George Martin - Suicide Kings

Noel studied her features washed pale by the moonlight. He saw no softening, only determination. He realized this was the woman who had risked everything, faced down the armed might of the American government to save one little boy.

Could he really do less?

But he wanted it to be over.

She seemed to read the thought. She laid a hand on his cheek. “Do this. I think it might be the only way for you to find peace.”

On the Road to Bunia, Congo

People’s Paradise of Africa

The incident with the train brought about another change in Ghost. She started to talk.

Wally couldn’t understand what she was saying, any better than she understood him. But she chattered at him in her little-girl voice, and that made him happy. She sounded like a normal little girl. Less like a ghost every day.

And, as they passed through villages on the way to Bunia, she talked to other people, too. About Wally. Based on her gestures and the boom! boom! boom! sounds she made, he guessed she was telling them about his fight with the Leopard Men, and the barge he’d sunk, and the train he’d derailed. Especially the train. They loved the part about the train. They clapped him on the back, burbling, offering the strangers food and places to sleep.

Bunia must have been a pretty big city, because Wally started noticing cell phones. Each time Ghost finished her tale, a dozen folks whipped out their phones and began texting. And that’s when the story really spread.

Tuesday,

December 29

Bunia, Congo

People’s Paradise of Africa

The sun rose on columns of oily smoke dotting the horizon, on every point of the compass. But mostly in the direction of Bunia.

Wally and Ghost had acquired an entourage. A small but growing convoy of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and even bicycles trailed their stolen personnel carrier. The people riding them waved shovels, machetes, picks, wooden boards, and anything else they could scrounge.

Wally hated it. These folks would get themselves killed. But he couldn’t make them understand.

Ghost refused to leave his side.

More smoke on the horizon.

The radio in the APC came alive with chatter. Wally couldn’t understand the actual words, but he didn’t need to. He recognized the urgency; the jumble of traffic as people spoke over one another; the plaintive sound of soldiers requesting orders; the barking of harried commanders trying to gather information.

He’d listened to the same kind of chaos on a few Committee ops. It was the sound of things going wrong.

United Nations

Manhattan, New York

Noel teleported directly into Lohengrin’s office. The eye patch ought to have made him look rakish and dangerous. Instead the German looked oddly young and vulnerable.

“ Scheisse! Oh. What do you want?”

“How can I help?”

Bunia, Congo

People’s Paradise of Africa

They hit another roadblock about fifty miles outside Bunia. Regular troops patrolled this one; Wally saw no sign of the elite Leopard Men. Not that these soldiers needed the help. They had a tank.

The troops took one look at the line of vehicles strung out on the narrow road behind Wally’s APC and raised their weapons. One spoke into a radio handset. The tank turret swiveled, lining up a shot that would kill a hundred people.

Wally was out and charging for the tank in an instant. Bullets ricocheted from his body and from the armor of the personnel carrier. Something wet and warm trickled down his neck. Motors whirred. The tank barrel eased lower.

Wally leapt, hands outstretched. The tank imploded in an orange cloud. Iron fists made short work of the tank crew. Then Wally turned on the other soldiers, but they had dropped their weapons. Hands in the air, they stared behind him.

He turned. A villager had scrambled atop the APC, and was brandishing the machine gun with a wicked grimace. But it didn’t matter that the soldiers had surrendered. They were overrun by a wave of angry Congolese, wielding brickbats and hope.

That evening, Wally borrowed a phone. The only number he could remember was Jerusha’s. She didn’t answer; he left a message on her voice mail.

“Um. Hey, there, Jerusha. This is Wally. You know, from… well, you know. Anyway, I figure that by now you must have gotten in touch with the Committee, and you got all them kids safe and sound. Sure hope so. I’m still on my way to Bu-to that place we talked about. I’ll get there soon. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. I hope you are, too. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.” But he knew that was unlikely. So, just in case, he added, “And, Jerusha? Thank you. For everything.”

Wednesday,

December 30

Blythe van Renssaeler

Memorial Clinic, Jokertown

Manhattan, New York

“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jerusha looked up at the glowering Finn. A nurse-a joker with purple skin and arms and legs that looked like they’d been twisted from balloons-hovered anxiously behind him in the doorway. She straightened, leaving the clothes half stuffed into the garbage bag she had taken from the can. Her seed pouch was lashed to her waist; the belt had gone twice around her cadaverous form. She wiped at her arms, bloodied from where she’d pulled out the IVs. They looked as if they belonged to someone else: skeletal, skin hanging empty from the framework of her bones. She avoided looking at the figure of herself in the glass as she turned. “Figure it out, Doc. You’re a smart guy.”

“I haven’t released you.”

“I’ve decided to release myself.”

“Jerusha, you’ll die if you leave here.”

“That’s kind of inevitable, isn’t it? On the whole, I’d rather be dying where I might be able to do some good, rather than here in your sterile room. No offense.”

“You can’t be thinking of going back to Africa.”

“Why not? I’m black.” When Finn just stared at her, his mouth slightly open, Jerusha laughed drily, the amusement ending in an exhausted, hacking cough that bent her over.

Finn started toward her, and she took a step back from him, straightening. She wiped at her lips-touching her face was always a shock. It didn’t feel like her face, but some impossibly thin stranger’s. She swept a hand over her short hair: the tight curls were dry, brittle, and fragile. “It’s a joke, Doc. I need to find Rusty, and I need to find him before”-she stopped, took a breath-“while I can . I’m doing exactly that unless you can tell me right now that you can cure whatever that child did to me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you can do that, Doc.”

Finn only stared, his gaze almost angry.

“I thought so.” Jerusha turned back to the garbage bag, pushing at the clothing and closing the bag. She swung it by the ties around her shoulder. “I have a train and then a plane to catch.” She plucked a seed from the pouch and held it up to the centaur. “Get out of my way, or I’ll wreck your nice little clinic making sure I’m not stopped.”

“They won’t let you do this,” Finn said. “They won’t let you get on that plane.”

“What they?” she asked. “The Committee? Then they’ll have to fight me.” She touched the seed pouch. “They’d better send someone good. I’m going, or I swear to you I’ll die fighting right there at the airport.”

Finn still hadn’t moved. “All right. You’re an adult. You want to leave, I won’t stop you. But let me make a call first. If you’re determined to go, then let’s make sure you actually get there.” He held her gaze. “That’s not a lie, and that’s not a diversion. I’m asking you to let me try to help you.”

Jerusha stared at him. She lowered the seed and put it back into the pouch. She swung the garbage bag onto the bed and sat down alongside it, hating how good it felt to be sitting rather than standing. “All right,” she told Finn. “I’ll wait. For a little bit. But if your phone call doesn’t pan out, I’m gone.” She looked over Finn’s withers to the nurse. “And bring me some food while I’m waiting. Lots of it. I’m famished.”