Idols (23 page)
“And that one?” Tima points.
“Passion fruit,” he says, ripping one in half and handing a chunk to me and a chunk to Tima. He tosses a few digs into a plastic bowl on the table.
“What’s so passionate about a fruit?” Tima says, unaware of how passionately she seems to be stuffing her mouth with the dripping orange pulp. “It’s essentially just an ovary for a seed.”
Fortis chokes a bit on the longan he’s gnawing on. Lucas just smiles.
My foot catches on a piece of street garbage, and then I realize it’s not garbage. It’s a flower—hundreds, thousands of them. I look around, for the first time seeing what is actually there; what I thought were moths are really flower petals, blowing through the air.
Flowers and garbage
, I think.
I can’t even tell the difference.
How could anyone expect the Lords to?
Then a voice booms through the air over our heads, and Tima points. Loudspeakers cluster where once were lampposts. Between them, an immense portrait of a man rises as tall as the trees on the street. Framed in intricate gold, he wears the crimson military jacket of the Brass. I’ve seen something like it before; Ambassador Amare had similar portraits placed throughout the Hole. But I’ve never seen one so large, and framed in so much gold. And not just that—swags of bright yellow-and-white cloth drape the perimeter of the frame.
Tributes in the form of flowers occupy pots and baskets and bags of every shape and size in front of the portrait. It’s a shrine, I think. A political shrine.
Offerings to fear.
His face is broad and flat, his hair neatly kept. Thin wire glasses. Aside from that, he looks somewhat unremarkable. For a man who holds the fate of an entire planet in his hands.
But it’s the sound blasting over the speakers that really makes the impression. At first I don’t understand the Colonial dialect—which sounds a little like Chinese, at least the Chinese they speak in the Hole—but then the message repeats in English.
“Today we welcome a new community of workers to our glorious SEA Colonies, to bring honor to the House of Lords and the Embassies, as we complete the most important Project of our storied reign.”
It’s the GAP, I think. He’s talking about himself. The coldness of his voice makes sense now, and it’s hard to even look at the loudspeakers. I wonder what it would be like to have to look into GAP Miyazawa’s actual face.
I hope I never find out.
“The SEA Projects cannot be completed without sacrifice from our human populations. We thank our laborers for their hard work on behalf of our Earth. Workers, we salute you! All are invited to join us in celebrating our newfound Era of Improvement on Unification Day, in just a week now. Feasting and fireworks will be provided by Embassies all around the world, in honor of the anniversary of the day the House of Lords came to save our failing planet. Long live The Day! Long live our Lords!”
An abrupt chorus of children singing interrupts the message.
Fortis raises a brow. “And now you can’t say you never met the GAP. Charming fellow, don’t you think?”
“Unification Day? What was that garbage?” I shake my head as the singing dies out.
Fortis sighs. “That, my friends, is called politics.”
A long, white plaster building lines the edge of the street in front of us. Where the plaster is cracking and fading, black stone is showing through.
It’s a fort, I realize. An ancient fort.
“Is that where your friend is?” I ask.
“No, far from it. There. In the alley. Behind the garbage zone,” Fortis says.
Of course.
We turn around. On the far side of the street—in the shadow of the fort—is a small, drab canal. Peeling buildings grow up out of the water. They would be impossible to see, if you weren’t looking for them. They seem abandoned and impoverished, an uninhabited row made from the sides of ramshackle buildings that face other streets. Only if you look closely do you see that the corrugated tin paneling along the canal shacks slides into openings, stripes of shadow that reveal doorways to rooms behind them.
“Look.” Fortis points. Drooping black ropes that seem like they’re made of rubber twist into massive strands and loops, like handfuls of hair.
It looks out of control, like a child has scribbled across the cityscape.
“Electrical lines. Wired comlink poles. You’re too young to have known about those. They carried power from house to house, shop to shop.”
“Not a very efficient methodology,” Tima says, scrunching up her face to examine them, high above her head in the sunshine. “Messy.” Tima doesn’t like that.
“No indeed. But look at that. Sort of like a primitive comlink.” Fortis points to a blue-and-silver-and-orange box that stands on the side of the street, now covered in graffiti. “Phone booth.”
We all nod, as if we know what the words mean.
We push on, down the steps into the canal and along the walkway that lines the side. A strangely beautiful lettering—meaningless to me—marks some of the buildings.
We stop in front of one with mirrored letters. Next to it, a pig in a suit bows on a sign, advertising some sort of service I cannot understand.
Fortis grunts. “Ah, getting fancy in our old age, are we? Very nice. For a porker.”
“Who is?” Tima is distracted. “And what’s that?”
