The Gurkha and the Lord of Tuesday Page 4

  “I have an uncle,” the colonel said. “He used to be military police back then. I’ll ask him.”

  “Now, please?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “And would you like to stay over? I’ll get dinner . . .”

  “It’s not Tuesday.”

  “True. However, you’re already here and there isn’t, you know, a fine-print agreement about Tuesdays . . .”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “We could keep working on the case,” Hamilcar said. “I already asked Karma, she said I could deputize you.”

  The urge to do something interesting won out. “Fine. Why not?”

  “Great.” Hamilcar beamed. “This is real, I feel it, it’s important. It’s not just busywork.”

  * * *

  The colonel’s uncle did remember. He had been a freshly minted brigadier in the army back then, when the army still meant regiments and guns and tanks.

  “Bhan Gurung,” he said. “That name haunts me still. He was a soldier in my friend’s regiment. Gurkha, you know, they were all in the army back then. Bhan Gurung. That man could use a kukri. Three times champion in close-quarter combat, before he was twenty. He was a star, a stone killer, and his ancestor was a legend from WW2, Bhanbhagta Gurung, so the boys were in awe of him, even his commanding officer. Anyway, something happened, one day he snapped, broke into the compound of a very rich man and killed everyone inside. Twelve bodyguards, either decapitated or stabbed to death. Two cooks, three maids, the housekeeper, two bearers, all dead. The compound was an abattoir. The owner’s family was not home, fortunately, for I’m sure they were the target. His younger brother was, and he died a gruesome death. Bhan Gurung tied him up and cut off bits and pieces until he bled out. The businessman himself barely escaped with his life. He arrived home midway, and Gurung waded through his guards and driver, stabbed him in the neck. By this point Gurung himself had been shot multiple times. They collapsed on top of each other, both on death’s door. Both survived. Of course, the police came and then the military police took over. The case was hushed up, and the trial was closed doors. Gurung admitted to murder, there was hardly any need of a trial. Me? I didn’t attend, no. Only three or four officers, I think, and they’ve all passed away. I remember talking to one of them after, General Thapa, he was the ranking chap at the rally, get this, he said this was the first time he had cried in all his life, since he was a toddler. I pressed him for details, but he never gave me any, other than saying that to a man they all wept, and Gurung was sentenced to death, and he refused to appeal.”

  “They cried?”

  “I don’t know why, he would never discuss it. I don’t know what happened afterward, either. I suppose Gurung was executed. Karma came and the world turned upside down, and everyone forgot about Bhan Gurung. The rich man’s name? I can’t quite recall . . . He wasn’t famous or anything, just some wealthy businessman, I guess. Dorji? Doje! That’s it, Doje! It wasn’t in the papers, Doje and the military hushed everything up. He wanted privacy, I guess, to protect his family. Hmm that’s all? What a memory to bring back . . .”

  Doje!

  “He’s number five on the karma scale. Doje. Has to be the same guy!” Hamilcar stabbed the list with his virtual finger.

  “Fifth richest man in the city,” Colonel Shakia said. She scanned his points history. “Exemplary life. Requisitions are nothing extravagant, not for someone his level. A lot of philanthropic work. Hasn’t put a foot wrong since KD1.”

  “Why’s he so rich?” Hamilcar asked. “Why does Bhan Gurung cause a small massacre trying to kill him? And why does he—or his people—erase all records of this crime?”

  “I can answer the first one,” the colonel said. “He got his points on Day One. Karma requisitioned all his property, and he had the buildings most desirable for her infrastructure. Not the most expensive land, mind you, just the most useful. Almost like he knew . . . So many points. Just for land? Something feels off to me.”

  “You ever wonder how it happened?” Hamilcar asked idly. “I mean how Karma came here?”

  The colonel shrugged. “It was detailed in the KD1 announcement.”

  “Blah blah yes, the city was failing, we were losing the nannite war, there wasn’t enough food or power or anything, people were literally about to eat each other . . .” Hamilcar said. “I’m talking about the actual nuts and bolts transfer of power to Karma.”

  “We had a plebiscite.”

  “Yes. But who actually brought the initial offer? Karma didn’t appear out of thin air, where was she made? Who made her, and why did they pick us? Who negotiated on our behalf?”

