Africa Zero (7 page)

“The
Silverman came. He nailed up this Pykani and these men tried to prevent him. He
tore them like paper dolls. The Rainman would speak with you.”

I
did not answer him. Instead I removed the covering from my right hand and
pulled the spikes from the tree. Hurricane flopped into my arms. I lowered him
to the ground—so much flesh. Nothing now.

“One
called Spitfire will come. Tell her it is a time for endings. The Silver One
will die.” I turned from the pathetic corpse and looked at Sipana and the man I
guessed to be her brother. “Take me to your Rain-man.”

They
led me to a dark wattle hut, this one cylindrical unlike the rest. Inside an
old man lay on a pallet and was being tended to by an old woman in jungle
fatigues. The Rainman was black and shrivelled like an old lizard, his hair
long and white, and his eyes gleaming. He had been injured. His arm was
splinted and his breathing laboured, so I assumed he must have had a few
cracked ribs. As I entered the hut he nodded to the woman and she quickly left.

“Welcome
to my village, Collector. It is unfortunate that I cannot greet you in the
correct manner.”

“I
have no use for feasting,” I said.

He
grinned at me. I continued.

“You
have something to tell me, I presume?”

“The
one we call the Silverman spoke to me. The voice was a woman’s voice and I
wonder if that one is named correctly?”

“Silverwoman
should be that particular . . . honorific. I suppose the name changed over the
years because she has long not been recognisable as a woman. But it is
questionable if gender should be applied to us at all. That is a function of
our synthetic covering and of what we were before taking on these ceramal
bodies.”

“To
yourself you are a man. Would you be a woman if you had the appearance of one?”

I
warmed to him. He was not stupid. I advanced further into the hut and sat beside
him.

“Tell
me. Tell me all of it.”

“The
Pykani Hurricane and Spitfire came to warn of your coming and your purpose. The
Silverman . . . Silverwoman is killing the Thunderers and you seek to make her
desist. Spitfire flew back to you and Hurricane remained to watch over the
mammoth and to look for the Silverwoman.”

I
nodded. I knew all this. He continued.

“Last
night the Silverwoman came into the village dragging Hurricane with her. He was
unconscious. She threw him down by the water oak then began to tear our houses
apart. I came to her and asked her what she wanted. She screamed her reply,
‘Tell him to come himself. Tell him not to send his spies. Tell him I’m
waiting. Tell him. Tell him.’ It was then that Nmoko threw his assegai at her—”

“Nmoko?”

“He
is out there. I do not know which one he is.”

I
had thought for a moment he was the one with Masai ancestry. He must have come
later. I could not see him avoiding a fight. The Rainman continued his
commentary.

“The
Silver One ran to him faster than I could see—” He was obviously uncomfortable
with ‘Silverwoman’— “and tore him in half. Then ... then others attacked...
her. They shot her with many bullets, rolled a grenade at her feet . . .
Nothing touched her. She killed them. The last of them slowly so others might
learn by it. Then she took Nmoko’s assegai and broke it into pieces. With the
pieces she fixed Hurricane to the water oak. I tried to stop her and she caught
hold of me and spoke again; ‘This is my message to him’ she said, and she
pointed to Hurricane as he died. ‘He must come. It’s his and his alone. He
knows that. I will be at the waterfalls downstream.’ We call them the Iron
falls, for their colour ... She then broke my arm and pushed me to the ground.”

I
nodded and rose to my feet.

“There
is something else.”

I
waited.

“All
the time she did not speak she made a sound. It was like grieving and the
sounds Hurricane made on the tree . . . Please, Collector, help me to
understand.”

I
considered that. This was something I had not wanted to think about for ages,
let alone discuss with a tribal shaman. Yet, it seemed that for each moment
since I had climbed down from the ice and the Atlas Mountains I had become more
human. I held out the claw of my hand for him to see. Hurricane’s blood was
drying on the ceramal.

