by David Bowles
Chuy was obviously irritated, but he just nodded. “Weno. Lo ke tu keras.”
“Bet your arse it’s whatever I want. Sides, you and me are the only ones with the coordinates of that imrizabu. That’s some power right there. Well, Ernesto knows, but he’s all ours. Quit worrying, tio.”
Chuy shrugged. “You said something about a move.”
As the lift slowed and swiveled open onto the docking theater, Konrau nodded. “Yeah. I’m gonna be leaving Horaisan. The island is yours. Move the Arredondo family operations there. You can keep my kantõ and all the stuff inside. Transcom officials will cooperate with you fine, long as you keep all the old agreements. Handle the transactions like usual, through the Bolon Pimpon Enterprises front.”
“It’s a great honor, Konrau, and I thank you. But where you going then? Õ vã tar las apareishons de L’ermandá?”
“At Beta Pictoris. In the Urakã Nebula. That asteroid we been equipping for a fallback HQ? I’m gonna use it as our hub. I need to be away from CPCC space, get a better perspective on operations.”
Of course, there was more to his move than that, but Chuy couldn’t be allowed to know those details.
“You gonna let the kabesas know?”
“Soon enough, yes.”
Walking through the ornate docking theater past the dozens of berthed ships, Konrau and his great uncle, who was dumbfounded at the sudden changes, worked out some of the details as bodyguards and corporate security trailed them meters behind. Finally, they reached the heavily guarded airlock that led to the narthex connecting Konrau’s private junk and the orbital guest center. Chuy and Konrau embraced formally, and the older man was escorted away toward his own ship. Konrau gazed at Chuy’s retreating back and praised himself for the control he’d just demonstrated.
This shite is gonna work, ain’t it? Just got to keep focused, is all.
During the twenty-hour voyage back to the planet of Atlantis in the Zeta Tucanae system, Konrau kept busy, as he felt driven to do at all times, by keeping abreast of the operations throughout the Brotherhood’s many levels of influence in the CPCC, especially the status of crews in place on Jitsu. Most important, however, was his rumor campaign, geared toward drawing intelligence agencies and other syndicates off the trail of his real intentions. He deliberately produced misinformation and allowed it to be spread, a tactic that also allowed him to discover any leaks in Brotherhood hierarchy.
This campaign was what had clenched his distrust of Nestor Bos: a tidbit about Brotherhood moku-smuggling in independent systems, just a throwaway idea he’d mentioned to Nestor one day, had been repeated by a member of Al-Muzzamml, the independent spy network run by Yen Bandera. Bandera, an ancient ronin intelligence operative with his assets in nearly every important organization (including the Brotherhood, unfortunately) had been a close acquaintance of Nestor’s since the konsehero supremo had been a teen. Bandera had certainly been of help over the years, providing essential intel for an acceptable price, but the mysterious figure was not bound by honor or blood to anyone but himself. Men with no loyalties were dangerous, Konrau had come to learn. Manipulating them was nearly impossible.
So, because of this useful but dangerous relationship with an unknown factor, Nestor had no idea of the scope of Konrau's vision. That was fine. The godfather’s people obeyed him, and that was all he required. However, he realized that he’d have to confide in Nestor soon, giving him at least fragments of the truth. The old brother was partly responsible for Konrau’s position and power. Despite how irritatingly prissy and idiotic he could be, despite his tendency to give more information to outsiders than was necessary, Konrau would respect his loyalty and service fully.
As long as they served the interest of the Brotherhood, of course. The tenants of L’onda, the Brotherhood code of honor, demanded the syndicate come first. For Konrau, it always had. Always. He wasn’t as sure about Nestor, however. In addition to his loose lips, the konsehero had had no qualms about killing Konrau’s predecessor.
Better that I be cautious around the tricky gerrie. He’s gonna know the full truth when the time is right, anyways.
When the atmospheric shuttle set down at the tarmac on the Brotherhood-controlled island of Horaisan, Konrau was greeted by Nestor Bos and Ferenc Madl, Transcom’s middle-management representative on the island, a man firmly ensconced in the Brotherhood’s pockets. After discussing some of Madl’s concerns about Konrau’s move, all of which were soothed at the idea of increased smuggling privileges through the Arredondo network, the kasike excused himself and had Nestor accompany him into the ridiculously well-guarded and shielded complex that housed Brotherhood central command.
