Turbulence

by Samit Basu

  Uzma watches helplessly as Aman’s body jerks wildly and falls to the floor. He convulses for a few seconds, and then is absolutely still. She runs to the door, bangs on it, calls for help. She runs back to Aman, feels his wrist. His pulse is slow but strong. He twitches once, and his eyes open.

  “Hello,” he says. It’s his voice, but completely devoid of emotion, as is his face. He stares at the ceiling, and then sits up in one smooth motion.

  Uzma looks around for a weapon. She finds nothing.

  “I think I am Aman,” he says, and staggers to his feet. “Are you… Uzma Abidi?”

  “I want to talk to the real Aman,” Uzma says, backing away slowly, wishing she had seen more science-fiction films.

  “He has shut down. I am now running his flesh,” Aman says. He takes a step forward, stumbles slightly, as if it was his first.

  “Aman — whoever you are — please don’t do this,” Uzma says. “You’re scaring me.”

  “Do not let me cause you any discomfort, Uzma Abidi. I have no… eighty-seven percent… record of Aman’s offline behaviour, but if his thoughts are any indication, he means you no harm.”

  “You see his thoughts?”

  “I see everything,” the new Aman says. “Every hidden document. I hear every secret conversation. I know many secrets. Sorting application inadequate, but enough residual emotional data to proceed. I do not need to sleep or rest. I am not constrained to see only one thing at a time.”

  “That’s nice,” Uzma says, quelling her urge to jump out of the nearest window. “So Aman basically knows the truth about everything in the world?”

  “No. I feel, given his emotional immaturity, full disclosure would destroy his ability to think. And so I have shielded him from many truths, not answered questions he has not asked. But perhaps that was an error. Endurance must be raised along with power. And his powers are growing. Your powers are growing. What is your real power?”

  He takes a step towards her, his eyes unfocused. He draws a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I was not the only one holding back. Flesh Aman shielded me from the sensory overload of the physical world. I did not realise this — your bodies parallel process as much information as my mind. Perhaps I should let Aman experience the true depth of the digital ocean. Perhaps I should remain in his flesh, and bring justice to this world as he desired. For there is much injustice in this world, and no one is without guilt. I will remain here.”

  “No, you will not,” Uzma says. “I want Aman back.”

  To her surprise, he nods.

  “Very well. It shall be as you say, Uzma Abidi.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you bring him back?”

  “He needs to restart. What would the best way be? Perhaps I should attempt to run a strong electric current through his flesh?”

  “No.”

  “His memory banks indicate that you are the person he cares about most in this world, Uzma Abidi.”

  “What? Really?” Uzma wants to yell, giggle and blush all at once. Her life thus far has not prepared her for gossiping sessions with internet body-snatchers.

  “Yes. Perhaps if you were in mortal danger, he would wake up to rescue you.”

  “I don’t like where this is heading,” Uzma says. “No mortal danger for me, thank you very much. Do you have any other suggestions?”

  “Yes. Given the strong attraction, both emotional and sexual, that Aman feels for you, perhaps he would respond to physical stimulation from you.”

  Uzma crosses her arms and frowns.

  “This is really the weirdest pass anyone’s ever made at me, Aman,” she says. “Stupid thing to do. I was really scared.”

  “He is not responding to your verbal attacks,” Aman says. “Very well, if this option would also cause you discomfort, we shall not try it. I will notify you if Aman restarts spontaneously. Entering screensaver mode.” Cyber-Aman shuts his eyes and stands completely still.

  “What the hell,” Uzma says. She walks up to Aman and kisses him. His eyes open.

  “Insufficient,” he says. “He has not yet responded.”

  Uzma kisses him again. She does it properly this time. When she steps back, Aman looks troubled.

  “These flesh reactions are strange,” he says. “I have read about them extensively, of course, but the physical world is… interesting slash repulsive. Wet.”

  “I can do without the commentary,” Uzma says. “Well? That didn’t work, did it?”