“A
long time ago I had a wife, and like myself she was made over into metal—given
a body to stand against time. Her mind did not. There was too much of the woman
and she could not live without flesh. She came to despise me and loathe
herself. Until her madness was such that none could draw near her, though she
harmed none. Mostly she lived far up on the ice, only venturing down every so
often on some aberrant impulse. Now it would seem she has recovered enough
sanity to ... know what she wants. You heard her speak. You are perhaps the
first to hear such in five hundred years.”

The
Rainman looked at me for a long moment and I had to turn away from the
compassion of his expression.

“What
is her name?” he asked me.

“Diana,”
I said, and quickly left him, perhaps ashamed there was water enough in me for
my tear-ducts, and no urge to cry.

The
bodies had been removed from under the water oak and the blood stirred into the
dirt. A few villagers were wandering about as if shell-shocked and the sounds
of grief could be heard, echoey, from within some of the huts. Sipana and the
tall Masai waited. He addressed me as soon as I had climbed down to the ground.

“I
would accompany you, Collector, if you will.”

I
looked at him and wondered if I should allow this. My companions did not seem
to do very well.

“What
is your name?”

“I
am called Kephis. I was not here.” Wounded pride and anger warred for
predominance in his expression.

I
looked to Sipana. “Is he your brother?” She nodded and I turned back to him.
The question had merely been a delay while I thought. “Kephis, the
Silverwoman—” he looked surprised at the name, “would kill you. Neither assegai
nor your rifle would hurt her. She would take you and slowly rip you into
pieces so as to anger me. You have a sister and perhaps other family. Stay with
them. Save your weapons for the Protestanti, the leopard, and the tyrannosaur,
where they will do more than make a few scratches.”

“I
would come with you,” said Kephis.

Sipana
looked at her brother in fright. “Kephis, I think—”

“Kephis!”

I
looked round. The Rainman stood at the door of his hut. He said, “Five good men
have died this day. They fought bravely and well. It rendered them nought. I
cannot command you, but for the sake of this village, I ask you to stay.”

Kephis
looked at the Rainman for a long time, then nodded his head and strode away.
Sipana followed him.

“I
thank you,” I said.

“I
would ask you to go in peace,” he said. “But I think you would laugh at me.”

I
laughed anyway and set out for the jetty. I felt guilty about borrowing
Sipana’s canoe, but I did not suppose she would notice for some time. She had
other concerns.

I
was on the river for an hour with tension making static crackle in my hair,
then, just when I was beginning to think I would have an easy ride to the Iron
Falls, I saw something long and green with a conspicuous collection of teeth
grinning at me from the near bank. He was a monstrous specimen: over ten metres
from the tip of his tail to his snout, and no slouch when it came to sliding
into the water. I shook my head and looked at the flimsy paddle I held. What
had Sipana said? They do not go down river because of the crocodiles. Had I
listened, learned, remembered? Of course not, not superior old me. I began to
paddle as fast as I could without breaking the paddle.

The
crocodile disappeared for a short while then reappeared seven metres behind me,
just eyes and nostrils and a huge disturbance in the water. Of course I could
have boiled him there with the antiphoton gun. I just did not want to. I
suppose, truth to tell, is that I prefer animals to humans. Had an unknown
human threatened me I would have killed him without a second thought. I guess
it is all to do with knowledge. This crocodile was probably only hungry.
Thinking that I looked down at my feet and had an idea.

“Here,
crocky!”

The
first black bass hit the water a few feet in front of his snout. A slight
twitch of his head and it was gone. I threw the second one a little behind him
and while he turned for it I gained a few yards on him. But in a moment he was
back in position. I suppose they were just a taster for him: an appetizer
before the main course. He would be disappointed. He would find me easy to
swallow—his mouth was big enough—but somewhat difficult to digest. I did not
intend to give him the chance to find out. One after the other I threw the last
of the bass in a wide pattern, then I paddled like hell as he swirled after
them.

The
paddle was hitting the water on each side of the canoe like a propeller. I was
leaving a mist of water behind me and thought I had a good chance of getting
away. Then there was a loud crack and the paddle flew in half in my hands. I
caught one half, but the other half landed seven metres behind me, where there
was a suspicious looking swirl. The paddle disappeared. Damn! I reached into my
pocket and took out the gun. Perhaps I could scare him off. I doubted it.

