Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (29 page)

A protest was ongoing, involving thousands upon thousands, old and new, in the costumes of human history. The CLAP went unremarked and unchallenged, despite weapons, as they patrolled the perimeter looking for their witness: nonviolent demonstration or not, sarrisophori and demons and bedawi and ifrits and kaffirs and modern soldiers prowled among the throng: helmets with horsehair crests and metal wings and slitted visors and horns and feathers and spikes and chinstraps and faceshields and MOPP masks turned to them and away again. Kindred souls.

“I see him,” McCarthy said. “At the base of the steps. A scrawny little weasel, sanctimonious in his cowardice.”

Ghandi was wearing homespun, despite the day’s chill. Roger recognized some people around him as dedicated disciples. He couldn’t name them, but he recalled faces from famous photos. Ahead, people squeezed toward demon guards. Closer to Gandhi, his followers were organized in ranks, climbing low stairs in formation.

“Very much like communists,” McCarthy commented.

“Or soldiers,” Roger threw out. McCarthy’s paranoia and obsession irritated him more as time went on. He felt some sympathy for Benet, who at least acted like a leader, if misguided. McCarthy was just a narcissistic jerk.

As marchers reached the top, demons on risers flanking the podium held up pokers that flashed into orange heat, and stabbed the leading wave of demonstrators. Screaming, the damned protesters thrashed and rolled down the steps. Some got to their feet and stumbled toward the rear of the line, to repeat the process. Others crawled away.

“What the hell is this?” Benet asked.

“It’s called ‘passive resistance.’ They seek to overwhelm the demons without fighting.”

“Does that work?”

“Only against a civilized enemy.”

“Isn’t it rather ridiculous? You think he’d learn.”

So are single-shot rifles against repeaters, you jackass
. “It did work against the British in India. His proposal to use it against the Nazis was never tested.”

Benet said, “So I suspect. Well, let’s see if he’s our man.” He hooked his scabbard onto his belt and advanced.

Sobs from the nonviolent seared by pokers were strangely disturbing. The fried bologna smell of scorched flesh didn’t improve Roger’s mindset.

McCarthy said, “Roger, you seem to know something about this man. Introduce us, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Probably a good idea. Benet knew nothing about Ghandi or his time. McCarthy had the manners of a pig. Even a simple, reasonable request came out of McCarthy’s mouth sounding pompous.

Surprised by his own calm, Roger led the way, politely stepping in front of Benet. He hadn’t yet died in hell, though he’d suffered numerous indignities. He sighed. There was going to be a first time. Maybe today.

Nothing untoward happened, though, as Roger stolidly led the party from the CLAP forward, edging the through the edges of the throng.

“Mr. Ghandi,” Roger said, “Or do you prefer
Bapu
?”

Little Ghandi was all cheerful smiles. His cohorts stood nearby but made no move to interfere.

“I answer to either. How may I help you?”

Ghandi, in the midst of this mayhem, seemed so confident. Roger could smell roasted flesh, hear the wails, and yet the leader seemed undisturbed.

Benet asked, “Mister Ghandi, sir, is the mob going to be a problem?” The CLAP moved in, creating a wall between their target and the
danse noir
on the steps.

“The ‘mob’?” Gandhi asked, still smiling. “Right must battle might, or lose all legitimacy. They are but supplicants for decency, presenting a rational request to the demons. This ‘mob’ is not a problem, though certainly the demons may decide to make them such, for their own purposes.”

Roger said, “Well then, sir, we were sent to bring you.”

“‘Sent’? ‘Ordered’? You do not yourselves choose to come for me?” He smiled knowingly, and Roger understood it was an attempt at debate. Among doomed screams and demonic violence, this tableau was bizarre, even for hell.

Benet looked confused and annoyed. McCarthy looked apoplectic.

Roger stifled a grin. That sight was worth enjoying. Pleasure in hell was hard to find.

Benet faced the little Indian and said, “We must bring you with us, or face pain and suffering. I personally try to avoid pain and suffering.” Benet must think Gandhi didn’t understand.

Gandhi said, “You could choose to endure it, however. You could choose not to participate in hell’s charade. New Hell, they call this place, but nothing is new here.” He waved around, indicating the marching masochists, the observers, the demons. “If people refuse to take part in Satan’s games—that would be new. If all do that, the devil, by any name, becomes powerless.”

