George Martin - Suicide Kings

Wikipedia gave a decent overview. Tom Weathers, the Radical, had first appeared in China in 1993. That was actually a lot more recent than he’d thought. He followed some of the reference links at the bottom of the entry. As long as the fascists, the capitalists, and the willing collaborators hold the reigns of power, it is the duty of the people to oppose them. When the last landlord in the world is strangled with the intestines of the last banker, the work of peace can begin. Until that, any discussion of peace is treason against the people.

Bugsy figured the guy probably meant “reins,” but whatever. He read on for another few sentences, muttered “yadda yadda blah blah blah” under his breath, and went to a different site. There were a long series of small wars, guerrilla resistances, police actions, and freedom-fighting brotherhoods that Weathers had gotten himself involved in over the years. Burma, Indonesia, Colombia, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan… Yadda yadda blah blah blah.

A wild cards discussion board had a thread on him. It hadn’t been updated in a couple of years, but the archived conversation painted the same picture. The Radical was against the Man in all His forms, fighting for whomever he was fighting for and against whatever he decided was fascist or oppressive. He had a bunch of powers, real charisma, and a bad habit of deciding his allies weren’t politically pure enough. There were half a dozen sites that sold T-shirts with his face, many with slogans in alphabets Bugsy didn’t recognize right off.

“Need anything?” the barista asked. She was maybe twenty-two, blond, with the black tips of a tattoo sneaking out from her shirt near her collarbone.

“Freedom from the oppressors,” he said cheerfully.

“Word,” she replied in the whitest, most middle-class voice imaginable.

It would have been funnier if Bugsy hadn’t thought the Radical would have killed both of them, just for joking about it.

The willing collaborators. It sounded like a garage band.

Tuileries Garden

Paris, France

“If weathers doesn’t have these powers, then what killed my soldiers?” Siraj gripped the stem of his champagne glass like a man hugging a life preserver.

“Other aces. Aces plural.” Noel sipped his Hendricks gin martini and savored the cool/hot smoothness on the back of his tongue.

Siraj knocked back his champagne in a single gulp and waved his glass at a passing waiter. He got the usual Gallic sniff, frown, and shrug, but the man did head toward the bar. Noel looked out the window at the Tuileries Garden across the street. He had wanted to sit outside, but the late November rain made that impossible. The furled umbrellas in the metal tables looked like hunched, skeletal men in dripping coats.

“Then the PPA has multiple aces.” Siraj’s voice was heavy with despair. “How can that be? The release of the virus was localized over New York. The preponderance of aces has always been in America. I had one… Bahir… you. Now I have none. Unless…?” The implicit question hung in the air between.

Noel held up a restraining hand. “Oh, no, no, no, no. Weathers has sworn to kill Bahir.”

“I’ve got to have aces. If the PPA is recruiting them, then so can I.”

There was something about that that struck Noel as wrong. He contemplated Tom Weathers-charismatic, arrogant, impatient, always questioning the purity of one’s commitment to The Movement. “I can’t imagine Weathers ever accepting a mercenary ace into his army.”

“You’ve now taken two contradictory positions,” Siraj snapped. “Which is it?”

“Oh, they’re using aces. The question is where they came from.” Noel remembered Weathers’s dossier. The man had been thrown out of every revolutionary movement prior to the PPA because the other members always turned against him. The glimmering of an idea began to coalesce.

Siraj was speaking again. “Look, if you won’t fight for me will you at least help me recruit some aces? You have contacts from the Silver Helix.”

Noel gave an emphatic head shake. “If you field your own aces, Weathers will move directly on Baghdad. I have a better idea. One relying more on cunning, guile, and manipulation rather than brute force. The things at which I excel-”

“Yes, yes, yes, you’re a genius. Move on.”

“Remove the Nshombos. The PPA will collapse. The armies will pull back from the Sudan to join in the inevitable power struggle-”

“Which Weathers will win.”

“No, he has neither the personality or the force of character to hold it together. And he’s a white man. There are too many colonial memories to allow that to happen.”

“Yes, there are a lot of colonial memories.” Siraj smiled thinly. “So you’re going to kill the Nshombos.”

“That seems very crude. The last thing you want is to make a tin-pot dictator a martyr. It may come to that, but let’s try something more elegant and subtle first.”

“I suppose you use those same terms when referring to me,” Siraj said, and again smiled thinly.

“Oh, no, you’re not a tin-pot dictator.” Noel’s smile matched Siraj’s in thinness. “I know you actually want to help your people. I respected you for that, and that’s one of the reasons we selected you to replace the Nur.”

“Please, spare me your smug British approval.” The waiter returned with a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket. Siraj poured himself another glass. “I want this done by the end of the year. If it isn’t, I’ll release my little dossier on you to the World Court, the press, and Tom Weathers.”

There were times when remonstrating was pointless. This was one of them. Noel shrugged. “All right, but we need to postpone the march of the PPA on Baghdad. Let’s buy some time.”

“And how would you suggest I do that?”

“Ask Dr. Nshombo for a peace conference. If Nshombo refuses he’ll look like the aggressor. All these dictators like to think of themselves as the hero of their own three-penny opera. He won’t want the bad press.”

Siraj took another long swallow of champagne. “And if I involve the UN it will only add to the pressure on Nshombo to accept.”

“It will take time to arrange the conference, and you can spool out the talks for weeks, if necessary.”

“Five, to be precise.” Siraj filled up Noel’s empty martini glass with champagne. Their eyes met over the rim of their glasses and Noel saw no warmth in Siraj’s.

His old house mate would follow through on the threat.

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

Michelle had been awake for several hours when Juliet and Joey showed up. The security guard let the girls in, and when the door opened Michelle could smell the olive trees, the heavy scent of the Mississippi, and beignets cooking at Cafe du Monde.

“Oh, honey,” Juliet said. “You’re awake again!”

Michelle opened her mouth, but only managed a hoarse croak. She swallowed and said, “Oil can.”

“Oil can?” Juliet asked.

“Fuck all. It’s a stupid joke, Ink,” Hoodoo Mama said. “ ’Member? Wizard of Fucking Oz? She needs some water.”

“Of course,” Juliet said. “You had that tube down your throat for so long.” She hurried out, then came back a moment later with a cup and a straw. Michelle drank and she felt as if there wasn’t enough water in the world to quench her thirst.

“Don’t drink too much, baby,” Juliet said. “The doctor said it could make you sick.”

Michelle dropped the straw. “I’m almost indestructible,” she said. “I doubt a little water will hurt me.”

Adesina hasn’t had water in God-only-knows how long, Michelle thought. She was just a little girl. Even a few days without water could… Michelle felt something warm and wet drop onto her cheek. Juliet was crying.