With
leisurely grace he came up beside the canoe as it slowed. He was very close and
I got a good long look at his two-metre long head and gently smiling jaws. He
was a real monster. I doubted there were any other crocodiles on this stretch
of river. This boy would have them for breakfast. The only time I had seen a
crocodile of this size before was centuries back and they had been the result
of some pretty weird genetic and surgical experiments. I watched him and he
just continued to swim along beside the canoe as if grateful of the company.
For the life of me I could not understand why he did not attack. One twitch of
his head would have this canoe over and in the water. I also found I did not
want to do anything about him. A suspicion was dawning—crazy, nonsense. But he
was not attacking. He was looking at me with something approaching idle
curiosity. His stare did not seem quite as reptilian as it ought to be.

“You’re
not a normal crocodile, are you?” I said.

He
blinked. Or was it a wink?

I
studied him further and saw that his skull was not right. It seemed misshapen.
I tried to remember what those experiments had been. What had been their aim? I
remembered. It had been a conservationist group of some kind, from one of the
corporate families, trying to make a crocodile with enough intelligence to
avoid hunters and to avoid getting into trouble by eating people. There had
been some strange ideas knocking about in the corporate families in those days.
But that was four centuries ago. Yet, crocodiles could live a very long time,
and looking at the jaws, teeth, and size of this one he was a Methuselah.

And
were they scars round his skull? It occurred to me that their experiments had
not been much of a success. This one was not exactly avoiding humans. I leant
over the side of the canoe.

“Come
closer, Crocky.”

Obligingly
he drew up close to the canoe. He definitely had scars on his head. I reached
down and scratched him behind the eyes with my metal hand and he looked at me
as if I had gone a bit far. Then he sank out of sight and was gone.

I
waited for a time, expecting the canoe to get bitten in half. It did not
happen, so I opened up my pack and got out my sampling kit, then with exceeding
care scraped the tissue from the sharp ends of my fingers into a stasis bottle.
I had gained something out of this trip after all. With the broken half of my
paddle I continued on.

The
river wound along its crazy course and I followed it, thinking crazy thoughts
about sentient crocodiles being more pleasant company than many people I had
known. The sun settled above the jungle to be swallowed in mist and the
temperature began to drop. I had a fair idea that I would be reaching the falls
in darkness, but it was a little while off yet. At the Iron Falls waited my one
true love. I could have allowed myself a bitter laugh at that, but I had lost
the urge to laugh in any manner back at the Kiphani village. I should have
killed her centuries ago as a matter of mercy. Now I was angry and wanted to
kill her out of vengeance. But what vengeance would there be if she wanted to
die? I wondered about that now. Did she want to die? Or did she simply want to
kill me? Perhaps I had got it all wrong. Whether she wanted to die or not was a
matter for conjecture. Whether she wanted me to die or not was arguable as
well. It was definite she wanted to cause me pain before either happened. Full
of bitter thoughts and with my eyes slowly adjusting to the loss of light I
paddled on. I was momentarily blinded by the nacreous purple flash that cut the
front end off the canoe.

I
sat there holding my broken paddle in the sinking canoe, trying to put two and
two together and coming up with crocodile every time. Then it
clicked—antiphoton weapon. I grabbed my pack and hit the water. I sank like a
man made of ceramal. Above me, another flash. The canoe was floating cinders,
receding.

The
river was at least twenty metres deep at that point. I hit the bottom and sank
up to my neck in loose silt. Darkness was a cloud of muck. I switched to
infrared. That helped me see where the fish were but did not tell me which
direction to go. The shots had come from the left bank. Where was the left bank?
I decided to walk across the current. Which way was it flowing? I walked
anyway, slowed to a caricature of a mime by the silt, bumping into rocks
underneath it. This was going to take ages. As a stumbled along I switched from
infrared to ultraviolet. That was even worse. I went to normal vision for a
while but still could see nothing but clouds of silt. Then I went back to
infrared and wished I had not. Being snapped up by a thirty-foot red, green and
sapphire blue crocodile is a psychedelic experience.