by Mike Ashley
"Is this for your body or your soul?" asked Mitthu as she ladled some rice on to a plate for Kanchi. She had an acerbic tongue.
"A soul will fly away like a small bird. It'll fly away when it becomes hungry and go and steal from some other people's homes. It's my stomach that will kill me."
"And is your shawl to keep you warm in heaven or hell?" Mitthu inquired as she dropped a pinch of spicy tomato acchar on to the rice.
"I won't need this shawl in heaven or hell. This is if I survive and there is nobody else on this earth but me. At least I will have my shawl to keep me warm."
Mitthu, even though she would not acknowledge it, recognized this admirable foresight and common sense. "Humph," she said, turning away to steal a glance at the sun, which did look rather bright. She wondered if she should run in and get a shawl as well, just in case, then decided her pride was more important.
A rumble of thunder rolled across the clear blue sky, and Kanchi stood up in a panic. "What a darcheruwa I am, I have no guts," she scolded herself.
"Eat, Kanchi," said Mitthu, rattling the rice ladle over the pot, annoyed at her own fright.
"I saw Shanta Bajai storming off to the office this morning. She said she would go to the office even if nobody else came, and she would die in her chair if she had to."
"So why is the world going to end?" asks Mitthu cautiously. She did not believe it was going to happen. At the same time, she was curious.
"It's all because of Girija," explained Kanchi. "It all started happening ever since he became the Prime Minister. Ever since he started going off to America day after day. I heard he fainted and fell on the ground, and the king of America gave him money for medicine. So this destruction is happening since he returned. Maybe the American king gave him money and he sold Nepal, maybe that's why. And now maybe the Communists will take over."
"You know, Kanchi, I almost became a Communist when I was in the village. It sounded good. We would all have to live together, and work together, and there would be no divisions between big or small. Then we could kill all the rich people and there would be peace."
"And what about eating?" asks Kanchi. "You would also have to eat together, out of the same plate, with everybody else. How would that suit you, you Bahuni? You who won't even eat your food if you suspect somebody has looked at it?" Mitthu, who was a fastidious Brahmin and refused to let people who she suspected of eating buffalo meat into her kitchen, realized she had overlooked this point.
"And then they make you work until you drop dead," said Kanchi. "Don't tell me I didn't think about it. I would rather live like this, where at least I can have my son by me at night. I heard the Communists take away your children and make you work in different places. And then they give you work that you cannot fulfill, and if you do not do it, they kill you - dongl - with one bullet. What's the point of living then?"
"Well ..." Mitthu does not want to give up her sympathies so easily. Besides, her husband had died when she was nine. As a lifelong child widow she had no reason to worry about being separated from her children. "Well, we'll see it when it happens, won't we?"
"Like the end of the world," said Kanchi, checking out the sky. "I heard that they have taken the big Sadhu who predicted the end of the world and put him in the jail in Hanuman Dhoka. He has said that they can hang him if it doesn't happen. Then some people say that he was performing a Shanti Horn and the fire rose so high he was burnt and had to be taken to the hospital. Who can tell what will happen?"
Eleven a.m. There is a sudden shocked silence. The whole world stands still, for once, in anticipation. Then a sudden cacophony shatters the midmorning silence: cows moo tormentedly, dogs howl long and despondently, and people scream all over the marketplace tole.
The sky is flat gunmetal grey. The sun shines brightly.
A collective sigh of relief wafts over the Valley of Kathmandu after the end of the world comes to an end.
THE CLOCKWORK ATOM BOMB
Dominic Green
The world may be under threat or on the brink of destruction at any moment from some cosmic or human catastrophe, and who knows how many times this may have happened in the past or the present.
You won't find any published books by Dominic Green yet, though there are a handful of novels available at his website: http://homepage. ntlworld.com/lumfulomax/
He has been producing a stream of short fiction since 1996, mostly for the magazine Interzone, and the following story was shortlisted for the prestigious Hugo Award in 2006. He used to work in IT. He reveals the following about himself: "I was brought up in the North of England till the age of eight, and in the South of England till the age of eighteen. This has made me culturally amphibious, able to eat both black pudding and jellied eels. I also went to an English public school and Cambridge University, which has prepared me well for unemployment. I can strongly recommend it to anyone wanting to combine the thrill of standing in a dole queue with the added frisson of being thousands of pounds in debt. I write science fiction, you know."
