Age of Aztec by James Lovegrove

shift eventually.”
    “Well, perhaps. Or perhaps, if you’re really fortunate, a microbial infection will come along and wipe out all Aztecs, as it did the Martians in Wells’s novel. A somewhat unconvincing conclusion, I’ve always thought. It suggests the author was dredging up hope where he himself felt none. Nevertheless, my proposal to you is this. Come with us to Anahuac. Work alongside us. We have a plan of action that will finish the Empire, and we’d like your assistance is implementing it.”
    “Go on, then,” said Stuart. “What is it? What’s the big idea?”
    “Simple. Kill the Great Speaker.”
     
     
    S TUART WAS SILENT for a full minute.
    Then, shaking his head, he whistled softly and said, “You’re crazy.”
    “Am I?”
    “It’s not possible. Can’t be done. Tenochtitlan, the guards, the levels of security around him, not to mention his palace is stuck in the middle of a fucking great lake... Out of the question.”
    “But if it could be done, would you join us?”
    “No.”
    “You’re not even tempted? You’ve been a gadfly to the Empire, and that’s all well and good, but what if you could help be its executioner? Kill the Great Speaker, cut off the Empire’s head, and the Empire itself will surely wither and collapse.”
    “Still no. It sounds like a recipe for suicide. Pointless suicide. You’d never get anywhere near the Great Speaker. Certainly never get within striking range.”
    Chel sighed with heavy emphasis. “Then, alas, it seems I’ve had a wasted journey. Well, not entirely wasted. I’ve met the Conquistador in person, and managed to ensure that he can continue his dissidence a little while longer. That’s something.”
    He rose and held out his hand.
    “It’s been a pleasure, Mr Reston,” he said as they shook. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed by the outcome of our chat, but” – he shrugged – “win some, lose some. Oh, we still have your armour, don’t we? I know you have those other suits, but would you like it back?”
    “Yes. They don’t come cheap.”
    “Let us arrange its return. We’ll be discreet, I assure you. In the meantime, please give further consideration to what I’m suggesting. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”
    “I won’t,” said Stuart.
    “You might just,” said Chel. “I’ll see myself out.”

 

    SIX
     
     
    Same Day
     
    M AL AWOKE WITH a clanging hangover, her head throbbing as though there was a chainmailed fist inside trying to punch its way out. She made it to the bathroom just in time. Bent double over the toilet, she vomited until there seemed to be nothing left to come up but stomach lining.
    A whole bottle of pulque would do that to you.
    Trembling, her entire skeleton feeling as brittle as chalk, she fixed herself a mug of coca tea. She sat at the kitchen table, staring out of the window at the glow of yet another furnace-hot day. When the phone rang, she refused to answer it. It would be work calling. Probably Kellaway himself, full of spite and spittle. Where the hell are you, chief inspector? Drag your sorry arse down to the Yard immediately!
    Twice more in the next half hour the phone rang. The sound bored into her ears like an electric drill. She nearly picked up the receiver just to stop the pain.
    She was tempted to go back to bed, haul the covers over her head, and sleep for as long as she could. But her troubles weren’t going to magically disappear, however hard she ignored them. The fiasco at Regent’s Park had happened, and wishing it hadn’t couldn’t un happen it.
    She showered, turning the water as cold as it would go. By means of this chilly dousing and more coca tea, she wrestled the hangover into submission. By the time she was dressed, Mal had regained some semblance of normality.
    The phone rang yet again, and now she picked up. Bracing herself for the chief super at full blast, she was relieved to hear Aaronson’s voice instead.
    “Boss? Finally. It’s gone ten. Why