16

 

 

THE WESTPHALIAN SEDAN was headed north, away from Hâmidiyya. I had my English daddy chipped in and I was speaking on the phone to Morgan. "I found him," I said.

"Great, man." The American sounded disappointed. "That mean I don't get the rest of the money?"

"Tell you what I'll do. I'll give you the other five hundred if you baby-sit Jawarski for a few hours. You got a gun?"

"Yeah. You want me to use it?"

The idea was very tempting. "No. I just want you to keep an eye on him." I read off the address on the piece of cardboard. "Don't let him go anywhere. Hold him till I get there."

"Sure, man," said Morgan, "but don't take all day. I'm not crazy about hangin' around all day with a guy who's killed twenty-some people."

"I got faith in you. Talk to you later." I hung up the phone. "What you gonna do?" asked Saied.

I didn't want to tell him, because despite his earnest confession and apology, I still didn't trust him. "I'm taking you back to Courane's," I said. "Or you rather I drop you off somewhere in the Budayeen?"

"Can't I go with you?"

I laughed coldly. "I'm gonna visit your favorite kingpin, Abu Adil. You still on good terms with him?"

"I don't know," said the Half-Hajj nervously. "But maybe I ought to go back to Courane's. I thought of something I got to tell Jacques and Mahmoud."

"I'll bet."

"Besides, I don't need to run into that bastard Umar ever again." Saied pronounced the name "Himmar," by changing the vowel just a little and aspirating it. It was an Arabic pun. The word Himmar means donkey, and Arabs consider the donkey one of the filthiest animals on earth. This was a clever way of insulting Umar, and when he was wearing Rex, the Half-Hajj may even have said it to Abdul-Qawy's face. That may be one of the reasons Saied wasn't popular around Hamidiyya anymore.

He was quiet for a little while. "Marîd," he said at last, "I meant what I said. I made a bad mistake, turning my coat like that. But I never had no contract with Friedlander Bey or nothing. I didn't think I was hurting anybody."

"I almost died twice, pal. First the fire, then Jawarski."

I pulled the car to the curb outside Courane's. Saied was miserable. "What you want me to say?" he pleaded.

"You got nothing to say. I'll see you you later."

He nodded and got out of the car. I watched him walk into Courane's bar, then I popped the tough-guy moddy. I drove west and north, to Papa's house. Before I confronted Abu Adil, I had two or three other things to take care of.

I found Kmuzu in our temporary apartment, working at my Chhindwara data deck. He looked up when he heard me come into the room. "Ah, yaa Sidi!" he said, as pleased as I'd ever seen him. "I have good news. It will cost less to organize charity food distribution than I thought. I hope you'll forgive me for examining your financial situation, but I've learned that you have more than twice what we need."

"That a hint, Kmuzu? I'm only going to open one soup kitchen, not two. You got an operating budget worked out?"

"We can run the food center for a full week on the money you get from Chiriga's on a single night."

"Great, glad to hear it. I was just wondering why you're so excited about this project. How come it means so much to you?"

Kmuzu's expression turned solidly neutral. "I just feel responsible for your Christian moral education," he said.

"I don't buy it," I said.

He looked away. "There is a long story, yaa Sidi, "he said. "I do not wish to tell it now." 

"All right, Kmuzu. Another time."

He turned to me again. "I have information about the fire. I told you I'd found proof it was deliberately set. That night in the corridor between your apartment and that of the master of the house, I discovered rags that had been soaked in some flammable fluid." He opened a desk drawer and took out some badly scorched cloth remnants. They'd been burned in the fire, but hadn't been totally destroyed. I could still see a decorative pattern of eight-pointed stars in pale pink and brown.

Kmuzu held up another cloth. "Today I found this. It's obviously the cloth from which those rags were torn."

I examined the larger cloth, part of an old robe or sheet. There wasn't any doubt that it was the same material. "Where'd you find this?" I asked.

Kmuzu put the rags back in the desk drawer. "In the room of young Saad ben Salah," he said.

"What were you doing poking around in there?" I asked with some amusement.

Kmuzu shrugged. "Looking for evidence, yaa Sidi. And I believe I've found enough to be certain of the arsonist's identity."

