Jonathan Hive

Hey, Guys. My Dad's Got a Warehouse! Let's Put on a War! Posted Today 8:16 pm

GENOCIDE, ASWAN | EXHAUSTED | "WHO BY FIRE"—LEONARD COHEN

It's been a hell of a day, but I'm still standing (in the metaphorical sense, since I'm sitting on my ass in a bar in Syrene).

I'm falling asleep on my again-metaphorical feet here. But I'll do the best I can to catch you folks up. A little geography first. You'll need it.

Okay. There are two cities at Aswan. Aswan itself is on the east side of the river, near the train tracks. The Egyptian army's over there. In the middle of the river, there's Sehel Island (and Kitchener's Island, and Elephantine Island, and Amun Island with, I shit you not, a Club Med), where a bunch of the Living Gods are holed up. On the west side of the river, there's Syrene. That's where we are. The Aswan airport's on our side. Got that so far?

Okay, next (and much to my surprise), there's not a dam. There's two dams. The Low Dam is older, farther north (which is to say downstream—up and down the Nile's confusing when you're used to reading north as up) and nowhere near as apocalyptic as the High Dam. The High Dam? That's to the south.

When you were a kid, maybe you heard about how the Nile flooded every year. Well it doesn't anymore. Because that whole goddam flood is stuck back behind the High Dam. I mention the dams not only because if they blow, a whole lot of people die, but also because they're the only two ways across the river that don't involve boats. So if you had a big infantry force bent on killing a shitload of people like, say, me, the dams are pretty much where it's going to be an issue.

We knew that when we got here. It also became pretty clear that the Egyptian army really wanted to get across the dam—what with their helicopters and tanks and guns and bombs and their whole fucking army, we weren't going to be able to stop them.

Funny thing happened, though.

The cavalry arrived.

The war council met at a restaurant about three blocks from the Monastery of St. Simeon. The place smelled of baked raisins and garlic, and the light from the windows made the air seem cleaner than it was. The Living Gods sat at a huge table, arguing, planning, debating, and despairing. Jonathan had picked up enough of the language to catch a word or phrase here and there, but for the most part, he and Lohengrin were excluded. Fortune—Sekhmet, really—was shouting and pounding the table, or nodding, or shaking his head and pointing east.

"There are still the helicopters," Lohengrin said.

"We are aware," Sekhmet replied, using Fortune's throat. "But on the island, there is some protection from the ground troops."

Fortune didn't look good. The whole not sleeping thing was eating at him like a cancer. And Jonathan was quite aware that neither Fortune nor Sekhmet were going to rest until the refugees were safe, or everyone died. Lohengrin was looking pretty tired, too. Sobek had lost a couple teeth. No one was doing well.

"The problem here," Jonathan said, louder than he'd intended to, "is that we're fucked."

To his surprise, the table went quiet. He blinked. All eyes were on him.

"Well," he said, "we can hole up here and hope that they all just go away, but when you get right down to it, we're fucked, right? The island is a pain in the ass for the ground troops to get to, but if they take the west bank, they can starve us out or do some kind of pincer attack or nuke us from orbit. Whatever. And everyone we move to the island because it's safer there means one less we have to defend the dams. We don't have scorpion lady. We don't have Horus. So, I'm sorry to say it, but I think we're fucked."

"God," a voice said from behind him. "You are such a loser, Bugsy. No wonder we voted you out."

Slowly, he turned.

Curveball, a duffel bag over one shoulder. Earth Witch beside her, frowning with her arms folded. The wheelchair-bound minister, Holy Roller, smiling and avuncular even now. Hardhat, grinning. King Cobalt, maybe grinning; under the mask, who could tell? Simoon and Bubbles looking more like runway models than warriors. Rustbelt standing in the back like an old-time locomotive with self-esteem problems.

"Uh," Jonathan said.

Curveball stepped forward, her duffel bag sliding to the floor. She walked past Jonathan and Lohengrin, straight to Fortune. For a moment the pair were silent. Then Fortune—Fortune, not Sekhmet—nodded.

"So," Curveball said, "what's the plan?"

They talked all night. It was epic. I slept through a lot of the last part, and more than a little, because getting a little hope can make you realize just how tired you've been up until then.

The strategy was pretty basic, since none of us really knew what the hell we were doing. But we had a plan, and we had a bunch of aces and some guns and the determination that the killing was going to stop.