* * *
OVER HERE, MISTER. This is the place." The girl tugged Mativi's sleeve and led him down a street that was mostly poorly-patched shell holes. Delayed Action Munitions - the size of thumbnails and able to turn a man into fragments of the same dimensions -littered the ground hereabouts, designed to lie dormant for generations. Construction companies used robot tractors to fill in bomb damage, and the robots did a poor job. Granted, they were getting better - Robocongo was one of equatorial Africa's biggest exporters. But usually the whites and the blacks-with-cash sat in control rooms a kilometre away directing robots to build the houses of the poor, and the poor then had to live in those houses not knowing whether, if they put their foot down hard on a tough domestic issue, they might also be putting it down on a DAM bomblet a metre beneath their foundations.
This street, though, hadn't even been repaired. It was all sloped concrete, blast rubble and wrecked signs telling outsiders to KEEP OUT THIS GOVERNMENT BUILDING! FIELD CLERICAL STORES! IMPORTANT GOVERNMENT WORK HERE YOU GO BACK!
"Come on, mister," said the pha-seuse. "You will see, and then you will have no problem paying."
"You stand still," commanded Mativi suddenly. "Stand right there."
Nervously, he reached into a pocket and brought out the Noli Timere. It only worked fifty per cent of the time, based on information gathered from scientist-collaborators from all factions in the war, but fifty per cent was better than zip.
He turned the device on, on low power in case any of the more recent devices that smelled mine detector power-up were present, and swept it left and right. Nothing. He flicked it up to full power and swept again. A small stray air-dropped antipersonnel device at the north-west end of the street, but otherwise nothing.
"You see that house over there, Emily?" he said, pointing across the road. The girl nodded. "Well, you're not to go in there. There is an explosive device in there. A big one. It'll kill you."
Emily shook her head firmly. "It isn't nearly as big as the one that took Claude."
Mativi nodded. "But you say that device is still there."
"Has been since I was very little.
Everyone knows it's there. The grown-ups know it's there. They used it when the slim hit, to get rid of the bodies, so we wouldn't get sick. Sometimes," she said, "before the bodies were entirely dead."
"You can't get slim from a dead body," said Mativi.
"That's what you say," said Emily. And he knew she was right. So many generously altered genomes had been flying around Africa in warheads fifteen years ago that someone could have altered HIV and turned it into an airborne, rather than blood-borne, virus - like the rickettsial haemorrhagic fever that had wiped out all of Johannesburg's blood banks in a single day and made social pariahs of blacks all over Europe and America overnight.
The sun dropped below the horizon like a guillotine blade, and it was suddenly night, as if someone had flicked a switch in heaven. Mativi had become too used to life
off the Equator, had been working on the basis that night would steal up slowly as it had in Quebec and Patagonia. But the busy equatorial night had no time for twilight. He hadn't brought night vision goggles. Had he brought a torch?
As they walked up the street, a wind gathered, as if the landscape sensed his unease.
"You have to be careful," said the girl, "tread only where I tread. And you have to bend down." She nodded at Mativi's Kinshasa Rolex. "You have to leave your watch outside."
Why? So one of your bacheque boyfriends can steal it while I'm in there? To satisfy the girl's insistence, he slid the watch off his wrist and set it on a brick, but picked it up again when she wasn't looking and dropped it into his pocket.
"Where are we going?" he said.
"In there," she pointed. Half-buried in the rubble was a concrete lintel, one end of a substantial buried structure, through which the wind was whistling.
No. Correction. Out of which the wind was whistling.
She slipped under the lintel, on which was fixed a sign saying WARNING! EXTREME PERSONAL DANGER! The room beyond had once had skylights. Now, it had ruined holes in the roof, into which the geostationary UNPEFORCONG security moon poured prisms of reflected sunlight. Thirty-five thousand, nine hundred kilometres above Mativi's head, he and five million other Kinshasans were being watched with 5,000 cameras. This had at first seemed an outrageous intrusion on his privacy, until he'd realized that he'd have to commit a thousand murders before any of the cameras was likely to catch him in the act.
"Don't step any closer," said the girl. "It will take you."
The entrance had promised an interior like any other minor military strongpoint - only just large enough to contain a couple of hammocks and a machine gun, maybe. But inside, after only a few steps down, the room was huge, the size of a factory floor. They had entered via an engineer's inspection catwalk close to the roof. He was not sure how far down the floor was.