That was incorrect, but inspiring. Torment didn’t require assent on the part of the tormented: you liked it, you didn’t; you ran, or you fought. It didn’t matter either way: this wasn’t a world to win by intimidation and press manipulation, by inspiration or steadfastness. Right and wrong were meaningless here.

So Ghandi didn’t get it. He was doing in afterlife what had worked for him in life, like so many others. Kabum was a part of the greater underworld, in all its manifest complexity. No debater’s trick or fillip of law could change that. Roger admired Ghandi, the way you’d admire a diorama. It took exceptional strength of character to behave this way in hell. Or sheer insanity. Impressive, either way.

McCarthy muttered, “Goddam commie.”

Ghandi heard McCarthy, turned and responded. “Indeed not. I am not a communist, nor a capitalist, a monarchist, nor any other type of categorized statist. I am myself, and only myself. You serve another, by choice. I serve myself,” he nodded, “by choice.”

Realizing that Benet was confused and McCarthy about to burst a blood vessel, which in hell meant literally and messily, Roger stepped in.

“Bapu Ghandi, we have been asked to find the most honest man in hell. Your name was mentioned, and I took the liberty of presuming you might be he.”

Ghandi laughed in a low resonant tenor, head back and cotton robe shifting as he raised his arms.

“Oh, young man, I can make no such claim.”

Modesty, but perhaps false. All men lie. Even in hell.

“No?”

The wizened elf sighed and smiled and said, “I was once a lawyer. I lusted and lied to protect a lustful dalliance.” He shook his head. “I manipulated truth for effect, for my nation. I made statements deemed racist. I do not regret any of it, even now, but I am here because I was not as honest as I was effective. And I am in New Hell, subject to Satan’s will, when Naraka is in the place of torment, or proper hell, for Islamists and Hindus and Sikhs and Jains and Buddhists—Yama should be my judge, not this Father of Lies who rules in New Hell. The underworld’s mistake, or my own? No matter. Here I am, among the other New Dead, liar that I am, opportunist that I am, with the flock that died believing my lies all around me.” He raised an arm to indicate the moaning protesters again.

He’d stopped smiling, at last.

McCarthy asked, “Who then?”

The little man shrugged his skinny shoulders. “The princess in the minefield would be a good bet. If one wanted to bet in hell. What is there to lose?” He smiled again.

“Very well. However, we must bring you along as well, just in case.”

“With respect, I refuse to comply.”

McCarthy shrugged and grinned. Benet drew his saber and swung smoothly. He’d had much time to practice his technique here.

The anti-communist crusader looked down at the bruised face rolling on the ground, and said, “I should think it was obvious, and now demonstrated, what one could lose.” He wore a shit-eating grin. God, Satan, whoever you wanted to invoke, what an asshole.

Ghandi smiled wanly at them, as his body vomited blood and collapsed next to his head. His eyes tracked it, and looked calm and resigned as he was was stuffed into the sack Thurmond had in his hand.

Roger felt nauseated. McCarthy had enjoyed that.

They all stared around them at Ghandi’s followers, who stared back. They weren’t supposed to use violence. Roger didn’t trust that, in hell, armed with a slung single shot rifle, even if he had a long bayonet at his side.

Ghandi’s assistant shrugged in a broad gesture and said, “Bapu will come back to us in time. We shall continue our sagratyha.” He turned and walked up the steps, heedless of the writhing wounded around him. The others followed.

Benet said, “So we proceed to the minefields.”

The princess in the minefields was easy to find. South of town was a large, vacant area, with craters and pocks. They pogoed past animals and pieces of them that lay scattered, crusted and fly-encrusted. Roger wondered what they’d done to deserve this fate.

Ahead, a figure in khakis with a tool belt became visible through the dusty haze. He could tell she was female, but only from the gait, despite a bad limp. She had a metal detector, chemical sniffers, a toolbelt and a shovel.

They dismounted, stacked arms—well, sticks—and approached carefully, following the existing holes and paths. They stepped over a bactrian’s corpse, which squished and slid, the skin loose from the meat beneath. He winced.

She’d clearly been pretty at some point. Now, though, she had divots from her flesh, joints that had healed in lumps, lacerations and generally looked as if she’d been run over, repeatedly.

