurance, I couldn’t help but wonder why it was leading us so far away from the outside world.

  Every few steps we had to pause, while Rafael let his lighter cool. The brief moments of absolute darkness were the most unnerving of all. Every drip of water became the scuffle of a monstrous foot, and the faint breeze that whispered through the caverns was the soft laughter of a predator stalking its prey. The air inside the caves was cool—a contrast to the hot desert night.

  Rafael cursed as his lighter again became hot enough to burn his thumb. As the tiny light went out, I could see a dim glow ahead. From an inner cave wafted the smell of the feathered serpent’s noxious ammonia-and-carrion breath. Feeling my way along cautiously, arms extended and tapping ahead with my foot before I set it down on the path, I rounded a bend and entered yet another cavern. Rafael followed, one hand on my shoulder. He let out a low whistle at the sight that greeted us.

  The dragon lay on a wide bench of stone in a cavern that was filled with natural pillars where stalagmites and stalactites had grown together and fused. The feathered serpent itself was the source of the glow I had seen—each of its feathers shone with an unearthly, bioluminescent light. The serpentine creature’s body was mostly green, but shaded into a brilliant turquoise closer to the tail and from there into a dull, fire-ember red. The tips of its wings, tail, and the crest of feathers that surrounded its head were a multitude of colors: red, yellow, royal blue, turquoise, and green.

  The thing lay coiled like a serpent, wings folded back and legs tucked away somewhere under the coils of its body. Its head was erect and its mouth was closed, but a long, slender tongue darted in and out, tasting the air. As I stood, uncertain whether to approach it, the dragon ruffled its brilliant crest and “spoke” in a hissing whisper that echoed in my mind.

  The helicopters are searching for us, it said. We shall wait here.

  It seemed anachronistic, somehow, for a creature as ancient as a dragon to be speaking of modem helicopter gunships, especially in this setting. I reminded myself that there were dragons that ran corporations and dabbled in the stock market. It shouldn’t have surprised me to find a dragon wearing a business suit.

  “We’re hiding?” I asked.

  Yesss.

  “Who are you?”

  You may call me Soñador.

  The word was Spanish for dreamer. I couldn’t begin to guess what a dragon would dream about—what its hopes, dreams, or wishes might be.

  “How did you know my grandmother?” Rafael’s voice was edgy, tense. I was glad to see that the Streetline Special was back in his boot.

  Rosalita was one of those who was called by Snake, the feathered serpent answered. Once, when I suffered wounds, she healed me.

  “Called by Snake?” I repeated. “You mean Mama Grande really was a shaman? She wasn’t just eccentric?” I rubbed my nose—my sinuses were still clear. So the ice-water cure hadn’t been bogus after all. It was legit. Magic. I wondered how many other things that we’d assumed about Mama G were going to be proved wrong.

  The kinswoman Rosalita was a powerful bruja, the dragon said. But then her thoughts became confused. She lost her memories—and her healing magic.

  “How?” Rafael asked abruptly. “Why? When did it happen?”

  The feathered serpent hissed out loud at Rafael in annoyance. Its crest rose to form a bristling halo around its head. We do not know how or why. Only when: just before she left Aztlan. If you want to satisfy your curiosity, start in Izamal. That's where the sacerdote found her, just after it happened.

  I frowned at that one. Sacerdote? Mama G had fallen into the hands of the Aztlaner priesthood once before? Then why had Vargas waited until she came to Seattle to question and kill her? I could only suppose that the priesthood hadn’t realized who she was at the time.

  The dragon cut off my train of thought. After her mind became confused, Rosalita became a danger to herself—and to those she once helped, it continued. Its crest had flattened, and its telepathic “voice” had lost the angry, hissing edge. Those of us on the revolutionary council decided that she should leave Aztlan.
And now her kinsman returns in her stead. I owed the human Rosalita a debt of healing, and so I have saved your life, and that of your companion. The debt is paid.

  “The revolutionary council?” Rafael asked incredulously. “My grandmother was a rebel fighter?”

  Not a fighter, the dragon said. Those whom Snake has called seek to heal, not harm. They share the secrets of life, not death.

