For the rest of that night and very early the following morning, he wandered the city, seemingly at random. In reality, he knew exactly where he was going. He made twenty-two stops. At each he deposited a small, hand-drawn map with an X on it into an old coffee can whose faded and scratched trademark said “Maxwell House.” Each can, with a rock on top of it, was set at the base of an innocuous wall and covered in dirt so as not to be noticed. It was just one more discarded piece of trash littering the city. He left each one camouflaged as he’d found it.
The leaders also knew what to do. The oldest was nineteen, the youngest fifteen. But he’d chosen each of the twenty-two captains for their stellar qualities. Intelligence, stamina, determination, dedication. He’d trained his troops well. He headed back to his small apartment to pray and prepare for what was to happen.
He was like any general on the eve of a battle for which he’d spent years preparing. Beset by a series of conflicting emotions and sensations, he felt excitement, certainty, and anticipation followed by worry, caution, and dread. These young boys and girls, who were not yet fully grown, trusted him with their lives.
That simple cross, hand carved from a tree branch and hanging from a nail on the wall with the rough-hewn figure of Christ forever in limbo, draped with a swath of cloth, seemingly in torment and at peace all at the same time—is this what the Father felt? He wasn’t delusional. He knew what he was doing. He had no illusions that he was Christlike or that it was his burden to free these people from their yoke. And yet wasn’t he doing just that? Hadn’t he prepared this battle? Wasn’t their cause righteous?
He knelt on the floor, stared up at the cross, and prayed that the children he was using as soldiers would be successful, would survive, would triumph and forge a new path for the city. He stayed on his knees for a long time that night. And as the night wore on toward morning and the cries of “Niko” hadn’t abated, he knew that soon the coffee cans would be unearthed, and after destroying every paper scrap he’d left for them, his group leaders would follow their instructions.
From the bottom of the bashed-up dumpster, Niko also heard his name shouted throughout the day. At times he thought it would cease. In fact, it did stop from time to time. But then it began again with more fervor, more voices, a more elaborate chanting.
When the sun lowered enough that the alley was in shadow, he managed to nod off for a few minutes here and there. Finally, dusk gathered across the city, bringing a soft light. But the cries did not stop. And as dusk faded to semi-dark, the sounds of the city took on a more strident tone and Niko heard motorcycle-riding Detainers roar through streets not too far away. He knew he couldn’t stay where he was forever, so it was time to find Father Ignatius.
He stood up and stretched before peeking over the dumpster rim. With no one around and no noises he could detect nearby, he hoisted himself up and jumped down to the dirt alley. It was narrower than a street, so he figured it used to be some sort of service way for the buildings on either side. These extended far back to where the alley dead-ended at the back of another building facing the next street over.
Niko had a strong urge, so he relieved himself behind the dumpster at one corner and quickly zipped up his pants. He noticed they were stained with dried blood. A flood of memory returned, and he shivered in the dank, breezeless night air. What if he couldn’t find Father Ignatius? Or if it turned out he wouldn’t help Niko? He shook off such thoughts. No sense making an alternate plan until he knew the first one was a dud. He inched toward the sidewalk and out of the alley, looked around, saw nothing of note, and walked quickly to the warehouse Gruen had pointed out.
Seeing boards across the front door and no windows, he skirted the building to the fence with the gaping hole. He peeked around to the back and then squeezed his way through the fence.
Once inside the lot, he spotted an old, scratched, and dented metal door with a padlock. He was sure he could bust it with a big rock, but that would make noise and could draw attention if anyone happened to be nearby. He knew the Detainers patrolled methodically, street by street, building by building. He also knew how easy they were to bribe because while Villinkash kept the people at the top happy with graft, it didn’t always flow downward, so many of the foot soldiers stayed hungry. Anyway, he had no barter on him.
Just as he turned to look for something to pry the lock off, he heard the fence jangle slightly. Every hair on his body tensed. He spun, ready to kill if need be, and searched the ground for some sort of weapon to give him an edge.
Father Ignatius didn’t see him right away. He walked calmly toward the door, but when he was about twenty feet away, he noticed someone standing in the dark not far from the door. He stopped, thinking it was one his leaders. His mind raced. Which one? Was there a problem? Had someone been caught? Had someone turned on them? No, that wasn’t possible. He knew them all too well.
He approached the shadowy figure slowly, his hands at his sides. Certainly he could fight anyone. But he didn’t want to, hadn’t needed to since he’d stopped training, wouldn’t hurt another person except in self-defense, if even then.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly, in a nonconfrontational way, and then added, “Do you need help?”
Niko stepped away from the wall into the dim, ambient light from the street. Father Ignatius recognized him right away but also noticed the cut on his face.
“Can you help me?” Niko came closer.
Father Ignatius reached into his pocket and pulled out a key chain.
“Follow me,” he said, and unlocked the padlock. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for Niko to precede him as he swung the old door open for them to pass.
