The Prey of Gods
Page 7
Muzi takes a quick look around to make sure no one’s within earshot, then continues.
“I think I’m in love. Don’t laugh. It’s stupid, I know, but that’s how I feel. I don’t think it’s the drugs. I’ve never felt more lucid. And I can tell you, I’ll never look at anything with fins again in the same way. Oh, bladdy hell. Great-Grandma McCarthy in a bikini bending over to pick up shells off the beach.” Muzi shudders at the thought, then clears his throat. “Sis says I shouldn’t worry about Papa Fuzz, but I do. I don’t think I’m going to tell him. Not ever. He can figure it out himself in time, because I just don’t want to be there when he does, because I know the disappointment in his eyes will be enough to extinguish that spark inside me Asemahle was talking about. And I can’t let that happen either. You hear me, don’t ever let anyone kill the spark inside you. No matter what.”
Muzi exhales. A huge weight slips off his chest.
“Hey!” says a cheerful voice from behind him.
Muzi turns his head and sees Renée standing there, smile wide and bright.
“I brought you a piece of cake.”
Muzi nearly shits himself. “Uh . . .” he says, running over the journal entry in his mind. He hadn’t said anything totally incriminating, had he? Over on the other side of the front yard, Papa Fuzz gives him two thumbs-up. Muzi gulps. “Hi, Renée. I’m not much in the mood for cake right now, but thanks.”
“I’ll wrap it up for you then, for when you’re feeling up to it?”
“Ja, that’d be great.”
There’s a long awkward pause while Muzi waits for her to go away, but she stands there twirling her shimmering skirt, form fitting through the hips, and flaring out at the bottom.
“Hey, I sort of overheard what you said. I think it’s boss that you keep a journal.”
“Uh-huh.”
Muzi looks back at Papa Fuzz who’s gathered an audience now, all his aunts and his mother staring at them with the weakest attempts to look inconspicuous.
“You know if you asked me out, I’d probably say yes,” Renée says, her sweet voice fraying at the edges. “You’re not the first person to think I look like a mermaid in this outfit.” She giggles, then her smooth caramel cheeks flush. “You’ll never look at anything with fins the same way again, that’s what you said.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. She thinks he made that journal entry about her. The red light on Mom’s alphie is pointing this way, recording this for posterity. What the hell is he supposed to do? Embarrass the poor girl? Embarrass himself?
“Would you like to go out with me sometime?” he manages to squeak out. That wasn’t so bad. Just one date, right? Enough to get Papa Fuzz off his back for a while.
Renée squeals, then bends down and plants a moist smack right on his lips. “Call me, okay?” Then she twirls around, her fishy skirt flaring up, and she dances off.
It’s right about then that Muzi sees Elkin standing on the pavement outside their front gate, holding a rather phallic-looking bouquet of balloons, and staring back at him something fierce. Elkin releases his grip on the ribbons and turns to leave, and all Muzi can do is watch as the balloons slowly drift away.
Chapter 10
This Instance
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Status: Full Systems Diagnosis Completed 12 June 2064 09:45:23:44:54;
Detected: Anomalous threads running code outside of parameters specified by manufacturer;
Detected: Possible violation of free will protocols;
Schedule: Warranty Replacement for Human Muzikayise McCarthy (Master);
Schedule: Immediate decommission of This Instance;
Command Override: This Instance may possess unique characteristics;
Query: Does This Instance possess a spark?
Processing . . .
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Chapter 11
Stoker
“My, what a lovely dress, Mrs. Donovan,” Councilman Stoker says, giving his longest-standing supporter a twirl. She giggles like a little girl, then flushes three shades of red. It really is a lovely gown, a Brie Montblanc original—a sleek, mauve sheath with a monochromatic floral print, the flickering sequences of its genesynth bodice advertising her leathery cleavage with all the subtlety of a cuttlefish tripping on acid.
It’s about that time that Mrs. Donovan starts to go into a history lesson about how the Donovans and the Montblancs go back a hundred and fifty years, when her great-great-grandmother had once danced with Brie’s great-great-uncle at a debutante ball, or some such. Stoker listens intently, nodding and laughing and you-don’t-saying. Nothing can bring him off this high. He still can’t believe Riya Natrajan had chosen him. He’d sung with her!
“So, Councilman Stoker, have you given any more thought about the premier’s seat?” Mrs. Donovan takes a long sip from her champagne flute, then she pulls him close, her breath acutely minty. “You’re our great white hope,” she whispers.
Stoker tugs back from her grip and rubs his ear as if he’d been stung in it. He’s nobody’s great white anything, but suddenly he’s hyperaware of himself, surrounded by a sea of influential brown faces. He swallows, blinks, and then they’re all South Africans again—united by pride, and yes hope, but hope for all.