  “The government? What was it then, a parliament?”

  “There barely was a government back then,” Hamilcar said. “The city was failing, remember? No. I get the feeling Karma first approached the actually powerful people, the oligarchs, the nobles, the rich. People like Doje, maybe. And they negotiated in a way that let them preserve their clout. Look at the points list. Most of them made the top hundred on KD1, and have never left.”

  “But the system works,” the colonel said with a shrug. “Who cares about the points? Karma saved the city, and now it’s a wonder of the world. People thrive. There are no poor, no unhappy people. And Karma is merciful. She pardoned even Bhan Gurung, who murdered twenty-three people and crippled several more.”

  “Yes, I have not seen Karma falter at all. But this is before KD1. This thing happened when it was men in charge, and then the records were deliberately destroyed. So what I want to know is, why did Bhan Gurung kill twenty-three men and women to get to Doje?”

  “That’s a damn good question,” said the colonel.

  Chapter Seven: Djinn Kids Are the Worst

  Melek Ahmar woke up feeling like death, his field fritzing like a knockoff two-bitto solar panel. Upon consideration, he had to admit this wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had. To be honest, it wasn’t even the worst this week. This robot bar knew how to make good liquor. His army of zeroes had somehow dissipated over the night. It had gone swimmingly at first, with blood oaths and goat sacrifices, but somewhere in the process the revolution had gotten derailed into a drunken orgy, which got further derailed into Melek Ahmar enthusiastically nailing as many humans of either sex as possible. Extreme blue balls: it’s what happens after thousands of years in a stone sarcophagus.

  It had been a good party. Part of the advantage of those little spine thingies was that the Humes now healed really fast. He was pretty sure he would have inadvertently broken many of them otherwise. Unbreakable Humes. Not sure that’s a fucking good idea, actually. He sat up and spotted Gurung sitting by the window, drinking hot tea. The man was smiling, but it didn’t seem to reach his dead eyes. He did that a lot, this Hume; stare off into space smiling like a kindly uncle, with those murder hole eyes. Melek ambled over.

  “Good party. Those zeroes really got into it, eh?” he said. He stared at Gurung. The Gurkha did not appear the slightest bit wrecked. “You seem in good shape. Er, did you disappear sometime in the night?”

  “Your plan of raising an army of malcontents is a failure,” Gurung said.

  “Yes, that’s not my fault, your Humes here are completely spineless,” Melek Ahmar said. “Why, they’re not even into revolting! They seem to like this shit.”

  “Such is the problem. Zeroes will be zeroes.” Gurung tapped a pattern on the windowsill with his ever-present kukri. “Are you still committed to ruling this city?”

  “I am Melek Ahmar, one of the Seven Djinn Kings of the Earth,” he said. The effect was spoiled a bit by the giant belch that escaped him. What the hell did I eat? Or whom? Surely not one of the Humes? “One city is not enough, but it is a start.”

  “Then we must change our tactics. Karma cannot be overthrown by force.”

  “I can level this city,” Melek Ahmar said.

  “Can you?” Gurung asked. There was a dreadful hunger in him that set the djinn’s skin crawling. Something was terribly
wrong with his pet Hume.

  “Well, hmm, not right now maybe. I mean, I’ve just drunk all night.” Melek Ahmar flexed his field, found it still a bit fuzzy. He remembered it being a lot harder. Of course, the strength of the distortion worked with intent. You had to really want it. “But of course, if I kill all the Humes, then who am I supposed to rule over? Can’t be a king without subjects. No point.” What’s your grudge, eh, little Hume? Life seems perfectly bearable here. Why do you want to tear it down so badly?

  “You’re a Great Lord of Djinndom?” Gurung asked.

  “I keep telling you, I’m the Lord of Tuesday. You think they hand out days of the week just like that? I’m one of seven! And if the others are gone, as it seems like they are, for I cannot sense them, not even Horus the Broken, then I am now the foremost djinn walking this earth.”

  “There are djinn in this city,” Gurung said. “Can you sense them?”

