The Last Twilight

by Marjorie M. Liu

  People began pushing each other down the ferry ramp to shore. Rikki let herself be carried by the surge, pressed tight on all sides by tall strong men carrying grain sacks on their heads—men who flashed her friendly smiles when they saw her looking. They tried to make room; Rikki was almost half the size of everyone around her, and being short in such a crowd felt like moving in a furnace, a stifling pocket of trapped air that smelled like sweat and excitement and fear. Close to being trampled; closer still to suffocation.

  Congolese soldiers waited at the bottom of the ramp. Black berets and green fatigues; handguns and rifles and AK-47s brandished like charms. One of the security officers stepped forward and grabbed Rikki’s arm. His breath smelled like beer and his teeth were white. Sweat rolled down his face. Rikki slid her hand into the top pocket of her cargo pants.

  “Bonjour, Docteur.”

  “Bonjour, Simon.” Rikki smiled and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into his hand. The officer’s eyes crinkled and he palmed the cash to his chest, slipping it inside his shirt where no one could see it. He slung his other arm around her shoulders and gestured to the men with him, who began clearing a path through the crowd, much as the other soldiers had done for her at the Brazzaville dock.

  He led her past the immigration office—a place that Rikki had learned, some years back, could be avoided in its entirety with one phone call and a well-placed bribe. Corrupt, yes; immoral, maybe. Rikki had taught herself not to care. Passports had a way of getting lost in that place; same with people. And she was always on a deadline.

  “You have a guest waiting for you,” Simon said, as they passed through open iron gates into a quiet area free of the crowd. “He is a very frustrated man.”

  “Most men are,” Rikki replied, and Simon laughed out loud. He was still laughing when they turned a corner in the dusty yard and Colonel Bakker came into view. His pale blue beret stuck out like a piece of sky.

  Simon stopped and said, “Au revoir, Docteur.”

  “Until next time?”

  He patted his chest, winking. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Rikki smiled, fairly certain it reached her eyes, and turned to walk away fast, fingers mentally crossed. There was always a risk to the games she played at the borders. Simon could change his mind. Arrest her.

  Rikki’s neck prickled; she fought the urge to check and see if the officer still watched, and instead focused on Colonel Bakker, whose hard gaze was not on her, but a spot over her shoulder. He looked unhappy.

  “Bastards wouldn’t let me meet you at the ferry,” he muttered, when she was close enough to hear him. “Got worried.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Simon was gone. Bakker said, “You need to be more careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” Rikki said, thinking of Jean-Claude’s warning. “But I have different ways of protecting myself. You know that.”

  Bakker grunted, and she wondered if he, too, was remembering. Probably. Seemed to be a lot of that going around today. Two years was obviously not enough time for some memories to fade.

  But the colonel did not look at her breasts, and his eyes were clear and without pity as he said, “Don’t know how you do it. Those soldiers won’t give me the time of day, but to you …” He stopped, frowning. “Must be a girl thing.”

  “Must be,” she said dryly.

  Bakker was a big man, broad through the chest, his fatigues drenched in sweat. Well into his fifties, his skin was too fair for the sun; his face and neck were red, peeling, his blue eyes bloodshot. He was rubbing them even as she held out her hand in official greeting, and he muttered, “Damn dust.”

  She retracted her hand, just slightly. “Not pinkeye, is it?”

  He gave her a dirty look, made rather less menacing by the fact that he was still knuckling his eye socket like some ten-year-old on the verge of tears. “Smart-ass punk.”

  “Grumpy bear.” Rikki grinned, and this time it was all her—no mask, no illusion. “You need a hug?”

  Bakker glanced askance at the man waiting for them inside the jeep. “Try and I’ll shoot you.”

  “Bet your wife loves that line.”

  “Why do you think we’re getting a divorce?”

  Rikki placed a finger over her heart and made a hissing sound. “Very nice, Colonel.”

  He grunted, pointed at the Jeep, and she obliged with a smile. Relaxed, for the first time in a week. Jean-Claude knew her better than Bakker, but Bakker reminded Rikki of her father, and there was something warm and gruff about his face and voice that she couldn’t resist. Like having a shot of home.

