A Fire in the Sun

by George Alec Effinger

  I took a deep breath and let it out. "I promise you, Mom," I said, "you'll never have to go back to that life again. Just let me take care of you from now on."

  She got up and came toward my bed, her arms outstretched, but I wasn't quite ready for an exchange of mother-son affection. I have a little trouble expressing my feelings, I guess, and I've never been a very demonstrative person.. I let her bend down and kiss my cheek and give me a hug, and she murmured something that I couldn't make out. I kind of patted her on the back. It was the best I could manage. Then she went back to her chair.

  She sighed. "You made me very happy, Marîd. Happier than I got a right to be. All I ever wanted was a chance for a normal life."

  Well, what the hell, what did it cost me? "What do you want to do, Mom?" I asked.

  She frowned. "I don't really know. Something useful. Something real."

  I had a ludicrous image of Angel Monroe as a candystriper in the hospital. I dismissed the notion immediately. "Abu Adil brought you to the city to spy on Papa, right?"

  "Yeah, and I was a sucker to think he really wanted me."

  "And on what kind of terms did you leave him? Would you be willing to spy on him for us?"

  She looked doubtful. "I really let him know I didn't like being used," she said. "If I went back there, I don't know if he'd believe I was sorry. But maybe he would. He's got a big ego, you know. Men like that, they always think their women'd walk through fire for 'em. I suppose I could make him buy it." She gave me a wry grin. "I was always a good actress. Khalid used to tell me I was the best."

  Khalid, I remembered, had been her pimp. "Let me think about it, Mom. I wouldn't get you into anything dangerous, but I'd like to have a secret weapon Abu Adil didn't know anything about."

  "Well, anyway, I feel like I owe Papa something. For letting Abu Adil use me like that, and for all Papa's done for me since I came to live in his house."

  I wasn't crazy about letting my mother get involved any further with the intrigue, but I was aware that she might be a wonderful source of information. "Mom," I said casually, "what do the letters A.L.M. mean to you?"

  "A.L.M.? I don't know. Nothing, really. The Alliance of Lingerie Models? That's a hooker's trade union, but I don't even know if they got a local in this city."

  "Never mind. How about the Phoenix File? That ring a bell?"

  I saw her flinch just a little. "No," she said slowly, "I never heard of that at all." There was something about the way she said it, though, that persuaded me she was lying. I wondered what she was hiding now. It took the optimistic edge off our previous conversation, making me doubt how much I could trust her. It wasn't the right time to pursue the matter, but there'd be a moment of truth when I got out of the hospital again.

  "Mom," I said, yawning, "I'm getting kind of sleepy."

  "Oh, baby, I'll go then." She got up and fussed with my covers. "I'll leave the curdled camel's milk with you."

  "Great, Mom."

  She bent and kissed me again. "I'll be back tomorrow. I'm gonna see how Papa's doing now."

  "Give him my regards and tell him that I pray to Allah for his well-being." She went to the door, turned, and waved to me. Then she was gone.

  The door had barely shut before a thought struck me: The only person who knew that I'd gone to visit my mother in Algiers had been Saied the Half-Hajj. He must have located Mom for Reda Abu Adil. It must have been Saied who'd brought her to the city to spy on Papa and me. Saied had to be working for Abu Adil. He'd sold me out.

  I promised myself still another moment of truth, one that the Half-Hajj would never forget.

  Whatever the goal of the conspiracy, whatever the significance of the Phoenix File, it must be tremendously urgent to Abu Adil. In the past few months, he'd set Saied, Kmuzu, and Umm Saad to pry into our affairs. I wondered how many others there were that I hadn't identified yet.

  Later that afternoon, just before suppertime, Kmuzu came to visit. He was dressed in a white shirt, no tie, and a black suit. He looked like an undertaker. His expression was solemn, as if one of the nurses outside had just told him that my situation was hopeless. Maybe my burned hair would never grow back, or I'd have to live with that awful, cold white gunk on my skin for the rest of my life.

  "How are you feeling, yaa Sidi?" he asked.