  “Hmmph, if there are, they must be feeble things,” Melek Ahmar said. In truth I can’t sense shit. Either my field is completely fucked or the djinn here are even worse off than me.

  “They say that there is a lady djinn who lives in the Garden of Dreams,” Bhan Gurung said.

  “Alright fine, let’s go find this old hag.” Fuckity fuck. I hate lady djinn. This dickhead is going to force me into some quarrel and it’s going to be Mohenjo Daro all over again.

  The Garden of Dreams was a marvel. It had always been a place of serene, almost unearthly beauty, and Karma had preserved it in spirit, while adding embellishments from famed gardeners from all over the world. Species of bird, fish, and squirrel lived here that were extinct in the outer world, a poignant reminder that the Earth was not all paradise. This was wasted on Melek Ahmar, however, who cared nothing for plants or beauty. Serenity wasn’t his thing either.

  This time of the day, the garden was somewhat empty, though that still meant several hundred people sitting around in contemplation. However, so cunningly were the paths and grottos designed that each person felt enveloped in their own personal paradise, and hardly noticed the others. Melek Ahmar, of course, spoiled this by stomping around and cursing when he got his feet wet in the pond. He flared his power to steam them dry, which scared the hell out of the fish and sent great ripples across the pond, completely ruining the harmonic effect.

  He felt an irritable ping across his field. Someone was poking him! Melek Ahmar looked around, following a buzzing noise that only he could hear, like a mild scratching on the corner of his eye. Gurung hurried after him, tugging on his goatskin in concern. Melek Ahmar felt the air change, as if he were walking through a membrane. Gurung yelped behind him, staggering back, and Melek Ahmar reached one hand behind and yanked his Hume through the barrier. They were now in a second garden, the real dream garden perhaps, one slightly crosswise and overlaid upon the earthly one, this one brightly colored and riotous, filled with ancient trees, where blue-tailed monkeys trolled the branches along with parrots, macaws, and feral jaguars, among other fantastic animals extinct or imaginary. Within it all, they could see the faint outlines of Humes walking around, insubstantial.

  “What do you want?” an annoyed, girlish voice piped down.

  Melek Ahmar looked up and saw a giant banyan tree holding up the sky, with a little platform on it, from which dangled a pair of muddy bare feet, attached to a small black-haired teenager smoking a lumpy hand-rolled cigarette on the verge of falling apart.

  “Lady,” Gurung said. He bowed deeply, and put a small offering of wild-grown tobacco at the root of the tree.

  “My name is KPopRetroGirl,” she said. “You know, ’cos I like that retro K-pop shit.” She laughed at their puzzled faces and hummed a tune. “Just call me ReGi, okay?”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Melek Ahmar said. “I am Melek Ahmar, Mars, the Red King, the Lord of Tuesday, the Wrecker of Mohenjo Daro, the Most August, the Most Beauteous . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” ReGi said.

  “You’ve heard of me, of course.”

  “Not really. You’re the old guy that woke up. You upset the mountain goats.”

  “Old guy?” Melek Ahmar wasn’t enjoying this at all. He hated djinn kids, they were the worst. Back in the old days they used to hunt down those snotty little bastards and stuff them in jars. It’s not like we need kids . . . we’re practically immortal, for fuck’s sake. Which idiot had bred this little snot and then just left her here to annoy everyone?

  “So anyway, what you want?”

  “I want an army, little ReGi,” Melek Ahmar said. “And you’re the only djinn I’ve seen so far, so you can be my lieutenant. I’m going to take this city.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I’m the damn king of Mars! I’m supposed to bring war and pillage! And you’re clearly my subordinate, my auctoritas is massively greater than yours, you look like you’re an actual child, so you better do as I say.”

  “Or what?” She blew a smoke ring at him, and then blew another smoke ring through the original smoke ring. It was pretty cool.

  Melek Ahmar was no braggart. Well, not entirely. When he flexed, he flexed. He sucked in his breath and jammed the distortion solid, expanding his quantum area effect to the max, like a peacock strutting his tail, except these were iron feathers slamming through the ethereal garden, flattening Gurung and the ReGi both, bending back those giant trees almost horizontal. He was so strong that even time stopped inside the pocket garden, bees caught in mid-flutter, buzzing in maddened panic, pollen dusting still life patterns in midair. Melek Ahmar held it an extra second for emphasis, and then sucked his breath back in, withdrawing the power, and the garden lived again, albeit in a state of disorder, as if a giant had kicked it sideways, which, on consideration, is exactly what had happened.

