When Gravity Fails

by George Alec Effinger

  That earned him a sharp look.

  He pulled off his keffiya. He had thinning brown hair hanging down and covering his ears. It looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month. One hand popped out the moddy he’d been wearing. The timid salesman vanished. The man’s jaws went slack and his eyes lost their focus, but with practiced speed he chipped in another of his homemade moddies. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a hard, sadistic leer. He had transformed himself from one man to another; he didn’t need the usual physical disguises: the entirely different set of postures, mannerisms, expressions, and speech patterns was more effective than any combination of wigs and makeup could be.

  I was in trouble. I held James Bond in my hand, and I was staring into the cold eyes of Xarghis Moghadhîl Khan. I was staring into madness. I reached up and chipped in the two daddies. One would let me get unnatural, desperate strength from my muscles, without weariness or pain, until the tissue actually tore apart. The second cut out all sound; I needed to concentrate. Khan snarled at me. There was a long, vicious dagger in his hand now, its hilt of silver decorated with colored stones, its guard of gold. “Sit down,” I read his lips. “On the ground.”

  I wasn’t going to sit down for him. My hand moved about four inches, seeking the needle gun under my robes. My hand moved a little and stopped, because I remembered that the needle gun was still beneath the pillow in the hotel room. By now the chambermaid would have found it. And the seizure gun was zipped away safely in my bag. I backed away from Khan. “I’ve been following you for a long time, Mr. Audran. I watched you at the police station, at Friedlander Bey’s, at Seipolt’s house, at the hotel. I could have killed you that night when I pretended you were just a goddamn robber, but I didn’t want to be interrupted. I waited for the right moment. Now, Mr. Audran, now you will die.” It was wonderfully simple to read his lips: the whole world had relaxed and was moving only half as fast as normal. He and I had all the time we needed. . . .

  Khan’s mouth twisted. He enjoyed this part. He stalked me back deeper into the alley. My eyes were fixed on his gleaming knife, with which Khan intended not only to kill me but also to hack my body to pieces. He meant to drape my bowels over the filthy stones and the refuse like holiday garlands. Some people are terrified of death; others are even more terrified of the agony that might come first. To be honest, that’s me. I knew that some day I’d have to die, but I hoped it would be quick and painless—in my sleep, if I was lucky. Tortured first by Khan: that was definitely not how I wanted to go out.

  The daddies kept me from panicking. If I let myself get too scared, I’d be souvlaki in five minutes. I backed away further, scanning the alley for something that would give me a chance against this maniac and his dagger. I was running out of time.

  Khan’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he charged me, uttering wordless cries. He held the dagger overhand at shoulder height, coming at me like Lady Macbeth. I let him take three steps, then I moved to my left and rushed him. He expected me to flee backward, and when I went at him he flinched. My left hand reached for his right wrist, my right arm swung behind his forearm and held his hand steady. I bent his knife hand back with my left hand, against the fulcrum of my right arm. Usually you can disarm an attacker like that, but Khan was strong. He was stronger than that nearly emaciated body should have been; the insanity gave him a little extra power, and so did his moddy and daddies.

  Khan’s free hand had me by the throat, and he was forcing my head back. I got my right leg behind his and pulled his feet out from under him. We both went down, and as we fell I covered his face with my right hand. I made sure to slam the back of his head into the ground as hard as I could. I landed on his wrist with my knee, and his hand opened. I threw his dagger as far as I could, then used both hands to beat Khan’s head on the slimy pavement a few more times. Khan was dazed, but it didn’t last long. He rolled out of my grasp and flung himself back on me, tearing and biting at my flesh. We wrestled, each trying to get an advantage, but we were grappling so tightly that I couldn’t swing my fists. I couldn’t even work my arms free. Meanwhile, he was hurting me, raking me with his black nails, drawing blood with his teeth, bludgeoning me with his knees.

  Khan shrieked and heaved me to the side; then he leaped, and before I could get away, he landed on top of me again. He held my arms pinned with one knee and one hand. He raised a fist, ready to smash it down on my throat. I cried out and tried to roll him off, but I couldn’t move. I struggled, and I saw the lunatic light of victory in his eyes. He was crooning some inarticulate prayer. With a wild bellow, he slammed his fist down and caught the side of my face. I almost lost consciousness.