And it would. Either because we'd turn them back, or they'd run out of people to slaughter. One way or the other, it was coming down there.

We'd picked the place to make our stand.

The moon was beautiful, a crescent of silver floating in the black sky. The city lights of Syrene and Aswan were dark, each side keeping information from the enemy. Jonathan sat on the street, his hands on his knees, looking up at the stars.

"Hey," Simoon's voice said. "Bugsy."

He looked over his shoulder. The woman stood in the doorway of the restaurant. The voices raised in debate behind her sounded oddly joyful for a council of war.

"How's it going in there?" he asked.

Simoon stepped forward, letting the door close behind her. The voices didn't vanish, but they grew distant.

"It'll be a while before anyone decides anything," she said. "But I think it's going well. What about you?"

"I could sleep right here in the gutter," Jonathan said. "Seriously. Just stretch out and snooze off."

"Probably should. Rest, I mean. Not the gutter part."

"Yeah. I'll get to it," he said.

"I wanted to say thanks."

Jonathan looked up at her. She was prettier than he remembered. She'd been good-looking, but now in the moonlight, with her hair down, she was beautiful.

"Thanks?"

"For butting in," she said. "For listening in on my phone calls. For getting John Fortune involved. All like that. I wouldn't have had the balls."

"I'm not sure I really did you any favors," he said.

Simoon shook her head, her gaze lifting to the buildings, the horizon, the sky.

"No," she said. "I'm glad. I've never actually been here, you know. But I'm from here. So, you know, thanks."

"Anytime," Jonathan said.

There's a real problem playing defense. We didn't get to pick when the shit came down. That was all them. The Living Gods took their aces and a bunch of guns across to Sehel Island. Hardhat went too, the theory being that he could build a temporary bridge with his girders to evacuate if the army managed to land there.

Then we got ready.

"Harder!" Bubbles said.

Rustbelt raised his balled fist, and then lowered it. "Ah, cripes. This is just . . . I mean . . ."

Bubbles, now looking like a woman of a healthy hundred and seventy pounds, put a hand on Rustbelt's arm and tried to keep her temper.

"Sweetie," she said. "We have to get these bubbles in the air, or it's only going to be Simoon's sandstorm to stop all the planes and helicopters they throw at us. So it's not really me you're hitting. It's them. Just think of it like that, okay?"

Rustbelt smiled, but the expression seemed forced.

"You ready to try again?" Bubbles asked.

"Sure," Rustbelt said. "Let's try it."

"Okay. Beat the shit out of me."

Rustbelt closed his eyes and swung. The impact sounded like a car wreck. Bubbles put on another thirty pounds.

"Much better," Bubbles said. "Do that again."

"Okay," Rustbelt said. "You know, this is really uncomfortable, though." Bubbles nodded. "That speaks well of you, sweetie. Now hit me."

Well, folks, we didn't know what dam they'd cross at, only that we had to hold them off at the places where they'd only be able to get at a few of us at a time. Lohengrin, Curveball, Earth Witch, and Simoon were north with almost a hundred of the followers of the Living Gods, ready to get to the High Dam if they came across there. Holy Roller, King Cobalt, Fortune, Rustbelt, and Bubbles were at the Low Dam where they actually attacked. I went with all of them.

The Egyptian army came at us right at dawn. I always thought that was a cliché, you know? "We attack at dawn." Turns out there's a reason. The sun really does get in your eyes. Well, not mine, since I was mostly bugged out by that point.

The boats chugged out from the east bank, dark marks in the sun-bright water. Hardhat and Sobek squatted by the shore. The croc-headed joker hunkered down, his hand shading his eyes.

"This could be a problem," Sobek said. "If they reach the island—"

"Those dick-lickers have about as much chance of getting out here as I've got of ass-fucking Mother Teresa," Hardhat said cheerfully. "Watch this shit."

The first girder appeared across the bow of the first boat, forcing the craft lower into the water. There was the distant sound of voice raised in alarm. A second girder appeared. The boat rode lower, water lapping up over its sides.

The other boats hesitated as the lead craft tried to turn back to the shore. A third girder appeared. The boat sank. The boats idled and then turned back.

Sobek chuckled.

"Elegant," he said. "Could you do that to all of them? If they all came at once?"

"Probably not," Hardhat said, folding his arms, "But I could fucking sure get the first two cocksuckers, and then let the pussies fight it out who gets to go third."

