by Sean Wallace
On the eleventh second, the sounds returned. The extraordinary meeting of the AIB transformed into pandemonium. The panoramic window exploded in a cloud of sharp fragments. A rain of bullets swept the ballroom, shattered wine glasses, destroyed the buffet, filled the curtains and flag with holes, perforated the walls, burst light bulbs, broke the projector, an unending racket, people falling, screaming, crying, not believing, dying.
Cassiano Ricardo’s blood squirted onto Joana’s white hat. She felt the poet’s arm go limp and slide away. Before her friend’s body touched the ground, her vain, frivolous disguise had already evaporated and her survival instinct emerged. She jumped on top of a table and, from there, behind a pillar. The shots passed whizzing by her head, then ceased.
Once she allowed herself to breathe, she looked around. All that was left were dead or dying people lying on top of each other, ripped-off arms, punctured chests, eyes rolling outside their sockets, legs thrown far from their owners. A ruby pool formed on the checkered floor full of glass shards, food, and bits of plaster. Joana waited another minute before standing up, back against the pillar, hands trembling at knowing she was the only one in that place still alive. The double doors were locked, as had been painfully discovered by the men and women piled there. Joana tried to control her panic. The Estação Central do Brasil ballroom had been turned into a slaughterhouse.
Those people woke up today, got dressed, and went to die, said the Saint.
Jeronimo Trovao pretended not to hear. The ammunition cylinders were empty. He waited for the Enfield to cool and began to quickly disassemble it. He stuffed the parts into the big suitcase. He went toward the terrace door.
The Saint followed after.
Someone survived, Dream-Man.
He descended two flights of stairs, entered the first corridor that he saw. He threw the bag in a trash compartment there and listened to it fall through the zinc duct. That was that. Just like the Contractor wanted. One of his busybodies was in charge of making it disappear.
A woman.
“I know.” He could no longer ignore her, although lately, he had been trying hard. “I’m going after her now.”
No, don’t go.
“I’m going.”
You mustn’t do that now, Dream-Man.
“Why?”
Because she’ll kill you if you go there.
Jeronimo Trovao had his reasons to believe it when she said those kinds of things.
His name was Antonio Gomes. He was one of the principal reporters from Associated Dailies, considered by many the largest newspaper conglomerate in Latin America. From time to time he would steal a glance at the bottle of vermouth on the table and feel his mouth water. “That’s not a story,” said Ronaldo Aroeira. “It’s a rumor, my friend. It’s a cock-and-bull tale.”
The man before him seemed smaller than the suit he wore.
“There could be some truth behind it.”
“We saw the woman that the old man was screwing, didn’t we?”
“We did, but . . .”
“If you’re telling me that the son isn’t his, I’d at least understand. But this story about the Emperor producing a son inside a test tube, like he was Dr Frankenstein . . . Not even Pedro Augusto can play God.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with God,” retorted Gomes. “It’s science. It’s creating a brave new world.”
“Not so new, nor so brave.”
Aroeira filled the cup with vermouth and offered it to Gomes, who squinted and waved it away with both hands. Aroeira shrugged, impatient.
“How else do you explain that the Emperor, an octogenarian at death’s door, suddenly had a son? He, no less, who couldn’t impregnate anyone his entire life.”
To Aroeira, the answer was obvious: “An ample-breasted courtesan, if she has the talent, can do miracles. Or the son isn’t even his. No matter what, there’s no heir while he hasn’t been officially presented to the country. When that happens, and only then, will we talk about this.”
Gomes shook his head, displeased.
“So we don’t have any story that hasn’t been reheated and . . .”
The telephone rang, interrupting him. Aroeira attended the call. Gomes saw the man’s jaw drop in surprise from what he heard. One minute later, he hung up.
“That was Mr Chateaubriand. You have your headline. Write it down: alliance members foment slaughter at integralist convention.
