Suicide Kings wc-20

by George R. R. Martin

Mollie frowned. “That doesn’t sound legal.”

  “It’s not… technically… but morally it’s very pure.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “The funds are in Africa.”

  He watched the frown vanish, and he could even follow the thought process. Outside of the United States it’s anything goes. If you steal from foreigners it’s not really stealing.

  “And I’d get paid for this?”

  “Three million dollars.”

  “Sign me up.”

  In the Jungle, Congo

  People’s Paradise of Africa

  The jungle was their enemy, as much as any pursuers.

  The jungle didn’t want them to walk straight east. It forced them to jog north or south to find a good place to ford the frequent streams, or to avoid pools where crocodiles lurked in the rushes. It made them bypass hills that were too steep for the children and the burden of the jokers like Eason who they carried. It laid tree roots and ravines across their path. It send hordes of mosquitoes and huge black flies to torment them. It yammered at them with a thousand eerie and strange sounds that made the children shudder and cry in return. It plagued them with heat and humidity; it wrapped them in a claustrophobic world of green and brown that smelled of wet earth and rot.

  Despite Waikili’s continued insistence, they’d yet to have any visible indication of pursuit. Jerusha didn’t have time to worry about that. The environment itself was trial enough.

  They were moving down a long slope to where-well below-Jerusha could see the glimmer of yet another stream. She was trying to help the kids carry the improvised stretcher with Eason, so that they didn’t spill the joker child onto the ground. That had already happened too many times. The sight of Eason flopping on the ground with his fish tail reminded Jerusha uncomfortably of her childhood when her goldfish had leaped from their bowl onto the table. “Careful, Saadi,” she said to one of the children. “Watch where you’re stepping.”

  From behind her, upslope, there was a cry, then a shout of “Bibbi Jerusha!”

  She left Eason and went running up to where several of the children were gathered around someone. “It’s Efia,” Cesar said as she approached. “She’s been bitten. A snake…”

  Jerusha crouched down alongside Efia, who was sniffing and holding her right leg. At the girl’s ankle, there were beads of blood and the joint itself was puffy, the skin blotchy and dark. She was speaking in Baluba, her voice choked with sobs. “What’s she saying?” Jerusha asked Cesar.

  “It bit her twice-on the ankle, then on the hand when she reached down.” Efia held out the hand. Like the ankle, it was already visibly swollen, the skin darkening around the puncture wounds.

  Jerusha had already swung her pack from her shoulders, digging in it for the snakebite first-aid kit. “Did she see the snake? Does she know what it was?”

  Cesar asked Efia, who shook her head and spoke a quick few words. She was panting, her breath too fast.

  “It was brown and yellow, about as long as her arm. It’s not one she knows. It went back into the brush after it bit her.”

  “All right,” Jerusha said. “Everyone be careful, that snake is still around here. Tell Efia it will be okay. Just lay back and relax. Here…” She handed Cesar a roll of bandages. “Tie a strip of this around her leg and arm right above the wounds-tight, but not too tight.” There was cobra antivenom in the kit, but without knowing if the snake was a cobra or not, Jerusha didn’t know whether it might do more harm than good. The instructions in the kit were of little help.

  Efia was crying. Jerusha stroked her head. The girl was sweating. “Kafil-get some water and a cloth. Put it on her head.” Jerusha opened the suction device in the kit and placed it over the wound, pulling on the plunger. An ugly mixture of pus and blood came out. The children gathered around made noises of disgust, and Efia’s cries became louder. “Hush!” she told them. “Let me work…”

  She knew from her experience in the parks and the occasional snakebites there that suction usually did little to remove the venom, nor could it stop the necrosis of the tissue. She also knew that victims needed to be seen by a doctor as soon as possible after a bite. Here, there was only Jerusha and whatever was in the kit.

  The swelling was worsening, and Efia’s breath was shallowing. Her eyes were closed. Jerusha could feel panic rising in her own chest. She quickly filled a syringe with the antivenom and injected it into Efia’s arm.