  “I doubt if Mama Grande was a revolutionary herself, Raf,” I told my friend. “But it looks as though she was helping the rebels by healing their wounded. And I’ll bet she traveled in some pretty high circles, if she was healing dragons and was known to this ‘revolutionary council.’ She probably knew the names and faces of the rebel leadership. That would explain why the AFL took such care to get her out of the country and to a hiding place as far from Aztlan as they could manage. The way she rambled on as her memory faded in and out, she might have let some paydata slip that could have led the Azzies straight to the rebel forces.”

  Rafael frowned. “I wonder if that’s why my parents had to leave Aztlan. Because of Mama Grande being linked to the rebels. That would explain why my mother never spoke of her. She’d have been angry, have blamed Mama Grande for my father’s death. Wow. That’s harsh.” He sat heavily on a low mound of rock. “So what do we do now?”

  The question had been directed at me, but the dragon answered. We wait. Soon the helicopters will give up the search. And then I shall leave this place.

  “And what about us?” I asked Soñador. “And our guide, José? Did he make it? Did you see him? Do you know where he is?”

  The feathered serpent weaved its head from side to side. I do not know that human's fate.

  “Couldn’t you look for him?” Rafael asked. “He was a good guy, someone I’d be proud to have on my team. Last time we saw José, he had a pack of Azzie nasties on his tail. Are you just going to leave him to fend for himself?”

  He is not the one to whom I owed a debt. He merely made me aware that you were coming. His well-being is not my responsibility.

  “Why, you cold-blooded . . .”

  “Raf!” I grabbed my friend’s arm as he started to rise. “Be chill! That’s a dragon you’re talking to, for frag’s sake. Don’t slot it off!”

  Rafael grumbled something unintelligible and balled his fists.

  I decided to approach things on a more practical level. “Where are we?” I asked Soñador. “How far are we from Tenochtitlán?” The capital was our next stop; I had the name of a “data dealer” in that city who would help us track down information on Mama G’s killer. José was supposed to have escorted us there, but now we’d have to make it on our own. At least we had the fake ID he’d prepared for us.

  I thought the dragon’s eyes narrowed slightly at my question, but couldn’t be sure. The light that came from its feathers made it difficult to make out its expression.

  You are only a few kilometers from the settlement of Monterrey, it answered. From there you can arrange for conveyance to Tenochtitlán. All roads lead to that city, and all lead from it. All things begin and end in Tenochtitlán.

  The feathered serpent was probably referring to mundane transportation routes, but its words sounded almost prophetic. I stared at it, wondering what details it was choosing not to reveal to us. How and when had Mama Grande healed it? What magical secrets had the pair shared?

  It seemed that I wasn’t about to get the chance to even ask. Soñador rose to its feet and headed toward us. I stepped warily aside as it made for the cavern’s exit.

  We may leave now, it said. The helicopters have ended their search.

  “But aren’t you going to help us to—”

  The light from its feathers suddenly went out. The dragon padded away into the darkness, its claws making scraping sounds on the stone floor of the cave.

  “Frag!” I felt around for Rafael, bumped into him in the dark. “I hope you still have your lighter, Raf.”

  He flicked it on, revealing an empty cavern. A single feather, about the length of my forearm, was wedged in a crack of rock near my feet. I bent and picked it up. The spine was white as ivory, the feather itself as stiff and shiny as starched silk.

  “Our first souvenir,” I joked dryly. I handed it to Rafael. “Welcome to Aztlan.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here while there’s still fuel in my lighter. I don't want to get stuck in this place.” I thought then that the feathered serpent would be the weirdest thing we’d see in Aztlan. I didn’t realize that even stranger sights were yet to come.

  9

  We reached Monterrey just before dawn Sunday and spent the day making travel arrangements. I tried to contact José, but without success. My postings on the Salsa Connection went unanswered. Our guide was either in hiding someplace where he couldn’t reach a telecom—or dead. It seemed we would have to make our own travel arrangements.