"The kid? Not Umm Saad herself?"

"I'm sure she directed her son to set the fire."

I wouldn't put it past her, but it didn't quite fit. "Why would she do that, though? Her whole scheme has been to get Friedlander Bey to admit that Saad is his grandson. She wants her son to be heir to Papa's estate. Killing the old man off now would leave her out in the cold."

"Who can say what her reasoning was, yaa Sidi? Perhaps she gave up her plan, and now she's seeking revenge."

Jeez, in that case, who knew what she'd try next? "You're keeping an eye on her already, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yes, yaa Sidi "

"Well, be extra watchful." I turned to go, then faced him once more. "Kmuzu," I said, "do the letters A.L.M. mean anything to you?"

He gave it a moment's thought. "Only the African Liberation Movement," he said.

"Maybe," I said dubiously. "What about the Phoenix File?"

"Oh, yes, yaa Sidi, I heard about it when I worked in Shaykh Reda's house."

I'd run into so many dead ends that I'd almost given up hope. I'd begun to think the Phoenix File was something Jirji Shaknahyi had invented, and that the meaning of the words had died with him. "Why did Abu Adil discuss it with you?" I asked.

Kmuzu shook his head. "Abu Adil never discussed anything with me, yaa Sidi. I was only a bodyguard. But bodyguards are often overlooked or forgotten. They become like the furniture in a room. Several times I overheard Shaykh Reda and Umar talk about whom they wished to add to the Phoenix File."

"So what is the damn thing?" I demanded.

"A list," said Kmuzu. "A compilation of the names of everyone who works for Shaykh Reda or Friedlander Bey, either directly or indirectly. And of anyone who owes either of them a great favor."

"Like rosters," I said, puzzled. "But why should the file be so important? I'm sure the police could put together the same list anytime they wanted. Why did Jirji Shaknahyi risk his life investigating it?"

"Each person on the list has a coded entry that describes his physical condition, his tissue-matching profile, and his record of organ transplants and other modifications."

"So both Abu Adil and Papa keep up with their people's health. That's great. I didn't think they'd bother with details like that."

Kmuzu frowned. "You don't understand, yaa Sidi. The file is not a list of who might need to receive a transplant. It is a list of available donors."

"Available donors? But these people aren't dead, they're still—" My eyes opened wider and I just stared at him.

Kmuzu's expression let me know that my horrified realization was correct. "Everyone on the list is ranked," he said, "from the lowest underling to Umar and yourself. If a person on the list is injured or becomes ill and needs an organ transplant, Abu Adil or Friedlander Bey may choose to sacrifice someone with a lower rating. This is not always done, but the higher one's rating, the more likely it is that a suitable donor will be chosen."

"May their houses be destroyed! The sons of thieves!" I said softly. This explained the notations in Shaknahyi's notebook—the names on the left side were people who'd been prematurely relaxed to provide spare parts for people on the right side. Blanca had been too far down on the list for her own good; she'd been just another expendable slut.

"Perhaps everyone you know is listed in the Phoenix File," said Kmuzu. "You yourself, your friends, your mother. My name is there as well."

I felt fury growing in me. "Where does he keep it, Kmuzu? I'm gonna shove this file down Abu Adil's throat."

Kmuzu raised a hand. "Remember, yaa Sidi, that Shaykh Reda is not alone in this terrible enterprise. He cooperates with our master. They share information, and they share the lives of their associates. A heart from one of Shaykh Reda's minions may be put in the chest of Friedlander Bey's lieutenant. The two men are great competitors, but in this they are cordial partners."

"How long has this been going on?" I asked.

"For many years. The two shaykhs began it to make certain they themselves would never die for lack of compatible organs."

I slammed my fist on the desk. "That's how they've both lived to such doddering old age. They're fucking fossils!"

"And they are insane, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.

"You didn't tell me where to find it. Where is the Phoenix File?"

Kmuzu shook his head. "I don't know. Shaykh Reda keeps it hidden."

Well, I thought, I'd planned to take a ride out to that neighborhood that afternoon anyway. "Thanks, Kmuzu. You've been a lot of help."

