None of the corpses were sweating. The sweat on their skin was old, drying, none of the natural processes of life refreshing it — as though something had been frozen and cut off mid-way, the very smell of them like a photograph torn in half. It was obvious there had been life, but now…
Eversen leaned harder on his cane, a simple length of metal tubing one of the fabricators had done no more than stick a bend into and cap off with a plastic heel.
“Who were they?” he murmured, pushing his weight back onto his good leg despite the surge of pain through his thigh, entry and exit wounds burning under layers of coagulant foam.
Stelborn consulted the pad. “Don’t know yet. We’re decrypting the national databases, but running face recognition comparisons between these and the social networks has to wait until Andercom’s day office opens. Time-zone fuck-up.”
Grimacing, Eversen let the cane slip in his grasp. Twisting it to drop the handle to the floor, gripping its heel to poke the hook in under the nearest sheet and pry it back enough to gaze at the grey, strangely white but not ethnically white face beneath.
The corpse was Caucasian as they came — Azerbaijan was part of the damn southern Caucasus — but the corpse wasn’t white. White meant Anglo or Euro, white meant democratic, white meant capitalist. It meant the same as African-American or Afro-Costeño or Libres or Black, meant the same as Anglo-African-American or Mulatto or Mestizo, meant the same as any other word for any other ethnicity. It had fuck all to do with skin color, it meant friendly, having an ethnicity meant human, and the corpse was one of the enemy combatants who’d killed Ereli and by virtue of that had been ejected from the fucking species, the same way Eversen had been legally added to it by the Emancipation.
The corpse was something else. It wasn’t even Azeri. It was alien, different, wrong.
Its sweat didn’t smell right.
He twitched his cane aside, and let the sheet fall. “Find out who they were.”
“Eversen? What about them?” Stelborn wordlessly gestured the pad to the right. Towards the other seven bodies.
The much bigger bodies, sheets over the heads lifted by muzzles where the heads lay intact.
Eversen flattened his ears back, staring at them. “They’re all still dog-tagged?”
“Yeah. There are cases where we’ve had trouble matching remains to bodies, but it’s just scraps of flesh — all the loose limbs are matched to bodies.”
He should have gone to find Ereli. Said goodbye. Taken a last look at his dead brother’s face. But Eversen was Ereli, now. He’d inherited Ereli’s signatory status.
Fuck it. They were designed to be interchangeable anyway.
“Process them as per whatever documentation they filed.” Eversen dug his cane into the kitchen-slash-morgue’s tiles, and limped to the door. “Remember to make sure medical’s cleaned them out for organ transplants, first.”
*
“Juan, slow down.” Eversen palmed at his forehead, wincing. “What’d they say?”
“The streets are ruined.” Juan, back in San Iadras and on the other end of the connection, was still talking fast, but pausing more between sentences. “The protest barricades are still burning and they’re too big for the local neighborhoods to pull apart. There are holes in the streets.”
“Holes in the streets.” Eversen shuddered, again, and crushed the phone against his forehead for a moment. “Juan,” he murmured, phone back at his ear for an instant, “can you write this up? E-mail me? Now is not a good time.”
“Sure, Ereli — I mean. Eversen, sorry. Shit. Yes, sorry, Eversen. I’ll get on that.”
Eversen ground his head back into the pillow, snapping off the phone.
“You sure you don’t want more by way of pain management?” the nurse asked, watching the robot rig nervously.
Eversen shook his head, and sagged back. His thigh was locked into a steadying frame, while the mostly pre-programmed robot went through its routine. It had gone in through a keyhole cut into a shaved section of his thigh above the gunshot wound, the robot’s head worming its way around in there, tearing out dying and infected tissue then gulping it up, gobbets flying through the attached vacuum hose.