  The ride to the airfield took less than thirty minutes. They drove past twisted metal slums and palm trees. Bakker sat in the front passenger seat while one of his men drove. He mopped his sweaty face with the back of his hand and said, “Larry fill you in?”

  Rikki closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. The air-conditioning felt good. “He said the lines weren’t safe. That Mack would do the talking when I got there.”

  Bakker made a small noncommittal sound. “What were you doing in Brazzaville?”

  “Coordinating with some folks from the Red Cross. Trying to get some better drugs from the pharmaceuticals instead of the usual expired shit.” Rikki frowned, opening her eyes. “Why?”

  Bakker gave her an odd look. “You didn’t tell anyone when you left.”

  “Didn’t know I had to.”

  “Things have changed.”

  Something about his tone reminded her of Jean-Claude. Rikki straightened. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing.” Bakker rubbed his eyes. “Nothing but talk.”

  “Seems to be a lot of that today.”

  His mouth slanted into a scowl. “Do tell.”

  “You first.”

  Bakker’s gaze flickered to the driver, then back to Rikki. Not here, his eyes seemed to say, but there was something more than caution in his expression. Her concern deepened.

  “We’re almost there,” said the young man behind the wheel. Rikki watched his gaze jump to the rearview mirror and linger there. A furrow formed in his forehead. She turned, gazing out the back window of the Land Cruiser, and saw a black truck, polished to a mirror shine. Expensive. Unusual. Bakker also twisted in his seat. His eyes flinched.

  “Speed up,” he told the driver, and touched the gun clipped to his belt. His other hand reached for the radio set into the dash. Behind them an engine roared. Rikki looked back and this time glimpsed the truck’s driver; pale skin, dark sunglasses. He seemed to be looking right at her.

  He was not alone. Men suddenly stood from behind the cab of the truck. They leaned on the shining metal roof with goggles strapped over their eyes, dust and wind kicking up brown hair. Kevlar vests hugged their broad torsos, and in their hands—guns. Big fucking guns.

  Rikki’s breath choked. “Bakker.”

  “I see them. Get down on the floor.”

  “Bakker.”

  “We’re getting you to that village,” he said in a hard voice, still looking at the truck pressing close behind them. “Now, down!”

  Rikki unbuckled her seatbelt and slithered to the floor. She put her head down. She breathed in and out, in and out, heart hammering.

  It happened fast. The Jeep rocked forward, metal shrieking. A second impact sent her head into the door. Pain splashed. Blood roared. Bakker shouted, but Rikki could not hear him over the piercing grind of the two cars slamming together. She was thrown again into the door, and she covered her head, using her legs to wedge herself tighter into the small space.

  The back window shattered. She heard popping sounds. Gunfire. The Jeep swerved. Bakker was still screaming directions, interrupted by the crack and hiss of a voice over the radio also shouting, until suddenly Rikki felt a hand tap her lower back and Bakker said, “We’re here. Get ready to run.”

  The side window shattered; the young man at the wheel grunted. The Jeep swerved again, wildly out of control, then stopped so hard she thought they might
flip. Bakker swore and opened his door. He said, “Go.”

  Rikki fumbled for the handle, shoved open the door, and fell out on all fours. The cement burned her hands. Hot air washed over her. Straight ahead she saw a white plane with the UN logo stamped on the side. Peacekeepers were kneeling, rifles raised, aiming at the truck behind her.

  Bullets ripped the air. Bakker shouted her name. She glanced up and saw him leaning against the hood of the car, gun in hand. His eyes were wild, every vein and tendon in his neck strained and popping.

  A bullet slammed into his chest. He dropped. Rikki threw herself over him, pressing her hands down on the wound. Bakker was still conscious; he whispered, “Run.”

  Blood leaked from beneath his body; the bullet had gone straight through. Rikki glanced over her shoulder; the peacekeepers were waving frantically at her, but the men from the black truck still had not given up. Barricaded behind their own truck, they were still firing.

