“There is a character out of the popular literature of the twentieth century,” said George, “whose part you seem to be playing.”
“And who might that be?” We were settling into an unoccupied section of the park while I strapped on the belt that activated the lightbender.
“The Shadow.”
“Never heard of him.” I turned toward the airlock.
George opened up and wished me luck. “Be careful,” he said. “He will be well guarded. And don’t forget they can see your eyes.”
Pierik’s capital could almost have been something out of the late nineteenth century. The larger buildings were stone and brick, rendered with an attention to aesthetics. Lots of arches, courtyards, fountains, spires, wheel windows. There were no towering structures, but the city was mathematically precise, laid out in squares and occasional triangles, with parks and theaters and libraries. The tallest structures served both religious and political functions. Religion and politics were combined, to varying degrees, in all the Nok nations. If they’d seen the consequences of such arrangements, they hadn’t worked out the solution.
The street separating the park from Sunset House was barricaded to control traffic. There were hordes of pedestrians. Most were sightseers. I remembered having read that Pierik approved of sightseeing, and that local families that never made it into the capital to gawk at the monuments were noted.
Noted. A world of meaning in that.
Bronze statues of generals were everywhere. They assumed heroic postures, gazing out at some far horizon, their uniforms crisp and neat, guns hanging on their belts. Directly across from the main entrance to Sunset House was a heroic rendering of the dictator himself.
Pierik Akatimi.
Beloved.
Sunset House was said to have been designed by him. Uniformed guards stood outside the front entrance.
I crossed the street from the park, climbed a set of marble steps, and waited beside the guards. I was there less than a minute when the door opened and several Noks filed out.
I had to push a bit, but I got inside without being seen.
The center of the building was open to the roof and lined with galleries. Six levels of offices circled the main lobby and receiving area. There was more statuary, this time of Noks with wings and lightning bolts. And there were paintings. I remembered having read that the dictator was a collector. Or a looter, depending on your point of view.
Also prominent were flags carrying his personal symbol, a tree. It more or less resembled a spruce and was supposed to mark his dedication to life.
His office was on the top level. There were carpeted stairways and elevators on both sides of the building. And a lot of traffic. I had to keep moving to stay out of everyone’s way. Noks in and out of uniform passed, talking about how happy everyone was when Pierik made his appearances, and how much charisma he had, and whether it was going to rain later. I decided to pass on the elevator and use a stairway.
It was crowded. I had to get off the stairs a couple of times to make room. But I got to the sixth level without incident.
It was easy enough to pick out the dictator’s office. Bigger, heavier doors than anyone else. Exquisitely carved with leaves and branches. And two guards.
The doors were closed. I could hear voices inside.
I settled down to wait.
Four females were approaching around the curve of the gallery. They were side by side, the outermost tapping the guard rail as she walked, the innermost trailing a hand along the wall. They stopped at the elevator, and I hoped they’d go down, but they spoke briefly to someone who was getting off, and then they were coming again.
On the other side, about eight meters away, several military types were clustered, arguing about something. I moved toward them. “…Better simply to remove them from active consideration,” one was saying. There was no room to squeeze past.
“They’re all turaka,” said another. He looked like the senior guy, judging by the insignia that glittered on his shoulders. I hadn’t heard the term turaka before, but its structure betrayed the meaning. Sub-human. Or, more correctly, sub-Nok.
The females were coming. They were past the guards outside the imperial office, and were now separating to get by the military. Caught between fires, I had to push past the senior Nok. When he jerked suddenly aside, from no apparent cause, there were grunts and startled looks and at least one angry frown. Nobody quite knew what had happened. One of the staff officers was left explaining himself as best he could.
I circled the gallery. The females disappeared through doorways, and the military group were still talking when I approached the Beloved Leader’s office again.
The conversation inside was going strong. It was animated, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Eventually the door opened and two uniforms made their exit. Someone remained inside, seated in an armchair.
The head guy.
I slipped inside.
Pierik was in a military uniform, his collar loosened. Unlike his statue, he wore no decorations. No insignia of rank. He was paging through a folder, occasionally making notations.
The room was more apartment than office. It had no desk, no filing cabinet, no storage space. It did have a closet, thick carpets, and several arm chairs, arranged around a long table. Rich satiny curtains covered the windows. Flames crackled cheerfully in a fireplace. Two doors opened onto a balcony, and two more, in back, into what appeared to be a set of living quarters. A large portrait of the dictator himself, standing with two Nok kids, dominated the wall. He had an arm around each, and it remains to this day the most chilling thing I saw on that unhappy world.
There were other paintings. Pierik apparently liked landscapes.
He was smaller than I’d expected. The Beloved Leader was only slightly taller than I was, which was almost diminutive for a Nok male. He was thin. His neck was scarred, and one hand looked withered. From disease rather than injury, I suspected.
A buzzer sounded. Pierik flipped a switch.
“Korbi is here with the reports, sir.”
