George Effinger - When Gravity Fails

Friedlander Bey frowned. “I am not convinced, my nephew. There isn’t the slightest connection between your Russian diplomat and my Devi. The assassination idea occurred to you only because the Russian worked in some political capacity. Devi had no idea of world affairs at all. She was of no help or hindrance to any party or movement. The James Bond theme merits further inspection, but the motives you suggest are without substance.”

“Do you have any ideas about either killer, O Shaykh?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said, “but I have only just begun to collect information. That is why I wanted to discuss this situation with you. You should not think that my involvement is solely a matter of revenge. It is that, of course, but it is a great deal larger than that. To put it simply, I must protect my investments. I must demonstrate to my associates and my friends that I will not permit such a threat to their safety to continue. Otherwise I will begin to lose the support of the people who make up the foundation and framework of my power. Taken individually, these four murders are repellent but not unheard-of occurrences: murders take place every day in the city. Together, however, these four killings are an immediate challenge to my existence. Do you understand me, my nephew?”

He was making himself very clear. “Yes, O Shaykh,” I said. I waited to hear the suggestions Hassan said would be made.

There was a long pause while Friedlander Bey regarded me pensively. “You are very different from most of my friends in the Budayeen,” he said at last. “Almost everyone has had some modification made on his body.”

“If they can afford it,” I said, “I think they should have whatever mod they want. As for me, O Shaykh, my body has always been fine just the way it is. The only surgery I’ve ever had has been for therapeutic reasons. I am pleased with the form I was given by Allah.”

Papa nodded. “And your mind?” he asked.

“It runs a little slow sometimes,” I said, “but, on the whole, it’s served me well. I’ve never felt a desire to have my brain wired, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yet you take prodigious quantities of drugs. You did so in my presence last night.” I had nothing to say to that. “You are a proud man, my nephew. I’ve read a report about you that mentions this pride. You find excitement in contests of wit and will and physical prowess with people who have the advantage of modular personalities and other software add-ons. It is a dangerous diversion, but you seem to have emerged unscathed.”

A few painful memories flashed through my mind. “I’ve been scathed, O Shaykh, more than a few times.”

He laughed. “Even that has not prompted you to modify yourself. Your pride takes the form of presenting yourself — as the Christians say in some context — as being in the world but not of it.”

“Untempted by its treasures and untouched by its evils, that’s me.” My ironic tone was not lost on Papa.

“I would like you to help me, Marîd Audran,” he said. There it was, take it or leave it.

The way he put it, I was left in an extremely uncomfortable position: I could say, “Sure, I’ll help you,” and then I’d have compromised myself in precisely the way I swore I never would; or I could say, “No, I won’t help you,” and I’d have offended the most influential person in my world. I took a couple of long, slow breaths while I sorted out my answer. “O Shaykh,” I said at last, “your difficulties are the difficulties of everyone in the Budayeen; indeed, in the city. Certainly, anyone who cares about his own safety and happiness will help you. I will help you all that I can, but against the men who have murdered your friends, I doubt that I can be of much use.”

Papa stroked his cheek and smiled. “I understand that you have no wish to become one of my ‘associates.’ Be that as it may. You have my guarantee, my nephew, that if you agree to aid me in this matter, it will not mark you as one of ‘Papa’s men.’ Your pleasure is in your freedom and independence, and I would not take that from one who does me a great favor.”

I wondered if he was implying that he might take away the freedom from one who refused to perform the favor. It would be child’s play for Papa to steal my liberty; he could accomplish that by simply planting me forever, deep beneath the tender grass in the cemetery where the Street comes to its end.

Baraka : an Arabic word that is very difficult to translate. It can mean magic or charisma or the special favor of God. Places can have it; shrines are visited and touched in the hope that some of the baraka will rub off. People can have baraka ; the derwishes, in particular, believe that certain fortunate people are specially blessed by Allah, and are therefore worthy of singular respect in the community. Friedlander Bey had more baraka than all the stone shrines in the Maghrib. I can’t say if it was baraka that made him what he was, or if he attained the baraka as he attained his position and influence. Whatever the explanation, it was very difficult to listen to him and deny him what he asked. “How can I help you?” I said. I felt hollow inside, as if I had made a great surrender.

“I want you to be the instrument of my vengeance, my nephew,” he said.

I was shocked. No one knew better than I how inadequate I was to the task he was giving me. I had tried to tell him that already, but he’d only brushed aside my objections as if they were just some form of false modesty. My mouth and throat were dry. “I have said that I will help you, but you ask too much of me. You have more capable people in your employ.”

“I have stronger men,” said Papa. “The two servants you met last night are stronger than you, but they lack intelligence. Hassan the Shiite has a certain shrewdness, but he is not otherwise a dangerous man. I have considered each of my friends, O my beloved nephew, and I have made this decision: none but you offers the essential combination of qualities I seek. Most important, I trust you. I cannot say the same of many of my associates; it is a sad thing to admit. I trust you because you do not care to rise in my esteem. You do not try to ingratiate yourself with me for your own ends. You are not a truckling leech, of which I have more than my share. For the important work we must do, I must have someone about whom I have no doubts; that is one of the reasons our meeting last night was so difficult for you. It was an examination of your inner worth. I knew when we parted that you were the man I sought.”

“You do me honor, O Shaykh, but I am afraid I do not share your confidence.”

He raised his right hand, and it trembled visibly. “I have not finished my speech, my nephew. There are further reasons why you must do as I ask, reasons that benefit you, not me. You tried to speak of your friend Nikki last night, and I would not permit it. I ask your forgiveness again. You were quite correct in your concern for her safety. I am certain that her disappearance was the work of one or the other of these murderers; perhaps she herself has already been slain, Allah grant that it not be true. I cannot say. Yet if there is any hope of finding her alive, it is in you. With my resources, together we will find the killers. Together we will deal with them, as the Wise Mention of God directs. We will prevent Nikki’s death if we can, and who can say how many other lives we may save? Are these not worthy goals? Can you still hesitate?”

It was all very flattering, I suppose; but I wished like hell that Papa had picked somebody else. Saied would have done a good job, especially with his ass-kicking moddy chipped in. There was nothing I could do now, though, except agree. “I will do my best for you, O Shaykh,” I said reluctantly, “but I do not abandon my doubts.”