  She resumed using the suction device on the bite sites. “Come on,” she breathed toward Efia, who had slipped into unconsciousness. “Come on, girl…”

  She worked on the girl, as the jungle howled derision at her, as the children watched, as monkeys chattered and chased each other through the tree branches overhead, as the shafts of sun slid through the gaps in the canopy overhead. Efia’s breathing continued to worsen. Sweat poured from her, then ominously stopped. The skin around the wounds putrefied sickeningly.

  Jerusha suddenly realized that she hadn’t heard Efia take a breath in far too long. “No!” she shouted. To the jungle, to the children around her. “No! Efia… ”

  There was no answer. Only the still and silent body in front of her.

  Damascus, Syria

  The Caliphate of Arabia

  Damascus lay on its plateau gleaming like scattered self-luminous jewels in the night.

  Tom Weathers touched down in the old town on a plaza in front of a giant white building whose dome and minaret, lit respectively gold and blue, marked it as a major mosque. Under his arms he carried Ayiyi and the Mummy. The Darkness rode his back, her arms around his neck and her pipe-stem legs wrapped around his waist.

  There wasn’t much traffic here this late. Tom let them down to the pavement. “Okay, this time you’re on your own,” he told them. “The Darkness will give you cover; you other two wander around and, y’know, spread the love.” He looked closely at the Darkness. She had her arms crossed and a dubious expression on her dark pixie face. “Candace, you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

  “Of course I will, silly fool,” she said. “No one can see me. No one find me.”

  Solemnly she touched the eyes of both other children. Venom dripped from Ayiyi’s spider jaws and fell hissing on the pavement. The Mummy only nodded, her face unreadable beneath the bandages that covered her.

  Candace raised her arms, and Darkness issued from her mouth, ears, eyes. Rolled away from her like smoke. In a heartbeat she was gone, shrouded in black fog.

  Before the cold black tentacles closed around him Tom Weathers was in orbit.

  20

  Tuesday,

  December 15

  On the Lualaba River, Congo

  People’s Paradise of Africa

  The Lukuga river jagged sharply to the north just before joining the Lualaba. Wally studied a map in his guidebook. The Lualaba was itself a tributary of the famous Congo River.

  He passed a village nestled where the two rivers met. Kongolo, according to the guidebook. He slowed down, so that the villagers could get a clear look at the metal man driving a PPA boat. Most fled. But a few folks saw him and pointed. He sped up again when Kongolo was behind him.

  A barge floated somewhere on this tangle of waterways. A barge that had supplied the Nyunzu lab with the virus that had killed Lucien. Wally kept reminding himself to leave a few survivors when he finally found the barge. Survivors who could report his whereabouts. Which, he hoped, would keep people off Jerusha’s trail.

  The files from Nyunzu said the central lab, the centerpiece of the PPA’s project to create an army of child aces, was in Bunia. He found the village on the map, tucked up in the northeastern corner of the PPA. After taking care of the barge, he’d go as far upriver as he could, then strike out over land toward Bunia.

  Wally was so preoccupied with the map, glancing up only occasionally to keep the boat on course, that he didn’t notice when the river widened and slowed. Thud. The boat ran aground on a sandbar at the edge of a mar
shy stretch of river. The impact jarred the guidebook from Wally’s hands; the pilot’s chair creaked under his shifting weight.

  “A www, heck.” Wally slammed the throttle into reverse, but the boat didn’t budge. Its sleek prow had sliced into the sand like a knife, but now it was wedged in there good and snug. “Nuts.” He killed the throttle and climbed out. Muck squelched underfoot. It oozed up to his ankles. “Well, that’s just great.”

  The marsh was an expanse of chest-high river grass dotted with a smattering of wispy, droopy trees. Jerusha could have told him exactly what kind of trees they were.

  Jeez, do I ever miss you, Jerusha. Stay safe, okay?

  Here and there, rivulets of brackish water cut channels through the stands of grass. Wally thought about this. The barge had to come through here on the way to and from Nyunzu; he’d traveled the entire length of the Lukuga River without seeing it. So there had to be a way through.

  Twenty minutes of searching revealed a circuitous channel just wide enough for a barge. It was almost invisible until he was right on top of it, hidden by the river grass. But entering the channel at its outlet would have meant turning around, heading back up the river, and searching for the entrance. That would take a couple of hours. On the other hand, it wasn’t all that far from his boat to the channel. Wally decided to portage.

