“If you are caught, analysis of the imaging gear will prove that you were given high-level assistance. This would give Swarna’s successor leverage—he won’t make favorable deals with America. It’ll push PanAfrica further toward Japan.”
Jenna and Jacobs went to work, sealing the wound with synthetic skin, numbing the tissues, bandaging. Aubry hissed with pain, then steadied himself.
“Who … oh shit! Who would that successor be?”
“No idea. Ibumi was his only acknowledged child. Swarna’s office is a political/economic creation, and PanAfrica might go belly-up. Japan will back someone, probably Kanagawa. Kanagawa is minister of public works, and a Yakuza boss to boot. America will back someone—probably De Thours, the Dutchman. Minister of finance,”
“Not a black African?” Aubry said quietly.
“Are you kidding?”
“What about Tanaka?”
Bloodeagle shrugged. “No political ambitions that I know. His obligation is to Swarna—but he belongs to the Yakuza. He will probably back Kanagawa.” He tapped Aubry’s leg. “For America to successfully back the Dutchman, she has to claim innocence. Therefore, if there’s any risk of your being caught, you’ll be terminated. I can block the signal. I pulsed the bomb’s processor, scrambled the codes. I can do that—once. It’s a built-in safety precaution. Prevents an enemy from triggering destruct codes—for about two days. That’s how long it will take them to run through all the codes, at the rate of a thousand per second—that’s the fastest the receiver will take them.
“But we’ve got to get the bomb out by then. Otherwise, the explosives will trigger, and there isn’t a damned thing that I can do about it.”
Aubry sat up, and winced. He tested his leg, cursed, then said resignedly, “Better than being dead. I guess. Thanks, Miles.”
“There’s only one thanks I want. Getting out of here alive. Let’s go.”
The three of them shook hands with Jacobs. Aubry looked at the little man. “Why did you do it? Wasn’t Azziz your fighter?”
Jacobs shook his head. “I’m hired help. Azziz’s manager had an … accident. I’m a backup. Nullboxing’s a rough game over here—controlled by the government. Two of my guys died matched against state-bred boxers.” His smile was small, weary. “I just wanted to get my own back.”
“You have a way out?”
He tapped his chest. “Bad heart. Maybe a year left. No money to get a new one.”
Aubry took his hands. “But can you get to America?”
“Maybe. There are ways. But why bother? Here, there. Now, later … what’s the difference?”
Aubry squeezed his hands until Jacobs’s eyes popped with pain. “Because if you get there, find the Scavengers. Talk to Promise Coutonou. Tell her what you did for me. They’ll get you a new heart.”
Jacobs looked into Aubry’s surgically altered face, and after a long breath, he nodded. “The Scavengers. I’ve heard of them. Then you must be…?”
Aubry nodded.
“Shit. You would have been great, kid.”
Aubry gave him a brief, firm hug—and then turned and left with Bloodeagle and Jenna.
Jacobs watched the tent flap flutter behind them. He was alone now. Soon, no place on this continent would be safe for him. But Jacobs had a soft, speculative look on his face, and a feeling in his tired heart that he hadn’t had for years.
Hope.
The microdot had dissolved. The nanoassassins had been busy, attacking bones, stealing material to build the generations to come. There was an artificial cyst the size of a pinhead lodged near Swarna’s right ear, near what physiologists refer to as the tenth, pneumogastric, or vagus nerve. There, behind a biologically neutral membrane, they massed for the attack.
So far, Swarna felt nothing.
Their jeep was twenty miles from the border of the Central African Republic. From there to Daglia was the work of a few hours, and Daglia was large enough, and international enough, to hide them.
“The tracer is blocked. Jeep is clean,” Jenna said. Her long brown arms were sure on the wheel. “And canopied. Unless they knew where to look for us they couldn’t pick us up with their best satellite. We’re just another jeep. On the other hand …”
Within Swarna’s body were countless scouting nanobots, searching for microtumors, weak arterial walls, damaged nerve cells. They constantly repaired, rebuilt, and remained alert to the possibility of invasion.
The vagus nerves are uniquely important to the human body. They emerge from the cranium as a flat cord of woven filaments, carrying messages to the organs of voice and respiration, and the stomach and heart as well. They are, therefore, an ideal target.
The cyst fluttered, and the first few hundreds of nanoassassins crept out into Swarna’s body. They were scouts, designed to appear innocuous, disguised as friendly nanobots, exchanging proper protocols until the moment that they would become instruments of destruction.
But their vast numbers guaranteed some minute percentage of errors in duplication. And the inevitable finally happened.
Near the posterior pulmonary branch of the pneumogastric, one of the monitoring nanobots nosed against an invader. It sent a microsecond recognition signal checking for program corruption in its brother …
And received static in return.
Swarna’s monitor nanobot sent out an alarm. There were dangerous rogue or alien nanobots and an unidentified, near-critical biomass near the vagus nerves.
The monitors were free-radical destroyers, were cancer-cell destroyers, but were tied in with central processing to the extent that they could send back information for that processor to evaluate.
And it did send in a report.
