The strike had been organised swiftly, discreetly, and with apparently hundred percent support from the indigenous population. I approved. It was a nice little non-violent reminder to Kelon society just how much its convenience depended on a despised minority. Better than riots, at least.
My three employees all called in ‘sick’ within minutes of each other, and my partners let me know they wanted to work from home. “You know, this is a Nihani business too,” I said to Madan who called last. “We could have just closed like the others.”
“Thought you’d object.”
“Well, you thought wrong. How long is it going on for?”
“A week,” he admitted.
“Fine. We’re closed for a week. You can pay for the kids’ salaries, I’ll take care of essential stuff here.”
“Thanks, Javen. Uh...you might want to stay out of town tomorrow. There’s going to be a rally. Things could get rough.”
“Appreciate the heads up. Er...if any of you are arrested, call me.”
“Will do. You realise this isn’t over by a long way.”
“I know. I don’t think my father expected any different. Good luck, and let me know if there’s anything I can do behind scenes. See you...well, whenever.”
The news feeds were full of outraged commentary about the strike and the imminent breakdown of social order because a few Kelon households had lost their nannies. There was precious little understanding or sympathy for the issues but then I’d wouldn’t have expected it from the Hegal media. I put a call into my father’s office. There was no chance of speaking to Dad immediately. He was undoubtedly under siege.
But he called me back sooner than I expected. “Javen. How are you, son?”
“Worried about you, Dad. Word is there’s going to be a big protest in the city centre tomorrow.”
“Really? Thanks for the warning. Of course you’re closer to the sources than I am. I’m not surprised the verdict upset people.”
“It upset me.”
“It’s always a risk with jury trials, Javen, you know that.”
“But you can try him again, if you have more evidence.”
“‘If’ being the catch. We threw everything we had at him. There are still the corruption charges and the environmental damage prosecution.”
“But that won’t bring justice for the dead kids.”
“I know. But there’s nothing I can do about it, not yet anyway. Let’s hope your friend Shardul’s firm does a better job with the class action.”
Ironically, Dad had only acknowledged Shardul’s position as my friend at the point when the friendship ceased to be a fact. I’d never told him we were no longer close. Dad probably knew more about what was happening in Shardul’s life than I did, since the government lawyers were unofficially helping the Nihan prepare a civil claim for damages against Denge Corporation. “I’m sure he will.”
“Then concentrate on that. I appreciate the work you did for us, Javen. Makes me wish you worked for me full time. Having someone I can trust completely is a luxury in this job.”
“Maybe one day, Dad. Do you want me to come over to the residence? My staff is on strike so I’ve closed up shop. I could offer support.”
“We’re fine, son, thank you. The residence is preparing to lock down. Best you stay out of sight and under cover. Yashi too. You’re, ah, not planning to attend this rally, are you?”
“I’d like to, but I don’t want to make life harder for you.”
“Thank you.” The relief was obvious even in those two words. “I’m trying to decide if I should make a public statement or not. Difficult to tell whether it would inflame or ameliorate the situation.”
“No idea. Just stay safe, Dad, and good luck.”
“You too, Javen. Come over with Yashi and Tara next week if this has blown over.”
I agreed and ended the call. Once, Dad would never have considered addressing uppity banis troublemakers, but that was before a sick man called Ekanga had forced him to see the injustice he presided over. Once, I’d wanted nothing more than my father to leave the governor’s office, and part of me selfishly still did. But though Dad was hardly the most liberal of thinkers, he was a far better option than the hardliners who’d cropped up over the last year since the verdict of the High Court had given—or restored—so many rights to the indigenous population, and given them a real hope of achieving equality in this unequal society.
Dad was now the closest thing the Nihan had to a supportive voice on the Council of Governors. This had not gone down well with the traditional supporters of Dad’s party, and Dad knew that if he’d faced re-election this year, he’d have lost. But he had three more years to run in this term, and he’d told me bluntly that he’d do as much as he could in that time, and then retire if he was no longer wanted. Three years of a pro-indigenous governor could make the difference I wished I could.
Not for the first or the hundredth time did I wish I could talk to Shardul about this development. And I sure wished I could talk to him about what was going on in the Nihani community.
Next best thing was talking to his cousin, Rupa, instead. “Javen, I was just thinking of you. I haven’t seen you in such a long time.”
“Busy, busy, Rupa. Are you all well?”
“Yes, of course. But angry. You must have heard that from your people.”
“Yeah. How much worse is it going to get?”
“It won’t be us who start anything. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be trouble. You know about the rally?”
“Yeah. Uh, would it help if my father spoke?”
“It might help. Is this an official offer?”
“It can be. Not if it’s going to put him in danger.”
“Then I’ll speak to those organising the rally. Will you be there?”
“No. Sorry, but people know my face, and I don’t want to be used as a stick to beat my father with.”
“I understand. Shardul will be there.” I didn’t answer her statement or the enquiry behind it. She knew more than almost anyone else what the problem was between us, but nothing of the specifics of that disastrous evening. Unless he’d told her, of course, which he never would. “Javen, we all miss you.”
“I miss you too but I don’t want to make it worse for him. Is he okay?”