  "I'm suffering from Delayed Post-Fire Stress Syndrome," I said. "I'm just realizing how close I came to not making it. If you hadn't been there to wake me up—"

  "You would have been roused by the fire if you hadn't been using the sleep add-on."

  I hadn't thought of that. "I suppose," I said. "Still, I owe you my life."

  "You rescued the master of the house, yaa Sidi. He shelters me and protects me from Reda Abu Adil. You and I are even."

  "I still feel I'm in your debt." How much was my life worth to me? Could I give him something of equivalent value? "How would you like your freedom?" I asked.

  Kmuzu's brows drew together. "You know that liberty is what I desire most. You also know it's in the hands of the master of the house. It's up to him."

  I shrugged. "I have a certain amount of influence with Papa. I'll see what I can do."

  "I would be most grateful, yaa Sidi." Kmuzu's expression had become noncommittal, but I knew he wasn't as cool as he was pretending.

  We talked for a few minutes more, and then he got up to go. He reassured me that my mother and our servants would be safe enough, inshallah. We had two dozen armed guards. Of course, they hadn't prevented someone from entering the grounds and torching the west wing. Collusion, espionage, arson, attempted murder—it had been a long while since Papa's enemies had so noisily expressed their displeasure.

  After Kmuzu left, I got bored very quickly. I turned on the holoset fixed to the furniture across from my bed. It wasn't a very good unit and the projection coordinates were off by a considerable margin. The vertical variable needed adjusting; the actors in some contemporary Central European drama struggled along knee-deep in the dresser. The elaborate production was subtitled, but unfortunately the captions were lost, out of sight with the actors' legs in my sock drawer. Whenever there was a close-up, I'd see the person only from the top of his head to the bottom of his nose.

  I didn't think I'd care, because at home I don't watch much holo. In the hospital, however, where the order of the day was boredom, I found myself turning it on again and again all day long. I browsed through a hundred channels from around the world, and I never found anything worth watching. That might have been due to my semistoned state and my lack of concentration; or it might have been the fault of the little amputated figures wading around on the dresser, speaking a dozen different languages.

  So I bailed out of the Thuringian tragedy and told the holoset to turn itself off. Then I got out of bed and put on my robe. That was kind of uncomfortable because of my burns and also because of the white gunk; I hated the way it felt, stuck to my hospital gown. I stuck my feet into the green paper slippers the hospital provided, and headed for the door.

  An orderly was coming in just as I was going out, carrying a tray with my lunch. I was pretty hungry and my mouth began to water, even before I found out what was on the plates. I decided to stay in the room until after I ate. "What do we have?" I asked.

  The orderly set it down on my tray table. "You got tasty fried liver," he said. His tone let me know it wasn't anything to look forward to.

  "I'll eat it later." I left my room and walked slowly down the corridor. I spoke my name to the elevator, and in a few seconds the car arrived. I didn't know how much freedom of movement I had.

  When the elevator asked me what floor I wanted, I asked for Friedlander Bey's room number. "VIP Suite One," it told me.

  "What floor is that on?" I asked.

  "Twenty." That was as high as you could go. This hospital was one of only three in the city with VIP suites. It was the same hospital where I'd had my brainwork done, less than a year before. I liked having a private room, but I didn't really need
a suite. I didn't really feel like entertaining.

  "Do you wish the twentieth floor?" the elevator asked.

  "You bet."

  "Do you wish the twentieth floor?"

  "Yes," I said. It was a stupid elevator. I stood hunched over while it traveled slowly from the fifteenth floor to the twentieth. I was looking for a posture that didn't feel sticky and squishy, and I wasn't having any luck. I was also starting to get very sick of the white gunk's intense peppermint smell.

  I got off on Twenty, and the first thing I saw was a beefy, thick-necked woman in a white uniform sitting in the middle of a circular nurse's station. There was a muscular man nearby too, dressed in a Eur-Am style security guard outfit. He had a huge seizure cannon holstered on his hip, and he looked at me as if he were deciding whether or not to let me live.

  "You're a patient in this hospital," said the nurse. Well, she was at least as bright as the elevator.

  "Room 1540," I said.

  "This is the twentieth floor. What are you doing here?"