"Yaa Sidi, you aren't going to confront Shaykh Reda with this, are you?" He looked very troubled.

"No, of course not," I said. "I know better than to take on both of the old men together. You just keep working on our soup kitchen. I think it's time the House of Friedlander Bey began giving back something to the poor people."

"That is good."

I left Kmuzu working at the data deck. I went back out to the car, revising my schedule for the day in light of the blockbuster that had just gone off at my feet. I drove to the Budayeen, parked the car, and started up the Street to Chiri's.

My phone rang. "Marhaba," I said.

"It's me, man. Morgan." I was glad I was still wearing the English daddy. "Jawarski's here, all right. He's holed up in a crummy apartment in a real slum. I'm hangin' out in the stairwell, watchin' the door. You want me to drop in on the man?"

"No," I said, "just make sure he doesn't leave. I want to know that he'll be there when I come by later. If he tries to go somewhere, though, stop him. Use your gun and back him up into the apartment. Do whatever you got to, but keep him under wraps."

"You got it, man. But don't take too long. This isn't as much fun as I thought it'd be."

I clipped the phone back on my belt and went into the club. Chiri's was pretty crowded for late afternoon. A new black girl named Mouna was on stage. I recalled suddenly that Mouna had been the name of the pet chicken in Fuad's long story. That meant he was probably adoring this girl, and that meant she was probably trouble. I'd have to keep my eyes open.

The other girls were sitting with customers, and love was in bloom all along the bar. It was fucking heartwarming.

I went down to my usual place and waited for Indihar to come over. "White Death?" she asked.

"Not right now. You thought any about what we talked about?"

"About me moving into Friedlander Bey's little cottage? If it wasn't for the kids, I wouldn't give it a second thought. I don't want to owe him nothing. I don't want to be one of Papa's little wenches."

I'd felt that way myself, not so long ago. And now that I'd learned the significance of the Phoenix File, I knew she had even more reason to distrust Papa. "You're right about that, Indihar," I said, "but I promise you that won't happen. Papa's not doing this for you; I am."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes. A big one. Now, what's your answer?"

She sighed. "Okay, Marîd, but I'm not going to be one of your wenches, either. You know what I mean?"

"You're not going to fuck me. You already made that clear."

Indihar nodded. "Just so you understand. I'm mourning my husband. I may go on mourning him forever."

"Take as long as you need. You got a lot of life left to live, honey," I said. "Someday you'll find someone else."

"I don't even want to think about it."

It was past time to change the subject. "You can start moving in any time you want, but finish out the shift for me," I said. "This means I got to find a new daytime barmaid."

Indihar looked left and right, then leaned closer. "If I was you," she said in a low voice, "I'd hire somebody from outside. I wouldn't trust any of these girls to run this place. They'd rob you blind, especially that Brandi. And Pualani's not bright enough to put the napkin down, then the drink."

"What do you think I should do?"

She chewed her lip for a moment. "I'd hire Dalia away from Frenchy Benoit. That's what I'd do. Or Heidi from the Silver Palm."

"Maybe," I said. "Call me if you need anything." It was just something else I had to worry about. Right now, though, my thoughts were centered mainly on the blighted neighborhood on the western side of town. I walked back out into the late afternoon sun. It had begun to rain, and there was a good, wet smell coming from the warm sidewalks.

A few minutes later, I was back in the modshop on Fourth Street. Twice in one day was enough of Laila to last anybody a year. I overheard her discussing a module with a customer. The man needed something to let him do armadontia. That's the science of converting human teeth into high-tech weapons. Laila was still Emma: Madame Bovary, Dentist of Tomorrow.

When the customer left—yes, Laila'd found just what he was looking for—I tried to tell her what I wanted without getting into a conversation. "Got any Proxy Hell moddies?" I asked.

She'd already opened her mouth to greet me with some secondhand Flaubertian sentiment, but I'd shocked her. "You don't want that, Marîd," she said in her whiny voice.

"Not for me. It's for a friend."

"None of your friends do that, either."

I stopped myself before I grabbed her by the throat. "It's not for a friend, then. It's for a goddamn enemy."