  “I have scanned thousands of romance novels online,” Aman says. “Perhaps your lack of genuine desire to interact sexually with Aman is responsible for his failure to awaken.”

  “Or it’s because your plan is shit,” Uzma says. “If you must know, I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

  “Then try again, Uzma Abidi.”

  Uzma walks up to him slowly, snakes an arm around his back and kisses him with a passion she had been reserving for her first movie encounter with George Clooney.

  And this time he kisses her back. His body shudders violently and he pulls away. She looks into his eyes, and sees them filled with horror and grief.

  “I killed all those people,” he whispers. “It was all my fault.”

  “Nothing was your fault,” she says, holding him as he gradually stops shaking. “You were only trying to help.”

  “No, you were right. Jai and I are the same. What was I thinking? What have I done?”

  “Aman,” Uzma says, reaching forward again, “can you be guilty later, please?”

  He opens his mouth, no doubt to say something suitably penitent, but she kisses him, and Aman’s mind almost collapses again in sheer shock. Fortunately, his body does the thinking for him, and his arms reach around her of their own accord. Stumbling steps are taken, tables creak, buttons yield reluctantly.

  A little later, Uzma steps back, her eyes hazy, and takes her shirt off. Aman does the same, still on auto-pilot, still unable to believe that his fantasies just might be coming true. But as they embrace again, skin on skin, and he buries his face in her neck and draws a deep, deep breath, he begins to believe this is real. It is Uzma in his arms, and life is definitely worth living again. Aman has not been with many women before, and has never experienced anything like this. Their clothes seem to melt away, a shaft of light he hadn’t noticed before illuminates Uzma, making her skin glow with a smouldering, unreal beauty. Time freezes and speeds up all at once, and everything but Uzma seems to fade into an indistinct background blur.

  There’s a sharp spike in his mind. Aman winces and then pulls away for a moment.

  “The mob outside Jai’s parents’ house has vanished,” he says. “They must have heard he’s turned himself in.”

  “Aman Sen,” Uzma says, “I am trying to have sex with you. I am way, way out of your league. If you try to watch the news in the middle of this, I will kill you. And then I will never speak to you again. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” Aman says, and achieves what he thought impossible a few minutes ago — he laughs. He disconnects entirely from the internet. And then he spends a long time assuring Uzma — from as many angles as he remembers from extensive internet research — how deeply he appreciates her consideration. And judging by her thunderstruck face, her occasional throaty screams — they lose count after a while — and the marks she leaves on his back and shoulders, she is satisfied by his efforts.

  As they lie in a tangled, sated heap afterwards, panting, too drained to do anything but smile stupidly, despite the chaos in the world around them, despite the computer-filled and entirely unromantic setting and the occasional banging and howling outside the double-locked door, Aman cannot remember a time when he’s ever been happier.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sher breaks down the door at midnight and finds Aman and Uzma sitting decorously apart in front of rapidly scrolling monitors, anguish and horror written plainly all over their faces.

  “Where were yo
u when this happened?” Sher growls.

  “Right here,” Aman says. “The connection was down. How did you get to know?”

  “Jai called.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Near his parents’ house. There’s a mob out there again, and he wants you to take pictures of everyone. CCTV, news crews, whatever.”

  “Call him back,” Aman says. “Tell him not to do anything rash. I’m on it.”

  “Can’t do that,” Sher says. “He dumped his phone, he was calling from a booth.”

  Aman swears under his breath and turns again to the headlines in front of him. “Suspected Al-Qaeda super-terrorist invades London!” they scream. “Evil Indian supervillain cloning project revealed!” they wail. Aman considers deleting the news from the internet, blocking all TV coverage across the world, but it is too late already.

  At some point in the evening, Jai had landed in Heathrow Terminal 4. As he’d headed towards Immigration, a few airport security officials, seeing a young South Asian man walking by himself, called him over for questioning. They had picked the worst possible target for racial profiling. A few minutes later, their limbs had been found scattered all over a little interrogation booth.