  Khan ran for his knife. I forced myself to sit up and search wildly for my zipper bag. Khan found the dagger and was coming at me. I got my bag open and threw everything out on the ground. Just as Khan was three feet from me, I nailed him with one long burst from the seizure gun. Khan gave a gurgling cry and toppled beside me. He would be out for hours.

  The daddies blocked most of my pain, but not all; the rest they held at a distance. Still, I couldn’t move yet, and it would be a few minutes before I could do anything useful. I watched Khan’s skin turn a cyanotic blue as he fought to draw air into his lungs. He went into convulsions and then suddenly relaxed completely, only a few inches from me. I sat and gasped until I was able to shake off the effects of the fight. Then the first thing I did was pop the Khan moddy out of his head. I called Lieutenant Okking to give him the good news.

  18

  I found my pill case in the zipper bag and took seven or eight sunnies. I was trying something new. My body was aching after the fight with Khan, but it wasn’t the pain so much; purely in the interest of science, I wanted to see how the opiate would affect my augmented sensations. While I waited for Okking, I learned the truth empirically: the daddy that cleared alcohol from my system at a faster rate also kicked out the sunnies, too. Who needs that? I popped that moddy and took another hit of Sonneine.

  When Okking arrived he was buoyant. That was the only word to describe him. I’d never seen him so pleased. He was attentive and gracious to me, concerned for my wounds and pain. He was so nice, I figured the holo news people were around taping, but I was wrong. “I guess you’re one up on me now, Audran,” he said.

  I figured he owed me a lot more than that. “I’ve done your whole goddamn job for you, Okking.”

  Even that didn’t puncture his elation. “Maybe, maybe. At least now I can get some sleep. I couldn’t even eat without imagining Selima, Seipolt, and the others.”

  Khan roused; without a moddy in his socket, however, he began to scream. I recalled how awful I felt when I took the daddies out after just a few days. Who knows how long Khan—whatever his real name was—had gone, hiding beneath first one moddy and then another. Maybe without a false personality chipped in, he wasn’t able to confront the inhuman acts he’d performed. He lay on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind him and his ankles chained together thrashing and thundering curses at us. Okking watched him for a few seconds. “Drag him out of here,” he said to a couple of uniformed officers.

  They were none too gentle about it, but Khan got no sympathy from me. “Now what?” I asked Okking.

  He sobered up a little. “I think it’s about time for me to offer my resignation,” he said.

  “When the news gets around that you’ve accepted money from a foreign government, you’re not going to be very popular. You’ve dented your credibility.”

  He nodded. “The word has already gotten around, at least in the circles that count. I’ve been given the choice of finding employment out of the city or spending the rest of my life behind bars in one of your typical wog hellholes. I don’t see how they can fling people into those prisons, they’re right out of the Dark Ages.”

  “You’ve put the numbers on your share of the population, Okking. You’ll have a big welcoming committee waiting for you.”

  He shivered. “I think as soon as I get
my personal affairs tied up, I’ll just pack my bags and slip away into the night. I wish they’d give me a character reference, though. I mean, foreign agent or no, I’ve done good work for the city. I never compromised my integrity, except a few times.”

  “How many other people can honestly say the same? You’re one of a kind, Okking.” He was just the kind of guy who would walk away from this and turn it into a recommendation on his resume. He’d find work somewhere.

  “You like seeing me in trouble, don’t you, Audran?”

  As a matter of fact, I did. Rather than answer, though, I turned to my zipper bag and repacked it; I’d learned my lesson, so I tucked the seizure gun under my robe. From Okking’s conversation, I gathered that the formal questioning was finished, that I could go now. “Are you going to stay in the city until Nikki’s killer is caught?” I asked. “Are you at least going to do that much?” I turned to face him.

  He was surprised. “Nikki? What are you talking about? We got the killer, he’s on his way to the chopping block right now. You’re obsessed, Audran. You don’t have any proof of your second killer. Lay off or you’ll learn how fast heroes can become ex-heroes. You’re getting boring.”

