NETFEED/NEWS: Merowe To Face War Crimes Trial

(visual: Merowe surrendering to UN General Ram Shagra)

VO: Hassan Merowe, the outsted president of the Nubian Republic, will face a UN tribunal for war crimes.

(visual: UN soldiers excavating mass graves outside Khartoum)

As many as a million people are thought to have died during the ten years of Merowe's rule, one of the bloodiest in the history of Northeastern Africa.

(visual: Merowe's attorney, Mohammad al-Rashad)

RASHAD: "President Merowe is not afraid to stand before other world leaders. My client singlehandedly built our nation from the smoldering ruins of Sudan. These people all know that a leader must sometimes take a firm stand during times of chaos, and if they claim they would have done differently, then they are hypocrites. . . ."

A neon-red line crawled at the edge of his vision, as though one of his own ocular capillaries had suddenly become visible. The line wriggled and turned on itself, branching and then rebranching as the expert system which it symbolized did its work. Dread smiled. Beinha y Beinha were not trusting his promises on security—they wanted to know his virtual office as well as they knew their own. Not that he would have expected anything different. In fact, despite some successful past partnerships, he would have had serious doubts about hiring them again if they had taken him at his word.

Confident, cocky, lazy, dead. It was the Old Man's mantra, and a good one, even if Dread sometimes drew the lines in different places than the Old Man would. Still, he was alive, and in his kind of business that was the only measurement of success—there were no failures who were merely poor. Of course, the Old Man had something to show for his greater caution—he had been alive longer than his hired gun. A lot longer.

Dread augmented the field of abstract color outside the office's single window, then returned his own attention to the virtual white wall as the Beinhas' gear finished checking the security of his node. When it had satisfied itself, it disconnected, the red line vanishing from Dread's own monitor program and the Beinha twins immediately snapped in,

They appeared as two identical but almost featureless objects, seated side by side on the far side of the table like a pair of headstones. The Beinha sisters disdained high-quality sims for personal meetings, and no doubt regarded Dread's own expensive replication as a meaningless and flashy example of excess. He enjoyed the prospect of their irritation: noting the tics of other professionals, and even of his victims, was the closest he ever came to the fondness for the habits of friends that enlivened the existence of more mundane people.

"Welcome, ladies." He gestured to the simulated black marble table and the Yixing stoneware tea service, so important for doing even virtual business with Pacific Rim clients that Dread had made it a permanent part of his office environment. "Can I offer you anything?"

He could almost feel the annoyance that emanated from the twin shapes. "We do not waste our net time on amateur theatricals," one of them said. His satisfaction increased—they were annoyed enough not to hide it. First move to him.

"We are here to deal," said the other faceless shape.

He could never remember their names. Xixa and Nuxa, something like that, elfin Indio names quite out of character with their real selves, first given to them when they were the child stars of a Sao Paulo brothel. Not that it mattered whether he remembered or not: the two operated so much as a single entity that either would answer questions addressed to the other. The Beinha sisters considered names almost as much of a sentimental indulgence as realistic sims.

"Then we'll deal," he said cheerfully. "You reviewed the prospectus, of course?"

More irritation, revealed in the slight pause before reply. "We have. It can be done."

"It will not be easy." He thought the second had spoken, but they used the same digitized voice, so it was difficult to tell. The sisters had an effective act—they seemed to be one mind inhabiting two bodies.

What if it really is only one person? he suddenly wondered. I've certainty never seen more than one of them at a time in RL. What if the whole "deadly twin" thing is just a marketing gimmick? Dread put aside the interesting thought for later. "We are prepared to pay 350,000 Swiss credits. Plus approved expenses."

"That is unacceptable."

Dread raised an eyebrow, knowing his sim would mimic the effect exactly. "Then it seems we'll have to find another contracting agency."

The Beinhas regarded him for a moment, blank as two stones. "The job you wish done is only technically within the civil sector. Because of the importance of the . . . object you plan to remove, there would be many repercussions from the national government. Loss of the object would, in fact, have worldwide impact. This means that any contractors would have to prepare a greater degree of protection than is usual."

He wondered how much of their unaccented English was voice-filters. It was not hard to imagine a pair of twenty-two-year-old women—if his information on them could be trusted—purposefully shedding their accents along with everything else they had jettisoned on their way to becoming what they were.

He decided to poke them a bit "What you're saying is, this is not really a civilian job but a political assassination."

There was a long moment's silence. Mockingly, Dread brought up the background music to fill it. When the first sister spoke, her voice was as flat and inflectionless as before. "That is correct. And you know it"

"So you think it's worth more than Cr.S. 350,000."

