by Karen Healey
I raised the gun in my lap and watched the screen-Abdi push the muzzle into the soft skin under his chin. “No brain,” I said softly. “No password.”
Cox’s eyes widened. “There’s no need for this precipitate action.”
“Diane knows there is. I told her that I’d rather die than be under her control again. I don’t bluff, Mr. President.” A lie, a lie, an enormous lie. The big lies were the ones people believed most often.
Especially when you could mix them with truth. I’d told Zaneisha the bolt-gun was a prop. But if it became necessary, I would pull that trigger.
Watching Cox hesitate and think, I felt like I was swaying over a wide-mouthed canyon, with jagged rocks waiting eagerly to receive my broken body. A breath of air from this man’s lips, and I would live or die.
What I wanted, most in the world, was for no one to have this kind of power over me ever again.
His gaze refocused. He looked puzzled, now, more disbelieving than angry. “I thought someone was pulling your strings—Dr. Carmen, perhaps. That you were the face and someone else was the brains. But this is really all you, isn’t it? I’m actually negotiating with a child.”
My lip curled. “I stopped being a child some time ago.” I ground the gun muzzle deeper into my flesh. “Do we have a deal, Mr. President?”
“We have a deal,” he said, and looked over my shoulder. “Fall back, men.” In the screen, the soldiers shifted, holstering their weapons. My hands, so steady all this time, trembled with relief. I would live. We would all live.
The soldiers were moving away, but Diane lingered. “Sir, I must protest. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“I am acting in the interests of the nation, Agent. Withdraw from the premises and allow this man and Dr. Carmen free exit. Where is Dr. Carmen, may I ask?”
“Somewhere else,” I said, seeing Diane’s eyes narrow. “You surely don’t think we’d speak from the same location?”
“She has to be here, sir. And Tegan, too, and Washington, and whoever else. The rest of the house is clear; they must be in this room. Let me search it. He’ll give up the password to keep them safe.”
“I order you to fall back, Agent,” Cox said.
I turned around to watch her closely, my hands still shaking. “I will die before you get a chance to touch them,” I told her. “You will never lay a finger on me.”
I saw her recognize that I wasn’t bluffing, watched her confront and reject her failure. “Let’s see,” she said, and as Cox shouted uselessly, as Zaneisha Washington hurled herself over the bookshelf, Diane brought up her gun.
But my gun was already aimed. My brother had taught me how, and my mother had scolded us, and I hated violence, but I would not let Diane win. My fumbling, twitching finger tightened on the trigger.
The sound of the shots tore the room apart.
Two shots, Halim had taught me, so you can be sure your enemy is dead.
Diane staggered back, her eyes blank with astonishment, as her gun fell from limp fingers. “What?” she said. “No…”
And she fell, bloody, to the floor.
I exhaled in a long, shuddering moan and jerked my weapon down. The president cursed. “I ordered her back, Mr. Taalib,” he said. “You heard that, yes?”
My voice sounded mechanical in my ringing ears. “I heard. Yes. Her decision, not yours.”
Marie’s surgeon’s instincts had pushed her out of hiding, but while she was trying to check the blood flow, the pool spreading under Diane’s body looked conclusive.
And even if they froze her, she couldn’t come back.
“Quite. Well. I assume you’ll get in contact with me again, to discuss the details.”
“Yes,” I said, dragging my gaze away from Diane’s body.
The sides of Cox’s mouth had sagged in subtle relaxation. “Do you really think you can do it?” His voice was unmodulated now, sincere in its curiosity. “Settle a planet with a crew and cargo of teenagers?”
“We’ll do it,” I told him. “Just stay out of our way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Coda
I rose on legs as wobbly as a newborn animal and shuffled over to stare into the dead face of my enemy. Diane’s eyes were still open in disbelief. At the very end, she’d been so shocked that anyone could hurt her.
Tegan approached. “Let’s put this down,” she suggested, and eased the gun out of my hand. I’d forgotten I was still holding it.
“You hate guns,” I said. And I had just shot someone with one. Everything was echoing. I didn’t really have time to go into shock, but I was worried I might anyway.
“They’re useful sometimes,” Tegan said, but she put the weapon down on a shelf and came back to snake her arm around me. “Marie, what are you doing?”
“Nothing useful,” Marie admitted, and sat back. Her hands and knees were wet and red.
“She’s dead?” I asked. “She’s definitely dead?”
“Definitely,” Marie said.
“Good,” I said, and my knees buckled. Tegan eased me to the ground, her arm steady around my waist. I hid my head against her shoulder and took a deep breath, then another. My voice hitched on the third, and tears pressed hotly against my eyelids.
It was different, being vulnerable in front of Tegan. I didn’t feel so ashamed of my weakness, this way. I stayed in her arms for a long moment, while Zaneisha dragged Diane’s body out of sight. I was grateful for that.
But I didn’t have time to cry for long. I blinked back the tears, but it took a few more seconds before the raw, jagged clasp on my throat eased enough for me to speak.
“Bethari, please set up the call,” I said at last.
