3
Double Helix
THE SWORD SHALL NEVER DEPART
FROM THY HOUSE
Melinda M. Snodgrass
STANDING AT THE WINDOW in Flint’s office looking out at the traffic. Unlike New York, horns still blare and engines cough and rev, but even with our North Sea platforms and the Nigerian oil, gas is very expensive and the number of cars on the roads is substantially reduced.
“There have been a number of incidents in the oil fields. The People’s Paradise is casting it as oppressed locals reacting against the central government in Lagos, but it’s happened very suddenly and it seems very well targeted. I think the President-for-Life Dr. Kitengi Nshombo has a strong interest in securing those oil fields for himself.”
“We can’t lose that oil. Bruckner would be very upset if he couldn’t run his truck.” It’s part of my persona that I keep everything light and rather sarcastic, but in truth I feel a surge of very real fear that cuts through the fog of exhaustion that seems to enfold me. What if there wasn’t gas to run the ambulances? What if I wasn’t around and Mum couldn’t get Dad to the hospital?
“And now the damn UN and the Committee are getting involved.” Flint actually rises from his chair. Even with the reinforced floor I feel the wood flexing and trembling as he walks to join me at the window. “You must reduce their effectiveness. Separate them from Jayewardene. The UN with an army of aces is a distressing development and the secretary-general seems very eager to use them.”
“Look, it would be rather bad form for me to remove Jayewardene, but Nshombo . . .” I allow my voice to trail away suggestively. “I could pay a little visit to Kongoville.”
“His sister would only take his place. He’s a true believer in his Socialist Paradise and murderous in pursuit of his beliefs, but she is a sadist and would be much worse. Also, the real power there is this ace, Tom Weathers. He has an alarming array of powers. Any one of them would be potent. Taken together . . .” He pauses. “I think he may well be the most powerful ace in the world.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my case, remove a cigarette, and tap it on the lid. The silver gives back a distorted image of my face. “That may be, but I’m betting a bullet in the back would still kill him.”
“It may come to that, but not just yet. If the ruling class in Kongoville starts dying while they’re locked in a dispute with us . . .”
“Right you are. Clean hands, plausible deniability, and all that.”
“Is there any way for you to break up this Committee?”
“I’m trying, but I only have nights. And not every night because Noel Matthews also has a life as a stage magician.”
“I thought Lilith does her best work at night.” It’s bizarre hearing ponderous sexual innuendo from those stone lips.
“Yes, well, but I can only f*ck so many men a night, and my choices are a little limited. But if Lohengrin and DB were to go after each other . . .” The image is irresistible—Lohengrin’s sword against DB’s sonic attack. It would be an interesting match-up. “It wouldn’t be hard. Men are so predictable.”
Flint cocks his head in query. “Only because you are playing the slut. Why do you do that? Is that how you view women? And you’re not very charitable toward men, either.”
“Yes, but I hate people. They are universally such shits.”
“Hmmm.” And then Flint is back to Africa. “Try to get posted to Africa. That way we can control the information coming back.”
All this talk of controlling information and stopping an investigation finally registers in my sleep-deprived mind. “We’re sure nothing is going on in the Niger Delta . . .”
“Perfectly sure. And we will not allow the PPA to invade on a pretext.”
“And if they do?”
“They’ll be dealt with.”
The room has a sour, musty smell. I want to open the window, but it’s a raw day with wind and rain squalls. Dad’s breath seems to rattle in his chest, and his skin looks gray. I need to keep him warm.
I shouldn’t be here. I should be in New York with Lohengrin. But I had to come home. Even though I canceled dinner I can still teleport into Lohengrin’s bed. He’d probably prefer that. To be fair the big German ace doesn’t begrudge the money he spends on me. God knows, he’s got enough with all his product endorsements.
Thinking about food has my gut clenching with hunger. I can’t remember the last real meal I ate. A cup of tea is at my elbow, and a plate of macaroons I picked up at the bakery sits on the bedside table. But Dad wants me to read to him. Once he falls asleep I’ll eat. He hands over the Bible with a shaking hand. It’s open to the Psalms. I just start reading. They’re all the same to me.
“ ‘I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications. Because he hath inclined his ear unto me, therefore will I call upon him as long as I live. The sorrows of death compassed me . . .’ ” My voice cracks, and an aching vise closes my throat. “Excuse me.” It comes out as a rasp.
I plunge into the bathroom until I compose myself. It takes a long time.
Wearing loose-fitting clothes that will accommodate Bahir’s bulk I decide to stop at the Highwayman’s favorite watering hole for a pint. I need to wile away another hour until the sun has set. I check my watch. That will put me in New York at 2:00 A.M.
