Stephen Baxter - Flood

When he came through the intersections himself Gary saw the remains of barbed-wire fences, smashed-open roadblocks, pillboxes of sandbags and concrete slabs. And at the Garcilaso intersection he saw a dead man, some guy in a bright blue AxysCorp uniform that looked as if it had rolled out of the factory today. He wore a white helmet, and had a sergeant’s stripes on his arm. He was flung over the road surface, face down, limbs sprawled like a doll’s, a deep crimson stain spreading over his back. This was the first corpse Gary had seen today. He had seen plenty of death in his time with Walker City, and enough violent death, but he never got used to it.

Now the column halted again. The order came to hole up. People looked for shelter, from the sun as much as from sniper fire, in doorways and alleys. Doors splintered and windows shattered as the invaders began to help themselves to whatever they could loot from the shops and residences, offices and churches. But Gary started to hear complaints that there was no food or water to be found.

The mayor told Gary she was going forward to see what was happening, and left him.

Gary went back twenty meters to find Grace, who had been walking with Domingo. Grace looked more uncomfortable than nervous. Domingo looked like some kind of pirate, grinning hugely as he cradled his own AK47, which he had polished until it gleamed in the clear Andean light. He had a looted necklace, a string of chunky aquamarine blocks, wrapped around his head like a bandanna.

“You really are an asshole, Domingo,” Gary said with faint disgust.

Domingo laughed.“But this is a day for assholes. What next, O great non-asshole gringo?”

“The mayor’s going forward. I guess Ollantay’s planning the next step. Come on, we’ll go up with her.” He took Grace’s hand.

“We are mere foot soldiers,” Domingo said.

Gary shook his head. “We got friends in this city. Anything we can do to reduce the body count today, we’re going to do.”

Domingo bowed. “Then I follow your lead.”

Holding Grace’s hand and followed by Domingo, Gary worked up the line until he caught up with the mayor’s party. They had stopped at another major intersection, beside a green space beneath the shoulders of a monumental-looking church.

Standing before this blocky pile, Ollantay held court. He was in his Inca finery, gaudy woolen tunic and trousers, those gold ear-studs bright in the sun, and he had a gold helmet on his head, looted from some private collection during the bee-sting raids he had mounted on Cusco before this main assault. He stood erect, his face dark and proud, here on this day of his apotheosis.

Mayor Thorson stood before Ollantay dubiously, listening to the conversation that passed between Ollantay and his senior generals, such as they were. They were a pack of thugs and troublemakers who had been attracted to Ollantay’s cause from the highland communities, farms and mines, here to settle old scores. There were even a few of the dispossessed from the raft communities offshore. This core group stood around a wooden box that looked like a coffin, hauled here on a cart.

Among them was a man Gary didn’t recognize, in a fresh-looking AxysCorp uniform. Aged maybe thirty, he was overweight, an unusual sight nowadays; he had a puffy, resentful face, and he stood by Ollantay nervously.

And Kristie was here. Her little boy wore feathers in his hair and had his own Inca-prince costume. He held his mother’s hand, one free finger probing a small nostril. It had been a shock this morning, the first shock of the day, for Gary to see Kristie Caistor at the side of a man like Ollantay. In fact, he saw, she wore a pink plastic backpack, incongruous amid the Inca stuff, and Gary had a faint memory of how she had carried the thing as that bright, pretty London kid, long ago.

Gary murmured to Thorson, “So what’s the plan?”

“Ollantay has spies in Project City,” she said. “Moles. Like that fat guy, evidently. Lammockson and his senior people have holed up in a sports stadium a few blocks thataway.” She pointed northeast along the transverse avenue.

And that was where Lily and Piers must be, Gary thought. What a strange reunion this was going to be. “So we’re going to lay siege?”

“Yeah. Although Ollantay seems to think he has a way in. Meanwhile Ollantay has some kind of ceremony to carry out here.”

“A ceremony. Some Inca thing?” Gary glanced around, at the blank faces of the buildings that surrounded them, the empty roads. He heard the distant buzz of a chopper. “The longer we wait here the more vulnerable we are.”

“Tell me about it. But you know Ollantay. Look at these guys. A lot of them aren’t thinking at all. They’re dispossessed, they’ve slaved for Lammockson, they’re refugees-as we are. The guys from the rafts in particular have got nothing to lose. This is their moment in the sun, their chance to strike back at something, somebody. The events of today have as much to do with testosterone as Lebensraum, I’d say.”

“That’s a grim thought.”

Her face was hard. “Well, we’re here to maximize our own gain. We owe nothing to Nathan Lammockson.”

The fat thirty-year-old broke away from Ollantay’s circle and approached Gary. “I know you,” he said. “You’re Gary Boyle. One of the hostages from Barcelona.”

Gary stared at him, startled. “Have I met you?”

“I was just a kid when you got out. Maybe you don’t remember. I’m Hammond Lammockson.”

Gary immediately saw the likeness to Nathan, which had been pricking his memory. He even spoke with a trace of his father’s London accent. “Wow. Yes, I do remember you. What are you doing here?”

“With AxysCorp’s enemies, you mean? I guess you don’t know my father well. The game’s up for him. He will be put on trial by the newly constituted government of Qosqo.”

“Trial, huh. And what are you, a witness for the prosecution?”

Hammond’s face was resentful, angry. “I don’t know what you think of Nathan Lammockson. I don’t care. As a father he’s a disaster. He spent his life putting me down, belittling me, marginalizing me.”

Gary could imagine that.“Maybe he thought he was toughening you up.”

“Well, he succeeded.”

Gary said, “Lily Brooke, Piers Michaelmas-they’re here, they’re still alive? I’ve not been able to contact them since we came to the area.”

“Oh, yeah. Still alive. Still my father’s favorites. Whereas I’m just a passenger. He was always closer to you people than to me, you hostages.” He sneered. “Like pets.”

Gary recoiled from this man’s bitterness.“You’re his son. I remember Nathan saying that everything he did he was doing for you, you and his grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren. Yeah. You should have seen the frigid bitch he chose for me to have those grandchildren for him. Well, I failed to oblige.”

“I can’t believe you’re planning to betray him.”

“Watch me.” And he walked away, back to the Quechua group, as Ollantay began his ceremony.

Ollantay climbed up onto the coffinlike box. The murmur of conversation around him ceased.

“So we begin the end-game,” Ollantay said. “The showdown with Nathan Lammockson, and the eradication of the stain of colonialism. And it’s fitting that we make ready for the final battle here at this historic site.” He waved a hand. “This is Qoricancha, the temple of the sun-the most important place of worship in the Inca empire. Once, seven hundred sheets of gold covered the walls. The mummified bodies of emperors sat on thrones of gold and silver. Even in this patio where we stand there were golden statues of beautiful women, and llamas, trees, flowers-even golden butterflies. The Spaniards desecrated the temple, seeking only gold, caring nothing for the Incas and their gods, and they turned this stone husk into a Christian church.