Free Africa Zero by Neal Asher Page B

river branched before the drop. The light increased and I
moved more warily. At about this time I lost my companion. He had probably gone
off in a huff because I had not fed him for a few hours. Soon, after crossing a
tributary with a flow which near swept me away, I clambered onto a triangular
island of rock abutting the edge of the falls. It seemed a good place to
reconnoitre from. Somebody else had thought so too.
    It
was only luck I saw them before they saw me. Or perhaps it was because I was
covered from head to foot in mud. I quickly crouched down behind some heather
bushes and watched them from there. There were two of them, changed out of
their robes and into dark brown fatigues. One of them had an APW, the other an
atomic shear. The one with the shear was speaking into a small chrome egg. I
cleaned the mud out of my ears and juiced up my hearing.
    “—but
brother Jeman has not reported.”
    The
voice which replied was a woman’s. I knew it of old. It was the voice of my
wife. I was surprised at how much it affected me to hear it again. In my mind
she suddenly changed, from a metallic object of vengeance, back into a woman
with long dark hair, angular aesthetic features, and hazel eyes that seemed to
radiate warmth.
    “Brother
Jeman was to remain concealed and report his position. It was a mistake to arm
him,” she said.
    “He
will be punished, Lady.”
    Her
reply was flat, emotionless. Reality kicked me in the teeth. I realised it had
been so before. I just had not wanted to hear.
    “I
think, perhaps, he has been. Stay alert and continue to report. God be with
you,” she said.
    I
tried to shake of the effects of her voice and consider what had been said. So
Jeman had kept that from me? Lot of good it had done him. Behind the bushes I
unhitched brother Jeman’s rifle, knocked down the power and narrowed the beam.
Then I stood up, burnt the legs off the one with the shear and the radio, and
cut the other one in half. They fell like unstrung puppets.
    The
one with the radio and minus the legs lay on the ground completely still. The
one I had cut in half was making bleating sounds and jerking about all over the
place, at least his top half was. I ran over to them, into the smoke and
porklike smell of cooked meat. While the halfman managed to get himself tangled
up in his own scorched intestines I burnt a hole through his forehead. He was
abruptly still. The other one looked at me as if he knew me but could not quite
remember my name. I kicked his rifle aside and searched him. He looked down
while I was searching and saw what he was lacking. Shortly I had the chrome egg.
He looked at me again and there was recognition of who I was and what his
situation was. He opened his mouth to scream. I burnt a hole through his palate
and put out his brain. There: done. I picked up the shear and dropped it into
my trouser pocket, then I kicked the rifle into the river. As I turned to move
away from that scene I saw a friend climbing up onto the island and grinning at
me. I left him to his lunch and moved to a nearby rock.
    “Diana,
dearest, oh light of my life.”
    Her
reply was immediate. “You have killed brother Michael and brother Kanga.”
    “What
do you think?”
    “I
think you are a servant of Satan and will burn in Hell. My only regret is I
cannot bring you physical pain to redeem you.”
    She
had found God? I thought it unlikely—more likely she was speaking like this
because the others were listening in.
    “There
isn’t that much pain in the world.”
    “Regrettable.”
    “Do
you want to die, my dearest?”
    “It
is not my destiny to die. I am God’s servant and the fulfilment of prophecy.
Once you have been sent back to whatever nether hell spawned you I will lead
The Brethren against the families and work God’s will on this planet.”
    How
did I read that? She was winding me up simultaneous with gulling her other
listeners. In a way I envied them their naivety, but, insane or not, I knew I
was dealing