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"Evacuate the Christians," said Coleman. It was only a whisper now.
"Already started," said Mrs. Malich. "They've been asked to head out into the city—to the areas we've been working in. But I'm not counting on loyalty from the population. Not if these enemy soldiers are ruthless and you can't fight them off here. The people will play up to whoever seems to be winning. That's how you survive in Nigeria. The people who didn't play that way are dead or in exile."
Rusty could hear how this would work on the air. Not very well, actually. Watching Coleman, he could see how absolutely weary and feverish he was. But on tape, all you'd hear was a kind of brusqueness. Coleman sounded almost bored. And rude to Mrs. Malich. Meanwhile, Mrs. Malich didn't sound like a Christian health volunteer. She sounded like senior management or a soldier's wife.
Sound alone could be deceiving. But then,
sound with pictures could be deceptive, too.
He was already taping, of course—voice-activated, sound-activated. He never wanted to miss something because he didn't know it was going to get said, or because he got caught up in the moment and he forgot to start the recorder until the best bits were over. This tape, though, would never be played over the air. But it might just help him remember everything that happened so he could tell the story to his listeners, if he ever made it home.
"Mark," said Coleman. "Get the jeesh into their Bones, whoever can."
Mark took off at a run.
Coleman's Bones were fully engaged. Now he seemed to have a newfound strength. He stood up, he walked. But Rusty could see that the energy was all in the equipment. Almost as if the exoskeleton were animating a corpse.
With his arms working now, Coleman reached for the helmet that went with the outfit. What did they call it, the Bean? No, the Noodle. As soon as it was engaged with the Bones, Coleman started clicking and smacking his lips—commands to the helmet and exoskeleton, Rusty knew from what he'd seen and read before. Then he was talking.
"Drones up. Hostile force. Trucks, from east of Calabar, over the river, Ekang road." Coleman clicked a couple more times. "Reapers or Preds? I need to know how much armament we have." He listened. "It'll have to do." And then, after a moment. "Got the flu, nothing much."
Meanwhile Mrs. Malich was looking at the small LCD readout on the outside of the Noodle. Rusty leaned in and could see that it was cycling through Coleman's vital statistics—heartbeat, blood pressure, that sort of thing—and Rusty realized it was so that if the wearer was unconscious, medics could still assess his condition. He was at 105 degrees.This was not good at all. Whatever Coleman was planning to do, his fever was reaching its crisis. Also, his judgment wouldn't be at its best with that kind of temperature.
"Water," said Coleman. Mrs. Malich gave him a bottle with a straw built into the lid and Rusty realized it was an attachment to the exoskeleton—it stayed in place and the straw actually extended to reach Cole's lips when he made a quick slurping sound. That is so cool! I want that suit, thought Rusty. I want clothes that do what I tell them.
Coleman started moving. Out the door, down the corridor. He started talking, and Rusty gathered that he was now talking to his men. Doing a roll call? They were coming out of the door. Four of them. Apparently two others were in bad enough shape that they couldn't even make the Bones work. All four of these looked much better than Coleman. And when the others saw him, they started telling him to go back to bed.
"I'm not dying in bed," said Coleman. "Come on."
To Rusty's astonishment, they then began to run down the corridor—a shambling step, more machine than man—and Rusty was starting to follow when his ear was caught by Mrs. Malich talking to someone.
"They won't go," said an old man, one of the caregivers.
"They can't get caught here," said Mrs. Malich.
"These kids are the job we took on," said the man. "We're not leaving them now."
"You can't protect them if this enemy force gets into the university. This place is indefensible against a strongly armed enemy."
"You sound like one of them," said the man, chuckling.
"My husband was one of them," she answered. "I've been hearing this for fifteen years."
"Then you know why we're staying."
"Yes," she said. "You love these men."
"They'll need water and meds and food, those that can eat. They need us to try to keep them cool."
"I won't try to make you do what you don't want," she said. "If it were my husband in one of these rooms, I'd hope for someone like you looking out for him."
Rusty didn't know whether he'd ever play this. Maybe it depended on the outcome. If everybody died, then this scene would play on every news show. If they lived, it might just sound mawkish, as if they knew they were being recorded and they were playing to the tape. He would tell his listeners that they didn't know, but if, after all that, you said, "Everything turned out okay and none of them died," it would feel like anticlimax. They're looking into the face of death, but if death turns away, it stops being tragedy and just becomes melodrama.
What am I thinking. I'm here. If everybody is killed, this tape won't play anywhere except maybe in some Sudanese assassin's tent.
If they even were Sudanese. But Rusty kind of assumed they were. He'd seen the aftermath of what they did in Darfur. Heartless murderers, that's what they were, in Rusty's honest, politically incorrect opinion. Had nothing to do with their being Muslims and everything to do with their being cruel, murdering scum.
And now Mark and another boy, an African, were talking to Mrs. Malich. "Mark, this isn't optional. You're leaving now. With me, out into the city."