Destructive Rumors
The country was flooded by dozens of newspapers whose capitalized headlines insinuated – when not outright declaring – that Moscow-supported communists sponsored an attack that was, in truth, the first step in an uprising. The relationship between the ANL and AIB, which was already hot enough without the extra fuel, became a powder barrel with a short fuse. Before sunrise, students and bohemian intellectuals of socialist inclination were already being accosted in the streets. The word anauê appeared painted on walls and monuments. A mob threw stones at the tiny Soviet embassy building, where Luis Carlos Prestes supposedly met with the Russians to orchestrate a series of attacks that would initiate the Red Revolution. The wave of rumors transformed the Empire’s capital into a city even more scared, which waited for the worst to happen at any moment.
At noon, a law student recited his “Ode to Lenin’s Spirit” and ended up lynched by integralists who had left a nearby meeting. He was gravely wounded. By way of a radio program, the ANL rallied its members to defend themselves against their aggressors, not all of which were integralists: “We regret yesterday’s barbarous crime, but we do not accept responsibility for it. We will not tolerate further aggression for no more than our loyalty to our ideals,” said Prestes, in a recorded message.
The Emperor was advised by Bernardes to travel down from Petropolis to Rio de Janeiro and speed up the official presentation of the heir. Dom Pedro III barely had the strength to stand, but agreed. The cabinet ministers, the true government, released a statement lamenting the occurrence and assuring that every measure was being taken to find the culprits, but it was not the time to act impulsively and start a witch hunt.
It made no difference. A group of more than one hundred integralists, reinforced by members of the Nazi Party, initiated a disturbance in São Paulo. In the following hours, the same thing happened in distant places like Porto Alegre and Recife. There were no fatalities: all the fury concentrated itself on the commercial establishments belonging to socialist or anarchist sympathizers. The police took to the streets, but the Court managed to cool things down by asking for some time to investigate the facts. The integralist leadership conceded, coming away stronger. A story began to spread that they were taking advantage of the truce to plan more disturbances, probably armed.
A police gyroplane took Joana Bras to the Solemar Building. One quick look was enough to discover the location from which the shots had been fired. She held an empty shell that the shooter had forgotten to collect. She rolled it between her fingers, stored it in her purse. It was 7.62 ammunition, military use. That was when she understood that things were going to get much worse before they got better.
Meeting with the Contractor
Extraordinary mental activities were verified in at least 0.9% of the test group. The psychobiophysics relate, in their majority, cases of extra-sensorial perception (ESP) in Levels 6, 5, and 4, considered the lowest; and 3 and 2, considered elevated and of uncommon frequency. Level 1, considered Clairvoyance, is even rarer, being observed in only one specimen since the beginning of the project. Vasili Kharitonov was born in Siberia, with nothing that differentiates him from a common man. However, he was capable of discovering the location of seven submarines, pointing them out on a map. In later tests, it is recorded that he was capable of anticipating attacks against his physical integrity and foreseeing results in situations controlled by the laboratory. Profoundly religious, Kharitonov insisted on the idea that the Archangel Michael told him what to do. The project’s psychobio-physics are working under the hypo
thesis that the mind projects a personage who makes the bridge between the part of the mind which remains awake and the profound zones of the subconscious, where the process that permits Clairvoyance likely occurs. This personage would probably be the representation of an influence marked by strong religious devotion. Passage from the Bazaev Protocol
The Contractor drank tea. Despite the dry heat, a hot drink – with the exception of coffee, he hated coffee – always improved his mood. It was no surprise to find the Cabral Bakery open on that uncertain morning. Not far from Rua Gonçalves Dias, the establishment’s location, lay Avenida Dom Pedro II, where a multitude of integralists and sympathizers was growing. Many businesses resolved not to risk becoming targets of depredation and locked themselves down. Apparently, the Cabral Bakery wasn’t one of those. Its reputation had been built upon delicious dainties, but to that could be added some degree of constancy in times of political turbulence. The Contractor had no doubt that, even with Rio de Janeiro under attack from Wells’s Martians, he would find the place open for business. That was the reason he had chosen that place for the meeting. Although he had to admit, the guava and cheese cookies also had a hand in that decision.