  Rikki peered into the car. The young driver was slumped over the wheel; blood covered his seat.

  “Rikki,” Bakker murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

  “Shut up,” she muttered, and hooked her hands under his armpits. Dug in her heels, putting her back into it. She dragged Bakker toward the plane. He had to weigh almost two hundred pounds and she barely hit ninety, but her old training still carried true, and she was able to move his dead weight. A long smear of blood followed them. Bullets whizzed past her head, but she kept her focus narrow, concentrating only on taking that next step backward.

  She did not notice when the gunfire stopped. She did not hear her name shouted. She did not let go of Bakker, even when the peacekeepers finally made it to them. One of the men was an emergency medic. She saw his kit and her hands finally uncurled, let go, reaching instead for tools, the weapons of her trade.

  They worked frantically to stop the bleeding. Bakker kept breathing. One of the peacekeepers tried to get Rikki to leave him—it was not safe, not safe—but it was not until the UN medical unit arrived that anyone could convince her to stop.

  She fell backward on the burning cement, watching as men and women strapped Bakker to a stretcher. Hands touched her shoulder, her arms—hands that helped her stand. Rikki barely noticed. She looked around for the first time, saw the Jeep, empty now, and behind it that black truck riddled with bullets. The windows were shattered. Bodies slumped inside the front. Men hung over the back, dripping blood.

  She stared, trying to make sense of it all—and when she was done trying, and failing, she looked back at Bakker, only to find him gone. Borne away by the medics in their van, which she saw in the distance, blue lights flashing.

  Bakker. Her chest felt hollow. Her scars burned. She wanted to cry, but that was wrong, so wrong. She’d cried herself out years ago.

  Someone got her on the UN plane. Someone else retrieved her backpack from the battered Jeep. Rikki sat in a jump seat near the pilots, who solemnly shook her hand and assured her that the flight would be easy breezy. Rikki merely raised her eyebrow. The men got the hint and stopped talking. Within minutes they were in the air.

  She always felt queasy when flying, but this time was worse. There were spots of blood on her arms. She had worn latex gloves while working on Bakker, but they had not protected everything. She touched her hair and felt glass.

  Rikki took a deep breath and stared out the window. Below, the Congo River wound through the rainforest like a thread of quicksilver. She saw settlements cut into the green, as well as farmland and roads. People, surviving. People, dying.

  The UN will not be able to protect you, Jean-Claude had said. Be careful.

  Rikki smiled grimly. Careful. Right.

  Two hours later they landed in the Hot Zone.

  Chapter Two

  Eighty-nine hundred miles away, a cheetah ran through the streets of San Francisco.

  It was three in the morning. Empty sidewalks, quiet shadows; a breeze that was cool and sweet. A good neighborhood, with good homes. A view of the sea.

  No one saw the cheetah. He was fast and kept to the shadows. Larger than others of his kind, with black roses on his body and soft teardrop lines that curved from the corners of his golden eyes. Lean, narrow muscles flowing with restless liquid grace. Wild, on the loose. A predator, prowling.

  Reciting Shakespeare in his mind.

  This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine, thought the cheetah, gliding through the gloom, the pavement wet beneath the rough pads of his feet. It had rained. The air still smelled fresh with storm. Too much to resist for someone who needed to stretch his skin.

  He ran for an hour before returning home. He had never owned a house before coming to America, but he earned a good deal of money now, and had bought his home the year before; a cottage at the end of a cul-desac. The real estate agent had called it a Tudor, but the cheetah did not care about names, only that he liked the dark lines cut against cream, the flow of the roof and walls. He liked the windows, which faced the south. He loved the garden, which was large and covered in trees and thick hedges, bluebells and roses.

  The cheetah approached his home through the backyard—now wild with tall grass and unruly flowers—pausing for just one moment before he parted the hedges with his nose.

  Men waited for him by the kitchen door. One of them was young, pale, with black wavy hair and eyes older than stone. He smelled like fire. His companion was taller, his face half hidden by the turned-up collar of his leather jacket. His eyes were closed, mostly covered by a sweep of brown hair. He leaned against the house, hands shoved into his pockets.