Laila smiled. "Then you want something really bad, right?"

"The worst," I said.

She bustled out from behind her counter and went to the locked door in the rear of the shop. "I don't keep merchandise like that out," she explained as she dug in a pocket for her keys. Actually, they were on a long, green plastic necklace around her neck. "I don't sell Proxy Hell moddies to kids."

"Keys are around your neck."

"Oh thanks, dear." She unlocked the door and turned to look at me. "Be right back." She was gone a minute or two, and she returned with a small brown cardboard box.

There were three moddies in the box, all plain, gray plastic, all without manufacturer's labels. These were bootleg modules, dangerous to wear. Regular commercial moddies were carefully recorded or programmed, and all extraneous signals were removed. You gambled when you wore an underground moddy. Sometimes bootlegs were "rough," and when you popped them out, you found they'd caused major brain damage.

Laila had stuck handwritten labels on the moddies in the box. "How about infectious granuloma?" she asked.

I considered it for a moment, but decided that it was too much like what Abu Adil had been wearing when I'd first met him. "No," I said.

"Okay," said Laila, pushing the moddies around with her long, crooked forefinger. Cholecystitis?" 

"What's that?" 

''Don't have any idea." 

"What's the third one?"

Laila held it up and read the label. "D Syndrome."

I shivered. I'd heard about that. It's some kind of awful nerve degeneration, a disease caused by slow viruses. The patient first suffers gaps in both long- and short-term memories. The viruses continue to eat away at the nervous system until the patient collapses, staring and stupid, bedridden and in terrible agony. Finally, in the last stages, he dies when his body forgets how to breathe or keep its heart beating. "How much for this?" I asked.

"Fifty kiam," she said. She looked up slowly into my eyes and grinned. The few teeth she still had were black stumps, and the effect was grotesquely ugly. "You pay extra 'cause it's a hard-to-get item."

"All right," I said. I paid her and stuffed the D Syndrome moddy in my pocket. Then I tried to get out of Laila's shop.

"You know," she said, putting her clawlike hand on my arm, "my lover is taking me to the opera tonight. All of Rouen will see us together!"

I pulled myself away and hurried out the door. "In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful," I muttered.

During the long drive out to Abu Adil's estate, I thought about recent events. If Kmuzu were right, then the fire had been started by Umm Saad's son. I didn't think that young Saad had acted on his own. Yet Umar had assured me that neither he nor Abu Adil still employed Umm Saad. He had flatly invited me to dispose of her, if I found her too irritating. Then if Umm Saad wasn't getting her orders direct from Abu Adil, why had she decided suddenly to take things into her own hands?

And Jawarski. Had he taken a few potshots at me because he didn't like my looks, or because Hajjar had let Abu Adil know that I was nosing around after the Phoenix File? Or were there even more sinister connections that I hadn't yet discovered? At this point, I didn't dare trust Saied or even Kmuzu. Morgan was the only other person who had my confidence, and I had to admit that there really wasn't any good reason to trust him, either. He just reminded me of the way I used to be, before I'd gone to work changing a corrupt system from within.

That, by the way, was my current rationalization for what I was doing, the easy life I was leading. I suppose the bitter truth was that I didn't have the guts to face Friedlander Bey's wrath, or the heart to turn my back on his money. I told myself that I was using my position deep in the pits of dishonor to help the less fortunate. It didn't really shut up my guilty conscience.

As I drove, the guilt and loneliness amounted almost to desperation, and are probably to blame for the tactical error that came next. Maybe I should have had more faith in Saied or Kmuzu. I could at least have brought one of the Stones That Speak with me. Instead, I was counting on my own cleverness to see me through a confrontation with Abu Adil. After all, I did have two separate plans: First, I thought I might try bribing him with the D Syndrome moddy; and second, if he didn't take to buttering up, my fallback position consisted of hitting him between the eyes with my full knowledge of what he was up to.

Well, hell, it sounded like a great idea at the time.

The guard at Abu Adil's gate recognized me and passed me through, although Kamal, the butler, demanded to know what I wanted. "I've brought a gift for Shaykh Reda," I said. "It's urgent that I talk with him."