Nestor, a fifty-five-year-old Martian by birth, moved his gaunt form with an almost effeminate grace that contrasted with his stern, scarred features. Though more at ease with the exchange of intelligence and secrets, the tall, graying man was as deadly as any brother Konrau had worked with, able to kill an enemy or even a treacherous colleague without a second’s hesitation. He would have been the perfect ally, if not for his fondness for the even older Bandera.
“You heard the latest?” Nestor asked as they palmed their way past checkpoints inside the complex.
“I read all the updates you sent me on the way back from Eridani.”
“No, this is more recent than that.” Nestor seemed to cringe a little before continuing, as though he didn’t relish the reaction he thought he’d get. “It’s bout the Aztlan Angels. They got a new padrino: knocked Nunyes out, put that golden boy Jimi Andrade in his place.”
Konrau’s breath quickened, but he tried to show nonchalance. “And? With a little squink like that at their head, the Angels are gonna be even easier to edge out.”
Nestor peered at him through narrowed eyes. “Konrau, this kid’s gunning for your arse. You killed his pa, and—”
Konrau whirled about, unable to bear it anymore. “What? Just say it, pendeho. His sister. You think I give a fuck bout her? You think you got to use low thrust around the fucking issue? I am Konrau Beserra, Nestor. Fucking kasike of the Brotherhood. Some bitch iha d’anhel don’t mean shite to me.”
Konrau turned and kept on toward his office, feeling Nestor take another route, as if to give the kasike some breathing room. He was good at disappearing when Konrau needed him to, that much was for sure. Grunting at the guards and aides who were busily taking care of the administrative side of the syndicate’s operations, Konrau reached and palmed open the enormous steel doors of his executive suite.
His expansive office, with its hardwood floors and leather furniture, seemed oppressively small despite covering more than a hundred square meters. He longed for space, for kilometers of nothing on every side, the black of space above him. This claustrophobia was one reason for the Brotherhood’s impending move to the more strategically located and historically significant Urakã Nebula, the misnamed dust disk around Beta Pictoris where centuries ago a Brotherhood boss had given his life to keep the Aztlan Angels from taking over extrasolar space.
Konrau had done what he could to destroy the Angels, once part of the Brotherhood many centuries ago. As a young foot soldier in the cramped corridors of Tenochtitlan platform, he had slain that syndicate’s boss, Bruno Andrade. Now, thirteen years later, he was head of the Brotherhood and well on his way to finally obtaining the two things he most wanted out of life: absolute power and nobody near him.
Except her, maybe.
“That's ridiculous,” he said aloud, to the mute phantasm of the past that no amount of destruction he unleashed on the universe seemed able to exorcise. “I'm not a gormless punk who thinks with his prick anymore. She's dead, dead for thirteen years; she doesn’t mean a thing to me!”
A poko. A sudden pain seized his left temple, his cloned eye throbbing madly, shooting spasms of agony through his brain. He fell to one knee, clutching blindly at his head. As he struggled to focus on the desk, the floor, anything to regain his sense of balance, he saw her body there, before h
im, broken, bleeding, killed by his own hand.
NO! It was her pa that killed her!
But how could you say such a lie? Why, Konrau? It was self-same you.
He thought he could use her against me, as if I was some novice squink with no honor. I saw him there, gun at her head, threatening to kill her if I didn’t leave. As if the Brotherhood wasn’t more important to me than some fem.
He had no choice. You made him to think that.
He had no choice? Shot me in the head, right in front of her. Left me on the slidewalk in a pool of my own blood. I had no choice? He deserved to die!
But she deserved to live, Konrau, ain’t it? That's the dilemma.
The door slid open, and Nestor hurried in.
“Kasike! You okay?” He helped Konrau to his feet.
“Damn implant, bato. I tell you, fucking thing hurts!”
“You been saying that for years, Konrau, i naa. Doctor says it's psychosomatic.”
