Idols (26 page)
“Where you meditate?” Tima watches him pour.
“Yes, well. I mean to meditate, but I have a tendency to percolate and ultimately infuriate.” Bibi smiles. “So mostly, my garden is the place where I can safely throw rocks.” He sighs.
“He’s not kidding,” says Fortis, unscrewing a flask and splashing amber-colored liquid into his tea. Merk-style.
Bibi nods. “I am still working on cultivating the patience required by the Middle Path.”
We laugh, and then I realize Fortis is watching us all with a deeper interest than usual. Us, and our empty plates. So I force myself to pick up a pair of slender silver chopsticks. “I’m starving. It’s almost like I’ve forgotten how to eat,” I say, lamely.
Come on
, I think, looking at Lucas and Tima.
They’ll notice. He’ll notice.
Tima nods, slightly, and Lucas follows. Soon we are stirring green and red and yellow curries into rice on our plates—pushing fruit and vegetables around as if, between us, we will consume the entire royal feast.
Fortis sits back in his seat, resting against a propped silken pillow. He drops his napkin on the table—but still, he never takes his eyes off me.
I know because I never take mine off him.
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.
PRIVATE RESEARCH NOTES
P
AULO
F
ORTISSIMO
08/23/2066 CTD.
T
HE KEY TO OUR RESEARCH IS THE NOTION THAT EMOTIONAL ENERGY IS COMMON ACROSS ALL PEOPLE
. W
E HAVE ESTABLISHED, IN THEORY, THAT THIS EMOTIONAL ENERGY IS CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE OUTPUT OF
N
ULL’S DEVICES THAT WHEN SUFFICIENTLY AMPLIFIED, IT SHOULD CANCEL OUT THEIR EFFECT—ESSENTIALLY GRANTING IMMUNITY TO THE CHILDREN, AND GIVING US A WAY TO FIGHT THE DEVICE’S POWER
. W
E ARE ALSO EXPLORING THE POWER OF THE CHILDREN TO USE THEIR ENERGY TO INFLUENCE PEOPLE AROUND THEM IN DIFFERENT WAYS
.
T
HIS HAPPENS OFTEN IN LARGE GATHERINGS, WHEN A POWERFUL SPEAKER IS ABLE TO TRANSPORT AN AUDIENCE, CHANGE HOW THEY FEEL, HOW THEY BEHAVE
. W
E ASSUME SPEAKERS USE “POWERFUL WORDS,” BUT IN FACT,
I
BELIEVE THEY USE THEIR EMOTIONAL ENERGY, REACHING OUT TO THOSE AROUND THEM, CAUSING THEM TO RESONATE AND CHANGE.
T
HUS, THE ENERGY FROM MY CHILDREN MAY NOT ONLY BE ABLE TO INFLUENCE HOW OTHERS FEEL, BUT IT MAY UNLOCK LATENT ABILITIES IN THOSE AROUND THEM.
L
IKE A CHAIN REACTION.
I’
M JUST NOT EXACTLY SURE WHAT THAT REACTION WILL BE
. B
UT
I
DON’T REALLY HAVE THE LUXURY OF TIME TO WORK OUT EVERY ANGLE.
T
HE POTENTIAL IS GREAT, BUT THE UNKNOWNS ARE A BIT DAUNTING.…
S
PEAKING OF POTENTIAL…
I
WONDER IF WE COULD FIND A WAY TO GET OUR CHILDREN TO BE EVEN STRONGER, LOUDER
. A
WAY TO AMPLIFY THEIR ENERGY BEYOND THEIR ENGINEERING
? O
VERCLOCK THEM
? B
UT HOW
? N
O IDEA.
O
NE STEP AT A TIME
, P
AULO
.
The next day, the sun hangs low and hot and we have taken to the streets in a small, rattling cart Bibi calls a
tuk-tuk
. The five of us barely fit in the square of seats behind the ancient driver, who slaps his reins along the back of an even older animal. “
Kwai
,” Bibi says. “Water buffalo. Stupid as Fortis.” He grins.
We have left Fortis behind, Bibi says, because he only makes people upset.
“No arguing with you there,” I say.
Bibi takes great care to show us the sights, as if we were here to see them. But one in particular cannot be ignored. The SEA Projects, like all Projects, are on the coast. We don’t know why, or what the water has to do with it, but it’s the case. Projects are only built along the shore. At least, that’s what they say.
Because the SEA Colonies are built on reclaimed land—from mud and silt and rock that was dredged up off the sea floor and mounded above the water to make an island where there used to be only seawater—a long, thin strip of land connects the newer SEA Projects to the older city, called, imaginatively, the Old City. Old Bangkok.
Bibi smiles. “Krung Thep. City of Angels. That’s what it means in Colonist dialect.”
“Just like the Hole. Old Los Angeles. Another City of Angels,” I say.
Tima watches the street from her side of the
tuk-tuk
. “I don’t know why so many cities are said to belong to angels. There are no cities called the City of Lords—and everything belongs to them.”
Bibi laughs, but I think she’s right. The longer the Lords are with us, the harder it is to remember a time when the beings who came from the sky were made of love, not war. When they were miracles, not nightmares. I wonder if anyone in Krung Thep remembers differently.