  The cheetah continued to linger in the shadows, tasting their scents. There was only one reason these men would come here, like this, and though he did not begrudge their presence, he did not want this night to end. Such a lovely night.

  “Amiri,” said the tall man softly. His eyes remained closed.

  The cheetah pushed through the hedges. Golden light swept over his fur. His joints popped, twisting and growing as every bone in his body stretched to accommodate his second skin. No pain, just a sensation of becoming liquid, hot like lava, pouring and reforming into fingers and arms and legs, fur sliding away into some invisible twilight; a ghost, a beast, the shadow of his soul; like poetry, a dance.

  The cheetah shrugged off his body and became a man. The golden light seeped into the night, falling around his naked shoulders like a cloak. He stared at his hands for a moment, taking in his ebony skin, which glinted with hints of gold. Flexed his long fingers, imagining claws. Wondered, as he sometimes did, which was real. And if he had to choose, what that choice would be.

  “Amiri,” said the tall man.

  “Yes.” He stopped looking at his hands, and smiled. “Come in. I will make us some tea.”

  * * *

  Amiri did not often entertain guests, though he certainly had enough cups and chairs to accommodate the two men in his kitchen. They sat at the small dining table, holding their mugs of tea; relaxed, easy, tossing sugar cubes into the steaming liquid. Books surrounded them; on the tabletop, stacked on the chair between the men, on the gleaming checkered floor. Some were new, most bought used from a small shop only a mile down the road, which Amiri frequented on the weekends for hot chocolate and the sweet smile and conversation of the elderly woman who ran the register. She always appreciated his choices in literature, had a word or two for every book.

  Max had his elbow resting on Chinua Achebe, with Octavia Butler beneath his wrist and some Dickens perilously close to falling in his lap. “You need shelves, man.”

  “I have them,” Amiri replied, buttoning his shirt. “But they are full.”

  Max smiled against his teacup. “I guess I know what you do in your spare time, hiding away from the rest of us. Bets were on you having a girl.”

  Amiri shook his head, only slightly amused. A tabby cat, scarred and huge, entered the kitchen. He chirped once, slashing the air with his tail. Amiri took the hint. Poured him a little milk. The young man named Eddie reach
ed down to stroke his back.

  “I didn’t know you had a cat,” he said, voice soft, young as his face. His eyes looked tired, and up close the scent of fire, ash, was even stronger. He radiated heat.

  Amiri shrugged, rolling back his cuffs. “He began living in my garden last month. A week ago he invited himself in. Who was I to discourage him?”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “He’s not fixed. He’ll spray.”

  “We have an agreement.” Amiri smiled, showing his teeth. “He knows what I will do if he ruins my home.”

  The cat stopped lapping the milk, gave him a long hard look, and stalked from the kitchen, bowlegged. Max shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, and set down his cup. His coat was still on, his face mostly hidden. Even in the light, it was difficult to see his eyes. He smelled like coffee, like he had been drowning in it. “Something’s come up. Roland tried calling, but—”

  “I was out,” Amiri finished, and tilted his head, considering his words. “It must be important, if you are here. I have not seen you in over a year. You were unwell then, if I remember.”

  Max tapped his forehead. “Too many people. I had to go away for a while.”

  “And now?”

  “Now Roland wants a favor.” Max hesitated, glancing at Eddie. “He’s sending us to Africa. Zaire. We take the plane tonight. He wants you to go, too.”

  It took Amiri a moment. He was quite certain his hearing was damaged. He had been listening to rather loud music, of late. Rocking out, as his friends might say.

  “Could you … repeat that?” he asked, slowly.

  Max winced. “I’m sorry, man. You heard me the first time.”

  “Ah.” Amiri went still; feeling, as he did, something empty inside his chest, a void seeping from his heart to his toes. The world felt fuller than he did: floors creaking, faucets dripping, the wind sidling against the kitchen window; the faint scent of old paper and ink; and his dinner: raw steak and asparagus, with a drip of honey on his tongue for dessert. Full. Simple pleasures. Safe.