Kameron Hurley - God's War

“No doubt they agreed with what you did.”

Rhys sighed. “It was some time ago.”

“Yes. I have not seen your father since.”

“Have you been home?”

“A time or two.”

“You’ve seen my sisters?”

“Yes, all married now.”

“To whom?”

“Best I can recall, a local magistrate. The one who mooned over them.”

“Nikou Bahman. The one my father hated.”

“Yes, that man.”

Rhys stared at the tea. He could not bring himself to drink it. He kept thinking of the maggots in the sink.

“He already had eight wives,” Rhys said.

“Did you expect it would go differently? Your sisters, the household, were disgraced when you did not follow your father’s will. God’s will. Your father thought no one would take them, not even as a ninth or twelfth wife.”

Rhys took a deep breath. “But they married.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Children?”

“All boys. You have four nephews.” Abdul-Nasser picked up his tea but did not drink it. He peered at Rhys. “But you did not come to me for news of your house. Not after eight years.”

“No,” Rhys said. He pulled the transmission canisters from his tunic pocket and set them on the table. “I need to read these. Our com man may have died for them.”

Abdul-Nasser set down his tea and took one of the rectangles into his hand. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, pressed it to his ear and shook it.

“Ah,” he said. “This is expensive.” He bit it. “This is government. Nasheenian.”

“Can you read it?”

“Yes.” Abdul-Nasser stood, and went to a tangle of equipment piled at the far end of the aquarium wall. He unpacked some material, uncovered a com console, and inserted the rectangle into the panel. He tapped out a signal to the chittering bugs in the console.

Rhys got up and stood next to him.

A strong female voice bled out from the speakers; the cadence and inflection were like Nyx’s, only more stilted, more educated.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said, “what I’m about to tell you…”

They only listened to half of the first canister.

It was enough.

“Can you get me a transcription of this?” Rhys asked with a growing sense of dread, as Nyx’s dead sister talked about the end of the war, the end of Chenja. He thought of Khos and Inaya, and the alien with the big laugh.

Abdul-Nasser pressed a button on the console. “Put your hand here,” he told Rhys, and Rhys put his hand on the faceplate next to the printer plate. He felt a soft prickling on his hand.

Blank organic paper began to roll out of the console.

“It will respond only to your touch,” Abdul-Nasser said. “I’ve locked it as well, for forty-eight hours from now. It won’t open until then. Keep it close until you need it. I hope you have a trustworthy employer.”

Rhys stared at the paper as it came out of the machine, even as Kine’s voice continued to assault him from the speakers.

“What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into?” Abdul-Nasser asked, staring at the speakers as if the voice would take on human form and step from the machine with a flaming sword.

“More than I know,” Rhys said. “You’ll destroy these?”

“Oh, yes. The moment it’s done transcribing. You best not stay long.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Rhys said.

“You were bound for trouble. Born under an inauspicious star, your mother said.”

The printer stopped. Abdul-Nasser tucked the papers into an organic case and handed them to Rhys.

“This is important,” Rhys said. “I need to get this back to my employer and decide what we’re going to do with it.”

“Your employer is Nasheenian,” Abdul-Nasser said.

“Think what you will,” Rhys said. He tucked the organic case into his satchel. “I should go. I said I wouldn’t be long.”

“Said that to a woman? How old are you, Rakhshan?”

“You sound like my father.”

Abdul-Nasser grunted. He rubbed at his arms. “Eh,” he said.

Rhys moved to the door. He waved the red roaches away and unbolted the doors. They moved easily. He wished all bugs were as well-trained as his uncle’s.

Abdul-Nasser stayed close behind. Rhys could smell him. Rhys turned, looked into his uncle’s weeping eyes.

“I did the right thing,” Rhys said.

Abdul-Nasser said, “That is between you and God.”

Rhys gripped the old man’s arms. “Stay away from the venom,” he said.

“Be careful among the women,” Abdul-Nasser said.

Rhys made to pull away, but Abdul-Nasser held him.

“And know this,” Abdul-Nasser said. “You are our last boy, the only one with our name. Whatever you do, whatever you need, you come to me. Ten hours or ten years from now.”

“I know, Uncle,” Rhys said.

“Good.” Abdul-Nasser released him, and quickly shut the door.

Rhys pressed his hand to his satchel and the transcription, reassuring himself it was still there. He started back through the corridor and down the open stair. He could still hear Kine’s voice talking with antiseptic clarity about the things Ras Tiegans had done to shifters, the things Nasheen would do to shifters. The eradication of a people. The end of Chenja.

He walked back to the taxi ranks. The call sounded for afternoon prayer, and he found the mosque nearest the ranks and knelt. He unrolled the prayer rug from his back. He submitted to the will of God and hoped he was not praying for the end of Chenja, and Nasheen, and the shifters; hoped he was not praying for the end of the world. After, he went for lunch at a Mhorian restaurant that served halal food; the bus was not due for hours. The afternoon heat kept the crowds away from the taxi ranks, and after lunch he sat out under the shade of the weather stalls at the ranks and waited.

He read from the Kitab and pushed away thoughts of Kine and bloody shifters. A bus pulled up ahead of him. When he looked at the sign in the window, he saw that it was headed for the city of his birth.

Rhys stared at the bus. He thought of what his mother would say if she saw him. Would she ignore him? Shriek? Turn away? He wanted to think that she would open her arms to him and invite him to her table. She and his aunts would cook a heavy meal—eight dishes—and his father would come home and laugh and smoke and tell him how proud he was to have a magician for a son.

“Rhys Dashasa?”

He stirred from his dream, then jerked himself awake. How had he done that? It was dangerous to fall asleep in public, even while sitting on your purse.

Rhys squinted up at the bulky figure in front of him. He did not recognize him. Two more dark figures stood off to the man’s right. Rhys saw very little. The sun was directly behind them.

“What do you want?” Rhys asked, raising his hand to his brow. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the man said.

Rhys’s fingers twitched. He searched for a local swarm of wasps.

“Let’s not be hasty,” one of the other figures said, and something rolled toward him, blowing smoke.

Rhys coughed and raised his hands.

The large man grabbed Rhys by the burnous and dragged him to his feet. Rhys reached for his pistols, but the man twisted both of Rhys’s arms neatly behind him.

A magician stood just to the left of him, one hand raised, a swarm of wasps already circling her head.

“So you’re her beautiful boy,” the man said. “I didn’t see you much at the Cage. Thought you were just a rumor.”

“You’re mistaken—” Rhys began.

“No, I think not,” Raine said. “Let us see if she cares any more for you than she does her little half-breed.”