Djinn City, page 23
“Er, guys, what am I supposed to do in this Assembly?” Rais asked.
“It’s between a debate and a press conference,” Golgoras said. “You keep your mouth shut and look stupid. We want to test the mood first before trying anything. You know what happens to oversmart emissaries?”
“What?”
“They get squashed, like Kaikobad.”
The same morning, while Rais trembled through half-remembered nightmares, his father, the honorable ex-ambassador, was taking his morning constitutional around Baridhara, enjoying the crisp air and general lack of traffic. Schoolkids aside, this was the best time of the day. He had just sat down on his customary bench in the little strip of park when something sharp poked him in the back.
He yelped and turned in outrage, when someone slapped him across the face, hard enough to send him sprawling. The emissary Dargoman stepped into view, casually dangling the cane sword in one hand, a thin trickle of blood dripping from the point.
“You!” Vulubir Khan Rahman shouted, recognizing him instantly. The man had hardly aged.
Dargoman hit him again, this time with a closed fist. The Ambassador found himself on the grass, his head spinning, the sun suddenly hot, blood leaking from the stab wound in his back.
“You people just don’t know when to stop,” Dargoman said.
“What the hell? Uncle Sikkim told me everything was fine…”
“Everything. Is. Not. Fine.” Each word was punctuated with a slap. “That old fool has lost control. Your bloody son is not backing off.”
“Stop! Stop. We did everything you said!” The Ambassador lay sprawled on the ground, reeling. “What do you want me to tell him?”
Dargoman stood over him, the sword point hovering like a wasp.
“Nothing,” he said. “You are the message.”
The Ambassador cringed away as the sword came down, stabbing through his upraised hand and punching into his chest with disturbing ease. He had a heart attack at the same time, the organ seizing from sheer terror, so that by the time the blade actually penetrated, it was rather a moot point. The cane sword was a civilized weapon, the exit leaving a narrow kiss of red on the Ambassador’s white shirt, and as he flopped to his side, a thin quantity of blood discreetly watered the grass. From far away he looked like a man taking a nap on the grass, and it was only an hour later that the park caretakers bothered to investigate. By that time Dargoman was far away, and no one had noticed a thing.
The Assembly was in the ballroom on the second floor of the Westin, the exit from the lift discreetly protected by a couple of humans with concealed guns. It was hardly necessary. More than thirty senior djinns from all over the world were attending; the power of their combined distortion fields outweighed the Russian nuclear arsenal.
“Oh god, they’re all in suits,” Rais said with a groan. “It’s a formal event.”
Barabas was also looking somewhat dismayed. “You could have told us,” he said accusingly to Golgoras.
“Never mind,” the pilot said. “There wasn’t time. Matteras’s invitation arrived ‘late.’ He doesn’t want us here.”
“I’m going to get you guys makeovers after this is over,” Rais said. “We look like assholes.”
As they neared the double doors, the nauseating hum of a field generator hit Rais, making him gag discreetly. He slipped on his glasses and reeled back from the intricate spheres of power pulsing from the entrance.
“It’s a phase shifter,” Golgoras said. “Matteras isn’t messing around.”
“All the top djinns must be coming,” Barabas said. He sounded nervous and starstruck at the same time.
The security here was a bit more serious: a dapper djinn with a jackal head stood tall, sleek and black furred, red eyes scanning the crowd restlessly. His field was clenched tightly around his body, almost like armor, a pearlescent shimmer of potency.
“It’s Hazard,” Barabas squeaked. “The Iso. They say he’s the best duelist in the world. He’s never lost a fight! Retired undefeated! Oh my god!”
“Listen, do you want his autograph?” Rais asked.
“Hazard.” Golgoras nodded. “You’re running the door now?”
“Captain,” Hazard said in a guttural growl. “Last-minute thing. Matteras wanted it discreet. Some important folk coming down for the palaver.” He flicked his glance lazily toward Barabas and Rais. “Not sure about your friends, hey?”
“Emissaries welcome, surely?”