Where she points, I see we’re almost to the edge of the canal, the place where the water meets the larger waters of the river that seems to snake through the city center.
Fortis grunts. “The Ping. The river. Runs all the way from the SEA Cols up to the Northern Provinces. You need to make a quick getaway, that’s your road.”
The larger river is so clustered with boats of all shapes and sizes, it doesn’t seem like a quick anything. Regardless, I’m still staring at it when I hear the whining sound of a tin door sliding open behind me.
“You.” It’s not the warmest greeting.
“William.” Fortis sounds calm enough. “The pig himself. Though I believe the suit is a nice touch. For a monk.”
“My name’s not William,” the voice growls. “Not anymore. And I may be a pig, but at least I’m not a snake. You’re not welcome here.”
I turn around.
What stands in front of us is the unlikeliest monk I have ever seen.
He grins, his mouth curving wide as a panting puppy—and hits Fortis in the face with the full force of his three hundred pounds.
“Lords in hell,” blurts Fortis—and he goes down without even swinging.
GENERAL EMBASSY DISPATCH: EASTASIA SUBSTATION
MARKED URGENT
MARKED EYES ONLY
Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B
RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies
Note: Contact Jasmine3k, Virt. Hybrid Human 39261.SEA, Laboratory Assistant to Dr. E. Yang, for future commentary, as necessary.
DOC ==> FORTIS
Transcript - ComLog 12.09.2066
Ethical Queries pt. 2
DOC:
FORTIS?;
FORTIS:
Yes, DOC.;
DOC:
Should we not alert the government about your discoveries about NULL, his devices, and the children?;
FORTIS:
No. Not yet. As I have said.;
DOC:
But the world is not prepared, and if NULL’s plans work, many people may die. Might I remind you of Asimov’s Zeroth Law of Robotics (which I would extend to apply to any self-aware construct with the capacity to influence human events): “A robot may not harm humanity, or, by inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.” Won’t our inaction harm humanity?;
FORTIS:
I appreciate your concern, I really do. But there are subtleties at play beyond your current grokking capacity. Geopolitical, psychological, sociological. Human stuff. Let me worry about it.;
FORTIS:
However, I must say that your evolution continues to surprise me. I programmed you well (too well?). I think I may have to give you a new nickname, my friend. Phil, I think, would suit you.;
DOC:
After Philip K. Dick?;
FORTIS:
The very one! He was a brilliant but troubled individual. And, reputedly, a pain in the ass.;
DOC:
I would blush again, but for entirely different reasons this time.;
FORTIS:
Hah! You’re a good friend, Mr. Dick.;
Fortis staggers back to his feet, rubbing his chin. Otherwise, he is unruffled.
That’s just Fortis for you. He’s probably no stranger to being hit in the face, that much I realize.
“Ah. Ow. Yes. Well. Good to know the monks are still so hospitable, William.”
The man bows or nods—it’s hard to tell which—pressing his hands together.
Fortis doesn’t bow or nod in return. “These are my—let’s call them friends. Doloria de la Cruz, Timora Li, Furo Costas, Lucas Amare.”
The man’s eyes catch on Lucas’s face. He probably recognizes the name, I think. Even all the way over here, across an ocean. Even if he doesn’t, Lucas won’t look him in the eye on the off chance that he does. Knowing Lucas, he’s learned to assume the worst.
The Amare curse.
But who he looks at is the least remarkable thing about this man. More remarkable yet are his enormous golden-robed belly, his even more enormous yellow-toothed smile, and his—most of all—enormously booming voice. Every word he says seems like it’s being shouted through the GAP’s street speakers.
Fortis gestures with a dramatic flourish. “Friends, I give you William Watson, the holy hermit.”
“It’s monk,” the enormous monk says, glaring.
“Part monk.” Fortis snickers.
“Only the good parts,” says the monk, crossing his arms. “The best parts.”
Fortis nods, implacable. “Or, as he prefers to be called, Buddha Bill.”
The monk ignores Fortis, smiling at us instead. “Bibi. Call me Bibi. That’s what the Colonists do. Nice to meet you.” Bibi presses his hands together again, bowing. This time it is definitely a bow. We try, in our own jerky, haphazard ways—none very successfully—to do the same.
Then Bibi sticks his head out of the corrugated tin door, looking both ways. When he’s satisfied we weren’t followed, he nods and pulls his head inside.
“Well, don’t stand there attracting attention. That’s the one thing you don’t want to attract around here. That, and the mosquitoes. Come inside.” A pile of shoes sits outside the door, but in our Remnant clothes, we don’t have any to leave.
Bibi looks down at our dusty feet. “On second thought, stay there.”