Not far from his table, a television set transmitted the morning program of Guarani Broadcasting. The image wasn’t the best, principally when compared to the movies. But television had its advantages, like not needing to leave home to watch adventure series or the news. He still hadn’t gotten used to it, but they said it was the future and if there was something he didn’t fear, it was the future. Even the electronic brains would have one of those, to replace once and for all the paper they consumed by the spindle. Like it or not, television had been the method chosen by his civil partners to diffuse the definitive proof against the ANL. If images were worth more than words, twenty seconds of ably manipulated footage was worth a ton of newspapers. Once people saw with their own eyes, no one could snatch that truth away from them.
The Contractor saw the man he waited for enter the bakery. He wore a suit and hat, one that almost accentuated his rude demeanor. Almost, because the spiky beard and sideburns insisted on making him look like a bandit. He seemed lost for a few moments, as if he wasn’t sure he was in the right place, until the Contractor signaled to him.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” he said, when the man sat down.
“Why wouldn’t I come?”
“The Empire awoke less secure today. There’s a storm brewing.”
“I’m not afraid of rain.” The man’s voice seemed coarser than normal.
“Principally with a name like yours. By chance would you be related to the deceased Lopes Trovao?”
“Not that I know of. Can we get straight to business?”
The Contractor pointed with his chin to the teacups and tray of cookies.
“We’re civilized men. We should act like them.”
The Saint was standing right beside Jeronimo Trovao.
Don’t drink the tea. It’s full of poison.
“Don’t you agree?” asked the Contractor.
Jeronimo shifted in the chair.
“Yes.”
“Are you well? Your eyes just fluttered.”
“No, I . . . I’m fine.”
“Drink a little tea. That always helps me.”
Don’t drink it. This man wants to see you dead.
“There were survivors.”
“What?”
“Survivors,” repeated Jeronimo. “One, actually. Pretty, red hair. Judging by the vaults she made to escape the bullets, she must work in a circus.”
“You left someone alive?”
“I didn’t leave her. She did it by her own merits.”
The Contractor slapped the table. When he realized he was drawing unwanted attention, he breathed deeply and composed himself. He pulled some photos from his pocket. He chose one.
“Would this by any chance be her?”
Jeronimo examined it.
“Yes. Who is she?”
The Contractor took back the photograph.
“Joana Bras. She belongs to the Aviz Ring. The Emperor’s secret agents. If she was there, we have a problem.”
“No. You have a problem. My part in this is over. Where’s the money?”
All the kindness present in the Contractor’s face evaporated, substituted by a dark expression. He slid an envelope over the table.
“Do me the favor of not counting that here.”
Jeronimo opened the envelope and glanced quickly at the thick wad of bills. Everything seemed to be in order. He stored it in the jacket’s inner pocket and moved to stand.
“I hope you remember to maintain discretion as agreed,” advised the Contractor.
“Oh, but I’m discreet. If I weren’t, I would have already spread your name around. Don’t you agree, Mr Protasio Vargas?”
“Go to hell.”
“That might be where I’m going,” said Jeronimo, getting up and closing the meeting.
Vargas observed him walk away toward the men’s bathroom. He signaled to a man at a table on the other side of the bakery.
Jeronimo entered the door and the Saint followed after. The window, through which entered a slice of day, was little larger than the cookie tray. A great inconvenience: he’d planned to leave through there to throw off Vargas.
“I don’t believe there was poison in that tea,” he grumbled, displeased.
Yet there was, said the Saint.
He thought about going back, but she stopped him.
A man is going to come in, Dream-Man. He has a revolver and he’s going to use it against you.