It hurt, but fuck hurt. Eversen needed to be on schedule. He’d only stopped working because the scan had shown the wound in his thigh wasn’t healing right — no internal bleeding, but the wound channel, where the bullet had torn into him, wasn’t doing well. The bullet’s impact had stretched his tissues out around it, like dropping a bowling ball into a pond. Like a pond the body was mostly water, but instead of splashing out, the flesh stretched and tore, cells and capillaries ruptured.
He would’ve been healing alright if he’d just kept flat on his back, but he had Ereli’s job now. He had to check in with the rest of the brothers who’d signed the incorporation documents for the fund, had to sign off on every new chunk of budget before it could be released to one of the subsidiary corporations formed to tackle problems on the ground. Eversen had to make sure the citizens were fed, that the power stayed on, that the remnants of the Azeri air force were kept out of the airspace — they had some kind of high altitude plane with a HERF dish that they’d used twice so far, but it had circled off over Uzbekistan, disappeared under cloud cover and now nobody was entirely sure where it was, or even if it was in the hands of Azeri loyalists or the Uzbek government.
Had the Uzbeks done it? Had they backed the ambush team that’d hit the convoy, that’d killed Ereli, the way they’d sent tanks into Tajikistan years ago? Was it the Neo-Aliyevs — the faction made up of rich civilians members of the old regime’s family, many of whom lived in Dubai after being run out by Nesimi? Was it the religious radicals, angry about dogs? (Maybe not. Eversen hadn’t met even one religious person in Baku who’d out and out hated him for being a dog, although he had been invited to stay outside the mosque rather than going inside while they fetched one of the community leaders.) It probably wasn’t the protestors, the youth opposition leagues who’d been howling for free elections and free press — they had that now. The right-wingers, the militias?
Maybe it’d been Nesimi’s loyalists? There were a couple of Eurasian warlords who were nominally Azerbaijani, people who’d lived here as children, some like Nesimi who had tenuous ties to the region. The exile factions, the opposition militias, the right-wingers? That seemed unlikely — Panah Karimov had disavowed all knowledge of the action, had turned over access to his people’s equipment and weapons even if they refused to leave their mountain strongholds.
According to the facial recognition report, none of the bodies Eversen had inspected were members of Karimov’s faction. None of them were even family members of any of Karimov’s men and women, and, according to the Andercom intelligence officer Eversen had spoken to, that seemed to clear them. Family was important here; if you joined a militia, so did your siblings.
Even so, it was a long march between hearing that and trusting Karimov. Like hell Eversen would let them get ahold of weapons, even non-lethals, and start playing volunteer police.
Fuck. It was supposed to be simple, supposed to be easy — come here and shoot the one guy — but now that they’d turned the rock over and shot the bastard they’d found a dozen factions crawling around underneath, clicking their claws and making hissing noises, all impossible to tell apart. It’d be easier if they’d actually shot Ilhaim Nesimi — they had him locked up under the old court-house, awaiting a suitable legal system to be built to try him, instead.
The suction stopped, and the surgery robot started pumping something into his leg. It felt cool, and numb, and when Eversen dared open his eyes to peek, the glop being shoved in was blue-green.
“Am I going to be able to walk on this?” he asked the nurse.
The man — woman? Eversen wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter — the nurse nodded. “Oh, sure.” He/she/they smiled. Then frowned, theatrically. “In about a week.”
“I need to be on my feet today.”
&nbs
p; The nurse shook their head. “No can do. We can put you in a wheelchair if you like.”
“Can’t you splint it? Brace it? I have a cane.”
“It needs rest. A wheelchair’s my final offer. For at least five days. You already tried walking on it, don’t try it again.”
Eversen slumped back, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to go and take revenge, shoot whoever the hell was responsible. But he’d already shipped Ereli’s body home, and still had no clear idea as to what the hell had happened at the ambush.