I don’t particularly enjoy the sweat, diesel, and overcooked boiled vegetable smell that fills the working-class pub, but I like to keep on good terms with my fellow members in the Silver Helix, and I want to hear from Bruckner about his runs to Nigeria. Not that I don’t trust Flint . . . it’s just that I don’t trust anyone. And it was Flint who taught me that.
From the alley I can see the big lorry parked illegally in front of the pub. There’s the twist and pull as my flesh resumes its normal shape. I tighten the belt a couple of notches and cross the street to the pub. It’s called the Saracen’s Head, and a picture of a turbaned, bearded head with blood flowing from the severed neck adorns the sign. I’m glad the Highwayman doesn’t know that in my other life I’m Bahir.
Bruckner has seated himself where he can look out a window every few minutes and check on his ride. A bell over the door rings as I enter. Bruckner’s foul cigar has trumped the cigarette smoke. I don’t even think my Turkish fags could compete.
The bartender, who is bald with a sagging heavy belly and an array of tattoos on his wobbling upper arms, pulls me a pint of stout. Everyone in the pub is white. Not the easiest thing to find in London today. The big men hunched at small tables eye me as I cross the room, but relax into acceptance when I sit down with Bruckner. John is obviously the arbiter of social acceptance here. A modern-day and male version of the patronesses of Almack’s.
“What the f*ck are you grinning at?”
“Nothing.” I reluctantly release the image of Bruckner in a poke bonnet and Empire dress. Still, I had better get control of my errant thoughts. I take a pull on my stout and savor the dark, peaty taste. I like a beer you can practically chew. “John, have you run any armaments down to Port Harcourt or in the Urhobo region?”
“Yeah, that’s where we’re having a spot of trouble.”
“And what is encompassed in the word . . . ‘trouble’?”
“The bloody jigs in the Oil Rivers region have started mucking about with the pipelines.”
“Why?”
“Usual bloody whine.” He pitches his voice into a high squeaky plaint. “Oh, we’re being oppressed. We’re so poor. Those big mean corporations. The evil government is making us get off our lazy black asses and work.” He grunts, coughs, and takes an enormous swallow of lager.
“Anybody dying?” I ask.
“Good Christ, when aren’t they dying on that miserable continent?”
“I’m just trying to find out if the Lagos government is doing something naughty. We don’t want our ambassador at the UN to plead innocence, and then find himself with his knickers down.”
“As far as I know the bloody niggers in Lagos are no worse than the rest of the bloody wogs in any other crown colony. And why does it have to be Britain’s problem when they are shits?”
I drain my mug. “White man’s burden?” I suggest sweetly and leave.
The mattress sinks under my weight as I arrive in Lohengrin’s bed. The steady rhythm of the thunderous snores doesn’t alter. For some reason it infuriates me. I think about the long thin knives I carry stashed about my person, and contemplate letting the boy wake up to find a blade at his throat. I always get cranky when I’m tired, and right now I’m positively homicidal.
I plaster on a smile, and lay a hand on his bare chest. He snorts, jerks, and comes up from beneath the sheets like a broaching whale.
“Was? Was ist?” He finally focuses on me. “Ah, Liebling,” and I’m crushed in a massive embrace. “When you called I thought I would be alone and lonely all night, but now here you are.” His lips find mine. I can taste the beer and sauerkraut in his sleep-clogged mouth, not pleasant, but I close my eyes and think of England while we fence with tongues. Eventually he comes up for air.
“What did you do today?” I’ve settled back in the crook of his arm while he jams pillows behind his back.
“Ah, we heard a report from China. Tinker is doing very fine work there building pumps for wells. We do such good things, my Lili.” Just listening to him maunder on about all the wunderbar, fabulous, brilliant things the Committee has done in the past twenty-two hours gives me mal de tête.
Even though he’s blond he’s got a pretty good mat of chest hair. I twine my fingers through it. “Tinker is quite a charmer, isn’t he?”
“Ja, nice fellow.”
“It seems that DB has abandoned us to be a rock and roll star.” I inject regret. “I understand why he did it, but it makes us so vulnerable.”
Lohengrin’s arms tighten around me. “Are you afraid? Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
“I know you’ll try, but we’re not always paired together and it just seems that the problems never stop and never get easier.”
“We destroyed a much more formidable foe in Egypt.” He pokes me playfully in the side. “And you didn’t think we could do it.”
“Well, DB did it. He really is the most powerful ace we have.”
There’s a shadow in the wide blue eyes. Satisfied, I pull his head down and start kissing him in earnest. Oh, I’m going to be sore tomorrow, but I’ve got him already wincing.