Ruins by Kevin Anderson Page A

movement built to its crescendo, Xavier Salida walked back into his withdrawing room.
    He took another sip of the wine, rolling the taste in his mouth, identifying the nuances he had been taught about. He sniffed the "bouquet," judging the

    "dryness," appreciating the "finish."
    In private, however, Salida allowed himself to long for the days when he could sit back with his local com-padres, drink too much tequila, laugh out loud, and sing raucous songs. That was in the past ... he was beyond such things now. He had become a powerful man.
    He paused to inspect his magnificent private collec-tion of historical artifacts, pre-Colombian objects any museum would have been proud to own. But these items would never appear in any dusty display cases, because they belonged to him and him alone.
    He saw the delicate, translucent green sculptures of jade, the writhing, otherworldly forms of the feathered serpent companions of Kukulkan, a small stone figure of the great god of wisdom himself. Salida collected pots and carvings from all Central American peoples, the Toltec, the Olmec, as well as the Maya, and later the Aztec. He made a point of glancing at the engraved label on each artifact, refreshing his memory to make sure that he recalled every name and every detail exactly. It wouldn't do to embarrass himself in polite conversation by not knowing the items in his own collection!
    Finally, like a boy creeping forward at dawn on Christmas morning, Salida went over to his new prize, the amazing crystalline artifact Fernando Victorio Aguilar had brought to him from the ruins of Xitaclan. He already knew he must place this item in a protective glass case, displaying it but never allowing other visitors or any of the servants to touch it. It must be valuable.
    Setting his glass of wine next to the shimmering transparent box, Salida reached out with both hands, one on either side, gently touching its slick, cold surface with his manicured fingertips.
    Because of all the distractions and headaches caused by Pieter Grobe, he had not been able to spare the time to admire his new prize for the past two days—but now he would reward himself. With Grobe appropriately pun-ished, and the rest of Salida's operation running smoothly, now he could stare at the strange Maya box with a childlike sense of wonder. His fingers touched some of the finely detailed glyphs that had been etched into its diamond-hard surface.
    He touched one of the sliding squares, and it moved as if gliding on a pool of oil.
    The relic hummed.
    Startled, Salida drew away, felt the deep cold tin-gling on his fingertips.
    But then he bent over again, pressing his hands, feeling the faint vibrations within the artifact. The inner tremors seemed to be gaining strength, building in power.
    Salida laughed in amazement. In the back of his head, somewhere beyond the range of his hearing, he sensed a high-pitched sound, a throbbing noise that eluded him as he tried to concentrate on it.
    Outside, in the fenced-in kennels, his prized Dobermans set up a howl in unison, barking and baying. The peacocks in the courtyard squawked and shrieked.
    Salida hurried over to the balcony and looked out. One of the guards had switched on the mercury lamp to spill white light out into the courtyard. Two other guards strode out with rifles leveled at the shadows. Salida scanned the area within his walled enclosure, expecting to see the flitting shadow of a jaguar or an ocelot, some nighttime preda-tor that had dared to cross the fence for a meal of peacock. The dogs continued to bark—but Salida saw nothing.
    "Silencio!" he hollered out into the night, and then turned back to the drawing room—astonished to see that the crystalline ancient box now glowed with a silvery light.
    As he bent over the shimmering box, the humming turned into a clear vibration.
    The diamond-like walls throbbed and pulsed. The bone-chilling cold had van-ished from the oily surface, which now radiated a prick-ling warmth, a