Free Aztlan: The Last Sun by Michael Jan Friedman

Takun.
    Izel glanced at him. “What do you mean? You don’t believe it?”
    “How do I know?” Takun asked. “I wasn’t there.”
    “Speaking of Euro alliances,” said Izel, “I saw a funny story on the Mirror. In the first Euro War, Italy got itself screwed up. How did it go again?”
    “I don’t know,” said Takun. “You’re the one telling the story.”
    “Oh yeah,” said Izel. “I remember now. After the war started, Italy geared up to fight. It got all its planes and boats and armored carriages together, all its soldiers, preparing an offensive that would have knocked out its enemy in no time and carried the day for its allies—until it realized it had allies on both sides. Imagine—in order for the Italians to honor their agreements, they would have to go to war with themselves !”
    “I never heard that one,” said Quetzalli.
    “It’s true,” Izel said earnestly. “You can look it up.”
    I had a feeling that I wouldn’t find that story anywhere, no matter how hard I looked. But I didn’t tell Izel that. Takun was giving him a hard enough time as it was.
    “And this armistice between France and Germany,” I said, “how long will it last?”
    “How long does it ever last?” asked Quetzalli.
    They laughed again. I almost laughed too.
    I could have stayed and listened to them all morning. As I said, I liked the banter. But I had a couple of murders to solve.
    When I got downstairs, I stuck my head into Necalli’s office. “Nothing from surveillance,” I reported.
    “I know.” He gestured for me to come in. “I want to introduce you to somebody.”
    “Who’s that?” I asked.
    “Our victim.”
    I came round his desk and read the file on his monitor. The guy’s name was Zuma Mazatl. As we had guessed, he was far from homeless. In fact, he had a very nice home in a pyramid overlooking a canal in District Fifteen.
    “A slave broker,” I said, reading further.
    I had never had much use for slave brokers. Not that they were doing anything illegal, in most cases. The idea of buying and selling people just rubbed me the wrong way.
    “No mate,” I continued. “No children on record. No living siblings. Looks like the Empire’s going to get a windfall.”
    That was how it worked when somebody died without family. The Emperor got all his worldly goods.
    “Looks that way,” said Necalli. “Get out to District Fifteen and talk with the guy’s neighbors. See if they know anybody who would want to murder him and pluck out his heart.”
    “Done,” I said.
    We both knew it wasn’t a personal matter that had gotten Mazatl killed. But maybe he and Patli had had something in common. Talking to Mazatl’s neighbors might bring that something to light.
    Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that way. I spent a couple of hours talking with Mazatl’s neighbors, but I couldn’t establish any obvious connection between Patli and Mazatl. I did learn, on the other hand, that the woman who lived next door to Mazatl had a niece who could cook the daylights out of chicken mixiotes , and that she would be only too happy to meet a nice young man like me.
    Even if I had been beaten up recently. Apparently, that wasn’t a deal-breaker.
    • • •
    The rail carriage I took back to the Interrogation Center was equipped with a two-sided Mirror screen, which hung from the ceiling and ran the long axis of the train. It was new, a test model, intended to provide passengers with critical information in the event of a disaster like the one in Tehuantepec.
    Supposedly, any city in Mexica could have been shaken by an earthquake of such magnitude, though none had been so afflicted in all of recorded history. And, under the same life-threatening conditions, any population could have panicked the way the people did in Tehuantepec, or so the experts insisted.
    There was no good way to die, but getting trampled under the feet of a terrified mob seemed pretty bad. So if the Emperor wanted to install Mirror screens