“He’s better. He’s taken this decision very hard though. Everyone has. I’ve never seen so much fury, not even when Ekanga was convicted. None of us believe that jury was unbiased.”
“It probably wasn’t, but it’s the only system we have for these kinds of crimes. If there’s anything I can do...if there’s trouble, I mean...let me know.”
“Thank you. Please come visit soon? Shardul doesn’t need to know.”
“Okay. Be careful, Rupa.”
“Like I said, we won’t be the ones to start anything.”
Maybe I should go, I thought. An awful lot of people I cared about would be there, and I could help...or maybe I’d make it worse. Two things made me stick to my original decision—the harm it could do Dad and what he was trying to achieve, and the more selfish issue of the impact on my empathy. I hadn’t been to a political rally since my ‘gift’ had kicked in, and I didn’t want to be stuck in a hostile crowd suffering from empathic overload.
So on the morning of the rally, I went to the office early to deal with work stuff, and listened to the commentary on the news feeds. The police had saturated the area, and the office was only just outside a cordon beyond which no private vehicle could travel. Most of the shops and business in the blocks around us were still closed either because the owners were on strike, or were worried about civil unrest. I wasn’t worried for myself, but I didn’t like the combination of a righteously angry minority and a traditionally bigoted police. This could get very ugly, very fast.
The rally started formally at eleven. By then estimates of the crowd ranged from a low plausible three thousand, to a wildly inaccurate fifteen thousand. From the videos I scanned anxiously for
people I knew, I thought it was more likely seven or eight thousand. I didn’t recognise the men and women leading prayers and making impassioned but polite speeches calling for justice for the Nihan people and punishment for Denge and his cronies. Some of the speeches were in Nihani, but many were in Kelon—with an eye, I guessed, for the media coverage. The reaction at times was angry, but any dispassionate observer would have been impressed by the calm behaviour of a diverse crowd and the lack of disorder. Unfortunately, our media was short on dispassionate observers.
By twelve, I thought the event would pass off peacefully. The impact on public opinion might not be all the Nihan wanted, but at least they wouldn’t have given any ammunition to the ‘crazy, violent indigenous’ pundits. Deciding that there was no longer any need to worry, I began to list appointments I needed to make with clients for the following week, when I heard angry shouting in Kelon coming from the media feed.
I turned the audio up and dragged the screen closer. The camera coverage was all over the damn place so it wasn’t easy to work out what was causing the disruption, but then one of the reporters got a fix on it, and it became clear. A group of men waving banners proclaiming themselves to be part of “Kelon Pride”—whoever they were— had forced themselves close to the speaker stage, and despite the attempts of the crowd to stop them, three men managed to get up on the dais. The Nihan weren’t happy and the pushing and shoving quickly turned into straight out assault. Police scrambled up the dais stairs, and I groaned as cops actually helped these bastards resist the Nihan trying to force them off the stage. One of the Kelons grabbed a microphone and berated the crowd for their disloyalty and prejudice. People booed and shouted insults in two languages, and balled up posters and one or two heavier objects landed on the stage. Police muscled their way in from the edges, meeting angry resistance. A cop pulled out suppressant spray and the crowd heaved, trying to get away from the noxious stuff.
Cursed insanity, this was exactly what I thought might happen. Could I help? I put on my coat, grabbed my gun, but there wasn’t much I could practically do now except be ready to help my friends, and try and follow where the trouble was headed.
Then I heard a shot—not just over the speakers in my office, but live. On the screen, I watched as people scattered, screaming, directionless in their panic. No one seemed to know where the shot had come from, so they were just running. The gunman? No idea, and no indication which side they were on.
Another shot, and I grabbed my phone to call Madan. I fretted as he took too long to pick up, but he finally did. “You and the kids need to get out of there now. Get out, Madan. This is going to be a clusterfuck. Tell people to leave.”
“Already on it.” He sounded out of breath, rushing or pushing his way through the crowd, probably. Then another shot. “Blessed spirit! Who the hell is that?”
“No idea. Move, Madan. Hurry. I’m in the office. Head this way.”
I called Rupa, but got no answer. Jyoti said she was already making a dash for it. On the screen, Nihani youths threw bottles and rocks, and smoke drifted across the city centre from the west. Police on cykes tried to disperse the panicking crowd, but did nothing about the ranting Kelons still holding forth from the dais, doing their best to whip up anger and condemning the protestors. At this point, I didn’t know if the crowd was paying them much attention but the sound of them pissed me off.
I went out to the street. Explosions ripped through the air, acrid smoke befouled it, and sirens wailed from all directions. People fled down the street, clutching the hands of wives, husbands, friends, children, dragging their precious loved ones away from the threat. Police let them through the cordon, making no attempt to pursue them. As they passed me, the desperate Nihan shot me fearful looks, seeing only the face of an enemy. Couldn’t blame them.
An anxious twenty minutes later, I spotted Prachi, hand in hand with Vik, and Madan, his wife, and Hamsa close behind them. “Quick,” I yelled, waving them into the office and slamming the door behind them.