He extracted a piece of paper from the folder, stared at it, crumpled it, and dropped it into a waste basket. “Send him in, Tira.”
The door opened, and a heavyset male entered and bowed.
“Korbi,” said the dictator, “how are you? Good to see you. How’s it going?”
“Good, Kabah,” he said. The term translated more or less to Excellency, Blessed Son, and Person of Undoubted Ability. “And yourself?”
“It’s been a long morning.”
It was not the way I expected a dictator to behave. He seemed far too casual. Too friendly.
Korbi carried several documents. He handed them over. “These require your signature, sir.”
“Very good,” said Pierik. “How’s the family?”
“We’re doing well, thank you, Kabah. Graasala would want me to convey her best wishes.”
“And mine to her, Korbi. Is there anything else?”
A moment later, he was gone. Pierik dropped the documents on the table, and returned his attention to the folder.
I had not forgotten that my eyes were visible. I could cover them with my arm. But I saw a better possibility. A bookcase stood against one wall, near the doors to the balcony. The books were, for the most part, exquisitely bound. The bindings of the books on the top shelf were primarily dark brown. The color of my eyes. I got in front of the bookcase, and stooped a little so I got the background I wanted.
Pierik put down the folder, picked up the new documents, and thumbed through them.
The Shadow’s moment had arrived.
“Pierik Akatimi.”
He almost fell out of his chair. That was a satisfying moment, and it made me realize that he lived in constant fear of assassination. He looked around the room. Pressed a button. And the guards charged in.
“Someone is here,” he said. “Search the place.” He opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a gun. He checked t
o see that it was loaded. One guard cautiously opened a closet door, while the other inspected the curtains. Checked behind the furniture. They made sure no one was out on the balcony, and then they disappeared in back.
An officer and two more came in. The officer drew a pistol and took station beside his master, who remained calmly seated. The others joined the search. In the living quarters, doors opened and closed. Furniture got moved. Finally the guards reported to the officer. “There is no one, Bakal.”
“You’re sure?”
They were. Pierik got up, walked to the drawing room, and looked in. He shrugged, a remarkably human gesture, and dismissed the guards. He made one more sweep around, then went back to his chair and laid the weapon close to hand on the table.
How to handle this? If Pierik was going to call in the troops every time he heard a voice, I was in for a difficult time. I thought about snatching the gun, pointing it at him, and warning him to be quiet. But a weapon floating in midair, aimed directly at him, was likely to produce screams.
I was still considering how to proceed when the dictator spoke: “Who are you?” He was scanning the room. “I know you’re there.”
“Hello, Pierik,” I said. I was still positioned in front of the bookcase. Pierik’s gaze passed over me and moved on. I decided to adapt the dictator’s own breezy style. “How are you doing?”
“I am well, thanks.” He turned in the direction of my voice. I stayed perfectly still. Pierik’s fingers crept toward the gun.
“Don’t touch it,” I warned.
The dictator withdrew his hand. “I was merely going to put it away,”
“Leave it where I can see it.”
“This is a clever trick. Is a microphone planted in the room?”
“No. I am here with you.”
“That is hard to believe.”
I crossed the room and turned on one of his lamps.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s quite remarkable. Why cannot I see you? Are you a ghost?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I am the Messenger of the Almighty.”
Pierik laughed. It had almost an electronic flavor, a cross between a boop and a gargle. The kind of smug sound you got from an AI when everything was fine and you were on course. Everything’s just dandy. No one other than a specialist, or a Nok, would have recognized it for what it was. “Messenger of the Almighty,” he said.
“That is correct.” He made a feint at the gun.
“Stop!” I said. I had the tensor in my hand.
Pierik stopped. Showed me empty palms. “If you are who you say, why do you fear the gun?”
“I’ll ask the questions.” It was a weak answer, under the circumstances. I decided George was right. “Keep in mind, Kabah, your life is in my hands.”
“So it would seem. Now please tell me who you are, and how you are managing this trick?”
“I carry a warning for you.”
“And what is the warning?”
“Stop the war. Or you will become one of its next casualties.”
He didn’t laugh this time. He took a deep breath, and stood. “What shall I call you?”
I thought about Banshee, Dark One. Maybe Shadow? “My name’s Kaminsky,” I said.
“A strange name. How does it happen I cannot see you?”
“I want you to stop the war.”
“Kaminsky.” It came out sounding like Kamimska. “What does it mean?”
Damned if I knew. But it sounded important to have an answer. “Night Rider,” I said.
“Good. That must be a proud name. Where do you come from?”
“Stop the fighting,” I said again.
“Ah. Yes. The war. I should confess to you that no one would be happier if there were indeed a way to stop it. But unfortunately it is not within my power.”
“One of your people died in my arms.”
“That is sad. Was he really one of my people?”
“I don’t know. She was a victim of your wars.”
“I don’t see how you can hold me responsible.”
“Her name was Trill. She was a bride.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Died on her wedding night.”