A few feet inside the door there was a second door, which the Father unlocked after closing the outside door. It was pitch dark inside the warehouse, which had no windows. And the double door assured that once the inside light was on, it wasn’t visible outside the warehouse. He opened the second door and led Niko by the arm inside before closing off the second door with a tight thud. Then he switched on the light.
What appeared in front of them stunned Niko.
“Infinius,” he whispered, and simply stared at the replica of the city. Every building and street, even all the dirt alleys that led nowhere. Lampposts and InCom stations, the park where he had met Miriam, even the bench they had sat on. And The Compound with its lake and wall and guard stations. Looking at it now, from above, Niko was astounded that he’d managed to get away at all.
Constructed on top of a large wooden base, he could see each detail from a standing position and walk around the entire city to study it from every angle. And this he did, inspecting it carefully, noting The Hovels and the dirt fields and then The Perimeters, barriers, bridges, and tramways that ran through the city on tracks. They all showed on this miniature Infinius.
“How did you do this?” he asked without looking around. It was so intricate, so exact. How could anyone make such a thing?
“Niko,” the Father said, “we have to talk about what happens next.”
“I know. But first, there’re two things missing from your little city here.”
While the thuggish Wilder ordered his Detainers to fan out through the city, Huston retired to his quarters to think.
Right now it was important to control the search efforts. But he was also concerned that Villinkash had to be managed properly. He had to get the Premier over the InCom, had to show that he was in control. But how? How could he make it seem as if Niko was one of them but, at the same time, someone to rally behind for the people?
He rang a bell under the desk he used when working from this apartment. He had a lovely view from the other side of the lake. He could watch peacocks strut the grounds and deer loll under the shade of tall trees.
A knock at the door roused him. He pushed a buzzer. The door opened, and a tall woman Huston had taken out of one of the brothels entered wearing a kimono and tall spike heels with little pom-poms over the toes. She shut the do
or noiselessly behind her and seemed to float over to the desk. There was about her an air of certainty and serenity incongruous in this environment. She rested the fingers of her right hand lightly on his shoulder, and he immediately relaxed.
“You rang, sir?”
“It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“Yes. I can feel your tension.”
Huston sighed and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes. “Are you still as beautiful as the first time we met? I can picture it as if it happened yesterday.”
“None of us are the same.”
“You’re always right. I think that’s what drew me to you.”
“What do you need now?”
Huston sighed again, a deeper sigh. He straightened up, then hunched over the desk, his head resting in his hands, his elbows on the desktop. “I wish I knew. A thorny puzzle. Everything happened too fast. Didn’t plan on this.”
“You think too much,” she said. “Always planning and scheming. Ever since we met.”
“How else would I have gotten where I am? Look where I started. A nobody. And now look at me: second to the most powerful man in the city. With connections far beyond here. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be sitting in a jail cell trading for smokes. And he knows it, knows what I know. What records I have. And the connections I’ve made for him so he can expand his power after Infinius. And now this. Just when I thought it was all sewn up.”
“You’re too tense. You need to loosen up.”
“I’ve got to figure this out. Where is that kid? Where could he possibly hide in this city? And the girl. She can’t get far. We’ll have her face plastered on every InCom. She’d be better off turning herself in to me personally than to let the Detainers get hold of her.”
“Stop thinking about it, about her. I’m here, you know.”
She had stopped massaging his back. She ran her fingernails up and down the back of his neck. He reached back and grabbed her left hand and pulled it to his mouth. She let him insert her finger between his lips.
“Now, are you ready?” she asked.
“Not here. Let’s go to the library.”
He rose from the chair and, still holding her fingers in his, led her to a short hallway and another door that opened to a sort of study room lined in bookshelves. All the books were histories or biographies of leaders from the past. Leaders as far back as the Chinese dynasties and the Egyptians. There were the Roman emperors and the Greeks. The Hebrews and Assyrians. Even the Inca and Mayan cultures were represented in numerous volumes.
There was a leather couch with plump cushions, a reading chair with a side table, a deep-pile rug, and a bar loaded with glasses and bottles of all kinds. He kicked the door closed and turned to her.
“Cassandra,” he said, his hand around her neck, his fingertips and thumb feeling the pulse of blood flowing through her carotid arteries.
Her kimono slid to the floor as his fingers tightened and she gasped for air.
Part Three
The Perimeter
Father Ignatius took in Niko’s rumpled clothes and slashed cheek. What could this boy know? In his years of planning and preparation, was it possible the Father had overlooked something? Could he trust Niko, who had put his own life in the Father’s hands? The reward alone would be worth handing him over. Surely that showed something. These thoughts racing through his mind led to a conclusion that trust was like risk. Sometimes you had to take the leap. Niko had done it. Now it was his turn.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“It’s very impressive, what you’ve built here. I don’t know how you plan to use it, but it only shows what’s on the ground.”
“And what else is there?”
“What’s underground. And what’s wired in.”
“I see.” Father Ignatius approached the table with the model. “And do you know anything about those missing links?”
“I do. But before I tell you what I know . . .”
