Suicide Kings wc-20

by George R. R. Martin

  He’d just finished and was washing his hands when Ghost came running back. She grabbed his hand, pulling frantically toward the APC. Tears glistened on her cheeks, dripping from eyes wide with terror.

  Wally knelt, so that she could look at him face-to-face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did you see something?”

  With one hand, Ghost gave his arm another panicky tug. With the other, she pointed at the bridge. Wally looked up, suddenly worried they’d been spotted. The bridge was empty.

  Somewhere not far away, a train barreled down a set of tracks. The sound echoed faintly across the grassy plains: tikka-tch-tch-tikka-tch-tch… It goaded Ghost into deeper panic.

  “You’re afraid of the train? What’s on the train?” Wally asked. Maybe she’d been taken to Bunia on a train. He pointed at the bridge, then at Ghost, and shrugged. Is that how they took you from your family?

  Ghost shook her head. She pointed in the direction of the approaching train-it was louder now-and then curled her lips into a snarl. She held two fingers in front of her mouth, like fangs, then contorted her hands into the semblance of claws.

  Leopard Men. There were Leopard Men on that train.

  Wally thought about the maps. Of course. They’re pulling reinforcements back to defend Bunia.

  The first smile in many days spread across his face. He laid his hands on Ghost’s arms. “Wanna see something neat?” He winked.

  First, he backed the APC a ways up the road. Just in case. Then he scrambled up the embankment to the bridge truss and started to climb. The wooden boards creaked precariously under Wally’s weight, but they held. By the time he pulled himself atop the rail bed, he could see sunlight glinting off the approaching train.

  Wally laid a hand on one rail, concentrating. The steel turned orange beneath his palm. He willed the rust to spread; like a lit fuse, it streaked up the rail past the end of the bridge. Wally stomped his foot, hard enough to shake the bridge. The ruined rail sloughed apart. In a few seconds there was nothing left but flakes of corroded metal wafting down to the river.

  The train was close now. It rounded the bend. Wally jumped onto the embankment, then half slid, half tumbled down to the road. He carried Ghost back a safe distance, behind the APC.

  The crash was spectacular, if Wally did say so himself.

  Cyrene, by the Nile

  Old Egypt

  The Nile sighed, gurgled, and whispered as it flowed past. The moonlight coaxed silver from the ripples, and seemed to edge the fronds of the date palms with pale halos. A desert wind rattled in the palms with a sound like castanets.

  Noel, pacing along the river, paused and took a deep breath, savoring the scent of dust, dung, river reeds, and dried lemons simmering with lamb. He let the tension leach out of his muscles.

  It was done. Nshombo was dead. The Chinese and Indians were pulling out of the PPA, viewing it as a bad bet. The conquered African nations were beginning to exert local control again. Noel had come to Egypt, and still in a manic high, fueled by quarts of whiskey-laced coffee and not enough sleep, he had poured out the entire story to Niobe. She had been appropriately admiring of his cleverness.

  The bad news-Weathers was still obsessed with Noel Matthews, and seemed to care not one jot that the PPA was collapsing. Of course Weathers had killed the hero of the Revolution. Perhaps it had occurred to him that he might not be all that popular back in Kongoville.

  Noel had slept the entire day. Unable to sit still he had headed out for a walk before dinner. Gravel crunched beneath his soles as he resumed his stroll. He heard voices and recognized Niobe’s soft alto and a boy’s piping tenor. Noel stepped through flowering hibiscus bushes and found Niobe and Drake seated on a marble bench. A tray with glasses and a pitcher of fruit juice rested on the ground at their feet.

  If there was no change in the voice, the year had certainly wrought changes in the boy’s body. Drake had shot up and slimmed down. His hair was longer, brushing at the tops of his shoulders. They both looked up at Noel’s approach, and he saw the more manifest changes-the lump in Drake’s forehead that marked the place where Sekhmet rested, and the age and sorrow that lingered in the back of his eyes. Drake might only be fourteen, but Sekhmet had lived through decades of grief and loss.

