The two young women wiped their eyes. Several people nearby quietly applauded.

"I…we didn't mean to embarrass you," said Satrice.

"I'm not embarrassed," said Rakkim. "I'm proud of her."

"It was a pleasure to meet you…Rakkim," said Emily.

"Later, dude," said Satrice.

Rakkim saw Sarah seated beside a white-haired man in a shabby blue suit. She waved.

"El Presidente, por favor, this is a time for patience," said Hector Morales, secretary of state for the Aztlan empire.

"Why are you sweating, Hector?" Presidente Argusto turned to Morales. "Has the Belt president agreed to turn over this hillbilly colonel, or must I take matters into my own hands?"

"Excellency," Morales purred, "this situation presents a serious challenge to President Raynaud. The Colonel is beloved by the people of the Bible Belt-"

"Enough." Argusto strolled to the window of his office. Through the armored glass he could see all of Tenochtitlan spread out before him, the moon gleaming across the capital. High-rises and office towers soared across the downtown area, airy confections of extruded polymers, connected by sky bridges and aerial trams. The lush gardens and ten-lane streets far below gave a feeling of imperial dignity. Dominating the city was the victory pyramid, sheathed in polished limestone brighter than the moon, an enormous structure three times the size of the Aztec pyramid of the sun. His pyramid. Half the world's supply of concrete and steel had gone into its five-year construction, along with lesser pyramids scattered across Aztlan. His enemies had accused him of bankrupting the nation, but Argusto's vision of melding the past with the present had prevailed. And silenced his enemies.

"I am just suggesting you be patient, Excellency."

"I have been patient. As you asked, Hector. I had our technicians recheck their findings. As you asked. I have even given you time to consult with the Belt president. As you asked." He stared at the triptych mural, a mosaic twenty stories high spread across three buildings: a long line of captured enemies being led into ancient Tenochtitlan while the crowd cheered and threw flowers to their own victorious warriors. "At the economic summit Tuesday, we shall formally demand that the Belt turn over to us this rogue warlord."

"Such a public demand will create a firestorm in the Belt, Excellency. They are a people filled with pride."

"Then they will swallow their pride as we were once forced to do." Argusto didn't deign to look at the diplomat, preferring to stare out at the mountains beyond the city. "Leave me, Hector. Go debate someone."

It had taken days for Argusto's technical wizards to track a coded message sent from the oil minister's limo. A message sent by his brother-in-law's killer. A message sent to a warlord in the Belt. This man, this colonel, must be brought to justice, taken to Tenochtitlan and questioned as to the reasons for his actions. Then the man's heart would be torn out, offered to the gods in expiation of his sins. It must happen soon too, already Argusto sensed a certain…lack of respect among his enemies, domestic and foreign, a delight in noting his troubles.

Last night the Chinese ambassador had shamelessly flattered him at the state dinner, regaling the table with Argusto's many accomplishments, said the only comparable figure in history was Alexander the Great-and here the ambassador smirked-a military genius who without airpower had somehow conquered the known world. Argusto had nodded at the barbed compliment, raised a glass to toast the ambassador and said if Alexander had Aztlan's airpower, the ambassador would be speaking Greek and his rectum would be inflamed from doing his diplomatic duties. The silence had been delicious.

In the darkness beyond the mountains, Argusto saw a falling star streak across the sky. He didn't make a wish. A falling star was a failed star, a cinder burning in the atmosphere, and Argusto had no interest in failure.

CHAPTER 19

Gravenholtz stood just inside Crews's office, breathing hard, eyes wide. Blood spread across his white dress shirt, ran down his jacket, but he seemed unfazed, the gunshots from Crews's men unable to penetrate the flexible armor under his skin. Ferocious-looking wounds, painful too, but not life threatening.

Crews looked at C.P. flopped on the floor, then over at the Old One. "What…what are you doing this for?"

"Those boys of yours…" The Old One's checkerboard jacket seemed to shimmer in the light from the fireplace. "Murderous scum and toothless morons. Not at all the right image for what you're about to become, Mr. Crews."

"About to become?" said Crews.

"You've come a long way in the last six months," said the Old One. "Top-rated gospel show on TV, invitations to preach at the capital…are you satisfied?"

"No."

"Of course not," said the Old One. "One thing I've learned in a very long life, Mr. Crews, is that there's never enough."

"How about you tell Gravenholtz to put C.P. down?" said Crews. "Not like he's going anywhere."

"You're fond of him, aren't you?" said the Old One. "I could see that immediately."

"Well, I don't know about fond," said Crews. "C.P.'s been with me a long time."

"Very good," said the Old One. "I appreciate loyalty. Please, put him down, Lester."

Gravenholtz dropped C.P. onto the floor, then wandered over to the desk and picked up a spool of masking tape. He tore off a strip of tape and started pinning down the flap of skin on his scalp.

C.P. slowly rolled onto his hands and knees, gasping.

"Lester," said the Old One, "if you wouldn't mind, bring Mr. Crews one of those pistols."

"Why?" said Gravenholtz.

"Savor the mystery, Lester," said the Old One.

Baby started giggling.

"Do I amuse you, Baby?" said the Old One.

Baby nodded, still giggling.

"Mr. Crews, do you have any idea how long it's been since I've made anyone laugh?" The Old One beamed. "Let me tell you, it's a rare pleasure."

Gravenholtz handed Crews a revolver.

"Now, Mr. Crews," said the Old One, "if it's not too much to ask, I'd like you to shoot your old buddy C.P. in the head."

Crews hefted the pistol. "How about I blow your brains out?"

"Always a possibility, but I have faith in you, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "A man of your ambition, your vision…there's no way you'll throw away this opportunity."

Baby saw the pen in the Old One's hand. The same silver fountain pen he had used to spray Gravenholtz, cocooning him in aerosol polymer. The Old One might have faith but he was no fool.

C.P. looked up at Crews. "Jesus, Malcolm…what are you thinking? Kill these people-" He grunted as Gravenholtz kicked him.

The Old One turned toward the doorway.

A man leaned against the jamb, a gangly fellow, his shirt soaked with blood. One arm dangled useless, but he propped a sawed-off shotgun against his hip with his good arm. His shattered jaw gave him an obscene grin, his face swollen like a pumpkin.

"Sit down, Deekins," said Crews, "take a load off before you hurt somebody."

The man in the doorway tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't work. The shotgun wobbled in his grip as he tried to center it.

"Lester?" The Old One wagged a finger. "You said they were all dead."

Baby moved out of the line of fire.

"Do it, Deekins," said C.P., still sprawled on the floor. "Fuck you waitin' for?"

The man in the doorway fired as Gravenholtz stepped toward him, caught him in the chest; got off another shot before Gravenholtz snatched the shotgun from him.

Gravenholtz beat the man over the head with the shotgun, beat him onto the floor, flailing away at him even after his skull cracked.