The wind in here was deafening. The girl had to shout. "THERE IS MORE THAN ONE IN HERE. THEY LIVE IN THE MACHINES. THE GOVERNMENT MADE THE MACHINES, BUT NOT WITH TECHNICIANS AND ELECTRICIANS. WITH SORCERY."
The machines did not look made by sorcery. They were entirely silent, looking like rows of gigantic, rusted steel chess pawns twice the height of a man, with no pipes or wires entering or leaving them, apparently sitting here unused for any purpose. Mativi felt an urgent, entirely rational need to be in another line of employment.
"HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT THE MACHINES WERE BUILT FOR?" said Mativi, who had.
The girl nodded. "THE DEMONS ARE IN THE MACHINES," she said. "THE MACHINES WERE BUILT AS CAGES. THE MILITARY MEN WHO MADE THIS PLACE WARNED ALL THE MOST IMPORTANT MEN IN OUR DISTRICT OF THIS. THEY WARNED MY FATHER. THEY TOLD HIM NEVER TO BREAK ANY OF THE MACHINES OPEN. BUT OVER TIME, THEY LEAK, AND THE DEMONS CAN GET OUT. THE FIRST TWO MACHINES ARE SAFE, FOR NOW. BUT YOU MUST BE CAREFUL, BECAUSE WE THOUGHT THE THIRD ONE WAS SAFE TOO, AND IT TOOK CLAUDE."
"WHAT DID IT DO TO CLAUDE, WHEN IT TOOK HIM?" said Mativi. He could not see any damage to the walls around the third machine beyond, perhaps, a certain swept-clean quality of the dust on the floor around it.
"IT TOOK HIM," said the girl. "IT MADE HIM SMALL. IT SUCKED HIM UP."
"THE MACHINES," said Mativi in broken Lingala. "THEY ARE COVERED WITH ... WITH THINGS."
The heads of the chess-pawns, under the light of Mativi's torch, were surrealistically coiffeured with assorted objects - spanners, wire, door furniture, and, worryingly, a single fragmentation grenade. Many, perhaps more than half of the things were ferrous metal. But some looked like aluminium. Some were even bits of wood or plaster.
Not just magnetism, then.
He fished the fake Rolex out of his pocket, waved it in the direction of the machines, and felt a strong tug on it as he held it in his hand. But he also felt a strong tug on the sleeve of his shirt, and on his arm itself.
He realized with growing unease that the wind was not blowing out of the chamber, but into it, pushing him from behind. It also appeared to be blowing in through the skylights in the roof above.
It did not seem to be blowing out anywhere.
The girl gasped. "YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE DONE THAT! NOW YOUR WATCH WILL NOT KEEP GOOD TIME."
"IS THAT HOW THE MACHINE SUCKED CLAUDE UP?"
"NO. ALL THE MACHINES DRAW THINGS IN, BUT YOU CAN PULL YOURSELF LOOSE FROM MOST OF THEM. BUT THE ONES THE DEMONS LIVE IN WILL SUCK YOU RIGHT INSIDE WHERE THE DEMON LIVES, AND NOT LEAVE A HAIR BEHIND."
"WHOLE PEOPLE?"
"PEOPLE, METAL, ANYTHING."
"STONES?" Mativi picked up a fragment of loose plaster from the floor.
"YES. BUT YOU SHOULD NOT THROW THINGS."
He threw it. The girl winced. He saw the plaster travel halfway across the floor until it passed the second machine. Then it jerked sideways in mid-air, as if attached to invisible strings, puffed into a long cone of powder, and vanished.
The girl was angry. "YOU MUST DO WHAT I SAY! THE MILITARY MEN SAID WE SHOULD NOT THROW THINGS INTO THE BAD MACHINES. THEY SAID IT MADE THE DEMONS STRONGER."
"YES," said Mativi. "AND THEY WERE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT. NOT MUCH STRONGER, BUT IF ENOUGH PEOPLE THREW IN ENOUGH UNCHARGED MATERIAL OVER ENOUGH TIME..."
"I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU MEAN BY UNCHARGED MATERIAL."
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I MEAN BY 'EVERYONE WOULD DIE'?"
The girl nodded. "WE SHOULD NOT STAY TOO LONG IN HERE. PEOPLE WHO STAY TOO LONG IN HERE GET SICK. THE DEMONS MAKE THEM SICK."
