The old woman nodded, considering. The numbers matched those provided by the Flower Priests. "These seven are presenting themselves as agents of 'Swedish Naval Operations and Research'?"
"Yes. We've tentative pheromone, scent and skin flake idents on them; but given the relatively few number of Imperials working on Jagan…we should be able to keep track of them fairly easily."
"I assume they are already hard at work?"
Lachlan nodded, sandy hair falling into his eyes. "Sowing mischief, mi'lady. Selling arms and ammunition, filling the hearing pores of local revolutionaries with wild tales…blackening the Emperor's name with a will. Within three weeks, I would guess, every local potentate will be sweating tears in his sleep, wondering when the sky will open and the invasion fleet will descend. The usual Swedish line of propaganda."
"Good." Itzpalicue swept her eyes across the feeds. "And every marginal sect leader, patriot, malcontent and outlaw will be hyping himself into a frenzy. Someone must save civilization from the invaders, of course. Have you identified the princes who will step forward?"
"The darmanarga moktar – Those-Who-Restore-the-Right-Path?" Lachlan's forehead creased. "No. Not yet. The 'Swedish' agents are still sounding out possible allies among the kujen. Do you want me to anticipate them?"
The old woman shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on one of the v-panes. The motion of her retinas caused the pane to unfold, filling the display with vibrant color and motion:
Hundreds of brightly painted kites were dancing above the rooftops – somewhere in the city where an Imperial spyeye was already aloft – weaving and ducking in grayish air. As she watched, one of the kites, diamond-shaped with a stubby tail, controlled from the ground by what seemed to be an adolescent Jaganite, swerved across the path of another. For a moment, their controlling strings tangled and Itzpalicue blinked – was that a spark? Then one cord parted and a black and white striped kite tumbled out of the sky, string cut.
The old woman's eyes unfocused as she took in dozens of screens. "Let them do their work. No wasted effort, child. And Lachlan-tzin, you're prudent to wait until dark to launch the other hives – the natives are fond of aerial sports. We must be able to see everything before we can begin our own operation."
And then, wrenching her attention away from the fluttering sky, perhaps I can find my…prey. Her hands splayed across the displays. An odd, tight feeling was growing in her chest. A constriction of breath, an irritation plucking beneath her breastbone. Cold…almost metallic. That is how you feel, my enemy. Not like a Swede or a Dane or any of the scattered nations defeated by the Empire. Slowly, she licked her lips, considering. I doubt there is a Hgkvarteret operative within thirty light-years…but within the week, every Imperial and Jaganite on this tired old world will think the shadows are crawling with HKV agents.
Itzpalicue closed both eyes, letting her mind settle. Will all this be enough? she wondered, trying to let her impression of the enemy come into focus. For the moment, there was only a confused sense of wrongness, of emptiness. I have nothing but a feeling – a half-felt disturbance in the pattern of this civilization – to incite this conflagration. Will I catch him – her – it – this time?
The old Mйxica wondered if the Flower Priests realized this world had been chosen for their War of Flowers at her insistence. That the arrival of Villeneuve and the prince had never been in doubt, not from the moment the Mirror began to act. I doubt it! Hmmm…I wonder…
She opened her eyes, fixing the patient Lachlan with a piercing look. "I need your researchers to find me something. A shrine or temple or great work of art. Something every Jehanan citizen knows by name…something beloved, an example of the glory of ancient Jagan. The closer to a city, the better."
"Does the size of the specific object matter?" The Iirishman's hands were already busy on his control panel. "Jehanan artifacts, or something from a previous period?"
"Size and source are inconsequential – name recognition and emotional response are more important."
Lachlan nodded, looking up. She could see he had already guessed her desire. "I offer you two possibilities, mi'lady: two Arthavan-period shrines – the 'Wind King Temple' at Fehrupurй and the great statues of 'Kharna and the Hundred Princes' at Jihnuma. Both are within city bounds."
Pictures of the edifices appeared on Itzpalicue's display. She pursed her lips in appreciation. "Exquisite." A finger drifted across the pictures. "This sky…the air is filled with pollution?"
"Every city within the valley of the Phison is plagued with smog, acidic rain and almost toxic levels of industrial vapor waste." Lachlan glanced sideways at one of his secondary displays. "Do you wish to see rates of decay and damage? We don't have them on file, but I'm sure…"
"The fact of the matter is inconsequential. How quickly can a xenoarchaeo-logical team be routed to Jagan?"
"No need." Lachlan tapped up a series of citizen profiles. "Civilization on Jagan is of sufficient age that the University of Tetzcoco already has a dig underway outside Fehrupurй. Apparently the remains of an Arthavan-period planetary capital are located there. Hmm…sixty University staff, about four thousand diggers…we can pull profiles on all the Imperials if need be."
"Not now." Itzpalicue brushed away the spyeye feeds open on her displays. "Only a thought. Now, how extensive is our infiltration of the rural, township-level communications networks?"
Landing Field Six The M й xica Mandate at Sobipur й , Jagan; End of the Northern Hemisphere Rainy Season
Waves of heat rippled up from the tarmac of a primitive shuttle field. Gretchen tipped back her field hat to wipe a sweat-drenched forehead. Her other hand waved a Shimanjai-made fan over the supine form of her communications technician, Magdalena, who was sprawled on the ragged earth border of the landing field. The black-pelted Hesht was panting furiously, purple-red tongue lolling from the side of her long mouth. The alien female's eyes were bare slits against the copper glare of the Jaganite sky.
"Can she die from overheating?" Parker shuffled his boots on the pavement. The Company pilot's shirt clung damply to a thin body. He was standing between Magdalena and the swollen red disk of the sun, though he cast very little shade at all.
"I don't know," Gretchen said. "But she's suffering. I wish we had our heavy equipment here – at least we could put up a shade."
Parker shrugged, plucking a dying tabac from his mouth and flicking the butt through a nearby fence. Beyond the hexagonal wooden barrier, ten meters of dusty red earth choked with waste paper, discarded glass bottles, scraps of shuttle tire and tangles of glittering cotton string separated them from a row of houses. The shacks were little more than sections of cargo container – most of them bearing the faded, cracking labels of Imperial shipping concerns – turned on their sides and tacked together with extruded foam glue.
The slums sprawling away from the edge of the spaceport did not impress the Company pilot. There were no skyscraping towers, no gravity-defying buildings of alien hue. Nothing over a story in height. Only a mass of tiny, squalid-looking buildings reaching off into a choking brown haze.
"Wouldn't do anything about the thickness of this air, boss." The pilot looked left and right, mirrored glasses catching the heat-haze boiling up from the tarmac. "At least out here, if there's a breeze, we might catch a little of it. In there…" He pointed at the teeming city crouched just beyond the barrier. "…you can't even breathe."
The smell from the city was already overpowering; a thick soup of hydrocarbon exhaust, smoke from cooking fires, a harsh, unexpected smell like cinnamon and the sharp tang of solvents and heated metal.