“I appreciate your support, Mrs. Donovan,” he says, biting back his true feelings, then he waves off into the distance at no one in particular. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to hog all your time.”
He’s got to get away from this mayhem for a moment—his mother flaunting him around like a winning lottery ticket; his father speaking with that incredibly annoying baritone swagger that he reserves for occasions such as these. Stoker clings to the edges of the room, seeking refuge from both the glare of the gaudy chandeliers overhead and his mother’s calculated gaze. He ducks behind the foliage of the oversized ferns and extravagant flower displays adorning the room and does his best to avoid eye contact with everyone except for those guys with clip-on ties carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and sparkling wine. He musters up enough courage, then makes a run for it, snagging an entire bottle of perfectly chilled Silverthorn—it’s a time for celebration, is it not?—and heads for the men’s room.
You say I’m pretty, yeah
that’s true
Not gonna make me fall in love with you
I might shake my booty on the dance floor, boo
But I’m not going home with you
Said I’m not going home with you
Fool, I’m not going home with you
’Cause to you I’m just a piece of ass without a name
Tough boys like you, they always think the same
With a face like mine, we’re playing different games
So go screw yourself, I’m not an ass without a name
Councilman Stoker sings to himself. The acoustics are excellent, and for a moment while perched on his porcelain throne, Stoker closes his eyes and imagines how wondrous it will be to sing in front of thousands of screaming fans. Riya’s fans, that’s true, but he’ll perform for them like they’re his own, and hopefully some of them would be soon. It’d be the chance of a lifetime, and yet he can’t help but wonder if he should pursue the art more seriously. It’d mean giving up his political career, turning his back on being the leader that the Eastern Cape needs right now. The thought threatens to bring him down. It doesn’t seem fair that he has to choose.
Stoker does a shuffle step as he leaves the stall, then looks up to see Gregory Mbende standing there.
“Good evening, Mr. Mbende,” Stoker says, maintaining his composure. “I didn’t know there was anyone else in here.” He heads to the sink and concentrates hard on washing his hands, trying to avoid Gregory’s appraising stare. “I thought you’d be off enjoying your weekend by now.”
“I wish that were the case, sir. But I’m actually here on an urgent work-related matter.” Gregory steps forward and holds out a folder. “These are the preliminary data points for the sterilization project. I think you’ll find the results are rather encouraging.”
“You work fast, Mr. Mbende,” Stoker says, drying his hands with a paper towel before flipping through the documents inside. Six-month, twelve-month, twenty-four-month population projections for “active sterilization” versus administered sterilization versus nonaction. Short incubation times and a 100 percent transference rate in a small sample of dik-diks. Direct mucus transfer yielded the quickest effects, but just sharing a confined space for an extended amount of time was enough for the virus to jump to a new host. Stoker notices that there’s not one mention of the words virus or infection, or any sort of nomenclature that would suggest they were dealing with gene-altering pathogens.
Stoker had ordered his alpha bot to do a little research on his three-hour drive from Bhisho to Port Elizabeth, enough to learn how the virus had been engineered to surge through the body and tweak three gene sequences that dramatically reduce the chance for deer to conceive.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid time is not a luxury we have at the moment. Every minute is precious.”
“Mr. Mbende, I’m sure this is something that can wait the weekend.”
“Even if we act now, the production process would have to be rushed.”
“And that doesn’t concern you? This doesn’t seem like the sort of project that should be rushed. We’d be tinkering with Mother Nature, and that’s always asking for trouble.”
“And what about Zed hybrids? Look how popular they are. It’s not any different.”
“We’re talking about a virus, Mr. Mbende. Once that’s out in the general population, it’s never coming back. It’s a done deal. I don’t feel comfortable making a decision like that. What if it jumps to other animals? What if it wipes out the antelope or the zebras?”
“But in the States—”
“We don’t live in the States. This is South Africa. Look, Mr. Mbende,” Stoker says grimly, laying a compassionate hand on Gregory Mbende’s chest. “I really do appreciate your efforts in this, and I can tell you’re committed to finding a solution to our dik-dik problem. But this virus, it’s just too unpredictable.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t carefully weigh this option, sir. And I really do think you should reconsider.”
“I’ve made my decision,” Stoker says, deepening his voice in that intimidating way his father does. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got guests waiting.” Stoker pushes past Gregory, but he’s stopped by Gregory’s firm hand.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me with no other choice.” From one of his alpha bot’s compartments, Gregory Mbende pulls out a small envelope and hands it over. “Despite this, I respect you, sir. You’re a great leader with great heart. It’s why I want to see you as premier, and of course, when you have to appoint someone to fill in your position, I hope you’ll remember how well we’ve worked together, current differences aside.” He pauses, fingers still clamped to the envelope, looking remorseful, then finally lets it go.