  We flew to Tenochtitlán, rather than taking the bus or train. The bus would have been a twelve-hour grind in the company of unwashed farmers and their chickens, while the train was an old-fashioned steel-tracks affair that stopped at every little dirt-water town, making for lots of checks by local policía with too much time on their hands. José had assured me that our fake ID would stand up to intense scrutiny by Aztechnology Corporate Security (ACS was under contract to provide policing throughout the country), but I figured that the fewer times we put it to the test, the better. And so we paid for an early-morning commuter flight in peso normas—currency that couldn’t leave the country and so we might as well spend it—and joined the crowd of suits at the check-in counter on Monday morning.

  Aztlan has some pretty lax weapons laws—even resident aliens can carry handguns without a license. But Air Montezuma doesn’t like firefights on its flights, and so my Beretta and Rafael’s Streetline Special had to be checked through as luggage. A clerk placed them in foam-lined red plastic boxes that would remain sealed for the duration of the flight, scanned a thumbprint onto the claim tags she slapped on them, and then directed us to our boarding gate.

  We’d purchased two small travel bags and some clothes and toiletries in Monterrey to give ourselves the appearance of proper travelers. We’d also been told—at least three times—to pick up breathers. According to the sales clerk who sold Rafael his shaving kit, they were a necessity of life in Tenochtitlán. She’d barely suppressed a bemused smile when I said we’d already bought two top-of-the-line Fellini-Med models, noted for their effectiveness against both particulates and noxious gases. Only when we reached the capital did I find out why that was so funny.

  The AFL had supplied Rafael and I with fake ID datacards. According to these pocket-sized pieces of data-encoded plastic, we were Lola and Rico Terrones, a married couple from Seattle who had been working at Nuevo Laredo’s race track for the past four months. According to our resident alien data, we had been granted work visas in Aztlan on the basis of our skill in caring for and training the chemically and cybemetically boosted greyhounds that ran at the Galgodromo. A bit ironic, really. I’ve been strictly a cat person ever since the time when, at the tender age of six, I patted a dog and got my arm ripped open for the trouble. The sum total of my knowledge of dogs is which end the bark and bite are attached to. But Rafael actually followed greyhound racing at one point in time (what sport didn't he watch on trid?) and could reasonably fake it. The region’s lingering code of machismo would allow me to play the supporting role of less knowledgeable wife.

  As resident aliens, we could travel as we pleased in Aztlan. We didn’t have to provide a detailed itinerary of our every move, the way tourists visiting on a travel visa did. Nor were we limited to a maximum of sixty days in the country. Not that we intended to stay that long. We’d be a maximum of a week or two.

  Or so I thought at the time. As it turned out, one of us would not be returning at all.

  When I’d first decided to press ahead with my investigation of Mama G’s death, I’d thought that the warm sunshine of Azt
lan would be a welcome change from the chilling rain of Seattle. As soon as we reached Tenochtitlán, I realized my mistake. From the air, all that can be seen of the capital is a thick brown smog that obscures the ground. The occasional skyscraper or upper layer of an enormous stepped pyramid juts through this obscuring haze, but otherwise the sprawling mass of dun-colored buildings that fill the highland valley are completely hidden from view. Somewhere below the haze, nearly eighteen million people (closer to twenty-two million, if you count the SINless) eat, sleep, live—and breathe.

  Or try to. As soon as we collected our luggage and found our way out of the bustling maze of the Aeropuerto Benito Juarez, the combination of heat and smog hit us. Even with a breather on, I felt as though I had been wrapped in an electric blanket that was set on high and dropped into the smoky haze of a forest fire. My clothing stuck to my sweating skin, I could taste the pollution in the air, and my lungs felt as tight and raw as the first time I’d tried smoking. And this was with the breather on. Pity the peasant who was too poor to afford one. El humo grande—the “big smoke”—would lay him low in seconds.

  Add to this the fact that the city lies in a mountain valley at nearly twenty-three hundred meters above sea level. The altitude alone was enough to make me dizzy, never mind the oppressive heat and air pollution.

  In its will, the great dragon Dunkelzahn had offered twenty million nuyen to the first person or company to develop a plant that would act as a biological filter to clean up the air in Tenochtitlán and other smog-choked cities. I could see now what had inspired this bequest.