  If that wasn’t a cop’s way of thinking! I caught Khan and turned him over to Okking; now Okking was going to tell everybody that Khan had bumped them all, from Bogatyrev to Seipolt. Of course, Khan had killed Bogatyrev and Seipolt; but I was sure that he hadn’t killed Nikki, Abdoulaye, or Tami. Did I have any proof? No, nothing tangible; but none of it hung together any other way. This was an international rat’s nest; one side tried to kidnap Nikki and bring her alive to her father’s country, and the other side wanted to kill her to prevent the scandal. If Khan had murdered agents of both parties, it made sense only if he was merely a psychotic who cut up people senselessly, in no pattern. That just wasn’t true. He was an assassin whose victims had been put away to further his employers’ scheme and to protect his own anonymity. The man who cut Seipolt up was not a madman, he was not really Khan—he only wore a Khan moddy.

  And that man had nothing to do with Nikki’s death.

  There was still another killer loose in the city, even if Okking found it convenient to forget him.

  About ten minutes after Okking and his crew and I went our separate ways, the telephone rang. It was Hassan, calling back to tell me what Papa had said. “I’ve got some news, too, Hassan,” I said.

  “Friedlander Bey will see you shortly. He will send a car for you in fifteen minutes. I trust you are at home?”

  “No, but I’ll be waiting outside the building. I had some interesting company, but they’ve all gone away now.”

  “Good, my nephew. You deserved some pleasant relaxation with your friends.”

  I stared up at the cloud-covered sky, thinking about my confrontation with Khan, wondering if I should laugh at Hassan’s words. “I didn’t get much relaxing done,” I said. I told him what had happened from the time I’d last talked to him until they carted Okking’s hired killer away.

  Hassan stammered at me in amazement. “Audran,” he said when he finally regained control, “it pleases Allah that you are safe, that the maniac has been captured, and that Friedlander Bey’s wisdom has triumphed.”

  “You right,” I said. “Give all the credit to Papa. He was giving me the benefit of his wisdom, all right. Now that I think about it, I didn’t get a hell of a lot more help from him than I got from Okking. Sure, he backed me into a corner and made me go along with having my head opened; but after that he just sat back and tossed money my way. Papa knows everything that goes on in the Budayeen, Hassan. You mean to tell me both he and Okking have been standing around with their thumbs in their ears, absolutely baffled? I don’t buy that. I found out what Okking’s part in all this was; I’d like even better to know what Papa’s been doing behind the scenes.”

  “Silence, son of a diseased dog!” Hassan dropped his ingratiating manner and let his real self peek out, something he didn’t do very often. “You still have much to learn about showing respect to your elders and betters.” Then, just as suddenly, the old Hassan, Hassan the mendacious near-buffoon, returned. “You are still feeling the strain of the conflict. Forgive me for losing my patience with you, it is I who must be more understanding. All is as Allah wills, neither more nor less. So, my nephew, the car will call for you soon. Friedlander Bey will be well pleased.”

  “There isn’t time to get him a little gift, Hassan.”

  He chuckled. “Your news will be gift enough. Go in peace, Audran.”

  I didn’t say anything, but broke the connection. I resettled my zipper bag on my shoulder and walked toward my old apartment building. I would meet with Papa, and then I would hide in Ishak Jarir’s closet. The bright side was that Khan was now out of the picture. Khan had been the only one of the two murderers who’d shown any desire to eliminate me. That meant the other one probably felt like letting me live. At least, I hoped so.

  While I waited for Papa’s limo to come, I thought about my battle with Khan. I hated the man violently—all I had to do was call to mind the horror of Selima’s mutilated corpse, the revulsion I had felt while stumbling upon the dismembered bodies at Seipolt’s house. First he had killed Bogatyrev, Nikki’s own uncle who wanted her dead. Nikki was the key; all the other homicides were part of the frantic coverup that was supposed to keep the Russian scandal secret. I suppose it worked—oh, a lot of people here in the city knew about it, but without a live crown prince to embarrass the monarchy, there was no scandal back in White Russia. King Vyacheslav was safe on his throne, the royalists had won. In fact, with some clever and careful work on their part, they could use Nikki’s murder to strengthen their grip on the unstable nation.

