Cronix

by James Hider

  ***

  Professor Doug Fitch was in a foul mood. The debilitating African heat bore down like an amplification of the reproaches he had been scolding himself with all morning. He'd broken all the rules the previous night, after that little rat-fuck Stiney had compared him over dinner to Dr Mengele. Not that he'd given any credence to the accusation, but the fact that his assistant had even made it irked him. Stiney obviously included himself in the Nazi equation and was wallowing in some trough of self-recrimination, induced by the weeks they'd spent down here. It touched on those niggling worries that sometimes woke him at night, heart beating and wondering just how history would judge them, when history finally sniffed out what they had been up to out in this ever-sweating jungle. Unless they failed utterly, there was no way its searchlight was going to sweep harmlessly by. Posterity's harsh glare would throw him in stark relief, strip away the shades and nuances and pick him out in its merciless two-tone.

  As a result, he had sulked over dinner with Stiney, chewing on a chicken drumstick so tough he felt like he was trying to eat his own jaw. Then he stalked off alone to a noisy bar in the nearest town, fifty miles away from the research station, where he had broken the two golden rules of living in Africa: don't drink the local beer and stay away from the hookers.

  Fitch wiped the sweat off his forehead. The air conditioning was battling hard against the heat that pressed relentlessly through the walls like a vise. In general, the AC was winning, but there were pockets of resistance close to the door where the tropical rage still managed to leave its mark on his back and armpits each time he passed.

  To add to his irritation, he'd noticed while driving down the rutted track into the facility that no one had removed the graffiti he'd ordered scrubbed off the front sign three weeks ago. Under the official title of ‘UN Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda Holding Facility 37,’ some wag, driven by relentless boredom and the unappetizing nature of the place, had scrawled "Welcome to the Ant Farm."

  He suspected that, too, may have been Stiney’s handiwork. Luckily no one ever came out this way to see it.

  Stiney was in the lab when Fitch arrived, a skinny, balding creature of indeterminate age, his sweat-blanched face oddly unlined and his perennial milk teeth set in deep pink gums.

  "Hey Doug, you look pretty rough this ayem, man," he said with his nervous hiccup laugh. Fitch scowled at him and took a swig of water from the cooler.

  "Everything ready?"

  "Yep," said Stiney. His mood was always buoyant at work: the doubts only seemed to surface in the evenings, and then only sometimes. A real pro, despite his unappetizing appearance.

  "Subject's being fetched from the pens now. Patrice ..." Stiney stared at the log sheet, bit the name up into manageable syllables. "Mbon...Mbon.. yumat...tu. Jesus, his name alone should have got him 15 years. Known to the UN tribunal as GK-154b, Category One Offender. Genocide. In our books, Case Number Seven."

  "Program set up?" said Fitch.

  "Yessir, we just truss him up and suck his mind right on out of head." He gave a mock salute accompanied by another feverish pant-hoot of laughter. Fitch’s scowl deepened.

  The door opened and Rex and Kevin, the secret service musclemen who ran the security end of operations, came in. They were escorting a tall, surly black man in an open shirt and soiled trousers. They were all streaming sweat, and the prisoner had a wild look in his eyes, tugging at the flexi-cuffs on his wrists. He was an interahamwe, a member of the Hutu militia that had once run in packs through Rwanda, butchering their neighbors in their thousands with machetes and wooden clubs studded with nails: laboring day and night in blood to exterminate the Tutsis they'd branded cockroaches.

  Fitch wondered what horrors this man had perpetrated before being run to ground in a refugee camp in the imploding superstate of Zaire, or Democratic Republic of Congo, or whatever they called the failed state these days. Always something democratic, in inverse proportion to reality. Fitch nodded to Rex and Kevin to strap the man to the bench. He didn't resist, appeared almost indifferent: perhaps he knew the weight of his crimes would always outstrip any conceivable punishment. He'd been a god of death in his time, now he was a mute prisoner in a jail cell. He only flinched his forearm muscles slightly as Fitch inserted the IV.

  Stiney called out his vital readings as Fitch pumped the prepared syringes in sequence. Patrice Mbonyumatu's eyes lost their focus but didn't close. His heartbeat sank, the scanners plastered to his shaven head registered decreasing electronic and chemical activity. He'd been in this place several times before in the previous 10 months, and was used to the medical procedure and the bizarre dreams that always lingered.