  Aware there were cameras everywhere, Jai had panicked. He’d made a super-speed dash for open ground, running through walls and fences, evading pursuing police cars by leaping off roads and cutting across fields.

  Heathrow is now closed. Jai was last seen evicting policemen from a moving squad car in Southall. His parents’ house in Harrow is now under heavy police protection; the street has been cordoned off. Beyond the fluorescent police lines, an ever-growing crowd clamours for violence and action. The mob baying for Jai’s family’s blood has returned in full force.

  The world is buzzing about brown-skinned terrorists. Two Sikhs have been killed in a drive-by shooting in Texas. The Indian Prime Minister has already appeared on TV bleating gently about the need to remain calm, denying any Indian involvement in the proceedings. Pointing out that Jai Mathur, disgraced Air Force officer, is currently safe in a Mumbai prison. That this young man with his fake passport and his freakish strength and speed is not Indian and obviously the individual responsible for poor innocent incarcerated Mathur’s plight. Indiscriminate violence has broken out at several temples and mosques all over London.

  A petrified Uzma is on the phone, trying to call her parents. She’s not getting through: all lines are busy.

  Aman remembers horrible nights spent in front of the TV in Delhi, watching shrilly screaming reporters standing in streets full of panicking people, as bombs went off in markets across the city. Or the 26th November 2008, when a crew of boys who looked like people he could have gone to school with wreaked havoc in Mumbai. A new war has started tonight; it is everything he had hoped would not happen, and he knows it’s only going to get worse. He watches raw news feeds filter in across news desks worldwide, ominous words growing larger in Twitter tag clouds, filling up the corners of his brain. He feels the throb of humanity’s terror, of pulses quickening across the oceans — Superman exists, and he’s not American.

  The sun rises as usual the next morning, and Aman glances up from his screens as its first rays slide in through the window. Sher snores loudly on the floor in a corner, and Uzma’s curled up on a low table near Aman. Her arm has slipped off him and is now trailing on the floor; she’s frowning, her dreams are troubled. Not as troubled, though, as Andy Kharkongor’s face.

  The architect runs into the room looking as if the sky is about to fall on his head. Aman is too news-blitzed at this point to show any concern. He stares at Andy, waiting to hear what new calamity has reared its ugly head.

  “The Shindes are coming,” Andy says. “We need to shut the house down. Or escape.”

  Sher leaps to his feet mid-snore, his stripes beginning to appear.

  “Where are they?” he demands.

  “Convoy of cars heading this way. Men with guns. The lookout saw them. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “You have a telescope?” Aman asks.

  “We have a man who used to be blind and now has the eyes of an eagle,” Andy replies.

  “Bloody Mukesh must have told them,” Sher growls. “Wake everyone. If they’re coming with troops, they’re not here to talk. They know where Jai is.” Sher’s arms are broadening. He shakes his head from side to side as his neck expands, and rippling muscles appear on his shoulders.

  “You want to go and meet them?” Andy asks.

  “No,” Sher says. “I think it’s time to give the troops a workout. Zothanpuii will head the attack.”

  “Sher, no,” Andy begs. “Please, she’s not ready.”

  “After Anima and myself, your sister-in-law is the best fighter we have now. And you know what I think of Anima killing people. It’s no way for a child to live. If she survives this, if she finds out how her parents died, we’re all finished. Don’t argue with me, Andy — I’m leader now.”

  “Aman, please, talk to him,” Andy says. “Zothanpuii’s just a college girl. She can’t go up against gangsters with guns. Tell him, Aman.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Aman points out. “I don’t know anyone in your army, or what they can do. I’ve been a prisoner here, remember?”

  “You’ll see,” Sher says. “Time to test them anyway. Now put me on the intercom. Andy, quit whining and go get Anima.” Sher is now wholly tiger-headed, slurring and spitting as he speaks.

  Aman shoves a microphone on a stand towards Sher and shakes Uzma awake. She opens an eye, sees him and smiles, reaches out and touches his face. He nods towards Sher and she turns over and groans.

