George Martin - Suicide Kings

Nick’s voice came from the back, low and conversational. He laughed twice. Bugsy looked at the room. It still smelled of old curry. The earring was in the bedroom, laid gently by the book Ellen was reading before she fell asleep. He rose to his feet, paced a little, then sat down and turned on the television.

CNN was all about New Orleans. The visuals were astounding. Thousands of bright, soft-looking bubbles rising through the air, floating in the Gulf Coast breeze. Now and then, a detonation would set off a chain reaction, bright cascades of light that made the most glorious fireworks look tame. The news anchor was talking about the airspace over the city being shut down, about the travelers stuck in the city, about the cost and inconvenience. The Amazing Bubbles was coming back to life, and Bugsy found himself both surprised and delighted. All that energy floating in the Louisiana sky had once been a nuclear fireball, and now it was coming out slowly, over hours and days, as something beautiful. Mardi Gras in December. The biggest, loudest, least convenient celebration ever of the simple fact that New Orleans still lived.

He forgot the business of the Sudd and the Caliphate and angled back toward the office to get Ellen. Nick was in her chair, leaning forward, telephone handset pressed between shoulder and ear. Bugsy, his mind still on the news channel, was almost surprised to see him.

“… with the Internal Revenue Service,” he said. “I’m trying to get in touch with Kimberly Ann Goodwin. Or possibly Meadows or Cordayne, the records aren’t clear, but I have her social… oh, did she? Well, that makes sense. Do you have that? Of course.”

Nick looked up. “Declared bankruptcy and changed her name five years ago,” he said. “I’m getting the new… Hello? Yes, that’s right. Thank you.” Nick patted the desk, then looked up at Bugsy, miming the act of writing. Bugsy pulled a notepad and pen from the storage closet and handed them over. “All right. Great. Yeah, and do you have a good contact number for her?” Nick went silent. “You’re kidding,” he said. He shook his head and wrote something on the paper. “Okay. That’s great. You have one, too.”

Maybe Nick was trying not to look smug as he passed the notepad back. If so, it wasn’t his best effort. Bugsy took the pad. Kimberly Joy Christopher, it said. Then a phone number with a 541 area code, and block letters: risen savior spiritual center.

“She’s found Jesus,” Nick said. “Apparently, they’re living together.”

“You rock,” Bugsy said, stuffing the paper into his pocket. “But come look at the news. You’ve got to see this.”

Kongoville, Congo

People’s Paradise of Africa

“We are a great people. A great people,” the taxi driver said in rapid-fire French. “Africa held many great kingdoms long before the whites came out of their caves.”

The traffic in Kongoville was manic, with three and four lanes being formed by jostling cars on a two-lane road. Cranes loomed over the city like contemplative dinosaurs. There were vast piles of rubble where shanties and older buildings had been razed in preparation for another The People-The People’s Theater, The People’s Hall of Justice, The People’s department store, laundrette…

Even in early December the air-conditioning in the car was blowing full blast. Add that to the music pouring from the radio and the driver’s commentary, and it was hard for Noel to gather his thoughts for his upcoming meeting with President-for-Life Dr. Nshombo. Noel wore a perfectly tailored Italian suit, an opal and diamond ring on his little finger. He didn’t want Etienne Pelletier to seem too upscale. He hid the avatar’s golden eyes behind dark glasses.

Noel found the taxi driver’s assertion of lost African kingdoms both understandable and sad. He had spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and the populace there shared the same sense of racial, national, and geographic pride, completely at odds with their actual situations. In the Middle East you heard how Baghdad had streetlights when Europe was mired in the Dark Ages. In Africa it was the lost kingdoms.

They were all the dreams of conquered and economically depressed people reacting against Western might. Noel contemplated how Prince Siraj’s three-hundred-dollar-a-barrel oil had almost brought Europe and America to their knees, and how the PPA’s conquests in Africa were denying the West vital resources. Payback’s a bitch, he thought.

A large stone structure caught his attention. That was new since his last visit to Kongoville. Whatever it was it shared that Albert Speer style of architecture that was favored by the good Doctor. “What’s that?” Noel pointed.

The driver turned down the radio, and said quietly and respectfully, “That is the tomb of Our Lady of Pain.”

Noel pulled back a cuff and glanced at his watch. He had time. “I would like to see that.”

The driver pulled over and parked. Noel walked up the stone steps. They had already begun to wear. There must have been literally thousands of people through the door, he thought.

The single room was high and cavernous. High above him Noel heard the squeaking of bats that turned the tomb into a cave. The center of the room was lit by a powerful spotlight that shone down on a crystal bier. Inside lay a beautiful young woman. The embalming job had been exquisite. Her burnished black skin seemed soft and pliable, no one had forced a false smile onto her mouth, and the way her lashes brushed at her cheeks gave the impression she was only sleeping. Around her neck hung an enormous gold medal suspended by a purple velvet ribbon.

For a moment Noel reflected on this desperate need of dictatorships to worship their dead. Lenin, Mao, this child. The English never did such a thing. No one kept Victoria on display. Even the Americans aren’t so crass.

“A people’s hero,” the driver murmured.

“What did she do?” Noel asked.

“She took our pain into herself and healed us.” The man bowed his head.

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

And on day five, Michelle rested.

She’d been able to stand up yesterday. It felt weird and she was a little wobbly, but it wasn’t impossible.

Today she was almost as thin as she’d been when she was modeling. There was still energy in her. She felt heavier, even though she looked skinny. That seemed to be the legacy of what had happened. She was heavier all the time now. With no mirror, she couldn’t tell how she looked, but the jeans and T-shirt Juliet had bought for her felt like they fit.

The temple seemed sad. The flowers had dried up and Juliet and Joey had thrown them out. The girls were waiting outside for her in the soft drizzle.

Michelle knew what she had to do next.

There was a loud murmur outside. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought it was the faithful. But they had evaporated during the rain of bubbles. What awaited her outside were reporters.

Michelle let a tiny bubble form on the tip of her finger. It was hard and bright and she shot it to the night sky. It burst high above the temple-a small pop that no one would notice. Then she turned and walked out the door.

On the Lukuga River, Congo

People’s Paradise of Africa

They wended their way downriver. Every bend in the river took Wally a little closer to Nyunzu. And, he hoped, Lucien.

Now he understood what Lucien had been referring to in his last letter, about the soldiers who hurt Sister Julie. But it had been worse than he’d feared. Lucien’s village, Kalemie… it was one of the worst things he’d ever seen, even counting all the stuff he saw and did for the Committee. He hated himself for waiting so long before he came to Africa. “Jerusha?”

“Yeah?”