"We will not waste your time. We do not want more money. In fact, if you sweeten the job for us with something else, we will ask only Cr.S. 100,000, most of which we will need for post-action protection and a cooling-off period."

Again the eyebrow lifted. "And what is this 'something else'?"

The second of the two shapeless figures laid spatulate hands on the tabletop. "We have heard that your principal has access to certain biological products—a large source of them in our own hemisphere."

Dread sat forward. He felt something tightening at his temples. "My principal? I'm the only person you deal with on this contract. You're on very dangerous ground."

"Nevertheless, it is known you do a great deal of work for a certain group. Whether they are the ultimate source of this contract or not, they have something we want"

"We wish to start a side-business," said the other sister. "Something less strenuous for our old age than our current occupation. We think that wholesaling these biological products would be ideal, and we seek a way into the business. Your principal can grant us that. We seek a franchise, not a rivalry."

Dread considered. The Old Man and his friends, despite the immense influence they wielded, were certainly the objects of many rumors. The Beinhas traveled in the sort of circles that would know much of the truth behind even the most horrifying and improvable speculations, so their request didn't necessarily imply a breach of security. Even so, he did not particularly relish the thought of going to the Old Man with such an impertinent offer, and it also meant he would lose some of his control over his own subcontractors—not the sort of thing that suited his future plans at all.

"I think perhaps I should give this job to Klekker and Associates." He said it as lazily as possible—he was angry with himself at being caught off-balance. Second move to the Beinha sisters.

The first shape laughed, a snick of sound like a breadknife being drawn across someone's windpipe. "And waste months and credits while he does the backgrounding?"

"Not to mention trusting the job itself to his team of bravos," added the second, "who will come in like wild bulls and leave hoofprints and horn-scars on everything. This is our territory. We have contacts all over that city, and in some very useful sectors of it, too."

"Ah, but Klekker won't try to extort me."

The first placed her hands on the table beside her sister's, so that they seemed to be performing a seance. "You have worked with us before. You know we will deliver what you need. And unless you have changed mightily, senhor, you plan to play the role of foreman yourself. Whose preparations would you rather trust your own safety to—Klekker, working in a strange place, or us, performing in our back garden?"

Dread lifted a hand. "Send me your proposal. I'll consider it."

"It has just been transferred."

He curled his fingers. The office and the faceless sisters vanished.

He dropped his glass of beer to the floor and watched the last few ounces foam out onto the white carpet. Fury burned in him like a gutful of cinders. The Beinhas were clearly the right people for the job, and they were right about Klekker and his mercenaries, which meant he'd at least have to talk to the Old Man, tell him what the sisters had requested.

Which would mean going back to the mad old bastard on his knees, at least symbolically. Again. Just like that ancient advertising logo, the dog listening alertly to the radio or whatever it was. His master's voice. Down on all fours, like so many times in his childhood before he had learned to answer pain with pain. All those dark nights, screaming under the other boys. His master's voice.

He rose and paced back and forth across the small room, his hands fisted so tight his fingernails cut into his own flesh. Rage swelled inside him, making it hard to breathe. He had three more interviews to go that night, minor ones, but he didn't trust himself to handle them properly just now. The Beinhas had him where they wanted and they knew it. Ex-whores always knew when they had you by the balls.

Answer pain with pain.

He walked to the sink and filled his palms with cold water, then splashed it on his face. It matted his hair and dripped from his chin onto his chest, soaking his shirt. His skin felt hot, as though the anger within had heated him like an iron stove; he looked at himself in the mirror, almost expecting to see the water rising from him as steam. His eyes, he noted, were quite wide, so that a rim of white showed all the way around.

Relief, that was what he needed. A little something to soothe his thoughts, to cool the tension. An answer. An answer to his master's voice.

Through his small window he could see the saurian hump of the bridge and the vast scatter of shimmering lights that was Greater Sydney. It was not hard to look down on that pulse and glitter and imagine each light as a soul, and that he—like God in His high place—could just reach out and extinguish any one of them. Or all of them.

Before he could get any more work done, he decided, he would have to get a little exercise. Then he would feel stronger, the way he liked to feel.

He turned up his inner music and went to get his sharp things.

"I do not doubt it is true," said the god. "I ask is it acceptable?"

The rest of the Ennead stared back at him with the eyes of beasts. Eternal twilight filled the broad windows of the Western Palace and steeped the entire room in a bluish light which oil lamps could not entirely dispel. Osiris lifted his flail. "Is it acceptable?" he repeated.