  "Still in echo," said Stiney. He clearly still loved this shit, in spite of himself: made him feel like Mr Sulu on the bridge of the star ship Enterprise calling out to Captain Kirk. But he kept his eyes on the readings as they dropped lower and lower: the stakes were too high to let his own mind drift for even a second. No doubt he'd save the moment in his head and go back over it later in bed, after a few snorts of coke and a bit of Fitch-baiting over dinner.

  "Five hundred to six. Approaching void," he said. The killer's eyes glazed. Fitch turned on the receptor circuit, and looked at the Hutu again, almost envious: the mass murderer was having one of the most expensive drug trips in human history.

  Fitch prepared the lethal dose.

  "Void in ten," said Stiney, then read off a countdown. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Okay, we're in the void."

  Fitch paused a few seconds more, looked at the face of the man he was about to kill. A blank mask already: the drug had cut all the moorings between his conscious mind and the outside world. Fitch squeezed the plunger.

  "Mainload in," he said. Stiney turned the receptor circuit full on. Mbonyumatu's lungs caved in from the sudden flush of potassium chloride. His body heaved in reflex but was bound too tightly to move. His eyes rolled up in their sockets. Nobody else in the room made any movement. Forty seconds later, Fitch pronounced him dead and closed his eyes.

  "What reading did you get?" Fitch said, looking at the string of drool hanging from the dead man's mouth. There was no response. He turned from the dead genocidaire to Stiney, who was staring at the screen of the outsize computer, so big it looked like some relic of the 1960s. Stiney was frantically stabbing buttons on a keyboard, too intent to respond.

  "Oh my God. Oh my fucking God." His voice quavered with excitement.

  "What?" barked Fitch. "Did we get something? Well, did we get something?"

  The computer was spewing print-outs, scratchy graphs and jagged lines of readings. Stiney pulled a few of them off the printer.

  "Oh yeah, we got something this time. It’s like … Jesus, it’s above ninety-three percent!"

  "You are shitting me," shouted Fitch, grabbing some of the papers from his hands. Rex and Kevin sidled up behind him.

  "So did it work?” said Kevin. “Does that mean we get out of this stinking dump now?"

  Fitch said nothing, just brushed past the men and hurried down the corridor to the ops room where the sat-phone was rigged, as excited as Moses scurrying down the slopes of Mount Sinai.

  ***

  The dark track ahead of the taxi was swallowed by pines swaying gently in the breeze from the Thames. The driver slowed down when he saw the faint lantern light twinkling on the river’s edge, hinting at the presence of the gypsy bar. Oriente had hired a cab because neither Swaincroft nor Lola knew where the hell the Low Tide bar was, lost somewhere on the eastern reaches of the river. Oriente paid the cabbie and, holding up his torch, could just make out a path through the reeds. He told his companions to follow him, and they plunged into the dark wood.

  “I don’t like this,” said Lola. “I don’t like this one little bit. I’ve heard about these places. Not good.” She stopped to address Swaincroft. “And you aren’t even chipped, baby. I’m telling you, if anything goes wrong, you stay behind me. I’ll take care of it. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”r />
  Swaincroft gave an embarrassed cough, and muttered something Oriente didn't catch.

  The mournful lilt of an accordion drifted from the bar, a singer sounding lost and lyrical. The spell was broken by Lola stamping through the long grass, swearing like a trooper.

  “We shoulda brought a gun,” she said. “These places are full of bad asses. I heard they even let in scolds to drink. That’s really stupid man. Those creatures, they get a drink in them, and they’re full-on psycho. Not that that they’re not dangerous already, sober. But people get hurt in places like this. Seriously. And we're here because some bug told you to come here? I mean, really?”

  “Hey,” Oriente whispered. “We’ll be okay. Believe me.” She looked at him, a mix of anger and consternation on her face.

  “And you be careful in there, too” she said, squeezing his arm. “Both of you, get behind me if any shit goes down.”