"They'll have to come by land, then," Sobek said.

It started with a few boats putting out from the east, back toward the islands. That was just a distraction. The big push was at the Low Dam.

It's eighty feet from the top of the Low Dam to the river north of it. The top of the dam is about as wide as a two-lane highway and about two miles long. We'd put some barricades across it—an old bus parked at an angle, a pickup truck Rustbelt tipped on its side, some cars we'd commandeered. Every hundred yards or so, out to almost the middle of the dam, we had something to hide behind. And on the far end, the army was making cover of its own.

That was where they came.

We didn't keep everyone. You should know that now. We lost one right off. But he didn't die a stupid death. Honest to God.

"It's a bulletproof shield," King Cobalt said, leaning against the upended pickup truck. "Like riot police use. I just hold it toward them like this, charge in, and when I get there, I'll rip 'em apart."

Rustbelt raised a hand, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. The dam stretched out before them and behind them, water calm and glittering to the right, empty air to the left. King Cobalt crouched down behind his shield.

"Stay behind me," King Cobalt called out. "All of you just let me get in there and soften them up."

"Now, son," Holy Roller called out, "I think you had best come on back for a bit, the both of you. We may be seeing some enemy movement. At the far end—over there."

"I don't see anything," Rustbelt said, and a bullet ricocheted off his chest with a sound like a piston blowing. King Cobalt lowered his riot shield, sighed, and slid to the ground. Blood poured from the back of his neck.

"Medic!" Holy Roller yelled, pushing himself toward the fallen ace. "Get a medic over here! We got us a man down!"

"Oh, cripes," Rustbest said, rubbing the shiny spot the killing bullet had left on his skin. "I'm sorry, King. I didn't . . . we'll get someone . . . it'll be . . ."

Holy Roller reached the fallen ace, felt desperately for a pulse, and then shook his head. Leaning over carefully, the minister hooked a finger under the wrestler's mask and gently pulled it free. The thick body thinned and diminished.

"He's just a kid," Fortune said.

"Dear Lord," Holy Roller intoned. "I don't know if this poor boy believed in you. I don't even know his name, or if he was a Mexican, but he was a brave boy and he tried to do something good. I know you'll find a place for him in Heaven, wrestling with your angels. He did so love to wrestle."

They all cast their eyes down for a moment. When he looked up across the dam, the old minister's eyes were hard. On the far side of the dam, the sun was glittering off metal. A sound came like distant thunder that never stopped. Tanks were coming.

"Time's come," he said. "Get on the horn to the others. It's started."

The tanks came first, single file. Their guns were blazing, trying to keep us back while they pushed past or through the obstacles we'd placed in their way. It turns out if you send a bunch of wasps up the barrel of those things, it just gets you closer to the shell when it goes off. It wasn't pleasant. But then Rustbelt was in there, howling like a banshee, and the tanks started falling apart. They shot him. They shot him a lot. When the helicopters came, the detonations began. There was so much smoke in the air, I lost some wasps just to that.

The Living Gods put down suppressing fire, and Sekhmet and Holy Roller made a push of their own. I did what I could, stinging and moving and generally making sure the bad guys couldn't keep it together. No matter how hard they tried, there wasn't room for enough men to get onto the dam to overwhelm us. The whole thing was more or less even until a sandblasting wind kicked up, courtesy of Simoon, and Lohengrin in his armor showed up at Rustbelt's side.

When the army started falling back to the east, we pressed them. We were all a little drunk, I think. We were winning. Simoon's wind was vicious. It was enough to rip skin, not that it bothered Lohengrin or Rustbelt. Together the three of them moved slowly across, all the way to the far side, driving the army before them. Bubbles and Curveball made a second wave, shooting down any aircraft stupid enough to try to break through. The rest of us—all of us—came in ranks behind them. Jokers with pistols and ancient rifles and Kevlar vests that were state of the art in the 1970s. American aces who couldn't speak a fucking word of Arabic or do anything more eloquent than give thumbs-up signs all around.

We were overconfident. The Egyptian commander was smart. We didn't figure out what he was doing until it was too late.

Curveball crouched, a stone the size of a golf ball in her hand. Rusty and the German ace were still advancing, but it wasn't easy to see much beyond that. The blowing sand obscured most of what lay ahead, and smoke and flakes of rust swirled madly, making the air taste like blood.

