19
Double Helix
YE BRUTISH AMONG THE PEOPLE, WHEN WILL YE BE WISE
Melinda M. Snodgrass
MORNING IN NIGERIA. I only have time for a few impressions. The way the edges of the leaves seem to gleam golden in the rising sun, the sweat that’s already itching in my beard, the rich smell of wood smoke and coffee, and the rank odor of urine and the throat-clogging reek of shit.
The Radical has his back to me, shoulders hunched as he grips his dick, sighing with relief at the first pee of the morning. I can hear the piss pattering on the leaves in the bottom of the latrine trench. I want to rip his head off with 750 rounds per minute, but he’s not alone in this morning ritual. A soldier standing next to him spots me. I don’t have time for the careful aim. Instead I bring the Heckler and Koch G36 up to my shoulder, aim for the largest target—his back—and depress the trigger.
The stream of .223 rounds vomit from the barrel. I stitch my way up his back hoping to hit the kidneys, spleen, lungs, and spine. The shirt flies into blood-spattered rags, and the smell of gunpowder trumps even sewage. The force of the bullets throws Weathers into the trench. I change targets, and fire a short burst into the soldier. I risk a quick glance into the trench. Rivulets of blood trickle around the turds and stain the wet ground. The Radical’s face has gone slack and smooth, the lids fallen over the eyes, forever hiding that mad glitter.
A sudden memory of Weathers’s face gentled by love intrudes. Soldiers are converging on the latrine trench. I jump into the Between hearing in my mind a woman/child’s cry.
“Dadeeee.”
Flint is waiting in his office. I’m still wreathed with the warm scent of gunpowder. On the desk a silver carafe exhales steam like a soft breath. It carries the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. My chief holds out a plate of ginger scones.
“All tidied up?” he asks in the low whisper.
“Yes.” I take a bite of scone, and feel crumbs drop. I brush them out of my beard, and decide to transform. I hate facial hair, it always makes me feel dirty when I’m sporting it.
It doesn’t hurt, precisely, but it feels like the skin wants to tear before it suddenly softens, stretches, and shifts. I’m back to myself with the fatigues hanging a bit on a body that is slimmer than Bahir’s.
“Why is it, sir, that our proxies always fight worse than the tin pot dictator’s fanatics?”
I manage to maintain my bored drawl, but it’s an effort. Why couldn’t the politicians and the Helix let me kill Weathers back when I’d first offered? Instead they wait until the PPA’s tanks and army have rolled across the border and Britain is scrambling to mobilize the army and Royal Marines to assist the Nigerian forces, and I get interrupted when I’m taking care of Dad.
Mum has a conference in Wells, and had asked me to look out for him. We’d had a very bad night last night. He had been in a great deal of pain and the hours between the morphine injections had dragged like centuries. In the midst of this I’d had to transform into Lilith and jaunt off to Nigeria to scout for a place to effect the assassination. Thank God Nigeria and Britain are in the same f*cking time zone.
I help myself to a cup of coffee, and wash down a couple of lid poppers. Flint notices. “Do you need more of those?”
“I wouldn’t say no. Got to fuel three people, don’t you know.”
“When did you do it?”
“This morning. I’d considered killing Weathers in his tent last night, but he was f*cking someone, probably Snowblind, and I would have had to kill her, too. If I were spotted the Committee might wonder why Lilith was killing another member of the Committee. And since I always assume that what can go wrong will go wrong in these situations I opted to wait.”
“Must have made for an uncomfortable night.”
I nod, but it wasn’t for the reason he thought. I hadn’t waited out the night in Nigeria. I’d hopped back to Cambridge and sat with Dad until sunrise, then teleported back to Nigeria, killed the Radical, teleported to London to report, and now . . . I check my watch . . . I should get back to Cambridge in time to prepare his breakfast.
“And to answer your question.”
I try to remember what the f*ck was the question.
“Our fellows aren’t fanatics, and we do try to maintain a modicum of civilized behavior.” I can’t help it, I glance down at the blood flecks that pepper my Kevlar vest. “Oh, not you. You’re our agent of last resort, the place where morality gives way to necessity.” That hangs between us, then Flint adds, “You need to be debriefed.”
“No, sir, I need to go home. I left my dad alone.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. Dying, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” The word emerges from between gritted teeth. Of course, why should I expect sympathy? I kill for my country. He must think that death holds no power for me.
Dadeee.
I put a hand to my head as if that will somehow silence that voice.
It’s frighteningly quiet when I arrive in the hallway outside Dad’s bedroom. I don’t hear the thin whimpering moans that had tormented me all night. I rush into the room. He’s managed to get himself propped up against the elaborately carved wood headboard. There’s a luminous, almost translucent quality to his skin, and for an instant I have the illusion that I can see the vibrant colors of the starburst-pattern quilt through his hands. He has the Bible resting on his lap. It’s open to a color plate. A picture of Abraham brandishing a knife while the child Isaac lays passively atop the stone altar. A brilliant stream of golden light pours through an opening in the clouds, pinning Abraham like a bug.
The smile of welcome loosens the knot in my chest, tension leaches out of my muscles, and my legs start trembling. I drop into the chair beside the bed. “You’re all right,” I say inanely.
“Well, I’m still dying, but the pain isn’t so bad this morning.” He glances out the window where a breeze is bending the overtall grass, and shaking the fall-splashed leaves on the big oak. “Or perhaps I can just bear it better when I can look out and see the world. Look, the leaves are starting to turn.”
“Would you like me to carry you outside?”
“That would be lovely.”
He whimpers when I pick him up. I feel my guts curdling with frustration, anger, and guilt, and then it hits me. Dad doesn’t have to suffer between morphine injections. I can go anywhere in the world. I speak Arabic and a smattering of Pushtu. I can get heroin in Afghanistan.
I get him settled on a chaise lounge, and drop into the grass beside him. The blades prick through the fabric of my slacks. I pick up a fallen leaf and study the tracery of dark veins through the rampant colors. When I look up my father is gazing down at me fondly, but with a faint crease of worry between his graying brows.
I cough to clear the obstruction in my throat. “What?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. And why would you be worried?”
He smiles ruefully. “Well, we’ve been quite the best of friends, and I just hope you have other friends. I’m afraid you’re a little too much of a loner. You take after your mum that way.”
I’m startled at that. “Really? I don’t think I’m much like her at all.”
“Oh, no, you’re very like her. Same drive, same intellect, same ability to have a very private but rich interior life.”
As a child you aren’t often offered an opportunity like this. “Did you love Mum?”
“Yes. And guess what, I still love her.”
“But she seems . . . you’re very . . . I mean, you’re dying and she’s not here.” It just bursts out. Writhing at how inarticulate and juvenile that sounded, I try to cover my discomfort by plucking blades of grass. They leave green stains on the tips of my fingers.
“Couples carve out their own spaces and accommodations. I send her into the world, and she comes back with tales and wonders.”
“And what did you get?”
The brush of his hand across my hair is like a sigh. “You.”