Her joints were a moment of clarity for Roger. The human body was intelligently designed, if the purpose of the design was to enable easily inflicting maximum pain and damage.

Behind and to the right, there was a muffled blast that threw a shifting shadow. Roger turned cautiously, to see someone flail in midair and die. He turned back and ignored it. It was hard not to be fatalistic in hell.

The woman stood waiting, offering nothing.

As they got close enough not to shout, Benet asked, “What are you doing, ma’am?”

“I should hope it was obvious I’m clearing mines.” She sounded amused, sad, bored and annoyed.

“That could take forever.”

She shrugged elegantly. “I appear to have the time.”

Benet said, “Mr. Ghandi suggested we talk to you. We are seeking an honest man.”

She smiled faintly. “You may be out of luck. I am not a man.”

“But are you honest?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Why would a princess and victim of a tragedy be in the depths of hell pursuing her hobby in this fashion?” She gestured at the surrounding craterscape.

Roger said, “That’s certainly a legal question. One we’d pursue if we had time.”

“Ah, yes. The lawyers. I’ve heard of you,” she said.

Roger offered, “Likely nothing good and likely all true.”

“Yes, that would be the case here. Why would you think I am honest? I had a very ugly, very public divorce with all kinds of audio recordings and publicity. Then a terrible accident involving alcohol.”

“No conspiracy?” he asked, ashamed but curious.

She looked disgusted. “Only from the media, to make as much money from me any way possible. You might check with the famous mister Cronkite. He’s here, and surprisingly candid. I wish I’d encountered more of his type of press.”

Benet said, “Unfortunately, this is not a trial, nor an inquest. We’re to take you back to the Pentagram, so you can be deposed there.”

“How amusing,” she said. “I never sat as queen, and yet I am to be deposed. I suppose you’d best take me, then.”

“It’s not you we are to take exactly, ma’am,” Roger felt compelled to say.

“Oh?” she asked, turning to face him, and he felt disgusted by his role in this.

Benet made it one motion draw and slice, and her once-pretty face acquired a new set of injuries as it smashed nose first into the ground.

Thurmond scooped up her head, gently. She was crying, lips trembling, as he swept off debris and placed her in the sack.

“That’s a shame,” he muttered. “She was as sweet as she was pretty. I can’t think of anything ill to say about her.”

He’d lived longer than she had, and apparently had respect for her.

McCarthy asked, “Who was she, anyway?”

He really wouldn’t know, Roger realized, and offered, “A tragic figure, just as she said. A lady and a princess.”

McCarthy snorted. “I don’t approve of royalty. Seems somewhat elitist.”

“Indeed. Quite far from communism, though.”

“Hmm. True.”

Benet interrupted their musing. “Howard, get on that gadget of yours and find where this Bronchitis fellow is.”

“Walter Cronkite. Famous reporter, and actually very well respected. I do think he’s a good bet, sir.”

“Well, get on with it.” Benet fluffed his whiskers and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

For some reason, Roger had trouble manipulating his phone, with its intermittent connection, the shifting sunlight and a sack with a wiggling head in it nearby, as well as a staring, belligerent McCarthy and a confused, frustrated Benet cleaning his saber.

After a few minutes of swiping, typing and cursing, he had video. Cronkite looked good, as he had at his prime, which was about when Roger had been born.

“He’s reporting live from the east side, where a battle is.”

“Which battle?” McCarthy wanted to know. “A battle against commies?”

Roger calmly replied, “Who knows which battle? There are so many.”

“Well, let’s proceed. Back out the way we came, then a blister break.”

Roger tried not to think about blisters. Blisters in hell were worse than blisters in life. They infected, oozed, scarred over. He could feel them blossoming inside his stiff leather wingtips, and along the edge of the upper. They’d pop and peel. You could ignore the burn, and the layers of skin coming off. The damage was something else.

You wanted to be first for treatment. Treatment hurt a lot, but was over quickly. The later patients got to anticipate the pain. Shrieks from each victim primed the next to expect agony. Benet always went last and, to his credit, never uttered a sound. That Fucking Benet had never commanded in battle, but he did have courage.

He was also stubborn, after a century and more, about those stupid single-shot rifles.