The Bohr Maker

by Linda Nagata

  Municipal police officers dressed in light green combat fatigues began to pile out of the back. Each one of them carried an automatic rifle.

  Outraged, Kirstin opened a line to Allende. “What are the local cops doing here?” she shouted. “Don’t they know we have an operation going on? Call them off!”

  The municipal cops gave the dog a wide berth as they moved down the street. Still, many of them gestured menacingly at it with their rifles, muttering ugly words. One spoke in English. “This is our city,” he warned. “We will maintain order here.”

  Sandor noticed a sudden change in Phousita. Her chin lifted. Her body stiffened. She turned to look over her shoulder, eyes wide with fear.

  He followed her gaze to the low roof of the long shack. Three police dogs trotted along the canted surface, tongues lolling. Their eyes seemed to be fixed on him.

  A little cry of fear escaped Phousita’s throat. Sandor felt it as a physical sensation, the same way he’d felt her joy. So did the crowd around them. A ripple of terror ran out from their locus, rapidly growing more strident. It swept through the crowd like flash fire.

  Arif tried to shout instructions, but his voice was lost in a sudden cacophony of panic. People screamed and started running, stumbling. Cries of agony rang out as some fell, and were trampled beneath panicked feet. A dam might have broken at one end of the alley, so rapidly did the mob drain away.

  Sandor felt himself running too. Phousita’s arm was still tucked under his. Arif’s clown face bobbed on her other side. “No!” she screamed at them, fighting their forward progress. “We have to go back. The kids—”

  Bodies flowed past them, pummeling them. Uniforms began to appear amidst the ragged dress of the street people. Sandor recognized the insignia of the municipal police. Guns went off, almost on top of them. A whiff of smoke ran in the air, and suddenly a deep-voiced whump followed by a low roar.

  Phousita screamed in agony. She doubled over and fell to her knees. Sandor thought she’d been hit by gunfire. But she was on her feet again a moment later. “The kids! The kids! They’re still in the shack,” she screamed.

  She leapt away, running back up the street, against the flow of the crowd.

  Sandor gazed past her in horror. The shack was an inferno. He thought he could hear shrill screams from inside it. He bounded after Phousita.

  She raced toward the door of their tenement. But it was curtained with a sheet of flame! Child-sized, fiery figures moved within the incandescent light. “Phousita!” Sandor screamed, as he realized she wasn’t slowing down. She was going through the door, inferno or no.

  He dove for her ankles, tackling her. He brought her down in the filthy street, the searing flames only meters away. She clawed at the ground to get away from him, struggling toward the fire. “The kids,” she sobbed. “The kids are still inside.”

  He fought to hold on to her. His nails clawed into her legs. His hair began to smolder, the fire was so near. “Phousita,” he pleaded. “Phousita, please.”

  She hit him with a spell. It was only a behavioral virus. He knew that. But it struck him like a bullet. He felt her despair explode inside him. It seemed to rupture his nervous system. He cried out, and fell to the side. For a moment, his heart stopped beating. The fire arched over him. He gazed up at it in wonder, welcoming its searing truth.

  Then the spell broke. A municipal cop was standing over him, leering. The bastard kicked him in the ribs. He heard bones crack. He screamed and curled in on himself. The next kick landed in his back. He braced himself as best he could, but the third kick never came. A moment later Arif was there, yanking him to his feet and pitching him into the street, away from the fire.

  He didn’t remember hitting the ground. He opened his eyes, to find himself lying in the muddy street, staring into the still, bloodied face of the municipal cop, the green combat fatigue and brass badge marbled with red. Phousita’s soothing hands were stroking his face, her voice a sweet burr in his ear as she muttered, “I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry,” over and over again in a soft, hysterical chant.

  He turned his head to look at her. He could hear bones scraping in his rib cage. But he could feel no pain.

  He gasped when he saw her face. It was burned red, her cheeks and forehead covered with blisters. He started to sit up, and she helped him. Then Arif appeared and urged him to his feet. He stood with their help. His lungs were gurgling as he breathed, but he felt no pain.

