Wasteland of flint

grandparents and parents had never spoken of The War, but the colonial government's nationalistic propaganda had filled in the blanks. 'That is past history.'

'Perhaps.' Hadeishi leaned forward, his face suddenly serious. 'You are uncomfortable with me and my crew – we are not what you expected. You are even surprised I speak passable Norman.'

'Yes.' Gretchen set aside a stack of age-yellowed magazines and put down her cup. 'I am surprised, though I have never been on an Imperial warship before. All of the Imperial officials I have ever met have been very forbidding men and women, ascetic and distant. I have never heard an official use any language save Nбhuatl. Isn't that the recommended style?'

'In many places, yes. You've stumbled into an odd corner of the Empire with us, I fear. The Imperial Navy is a strange creature, one head on two distinct bodies. I know you have found your place in society restricted by your birth – our Navy suffers the same fate. Certain kinds of ship commands – really, anything large and impressive – are reserved for commanders and senior crew drawn from those 'close to the Center.' This leaves the smaller ships – destroyers, cruisers, light cruisers – to those 'further away'. And among those who are not of the Great Clans, you will find the Nisei are the most trusted.' Hadeishi paused, thin mobile lips twisting ironically. 'So we are repaid for trading horses and steel for food and shelter so long ago.

'If you were to go down into the ship's enlisted country,' he continued, 'you would find crewmen and women of many races, even some with hair the color of beaten gold, like yours. Nearly a quarter of light-ship crews are of macehualli descent. Despite the nepotism of the Imperial Clans, crew rosters must be filled and the navy is not picky about lineage and birth – for crewmen at least! Haven't you noticed everything is labeled in Norman? Our manuals, our computer systems, everything is in Norman. Every Imperial officer must be proficient if they are to speak with their crews.' He paused. 'Of course, they have reliable officers to guide them, like myself.'

Gretchen stifled a laugh. She was suddenly aware there had been sake with dinner too, and most of the Jomon bowl was empty. The air seemed chillier than it had been.

'I am still surprised,' she said, fingertips brushing the medband on her wrist. It could dispense more than serotonin regulators. A cool sensation followed, rushing up her arm. Objects in the room began to assume a preternatural clarity. 'Are you judged so reliable you lack a political officer? Someone to help you guide these clanless, landless crewmen?'

She stopped, aware of the bitter tone in her words. Hadeishi raised an eyebrow, shaking his head gently. He put a thin finger to his lips in warning. 'Careful, Doctor. In this world, we must keep in our places, at least with open words. My command staff and I have been together for six years – first on the destroyer Ceatl and now here. We are very comfortable together – a family. You've seen in the door of our house tonight, watching us laugh at dinner. Perhaps we should have been more circumspect.'

He smiled gently, putting both forefingers to his temples. 'Keep your true life here, inside, and you will be safe. Now listen, Doctor, for there are things I must tell you.'

Gretchen straightened up, her mind now crystal clear. Something about Hadeishi had changed as well, the captain-ness of him coming forward. Now that she knew him a little better, she could see him change, his openness fading away, though he was still genial and polite.

'The sector admiral agreed to let you and your team ship with us to Ephesus because this benefits the Empire, not as a favor to your Company. The ruins on Ephesus Three, and the marks of shaping the planet bears, make it important to the Navy. Our own scientists have reviewed the data from the probe. At some time in the distant past, at least a million years ago, the world was violently transformed by the First Sun People. It may be an abandoned project – we have found those before – or may have been completed.

'Regardless of what happened to the Palenque, the investigation must continue. I have been entrusted with seeing you safely there and then making sure your work is a success. Whatever you need – transport shuttles, men, equipment, repair parts – I will provide.'

Gretchen sighed, weariness hidden behind the booster. 'I understand, Commander. If we find anything interesting we will turn it over to you.' She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes. 'I've worked under military supervision before.'