He wouldn't let me leave the foyer. "Wait here," he said with a sneer. "I will see if it is permitted."

"The passive voice should be avoided," I said. He didn't get it.

He went all the way down to Abu Adil's office, and came all the way back with the same contemptuous look on his face. "I'm to bring you to my master," he said. It sounded like it broke his heart to accommodate me.

He led me into one of Abu Adil's offices, not the same one I'd seen on my first visit with Shaknahyi. A sweet smell, maybe incense, filled the air. There were framed prints of European art masterpieces on the walls, and I heard a recording of Umm Khalthoum playing softly.

The great man himself was sitting in a comfortable armchair, with a beautifully embroidered blanket over his legs. His head lolled back against the back of the chair, and his eyes were closed. His hands were laid flat on his knees, and they trembled.

Umar Abdul-Qawy was there, of course, and he didn't look happy to see me. He nodded to me and put one finger to his lips. I guessed this was a signal not to mention any of the things he'd discussed with me concerning his plans to unseat Abu Adil and rule the old shaykh's empire in his place. That wasn't why I was here. I had more important things to worry about than Umar's half-assed power struggle.

"I have the honor to wish Shaykh Reda good afternoon," I said.

"May Allah make the afternoon prosperous to you," said Umar.

We'll see, I thought. "I beg to present the noble shaykh with this small gift."

Umar made a small gesture, the little flick of the hand a lordly king uses to command a peasant to approach. I wanted to stuff the moddy down his fat throat. "What is it?" he asked.

I said nothing. I just gave it to him. Umar turned it over in his hand a few times. Then he looked up at me. "You are more clever than I gave you credit," he said. "My master will be greatly pleased."

"I hope he doesn't already have this module."

"No, no." He placed it on Abu Adil's lap, but the old man made no move to examine it. Umar studied me thoughtfully. "I would offer you something in return, although I'm certain you would be courteous enough to refuse."

"Try me," I said. "I'd like a little information."

Umar frowned. "Your manners—"

"They're terrible, I know, but what can I say? I'm just an ignorant beaneater from the Maghreb. Now, I seem to have uncovered all kinds of incriminating information about you and Shaykh Reda—about Friedlander Bey too, to be honest. I'm talking about this goddamn Phoenix File of yours." I waited to see Umar's reaction.

It wasn't long in coming. "I'm afraid, Monsieur Audran, that I don't know what you're talking about. I suggest that your master may be engaged in highly illegal activities, and has attempted to shift the blame—"

"Be silent." Umar and I both turned to stare at Reda Abu Adil, who had popped the Proxy Hell moddy he'd been wearing. Umar was badly shaken. This was the first time Abu Adil had seen fit to participate in a conversation. It seemed he wasn't just a senile, helpless figurehead. Without the cancer moddy chipped in, his face lost its slackness, and his eyes gained an intelligent fierceness.

Abu Adil threw off the blanket and stood up from the chair. "Hasn't Friedlander Bey explained to you about the Phoenix File?" he demanded.

"No, O Shaykh," I said. "It's something I learned of only today. He has kept the thing hidden from me."

"But you delved into matters that don't concern you." I was frightened by Abu Adil's intensity. Umar had never shown such passion or such strength of will. It was as if I were seeing Shaykh Reda's baraka, a different kind of personal magic than Papa's. The moddy of Abu Adil that Umar wore did not hint at the depth of the man. I supposed that no electronic device could hope to capture the nature of baraka. This answered Umar's claim that with the moddy he was the equal of Abu Adil. That was just self-delusion.

"I think they concern me," I said. "Isn't my name in that file?"

"Yes, I'm sure it is," said Abu Adil. "But you are placed highly enough that you stand only to benefit."

"I'm thinking of my friends, who aren't so lucky."

Umar laughed humorlessly. "You show your weakness again," he said. "Now you bleed for the dirt beneath your feet."

"Every sun has its setting," I told him. "Maybe someday you'll find yourself slipping down in the Phoenix File ratings. Then you'll wish you'd never heard of it."

"O Master," said Umar angrily, "have you not heard enough of this?"