  Except for the bodies the street was empty. Mixed in with the trampled human corpses, Sandor counted the bodies of at least fifteen police dogs. Some of them were twitching and snuffling, the way dogs do sometimes when they dream.

  At Arif’s urging, he moved forward one step. Then another. His legs wobbled under him. His lungs felt peculiarly full and heavy. Suddenly, he coughed hard. Blood filled his mouth and he spat it out on the street. But he felt no pain.

  He laughed, suddenly giddy. Then he was on his knees. Phousita and Arif were arguing over him. “You have to leave him!” Arif was saying. “He’s dying.”

  “But I can heal him!”

  “There’s no time, stupid country girl!” Arif’s voice was high and frantic. “Your tricks frightened the cops away, but they’ll be back. They’ll come armored this time. You have to run from them. You have to hide.” His voice cracked. He was screaming through tears now, begging. “Don’t let the cops take you, Phousita, please. You’re all that’s left. You’re all that’s left.”

  “But I can heal him. I can, I can.”

  Sandor blinked, and found that his cheek was resting in the mud of the street. He was staring at the burning shack. The roof had collapsed. The fire had spread to the buildings beyond.

  Then Phousita bent down beside him. Her lips met his, there on a pillow of mud. Her tongue darted into his mouth. A moment later, the joy of her benediction exploded once more across his brain. “You will come back to me,” she swore. “You will come back.”

  Then she was gone. And still, he felt no pain.

  Chapter

  15

  A snaking line of fire ran through the city. The black smoke that rolled off it was choking, toxic. Helicopters buzzed the air, dousing flames where they could. Below the aerial assault, Nikko’s ghost fled with his mule to the broken concrete bank of the river. They clambered past shattered foundations and sprouting banyan trees to a sheltered spot by the water, where they huddled, hemmed in by thousands of stunned residents of the Spill.

  Nikko shuddered against an assault of foul odors: the stench of smoke, the urinal stink of overcrowded humans, the sickening smell of burned hair and flesh. He hunched his shoulders against the olfactory assault, against the nerve-grating cries of human misery that mobbed the air, while his rage grew helplessly greater.

  He hated this place! Love and Nature, how he hated it. And as he crouched beside the river, invisible to everyone except the corpulent, balding, unwashed scoundrel he’d hired for a mule, he began to consider for the first time that he might not be able to escape the Spill. Kirstin must have already set the Gate filters against him; he wouldn’t be able to upload to Castle. He’d have to hire a mule with an unregistered atrium to carry him up the Highway. But how would he pay for it? If he accessed his accounts now, Kirstin would know it. She’d trace the transaction back to the source.

  He slapped the ground in frustration. And he hadn’t found a trace of Sandor! He’d been here hours, chasing rumors, each one more absurd than the next. Yes, a thousand people had seen Sandor. No, no one knew where he was now. They spoke of a witch. It was said she’d cared for Sandor after he’d escaped the local police. Perhaps she’d lifted him to Heaven.

  Perhaps she had, Nikko thought. And where was Heaven?

  A call came in for him. It was a recorded voice message from Marevic—meaning she didn’t want two-way communication. Very bad. The pressure was on.

  Nikko, Sandor was picked up in the Spill nearly two hours ago by the Commonwealth Police. He’s being transported t
o Castle for trial. I’ll defend him myself; with your testimony, he should be all right.

  I’m more worried about you. A substantial bounty’s been put on your ghosts, and the Gates have been set to filter your pattern. You can’t get out of Sunda unless we smuggle you out.

  But there is some good news. Our security team may have located the Bohr Maker. According to police files, it’s infected a young witch named Phousita. The police have been trotting in circles to come up with her, but so far she’s evaded them.

  It might be easier to find the man she runs with. He’s called Arif. He was once a slave, and he still carries an illegal atrium. A slave atrium, Nikko. You could inhabit it. You could control him through it, and you could control her through him.

  I bought the address of Arif’s atrium from the estate of his former master. I’m giving it to you.

  Phousita huddled with Arif in a metal culvert that ran under a street on the northern side of the city. A garish green stream trickled across the bottom of the culvert. The fumes that rose off the water were dizzying, so that even the neighborhood beggars refused to shelter here.