  "I want to visit Friedlander Bey."

  "Just a moment." She frowned and consulted her computer terminal. From her tone of voice, it was obvious she didn't think anyone as scruffy as me could possibly be on her list of approved visitors. "Your name?"

  "Marîd Audran."

  "Well, here you are." She glanced up at me. I thought maybe when she found my name on the list, she'd show a little grudging respect. No such luck. "Zain, show Mr. Audran to Suite One," she told the guard.

  Zain nodded. "Right this way, sir," he said. I followed him down a lushly carpeted hallway, turned into a cross corridor, and stopped outside the door to Suite One.

  I wasn't surprised to see one of the Stones standing sentry duty. "Habib?" I said. I thought I saw his expression flicker just a bit. I pushed by him, half-expecting him to reach out his brawny arm to stop me, but he let me pass. I think both Stones accepted me now as Friedlander Bey's deputy.

  Inside the suite, the lights were turned off and the shades drawn on the windows. There were flowers everywhere, jammed into vases and growing from elaborate pots. The sweet fragrance was almost sickening; if it had been my room, I would have told a nurse to give some of the flowers to other sick people in the hospital.

  Papa lay motionless in his bed. He didn't look well. I knew he'd been burned as badly as I'd been, and his face and arms had been smeared with the same white gunk. His hair was neatly combed, but he hadn't been shaved in a few days, probably because his skin was still too painful. He was awake, but his eyelids drooped. The Sonneine was knocking him out; he didn't have my tolerance.

  There was a second room adjoining, and I could see Youssef, Papa's butler, and Tariq, his valet, sitting at a table playing cards. They started to get up, but I signaled that they should go on with their game. I sat in a chair beside Papa's bed. "How do you feel, O Shaykh?" I said.

  He opened his eyes, but I could see that it was difficult for him to stay awake. "I am being well cared for, my nephew," he said.

  That wasn't what I'd asked, but I let it pass. "I pray every hour for your return to health."

  He attempted a weak smile. "It is good that you pray." He paused to take a deep breath. "You risked your life to save me."

  I spread my hands. "I did what I had to."

  "And you suffered pain and injury on my account."

  "It is of small consequence. The important thing is that you are alive."

  "I owe you a great debt," said the old man wearily.

  I shook my head. "It was only what Allah decreed. I was but His servant."

  He frowned. Despite the Sonneine, he was still in discomfort. "When I am well, and we are both again at home, you must allow me to find a gift equal to your deed."

  Oh no, I thought, not another gift from Papa. "In the meantime," I said, "how may I serve you?"

  "Tell me: How did the fire start?"

  "It was clumsily done, O Shaykh," I said. "Immediately after we escaped, Kmuzu found matches and half-burnt rags soaked in some flammable fluid."

  Papa's expression was grim, almost murderous. "I feared as much. Do you have any other clues? Whom do you suspect, O my nephew?"

  "I know nothing more, but I will investigate the matter tirelessly when I leave the hospital."

  He seemed satisfied for the moment. "You must promise me one thing," he said.

  "What do you wish, O Shaykh?"

  "When you learn the identity of the arsonist, he must die. We cannot appear weak to our enemies."

  Somehow I just knew he was going to say that. I was going to have to get a little pocket notebook just to keep track of everybody I was supposed to murder for him. "Yes," I said, "he will die." I didn't promise that I, personally, would kill the son of a bitch. I mean, everybody dies. I thought I might turn the matter over to the Stones That Speak. They were like pet leopards; you had to take them off their leashes now and then and let them run around to catch their own meal.

  "Good," said Friedlander Bey. He let his eyes close.

  "There are two more matters, O Shaykh," I said hesitantly.

  He looked at me again. His expression was agonized. "I am sorry, my nephew. I do not feel well. Even before the fire, I was suffering from some illness. The pain in my head and belly has grown worse."

  "Have the doctors here explained it?"

  "No, they are fools. They tell me they can find nothing wrong. There are always more tests they wish to run. I am plagued by incompetence and tortured with indignity."

  "You must put yourself in their hands, my uncle," I said. "I was treated very well in this hospital."