Abu Adil raised a weary hand. "Yes, Umar. I have no great love for Friedlander Bey, and even less for his creatures. Take him into the studio."

Umar came toward me, a needle gun in his hand, and I backed away. I didn't know what he had in mind, but it wasn't going to be pleasant. "This way," he said. Under the circumstances, I did what he wanted.

We left the office and walked down a connecting hallway, then climbed a stairway to the second floor. There was always an air of peace in this house. The light was filtered through wooden lattices over high windows, and sounds were muffled by thick rugs on the floors. I knew this serenity was an illusion. I knew I'd soon see Abu Adil's true nature.

"In here," he said, opening a thick metal door. He had a strange, expectant expression on his face. I didn't like it at all.

I went past him into a large soundproofed room. There was a bed, a chair, and a cart with some electronic equipment on it. The far wall was a single sheet of glass, and beyond it was a small control booth with banks of dials and readouts and switches. I knew what it was. Reda Abu Adil had a personality module recording studio in his home. It was like the hobbyist's ultimate dream.

"Give me the gun," said Abu Adil.

Umar passed the needle gun to his master, then left the soundproofed room. "I suppose you want to add me to your collection," I said. "I don't see why. My second-degree burns won't be all that entertaining." Abu Adil just stared at me with that fixed grin on his face. He made my skin crawl.

A little while later, Umar returned. He had a long, thin metal rod, a pair of handcuffs, and a rope with a hook at one end. "Oh jeez," I said. I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. I was truly afraid that they wanted to record more than just that.

"Stand up straight," said Umar, walking around and around me. He reached out and removed the moddy and daddies I was wearing. "And whatever you do, don't duck your head. That's for your own good."

"Thanks for your concern," I said. "I appreciate—" Umar raised the metal rod and brought it down across my right collarbone. I felt a knife-edge of pain shoot through me, and I cried out. He hit me on the other side, across the other collarbone. I heard the abrupt snapping of bone, and I fell to my knees.

"This may hurt a little," said Abu Adil in the voice of a kindly old doctor.

Umar began beating me on the back with the rod, once, twice, three times. I screamed. He struck me a few more times. "Try to stand up," he urged.

"You're crazy," I gasped.

"If you don't stand up, I'll use this on your face."

I struggled to my feet again. My left arm hung uselessly. My back was a bleeding ruin. I realized I was breathing in shallow sobs.

Umar paused and walked around me again, evaluating me. "His legs," said Abu Adil.

"Yes, O Shaykh." The son of a bitch whipped the rod across my thighs, and I fell to the floor again. "Up," grunted Umar. "Up."

He hit me where I lay, on my thighs and calves until they were dripping with blood too. "I'll get you," I said in a voice hoarse with agony. "I swear by the blessed Prophet, I'll get you."

The beatings went on for a long time, until Umar had slowly and carefully worked over every part of me—except my head. Abu Adil had instructed him to spare my head, because he didn't want anything to interfere with the quality of the recording. When the old man decided that I'd had enough, he told Umar to stop. "Connect him," he said.

I lifted my head and watched. It was almost like being in someone else, far away. My muscles jumped in anguished spasms, and my wounds sent sharp signals of torment through every part of me. Yet the pain had become a barrier between my mind and body. I knew that I still hurt terribly, but I'd taken enough punishment to send my body into shock. I muttered curses and pleas to my two captors, threatening and begging them to give me back the pain-blocking daddy.

Umar only laughed. He went over to the cart and did something with the equipment there. Then he carried a large, shiny moddy link over to me. It looked a lot like the one we used with the Transpex game. Umar knelt beside me and showed it to me. "I'm going to chip this in for you," he said. "It will allow us to record exactly what you're feeling."

I was having a difficult time breathing. "Motherfuckers," I said, my voice a shallow wheeze.

Umar snapped the chrome-steel moddy link onto my anterior corymbic plug. "Now, this is a completely painless procedure," he said.

"You're gonna die," I muttered. "You're gonna fuckin' die."

Abu Adil was still holding the needle gun on me, but I couldn't have done anything heroic anyway. Umar knelt down and fastened my hands behind me with the handcuffs. I felt like I was going to pass out, and I kept shaking my head to stay conscious. I didn't want to black out and be completely at their mercy, though that was probably already true.