“Of course,” Hazard said. “Quite a few attending. Not sure your man is really up to standard, hmm? No offense.” He threw the last line at Rais with mocking politeness.
“None taken,” Rais said.
“He’s one of Bahamut’s,” Golgoras said.
“Ah, yes, isn’t he some kind of giant fish these days?”
“Hmm, yes, aquatic,” Golgoras said.
“Perhaps you knew my uncle Kaikobad,” Rais said.
Hazard glanced down for a second. “Yes, of course,” he said in a more normal tone. “I was sorry to hear about his accident. Is he still alive?”
“Yes,” Rais said. “And you heard that his son went missing all those years ago?”
“Yes, of course. The minor hunt boy.”
“I’m Kaikobad’s de facto heir,” Rais said. “I understand Djinn Lore supports such a claim until formal ratification of the post.”
“Perhaps,” Hazard said.
“And in such a circumstance one might say his auctoritas would accrue to me, only in the dispensation of professional services, again pending final ratification.”
“That is highly debatable. Personal auctoritas would not—”
“As such, would I be the highest-ranking ambassador in the room?”
“Well, Kaikobad would have been,” Golgoras said with some amusement. “I think he’s got you, Hazard. I will formally extend the support of the RAS toward seconding his motion. We can convene a hearing right here—you look like you have a quorum. We can postpone the Assembly a bit.”
“Debatable, yet within the Lore.” Hazard bared his teeth. “Matteras won’t be amused by a motion delay. It will take weeks of argument to sort out his legal status. We can dispute this another day. Welcome, then, nephew of Kaikobad. I hope your term as an emissary is less eventful than your uncle’s.”
They walked into the field generator, which was a beautiful brass machine puffing out dirty white smoke like an errant cigar, along with belching noises, none of which seemed to bother any of the Ghuls climbing over the gears and levers. The aperture was similar to a metal detector, and they crossed it single file, passing a threshold that twisted reality by a quarter inch, a subtle shifting of time and space that permitted the djinn absolute privacy. To the outside world, everything within the field was simply not there, it was an empty room.
The djinn inside the field were not bothering with disguises. Thirty of the most peculiar shapes were walking around guzzling wine and food, from a thing made entirely of leafy branches to a walrus-man, who resided inside his own bubble of water and made life inconvenient for everyone by shouting commands through a loudspeaker inserted into a periscope-like opening. Distinguished men of varied races walked among the djinn, emissaries come to represent different interests. With a sliver of fear, Rais made eye contact with Dargoman, who lounged across the room attended by a flunky, his cane tapping his foot restlessly. The Afghan raised his fingers in acknowledgment. Rais could see spells circling large parts of his body, caterpillars inching around an apple core.
“Everyone here is very, very important,” Barabas gushed.
“I see him,” Rais said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Afghan.
“And look, Matteras is serving caviar and everything,” Barabas said, stuffing himself. “I mean Bahamut is the stingiest host ever, never even gave us a fish.”
“Hush,” said Golgoras to Rais. “We can’t get to your enemy here. You have to wait. Matteras is about to speak.”
“Welcome, friends,” Matteras said, tapping his glass. Hazard stood behind his shoulder like a dark specter, his jackal face grinning mindlessly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Really, Matteras, it’s a damn shame, dragging me down here,” a whitehaired djinn grumbled as everyone settled down. “I mean, we appreciate the whole Givaras thing, but—”
“I assure you, Beltrex, this will interest you. The question at hand—”
“Just get on with it,” Beltrex said.
“The question is one of real estate,” Matteras said, “or the alarming lack of it.”
“The old Numerist argument,” Barabas whispered to Rais.
“Beltrex? I’ve heard that name somewhere…” Rais said.
“For thousands of years, we have shared this earth with human civilizations, guiding them, helping them, living among them,” Matteras said, raising his voice to cover the room. “As many of you are aware, after the Great War, a decision was reached to practice a policy of Seclusion. The destruction wrought in that war precipitated the final ice age, causing the near extinction of both man and djinnkind.”
“Surely you are not arguing against Seclusion!” Beltrex bellowed. “You’re mad!”