Mere seconds after it did the biomass broke open, and billions of killer cells spread into Swarna’s system, in an action both precipitous and deadly.
Swarna’s biomonitor sounded an earsplitting alert.
Reflexively, Tanaka said, “Code two-two,” and the pilot immediately changed his heading. Then Tanaka was with Swarna, checking his vital signs with a hand-held monitor.
“Nothing …” he said, suspicious.
Phillipe Swarna sat back into the seat of the transport plane, and a puzzled expression spread over his face. He clapped a large palm over his stomach.
“It is odd,” he said quietly. “I feel …”
Kanagawa, minister of public works, leaned forward. “Are you certain there is something wrong? A little indigestion…?”
Tanaka glared murderously.
“I feel …” Swarna groped for words. Suddenly he sucked in air massively, and couldn’t exhale it. His fingers clawed at his heart, and his face swelled, purpling. His eyes rolled back up in his head, and suddenly, as if with some masterful effort of will Swarna had managed to retake momentary control of his breathing, he screamed.…
The nanoassassins operated in three main groups. One attacked and took control of the vagus nerves, one sped for the spinal column, and one for the brain itself.
In all cases, they began broadcasting mutinous signals, and triggering every pain response in Swarna’s body.
Die, they said.
Or that is what they would have done.
But the biomonitor that kept Phillipe Swarna alive was alert to the possibility of such an invasion. One of the invading cells was captured by an artificial phagocyte, and taken to a capsule the size of half an aspirin, for analysis. The threat was perceived almost instantly, and reserve phagocytes were releasing into Swarna’s system.
The battle was joined.
27
Wu paced back and forth, a worried expression creasing his face.
Promise tried to keep the fear from her voice. “Do you have an opinion about what you saw?”
Leslie was watching the screen without comment.
“Yes,” Wu said. “It was Aubry, disguised to get him close to Swarna. He made physical contact. Something happened in that moment. There is no other reason for going through such an elaborate
deception. But why…?”
Leslie’s eyes were vast. “Reference. NewMan Nations. Subheading, Assassination. There is a technology, not yet perfected, called microdots. Poisons and even tracer apparatus can be passed from one body to another, through direct contact. I suggest that some type of timed, coded assassination device changed hands. Swarna is walking but dead.”
Promise thought about that. It was sensible, and, in fact, it made more sense than Aubry taking a shot, or planting a bomb, or even, for that matter, trying to attack Swarna directly. Thank the Goddess, that would have been a farce.
“I suppose if it had to happen,” she said, “that is the best way.”
“Yes,” Leslie said. His eyes were far away. “But there is something wrong. I can’t scope it. Ah. He has limited time to get out of the PanAfrican Republic. Very limited. Swarna is protected by the best security in the world. They will detect the problem, and move swiftly. Everything will mobilize against him.”
Promise turned to look at Wu. “What can we do to help?”
“You can be there, in Swarnaville. Much construction is being conducted in that region. From there, you can move most quickly. From there, it just might be possible to do something positive. The arrangements with Kanagawa have been made. You and I can complete our negotiations later, in good faith.”
Promise extended her hand. “You are a friend,” she said. “One of the best that we have.”
“Nonsense,” Wu said politely. “Aubry Knight amuses me, and always has. The world would be less interesting without him. And you. And your child, Mrs. Knight. Please, do what you must, and then return to us safely.”
His thin dry hand was warm in hers. Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed his left cheek. He smelled like cinnamon.
28
Immam Igrandi, border guard at the Swarna Bridge between PanAfrica and the CAR, squinted his eyes. A storm was blowing from the east, bringing with it countless flecks of sand and gravel and dust, a microscopic speck of which had lodged near his left pupil.
This was not good. The bridge was crowded. It seemed that everyone in the world had come south for the day and now, having seen the living legend himself, was returning to the Central African Republic, where they belonged.
Immam was twenty-two, and liked his job immensely (he had inherited it from his father). The money provided his family with a house and good food and comforts, and Immam with an Afjap mistress who gladly performed acts his own wife would castrate him for suggesting.
He was thinking about his mistress, a thin, big-titted, slow-moving delicacy named Nikomo, when the fleck flew into his eye. The gods are watching you today, Immam, he clucked, rubbing the sore orb. Maybe it’s true. Maybe only white people and monkeys are supposed to fuck like that. He wasn’t to be relieved for another hour, and the six lanes of traffic heading north wouldn’t wait for any of the glass-boothed border guards to head to the lavatory. Hell, he had peed in a bucket more than once, and he could damned well suffer through a bit of grit.
He waved a few cars through, after giving them a perfunctory scanning. His laxity was understandable: after all, normal immigration pressure was in the opposite direction. Anyone who wanted to leave the paradise of PanAfrica was welcome. Assuming, of course, that they carried nothing of value to Phillipe Swarna.
But still, Immam had the task of recording every face that passed, and he took that obligation seriously. Through a haze of pain, he saw a face that he recognized, and he suddenly forgot the throbbing eye. He stepped out of his booth, shielding his face from the wind. He saluted the occupants of the jeep snappily. “Azziz, nex’ champion of world!” Immam said between chipped and golden teeth.