“Now?” she asked doubtfully, but her fingers were already jabbing at the air. “All right. When you’re ready.”
I scrubbed at my face with the heels of my hands, and stood up. “Ready. Go.”
Once I managed to get through the layers of bureaucracy, my target appeared on-screen quickly. It was past midnight in Djibouti, and I’d feared I might have to rouse him from bed, but he appeared in a dark shirt with wide lapels. Working late.
“Peace be upon you, sir,” I said, in respectful Arabic.
“Peace and God’s mercy be with you” said President Abdullah Haid in the same tongue. “How are you finding Australia?”
“Unwelcoming. I’d like to come home.”
“You’d be very welcome, but I suspect you didn’t call so that I could tell you that.”
“No, sir. I’m bringing some gifts with me. I hope you’ll accept them.”
He folded his hands under his short-clipped beard with the neatness of the practiced diplomat. “That sounds interesting, Abdi. Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
It was a lengthy conversation.
We switched to English so that the others could follow and Marie could give her evidence. He asked questions, and I remembered that he’d been a practicing medical doctor before he went into politics. But unlike Nathan Cox, President Haid could see the advantages to Djibouti and to his party immediately. It was he who brought up the possibility of an East Africa Alliance meeting to discuss the benefits of combining resources. “The Great Rift Valley,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes. The second birth of mankind, perhaps? Not a bad phrase, in English.” He flicked his hand dismissively. “I’ll have people work on it.”
I brightened. “So that’s a yes, sir?”
He spread his hands. “Perhaps. There are many things to discuss.”
“Sir, we don’t have much time.”
“Which is your fault,” he commented.
I didn’t argue, because it was true. I’d done it on purpose—the more time for either government to think it over, the more chance of them coming up with a way to wriggle out of the deal or try to impose extra conditions. The real bargain was between the Australian president and me, but it couldn’t appear that way. It was absolutely crucial that Djibouti take public ownership of the Ark Project.
“No, sir. It’s been privately funded since—”
“Yes, since your last escapade. All right.”
I startled. “Ah…”
“I said yes. We’ll take the ship. I suspect we can raise more money for this expedition, and if we can’t, well, there will be a Djiboutian presence in space. That’s worth a little inconvenience. Now, these frozen refugees…”
“They come with the ship, sir,” I said, as firmly as I dared. “It’s a combination package.”
The president tapped his fingers on his lips. “And they’re coming with all the equipment they need to remain viable?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure of that.”
“And you want to wake them up.”
His tone was doubting, and I faltered. “Well, yes.”
“How?” he asked, implacable.
“I’d be happy to donate my time and services, sir,” Marie said, appearing over my shoulder.
“Dr. Carmen, hello again. While we would welcome a surgeon of your caliber, I’m afraid that unless you can also donate billions of dollars, we may not be able to accommodate Abdi’s desire. These children went to sleep believing they would wake on a distant planet. It’s possible they can still do that, but any other option is unlikely.”
Bethari muttered something, but Tegan shushed her.
“They didn’t get a real choice,” I said. “We need to see if those kids truly wanted to go.”
“We have to let them know that their parents won’t be waking up,” Tegan broke in.
I nodded. “And there’s no way to find out whether those kids would choose to stay or go—unless we wake them up and ask them.”
President Haid looked weary. “You know Djibouti has a refugee problem of its own, Abdi. It has been less pressing since Somalia and Ethiopia became stable states, but the water disputes in Chad are sending a number of displaced persons our way. As far as refugee processing and accommodation go, the currently breathing have to be our first concern.”
I had known, but only in the abstract. It hadn’t been a pressing concern for me until now. “Yes, sir,” I said, ashamed.
“Until my finance people start looking at this, I can’t even guarantee that you’ll be able to launch. Nigeria will be interested in investing, certainly, and probably Mongolia and Japan, too, if only to get the jump on China. But I can tell you right now that if we can launch, we’ll barely be able to afford to finish construction and train your crew and stock the starship and put together the infrastructure needed to facilitate all this. Infrastructure may sound boring to you, but it’s vital and not cheap.” He rubbed at his nose. “We won’t have the resources to wake and care for these children as well.”
“What are you saying?” Tegan asked.
But I already knew. My hopes were sinking before the President spoke again: “Wake them, and they stay on this planet, with all the privation that entails. Let them sleep, and they might—might—have a chance of waking up somewhere better. Either way, Abdi, they won’t be able to choose. You have to make the choice for them.”
I think he was being as kind as he could possibly be, under the circumstances, but leaving the answer in my hands still felt like a horrible thing to do.
Making that decision was physically painful. I felt the weight of it settle in my gut, cramping my belly and sending a deep, heavy feeling through my bones. I wanted Tegan or Bethari to say something, come up with a crucial argument or brilliant idea that would solve everything. Maybe they were waiting for me to do the same thing. But no inspiration struck, no lightning bolt clean and crisp through my mind to make the problem dissolve like salt in water.
