features-had always been at least a block away for as long as the Eye had observed the Hjo. That it should come closer-or even speak to Sahane-implied something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Ah, the Hjo suddenly realized, the wretched Eyes don’t wish me to purchase trimethoxyphene from this new vendor. The previous merchant must have complained “There is no situation,” the toy said, quite calmly. It approximated a Hjo smile, lips tight. “You are perfectly safe. There will be only a slight delay before the priest comes.”
Sahane blinked, feeling a familiar fog of confusion congealing around him. He did not like this place-the backwater polity; the crude, barbarous planet; much less this dreadful bowl of hot smog that passed for a city-and the intrigues and plots of the local princelings did not move him at all. His master the zhongdu seemed to take an interest in the chattering and scrabbling of the humans, but Sahane had done his best to stay far, far removed from such things. It was not, after all, his purpose.
“The… hikuli priest is coming here?” Sahane whispered tentatively. “How would he know to come-”
“I told him,” the human said, unnaturally slim fingers producing a data-crystal, “that you would be a little late, and wished to try authentic Tenochtitlan food. Where else but Tlatelolco would you find such fine grilled dogs? We will need only a moment for our business.”
The Hjo’s dull black eyes fixed on the message capsule, which was banded with red and seemed to shine with an inner light. “That is one of ours,” he muttered, feeling his skin heat with distress. “How did you get it?”
The human smiled again. “This is for your master. Will you convey it to the zhongdu?”
“I will not,” Sahane hissed. The low ceiling pressed down claustrophobically. “It is not my purpose to exchange messages with your kind! I will be…” The Hjo clamped his mouth shut before severely punished escaped into the open air. “I am not a Voice,” came out instead, as a hiss.
“If you do not accept the gift,” the human said, sharp brown eyes watching the nervous alien and wondering what a “Voice” might be, “then your ‘priest’ will be further delayed and there will be no godhead to accompany you to the consulate.”
The Gods are not here! an ancient-sounding voice sneered among Sahane’s thoughts. Were they, we would be exalted and these toys churned to ash for our gardens. Were the Gods here, we would not need these pasty sulfates and salts to entertain us! We would burn with “I can find another-” Sahane rose abruptly and there was a dull clonk as his head slammed into the iron candelabra suspended over the table. “Aaah!”
Wincing, the Hjo staggered away from the table, long fur-covered fingers clutching his tapered head. His mouth gaped wide, revealing the heavy rows of grinding molars and chisel-shaped cutting teeth lining his fore- jaw.
“I’ve got you,” the Mirror agent said, steadying the alien arm. The smooth human countenance creased with worry. “You’re bleeding, Sahane- tzin.”
The Hjo grimaced, wrenching his polluted limb free from the toy’s grasp. Beneath his fingers, the warm oozing sensation of a cut was already fading as his scalp-skin crawled back together. “I heal,” Sahane spat. Though his legs felt loose and rubbery, the Hjo fled, staggering up the steps and brushing past a startled-looking youth in vibrant, polychromatic robes carrying a ribbed, dark green effigy pot in his hands.
Behind him, in the dim recess of the restaurant, the young Mexica pretended not to notice the puzzled Xochipilli priest on the stair. He smoothed down his mantle before spraying a biocide on the table and chair where the Hjogadim had rested. Then he glanced around the room to make sure no one was paying any attention and disappeared out through the kitchen.
Down the street, Sahane stumbled to a halt, leaning against a wall covered with glossy painted tile showing dozens of young boys dressed as bees, birds, and macaws sitting in the branches of a massive tree whose limbs tangled the sun and stars, while the roots twined down amongst the skulls and bones of the dead. Opposite him a stall lined with dozens of flowered cloaks caught the midday sun, casting a hot glow of brilliant hummingbird colors in his watery eyes.
This is a dreadful place, the young alien thought for the thousandth time, pawing in the pouch at his belt for a map token that would lead him to other vendors. I will just find some alkaloids instead His long fingers brushed against something small, smooth, and cylindrical. The Hjo fell still, hindbrain yielding up a list of everything he’d donned in his cubicle before setting out into the teeming anthill of the human city.
Seconds passed. Sahane carefully pulled out and regarded the data-crystal with a jaundiced eye. He looked about, saw only the usual throng of humanity, and pitched the irritating little item into the nearest garbage can. Then he stood up, feeling relieved, and loafed off thinking: Right Thought guides me well, to avoid the complications of lesser creatures at every turn!
The Hjogadim had gone a good block or more, almost stepping out into the bustling flower market of Tlatelolco to buy his lunch, when another thought intruded: What if some cunning Eye informs the zhongdu of my meeting, and Demands are made upon me to produce the contraband? If I do not hold it in my hand, it will seem I am hiding Truth or have sold something for my own profit.
Cursing, he paced back down the alley and retrieved the crystal, which had gone seemingly untouched. Now it seemed far too heavy in his palm.
The little old Yaqui man sitting on the corner did not look up from stuffing his face with fried chapultin, nor show the slightest interest in the creature’s self-conscious scrabbling in the garbage bin, but the event had not gone unnoticed.
DUMFRIES POST STATION
IMPERIAL CHARTERED COLONY OF NEW ABERDEEN
The leaden gray sky poured down rain as a small backwoods settlement lurched into view through streaming windows. Sitting quietly on a cracked dark green vinyl seat, Green Hummingbird watched weather-worn buildings roll past, their windows shuttered tight against a cold, damp summer. The transit bus slid to a halt before a terminal of patched glass and corroded metal. He climbed down behind a crowd of migrant lumbermen and waited patiently for his turn at the baggage claim.
“Here y’go, graunfaither,” a red-faced clerk nodded politely, pushing a heavy leather satchel across the counter. “Welcome t’ Dumfries.”
Hummingbird paused a moment inside the drafty arrival hall, letting the crowd of travelers carrying waterproof luggage tubs swirl past and out the doors. The crowd was mostly dour-faced humans wearing heavy clothing and knee-high boots. They scuffed across a hard-surfaced floor smeared with yellowish mud and out into the rainy afternoon. A collection of heavy-wheeled vans, crawlers, and logging tenders was waiting. There were no taxis or pedicabs in sight.
When the locals had sorted themselves out, the Mexica put away his hand-comp and shrugged into a nondescript Imperial Army surplus poncho. His boots rattled on the slabbed logs making up the sidewalk. Somewhere out of sight, enormous tractors rumbled past heavy with newly cut lumber. Their passage made the puddles filling the street quiver and shake. On their way to docks at lakeside, he guessed.
The identifying sign for Dumfries Technical College was far newer than any of the buildings, and each door was marked by irregular patches where older signs had been recently removed. Piles of crumbling, moss-eaten concrete lined the walkways between the classroom halls. Hummingbird passed from building to building, a steadily growing frown etching his face. None of the signage matched what he expected to see. At last, after passing through a grove of dour trueoak which had apparently grown up unplanned in one of the quadrangles, he found an unpainted wooden building turned dull silver with age.
Now his hand-comp chimed quietly, indicating the outline of the old laundry matched a six-week-old Identicast from a Colonial Administration surveillance satellite.
Through a scratched metal door at the end of a dirty hallway, in the basement of the building, Hummingbird found Gretchen Anderssen sitting behind stacks of archaic equipment, her desk covered with manila folders, stacks
