But he did neither. Instead, there came a moment of calm.
Aubry felt as if he were gazing into a furnace. And deep within the furnace was a flame so hot that it consumed identity. In that moment, Aubry couldn’t have remembered his own name.
Thu grunted, forcing Aubry’s arm into a lock. The man was strong! The leverage he had was irresistible, and muscular fatigue should force the matter to a conclusion in seconds.
Then Aubry relaxed. Thu slid his arm in deeper, solidifying the hold—
But for the moment when Thu made that adjustment, the hold was no longer absolute. As he slipped to a more secure position, he created an instant of instability. Suddenly there was give in it. Aubry wiggled to a position where he could reach around, reach back and grasp Thu in a makeshift reverse headlock.
It shouldn’t have been possible. There shouldn’t have been enough give in that hold to reach around like that. For a man of Aubry’s muscle mass to have that level of flexibility was almost obscene. It surprised Aubry—he had never done such a thing, and had had no idea that he possessed that much give in his shoulder joint. Aubry’s thumb and fingers gripped at Thu’s larynx and his opponent gagged reflexively. Aubry’s arm slipped out of Thu’s grip.
Thu turned into a buzzsaw, striking and striking, hammering with fists and elbows as Aubry strove to reverse the hold. They were tumbling now, in full engagement. Blood misted the bubble’s air as elbows and knees smashed into lips and scalps, and fingers fought for purchase.
Nothing human could maintain that intensity. For Aubry and Thu, the pace was like sprinting uphill, carrying each other piggyback all the way. But for Aubry there was no pain, no exhaustion. The fatigue toxins flooding his body were simply overridden by a mind that screamed to go on and on and on, that raged at him, saying that a moment’s weakness would cost the lives of everything he loved. Thu’s blows split his lips, split his eyelid. Dislodged two of his teeth. Ripped the scalp above his left ear and fractured a rib. And every nerve in Aubry’s body screamed that he was careening into the abyss.
I’m ready to die, you bastard. And I’m taking you with me.
Aubry saw the fear, naked and consuming, in Thu’s eyes. Thu, his face masked with blood, tried to turn away, strove to break away from this crimsoned, battered demon who seemed to have forgotten that this was a sporting event, who had turned it into something primal and absolute. And as he turned Aubry’s arm whipped across his neck and locked in with a blood and nerve strangle that was unbreakable.
Unconsciousness followed swiftly and mercifully.
20
An armada of reporters surrounded Aubry as he stepped out of the shuttle. They trailed him from the gantry to the waiting skimmer, and they followed him as he sailed back in toward the great carnival.
How did it feel to beat an ex-champion? Would he go on to try to get a match with the current champ? Why had he suddenly changed his fighting style? Where had he learned those moves, and why hadn’t he ever used them before? Curiosity burned in their eyes, and Aubry found his mouth speaking a language that he barely understood, saying things he didn’t believe in, but that seemed to satisfy them. And that was all he cared about.
Jacobs stripped him out of his combat uniform and helped him on with his street clothes. Adrenaline still flamed in his blood. He had done it! He had finally ridden the big rocket, had done his thing up in the stars.…
It would have been the proudest moment of his life, save for the realization of what lay ahead. Save for the knowledge that it had all been a sham, and that his victory was in the service of murder.
Cold-blooded murder.
(But the man you will kill tried to kill you.…)
And where had he heard that before? Was it eight years before that he had escaped from Death Valley Maximum Security Prison, swearing to kill Luis Ortega? And how long after that had he realized the entire thing had been orchestrated, that he had been used as guided muscle?
And yet … he had killed this man’s son. He had disrupted Swarna’s vengeance. And it was reasonable, perhaps even inevitable that, although they lived on opposite sides of the planet, one of them would have to kill the other.
Mira was dead. Her death should be avenged. And his family had been threatened.
The aircade approached the fair’s central plaza. His manager had finished all last-minute preparations. Aubry felt something pressed into his right palm. It was just a moment of pressure, but Aubry knew what it was, what it would be: a machine so thin as to be almost invisible. A few millimeters of clear plastic.