Prachi gulped in air, and then hugged Vik. Both of them looked on the point of collapse and I pushed a couple of chairs over to them. “By the Seeker,” Madan said, clutching his wife Ubika tightly against him, “I never expected any of that. Who are those people?”
“Shit stirrers,” I said, and Hamsa nodded. “My guess is they wanted trouble, and they got what they wanted.”
“There are shops on fire,” Hamsa said, her voice shaking. “And someone was shooting. I’ve never been so scared.”
I patted her arm. “Need chai?”
“No, I want to get out of here.”
“No chance of making it into your neighbourhood. The police have closed everything off.”
“Our house,” Madan said, Ubika nodding in agreement. “It’s in the outer suburbs. Safe and boring.”
“Okay—everyone happy with that? We can’t stay here.” I locked down the computers and media screens, grabbed my current files. “Right. Out the back, and we make a run for it.”
Six people in my little auto was a crush, but none of my passengers would have preferred to be among the people fleeing on foot. I told everyone but Madan to stay low. The two of us had our weapons ready, and I for one was prepared to use my gun to protect my people.
I kept an eye out for anyone I knew, and wished I’d been able to contact Rupa. Jyoti sent a message to say she and Chandana were safe, which was something.
We cleared the city area and I judged it safe to sit up. Behind us, smoke rose from several points, and emergency vehicles raced in the opposite direction. Madan murmured, and the others joined in. “Praying for our friends,” he said when I glanced at him.
They might as well pray for all the good it would do. I turned on the audio for the news feed. We listened to the grim reports in silence, wondering how many had been hurt, if anyone had been killed. And just who “Kelon Pride” was and who was behind them.
Closing the door behind us at Madan and Ubika’s tidy home allowed everyone to relax, and while Madan bustled off to boil water for chai, the rest of us sent messages to our loved ones, wanting to know they were safe. The answers came in thick and fast. No one we knew was hurt. Or rather, we didn’t know if anyone we knew was hurt.
The situation in the centre of town wouldn’t calm down for a while, Madan and I figured. We settled down to drink chai and watch the news feed. “It was fine until those people turned up,” Vik said. “But who was shooting?”
“I couldn’t tell from the vids,” I said. No one else had any idea either. “Madan, ever heard of ‘Kelon Pride’?”
“Not specifically, but there are a lot of pro-Kelon, anti-indigenous groups that have sprung up in the last year. This is the most overt I’ve seen, though.”
“Not a good sign,” I said.
“Very little is, these days,” he replied gloomily. “And to think we believed the high court decision might be the start of a brand new era for our people.”
“It was...but there are a few kinks to sort out.”
Prachi turned and gave me a particularly sceptical look for that remark.
After a couple of hours, I thought the disruption downtown would go on all evening, and suggested to Madan that the others stay overnight. He readily agreed, as did the youngsters. “Call me before you leave,” I said.
“Are you going back?” Hamsa asked.
I wanted to, but the cops who’d let us through the barriers didn’t look like they wanted anyone going the other way. “I’ll keep trying to make contact with people. I just hope your community had plans for something like this.”
“No,” Madan said. “Not this bad. They caught us out.”
“I’m sorry.” Meaningless, but I was.
~~~~~~~~
Tara exclaimed with relief when I turned up. “I wasn’t in any danger,” I said, hugging her and making Nita giggle as I tickled her.
“Everyone’s in danger,” she said. “It’s horrible.”
That it was, and I couldn’t o
ffer any reassurances to her or to Yashi when he arrived home with the boys. We tried to shield the twins from the news, though they couldn’t help but hear about it from school and the teachers. The garbled version they excitedly gave us about the banis and hundreds of guns made about as much sense as some of the news reports. Yashi refused to turn the media feed on after the boys went to bed. “I’ve had more of this than I can stand. This isn’t the way I want my family to live.”
“No one wants that,” I said. “Least of all, them.”
I said good night after supper and returned to my flat. There I flicked on the news feed. Plenty of outrage and pictures of the burning shops. Nothing from my father directly, though a spokesperson for the governor called for calm and reflection. Other commentators weren’t so measured, calling for enforced registration of all Nihan people, and restriction of their movements until the people behind the rioting were caught. No one appeared to be asking about the Kelon Pride group, and that pissed me off. What had happened was such blatant stirring up of trouble and emotions, and had clearly been planned.
I looked up Kelon Pride for myself. I expected they’d be some shadowy organisation hiding behind a fake name, but no. They had their own information site, their mission—“to take back the rights given away by government to non-Kelons”—proudly stated on the first page, and the leadership named, though none of the names meant a thing to me. The riot and their members’ role in it wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Not that the people involved in disrupting the rally were necessarily real members of this group, or acting under their direction, of course.
How had I heard nothing of these people? How had my Nihani friends not known of them? Shardul would have though, monitoring the hate groups as he had been. Had he had any warning at all about what was likely to happen at the rally? Did he know who was involved?
My finger itched to tap in his number, etched in my memory even if erased from my phone’s listing to remove temptation. I had tried to speak to him a few times after that night, but he’d blocked my calls, and finally Rupa had contacted me to ask me to leave him alone.
Different Senses Page 44