“Cruel things happen in wars. It is why we must see this through.”
“You don’t really care, do you?”
“It is the price we must pay.”
“We? What price do you pay?”
“Oh, stop the nonsense.” The eyes shaded into gray. “Do you think I enjoy leading an effort that gets my people killed?”
“I doubt you think about it. You like the power.”
“Your Trill is only one person. I am responsible for many. Wars have victims. It is essentially what they are about.”
“You’re a lunatic.”
“I’m sorry you think so, Night Rider.” He gazed up at his portrait. “The war has a life of its own. It has raged a long time. My people want victory. And they will settle for nothing less.”
“Your people.”
“Yes. My people.”
“I’m tempted to kill you now and wait to see who follows you.”
“Then you will make the same proposal to him?”
“Yes.”
“And you will get the same answer. We are a proud nation—.”
“Stop there,” I said. “Don’t lie to me. My patience has its limits.” I liked that line, and I delivered it with enough conviction that I saw the membranes of his eyes close and open. He was getting the message. “I will give you three days to stop all offensive actions. If you do not, I will be back. If that becomes necessary, you will never be rid of me.”
“How did it go?” George asked after I’d made my way back to the lander.
“The Night Rider was at the top of his game,” I said. “But I don’t expect him to do anything other than load up with guards.”
“Who’s the Night Rider?”
I explained, and he booped and beeped. “He was cool, I’ll give him that. Most people would have jumped out of their skins.”
“He’s not people,” said George. “You have to stop expecting Noks to react the way you or I would.” That was George’s idea of a joke. “You have two days’ rations left. Then it’s going to start getting pretty hungry around here.” That was true. I couldn’t substitute Nok food. It had no nutritional value for me. “Maybe it’s time to give it up, Art.”
Maybe it was time to eat less.
7.
I decided to try some psychological warfare. Next day, at sunrise, early visitors to Sunset House found a message painted in large dark green letters on the side of the building: Pierik Akatimi is an idiot.
It looked pretty good, actually. A crowd gathered. Nobody laughed. It’d been there about ten minutes when the toadies scrambled to remove the paint.
I was frustrated. I went looking for statues of the dictator. Wherever I found one, I used the laser to cut off his ears. (Noks don’t really have protruding noses, so I couldn’t do much about that.) I always made sure it was a neat clean cut, and I always waited until there were a few witnesses in place to see it happen.
I listened to government-controled newscasts, but they didn’t mention anything about the statues or the painting on the wall at Sunset House. They did inform their listeners, as they did every day, that the war was going well, and that whole legions of enemy soldiers were being killed or captured, their dirigibles knocked down, and their ships disabled.
I asked George whether he could break in on the government frequencies.
“Of course. I can boost power and we can ride right over them.”
“All right. Do it. Let me know when I can speak. Then I’ll want you to record my comments and play them every fifteen minutes for the next eight hours.”
“Okay,” George said. He hummed while he worked. Then: “Art, we’re ready to go. Just say the word.”
“Do it.”
“Ready for transmission—Now.”
> It was another great moment. “Greetings, Atami,” I said, using the standard intro, which translated roughly to ladies and gentlemen of the listening audience. “My name is Kaminsky, and I know you’re already aware that Pierik Akatimi is a dictator. He holds onto power by sending your children to war. He is a liar and a thief and a killer. Do not be fooled by him.”
I signaled that I was done, and George said, “Okay. It went out.”
“What did you think?”
“What do you expect them to do? They know what he is. But they can’t stand up against him unless they organize, and there’s probably no way they can do that.”
Roka had a newspaper. The Guardian. Government-controlled, of course. It printed mostly official releases, and limited itself to favorable comment. The day after the radio broadcasts, which got no official notice, I walked into the print room, hoping to provide an unexpected headline for the next day’s edition. I’d go with the standard Pierik Beloved Is An Idiot. But I didn’t have much in the way of mechanical skills, and couldn’t figure out how to manipulate the printers.
I took a few minutes to stroll through the news room, where I overheard someone saying that Pierik would be officiating at a torchlight rally that evening. I got the details and pinpointed the location on a wall map.
There was a bust of Pierik in the newspaper’s front entrance. On the way out, I sliced off its ears.
I needed something that would seriously undermine Pierik. I was thinking about it and not paying attention to my surroundings. I was about a block from the Guardian offices, on a broad tree-lined avenue crowded with pedestrians when I suddenly became aware of footsteps behind me. Closing in on both sides.
Nobody there.
I hadn’t been wearing my goggles, because they’re more visible to observers than my eyes. As I pulled them out of my vest, I saw another pair of goggles, afloat and closing in. Damn.
Paul McCarver and one of his associates. “Hello, Art,” said the director.
Hassan was with him, his number two, tall, olive-skinned, short-tempered. He said hello too, but he didn’t mean it. I knew he didn’t like having his time wasted, and having to chase a maverick do-gooder around the planet would not have made him happy.
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