Ptah the Artificer bowed slightly, although Osiris doubted that Ptah's real-life counterpart had done anything like it. That was one of the advantages of the Brotherhood conducting its meetings on his own virtual turf—his governing systems could insert at least a modicum of courtesy. As if to prove that the bow had not been his own gesture, Ptah snapped back: "No, damn it, of course it's not acceptable. But this stuff is very new—you have to expect the unexpected."

Osiris paused before replying, allowing his anger to cool. Most of the other members of the Brotherhood's high council were at least as stiff-necked as he was; it would do no good to put them on the defensive. "I simply want to know how we can lose someone whom we ourselves placed in the system," he said at last "How can he have 'disappeared'? We have his body, for God's sake!" He frowned at this accidental self-mockery and folded his arms across his bandaged chest.

Ptah's yellow face creased in a smile: he had a typical American disrespect for authority and no doubt thought Osiris' VR habitat grandiose. "Yes, we certainly do have his body, and if that was all we cared about, we could eliminate him at any time. But you were the one who wanted this particular addition, although I've never understood why. We're working in unknown territory here, especially with all the variables our own experiments have added to the mix. It's like expecting objects to behave the same way in deep space that they do back on Earth. It seems pretty damn unfair to blame my people when it goes a little flippy."

"This man has not been kept alive solely on a whim. I have good reasons, even though they are private." Osiris spoke as firmly and calmly as he could. He did not wish to appear capricious, especially in argument with Ptah. If anyone was likely to challenge his leadership in days to come, it was the American. "In any case, it is unfortunate. We are nearing the crisis point, and Ra cannot be kept waiting much longer."

"Jesus wept," Falcon-headed Horus banged a fist down on the basalt table. "Ra? What the hell are you talking about now?"

Osiris stared. The black, emotionless bird-eyes stared back. Another American, of course. It was like dealing with children—albeit very powerful children. "You are in my house," he said as calmly as he could. "It would not harm you to show some respect, or at least courtesy." He allowed the sentence to hang in the air for a moment, giving ample time for the various other Brotherhood members to think what might harm Horus—to think of all the things an angry Osiris could do. "If you would avail yourself of the information provided, you would know that 'Ra' is my name for the final phase of the Grail Project. If you are too busy, my system will be happy to translate for you so you do not impede the flow of conversation during meetings."

"I'm not here to play games." The bird-headed god's bluster had abated somewhat. Horus scratched his chest vigorously, making Osiris wince with distaste. "You're the chairman, so we play with your toys—wear your sims, whatever, fair enough. But I'm a busy man, and I don't have time to download your newest set of rules every time I hook up."

"Enough squabbling." Unlike the others, Sekhmet seemed quite comfortable in her goddess-guise. Osiris thought she would enjoy wearing the lion's head in real life. She was a natural deity: no corruptive notions of democracy had ever sullied her outlook. "Should we eliminate this loose end, this 'lost man'? What does our chairman want?"

"Thank you for asking." Osiris leaned back in his tall chair. "For reasons of my own, I wish him to be found. If enough time goes by without success, then I will allow him to be killed, but that is a clumsy solution."

"Actually, it's not only clumsy," Ptah offered cheerfully, "it may not be a solution at all. At this point, we might not be able to kill him—at least not the part of him resident in the system."

A slender hand was lifted. The others turned, their attention drawn by the rarity of Thoth having anything to say. "Surely things have not gone so far already," he asked. His narrow ibis head nodded sorrowfully, the beak dipping down to his chest "Have we lost control of our own virtual environments? That would be a very distressing event I would have to think carefully before continuing my commitment. We must have more control of the process than this."

Osiris started to reply, but Ptah leaped in quickly. "There are always perturbations at the edge of any paradigm shift," he said. "It's like storms on the edge of a weather front—we expect them as a generality without being able to anticipate them exactly. I'm not worried about this, and I don't think you should be either."

A fresh spate of argument broke out around the table, but this time Osiris was not displeased. Thoth was of the careful Asian character that did not like sudden changes or bold assertions, and almost certainly did not like American abruptness: Ptah had not done himself any favors. Thoth and his Chinese consortium were a large and important power bloc in the Brotherhood; Osiris had been cultivating them for decades. He made a note to contact Thoth privately later and deal carefully with his concerns. Meanwhile, some of the Chinese tycoon's irritation would undoubtedly localize around Ptah and his Western contingent.

"Please, please," he said at last. "I will be happy to talk to any of you individually who are worried about this. The problem, however minor, has its source in my own personal initiative. I take complete responsibility."

That at least silenced the table, and behind the emotionless sims, behind the beetle mandibles, the masks of hippo, ram, and crocodile, he knew that calculations were being made, odds were being reexamined. But he also knew that his prestige was such that even self-satisfied Ptah would not argue with him any further, at risk of seeming divisive.

