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 Йirishman'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 Mйxica Mandate at Sobipurй, 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.
Ahead of them, some of the other passengers moved up, sending a slow, jerky ripple down the line. Parker was quick to snatch up their bags – one huge duffel each – and drag them forward before the Taborite missionaries behind them could dodge into the gap. Gretchen reached down, took hold of Maggie's upper arms and grunted, hauling the Hesht to her feet.
"Yrrrrowwl-urch," Magdalena groaned in near-delirium, long tongue disappearing behind rows of grinding teeth. One paw batted listlessly at the air. "Sister…just put the gun to my head and trigger-pull. Then…then take my pelt and make a sun-shade for your cubs… Remember me, when you sing at the hunting-fire…"
"Oh, be quiet." Gretchen shook her head in dismay, helping the Hesht forward. The line moved two, perhaps three meters towards the Customs House at the end of the runway. "We'll be in the shade soon, and then, eventually, we can get to our hotel."
Parker snorted, tapping another tabac out of the pack in his shirt pocket. "I think anything called a 'hotel' on this planet will be a sore disappointment." He sighed, shifting to put himself between the sweltering glare of the red giant filling the western sky and the panting Hesht. "After Shimanji n…maybe Mags should have stayed and taken her vacation time there."
Gretchen shook her head, squatting, feeling the asphalt give queasily under her boots. Heat radiating from the tarmac burned the soles of her feet and beat against her face; the landing strip was an oven a thousand meters long and fifty wide. "There will be places like Hofukai on this world, too. Clean, cool, nearpine swaying in a shore breeze, crisp white linens on immaculately made beds… But not down here in this…hole."
"Stupid-ass Company," Parker said, thin lips twisted twisted into a scowl. "You don't suppose we're being punished for doing a good job on Shimanjin? No…what about that business on Ephesus Three? Maybe they're dinging you for all the data the Imperials confisca -"
An accelerating blast of sound drowned out his voice and everyone in the customs line jerked in surprise. As one, the six hundred passengers recently disem-barked from the Imperial passenger liner Star of Naxos turned, staring in alarm at the northern sky.
There, beyond a kilometer of open ground – high springy grass poking up between scattered stubs of eroding concrete, some kind of small horned ruminant grazing on low-lying furze – lay four more shuttle runways – all empty. Beyond them, in turn, a line of gleaming, modern buildings marked the 'main terminal' of the Sobipurй spaceport.
The thundering roar resolved into the shriek of shuttle engines – not just one, but dozens. The northern sky split open, smoky clouds peeling aside as four enormous slate-gray shuttles dropped down through the haze over the sprawling city. The first shuttle tilted back, landing thrusters howling, and a hot, metallic-tasting wind swept across the field.