Eversen grimaced, pulling up his phone, and logging into the tactical network. “Well, thank you,” he muttered at the nurse. “I’m sure there’s some kind of job that needs doing from a wheelchair…”
*
Eversen’s first thought was that he had no idea who these people were, or why they were sucking their tea through sugar cubes clenched between their teeth and encouraging him to do the same. As if the correct consumption of tea and sympathetic tuttings about his wheelchair were at least half the reason he’d been summoned to speak with them.
The objective listing on the tactical network was low priority — meet with local politicians, almost all of whom had put in requests to meet with the commander, the organizer, the top dog, the head of this coup from nowhere.
Bud in his ear, translating jokes he didn’t understand, Eversen hauled himself out of the wheelchair, waving off the business-suited attendant and their beverage, limping the two steps to the desk, and thumping his palms down on it, hunching over the seated man.
Malik Najafov. Third or fourth from the top of the Citizen’s Democracy Party. The CDP, or ‘VDP’ in Azeri, was a political organization which had shed all of its links with Nesimi’s government hours into the assault on the Khazar Islands, and was now swallowing down a mixture of politically conservative and somewhat communist supporters in its first attempts at openly campaigning for votes.
The man’s office had physical paintings on the walls, not screens, and gold and brass knick-knacks in glass-topped and scarlet cushioned display tables, along with silver carafes and jugs that served no purpose Eversen could comprehend. Malik sat square in the middle of it all, at a desk the size of a bed with recessed panels for the desktop workstation inside. His attendants leaned in at the sides, almost indistinguishable — cousins hanging out at the office, all smiling and saying nothing.
“I’m not here to pay a social visit,” Eversen growled out. “You requested a meeting — I’m here. What do you want?”
“Don’t be so rushed,” Malik purred, the oily tone filtered out in Eversen’s earbud. “We have plenty of time. Please, sit down.”
Eversen exposed teeth. He knew how to smile at humans, showing teeth politely, but that wasn’t what he did. Not now. “I’m so pleased you have plenty of time. If you don’t get to the point I’m leaving.”
Malik and his cousins shared a brief, serious look. “You are… highly placed in the Liberation Fund’s forces?” Malik asked, in English. Asking it gently, prying. Uncertain as to how much respect Eversen was due. “We have been told that there is no commander.”
“I hold signatory-of-incorporation status.” Thanks to Ereli. He gestured at the chair, waited for it to roll in under him, and lowered himself into it. “That’s as close as you’re going to get.”
“Signatory…?” Malik looked helplessly to the man on his right. The man shook his head, helplessly.
Malik smiled, falsely. All white teeth and good humor and something dumb and blank in front of his eyes shielding whatever thoughts were razoring around the man’s head. “Then, please, let me not waste your time. We have many concerns. The establishment of a democratically elected government to follow your Transitionary Authority, is there a timetable?”
“The in-house lawyers are setting up a central court system to handle arbitrations. Randomly selected juries from the citizenry are aiding and authenticating the selection of judges from the Azeri population with the oversight of the European Union High Commission.” Eversen ground his knuckles over his face tiredly, and got out his phone, tabbing through for the speaking notes someone in the offices back home had prepared for him. “Once the central court system is in place, delegates will be selected by democratic vote to form a parliament within the Transitionary Authority which can begin to ratify and amend the draft constitution that the TA has suggested, and the process as a whole is expected to be complete by the end of the month. Draft constitution allows for one to six weeks of political campaigning and discussion to take place before the elections, so, call it two months before the new independent government’s established.”
“I see.”
Folding the phone flat, Eversen pushed it back into the front pocket of his uniform coverall.
Eversen almost wished he hadn’t checked in with the local street patrols for backup — if there was an attempt to assassinate whoever had been sent to the meeting, maybe he was better off dead than sitting through this shit.
“This information is readily available from the Transitionary Authority’s front-house office,” Eversen said. “Is this all you wanted a meeting for?”
The reason Malik Najafov was third or fourth from the head of his party was because, as Eversen understood it, they were hoping to push him as their presidential candidate. The man at the top had actual business to perform, but down here, a couple of inches under the line of fire, Malik had time to push his own agenda.