Were it not for the Grail at the end of this long, wearisome road, he thought, I would happily see the whole of this greedy lot buried in a mass grave. It is sad that I need the Brotherhood so badly. This thankless chairmanship is like trying to teach table manners to piranha. Behind his corpse mask, he smiled briefly, although the various teeth and fangs glinting along the length of the table lent the image a certain unpleasant ring of truth.

"Now, if we have dispatched other business, and if the problem of our little runaway has been tabled for the time being, there is only one other thing—the matter of our former colleague, Shu." He turned to Horus with mock-concern. "You do realize that Shu is only a code-name, another little bit of Egyptiana? A joke of sorts, actually, since Shu was the sky god who abdicated the throne of heaven in favor of Ra. You do understand that, General? We have so few living ex-colleagues, I felt sure you would not require translation."

The falcon eyes glittered. "I know who you're talking about."

"Good. In any case, I took it as the sense of our last full meeting that . . . Shu . . . has become, since retirement, a liability to the old firm." He allowed himself a dusty chuckle. "I have initiated certain processes designed to reduce that liability as much as possible."

"Say what you mean." Sekhmet's tongue lolled from her tawny muzzle. "The one you call Shu is to be killed?"

Osiris leaned back. "Your grasp of our needs is admirable, Madame, but overly simple. There is more to be done than that."

"I could have a black bag team on top of him in twelve hours. Clear out the whole compound, burn it to the foundations, take the gear back home for study." Horus lifted a hand to his hooked beak, an odd gesture that Osiris needed several seconds to decode. Back in RL, the general had lit himself a cigar.

"Thank you, but this is a weed whose roots go deep. Shu was a founding member of our Ennead—excuse me. General, of our Brotherhood. Such roots must be carefully uncovered and the whole plant taken in one reaping. I have initiated such a process and I will lay the plans before you at our next meeting." With just enough obvious flaws in them to give imbeciles like you something to piss upon, General. Osiris was impatient now for the meeting to end. Then I will thank you for your clever suggestions and you will let me get on with the real business of protecting our interests. "Anything else? Then I thank you for joining me. I wish you all good luck in your various projects."

One by one, the gods winked out, until Osiris was alone again.

The austere lines of the Western Palace had been transmuted into the lamplit homeliness of Abydos-That-Was. The scent of myrrh and the chants of the resurrected priests rose around him like the soothing waters of a warm bath. He dared not bring the full panoply of his godliness to the Brotherhood's gatherings—he was already regarded as slightly, although harmlessly, eccentric—but he was far more comfortable being Osiris now than the all-too-mortal man underneath, and he missed the comforts of his temple when he was forced to leave it.

He crossed his arms across his chest and called forward one of his high priests. "Summon the Lord of the Mummy Wrappings. I am ready now to grant him audience."

The priest—whether software or sim, the god could not guess and did not care—hurried away into the darkness at the back of the temple. A moment later the arrival of Anubis was proclaimed by a skirling fanfare. The priests fell back, pressing themselves against the temple walls. The dark jackal head was raised and alert as though testing the air. The god was not certain whether he liked this change from the Messenger's usual sullenness.

"I'm here."

The god stared at him for a moment. It was appropriate, this guise he had chosen for his favorite tool. He had spotted the youth's potential quite early, and had devoted many years to raising him, not like a son—heaven forbid!—but like a trained hound, shaping him to the tasks for which he was best suited. But like any spirited beast, this one sometimes became overexuberant or even defiant; sometimes a taste of the whip was necessary. But he had been giving Anubis more than a taste lately, and that was unfortunate. Too much punishment dulled its effect. Perhaps this was an occasion to try something a little different.

"I am not happy about your South American subcontractors," he began. The jackal head lowered slightly, anticipating a rebuke. "They are impertinent, to say the least."

"They are, Grandfather." Too late Anubis remembered his master's dislike of that particular honorific. The narrow muzzle flinched again, ever so slightly.

The god pretended it hadn't happened. "But I know how such things can be. The best are often ambitious in their own right. They think they know more than those who employ them—even when their employers have invested time and money in their training."

The sharp-eared head tilted, just like a real canine expressing puzzlement. Anubis was wondering what other message was being delivered here.

"In any case, if they are the best for the job, you must employ them. I have seen their request, and I am now sending you the terms within which you may bargain with them."

"You are going to deal with them?"

"We are going to hire them. If they fail to serve to our satisfaction, they will, of course, not receive the reward they seek. If they do perform—well, I will consider at that time whether to honor the bargain."