  "Yes, but you were not a frail old man, clinging hopelessly to life. Every one of their barbarous procedures robs me of another year of life."

  I smiled. "It's not as bad as that, O Shaykh. Let them discover the cause of your ailment and cure it, and then soon you will be as strong as ever."

  Papa waved a hand impatiently, indicating that he didn't want to talk about it anymore. "What are these other worries you will inflict on me?"

  I had to approach both of them correctly. They were very sensitive matters. "The first concerns my servant, Kmuzu," I said. "Even as I rescued you from the fire, Kmuzu rescued me. I promised him that I would ask you to reward him."

  "Why, of course, my son. He surely has earned a good reward."

  "I thought you might give him his freedom."

  Papa looked at me in silence, his expression empty. "No," he said slowly, "it is not yet time. I will consider the circumstances, and decide on some other appropriate compensation."

  "But—" He stopped me with a single gesture. Even weakened as he was, the force of his personality would not permit me to press him further when he'd already made up his mind. "Yes, O Shaykh," I said humbly. "The second matter concerns the widow and children of Jirji Shaknahyi, the police officer who was my partner. They are in desperate financial straits, and I wish to do more than merely offer them cash. I seek your permission to move them into our house, perhaps for only a little while."

  Papa's expression told me that he did not want to talk any longer. "You are my darling," he said weakly. "Your decisions are my decisions. It is good."

  I bowed to him. "I will leave you to rest now. May Allah grant you peace and well-being."

  "I will miss your presence, O my son."

  I got up from my chair and glanced into the other room. Youssef and Tariq appeared to be engrossed in their card game, but I was sure they'd noted every word that had passed between Papa and me. As I headed for the door, Friedlander Bey began to snore. I tried to make no noise as I left the suite.

  I went down in the elevator to my room, and climbed back into bed. I was glad to see that the liver lunch had been taken away. I'd just turned on the holoset again when Dr. Yeniknani came in to visit me. Dr. Yeniknani had assisted the neurosurgeon who'd amped my skull. He was a dark, fierce-looking Turk who was actually a student of Sufi mysticism. I'd gotten to know him pretty well during my last stay here,
and I was glad to see him again. I looked up at the holoset and said "Off."

  "How are you feeling, Mr. Audran?" said Dr. Yeniknani. He came up next to my bed and smiled down at me. His strong teeth looked very white against his swarthy skin and his big, black mustache. "May I sit down?"

  "Please, make yourself comfortable," I said. "So, are you here to tell me that the fire baked my brain, or is this just a friendly call?"

  "Your reputation suggests that you don't have much brain left to bake," he said. "No, I just wanted to see how you were feeling, and if there's anything I can do for you."

  "I'm grateful. No, I don't think I need anything. I'd just like to get out of here already."

  "Everyone says that. You'd think we tortured people in here."

  "I've had nicer holidays."

  "I have an offer for you, Mr. Audran," said Dr. Yeniknani. "How would you like to hold off some of the effects of the aging process? Prevent the degeneration of your mind, the slow deterioration of your memory?"

  "Uh oh," I said. "There's some kind of horrible catch coming, I can tell."

  "No catch. Dr. Lisan is experimenting with a technique that promises to do everything I just mentioned. Imagine never having to worry about your mental faculties wearing out as you get older. Your thought processes will be as sharp and quick when you're two hundred as they are today."

  "Sounds great, Dr. Yeniknani. But you're not talking about vitamin supplements here, are you?"

  He gave me a rueful grin. "Well, no, not exactly. Dr. Lisân is working with plexiform cortical augmentation. He's wrapping the cerebral cortex of the brain in a mesh of microscopic wire reticulations. The mesh is made of incredibly fine gold filaments to which are bonded the same organic nemes that link your corymbic implant to your central nervous system."

  "Uh huh." It sounded like mad scientist stuff to me.

  "The organic strands pass your brain's electrical impulses from your cerebral cortex to the gold mesh, and back in the opposite direction. The mesh serves as an artificial storage mechanism. Our early results show that it can triple or quadruple the number of neuronal connections in your brain."

  "Like adding extra memory to a computer," I said.