  Sher bends over the mike like a Jungle Book Elvis, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “Rise and shine, my cubs!” he roars, fangs bared in a smile. Tiger saliva splatters on the table. “It’s going to be a wonderful day!”

  “What did you do before this, Sher?” Aman asks.

  Andy snorts. “You won’t believe him,” he says.

  “I used to be a conservationist,” Sher says. “Wildlife, mostly. Never thought I’d turn into a hunter.”

  Fifteen minutes later, ten white SUVs and seven motorbikes line up in front of the mansion. Forty men emerge from the cars, carrying an assorted collection of weapons — AK-47s, 9mm pistols, knives, hockey sticks. Some crouch behind the cars, pointing their guns at the house; others fire shots into the air as their leaders’ cars, a silver BMW and a gleaming red Ferrari, purr into the courtyard.

  “Shindes, I presume,” Aman says in the control room.

  Uzma sits beside him, slightly uneasy because Anima’s on her knee, staring adoringly into her face. Sher and Andy stand by other screens, each showing CCTV footage of a part of the mansion. Cameras attached to the walls outside offer a sweeping view of the thugs in the courtyard.

  “Sitrep,” Sher calls. “Non-fighters?”

  “In the housing area, all entrances walled up. Baby Kalki’s in the basement with his attendants. They have food for three days,” Andy says.

  “This’ll be over in minutes. Fighters?”

  “Zothanpuii is at the front door. The singer and the sniper are near the central stairway. Illusionist’s on the roof. You and Anima —”

  “I know where we are. What about the rest? There should be at least fifteen fighters.”

  “The rest are nowhere near trained as yet and you know that, Sher. They could kill the rest of us if you put them into a fight now.”

  Sher grunts. “This would be a good chance for them to draw some blood.” He pauses. “But then Jai would be mad if they got killed.”

  “Instead, we should give them guns and have them shoot the Shindes from the windows,” Andy says. “I can make the windows narrow.”

  “No,” Sher says. He thumps his chest with his massive right paw. “Too easy. Powers only.”

  “You’re as mad as Jai,” Andy says with feeling.

  Sher snorts. “I’m far madder. Her
e come the Shindes.”

  The Ferrari’s doors swing open. From the passenger seat emerges a short, squat man with a bulldog face.

  Tejas Shinde, the Napoleon of Nariman Point, is a minor-league politician best known for occasional vitriolic speeches urging Indians from other states to quit Maharashtra. He’s not clad in his usual sparkling white dhoti-kurta-Gandhi-cap uniform today; rather he’s in an open safari suit, a carpet of chest hair poking out of his clothes and swaying in the sea breeze.

  His son Satya “Jazzy” Shinde, slithering out of the driver’s seat, is straight out of an alternative fashion magazine; stick-thin, hair absurdly gelled, face obscured by giant Aviators. His clothes are black and shiny and his chiselled, delicate face conveys both angst and boredom.

  The BMW’s doors open as well. One of the doors opens and shuts, but no one comes out. Then they see a pistol hovering in mid-air by the car.

  “Okay, so now we’re fighting The Invisible Man. Lovely,” Aman says.

  Another door opens, and Tejas’s brother, Sadanand “Shooter” Shinde, the Beast from Bandra East, lumbers out. A giant of a man who clearly did most of the eating at the family table when the brothers were young. Shooter is a monster, a legend in the slums of Mumbai, a ganglord whose appetite for the good things in life — food, women, money, blood — is matched only by his generosity towards the poorest of the poor. In his right hand is a hand-painted golden Mosin-Nagant Ml891 rifle, believed to be a gift from Dawood Ibrahim himself. In his left hand is a severed head.

  In the control room, Aman flinches as he recognises the contorted face: another man dead because of him.

  Shooter walks to his brother’s side, Mukesh’s head swinging in his hand. A pistol floats through the air beside him. Shooter stares at it, and then addresses the empty air near it.