Several other djinns hooted their approval.
“He hates humans and wants to take us to war!” Walrus shouted. “Look at me! I’m too old to fight wars!”
“Not at all,” Matteras said. “I assure you—”
“Look at Hazard, he’s pointing his teeth at me!” Walrus interrupted. He began rolling toward the center of the room in martial fashion. “I say, I’ve got teeth myself. Put up your sphere, little jackal, let’s put that undefeated record to the test!”
There followed an immediate outbreak of odds calling and side betting, and demands for better lighting and an impartial referee.
“Wow, these guys are all crazy,” Rais said.
“There’s a reason djinn prefer to live in isolated places,” Golgoras said. “Too many of us in one place always leads to fighting.”
“No fighting, please, Walrus,” Matteras said, fending off his bubble with one foot. “Look, we all know your tusks are bigger. Poor Hazard can’t help where his teeth point—he’s got a damned jackal head for god’s sake. I’ve asked him a hundred time to be a bit more orthodox, but there you are, can’t have everything, eh?”
“Hmm, yes,” Walrus said. “Perhaps. My own teeth have been known to point askew.”
“The warmonger Matteras has riled up poor Walrus!” Venerable Beltrex, who was hard of hearing, appeared to have trouble following the proceedings. “Shame! Shame!”
A coterie of djinns, who seemed to find it funny to repeat Beltrex, now took up the chant with aplomb.
“Look, everyone, I am not a warmonger!” Matteras shouted. “I just want to discuss the issue of space. Beltrex, you’re always complaining about how crowded California is these days.”
“Yes, true, those boys keep slapping roads everywhere…”
“And, Walrus, am I right in thinking the arctic ice is giving you trouble?”
“Can’t find a patch without a bear taking a shit on it,” Walrus said.
“Well, all I’m saying is that for the past thirty centuries, human civilization has just kept on growing. They’ve literally used up all the space. I mean, it was great when it was a couple of villages by the two rivers, but now they’ve spread everywhere! You can’t even go into orbit without bumping your head on a satellite. Right, Golgoras?”
“Hmm, well, it is getting a bit harder to fly around,” Golgoras said.
“There isn’t a single square mile left where they don’t have a drone or a beacon or an outpost,” Matteras said. “Even poor Bahamut living in those ruins keeps getting harassed by oil drills and scientific probes. We can’t hunt whales anymore, can’t race giraffes, can’t blow up volcanoes because there’s always someone living underneath them.”
Everyone was nodding along now, even Barabas. Rais kept waiting for some of the emissaries to speak up, but none did. Many of them looked bored, genuinely unconcerned. Others slunk around Dargoman, paying circuitous homage to the man; he had dealt with the ones who counted, and Matteras had removed the recalcitrant ones from the board. Whatever was happening, it was clear that this Assembly was intended to be a formality.
“You gotta have seclusion, you know…” Beltrex butted in weakly.
“What I propose does not violate the policy of Seclusion one iota!” Matteras said.
“He’s smart,” Golgoras said quietly. “No way he can overturn Seclusion in one sitting.”
“What is it?”
“It’s been the cornerstone of our human policy for the past fifteen thousand years,” Golgoras said. “After all those disasters following the war of Gangaridai, the elders decided to retreat completely into the background and deny our existence. Humans kept trying to worship us. You were corrupting us with power—good djinns getting tricked into becoming god-kings and cult leaders—and the rest of us would have to band together and deal with it. It was exhausting. Or so I’m told. I wasn’t alive then, of course.”
“You’re lucky the Seclusionists won the day,” Barabas said. “I heard that the other options put forward were exterminating humanity altogether, or rounding them up and raising them like cattle.”
“How generous of you guys,” Rais said.
Matteras was continuing meanwhile: “I have long studied the global effects of human civilization. Suffice it to say that I have the full backing of the Weather Channel Enthusiasts’ Club when I say that the climate is nearly wrecked beyond repair, and almost all flora and fauna are facing extinction in the next fifty years if the poisoning continues at this rate.”
