Free Aztlan: The Last Sun by Michael Jan Friedman Page A

in public places, I was all for it.
    Of course, it was seldom necessary for Aztlan to provide its subjects with disaster information. That was why the screen showed me something else from the moment I set foot in the carriage—another interview program paid for by Lolco Molpilia.
    This time, I watched from the beginning.
    Molpilia and the interviewer—the same one as before—took a moment to exchange pleasantries. After all, it was Renewal time; people were supposed to speak kindly to one another. Then they got into the heart of the matter.
    “There have now been two murders,” said the commentator, “both of them on your properties. A coincidence, you think?”
    “Hardly,” said Molpilia.
    “You sound pretty certain.”
    “It’s a shame,” said the developer, “when someone does his best to erect large, handsome pyramids worthy of the gods’ blessings and someone else sees fit to desecrate them. It’s even more of a shame when that same someone is responsible for both acts of desecration.”
    “Desecration,” the commentator repeated. “You think that’s the murderer’s motivation?”
    “I leave that in the hands of the police to prove or disprove,” said Molpilia. “But under the circumstances, it’s difficult to come to any other conclusion.”
    “And you still think the Ancient Light cultists are the ones responsible?”
    “I’ve never said that,” said Molpilia. He turned to the camera. “But I think I speak for your viewers when I say that some conclusions are inevitable.”
    Not to all of us, I thought.
    Molpilia’s program had finished and started a second time before I reached my stop. As I stood up, I looked around at the other passengers. They seemed enthralled by what the developer had to say.
    But then, Molpilia had learned somewhere how to work an audience. Beans could do that.
    When I got back to my office, there was a message waiting for me. It was from High Priest Itzcoatl. He wanted me to call him back.
    I did so.
    One of his attendants answered, then connected me with the High Priest. A moment later, I heard his voice. “Colhua?”
    I assumed that he was looking for news regarding the murders—two of them now. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything to tell him.
    “Gods favor you, High Priest,” I said.
    “And you.”
    “I wish I could say I’ve made progress since you and I spoke, but I can’t. The investigation is going slowly.”
    “That is too bad,” said Itzcoatl. “But I have faith in you, Colhua. You will find the murderer. It is only a matter of time.”
    I wished I was as confident as he was.
    “There is something else,” said the High Priest.
    I wondered what that could be.
    “I want you to know,” he said, “that I remember your father. It took me a little while to place him, but I remember now. And I remember how he perished, sacrificing his life to save mine. He was a brave man. You must be very proud of him.”
    “I am,” I said, feeling a wave of satisfaction and relief.
    It had been a little unnerving to think my father had been forgotten by the man he died for. But, apparently, that wasn’t the case.
    Unless he was just being kind. A possibility, certainly. But my gut told me otherwise.
    “Excellent,” said Itzcoatl. “Well, as I said . . . I just wanted you to know.”
    “Thank you, High Priest.”
    “Feel the gods’ blessings, Colhua.”
    And he ended the connection.
    I sat back in my chair and felt better than I had since I left the ball court the night before. Better than I had in a long time, in fact.
    I loved my father.
    It was from him that I got my love of the ball court. It was because of him and his understanding of the game that I eventually came to prosper in the Arena and make a name for myself there. And when that bastard Acama kicked me in the knee and ended my career between the stone walls, it was my father’s reputation that got me a position with the Emperor’s police force.
    I was glad that someone else remembered