The worst part was realizing that this wasn’t the last time this was going to happen. I’d thought choosing to keep the government’s secret in order to get the refugee kids out had been the last difficult choice I’d have to make, but that had been naïve. If I truly wanted the Resolution to fly, if I was going to be a part of making sure she did, I was going to have to make decisions like this often. I’d have to compromise and haggle and choose between bad options and worse ones, over and over again.
I thought it was probably worth it, but I couldn’t be sure.
Was that what it meant, to be free of people having power over me? Did I have to trade it for having power over others?
“Let them sleep,” I said, my mouth twisting at the taste of the words. “At least… until we know more, until we can plan better. Maybe there’s an answer we haven’t found yet.”
“Maybe there is,” he said kindly. “I will pray for it. You’ll forgive me if I leave you now; I suddenly seem to have a great deal to do.” He hesitated, his eyes ranging over me and the luxury of my surroundings. “I hope you don’t expect to leverage this opportunity to put your mother back in power.”
“She can do that herself,” I said, and he laughed.
“She probably can. You’re certainly her son. Well played, Abdi. I’ll see you again.” His eyes went thoughtful. “Sooner, rather than later.”
“I’m leaving today, sir.”
“Good. May God grant you a safe journey.” He waved good-bye, and the connection ended.
“Amen to that,” Tegan murmured.
In the car, Bethari started on the code that would make the bluff a partial reality, putting Marie’s testimony of the cryorevival process on several servers that would message prominent ’casters worldwide if they didn’t receive passworded verification every day.
Including Carl Hurfest. I didn’t like him, but whatever his motivations, he had organized my rescue. If Cox double-crossed me, Hurfest could have the story.
“It’s not quite as complicated as what you told Cox would happen,” Bethari explained. “Easier to interrupt, too, if they can find and disrupt the servers. You’d better set up more independently. And when you’ve got the time, update the feeds. Make the story personal. Do a ’cast—”
“Not a ’cast,” I said. I was thinking of the adventure novel I’d read, of its swift pace and easy solutions that papered over all the ethical gaps. “A book, I think. I’ll write a book.”
“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” Tegan asked Bethari. She was holding my hand, as she had for the entire trip, and I squeezed it in response to the plaintive note in her voice.
Tegan was leaving almost everything she’d ever known behind, for the second time. She’d lost her family and friends, but she’d still had the land. Now she had a new family and friends, but she was losing the land. And this time, it was by her choice.
All I could do was hold her hand and hope that she was ultimately happy about the decision. And quietly swear to do everything I could to make that so.
“My mother won’t leave,” Bethari said. “And I won’t leave her. When will the last of the refugees arrive?”
It was an obvious attempt to change the subject and I went with it. “I’m going to give Cox a two-month deadline to get the last of them onto a ship. A month after that, they should all be en route to where the Australian government can’t claim them anymore.”
“You know he’s going to hold some of them hostage to your continuing to keep his secret,” Bethari said.
“I know,” I said. “But when the last refugees they actually ship are in friendly hands, we’ll tell the world about the revival age rule.”
“Three months, while more foolish people choose suspension,” Marie said, turning to look back at us. She held up her hands as I opened my mouth. “I know, this is the best we can do. But you realize the families of those people aren’t going to think we’re heroes? They’re going to want to know why we didn’t reveal this immediately.”
“And we’ll tell them everything,” Tegan said fiercely. “We’ll tell them that their leaders knew and did nothing—that after torturing and using us, their leaders threatened us and bribed us so that they could stay in power. That their president values his own hide over his citize
ns’ lives. We’re not heroes, Marie. But we won’t be the villains, either. This government’s going down.”
“And I’ll get people organized,” Bethari said. “I still have a lot of contacts; SADU won’t have found them all. I think we can put some plans together to encourage people to avoid cryonics.”
“I could give you some copy,” Tegan said. “I won’t be a spokesperson, but I can write it down, what it feels like to wake up like I did. How awful the recovery process is.”
Bethari’s eyes were shining. “I can definitely use that. Good plan, Teeg—you write it; I’ll say it.”
“Australians who choose cryonics now won’t have access to the Resolution anymore,” I said. “Make a lot of that, all right? Emphasize that if they sleep now, they’ll wake up in the same world, with all the problems they left behind and didn’t fix. Get some rumors going about the revival process failing in some subjects, get people thinking that it’s not worth the risk. Oh, and try and spread some doubt about the ages of the successful revivals, so that it’s not such a massive shock when we—”
Bethari was smiling at me. “You should have been a journalist,” she said.
“I’m a politician,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s enough trouble for one lifetime.”
Wilsons Promontory thrust out into Bass Strait like a barbed thorn into a thumb. It was a wild place, scarcely populated, and the small cove where Hanad’s ship was moored was half an hour from the nearest road. It was a tough hike, through scraggly brush, with Zaneisha carrying Marie. Marie looked justifiably frustrated about it. Her feet were healing, but it would be several weeks before she could put any weight on them, much less walk of her own volition. I was hoping my brother, Halim, with his knack for medical machinery, could help her with some assistive tech.
When we got down to the meeting spot, Joph hugged Tegan so hard that Tegan had to remind her of the cracked rib. “You look so much better,” she exclaimed. “I mean, not that you could look much worse.”