  She crouched on the slick, curved floor, trying to keep her feet from sliding into the water. She felt like a tree that had been stripped of its leaves by typhoon winds, uprooted, tossed into the air, now falling, falling, falling past the edge of the world. Fire danced before her eyes. The voices of the children wailed to her from the afterworld. Sumiati with her unborn baby, Ari and Maman and Pieter and all the rest of them.

  And Sandor. She’d abandoned Sandor to the police.

  She could have saved him. She could have saved all of them. Her spells had subdued the police dogs, sending the beasts into a harmless deep sleep. Her spells could have similarly calmed the municipal cop who’d started the fire, if only she’d been alert enough to notice him sooner, if only she hadn’t lost herself in the celebration of healing, if only she weren’t so slow and stupid and unworthy of the evil sorcerer’s powers.

  Arif sat across from her, on the other side of the vile green stream. He hugged his knees against his chest, his head bowed, his shoulders trembling with quiet sobs.

  Arif hated her. She could feel the searing heat of his emotion; another blazing fire.

  She wanted to comfort him, but he’d warned her not to touch him with her spells and she didn’t dare disobey him. Now he wouldn’t talk to her at all.

  And she was so hungry. She leaned back against the curved wall of the culvert, struggling to keep from sliding into the green stream. Hunger was making her faint. It angered her that she could think about food now. But the spirit of the sorcerer was beginning to command her as it had that first night when she’d run away with Arif. How much longer before she must run away again?

  Arif stirred. She eyed him warily as he rose to his feet. The culvert was low; he couldn’t stand up straight. So he bent over the stream and stared at her with his violet eyes, as if he’d never seen her before.

  Her heart began to beat in deep, powerful strokes. She drew her feet up, watching him closely, ready to run.

  “You—are—Phousita?” he said stiffly, in English. His voice sounded forced, as if he were saying the words against his will. “You—are—Phousita?”

  She moaned and began to slide away toward the mouth of the culvert.

  “No, wait! Don’t—run.” He sat back down, his body unnaturally stiff. “See, I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help you. I want to see you to a safe place.”

  “Who are you?” she squeaked. For it was obvious to her that a ghost had possessed Arif just as it had on that night long ago when she’d first met him. Arif was terrified of ghosts. His master had used ghosts to control him.

  “I’m sorry to come to you like this. I’m sorry to frighten your friend. But there was no other way.” Arif’s mouth shaped the words, but it wasn’t Arif talking. “You are Phousita?” it asked again.

  She nodded slowly. She could sense nothing of the substance of this ghost. But its words were polite. Nothing like the ghost Arif’s master had employed.

  “My name’s Nikko.”

  Phousita felt her heart trip. “Nikko?” In Sandor’s memories she’d met a brother-spirit of that name. “Do you belong to Sandor?” she asked. “Did he send you here?”

  Arif’s body leaned forward, to glare at her. “You were the one with him, then. He’s been arrested. But he’ll be all right.”

  “They’ve taken him away.”

  “They’ve taken him to Castle.” The ghost’s speech flowed more easily now. “But he hasn’t really broken any laws. He’ll be all right. The police won’t go so easy on you, though. You have to get out of Sunda.”

  Leave the city? Sandor had suggested the same thing, but even yesterday she’d known it was only a dream. Her place was here. The spirit of the old woman had visited her to remind her of that. In life, the old woman had cared for her, asking nothing in return. Phousita could give of herself in the same way. She knew she could. Why else had she been given such a great gift? But after today—

  The brother Nikko must know she was unworthy of the sorcerer’s gift. “But I can hide from the cops now,” Phousita said. “I’m a slow learner, but the evil sorcerer is very powerful. He’s taught me better how to hide, and how to soften the hearts of the cops. I will do better. I promise. What happened today will never happen again. I will make up for it. I will give everything I have to those who need me—”

  But the brother Nikko was shaking his bulbous yellow head. “You don’t understand. The police will find you. And when they do they’ll be ready for you. They won’t be subdued by your talents again.”