  “You weren’t fucking around,” Gurung said, dusting himself off, “when you said you were the Lord of Tuesday.”

  Melek Ahmar bared his teeth. “Little ReGi. I can eat this precious garden whole. With you in it. I can hammer this precious little city so far into the ground it’ll look like the head of a pin. Now get your ass off the ground and do as I say. Please.”

  ReGi picked twigs and leaves from her hair. Somehow she still had a lit cigarette, even though it was now bent forty-five degrees.

  “Sir, yessir!” she said. She saluted and made it look entirely asinine. She then blew a final smoke ring for good measure.

  Fucking djinn kids.

  * * *

  Request denied. Request denied. Twenty questions that came out the same way, despite Hamilcar using his maximum status, and the colonel going in with her official military requisition quota. Nothing. Sometimes he didn’t understand Karma at all, had to remind himself that she was not a person as such, not a coherent mind, not one with intent, there was no conscious will in her cold algorithms, and this was what made her bearable after all, for people to be ruled by a system rather than a god. Still, sometimes, very rarely, the alignment of her equations were jarring, when it seemed her left hand was fighting her right.

  Doje apparently spent a significant portion of his karmic points in maintaining privacy. And Karma, at least so far, was honoring it.

  “No information, not even his birthday,” the colonel said. “Do you realize, both Bhan Gurung and Doje are like ghosts.”

  “We know one thing. His address. He lives in the big tower.”

  “Great detective work. It’s called Doje Tower, for god’s sake. Good luck getting an appointment,” the colonel said.

  “No, but he’s got to come out at some point,” Hamilcar said. “And I happen to know that the best hole-in-the-wall momo place in town is just around the corner. You want to bet an old-timer like Doje is going to want handmade momos? I’ve got an uncle who swears that the machine-made momos taste like shit because the pleats in the dough are too perfect, and you don’t ever get the slightly burnt crunchy bits.”

  “People still eat food like that?” The colonel looked slightly grossed out.
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  “You’ve never been?”

  “I like my food hygienic, thank you very much,” she said. “And I don’t want anyone’s sweaty fingers near my momos.”

  “Hehe, I want to put my sweaty fingers on your momos . . .”

  She gave him a blank look that was so daunting that Hamilcar cringed inside.

  “So anyway, let’s stake this place out. You can watch me eat, er, sweaty momos.”

  The colonel lasted half a day, driven off by the disgusting application of human fingers to dough and filling, the actual frying of dumplings in a wok full of hot oil. This was archaic stuff, a dying art, the smell of raw spices, the sizzle, the faint dusting of flour in the air. Hamilcar knew that the chef was not a zero, she had in fact a very healthy karmic balance, enough to requisition all of this raw material from Karma, ingredients that had to be fabricated from the city’s own municipal microprinters, each strand knitted together molecule by molecule. Of course, there were more outlandish rumors that she also took raw food from the wild, stuff that actually grew on the ground; that thought made even Hamilcar squeamish.

  In any case, the place was wildly successful, simply for the gimmicky variety of it, customers coming to see a pretty lady cooking and bantering all day from behind her glass barrier. Three days later, loitering in a momo shop with a bunch of zeroes, Hamilcar’s gamble paid off. End of the third evening, during the busiest time, a pod pulled up, and a uniformed man swung open the door. Private security drones lined up discreetly. It wasn’t loud or anything, that little thrust of privilege, but it was instantly visible to Hamilcar.

  He slouched in the seat he had zealously guarded for the past seventy-two hours, and took a big gulp of beer to wash out his momo breath. Doje himself came out, a sleek white-haired man of indistinguishable age, a face that looked as if it had been ironed out, hair thick and perfectly coiffed, his posture upright and strong, despite what must be a hundred years of wear and tear. He exuded good health on an almost visible spectrum. Whatever PMD ran his body looked powerful enough to grow him an extra limb if he needed it.