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.”
34
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.”
Finn and the nurse fled. Jerusha looked around the room. Her cell phone… It was still in the drawer of the stand. She pulled it out. The battery, after days here in the clinic, was dead. She pulled out the cord, plugged it in. The phone beeped; there was a message on her voice mail from a number she didn’t know, a sequence that wasn’t an American number. She pressed the key to listen.
“Um. Hey there, Jerusha. This is Wally…”
The tears then came without volition, huge sobs that wracked her body and brought the purple nurse rushing back into the room. She clutched the phone hard in her thin hand until it hurt, listening to that voice. She looked up at the woman and she smiled.
“Wally’s alive,” Jerusha said. “He’s still alive…”
United Nations
Manhattan, New York
Lohengrin stalked down the hallway, leaning heavily on the aluminum cane. His head was less gauzed, but a silver medical patch was fixed over his seared eye. His rage radiated like heat from a fire. Bugsy walked on his left, Babel on his right like a cartoon demon/angel pair.
“Investigators,” Lohengrin spat. “A month, and we can assemble investigators to observe the People’s Paradise.”
“China is getting most of its oil from the Nshombos,” Babel said. “It would be naive to expect them to abandon their own economic interests.”
Lohengrin actually growled. Babel’s brow clouded. This was apparently not the first time through the conversation.
“Hi,” Bugsy said. “So things are going well, then?”
“The Committee is doing nothing about the child aces of Africa,” Lohengrin said. “We are sitting on our hands, because of policy.”
“Yeah. Picked up on that.”
Lohengrin turned a tight corner and stepped into Gardener’s suite. An IV drip was feeding into the woman’s arm, but it didn’t matter how many calories they pumped into her; Jerusha Carter was starving to death. The sight of her withering body was such a shock, Bugsy didn’t immediately register the other two people in the room.
“Jonathan,” Ellen said.
She looked beautiful. A deep brown sweater he hadn’t seen her in before, and a long black wool overcoat. Her hair was in a new cut, swept back from her eyes. Her smile was almost gentle.