  He crept closer to her; held her with his violet eyes. “I’ve heard people talk about you, Phousita. They say you’re a healer, and that you’ve been blessed with extraordinary powers. But the power that possesses you is not a blessing. It’s a curse. It will bring the Commonwealth Police down on you, and everyone around you unless you run away. What happened today could happen again. Don’t let any more people die because of you, Phousita. Trust me. Put yourself in my hands and let me hide you. There’s no other way.”

  She felt stunned. The words of the brother Nikko so closely echoed what Sandor had told her. Sandor had warned her that the police would come. But she hadn’t heeded him, and now the children were dead. It was her fault. She’d been too proud to listen.

  Now she bowed her head in acquiescence. “Where will you take me?” she asked softly.

  “To Summer House.”

  Her head came up. Her heart beat faster. “I’ve been there in visions,” she whispered. “I’ve seen it through Sandor’s eyes. It is Heaven . . . isn’t it?”

  Nikko didn’t answer for a moment. Then he nodded thoughtfully. “It could be,” he said.

  A few minutes later a car stopped on the street above the culvert. Nikko led her out of her hiding hole. They got into the car. It was driven by a dark-haired young woman. She stared for a moment at Arif’s grotesque face, then she turned her attention to the road. Some twenty minutes later the car drove down a ramp into a dimly lit garage. Another woman met them. She handed Nikko an Arabic woman’s veil and gown and helped him put them on. Then they all got out of the car. Phousita felt wobbly on her feet; desperately hungry now. She followed Nikko onto an elevator. It rose up a few floors, and then its doors opened on a palatial suite. She was offered a bath; fine clothes; rich food.

  Nikko commanded a thing that looked like a rearing cobra with a glassy face. He said it was a camera. He asked her many questions as the camera looked on.

  She told him about the evil sorcerer, and about Sandor, and about how she’d learned to disguise herself and Arif from the dogs. This last bit amused him. He asked her if she would change both of them again. So she did. After that there was another bath, and more food.

  As her strength returned, her senses awakened. She became aware of Arif once again. He was an imprisoned consciousness, a slave inside his own body: terrified; furious; helpless.
She saw herself through his eyes. Felt his raging sense of betrayal. “You must let him go!” she told Nikko.

  “No. I need him. His atrium’s unregistered. The cops may overlook it.”

  “But—”

  “No. I won’t hurt him. But I have to do this.”

  She pretended to sleep. But while her eyes were closed, she used her talents to investigate Nikko. She could still sense nothing of him, but after a while she located the evil filamentous growth in Arif’s head where the ghost kept itself. She left some of her tiny servants there to watch and learn.

  Nikko didn’t seem to notice. He got a needle from one of the two women. “If you’re going to pass as a Commonwealth citizen,” he told her, “you’ll need an ID chip.” He injected something under the skin of her forearm, and pleaded with her to let it alone and not change it.

  Later, they both dressed in the robes and headgear of women of strict Islamic faith. Arif’s bulbous face disappeared behind the veils; only his violet eyes were visible. “If anybody asks,” Nikko said. “I’m going up the Highway for treatment.”

  They took the elevator to the roof. Night had fallen. They boarded a waiting helicopter. As the craft rose into the air, Phousita caught sight of the city lights. She gazed in unabashed wonder at the towers of brilliant gold, the incandescent white rivers that swept around their bases. A sense of displacement swept across her. Was this the same city she’d known all her life? But how could it be? When night had always seemed so dark in the Spill.

  Hours later she stood at another window, her gaze fixed on another view. She felt herself trembling, caught by an emotion somewhere between fear and marvel as she looked out on the world.

  So the brother Nikko had named it. The world.

  Palms and forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window-wall, she saw the world as a jet would see it, a cloud, a goddess, a satellite. The huge foreign city they’d left only an hour before had vanished to nothing in the immensity of this vision. The land that had seemed so vast when the helicopter had flown across it now seemed small enough to cradle in her arms. The clouds were tiny scraps of white silk unraveling in the wind. She grew somber as she considered the ocean. Alone on the world, the ocean remained immense.