  But maybe some of that grief is Drake’s, Noel thought. The boy had killed (inadvertent though it might have been) his entire family and town, and wiped out thousands of PPA soldiers. He too possessed a lifetime of grief and guilt.

  But suddenly he was just a teenage boy. He bounced up, nearly upsetting the tray, and called to Noel, “Hey, Noel, sit next to your sweetie.”

  Niobe offered him a glass of juice. As their fingers met they had that momentary silent communication that flows between married couples.

  Are you all right?

  Yes, love.

  I’m glad you’re here.

  So am I.

  She came into the circle of his arm, and Noel kissed the top of her head.

  “Has there been any sign of Weathers?” Noel asked.

  Drake nodded. “He scouted once, but I don’t think he wanted to tangle with the firepower here. We may be mostly jokers, but there are some aces in the mix and… and…” He hesitated and suddenly seemed like a child again.

  “It’s okay, you can say it,” Niobe said with a smile. “There’s you with the powers of Ra.”

  Noel took a sip of his drink. It was a mix of peach and pomegranate, sweet and sharp all at the same time.

  “Dinner’s in an hour. I’ll leave you two to snuggle.” Drake gave them a teenager’s leer, then slumped as he reacted to something only he could hear. “And I’ve got a ton of algebra homework to do.” He walked away.

  Noel cocked an eyebrow at Niobe. “Homework?”

  “He is only fourteen and he needs to be a wise ruler, not just a powerful one.” She smiled. “It was actually Sekhmet who told him he had to find tutors. She puts a lot of emphasis on education.” She fiddled with the fringe of the sunset-colored shawl she wore, then walked back to the bench and picked up a folded paper off the tray. She offered it to him mutely.

  Noel opened it and looked down at a picture of Weathers raining down death and destruction onto another city.

  “This has to stop. He’s tearing up cities and killing people because of you.”

  Noel ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think I know that? I can’t fight Tom Weathers. Or do you just want me to surrender and let him kill me?”

  “Of course I’m not suggesting that.” Her tone was sharp. “You could work with the Committee.”

  “They’re idiots.”

  “Then help them not be idiots. You’re clever and you know how to do this… this sort of thing.”

  “Kill Weathers. Just say it.” She looked distressed and he realized how harsh he must have sounded. “I thought you didn’t want me to kill anymore.”

  “I didn’t, but Weathers has to be stopped, and what is happening in the Congo has got to be stopped.”

  “I got rid of Nshombo.”

  “They are still torturing and killing children.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’m going to kill these child aces.”

  “I would never forgive you if you did, but you can help destroy the labs where they’re making them.”

  That pulled a bitter laugh from him. “I thank you for your belief in my abilities, but I’m not that powerful.”

  “And you’re a leader and a planner. The Committee has powerful aces, but no leadership.”

  “Lohengrin would disagree with that.”

  Niobe shrugged. “He means well, but he’s a dreamer. You’re a pragmatist. You’ll think of a way to deal with Weathers, but in the meantime at least shut down the labs.”

  Noel studied her features washed pale by the moonlight. He saw no softening, only determination. He realized this was the woman who had risked everything, faced down the armed might of the American government to save one little boy.

  Could he really do less?

/>   But he wanted it to be over.

  She seemed to read the thought. She laid a hand on his cheek. “Do this. I think it might be the only way for you to find peace.”

  On the Road to Bunia, Congo

  People’s Paradise of Africa

  The incident with the train brought about another change in Ghost. She started to talk.

  Wally couldn’t understand what she was saying, any better than she understood him. But she chattered at him in her little-girl voice, and that made him happy. She sounded like a normal little girl. Less like a ghost every day.

  And, as they passed through villages on the way to Bunia, she talked to other people, too. About Wally. Based on her gestures and the boom! boom! boom! sounds she made, he guessed she was telling them about his fight with the Leopard Men, and the barge he’d sunk, and the train he’d derailed. Especially the train. They loved the part about the train. They clapped him on the back, burbling, offering the strangers food and places to sleep.