As we rattle our way down the road, the air and sky hang huge and blue around us, but the barbed-wire edges of the outermost SEA Projects yard are even more vast. The ragged walls are so high they almost block out the sun over our heads, and in the shade, the temperature drops almost as rapidly as it rises in the sun. As if the Projects carry with them their own climate.
I wouldn’t be surprised
, I think.
Seeing as we know nothing else about what goes on inside.
Above the imposing sheets of wire and metal, I see a bright yellow flag flapping from the highest tower next to the front gate.
“What does it mean? The yellow flag?” I look to Bibi.
Bibi frowns. “Safety code for the Remnants inside. Yellow means you won’t immediately collapse from the ash and fumes.
Red
rhymes with
dead
, and not by accident.”
“So that’s not good.” Tima looks worried.
Bibi shrugs. “It’s better than being dead already, I guess.”
“By how long? How much better?” Lucas sounds sarcastic, and I realize that, as we near the Projects, we are all on edge.
“Who can say?” Bibi sighs again. He shakes his head. “Thank the Lord Buddha we are out here and not in there.”
As he speaks, the
tuk-tuk
rattles to a stop along the first street next to the walled-off ghetto of the Projects. Since the city abuts the perimeter fence, we’re still too close for anyone to be anything other than paranoid.
As we should be
, I think.
“We’re here.” Bibi lowers his voice. “Stay right behind me. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Don’t speak. Do you understand?”
I understand. Bibi’s as much a spy as a monk.
Then he raises his voice, as if someone is listening. “Hawker center. Here we go. We stop for lunch.” He pats his stomach. “Bibi time. We have to feed the beast.”
Bibi climbs out of the
tuk-tuk
and disappears into the crowded street, motioning for us to come.
The smells have already wrapped their salty-sweetness around me, and I follow, transfixed. We slip into one of the many warm marketplace food centers, the one with sacks of unopened rice and potatoes propping open the flapping tarp walls. I pass beneath a roof of low-hanging corrugated tin that traps both the heat and the scent inside. All around me, vendors are boiling and frying and steaming and chopping, all at different booths and counters. Smoking, spattering grills offer up charred versions of meats formed with rice into strips. Weathered iron stoves, round and hot, make what look like pancakes out of sizzling coconut batter. Tall glasses of bright, milky pink are stuffed with sections of sugarcane. Even taller buckets hold limes and leaves, trapped in ice.
And then there are the noodles. More kinds of noodles than there are people in the food center. Fat ones, skinny ones, white and brown ones. Laced with wild vegetables or studded with fatty kernels of meat. Sweet or sour. One flavor or four.
One stand in particular seems to be where we are heading. Nearly deserted, and tucked into a dark corner, it wouldn’t have been my first pick. It’s some kind of soup stall, where fat, curling strands of golden noodles slop into bowls, covered with fried versions of the same. Steaming, fragrant broth—it smells like lemongrass and ginger and coconuts—splashes over them, dropping the occasional carrot or green leaf. Thick wedges of lime and sprigs
of cilantro drop inside, and the soup bowls bang onto the counter. Ready to go.
My stomach begins to rumble. The man at the counter—I think he has five or six teeth left in his entire mouth—doesn’t look up.
Still, Bibi looks at the soup appreciatively, offering up a greeting that is ignored. Then he raises his voice, speaking in English. “
Tom kai
, eh? Five, please.”
“Eat in carry out.” The man finally looks at him, up and down, unimpressed.
“Eat in.”
The man shoots him a final, withering look, then grunts as Bibi hands him what looks like an ungodly amount of digs, for five bowls of noodle soup. And five cups of tea, steeping in a heavy metal pot.
Bibi parts a curtain of beads with one hand, and we follow him into the darkness of the soup stand’s back room. Then I understand what the high price of this soup actually buys.
Privacy.
Because a slender, willowy dark-haired woman in an Embassy uniform sits alone at a table in the corner, behind a bowl of soup that she does not touch.
“Dr. Yang.”
I almost drop my lunch at the name.
The woman does not wait for us to sit down. The inquisition begins when we are still standing. She is out of her chair and circling us before we can say a word, appraising us as if we were livestock or lettuces.
“I didn’t believe it when I got your call.” The woman stares.
“Believe it,” Bibi says.
“These are the ones?” Her face is blank, and I reach for her in my mind. I get a flutter, a rupture. Panic, curiosity, adrenaline. Nothing settled. Nothing solid. Nothing set.
She’s a mess. But there’s something else.
She recognizes us, something about us.
Ro’s eyes flicker to mine. He knows I can feel something. I look to Lucas and Tima, but they’re too distracted by the appearance of Yang to notice anything else.
Bibi smiles, putting down his tray. “Dr. Yang, this is Doloria, Furo, Lucas, and Tima.” I must look panicked, because Bibi smiles at me. “It is safe to talk here, little one. Don’t worry. You look like you’ve swallowed your tongue.”
I feel my cheeks turning pink.
“Are you telling me this is them?” Yang—whoever she is—stares at us. “Is it possible?” She leans closer, examining us from every angle. Inspecting us like sheep in a Grass auction, I think.
Sheep, or slaves.