'I know.' Hadeishi did not smile, but there was a trace of humor sparkling in his eyes. 'On Old Mars – the Polaris excavation – under Director Huicton. You are young, Doctor, but you were chosen for this mission because of your experience and skill. Listen to me, I am here to help you, not to stumble around in your investigation, shooting people or being heavy-handed. I cannot imagine there is a great deal of trust between us, but I hope to gain yours.'

'Why?' The side of Gretchen's mouth twisted and she had to quell the urge to chew on the inside of her lip. 'You certainly don't need my trust. You can order me to do whatever you want. What you are trying to say, politely, is that we are consultants to the Navy.'

Hadeishi nodded in agreement. 'This is true. But this is not a military mission.'

Gretchen's eyebrows raised in question. 'I don't understand.'

Hadeishi ran his finger around the top of his drinking bowl. He seemed pensive, uneasy. After a long moment he said, 'This has become a matter of concern to the Smoking Mirror. We are both under the direct jurisdiction of an Imperial nauallis – a judge.'

Swallowing, her throat tight and dry, Gretchen managed to speak. 'Is this brujo aboard ship?'

Hadeishi nodded, his face a tight mask. 'Yes, you will speak to him soon. His name is Huitziloxoctic.'

Green Hummingbird, she thought. A powerful name.

Gretchen thumbed open the hatch to her quarters, and stopped in the doorway, finding Parker and Bandao sitting on the deck amid drifts of bits and pieces of metal, plastic flasks and wads of cloth. The pilot was in a T-shirt and ragged work pants lined with pockets. Bandao, as ever, was in sharply pressed slacks and a dress shirt. Maggie was still on her bunk; though she had squeezed down to make room for the equipment cases that had been sitting on the deck.

'Hello. Why are you cluttering up my floor?'

Parker looked up, pale brown eyes twinkling. 'Sorry, boss, but we don't have any room in our cabin.' His hands were spotted with light oil. Gretchen could smell it hanging in the air, a bitter thick tickling in her nose and throat. The pilot had an automatic pistol in his hand, mostly disassembled, with the gas venting mechanism sticking out.

'They weren't clean already?' One of her eyebrows inched up. She stepped inside, letting the hatch slide closed, then stepped over the two men and swung up into her bunk. 'What makes you think a pistol will be useful on Ephesus?'

'A gun is always useful,' Parker grinned, sliding the top of his automatic back together with a sharp click. He nodded at Bandao, 'Isn't that so?'

Bandao nodded, his face as calm and composed as ever. A heavy cloth, almost a rug, lay over his knees holding a heavy round barrel and a dizzying array of smaller parts, as well as a stock formed of honeycombed plastic. His hands, which seemed small on a solid, muscular body, held a rag and a shining metal component. Unlike Parker's mess, the gunner had arranged his tools on a cloth in neat and orderly rows.

'Well,' Gretchen smiled across at Magdalena. 'If it makes you happy.'

'How did the yrrrchuu-owl, go?' Maggie was lying on her back, a heavy flat comp on her furry stomach, a v-screen flipped up. 'I mean, the hunting feast.'

'It went.' Gretchen rummaged in her bag, frowning at the mess her rack had already become. She glowered sideways at Maggie – her bunk was carefully ordered, with everything in place. Damn cat. 'It was even pleasant. I had a talk with chu-sa Hadeishi afterward, in his office. He says that there is an Imperial nauallis on board.'

Parker looked up, quizzical. Bandao continued to work on cleaning the assault rifle, but Gretchen thought the smooth, assured motion of his hands paused for a moment.

'A what?' Parker put down his pistol and scratched his chin, leaving a glistening smear of oil along the line of his jaw.

'An Imperial judge,' Gretchen said, pulling a holocard out of her bag. The side of her mouth twisted unconsciously. She ran a fingernail along the back of the card, then jammed the holo against the bulkhead. It adhered to the painted metal, then flickered on. The image was set to 'still', extending its life from days to years. Three young children, a boy and two girls no more than six years old, were smiling up at the holocam. They were in