  The important part was getting a good grip. He lifted the prow out of the muck, then walked his way under the boat, hands overhead, until he reached the center of balance. Another heave freed the stern. He sank to his knees, but he managed to heft the boat overhead. So much for my bandages, he thought.

  As strong as Wally was, carrying a boat through a swamp took a lot of work, even for him. Each step was a struggle to free his legs of the sucking mud without losing his balance. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face. Water and marsh slime pattered from the hull onto Wally’s pith helmet. The occasional portage during canoe trips up in the boundary waters had never been this tough. But slowly, carefully, he made his way.

  Wally gave one final heave. The patrol boat splashed back into the navigable portion of the river, ready to resume its pursuit of the barge.

  He hunkered down for a breather at the water’s edge, panting like he’d just run a marathon. This was the river, all right. The water rippled where the current picked up again. He unwrapped a granola bar.

  Something launched out of the water, clamped on his leg, and yanked him into the river.

  The next thing Wally knew, he was facedown on the river bottom with what felt like a hydraulic press squeezing the heck out of his leg. It flipped him over. Wally caught a glimpse of green amid the bubbles and froth in the murky brown water.

  His lungs ached. He couldn’t see. Something rough smacked him in the face.

  Wally aimed a fist, blindly, at the crushing pressure just below his knee. He poured everything he had into it. The blow landed on something scaly with a muffled crunch. The dazed crocodile loosened its grip.

  Wally pulled free. He flailed for the surface, desperate to pull air into his burning lungs, but he wasn’t much of a swimmer. The iron skin didn’t do much for his buoyancy. His field of view receded into a narrow tunnel.

  His fingers brushed a bundle of tree roots. Wally wrapped both hands around the roots and pulled for all he was worth. His head broke the surface. His chest creaked like old bedsprings as he sucked down a lungful of air.

  The croc grabbed his leg and pulled him under again.

  “Crip-” Splash.

  They hit bottom again. It felt like the lousy thing was biting right through the iron. He’d have dents for sure. The croc outweighed him; using its tail for leverage, it flipped Wally like a pancake. His hip erupted in wrenching pain.

  The death roll. That’s what Jerusha had called it.

  Wally doubled over when the croc rolled under him. He reached the jaws clamped around his shin. Wally grabbed the croc’s snout, one hand on each jaw, and pulled.

  Wally felt a tremor as he pried apart the croc’s jaws. But it fought him for every inch. Judas Priest, this thing is strong.

  Its forelegs scrabbled at his chest. The massive tail hammered at his arms and legs.

  Wally pulled his leg free, then launched himself back to the surface with a kick to the croc’s gut. The croc surfaced a split second after he did. Gasping for air, he finally got a good look at the thing. It had to be twelve feet long.

  The croc lunged again. For something so large, it was surprisingly fast. Wally clamped his hands around the tip of its snout again. This time, he squeezed until he could lace his fingers together. The croc couldn’t open its mouth.

  But it could still use its tail to pound at Wally. Which it did. Furiously.

  Wally raised his arms overhead, pulling the croc’s head and forelegs clear of the water. It thrashed, sending Wally toppling over backward. But as the croc landed on him, he threw his legs around its midriff and his arms around its throat. He squeezed.

  They went under again, wrestling at the bottom of the river. The croc writhed in his grasp. It couldn’t twist around far enough to bite him; Wally’s shoulder was pressed into its throat. It tried to smash him, using its weight to pin Wally to the mud. The blow expelled the remainder of the breath Wally had been holding. That loosened his grip just enough for the croc to spin around until Wally held it from behind, but he didn’t release it. The ridges along its back scratched his chest. Wally’s field of view receded into the tunnel again. He locked his ankles together, squeezing until he felt the creak of reptile bones.

  The croc coiled its free half like a spring, then launched them both with one colossal thrashing of its tail. They broke the surface, Wally’s arms and legs still clamped around the croc. They crashed on the riverbank. Pain shot up and down Wally’s back.