“Psychosomatic my natches! Let me gat that fucker in the eye, see how he feels later on, puto hosupin.”
Even through his bleary eyes, Konrau could see how Nestor tried not to smile at the crack in his boss’s normally impeccable self-control. But he knew from experience that amusement wasn’t the only emotion the older yegster felt when he saw Beserra this way: he also counted himself honored to be the only person privileged with so much of the kasike’s trust. It was an irony that bit at Konrau despite his cold veneer.
“Kalmate, ermano. Here, take a snort.”
In a couple of seconds, the drug kicked in and the spasms of pain subsided to a dull ache. Nestor led Konrau to the plush leather couch against the spaceside wall.
“Kwestate,” Nestor instructed firmly.
“No, wait. We got business to attend to. Listen. Call Chago, tell him to prepare his boys. One week. The fair. I want them to strike, to strike hard. We need to kick this mother into action, got it?”
“Konrau, I still say...”
“With respect, fuck what you say. We’ve survived seven hundred years by being flexible, changing when we needed to. The interstellar corporations are on their way out, like the dinosaurs. Holing drives have opened the universe up. There’ll be even more colonizing, and we're going to be there from the beginning. New base, new face. Jitsu's our trial run. Don't fuck it up, Nestor.”
The moku began to numb his mind, and the twinge of guilt he felt at his deception of the older brother slowly began to fade, along with all other emotion.
“Pa naa, Kasike.”
“And tell that sneaky pocho bastard he better kick me up a twenty-five percent give on those offerings he dumped, less he prefers to pay digital.”
Konrau weakly waved the fingers of one hand to clarify his meaning.
As Nestor left to arrange the hit, Konrau sank into the sofa and let the drug pull him down into oblivion. He hated using, but at least this way he wouldn't have to see Jeini’s broken body everywhere, accusing him silently.
The sound of his weapon, echoing in his memories, would be stilled.
And for a while, he could imagine that all was well.
CHAPTER 10
All week Brando practiced, his fingertips blistering as they reaccustomed themselves to the regimen, his throat sore till he finally accepted the change in his voice and began playing in a different key.
Late Thursday afternoon, Modupe popped his head through the door to Brando’s bedroom, smiling.
“Sounds good, mate! Solid strumming, fluid and syncopated. And your voice is very soothing. Nice, gentle baritone.”
“Thanks, old man. But I’m trying to get Tenshi Koroma’s attention, not yours,” Brando joked. Despite the compliment and their banter, he still felt inadequate.
On Friday afternoon, he polished the guitar's cherry neck with its silver frets to a pleasing luster, restrung the guitar with a lighter gauge of string, and searched on-line for a classy outfit, which he had delivered that evening.
Though he wanted to impress Tenshi, he had no idea how. He could dress well, try to accentuate whatever physical attributes she might find attractive. But she wasn't like the various models, writers and programmers he'd dated in Milan, certainly not like that airhead Ayanna. He wouldn't be able to dazzle her with flash.
Maybe with ability.
Saturday morning, he arrived at the fairgrounds, which were going up at the edge of the Mashkanu prefecture, about thirty minutes from the administrative district that contained Juresh and the university. It took him a moment to catch his breath: completed, Tenshi's complex of buildings appeared to be a single living organism extracted from some hidden dimension, flowing incomprehensibly but beautifully about him. The colors, shapes, textures all came together to transport the viewer to another plane: gnosis realized in concrete, stone, glass and steel.
He noticed a group of uniformed men dispersing throughout the compound, presumably members of Jitsu's Civil Security, on hand to prevent any violence. By all accounts, they were unprepared for such contingencies, but the massacre of two weeks ago necessitated their presence. Brando hoped they'd hang back, not make themselves an intrusion while at the same time being prepared to step in should something happen.
For Tenshi's sake, if for nothing else, he wanted everything to go off without a hitch.
The other participants were beginning to arrive as well. Modupe had already been there for some time, Brando discovered as he approached the pavilion where they'd be performing. He and his compatriots were in the middle of their routine, and despite the older professor's earlier protestations, he wasn't half-bad. After their dance, Modupe stepped down and greeted him.
“So, what'd you think?”
“Your old bones will probably hold up, mate. Just don't try and make a career out of it.”