  The bar was a wooden shack mounted on a raft that creaked at its moorings. In the bright moonlight, the river bled mercury into the night. A shaky gangway hovered over the water: clearly the proprietor had no interest in whether his clients took a dive after imbibing. The planks pitched and sagged and Oriente's shoes were soaked by the time he reached the deck.

  “Motherfucker,” Lola swore as she caught up, feet squelching. Swaincroft, giggling slightly from nerves and the drinks they'd had before setting out, joined her a minute later.

  “Hey, let’s hit this joint,” he said with a boyish grin. Lola scowled and the three of the stepped into the smoky bar.

  The joint was half-lit by hurricane lamps swinging from low beams. Peering into the murk, Oriente saw the singer, a young local woman whose arms and almost bare torso were heavily tattooed with cave paintings of horses and bison. She was singing the blues in a husky voice, pulling on a cigarette between verses. A few punters sat at the tables, glassy eyed and oblivious.

  Oriente ordered three beers from the enormously fat bar tender, who told him the beer was off and they only had pine liquor. Oriente asked where the toilets were, excused himself and stepped into a fetid little bathroom.

  He didn’t need to pee, but, following the precise instructions of by his nocturnal visitor, he unbuttoned himself and stood as close as he dared to the ammonia-reeking urinal that hung, half-unplumbed, from a damp wall. A minute passed: a fly buzzed around his head, then settled on the wall in front of him. Oriente wondered what he should do if another customer came in. The fly crawled to a spot just above the pissoir. As Oriente stood at the urinal, he saw a gecko emerge from a crack behind the hand basin. It darted at the fly: a pink tongue lashed out and the insect was gone.

  Oriente stared at the impromptu nature documentary until the gecko peered at him and spoke. “Okay, pal” it said. “Safe to go now. Their bug’s gone. Remember, ask for Wexler.”

  Suddenly self-conscious, Oriente buttoned himself up again. Without a word to the lizard, he returned to the bar and took a sip of his pine liquor, wincing at the bouquet of turpentine.

  “I'm looking for Wexler,” he told the barman.

  “Wexler? See that funny looking little runt sitting over in the far corner, looks like an ape?” The barman nodded at a man sipping from a tumbler of clear liquor. “That's Wexler. Dunno know what your business is with him, mister, but watch yourself. He’s a crazy little fuck. He was on Flight 904, you know.”

  Oriente stared at him for a moment, then walked over to the strikingly short and wiry man. His face with cavernous, dark eyes perched over cheekbones that seemed to have been eroded into his skull like limestone bluffs. His face was deeply lined and gave the impression of geological age rather than human lifespan. Wexler nodded in greeting, then poured an extra glass of from his carafe.

  “Oriente? Sit down, I was expecting you,” Wexler said. “Who the hell are they?”

  Oriente turned to make the introductions as Lola seated herself across the table from the wizened homunculus, Swaincroft at her side. They sat in silence, keeping a wary eye on Oriente and Wexler.

  “Just some friends,” Oriente said. “This is Lola, who works at the clinic I’m staying at. And this is Quin. He’s an historian.”

  “Historian, huh? I could you some stories, kid. Good to have friends, Mr Oriente,” said Wexler, with a downturned grin that revealed large, mineral teeth. “You must have some serious ones. I suddenly found a lot of money in my account recently, and instructions to meet you.”

  Oriente leaned forwards, his hands folded on the table. He had no idea what this man, this leathery knot of sinew and bone, was talking about.

  “How much did they pay you?”

  Wexler sucked from his glass. ”Enough that I’m here. They must be real good friends.”

  Oriente shook his head. He had no idea who these 'friends' might be, but he wasn't sure it was a good idea to let this dangerous-looking creature know. “We'll see,” he said. “What else did they tell you?”

  “That you might be looking for a way out of London. Discreet, like.”

  Oriente nodded, concealing his confusion. “Why you?”

  Wexler smirked, spread his hands. “Because I don’t exist. Like you. Just a wisp of river fog, a deleted statistic in a book no one reads.” For the first time, the little man looked him straight in the eyes, eyes like dark fungal growth wrapped in an autumn leaf.

  “Hey,” he said. “Like the face? It’s an advertisement for my trade. Alfons Wexler, finest carpet beater in the Old World. At your service.” He gave a tiny mock bow.