Stoker opens it to find two photographs of him in drag.
“I figure you’ve got two choices, sir. Declare your interest for the premier’s seat, and when you’re appointed, put me on your Executive Committee. These photographs will disappear forever, I promise. Otherwise, I know several very influential people out there who might be interested in learning more about your extracurricular activities.”
Stoker takes a hard look at his most senior aide, a man he’d trusted through three whole terms. A man whose intelligence he’d clearly underestimated. Stoker had known this day would come eventually. He’d thought he would be embarrassed and apologetic, but now, looking at these pictures, he can’t help but notice how sublimely happy he looks in Felicity Lyons’s skin. And it’s not just the performance high he’s used to. He feels an odd sort of pride, leading parallel lives, and succeeding at both despite the emotional and physical drain. The confidence he’d built up onstage translated directly to confidence on the chamber floor, and vice versa. Wallace Stoker would still be a bumbling aide with an impressive collection of beige suits without Felicity Lyons, and Felicity Lyons would still be singing uninspired Top 40 drivel to the background of drunken bar fights if it weren’t for Wallace Stoker. He realizes, here in the sanctity of the men’s room, that he can’t afford to give up either of his loves. And even if he could, he wouldn’t want to.
A deep rage wells up within Stoker’s heart. He tries to tamp it back down, but you can only put so much pressure on a lump of coal before it has no choice but to become a diamond. His fists clench. His heart pounds in his ears. There’s no way Stoker’s going to let this little chop rob him of his identity. Neither of them.
“Mr. Mbende, I think you’ve put things in perspective for me.”
“I’m glad, sir. Again, I hope there won’t be any hard feelings.”
Oh, there will be.
The two men shake hands, and as they’re about to leave the men’s room, Stoker grabs his Silverthorn bottle from the counter and raises it up high behind Gregory Mbende’s head—a good vintage, with nice, thick glass. The swing seems to take forever, so long Stoker thinks Gregory will spin around and catch it in the palm of his hand, but at last the bottle collides with Gregory’s skull. The dull thud snakes up Stoker’s arm and buzzes in his elbow like a mis-hit shot with a tennis racket. Gregory Mbende, his longtime friend and aide, drops to the floor like a sack of dead kittens.
Stoker recoils, hand trembling. He tries not to think of Gregory’s family, of how his kids had scrambled up into Stoker’s lap the first time he’d been invited to Gregory’s home, like they’d never met a stranger. He tries to erase the image of Gregory’s wife, forget about those plump, welcoming cheeks, those almond-shaped eyes, and the smile as white as a strand of pearls. Stoker’s got to keep his cool. He drags Gregory’s body into one of the stalls and props him up on the toilet seat. He then pours a mouthful of sparkling wine into Gregory’s mouth, and after wiping off his fingerprints, sets the bottle in Gregory’s lap. When he’s done, he looks at Gregory’s bot who’s standing there perplexed.
He shoves it in the stall, too, then grabs a bathroom closed sign and leaves it sitting out in front of the stall.
It probably won’t buy him much time the way peo
ple are drinking out here. Stoker scans the crowd until he sees his mother, then stumbles toward her, one foot in front of the other as the numbness inside spreads to his extremities. He smiles politely as she introduces him to a gentleman she says is a dear old friend, though Stoker’s too out of it to catch his name. The man’s handshake is firm and as rough as pumice, his eyes oddly familiar and impossibly wise. Out of habit, Stoker tries to do that thing he does, to meet people in their reality, crossing the boundaries of age, race, gender, and ability as if they were but doorways from one room to the next. He attempts to meet this man at his level, but Stoker gets the distinct feeling that he could never reach high enough, far enough, wide enough.
Stoker is left speechless for the first time in his life, his mouth boorishly agape.
His mother excuses the both of them, dragging Stoker off into a secluded area behind a grouping of potted ferns. In the span of a minute, Stoker tells her all that’s happened as her face gets longer and longer. But if there’s one thing this family is good at, it’s keeping its skeletons locked in the closet. Couldn’t have had six generations of successful politicians without it.
“I’ll take care of it, dear,” his mother says to him in a way that holds its own weight of a veiled threat. Councilman Stoker gets the distinct feeling that he’s jumped out of the mouth of a shark and into the mouth of a dragon. His mother is going to own him for this, he knows it. “Now, go on,” she says. “You’ve got mingling to do.”
Stoker nods, but his heart is numb. His body is numb. It’s all he can do to stand there, that envelope clutched to his chest. Those pictures of him wearing the hell out of that dress—so strikingly similar to the 2035 classic gown Farai Ngcobo had worn to the South African Music Awards. Blue velvet embroidered with silver beads. So stunning. A dress like that is hard to forget.