Aubry Knight smiled, and started to speak, and felt something shift in the back of his head, and suddenly he was speaking in Swahili. “Thank you, my friend. Blessings to you and your family.” Jenna and Bloodeagle regarded him with amusement.
“My brother-in-law,” she said. “The polyglot.”
Immam waved them through, cheering, fingers interlaced, hands raised above his head in the Victory sign.
And no one, not even Immam, noticed that an automatic camera had recorded every face in the jeep.
29
DAGLIA, CENTRAL AFRICAN REPUBLIC.
Compared to Ma’habre, the town of Daglia seemed almost somnambulant. It still revealed more Arab than European influence, and few of the buildings along the twisting, narrow streets were more than three stories tall.
Daglia was crowded but not unclean, a town of perhaps seven hundred thousand souls. Aubry hoped that he could lose himself here for a few hours, and that his subsequent escape would be a possibility.
But for now …
They pulled up at a hotel, its bright neon sign speaking in a language Aubry knew, but had never learned. The implanted translator was disorienting as hell, and he wondered if it was possible to get used to it.
He imagined so. He was beginning to believe you could get used to anything.
30
Phillipe Swarna’s skimmer crossed the twenty-two-hundred miles between Swarnaville and Caernarvon in just under three hours. Long before the skimmer entered protected airspace, the autodocs had taken complete control of Phillipe Swarna’s body. Twelve miles out from the castle, the first of the electronic challenges blipped off their computer, as the security systems decided whether or not to blow them from the sky.
At the ten-mile mark they passed above one of the protected townships, the encampments of workers who served the Menagerie—it took ten thousand men and women, working full time, to service the Menagerie and Phillipe Swarna’s palace. That number didn’t include Swarna’s airborne battalions, quartered less than twenty miles from his inner sanctum.
The skimmer screamed through the air above the inner preserve, heading for an emergency landing at the northeast port. By the time it touched down, the entire life-support system in the skimmer was running on independent batteries. A swarm of technicians detached the steel-lined life-support cot, hooking it to the maglev medic tram and floating it into the main facility.
Despite a flood of countermeasures, the nanoassassin synthetic viruses were erupting all over Swarna’s tortured body, disseminated in pods that spread widely in nonirritating sheaths before making a damaging presence known.
Tanaka watched them wheel his primary away, knowing that there was nothing he could do anymore. One of the doctors, a native of Kyoto named Saito, remained behind in the courtyard, and offered Tanaka a cigarette. Then Saito remembered who he was dealing with, and fumbled it away.
“Is there anything you can tell me that didn’t come across the air?”
“One minute he was talking, the next …” Tanaka shrugged his big shoulders. “The next he was foaming and dying. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“He’s really dead right now,” Saito said. “The life-support systems keep his brain oxygenated. The trick is to rebuild faster than those damned little machines can tear him apart.”
“What are his chances?” Tanaka asked. His face was unreadable.
“I wish I knew.” Saito blew a feather of smoke out into the air. With the fall of evening, it was beginning to chill. The wind shifted, driving smoke and a slight saurian stench back in his face.
“I hate this place,” Saito said matter-of-factly. Tanaka didn’t react.
“I hate this country,” Saito went on.
He watched Tanaka, who stood looking out across the concrete pad, to Caernarvon’s white outer walls—thirteen feet thick and forty feet high. They were topped with electrified wire, a touch King Edward would have appreciated. Beyond its rebuilt walls was the moat, thirty feet wide at its narrowest point, and fifty at its widest. Beyond that—the Garden, and the Menagerie, and creatures which should have been dead fifty million years before.
“I don’t care,” Tanaka said. “I don’t care that you say these things. He is my primary.”
“Do you really care about that man? Or is it just a job?”
“I gave my word. I gave my honor,” Tanaka said. “I will do everything in my power to protect him. Not for him. For me. Because honor is all that a man has. Just as you, Saito, will do all in your power to save him. Because a man without honor has nothing. Not even life itself.” He looked Saito squarely in the eye, and Saito felt himself driven back, as if by a white-hot physical force. “Do you understand?”
“Ah …”
“I do not love him, although I have come to love this country. This land. It … touches me. But I know that I will do my best. And that all who are involved in this … tragedy will do their best. For me. And for themselves. And their families.” He stepped even closer to Saito, until the doctor could see the pores on Tanaka’s nose, and the network of tiny veins in his black eyes. “Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes, Tanaka-san.” Saito bowed and dropped the cigarette from his mouth, grinding it underfoot. He gave Tanaka a last, hurried bow, and then scurried into the medical center.
31
Promise folded a thin, blue-flowered coat and packed it carefully, every movement as precise as a machine’s. She was aware that Leslie sat watching her, that Leslie had not moved for a quarter hour. Had barely blinked. She knew that if she inquired after Leslie’s state of mind she would hear, “Fine. I’m just fine.” That the control she, Promise, used to keep her fears and speculations under control was as nothing compared to what her child employed.
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