  Bunia must have been a pretty big city, because Wally started noticing cell phones. Each time Ghost finished her tale, a dozen folks whipped out their phones and began texting. And that’s when the story really spread.

  Tuesday,

  December 29

  Bunia, Congo

  People’s Paradise of Africa

  The sun rose on columns of oily smoke dotting the horizon, on every point of the compass. But mostly in the direction of Bunia.

  Wally and Ghost had acquired an entourage. A small but growing convoy of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and even bicycles trailed their stolen personnel carrier. The people riding them waved shovels, machetes, picks, wooden boards, and anything else they could scrounge.

  Wally hated it. These folks would get themselves killed. But he couldn’t make them understand.

  Ghost refused to leave his side.

  More smoke on the horizon.

  The radio in the APC came alive with chatter. Wally couldn’t understand the actual words, but he didn’t need to. He recognized the urgency; the jumble of traffic as people spoke over one another; the plaintive sound of soldiers requesting orders; the barking of harried commanders trying to gather information.

  He’d listened to the same kind of chaos on a few Committee ops. It was the sound of things going wrong.

  United Nations

  Manhattan, New York

  Noel teleported directly into Lohengrin’s office. The eye patch ought to have made him look rakish and dangerous. Instead the German looked oddly young and vulnerable.

  “ Scheisse! Oh. What do you want?”

  “How can I help?”

  Bunia, Congo

  People’s Paradise of Africa

  They hit another roadblock about fifty miles outside Bunia. Regular troops patrolled this one; Wally saw no sign of the elite Leopard Men. Not that these soldiers needed the help. They had a tank.

  The troops took one look at the line of vehicles strung out on the narrow road behind Wally’s APC and raised their weapons. One spoke into a radio handset. The tank turret swiveled, lining up a shot that would kill a hundred people.

  Wally was out and charging for the tank in an instant. Bullets ricocheted from his body and from the armor of the personnel carrier. Something wet and warm trickled down his neck. Motors whirred. The tank barrel eased lower.

  Wally leapt, hands outstretched. The tank imploded in an orange cloud. Iron fists made short work of the tank crew. Then Wally turned on the other soldiers, but they had dropped their weapons. Hands in the air, they stared behind him.

  He turned. A villager had scrambled atop the APC, and was brandishing the machine gun with a wicked grimace. But it didn’t matter that the soldiers had surrendered. They were overrun by a wave of angry Congolese, wielding brickbats and hope.

  That evening, Wally borrowed a phone. The only number he could remember was Jerusha’s. She didn’t answer; he left a message on her voice mail.

  “Um. Hey, there, Jerusha. This is Wally. You know, from… well, you know. Anyway, I figure that by now you must have gotten in touch with the Committee, and you got all them kids safe and sound. Sure hope so. I’m still on my way to Bu-to that place we talked about. I’ll get there soon. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. I hope you are, too. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.” But he knew that was unlikely. So, just in case, he added, “And, Jerusha? Thank you. For everything.”

  34

  Wednesday,

  December 30

  Blythe van Renssaeler

  Memorial Clinic, Jokertown

  Manhattan, New York

  “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Jerusha looked up at the glowering Finn. A nurse-a joker with purple skin and arms and legs that looked like they’d been twisted from balloons-hovered anxiously behind him in the doorway. She straightened, leaving the clothes half stuffed into the garbage bag she had taken from the can. Her seed pouch was lashed to her waist; the belt had gone twice around her cadaverous form. She wiped at her arms, bloodied from where she’d pulled out the IVs. They looked as if they belonged to someone else: skeletal, skin hanging empty from the framework of her bones. She avoided looking at the figure of herself in the glass as she turned. “Figure it out, Doc. You’re a smart guy.”

  “I haven’t released you.”

  “I’ve decided to release myself.”

  “Jerusha, you’ll die if you leave here.”

  “That’s kind of inevitable, isn’t it? On the whole, I’d rather be dying where I might be able to do some good, rather than here in your sterile room. No offense.”

  “You can’t be thinking of going back to Africa.”

  “Why not? I’m black.” When Finn just stared at her, his mouth slightly open, Jerusha laughed drily, the amusement ending in an exhausted, hacking cough that bent her over.