Earth Witch plucked at her sleeve and pointed out to the right, over the water. A boat was just visible, pushing out from the eastern shore.

"Got it," Curveball said, and sidearmed the stone like she was skipping it. The detonation sent a wave across the surface of the water. Someone—John Fortune?—pressed another rock into her hand.

"It's turning back," Earth Witch said.

"Good work," John said. His hand was hot, like a man with a fever. "Keep going."

The angry chop of helicopters cut through the noise. They'd crossed the river somewhere else and were circling back to come up behind them. "Mine! I've got 'em!" Bubbles yelled. "Take cover!"

Machine guns spat, fire blazing from their muzzles, as two huge, iridescent bubbles rose gracefully into the air. The transparent skins swirled with colors like oil on water, trembling in the wash of the propellers. When they detonated, the concussion was like a blow. The burning hulk of the copters arced down to the water and sank.

"Forward!" Fortune shouted. "Come on! Let's go!"

Curveball nodded, looking ahead to the battle, to the sky for an attack from above, to the water. Time didn't mean much. They might have been doing this for ten minutes or an hour or a day. No one noticed anything had changed until she looked out to her right and the water was gone. To her left, there was no clifflike drop.

They were on the other side. They'd crossed the dam; it lay ten or twelve meters behind them. Without being aware of it, they'd fanned out into the road. John called out for Simoon to let her storm slacken. As the sand began to fall from the air, half a dozen streaks of green buzzed past.

"Does this mean we won?" Bubbles asked. "I think this means we won."

"I don't think so," Curveball said.

On the dam, the battle had been restricted. Rustbelt, Lohengrin, Holy Roller, Sekhmet. They'd been able to hold a line. No more than eight or ten soldiers could reach them at a time. But the Egyptians had fallen back slowly, drawing them on. Drawing them to the shore where they could be surrounded and overwhelmed. The streets ahead were packed with men, with tanks, with guns.

They'd screwed up. They were dead.

No one noticed the sound at first. When the rumble penetrated, they realized they'd been hearing it—a deep, bone-wrenching sound. Holy Roller was craning his thick neck, trying to spot the source. The Egyptians, across the small no-man's-land of the street, seemed confused as well.

"What's happening?" Simoon shouted over the growing cacophony. "What is that?"

And the earth opened before them. A great chasm yawned, sand and stone sliding down into an abyss that seemed to go for miles, though it probably wasn't more than a few hundred feet. Egyptian tanks and men slid down into the gap, rifles firing impotently. Buildings cracked and fell apart, walls tumbling end over end in the air.

Curveball turned. Earth Witch was on her knees, her hands grasping the medallion at her neck, her face red with effort. With a thump like an explosion, the chasm closed. The first wave of the army was gone, buried alive, dying under their feet. The soldiers that remained stood agape. The first of them turned and fled.

"Oh, God," Earth Witch said. Her voice was thin and unbelieving. "Oh, God. I did that. Did I do that?"

Curveball knelt, wrapping her arms around her friend. Earth Witch shook. "It's okay, Ana," Curveball said. "It's okay."

"I killed them," Earth Witch said. "I killed them, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Curveball said. "You did."

Earth Witch stared out at the rubble, her breath in gasps. Her eyes were wide and round, caught between elation and horror.

"Excuse me, ladies," Holy Roller said. "I don't mean to intrude."

"What's the matter?" Curveball asked.

"The dam," John Fortune said, appearing at their side. "Doing that weakened the dam. It's giving way. We need Earth Witch to shore it up. Now."

Earth Witch sagged into Curveball's arms.

"She can't do it," Curveball said. "She's too tired."

"I can," Earth Witch said.

"Ana," Curveball began, but Earth Witch shook her head. A voice called out from the shore—some stray Egyptian soldier surrendering himself to Lohengrin. Curveball stood, drawing her friend up with her.

"I can fix it. Just . . . stay with me," Earth Witch said.

"I will," Curveball promised.

So to all the folks who said we were fucked, here's the news: We won. The genocide stopped at Aswan, and we didn't even drown all the folks we were trying to save in the process. And no, I don't know how it's going to play out from here. International pressure's going to have to be placed on the Ikhlas al-Din and the government of Egypt. They may have to partition the country. That's all complicated and nuanced and may take years to figure out. The United Nations will almost certainly have to be involved, and the caliphate. And yes, that may be a pain in the ass for some people. Live with it.