A soft footstep came from outside. Jeronimo positioned himself beside the door so he could surprise from behind whoever entered without needing to kill anyone. A man appeared, holding a pistol with a silencer. Jeronimo threw himself against him. The two rolled on the tile, wrestling like street dogs. The man got on top, was struck by a head butt, and ended up pushed to one side. Jeronimo tried to force his forearm against the man’s trachea, but had to give way when he felt the gun barrel touch his ribs. With a punch, he sent it flying to the urinals. The man got up and, quick as a cat, reached the pistol and turned to shoot. Before he had time to squeeze the trigger, he felt a sudden pain in the neck. The last thing he saw was a thread of smoke rising from the barrel of Jeronimo Trovao’s 96 Mauser.
Protasio Vargas choked on his cookie when he saw the individual he judged to be dead leave hurriedly from the bathroom and exit the bakery. He rose in a hurry and ran to the sidewalk, just to see him enter a metallic Supersuiza and tear off toward Avenida Dom Pedro II.
He threw his hat to the sidewalk and cursed. He needed to advise Chateaubriand if he wanted to get his hands on the cretin before he disappeared.
The Incredible Supersuiza against the Flying Men
Nomio threw his Adventure Magazine to one side and started the car’s engine the moment he saw his father leave the Cabral Bakery, as they had planned. His father got in and slammed the door.
“Floor it, boy.”
The Supersuiza burned rubber on the Rua Gonçalves Dias cobblestones. In the rearview mirror, father and son saw Vargas have a fit of rage and run back into the store.
“I think we’ve escaped,” laughed Nomio.
Jeronimo shook his head.
“He shouldn’t have seen the car.”
“Why?”
“The military have their resources . . . Look out!”
Two women appeared suddenly, crossing the street. Nomio spun the wheel left. The Supersuiza made a tight turn, jumped the curb, and flattened a fruit stand. Oranges, tomatoes, and cabbages scattered on the ground while the fruit vendor raised a fist.
“Sorry,” said the boy, his cheeks red with embarrassment.
“The car’s not ours, really.”
The Supersuiza entered Avenida Dom Pedro II at full speed, zigzagging through the traffic. Drivers honked and cursed with every dangerous passing. Nomio smiled roguishly from the corner of his
mouth. He even took both hands off the wheel to lower the soldering goggles over his eyes, which made the car jerk to the right. Jeronimo held on to the seat.
“Pay attention, kid.”
Outside the window, the city passed by like a whirlwind. The Estação Central building, six dirigibles moored on top, grew in his field of vision.
Jeronimo lit a cigarette. In the rear view mirror, he saw the Saint’s translucent figure in the back seat. He blew smoke, waiting for her to speak.
Look back and up.
He obeyed. He put his head outside the window and saw, among the buildings, a gyroplane closing in quickly. Two men equipped with jetpacks and gauntlet guns, one on each side of the tiny cabin.
“A gyroplane and two armed flyers. They’re going to dive at any moment.”
“We can’t go any faster than this,” advised Nomio.
“I have a surprise here for them.”
Jeronimo stretched his body into the back seat. There was an N12 rifle there, hidden by a blanket. He looked sideways at the Saint, but she said nothing. He grabbed the gun, cocked it, and positioned himself once again in the window.
The gyroplane roared less than fifteen meters behind the Supersuiza, projecting the shadow of its helices over it. The shot from the N12 exploded the cabin’s glass, catching the pilot by surprise. He lost control for a moment and had to turn onto a cross street to avoid an encounter with the buildings.
“Let’s get off this avenue,” shouted Jeronimo. “We’re too exposed here.”
There’s no time, said the Saint. A flyer-man is going to appear by your side and blow up your son’s head.
In the rear view mirror, Nomio saw two trails of flame emerge from between the buildings and close the distance at absurd speed.
“Dad, the flyers!”
“I see them. Take the next exit.” Jeronimo checked the quantity of ammunition in the glove box. The next exit came and went, without the boy managing an opening to get off.
“Sorry,” he said, apprehensive.
“Forget it. The flyers are going to try and line up with us. When that happens, I want you to broadside.”
