I went mourning without the sun: I stood up, and I
cried in the congregation. I am a brother to dragons
and a companion to owls.
My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with
heat. Job 30:28-30
The bar was no different to any other on the street—seedy, dingy, and unsafe. Outside, pedestrians tried to make themselves appear inconspicuous by hunching over, their garments deliberately shabby and plain. An occasional armoured hovercar slid by, its windows opaqued. In the corner, a youngster – and you knew down here that it was truly a youngster, for no-one at street level could afford newgening or rejuvenation treatments – was selling drugs, and judging by her lesions, probably herself too. She was already scarred with the disease that would kill her.
The man leaning against the counter nursing his drink stared at his wrist AI again. They were late. Maybe something had happened to them—they were after all innocents in this tough, ruthless city. Or perhaps they had lost their nerve. Unlikely, though. That sort had too much arrogance. He fingered the blaster in his pocket, flicking the buttons from ‘stun’ to ‘paralyse’ to ‘kill’ and back again.
The door to the street pushed open. A priest, in the familiar garb of the New Jerusalemists, black soutane, prominent silver cross and circle on his breast, neatly pinned skullcap, came into the bar, accompanied by what appeared to be a teenager, tidy trimmed black hair, neat dark suit, clean-cut face. The predators lounging against the bar, sitting on the stools against the walls, lurking round the faded “exit” sign, shifted, scenting prey.
The man at the bar straightened and waited.
“Zach?” The priest had kind eyes, but they weren’t soft or easy. He had seen too much of life on the streets, down here, far from the towers of the rich and comfortable, to hold any foolish delusions. His faith made him care for the forgotten, the detritus of life at the bottom of the canyons between the skyscrapers, but he did not fool himself that the denizens of this nether world were honest or decent or good. He was not of the school that thought poverty ennobled. Zach suspected that he too carried a pistol, even if it was not as up to date as his own. He would bet that it only had one setting : ‘kill’.
“Father,” said Zach, nodding. He nodded at the youngster too. Closer up, you could see his mixed ancestry—tan skin, thick dark curly hair, startling green eyes, hard with fanaticism. “Drink?” He knew they didn’t, the New Jerusalemists, but he thought it polite anyway. He was surprised when the priest accepted, and amused by the shock and disdain in the youngster’s face.
“Zach, we’ll keep to first names, shall we? I’m Michael, and this is Johannes.” He pronounced it with a ‘j’ not with a ‘y’. Zach’s eyes sharpened, even as he nodded acknowledgement. “Do you have it?”
Zach pointed down at the bag at his feet. It was about half a meter long, three hundred millimeters wide and about as deep. It looked heavy. It was heavy.
“Here’s the control,” he said, handing over a book-sized comppad. The password is ‘Shiva’.”
“The god of destruction,” said the youth, his first words.
“Yes,” said Zach. “But also ‘one who purifies if you utter his name’ or ‘the pure one’. Sometimes destruction can be good.”
Johannes shot him a quick glance, re-evaluating.
The priest sipped his brandy then took out a piece of paper. “This is the account number at the bank. The password is ‘poverty’.” He smiled at his little joke.
Zach had wanted to ask what they were going to do with the thing they had bought, but in the end, he didn’t really care. He enjoyed a fierce satisfaction that the New Jerusalemists, sanctimonious hypocrites, had proved themselves as venal and cynical as he was.
He had never sold something so valuable before. And it had been one of the most difficult deals he had ever set up. His last job. He would have enough money to retire, to buy all the respect and possessions he wanted. He was set up for life, now.
Who cared what they used it for? It wasn’t his problem.
He put the piece of paper into his wallet, nodded to the priest and his acolyte, and stepped away from the counter.
He stopped outside on the pavement to scan the street for potential dangers, and then turned to look up at WorldGov building, rising two hundred and sixty stories above the foetid streets of New York, its lights shining into the haze of a summer’s night, a testament to man’s ability to ignore the shit on his shoes while he gazed at the stars.
He barely felt the knife slide into him, and as his vision darkened he heard the shocked voice of Father Michael saying “Why di’ ya do tha’?” his street accent strengthened by disbelief, and the answer of the young Shiva, his own different accent also sharpened by circumstance, “Eenyone who sulls a tectical nuclear weapon to strangers duserves to die.” An uncaring hand reached inside his jacket and lifted his wallet with the piece of paper, and then unlatched his AI from his wrist.
As he died, Zach came to the bitter realization that everyone would think he had been mugged, he who had performed so many flawless scams over the years.
He was mistaken. They would find out the truth, eventually. But by then it would be too late.