  Crack. Something snapped under his grip. Then another, and another.

  Ribs.

  Crimson froth issued from the corners of the crocodile’s mouth. It struggled, weakly, to free itself. Wally let go. It dove back in the river.

  Wally staggered back, shaking. His entire body trembled with the last vestiges of adrenaline and the first twinges of, Holy cow, that thing could have killed me.

  He slumped against a tree. Part of him knew he had to dig out a towel and start drying himself as quickly as possible. But he couldn’t catch his breath. His arms and legs throbbed with bruises from the battering they’d received. It felt like every joint in his body had been stretched apart, especially his hip. His ribs burned.

  Slowly, the panicky feeling ebbed, leaving only aches and pains in its place. He watched the retreating crocodile. The post-adrenaline crash left him giddy.

  Well, gosh, get a load of that, he thought. Just like Tarzan!

  Wally pounded his chest with both fists. The jungle echoed with his best imitation of Johnny Weissmuller.

  But the post-adrenaline crash hit him hard. Almost before the last echoes of his triumphant yell had faded away, his eyelids became too heavy for him to lift. Heavier than the boat, heavier even than the crocodile. The need for sleep defeated him before he could towel off.

  Something bumped his neck. A loud clink snapped him out of a deep nap some time later. The ghostly little girl stood over him, a ten-inch knife clutched in her tiny fist.

  Bahr al-Ghazal Region

  The Sudd, South Sudan

  The Caliphate of Arabia

  The Ghazi commando shrieked wildly as Ayiyi, clinging to his back, plunged his fangs into his shoulder through the tail of his green-and-white checked keffiyeh. The boy face above the spider body gleamed with Christmas glee.

  “That’s the way, man!” Tom shouted. The camp grew flames, whipping like pale yellow and orange banners in the merciless sun. A Ghazi jumped from behind a blazing BMP-3, aiming a stubby AKSU carbine at Tom’s face. Tom plucked it from his hands and tied the barrel in a knot, shattering the synthetic forestock. Then he handed it back. “I know it’s trite, man, but sometimes the old ways are best.”

  The d
ude had balls, Tom had to give him that. Rather than accept the useless steel pretzel back he batted it away and fired a brutal sidekick into Tom’s solar plexus.

  Tom had already bent his body at the center to bring the rim of his rib cage protectively over the vulnerable nerve junction. He took a step back. “Tae kwon do, huh? Nice shot. Try this on for size.” He drove a palm-heel strike into the center of the man’s chest. The commando’s eyeballs popped clear of their sockets. Juice squirted from his nose and mouth and ears as his rib cage flexed clear to his spine, squishing heart and lungs and liver and other incidentals. The Ghazi flew up and away, flopping like a rag doll, to slam against the radar dish of the armored barge that had dropped the elite mechanized recon squadron here on the west flank of the Simba Brigades.

  Tom’s kid aces, augmented by two were-leopards and a squad of non-shape-shifting Leopard Man commandos, were raising adequate hell among the cars and crews. Tom wanted the barge. Blowing up and sinking it would look really cool for the cameras. Hei-lian and her crew were squatting ass-deep in a nasty stagnant pool a quarter mile away, capturing the action through the papyrus shoots.

  It would’ve been easier, of course, to zap the barge before it off-loaded the squadron, but Doc Prez wanted his new aces showcased in action, showing the world how not just every ethnic group but every age group of the People’s Paradise was stepping up to fight imperialism.

  Tom raced toward the papyrus screen at the water’s edge. Without pause he dove in. Drawing in a deep breath he willed himself to change even before his outstretched fingertips touched the roiled brown syrupy surface.

  Then he floundered, his belly scraping bottom. What the fuck? he wondered in amazement. I’m supposed to be a fucking super-dolphin now!

  Another voice, deep and sonorous, said clearly in his mind: You are unworthy. I care nothing for these land dwellers. Your madness endangers the creatures of the sea as well. I go, and wish you only failure.

  The words were French, with a Quebecois accent. He had never heard that cold, contemptuous voice before. As the Radical. But in memories from his hated hippie predecessor he recalled hearing it from his own altered mouth…