  Finn started toward her, and she took a step back from him, straightening. She wiped at her lips-touching her face was always a shock. It didn’t feel like her face, but some impossibly thin stranger’s. She swept a hand over her short hair: the tight curls were dry, brittle, and fragile. “It’s a joke, Doc. I need to find Rusty, and I need to find him before”-she stopped, took a breath-“while I can . I’m doing exactly that unless you can tell me right now that you can cure whatever that child did to me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you can do that, Doc.”

  Finn only stared, his gaze almost angry.

  “I thought so.” Jerusha turned back to the garbage bag, pushing at the clothing and closing the bag. She swung it by the ties around her shoulder. “I have a train and then a plane to catch.” She plucked a seed from the pouch and held it up to the centaur. “Get out of my way, or I’ll wreck your nice little clinic making sure I’m not stopped.”

  “They won’t let you do this,” Finn said. “They won’t let you get on that plane.”

  “What they?” she asked. “The Committee? Then they’ll have to fight me.” She touched the seed pouch. “They’d better send someone good. I’m going, or I swear to you I’ll die fighting right there at the airport.”

  Finn still hadn’t moved. “All right. You’re an adult. You want to leave, I won’t stop you. But let me make a call first. If you’re determined to go, then let’s make sure you actually get there.” He held her gaze. “That’s not a lie, and that’s not a diversion. I’m asking you to let me try to help you.”

  Jerusha stared at him. She lowered the seed and put it back into the pouch. She swung the garbage bag onto the bed and sat down alongside it, hating how good it felt to be sitting rather than standing. “All right,” she told Finn. “I’ll wait. For a little bit. But if your phone call doesn’t pan out, I’m gone.” She looked over Finn’s withers to the nurse. “And bring me some food while I’m waiting. Lots of it. I’m famished.”

  Finn and the nurse fled. Jerusha looked around the room. Her cell phone… It was still in the drawer of the stand. She pulled it out. The battery, after days here in the clinic, was d
ead. She pulled out the cord, plugged it in. The phone beeped; there was a message on her voice mail from a number she didn’t know, a sequence that wasn’t an American number. She pressed the key to listen.

  “Um. Hey there, Jerusha. This is Wally…”

  The tears then came without volition, huge sobs that wracked her body and brought the purple nurse rushing back into the room. She clutched the phone hard in her thin hand until it hurt, listening to that voice. She looked up at the woman and she smiled.

  “Wally’s alive,” Jerusha said. “He’s still alive…”

  United Nations

  Manhattan, New York

  Lohengrin stalked down the hallway, leaning heavily on the aluminum cane. His head was less gauzed, but a silver medical patch was fixed over his seared eye. His rage radiated like heat from a fire. Bugsy walked on his left, Babel on his right like a cartoon demon/angel pair.

  “Investigators,” Lohengrin spat. “A month, and we can assemble investigators to observe the People’s Paradise.”

  “China is getting most of its oil from the Nshombos,” Babel said. “It would be naive to expect them to abandon their own economic interests.”

  Lohengrin actually growled. Babel’s brow clouded. This was apparently not the first time through the conversation.

  “Hi,” Bugsy said. “So things are going well, then?”

  “The Committee is doing nothing about the child aces of Africa,” Lohengrin said. “We are sitting on our hands, because of policy.”

  “Yeah. Picked up on that.”

  Lohengrin turned a tight corner and stepped into Gardener’s suite. An IV drip was feeding into the woman’s arm, but it didn’t matter how many calories they pumped into her; Jerusha Carter was starving to death. The sight of her withering body was such a shock, Bugsy didn’t immediately register the other two people in the room.

  “Jonathan,” Ellen said.

  She looked beautiful. A deep brown sweater he hadn’t seen her in before, and a long black wool overcoat. Her hair was in a new cut, swept back from her eyes. Her smile was almost gentle.

  I used to spend time with that body naked, Bugsy thought with a pang of regret. But then he noticed the fedora scrap poking out of her coat pocket.