The Nobody People Bob Proehl (pocket ebook reader .txt) 📖

war between Muslims and the West. Not in terms of jihad or any of that bullshit but in the adopted terms of American politicians. Maybe there were places it could be called a war, places where combatants met on a field of battle and the outcome was determined by luck and skill and strength of arms. In America it wasn’t like that. The government had all the weapons: it had the prisons and the courts; it had oubliettes to put you in and boats home to put you on. Bishop talked about the possibility of war, saying that some day they might have no choice but to fight. “If it happens,” he said, “the biggest weapon they’ll have is numbers.”

Now they’ll have this, too: an off switch. Fahima can work out the numbers thing, work it so that even an off switch won’t matter. She just needs time. She can’t do it with a boot on her neck. She doesn’t know Louis Hoffman, but she knows men like him. She’s seen men like him drag her father away from the dinner table and disappear him out of a world where the law could keep him safe. And her father and uncle were on the lucky side. For every disappeared man Fahima heard about growing up, there was another gunned down, bleeding out on his prayer mat in front of his family. That agent could have pulled his weapon, shot Emmeline, and kept firing. Fahima has a mental list of every student in the lobby that day. Eleven of them. She knows how close they came to being lost. These are not men governed by laws. They may not even draw a distinction between the law and themselves. But they can be reasoned with, tricked and appeased, and sated.

“Forever,” says Fahima. “I give you this, and you stay away forever.”

Louis nods. They both know they’re not talking about forever. Sooner or later, someone will give a nod and someone, maybe Louis, maybe a man just like him, will knock down the doors. “I build it and test it, and if it works, I pull my guys out of your lobby and never send them back.”

“You pull your guys tomorrow,” Fahima says. “You build it and test it, and if it doesn’t work, I will come to your place and smack the stupid out of whoever couldn’t read the specs.”

“And I tell Miss Davenport my source reconsidered and I apologize for any inconvenience,” he says.

“That’s obvious?”

“We’re talking in my living room in the middle of the night,” Louis says. Despite herself, Fahima sighs in relief. She’s been thinking about when she’ll have to tell Sarah, or Bishop for that matter. Kimani knows, but Kimani’s kept worse secrets. If everything goes as planned, this will be a funny story they’ll share after everyone is safe.

“One more thing,” says Louis.

“No more things. This is the deal.” She has drawn an exact line, how far she’s willing to compromise herself.

“I get that,” Louis says. “This is a favor.” He pauses, stares intently at the war movie for a few seconds. Fahima can see tears building in his eyes. “My kid. He’s amazing at math. Like do I send him to a special school where he learns nothing but math? That kind of good.”

“That’s wonderful for you,” Fahima says. She’s not sure if it is.

“His mother couldn’t balance a checkbook,” Louis says. “And every time one of my guys puts in an overtime request, I’ve got to pull out a calculator to figure time and a half. This with him, it’s out of nowhere. Which makes me wonder. Can that be an ability? Being good at math?”

“You want to know if he’s one of us,” Fahima says.

“It shouldn’t matter,” says Louis, looking down at the boy.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “He’s your kid.”

“If I knew, I’d know how to talk to him,” Louis says. “I could deal with him better if I knew.”

“Knowing won’t make it any easier to talk with him,” Fahima says.

“I need to know,” says Louis. “I’ll keep your secret. But I need to know about him.”

Fahima walks across the room. Behind her on the screen, the survivors smoke. They set up camp. She can tell which ones are going to die because she doesn’t know the names of those actors. Fahima sits on the coffee table and faces the kid. She goes into the Hive to find him. This young, he’d be faint at best, a ghost of a bird. A coherent bit of breeze. But there’s nothing there. The kid is a normal prodigy, an average genius.

“He’s not,” she says, coming back into the room. “His gifts or whatever, they’re his own.”

Louis lets out a sigh. Fahima thinks about the flip side of what she’s said. If the kid’s talents are his own, who do Fahima’s belong to?

“I’ll call my guys off,” Louis says. “And this should go without saying, but if you show up in my house again, I’ll shoot you dead.”

“Same goes for you, boss,” says Fahima. As she stands to go, she does a little pistol motion with her fingers, shooting from the hip. She opens the door, letting light from Kimani’s room fall onto the boy’s face. He stirs but doesn’t wake. As Fahima closes the door, she hears the sound go up on the television, a new battle starting.

“How do I look?” Fahima asks, twirling to model a new purple dress and a hijab so expensive that when she clicked the buy button, Fahima could practically hear her mother sucking her teeth. “I’m going for ‘sexy terrorist.’ ”

Kimani sips on the beer Fahima brought for her. “Mission accomplished.”

“I don’t even know why I’m going,” Fahima says.

“Bishop’s growing into his celebrity status,” says Kimani. “He’s got his driver. Now his personal assistant-slash-arm candy.”

“Is that an actual thing straight people say?” Fahima asks.

“I saw it in a movie,” says Kimani.

“You realize it’s a trap,” Fahima says.