Mativi nodded. "AND I SUPPOSE THIS SICKNESS TAKES THE FORM OF HAIR LOSS, SHORTNESS OF BREATH, EXTREME PALENESS OF THE SKIN?"
"YES," said the girl. "THE VICTIMS DISPLAY THE CLASSIC SYMPTOMS OF RADIATION ALOPOECIA AND STEM CELL DEATH."
Well, III be damned. But after all, she has lived through a nuclear war. She's been living among radiation victims her entire life. Probably taught herself to read using Red Cross posters.
"WELL, THE SAME DEMONS THAT WERE USED IN THE RADIA-
TION BOMBS ARE IN HERE. SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT, BECAUSE THESE ARE A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT WEAPON. BUT THE SAME DEMONS."
The girl nodded. "BUT THESE ARE NOT RADIATION BOMBS," she said. "THIS MEANS YOU HAVE TO PAY ME DOUBLE." She held out her hand.
Mativi nodded. "THIS MEANS I HAVE TO PAY YOU DOUBLE." He fished in his wallet for a fistful of United Nations scrip.
After all, why shouldn't I pay you. None of this money is going to be worth anything if these things destroy the world tomorrow.
"I'm telling you, there are at least forty of them. I counted them. Five rows by eight."
"I didn't go to the hotel because I didn't want to call you in the clear. We have to be the only people who know about this."
"Because if anyone wanders into that site, anyone at all, and does anything they shouldn't, we will all die. I'm not saying they, I'm saying we, and I'm not saying might die, I'm saying will die."
"Yes, this is a Heavy Weapons alert."
"No, I can't tell you what that means."
"All I can tell you is that you must comply with the alert to the letter if you're interested in handing on the planet to your children."
"Your children will grow out of that, that hating their father thing. All teenagers go through that phase. And credit where credit's due, you really shouldn't have slept with their mother's sister in the first place."
"No, I do not want 'an inspection team'. I want troops. Armed troops with a mandate to shoot to kill, not a detachment of graduates in Peace Studies from Liechtenstein in a white APC. And when I put the phone down on you, I want to know that you're going to be picking up your phone again and dialling the IAEA. I am serious about this, Louis."
"All right. All right. I'll see you at the site tomorrow."
When he laid the handset down, he was trembling. In a day when there were over a hundred permanent websites on the Antarctic ice shelf, it had taken him five hours to find a digital phone line in a city of five million people. Which, to be fair, fifteen
years ago, had been a city of ten million people.
Of course, his search for a phone line compatible with his encryption software would probably be for nothing. If there were this few digital lines in the city, there was probably a retro-tech transistor microphone planted somewhere in the booth he was sitting in, feeding data back to a mainframe at police headquarters. But at least that meant the police would be the only ones who knew. If he'd gone through the baroque network of emergency analogue lines, every housewife in the cite would have known by morning.
He got up from the booth, walked to the desk, and paid the geek - the geek with a submachinegun - who was manning it. There was no secret police car waiting outside - the car would have been unmarked but extremely obvious due to the fact that no one but the government could afford to travel around in cars. The Congolese sun came up like a jack-in-a-box and it was a short walk through the zero tolerance district back to his hotel, which had once been a Hilton. He fell into the mattress, which bludgeoned him compliantly unconscious.
When he opened his hotel room door in the morning to go to the one functioning bathroom, a man was standing outside with a gun.
Neither the man nor the gun was particularly impressive - the gun because it appeared to be a pre-War cased ammunition model that hadn't been cleaned since the Armistice, and the man because his hand was shaking like a masturbator's just before orgasm, and because Mativi knew him to be a paterfamilias with three kids in kindergarten and a passion for N gauge model railways.
However, the gun still fired big, horrid bullets that made holes in stuff, and it was pointing at Mativi.
"I'm sorry, Chet, I can't let you do it." The safety catch, Mativi noted, was off.
"Do what?" said Mativi.
"You're taking away my livelihood. You know you are."
"I'm sorry, Jean, I don't understand any of this. Maybe you should explain a little more?" Jean-Baptiste Ngoyi, an unremarkable functionary in the United Nations Temporary Administration Service (Former People's Democratic Republic of Congo), appeared to have put on his very best work clothes to murder Mativi. The blue UNTASFOR-DEMRECONG logo was embroidered smartly (and widely) on his chest pocket.