Aubry stepped down out of the vehicle, and a security man came up smiling. The man was half Japanese and half Zulu, a strange mixture that created a shorter, muscular man with epicanthic folds and a disconcerting habit of looking through you.
His hand was extended. “You were superb,” he said. His hand remained suspended in air, awaiting Aubry’s shake. His smile faltered.
Shit.
The Afjap’s fingers began to curl, the gesture of greeting withering.
Aubry bowed stiffly and said, “Hai.”
The Afjap grinned. “This way, please.”
Aubry turned to look back over his shoulder. Jacobs was swallowed in the crowd as Aubry was hustled forward. A security shield surrounded him, protected him. Trapped him. The mood of the crowd was expectant and almost hushed. The other athletes were parading up, along with musicians, and poets. It had been a day to remember, the Nullboxing match merely another of its events.
Ahead of him was the platform. Narrowing his eyes, he distinguished a shimmering distortion field. And behind it was Phillipe Swarna.
Aubry looked at the faces around him. They weren’t watching the parade of notables, the parade of athletes, poets, and dancers who moved up to receive the PanAfrican ribbon. They were watching Swarna himself, and in their faces lived myriad emotions.
Who was this man? Was he a messiah? A madman? A Hitler? A Gandhi?
In every face there was a different answer, a different dizzying perspective.
Aubry passed through a gateway—
21
One of the huge silver skimmers parked at the edge of the festival coordinated the security arrangements for Phillipe Swarna. One of the protection systems was new, and unknown to the inner circles of STYX. It was a long-range genetic deep scan, probing every human being who approached the presidential platform. Each genetic code was compared to computer records filed in advance.
As Aubry approached the platform, a red Alert light flashed in the skimmer, and the computer screen suddenly read mismatch, and every head in the control room turned, suddenly alert.
The slender Zulu Afjap at the control said: “What in the hell?” her voice near panic.
And then the computer added a rider: “Security override. Regulation 7503.”
There was a tangible sensation of tension in the room. One of the young women turned to her supervisor, a pure-blooded Japanese man in his fifties. “What does that mean?”
His voice was very calm. “It means,” he said, “that there are security procedures of which you need not be aware. Do your job.” And he smiled. This man Azziz was nothing to worry about. In fact, quite the opposite.
22
The announcements were being broadcast simultaneously in Swahili, Japanese, English, and French.
This close to New Nippon the crowd was disconcertingly mixed, thick with Afjaps. Never in his life had Aubry seen so many human beings—and more to the point, so many human beings of his own color.
It was a new sensation, and as he moved forward, and saw that many of them were cheering for him, for the feat of arms that they had just witnessed, something happened within him.
He looked down at his own skin color, and then up again at the people surrounding him. It seemed as if he were moving in slow motion. Flags waved in the air, hands saluted with the same holovid artificiality. A forest of dusky arms surrounded him. Countless faces with block-toothed smiles, glittering with pride and
cheering, cheering.
Then he saw the platform ahead, where stood the most famous black African who ever lived. A man of power and genius and protean evil.
And on the word of men paler than either of them, Aubry was prepared to murder Swarna. Had striven to murder him. Had dedicated his life, and quite likely his death, to the cause of murder.
Hadn’t there been enough death? And what would replace this man? Even if he was evil, wouldn’t his death merely destabilize the continent further?
And what then?
But then the line moved forward again, and he was in the final approach.
23
Twelve miles away, nestled in the woods beyond the town, lay two men. They utilized a more traditional form of camouflage, but it was completely adequate to the job. They were actually burrowed into the ground.
Red One turned to Red Two, and said, “I wonder how it feels to be a walking bomb?” He laughed.
“Well, considering the size of the capsules, I doubt Knight feels anything at all.”
“Think we’ll get to trigger it?”
“Don’t know. The minidot is in position. If he executes his instructions, he could be home in three days. If he blows it … we blow him.”