“Let me introduce you the others.” He gestured to the two women and three men stepping down from the platform. “Anasi and Sadiku,” the women, twins apparently, smiled warmly, “Plus Obiako, Akin and Odun. Great drinkers and dancers all.”
Brando shook all their hands in turn. Like Modupe, the five were natives of New Nigeria, a moon orbiting Feututea in the Centauri B system, each slender and tall. They gave him warm smiles and firm, friendly nods.
“Why are yall here so early?”
“We're second.” Anasi, or maybe it was Sadiku, gestured at a large holographic display next to the pavilion. “The roster's over there if you want to take a look.”
He excused himself, promising to join them for lunch after the practice run-through. He soon found his name on the display, bracketed by a New Meccan dance routine and a comedian from Titan. Great. Actually, it wasn’t bad. No musical competition immediately before or after to be compared to.
The day went by swiftly, with most of the acts practicing and getting their sound mixes set to everyone's satisfaction. He and Modupe shared a lunch of spiced fruits and fried shredded beef with the other dancers and a handful of colleagues who were also performing. At about 1 pm, people began to arrive, booths were opened throughout, and the fair got underway.
Close to 3:30 people began to drift toward the pavilion. Bleachers rose out of the ground, and everyone found a place to sit, though some had to make do with a cushion on the granite slabs that served as a floor. At about four o’clock, Shuku Kikwete, the Speaker of the Chamber of Deputies, stepped onto the platform and motioned everyone to silence. Before him, a holographic projector base hummed to life, and a miniature of the Eta Cassiopeiae 2 system shimmered into existence above their heads.
“Citizens of Jitsu and esteemed visitors, Pathwalkers and brothers of other faiths, welcome to a celebration of 150 years since this planet's colonization by Soltec Industries in 2533, the first corporate possession of a world, the first planet outside of the Solar system to ever sustain human life.”
The hologram zoomed toward Higante, Jitsu’s sun, past the icy desolation of Banken and the pink swirls of Kurishto. In seconds, Jitsu rotated with stately calm above the crowd. Brando re
flected bemusedly that quite a few people would challenge Kikwete’s claims about Jitsu: Dhara, the principal world in the Rigil Kentaurus system, had held a largish human population of terraformers for several years before Jitsu was settled.
“Jitsu was found by what it seemed an accident: a rift in the very fabric of false space shot Mother Domina here, where she lived for almost two years, writing her gnosis-bequeathing journals until she was at the end translated. Too late to keep her fleshly prison alive so she could enlighten us more, the Centauri Imrizabu, the ‘Conduit,’ was discovered. Humans came to Jitsu, but all they found was her bones and the Journals.”
The holographic image now showed a stern, dark-headed man kneeling beside a sun-bleached skeleton, picking up a data pad. Many Neogs present bowed their heads for a moment. Brando, who had read over Jitsu’s history on the voyage from Earth, now recalled some details of Domina Ditis’ unfortunate and tragic life: her uncle, a vile criminal named Zamilan something, had abused her for years. When the psychopath’s ship had been pulled through the Centauri Rift, it had crashed on Jitsu. No one was really sure what happened in the two years that had transpired before the infamous Dédalo Mostrenco found the Conduit, but when he arrived at the planet, the only remains he’d discovered had been Domina’s.
“Rather than sanctify the world, they decided to exploit it. The imrizabu led here, so it made sense to Soltec for them create a stopover on this planet. Ships coming through the Conduit suffered significant structural damage, required repairs before moving outward. It made sense to set up repair platforms in orbit, mine the planet for raw material. But colonizing Jitsu, that was a massive undertaking.”
An understatement, reflected Brando. Some five hundred thousand employees had been transferred to the world from Jovian platforms, from the Belt, from Soltec’s headquarters on Mars, and from Dhara. It had been the most populous exodus in all of human history.
Speaker Kikwete continued, “Dédalo Mostrenco, the Discoverer of the Journals, was the company president then, and he called it Ares, because it reminded him of Mars. In a disgraceful show of perversity, rather than use the planet right, they strip-mined it till Soltec got everything it wanted and moved on to other business.”