After he got my wrists bound, Umar caught the handcuffs with the hook and pulled on the rope until I staggered to my feet. Then he threw the end of the rope over a bar mounted on the wall high over my head. I saw what he was going to do. "Yallah," I cried. He pulled on the rope until I was hoisted up on tiptoes with my arms raised behind my back. Then he pulled some more until my feet no longer touched the floor. I was hanging from the rope, the full weight of my body slowly pulling my arms from their sockets.

It was so excruciating, I could only take panting little breaths. I tried to shut out the horrible pain; I prayed first for mercy, then for death.

"Put the moddy in now," said Abu Adil. His voice seemed to come from another world, from high on a mountaintop or far below the ocean.

"I take refuge with the Lord of the Dawn," I murmured. I kept repeating that phrase like a magic charm.

Umar stood on the chair with the gray moddy in his hand, the D Syndrome moddy I'd brought. He chipped it onto my posterior plug.

 

He was hanging from the ceiling, but he couldn’t  remember why. He was in terrible agony. "In the name of Allah, help me!" he cried. He realized that shouting just made the pain worse. Why was he here? He couldn't remember. Who had done this to him?

He couldn’t  remember. He couldn’t remember anything.

Time went by, and he might have been unconscious. He had the same feeling one has on waking from a particularly vivid dream, when the waking world and the dream are superimposed for a moment, when aspects of one distort images of the other, and one must make an effort to sort them and decide which shall have precedence.

How could he explain being alone and bound like this? He wasn’t afraid of the hurting, but he was afraid he wasn’t equal to the task of understanding his situation. There was the low hum of a fan above his head, and a faint spicy smell in the air. His body twisted a little on the rope, and he felt another slash of pain. He was bothered more by the notion that he appeared to be involved in a terrible drama and had no sense at all of its significance.

"Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, "he whispered, "the Beneficent, the Merciful Owner of the Day of Judgment. Thee alone we worship. Thee alone we ask for help."

Time passed. The suffering grew. Finally, he did not remember enough even to wince or writhe. Sights and sounds played through his numbed senses upon his drowsing mind. He was beyond evaluating or reacting, but he was not yet quite dead. Someone spoke to him, but he did not respond.

 

"How's that?"

Let me tell you, it was horrible. All of a sudden, understanding poured back into my consciousness. Every bit of pain that had been held at bay suddenly returned with a vengeance. I must have whimpered, because he kept saying "It's all right, it's all right."

I looked up. It was Saied. "Hey," I said. It was all I could manage.

"It's all right," he told me again. I didn't know if I should believe him. He looked pretty worried.

I was lying in an alley between some rundown, abandoned tenement buildings. I didn't know how I'd gotten there. At the moment, I didn't care.

"These yours?" he said. He was folding a small handful of daddies and three moddies.

One of them was Rex and one was the gray D Syndrome moddy. I almost wept when I recognized the pain-blocker daddy. "Gimme," I said. My hands shook as I reached up and chipped it in. Almost instantly I felt great again, although I knew I still had terrible lacerations and at least a broken collarbone. The daddy worked faster than even a ton of Sonneine. "You got to tell me what you're doing here," I said. I sat up, filled with the illusion of health and well-being.

"I came after you. Wanted to make sure you didn't get into any trouble or anything. The guard at the gate knows me, and so does Kamal. I went into the house and saw what they were doing to you, then I waited till they dragged you out. They must've thought you were dead, or else they don't care if you recover or not. I grabbed up the hardware and followed. They dumped you in this stinking alley, and I hid around the corner till they left."

I put my hand on his shoulders. "Thanks," I said.

"Hey," said the Half-Hajj with a loopy grin, "no thanks are needed. Muslim brothers and all that, right?"

I didn't want to argue with him. I picked up the third moddy he'd found. "What's this?" I asked.

"You don't know? It's not one of yours?"

I shook my head. Saied took the moddy from me, reached up, and chipped it in. A moment later his expression changed. He looked awed. "May my father's balls burn in Hell!" he said. "It's Abu Adil."