  Oriente hesitated. Wexler was perhaps the runty-est looking person he’d ever laid eyes on. “Aren’t you supposed to find rare and exotic genes for rich airsiders? No offense, but it doesn’t seem like great advertising to me.”

  Wexler laughed. “None taken. But you’re right, rare and exotic is the name of the game. And while our friend Miss Lola here has obviously paid through her beautiful, regal nose for some of the finest genetics in history, I am displaying the raw material of my trade. This, my friends…” and he swept his hand over his gaunt face and sinewy neck… “is the original genepool of Abraham, father of the Jews, the Christians and the Muslims. Procured by great effort and zealous endeavor from the Tomb of the Patriarchs at Hebron, deep in the radiation zone. Very popular with some of my more religious-minded clients.”

  “Looks like you dug up his pet chimp by mistake to me,” said Lola.

  Wexler refused to look annoyed. “First of all, my dear, there ain’t no chimps in the Holy Land, and secondly, people were much smaller in those days.” His cocky grin abruptly returned. “You hungry? They have good bush meat here. Venison. Possum. Bunny on the spit.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “They even have Cronix. Roasted a la pekinese. Very good. Crispy skin.”

  Oriente grimaced at the thought of a cannibal menu. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Fair enough. Pretty tasty though, especially if you’ve never tried the other white meat before.” He cackled, reached inside his mouth to tug at some scrap caught between his teeth. He had clearly dined already. Oriente tried not to notice. Lola looked about ready to gag.

  “I hear you were on Flight 904,” Oriente said.

  Wexler removed his hand from his mouth, scowled at the barman, then nodded. “Now that’s going back a ways,” he said, examining a slither of food on his index finger, before flicking it away. Lola flinched, as though it might land on her. “But yes, you heard right. I was on the 904. Crashed smack dab into the heart of Mecca. That was quite a ride, I can tell you.”

  He eyed Oriente, clearly suspicious, but also drawn by the temptation to tell his story. Swaincroft, ever the historian, could contain himself no longer. “You were on 904? My god. That’s incredible. Were you on the Dubai Death Star too?”

  Wexler nodded, frowning.

  “How long were you there for?” said Swaincroft, who had already pulled a crisp white business card from his pocket and was proffering it across the booze-sticky table.

  “Too long,” said Wexler.
He looked at Oriente. “Where d’you hear all this from anyways? Gypsy Joe there tell you?” He looked around at the barman, who was smearing glasses with a dirty cloth, then at Swaincroft, clearly pleased at his reaction.

  “You were really on Flight 904?”

  “Like I said, I was one of the 220,” said Wexler. Lola looked confused. “What was flight 904? What are you guys talking about?”

  Before Wexler could begin, Swaincroft was already babbling. “Flight 904 was a passenger jet liner out of Cairo that was hijacked by a group of Christian…” he'd been about to say ‘fanatics,’ but quickly revised his choice of words “… zealots who believed a final showdown between Islam and Christianity was in the offing…”

  “Christian zealots, my ass,” growled Wexler. “We were patriots, finally paying them bastards back for what they done to New York.”

  “Well, you also managed to trigger a devastating war across the Middle East,” Swaincroft said. “Millions of people died.”

  “Only them that were dumb enough not to get the old third eye,” smiled Wexler, tapping the center of his forehead, where his chip was located. “Even back then, no one had to die. And besides, there was more than one of us on that plane that wished we had died. A few of the smarter ones – the real zealots – refused to be chipped before they boarded. Thought they’d rather go to an imaginary heaven than risk a real hell.”

  “Why? What happened to you?” asked Lola, innocent of pretty much any event that may have taken place since she absented herself from the machinations of human history.

  “Well, you see, we took over the plane, thirty minutes out of Cairo airport,” said Wexler, rubbing his glass between his leathery palms. “We set up our own soul pole in the cockpit, a kind of endure-anything black box version, so that when the crash happened, we would wake up safe and sound in the Orbiter, with a bunch of nice shiny Americans and cute European girls. We even had some Saudi engineers set up repeaters on the QT near the shrine, just to make sure.” He shrugged. “But Saudi workmanship was always slipshod at best. They were lazy, spoiled bastards glutted on their oil wealth. The repeaters never kicked in.”