There was a pause in which he could sense the messenger's disapproval. The god was amused—even murderers had a sense of propriety. "If you cheat them, the word will travel very quickly."

"If I cheat them, I will be very sure to do it in such a way that no one will ever know. If they happen to meet with an accident, for instance, it will be something so clearly not of our doing that you need not worry about your other contacts taking fright." The god laughed. "You see, my faithful one? You have not learned everything from me yet after all. Perhaps you should wait a little longer before thinking to strike out on your own."

Anubis responded slowly. "And how do I know you will not someday do the same to me?"

The god leaned forward to lay his flail almost lovingly against the jackal's sloping forehead. "Rest assured, my messenger, if I saw the need, I would. If you rely solely on my honor to protect you, you are not the servant in whom I wish to place my trust." Behind the mask, behind the complexity of instrumentation, Osiris smiled as he watched Anubis quite visibly consider whatever safeguards he had put in place to protect himself against his master. "But betrayal is a tool that must be used very discreetly," the god continued. "It is only because I am known for honoring my agreements that I could, if I wished, dispose of these overly forward sisters. Remember, honor is the only really good disguise for an occasional act of dishonor. No one trusts a known liar."

"I observe and learn, O Lord."

"Good. I am glad to find you in a receptive mood. Perhaps you will give your careful attention to this as well. . . ?"

The god flicked his crook and a small box appeared in the air, hovering before his throne. Inside it was a grainy holo-grammatic representation of two men wearing disheveled suits, standing on either side of a desk. They might have been salesmen, except for the photographs spread across the desk's untidy surface.

"See the pictures there?" Osiris asked. "We are lucky the public constabulary's financial restraints mean they still rely on two-dimensional representations. Otherwise this might make for quite a dizzying effect—not unlike the mirrors in a barber shop." He expanded the cube until the figures were life-size and the photos could be easily viewed.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Oh, come now." The god nodded and the two figures inside the cube sprang into life.

". . . Number four. No difference," the first man was saying. "Except this time the writing was on the victim herself, not on something she was carrying." He pointed to one of the photos. The word "Sang" was printed in block capitals across her stomach, the bloody letters smearing into the greater redness below.

"And still no hits on it? A name? A place? I assume we've given up on the possibility of it being a reference to informing?"

"None of these people were informers. These are ordinary folk." The first cop shook his head in frustration. "And once again we've got blurring on the surveillance cameras. Like someone took an electromagnet to them, but the lab says no magnet was used."

"Shit." The second cop stared at the pictures. "Shit, shit, shit."

"Something'll come up." The first man sounded almost convincing. "These blokes always screw up somewhere along the line. Get cocky, y'know, or they just get too crazy. . . ."

The god gestured and the cube dwindled away to a spark. His long silence was alleviated only by the moans of the kneeling priests. "I have spoken to you about this before," he said at last.

Anubis did not reply.

"It is not so much the messiness of your compulsions that offend me," the god continued, allowing anger to creep into his voice for the first time. "All artists have their quirks, and I consider you to be an artist. But your methodology displeases me. You have consistently advertised your peculiar talents in a way that may eventually prove your undoing. They tested you repeatedly in those institutions, you know. Someday soon, even the plodding Australian police will make some connection there. But most unfortunate of all, you are advertising by your little signatures, however obliquely, something that is far more important to me than you are. I do not know what you think you know of my work, but the Sangreal is not a joke for you to snigger at." The god rose to his feet, and for a moment allowed a hint of something larger to smear itself around him, a blurring, lightning-charged shadow. His voice rumbled like a summer storm. "Do not misunderstand me. If you compromise my project, I will deal with you swiftly and finally. If such a situation comes to pass, whatever protections you think you have will blow away like straws in a hurricane,"

He allowed himself to settle back into his throne. "Otherwise, I am pleased with you, and it hurts me to upbraid you. Do not allow this to happen again. Find a less idiosyncratic way to slake your compulsions. If you please me, you will find that there are rewards you cannot even imagine. I do not exaggerate. Am I understood?"

The jackal head wagged as if its owner were exhausted. The god looked for a hint of defiance, but saw only fear and resignation.

"Good," he said. "Then our audience is finished. I look forward to your next progress report on the Sky God Project Next week?"

Anubis nodded but did not look up. The god crossed his arms and Death's Messenger disappeared.

Osiris sighed. The old, old man inside the god was weary. The interview with his underling hadn't gone too badly, but now it was time to talk to the dark one, the Other—the one creature in all the world that he feared.

Work, work, work, and none of it pleasant any more. Only the Grail could be worth such heartache, such suffering.

Death cursed sourly and got on with it.