Red Two smiled. He was watching a satellite television hookup of the entire event. Some of the cameras were just cameras. Others peered deeper, security scans smuggled into the area by forces sympathetic to American interests. And these scans were sensitive to the specific optics of the implants. The images were directly uplinked to the satellites above, and then sent back down again to the STYX operatives. This gave them an excellent view of the security shields, and of Aubry Knight.
“Good fight, though,” he said.
24
In Hong Kong, one of Wu’s men interrupted him in the midst of a delicate trade negotiation, leaned close, and said softly, “The woman, Promise, says that you should see channel thirty-three-B.”
Wu nodded, offered an apology to his Filipino guest, and whispered a request into his desk console. A screen appeared. It was a news flash, a delayed broadcast from Swarnaville.
A Nullboxing match. Interesting, but why urgent? The action became brutal, and suddenly his eyes widened. What he witnessed was not sporting technique. It was intended for life-and-death only, and the only human being capable of executing it was a man named Aubry Knight.
He rose and excused himself. “I am willing to fulfill the contract on the basis of the most recent offer,” he said.
The Filipino’s eyes widened. “Why … you are being most gracious,” he said. Something had just happened, he realized, making Wu divide his attention. Otherwise he would never had surrendered such a favorable position.
Something had just happened, clarifying Aubry Knight’s situation. This minor diversion with the Filipino was of no further interest to Wu. It might have been interesting to pry an additional few tens of thousands of dollars out of the mineral lease. But Wu, and only Wu, already knew that due to lack of water access, the piece of land would be worthless in two years. Twelve million dollars was profit enough for a single day.
It was time for him to rejoin Promise.
25
The line winding behind the bandstand had almost reached the presidential platform. Aubry’s heart thundered in his chest. What was right? What was wrong?
And then there was no further time for talk. Or thought. He mounted the steps, only three people ahead of him. One of the security men smiled thinly at him. An Afjap. Big man, maybe thirty-five years old. Maybe one-eighth black. A thin scar ran the left side of his face. They were as penetrating as stainless-steel skewers.
Sinichi Tanaka. The rest of Tanaka’s dossier flashed into Aubry’s mind instantly. This man was Swarna’s chief of security, of Japanese and Ibandi blood. A bridge to the Yakuza Divine Blossom keiretsu. This Afjap would sacrifice his own life if necessary, to save his primary. To Tanaka, Aubry was a monster, a coward, a masked assassin, striking from darkness.
Aubry was in sight of Swarna now. In another moment they would be face to face.
Once, Swarna must have been tall. Not so broad as Aubry, but a huge man nevertheless. His face was heavily lined, hard years etched upon them.
There was an avuncular feeling about him. His full lips laughed easily as he handed out scrolls with his left hand and dealt hard, flat handshakes with his right.
Aubry’s heartbeat accelerated. This was the moment. The crowd, and the banners, and the cameras and everything else shrank to nothing.
And then he was next in line.
The two men faced each other, and Aubry felt himself falling into the depths of those eyes. They had seen so much, and done so much, and the weight of a monster mind was behind them.
How could he stand calm when such eyes bore into him? It was like entering twin tunnels, and how could a man enter into two tunnels in a single instant? Only by becoming two men. Aubry felt that happening, felt himself divide almost helplessly beneath the scrutiny of those terrible eyes.
Falling. Falling.
There was something he was supposed to say at this instant. Something that he was supposed to do.
In another world, another life, could this man have been his friend? Swarna had conquered an empire. Had united a continent. Had stood against all enemies, and all odds, and survived.
Survived for … God, how many years? How long had Swarna been alone?
Men had tried to destroy Aubry. They had tried to destroy this man, Phillipe Swarna. And now one had been aimed at the other. But how did he know? How could anyone ever really know the truth?
All Aubry knew was that at this moment, he faced a man he longed to question, longed to know, and there was no time for that. No time for anything.
And Swarna, with a wisdom savage and old, seemed to understand some of what Aubry had been through, and what he thought.