“There are questions I had about the proposed citizen police force, how you are selecting officers and commandants…”
“It’s off,” Eversen snapped. “Plan wasn’t fit for purpose. We’re subcontracting to peacekeeping service providers vetted by the United Nations.”
“Ah.” Malik blinked away surprise, and a little disappointment, before stroking his chin.
Eversen stared, levelly.
The politician gestured away two of his cousins from the desk, directing them to clear away the tea service, and leaned in conspirationally. “And the actual money in the Liberation Fund? What happens to this when the new government is in place?”
Eversen pricked up his ears. “The remainder of the fund, after dispersing hazard, disability and bereavement payments to combatants and settling all other debts, is being released through the Transitionary Authority to the governmental body formed by its elections.”
“And these… disability and bereavement payments.” Malik’s lips quirked, a knowing look in his eye. “They are likely to be… extensive?”
“They’re capped at sixty percent of contractor payments or six months equivalent non-combat duty pay, whichever’s lower. It helps defray insurance costs. That’s standard practice as per AD-MACP private military operations guidelines.” Eversen leaned forward, in turn. “Materiel, ordnance, and support equipment not being rented or otherwise contractually redistributed on disincorporation is also to be handed over. At present the hand-over fund’s net usable total is at thirty-six million New Dollars and growing, which translates to something near to a billion of your Manat. A lot of that will be spent between now and then fixing streets, but you can ask accounts for access to the quarterly audit when that’s done. No, Mister Najafov, we are not running off with your citizens’ money, if that is what you are asking.”
“Please. Malik Bey, not Mister Najafov. That is how we address each other in Azerbaijan, Eversen Bey.”
“I don’t concern myself with your nation’s culture, language, or social niceties, Mister Najafov. That’s not what your country hired us for. Me and my brothers come cheap, not stupid.”
“I am concerned for my people.” Malik lifted one of the tea-glasses, a stubby little shotglass, in salute. Sipped, no sugar between the teeth. “I must be sure we have not traded one dictator for another. You understand?”
Eversen smiled thinly, all teeth, no joy. “I can understand that you wouldn’t want another dictator around, Mister Najafov.”
20. Battle Fatigue.
::/ Baku, Azerbaijan.
<
br /> ::/ May, 2106.
::/ Edane Estian.
Edane knew that holding onto the LAMW on patrol was irrational — what he needed was a cut-down folding stock rifle, but it was hard, emotionally, to let go of the cannon. Hard to let go of the war, and settle into the required routine.
The routine where he stood alone on the coast-side plaza where the Azerbaijan National Flagpole stood hundreds of meters up into the sky, so high up the wind could be nasty enough to shred the flag to tatters while there was hardly any breeze at all on the ground. He was supposed to keep an eye on the crowds and provide a rapid response capability in the event of violence anywhere across the bay of Baku, but instead two men in touristy clothes came up and tried to stab Edane to death.
The knives were relatively small, easily hidden as they approached. One of them tried to distract Edane, asking if the city was really safe now, where ex-president Nesimi was, while the other went around to Edane’s right side. Edane caught the knife by reflex in his right hand — a bad reflex, but he’d never been afraid of getting cut. The little blade shredded his palm ragged, even through his combat gloves.
The knifeblade snapped as Edane twisted it away, his left fist shot into the first attacker’s face, then he drove the back of his elbow into the second man’s face before he could finish sinking his knife into the mesh weave of Edane’s armor. The knifeblade tangled up on the fiber — he should’ve let the first one stab him, too, but there was always the possibility they’d aim for his throat — so he kicked the talker’s feet out from under him and rolled him over with a second kick. The attacker was bloody on his back — nose and upper lip pouring blood as he sprawled out.
Edane had expected more of an attack than that, so he drew back from the scattering pedestrians, calling for backup, but… there wasn’t any follow up attack.
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