The killing stopped. And we stopped it. And that, ladies and germs, is just plain good.

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"Bugsy," Fortune said. "Wake up. There's someone here wants to see you."

Jonathan rolled over on his bed, blinking up into the light. Fortune looked slightly better. Still cadaverously thin, still with the deep, bruiselike bags under his eyes. He and Sekhmet apparently hadn't quite settled on a schedule for sleep yet. And still, the poor bastard looked better.

"Someone wants to see me?" Jonathan asked.

"You should come."

"Beautiful blonde entomologist with no boyfriend and a webcam?"

"CNN," Fortune said.

Jonathan took in a deep breath and let it out with a sense of growing satisfaction. The traditional media finally there to agree he'd scooped them.

"A close second," Jonathan said. I'll be right there."

He washed his hair, considered shaving, decided that the stubble was a decent manly touch—you never saw Indiana Jones breaking out a safety razor—and headed out for the lobby of the hotel that had become the aces' barracks. The camera crew had set up shop by one of the big couches designed for travelers to lounge on in times of peace. The reporter looked familiar; black guy in his late thirties, close-cropped hair with a little gray coming in at the temples. He was wearing a khaki shirt with epaulets, like he'd been trekking through the desert instead of driving in from the airport.

"Hey," Jonathan said, "I heard you boys were looking for me?"

Hands were shaken, admiration was expressed, someone got Jonathan a cup of coffee. Five minutes flat, and he was sitting on the couch, klieg lights shining in his face, sincere talking head leaning in toward him with an expression built to convey gravity and concern.

It was fucking sweet. Right up until it wasn't.

"How do you respond to the accusations that you've sided with terrorists?"

"That's stupid," Jonathan said. "And anyone who says it doesn't understand anything about how international politics works."

"But you have come to the defense of a group that's been accused of sheltering the Twisted Fists."

"Well, accused, sure . . ."

"And the assassination of the Caliph."

"These people didn't assassinate the Caliph," Jonathan said. "There were kids dying out on the road. Kids! You think some eight-year-old joker kid killed the Nur?"

"Right, and you also said in your blog that these people didn't kill the Caliph. You have investigated the alleged link between the Living Gods and the Twisted Fists, then?"

Jonathan tapped his fingers on his knee. "I've been a little busy being shot at," he said. "But I am perfectly comfortable that no such connection exists."

"And how would you reply to the critics who say that westerners—especially self-styled crusaders like Lohengrin and religious leaders like Holy Roller—represent an unacceptable western interference in the internal affairs of Egypt?"

"I probably wouldn't," Jonathan said.

"So you don't think there is an issue of national sovereignty here? You are a group of aces not affiliated with any government entering into armed conflict with the military of a legitimate state. How do you see that as different from a terrorist organization?"

"They were killing people," Jonathan said. "Okay? Innocent people were dying. And we stopped it."

The reporter seemed to sense an unpleasant stinging sensation in his future. He smiled and nodded as if he were agreeing with something, then changed the subject. "Will your forces remain in Syrene when the army of the caliphate arrives?"

"We are going to stay here until we're sure that . . ." Jonathan held up a finger and licked his lips. The klieg lights seemed hotter than they'd been at the start of the interview. The couch had developed some uncomfortable lumps. " . . . army of the caliphate?" he asked.

"You didn't know the new Caliph has sworn his support for Kamal Farag Aziz and his Egyptian government? His troops have been on the move for days."

"Army. Of the caliphate. Ah. Well. That's probably a pretty big army, huh?"

The reporter shrugged. Jonathan got the feeling that the guy might be enjoying this opportunity to make the blogger look dumb.

"About three times the size of the Egyptian forces. And the Caliph's aces Bahir of the Scimitar and the Righteous Djinn," the reporter said. "The Caliph says that this kind of western adventurism is a threat to all sovereign nations of the world, and that your defense of terrorists places you in violation of international law. The Caliph also says he's taken the secretary-general of the United Nations into protective custody to prevent his being attacked by the citizens of Cairo who are outraged by his apparent support of your cause."

"Ah," Jonathan said. "Huh."

"Do you have a response to that?"

Jonathan blinked into the lights. He wished Fortune was nearby; they needed to talk. They all needed to talk. A lot. And right now.

"Jonathan," the reporter said. "This is your chance to make a response."

"Oops?" Jonathan suggested.