“You fought well.” His was an old man’s voice, belying the burning eyes. “And now there are larger things for you, yes?”
“Yes,” Aubry whispered hoarsely. The scroll was held out to him in Swarna’s left hand. Aubry watched, hypnotized, as Swarna’s right hand rose ponderously. Aubry watched his own hand rise as if it belonged to a stranger.
He clasped palms with Phillipe Swarna.
The cement on the front of the microdot adhered to Swarna’s palm. His sweat and body heat began to dissolve the thin layer of organic plastic holding back the nanoassassins.
Was that a spark of recognition? Realization? Was there something in Swarna’s eyes that remained unchanging as something deeper shifted, as some awareness sparked into existence?
Swarna released Aubry’s hand. Aubry stepped off the platform and looked back over his shoulder at the man, hoping that Swarna would turn his head and look at him.
What did he want? Benediction? Absolution? Forgiveness?
What have I done?
Part of him wanted to scream with rage, with pain, with shame. Part of him was joyous. He had done it! He had killed the bastard who had killed Mira.…
Hadn’t he?
Oh, God …
Jacobs was waiting for him, tried to hustle him away through the crowd. Aubry looked back.
Swarna was already handing a scroll to the next recipient, an artist. Tanaka was looking at Aubry, an embryonic question gestating behind his eyes. His face remained neutral.
But those eyes …
Jacobs’s small thick fingers tugged at his arm and spirited him away through the crowd. A few people slapped him on the back. Behind him, Swarna continued to pass out scrolls.
As they returned to the tents, no one noticed when two people, a man and a woman, fell into step behind them.
The first bits of the microdot had broken free. They were molecule-sized semi-sentient machines, nanotech free radicals, and their eventual task was the commandeering of Swarna’s central nervous system. But first they began to scavenge. They had to acquire the raw material necessary to multiply into the billions. Then th
ey would attack. Suddenly. Massively.
26
In the changing tent, Jenna shucked Aubry out of his clothes. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here. How long did you say that you’ve got?”
“They sa-said that the stuff will take effect within s-seventy-two hours, giving me t-time to get the hell out.” Aubry quaked, his body on the thin edge of adrenal overload.
Bloodeagle nodded. “Then let’s assume that the window is actually a tenth as long. And that the exit hole they have for you is corrupt.”
“I’m s-supposed to take a jeep waiting for me on the west side of the fairgrounds. Drive s-south to a little farming village, and make c-contact with a private air shuttle.”
“Forget it.”
“W-why?”
“Because they’ll be in diplomatic communication with Swarna’s successor.”
“S-so?” Bloodeagle opened a small suitcase.
“All right—lie down.”
“You’ve been t-trying to get me to do that for years.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Bloodeagle set up a miniature disrupter. It hummed, broadcasting electronic chaff. Aubry lay down, and the NewMan went to work with a hand-held scanner.
Electronics. Bloodeagle saw the false shadow outline equipment, and the translators hooked into the language centers of Aubry’s brain. There was nothing that he recognized as dangerous, except …
He tensed. “I’ve got a tracer here. I’ve got to disable it fast.”
Bloodeagle took out a laser scalpel and focused the beam onto Aubry’s leg. Aubry’s world dissolved into a red flash, bordered by white. There was a moment of searing pain, as the beam burned through Aubry’s leg, through the muscles, and into the capsule.
“It burns….”
“No time for anesthetic, dammit. Just hold on … got it.”
The tracer fuzzed out. The whining noise died. Bloodeagle sat down heavily, tanned face pale. “Now … listen, Aubry. When the shit hits the fan, America’s going to scream innocent. That’s why STYX gave Harris his way. You’re a civilian, and black—and Koskotas is a racist bastard. They probably had six different scenarios running, including entering a ringer in the Swarnaville Sport and Arts Jamboree. Your Nullboxing background made you perfect. Not just because you would be willing to go in and do it, but because they could claim that you had a motive to assassinate Swarna that had nothing to do with American policy. But there is classified shadow-imaging tech implanted in your femur.
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