A green “X” had been marked on one map page with a grease pencil, at what appeared to be a compound on the outskirts of town: the central laboratory for the PPA’s child-ace project. Wally figured he’d make it there in a few more days. This river road along the Aruwimi would take him most of the way. He was in the homestretch, now.
But with every mile, Ghost became more nervous, more agitated. She inched closer and closer to him. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. Whatever they’d done to her, Wally guessed it had happened at Bunia.
Wally pulled over for a bathroom break around midafternoon. He parked the APC in the shadow of a trestle bridge that spanned the tall embankments on either side of the river. Ghost followed him into the brush. It took a lot of gesturing before she got the gist of what he was up to, but he finally managed to convey enough that she backed off a little bit to give him privacy.
He’d just finished and was washing his hands when Ghost came running back. She grabbed his hand, pulling frantically toward the APC. Tears glistened on her cheeks, dripping from eyes wide with terror.
Wally knelt, so that she could look at him face-to-face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did you see something?”
With one hand, Ghost gave his arm another panicky tug. With the other, she pointed at the bridge. Wally looked up, suddenly worried they’d been spotted. The bridge was empty.
Somewhere not far away, a train barreled down a set of tracks. The sound echoed faintly across the grassy plains: tikka-tch-tch-tikka-tch-tch… It goaded Ghost into deeper panic.
“You’re afraid of the train? What’s on the train?” Wally asked. Maybe she’d been taken to Bunia on a train. He pointed at the bridge, then at Ghost, and shrugged. Is that how they took you from your family?
Ghost shook her head. She pointed in the direction of the approaching train-it was louder now-and then curled her lips into a snarl. She held two fingers in front of her mouth, like fangs, then contorted her hands into the semblance of claws.
Leopard Men. There were Leopard Men on that train.
Wally thought about the maps. Of course. They’re pulling reinforcements back to defend Bunia.
The first smile in many days spread across his face. He laid his hands on Ghost’s arms. “Wanna see something neat?” He winked.
First, he backed the APC a ways up the road. Just in case. Then he scrambled up the embankment to the bridge truss and started to climb. The wooden boards creaked precariously under Wally’s weight, but they held. By the time he pulled himself atop the rail bed, he could see sunlight glinting off the approaching train.
Wally laid a hand on one rail, concentrating. The steel turned orange beneath his palm. He willed the rust to spread; like a lit fuse, it streaked up the rail past the end of the bridge. Wally stomped his foot, hard enough to shake the bridge. The ruined rail sloughed apart. In a few seconds there was nothing left but flakes of corroded metal wafting down to the river.
The train was close now. It rounded the bend. Wally jumped onto the embankment, then half slid, half tumbled down to the road. He carried Ghost back a safe distance, behind the APC.
The crash was spectacular, if Wally did say so himself.
Cyrene, by the Nile
Old Egypt
The Nile sighed, gurgled, and whispered as it flowed past. The moonlight coaxed silver from the ripples, and seemed to edge the fronds of the date palms with pale halos. A desert wind rattled in the palms with a sound like castanets.
Noel, pacing along the river, paused and took a deep breath, savoring the scent of dust, dung, river reeds, and dried lemons simmering with lamb. He let the tension leach out of his muscles.
It was done. Nshombo was dead. The Chinese and Indians were pulling out of the PPA, viewing it as a bad bet. The conquered African nations were beginning to exert local control again. Noel had come to Egypt, and still in a manic high, fueled by quarts of whiskey-laced coffee and not enough sleep, he had poured out the entire story to Niobe. She had been appropriately admiring of his cleverness.
The bad news-Weathers was still obsessed with Noel Matthews, and seemed to care not one jot that the PPA was collapsing. Of course Weathers had killed the hero of the Revolution. Perhaps it had occurred to him that he might not be all that popular back in Kongoville.
Noel had slept the entire day. Unable to sit still he had headed out for a walk before dinner. Gravel crunched beneath his soles as he resumed his stroll. He heard voices and recognized Niobe’s soft alto and a boy’s piping tenor. Noel stepped through flowering hibiscus bushes and found Niobe and Drake seated on a marble bench. A tray with glasses and a pitcher of fruit juice rested on the ground at their feet.
If there was no change in the voice, the year had certainly wrought changes in the boy’s body. Drake had shot up and slimmed down. His hair was longer, brushing at the tops of his shoulders. They both looked up at Noel’s approach, and he saw the more manifest changes-the lump in Drake’s forehead that marked the place where Sekhmet rested, and the age and sorrow that lingered in the back of his eyes. Drake might only be fourteen, but Sekhmet had lived through decades of grief and loss.
But maybe some of that grief is Drake’s, Noel thought. The boy had killed (inadvertent though it might have been) his entire family and town, and wiped out thousands of PPA soldiers. He too possessed a lifetime of grief and guilt.
But suddenly he was just a teenage boy. He bounced up, nearly upsetting the tray, and called to Noel, “Hey, Noel, sit next to your sweetie.”
Niobe offered him a glass of juice. As their fingers met they had that momentary silent communication that flows between married couples.
Are you all right?
Yes, love.
I’m glad you’re here.
So am I.
She came into the circle of his arm, and Noel kissed the top of her head.
“Has there been any sign of Weathers?” Noel asked.
Drake nodded. “He scouted once, but I don’t think he wanted to tangle with the firepower here. We may be mostly jokers, but there are some aces in the mix and… and…” He hesitated and suddenly seemed like a child again.
“It’s okay, you can say it,” Niobe said with a smile. “There’s you with the powers of Ra.”
Noel took a sip of his drink. It was a mix of peach and pomegranate, sweet and sharp all at the same time.
“Dinner’s in an hour. I’ll leave you two to snuggle.” Drake gave them a teenager’s leer, then slumped as he reacted to something only he could hear. “And I’ve got a ton of algebra homework to do.” He walked away.
Noel cocked an eyebrow at Niobe. “Homework?”
“He is only fourteen and he needs to be a wise ruler, not just a powerful one.” She smiled. “It was actually Sekhmet who told him he had to find tutors. She puts a lot of emphasis on education.” She fiddled with the fringe of the sunset-colored shawl she wore, then walked back to the bench and picked up a folded paper off the tray. She offered it to him mutely.
Noel opened it and looked down at a picture of Weathers raining down death and destruction onto another city.
“This has to stop. He’s tearing up cities and killing people because of you.”
Noel ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think I know that? I can’t fight Tom Weathers. Or do you just want me to surrender and let him kill me?”
“Of course I’m not suggesting that.” Her tone was sharp. “You could work with the Committee.”
“They’re idiots.”
“Then help them not be idiots. You’re clever and you know how to do this… this sort of thing.”
“Kill Weathers. Just say it.” She looked distressed and he realized how harsh he must have sounded. “I thought you didn’t want me to kill anymore.”