“You want me to tell you what I know?”
Niko nodded and came to the table. He pointed to The Perimeters. “Do you think it’s possible to get beyond them? Without getting killed, I mean.”
“I think it’s possible if the Detainers and guards are otherwise occupied.”
Niko whistled softly. “So that’s what you’re up to. How many are you planning on getting through?”
Father Ignatius looked up from the table and stared straight at Niko for a long moment. In a way, his hope was like a prayer. You never knew about people, about just what they’d do under pressure. Finally he said, “Just two.”
“How will you choose them?”
“They’re already chosen.”
Niko looked at Father Ignatius with a mixture of hope and caution.
“That’s right, Niko. You are one.”
“Why me?”
“Because of what you did after The Race and what it meant to the people. You’ve heard them shouting. You’ve seen the graffiti. They’ve never been more ready. There’s never been a more incendiary situation. Right now, the whole city’s one big ammunition pile ready for a match.”
“You said two.”
“You know who the other is, Niko. You made that decision. Now it’s too dangerous for either of you to stay.”
Niko shook his head and leaned forward, his hands on the edge of the table. He bowed his head and shook it from side to side slowly.
“She’ll never go with me. Never.”
“I think she will.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“Yes, Niko, I do. And I say she will go.”
Niko turned his head sideways to study the Father.
“She told you?”
“Let’s just say I know how troubled you both are. And that the only way forward for each of you is to get away. I don’t know for how long. You can’t be around for what’s going to happen. But later . . . later, the city will need you again. To heal. To find a new way. If everything works out the way we hope it will, that is.”
“And what if it doesn’t? What’s your plan then?”
“I think it’s better for us to make our plans as solid as possible right now. It won’t do any of us any good to look too far down the road. So show me what’s missing on this model of Infinius. And where.”
At that moment they heard a commotion out in the street. Father Ignatius put a finger to his lips and moved to the front of the warehouse to stand with his head pressed sideways against the wall to hear what was happening.
“What is it?” Niko kept his voice low, standing next to the Father.
“It’s beginning. Staged street fights to draw off the Detainers. Come, I’ll show you on the model what will happen.”
In The Compound, Villinkash called an emergency meeting of the Overseers. Usually when he called such a meeting, it was more of a dressing-down than anything urgent. Ever since The Collapse and The Cleanse, Villinkash had made damn sure the Regime ran as smoothly as a high-performance machine.
Now that Niko had thrown a rock into the gears of this government, that machine was failing.
Villinkash couldn’t fully grasp how one punk upstart could be a serious threat to his powerful Regime. So he fumed at his people gathered around the big conference table in the high-ceilinged glass room, while beyond the Compound walls, cracks in the system popped up like mushrooms after a heavy rain.
It was a further irony that the scuffles starting in the streets were not shown on the controlled broadcasts of the InCom screens. Instead they still broadcast the glories of the Regime. Every once in a while, Niko’s face appeared with dire warnings of treason and the offer of a reward for capture. Soon an army of disenfranchised people who had nothing left to lose would look on these very screens as objects on which to vent their wrath.
Also there was a growing sense among the Overseers of something not quite right. They had begun to perceive a steady, if slow, deterioration of the Premier’s mental state. It had happened so imperceptib
ly that to most it was nothing more than a series of quirks. And those who had witnessed his decline were unwilling to acknowledge it. If he failed, where would they all be? They who had benefitted the most from his rise to power. They who had grown rich, who were protected, whose families lived in untold luxury and who controlled all the wealth of the mechanisms within the city and access to the natural resources beyond it.
So they blindly followed along with whatever Villinkash commanded. If they had questioned his ability to lead, they might find themselves under suspicion. Cleansing could be applied to anyone, if ordered. Thus, year after year, they accommodated themselves to his whims, made excuses for his memory lapses, failed to acknowledge his absentminded lip smacking or the phrases he repeated (or his obsessive reminiscing about past triumphs or his seeming inability to speak truth even to them). It was as if his internal program had gone awry, saying one thing one day and claiming the opposite the next.
Such changes seemed to be advancing more rapidly. Huston noticed them all. He made sure to keep meticulous notes for later reference. Yet no one was more solicitous of Villinkash, more devoted, more vigorous in his defense, nor more ready to carry out any program he initiated, no matter how brutal. In fact, it was Huston who had first proposed The Race, while crediting Villinkash with the concept the second it had been adopted.
There were other instances when Huston had maneuvered Villinkash into a successful position that further cemented his power. The Premier had one quality that was useful to all his subordinates: he could sway people to his will. He was like every charismatic autocrat. He knew the art of manipulation. It was embedded in his bones, enmeshed in his speech, entwined in his gestures. He was a hypnotic speaker, and before the public knew what had happened to them, he had enslaved them. Except for a few. Except for the children.
Now, as he pounded his fist on the table and railed at them about controlling the people, Huston, who now had the double role of Protector and Overseer, sat quietly by his side.
A Place Called Zamora Page 15