  I didn’t care about any of that. Following the brawl with Khan, I’d let him live—for a little while. He had a date now with the headsman in the courtyard of the Shimaal Mosque. Let him relive his brutalities in terror of Allah in the meantime.

  The limo arrived and carried me to Friedlander Bey’s estate. The butler escorted me to the same waiting room I’d seen twice before. I waited for Papa to complete his prayers. Friedlander Bey didn’t make a great show of his devotion, which in a way made it all the more remarkable. Sometimes his belief shamed me; on those occasions I called up memories of the cruelties and crimes he was responsible for. I was only fooling myself; Allah knows none of us is perfect. I’m sure Friedlander Bey had no such illusions about himself. At least he asked his God to forgive him. Papa had explained it to me once before: he had to take care of a great number of relatives and associates, and sometimes the only way to protect them was to be unduly hard on outsiders. In that light, he was a great leader and a stern but loving father to his people. I, on the other hand, was a nobody who did a lot of illicit things myself, to no one’s benefit; and I didn’t even have the saving grace to beg Allah’s pardon.

  At last one of the two huge men who guarded Papa motioned to me. I entered the inner office; Friedlander Bey was waiting for me, seated on his antique lacquered divan. “Once again you do me great honor,” he said. He indicated that I should be seated across the table from him, on the other divan.

  “It is my honor to wish you good evening,” I said.

  “Will you take a morsel of bread with me?”

  “You are most generous, O Shaykh,” I said. I didn’t feel wary or self-conscious, as I had on my previous meetings with Papa. After all, I had done the impossible for him. I had to keep reminding myself that the great man was now in my debt.

  The servants brought the first course of the meal, and Friedlander Bey steered the conversation from one trivial subject to another. We sampled a little of many different dishes, everything succulently prepared and fragrant; I decided to chip out the hunger-override daddy, and when I did, I realized just how hungry I was. I was able to do justice to Papa’s banquet. I wasn’t, however, ready to pop the other daddies out. Not quite yet.

  The servants brought platters of lamb, chicke
n, beef, and fish, served with delicately seasoned vegetables and savory rice. We ended with a selection of fresh fruit and cheeses; when all the dishes were cleared away, Papa and I relaxed with strong coffee flavored with spices.

  “May your table last forever, O Shaykh,” I said. “That was the finest meal I’ve ever enjoyed.”

  He was pleased. “I give thanks to God it was to your liking. Will you drink some more coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you, O Shaykh.”

  The servants were gone and so, too, were the Stones Who Speak. Friedlander Bey poured my coffee himself, a gesture of sincere respect. “You must agree now that my plans for you were all in order,” he said softly.

  “Yes, O Shaykh. I am grateful.”

  He waved that aside. “It is we, the city and myself, who are grateful to you, my son. Now we must speak of the future.”

  “Forgive me, O Shaykh, but we cannot safely think of the future until we are secure in the present. One of the murderers who menaced us has been accounted for, but there is yet another at large. That evil one may have returned to his homeland, it is true; it is some time now since he struck down his victims. Yet it would be prudent for us to consider the possibility that he is still in the city. We would be well advised to learn his identity and his whereabouts.”

  The old man frowned and pulled at his gray cheek. “O my son, you alone believe in the existence of this other assassin. I do not see why the man who was James Bond, who was also Xarghis Khan, could not also be the torturer who slew Abdoulaye in so unspeakable a manner. You mentioned the many personality modules Khan had in his possession. Could not one of them make him the demon who also murdered the Crown Prince Nikolai Konstantin?”

  What did I have to do to persuade these people? “O Shaykh,” I said, “your theory requires that one man was working for both the fascist-communist alliance and the Byelorussian loyalists. He would, in effect, be neutralizing himself at every turn. It would postpone the outcome, which might be to his advantage although I don’t understand how; and he would be able to report positive results to both sides for a time. Yet if all that were true, how would he resolve the situation? He would finally be rewarded by one side and punished by the other. It’s foolish to think that one man might simultaneously be protecting Nikki and trying to murder her. In addition, the police examiner determined that the man who killed Tami, Abdoulaye, and Nikki was shorter and heavier than Khan, with thick, stubby fingers.”