There was a murmur of agreement. The Weather Channel Enthusiasts’ Club was a very well-respected organization, which reflected djinn fascination with weather channels. Many of the renowned weather girls on TV were in fact members of the club.
“Given their current predicament, humans are fully expecting natural disasters to strike them down,” Matteras said. “Recall Katrina? I assure you, all natural.”
“Is that the girl on NBC?” Beltrex asked.
“Er, no, that was a hurricane, Beltrex.”
“And that big tsunami in Aceh?” a dapper djinn in a suit called out.
“That one had a bit of help,” Hazard said with a grin.
“Aceh was a test,” Matteras said. “Our apparatus can create a tsunami five times greater. Our proposal is this: we will utilize the device in the Bay of Bengal to start with. The following earthquake damage, tsunami, and hurricane will effectively depopulate the entire coastal region, possibly the entire subcontinent, as well as Indochina. Humans in this area will return to the Stone Age, which is, I must say, where I much prefer them to be.”
“To start with, you say?” asked Beltrex.
“Yes, I would naturally make it available for anyone else who wants to use it.” Matteras smiled. “In California, for example? They have a lot of earthquakes, I believe? Surely a really big one wouldn’t surprise anyone…”
“Hmm, well, yes, I’m not sure I’d go that far…”
“The simple math is this: there are too many of them. They breed faster than we ever thought possible, they occupy every inch of earth and sea, and their rapid technological advancement means they are beginning to change the natural order of things. They’re already living longer. The rich ones will stop dying altogether pretty soon. I know of an emissary right in this room who’s had fifteen liver replacements. Fifteen! God knows what else he’s changed!”
The emissary in question, an old Australian gentleman, had the good grace to look abashed.
“A few small accidents, and we set back the clock. We keep them manageable. Otherwise, sirs, you will wake up one day from a good long nap and find our world completely unrecognizable. I am not heartless. I am not a murderer. But humans are reckless vermin. We have stood by and watched, and they have slowly destroyed the very fabric of our culture. If we continue on this path, there will be no djinnkind anymore! Only fragments, riding human lucre, lurking in corners, stripped of all natural majesty—a race of charlatan street magicians doing tricks for a living. We were kings, and now we are interlopers in our own lands, pushed out by our own mercy, our own belief that we must somehow preserve our inferiors!
“A worthy sentiment, my fellow djinns, a civilized stance, but woe to us that we daily grow more human than djinn, broken, our princes and kings mere figureheads, our great patrons swimming in disinterested seas, clinging to some ancient past, our days of glory gone. Young djinns grow up debauched, with their drugs and their rap music, content to wallow in luxury. Where is the Lore, I ask you, where is the Mos Maiorum? Where is our dignatas, when they prefer simple human currency, filthy human specie backed by empty promises, a fraud perpetrated by the rich on the poor? What will happen when our generations abandon their ways? What will we become but another kind of human, occultists, shadowy figures plotting, all remnants of blood gone, all memories lost?
“They are too many! They drown us in temptations. Every year, more of the djinn breed with them, producing the sickly, sterile, broken offspring of neither race. Every year, our youth dwindle, and these febrile hybrids, these abominations, litter the earth—drooling, disabled creatures, neither djinn nor man, but loathsome beasts. We are the chosen race! Are we to end our days in obscene couplings with jumped-up monkeys? Chosen by God, I say! Chosen by fire! And have we maintained the purity of fire? No! Take care, gentlemen, lest the flame dwindle into idle smoke.
“They are too many, sirs! They are too many, and they are advancing too rapidly! We accepted them into our kingdoms, and they have become the masters, unaware of our very existence. If we do not act, we will cease to be djinn. We will become them! We will be swallowed! In fifty years they will be too many, they will be too advanced! Already their physicists hypothesize about the field. One day some patent clerk or other will make a machine to manipulate it, and then where will we be? We will have given away our birthright to apes with thumbs!
“They are too many, I tell you, and we are too few! If it comes to war, in fifty years, we will lose! It is our survival, and we must clear for us some space. As their nature is to occupy every inch of land, we must make it so unpleasant that they leave of their own accord.
