The Time Paradox (17 page)

“What if that chunk surfaced a mere six weeks ago on the land of my good friend Tommy Kirkenhazard. One of our own faithful members.”

Tommy stood to take a bow, waving his Texas gray wolf Stetson. Though his teeth were smiling, his eyes were shooting daggers at Kronski. It was obvious to the entire room that there was bad blood between the two.

“Then it would be possible, outrageously expensive, and difficult, but possible to transport that chunk of ice here. A chunk that contains a sizeable shoal of yellowfin cutthroat trout.” Kronski drew breath to allow this information to sink in. “Then we, dear friends, could be the first people to eat yellowfin in a hundred years.”

This prospect even had a few of the vegetarians salivating.

“Watch, Extinctionists. Watch and be amazed.”

Kronski clicked his fingers, and a dozen kitchen staff wheeled the ponderous trolley into the center of the banqueting area, where it rested on a steel grille. The workers then stripped off their uniforms to reveal monkey costumes underneath.

Have I gone over the top with the monkey rigs? Kronski wondered. Is it just too Broadway?

But a quick survey of his guests assured him that they remained enthralled.

The kitchen staff were actually trained circus acrobats from one of the Cirque du Soleil knockoffs touring north Africa. They were only too glad to take a few days out of their schedule to put on this private show for the Extinctionists.

They swarmed up the huge ice block, anchoring themselves on with ropes, crampons, or grappling hooks, and began demolishing it with chainsaws, flaming swords, and flamethrowers, all produced seemingly from nowhere.

It was a spectacular indulgence. Ice flew, showering the guests, and the buzz of machinery was deafening.

Quickly the shoal of yellowfin poked through the blue murk of ice. They hung, wide-eyed and frozen in midturn, their bodies caught by the flash freeze.

What a way to go, thought Kronski. With absolutely no inkling. Wonderful.

The performers began carving the fish in blocks from the ice, and each one was passed down to one of a dozen line cooks, who had appeared from the side doors wheeling gas burners. Each individual block was slid into a heated colander to steam off excess ice, then the fish were expertly filleted and fried in olive oil with a selection of chunky cut vegetables and a crushed clove of garlic.

For the vegetarians there was a champagne mushroom risotto, though Kronski did not anticipate many takers. The nonmeat eaters would accept the fish just to stab it.

The meal was a huge success, and the level of delighted chatter rose to fill the hall.

Kronski managed to eat half a fillet, in spite of his nerves.

Delicious. Exquisite.

They think that was the highlight, he thought. They ain’t seen nothing yet.

After coffee, when the Extinctionists were loosening their cummerbunds or turning fat cigars for an even burn, Kronski instructed his staff to set up the courtroom.

They responded with the speed and expertise of a Formula One pit team, as well they should after three months of being whipped into shape. Literally. The team of workers swarmed across the grid where the melted ice sloshed below like a disturbed swimming pool, a few stray yellowfins floating on the surface. They covered this section of floor and exposed a second pit, this one lined with steel and covered with scorch marks.

Two podiums and a dock were wheeled into the center of the hall, taking the place of the ice trolley. The podiums had computers on their swivel tops, and the wooden dock was occupied by a cage. The cage’s resident was masked by a curtain of leopard skin.

The diners’ chatter ceased as everybody held their breath for the big reveal. This was the moment everyone had waited for, these millionaires and billionaires paying through the nose for a few moments of ultimate power: holding the fate of an entire species in their hands, showing the rest of the planet who was boss. The guests did not notice the dozen or so sharpshooters placed discreetly on the upper terrace in case the creature on trial displayed any new magical powers. There was little chance of a subterranean rescue, as the entire hall was built on a foundation of steel rods and concrete.

Kronski milked the moment, rising slowly from his seat and sauntering across to the prosecutor’s podium.

He steepled his fingers, allowing the moment to build, then began his presentation.

“Every year we put a rare animal on trial.”

There were a few hoots from the audience, which Kronski waved away good-naturedly.

“A
real
trial, where the host prosecutes, and one of you lucky people gets to defend. The idea is simplicity. If you can convince a jury of your unprejudiced peers . . .”

More hooting.

“. . . that the creature in this cage contributes positively to human existence on this planet, then we will free the creature, which, believe it or not, did happen once in 1983. A little before my time, but I am assured that it actually happened. If the defense counsel’s peers are not convinced of the animal’s usefulness, then I press this button.” And here, Kronski’s bulbous fingers twiddled playfully with an oversize red button on his remote control. And the animal drops from its cage into the pit, passing the laser eye beam, which activates the gas-powered flame jets. Voilà, instant cremation.

“Allow me to demonstrate. Indulge me; it’s a new pit. I’ve been testing it all week.”

He nodded at one of the staff, who yanked up a section of the grid with a steel hook. Kronski then picked a melon from a fruit platter and tossed it into the pit. There was a beep followed by an eruption of blue-white flame gouts from nozzles ranged around the pit walls. The melon was burned to black floating crisps.

The display drew an impressed round of applause, but not everyone appreciated Kronski’s grandstanding.

Jeffrey Coontz-Meyers cupped both hands around his mouth. “Come on, Damon. What have we got tonight?

Not another monkey. Every year it’s monkeys.”

Generally interruptions would irritate Kronski, but not tonight. On this night all hectoring, however witty, would be swept from people’s memories the second that curtain was drawn aside.

“No, Jeffrey, not another monkey. What if—”

Jeffrey Coontz-Meyers groaned vocally. “Please, no more
what if’s
. We had half a dozen with the fish. Show us the blasted creature.”

Kronski bowed. “As you wish.”

He thumbed a button on his remote control, and a large view screen descended from the rafters, covering the back wall. Another button pushed, and the curtain concealing the caged creature swished smoothly to one side.

Holly was revealed, cuffed to the baby chair, her eyes darting and furious.

At first the main reaction was puzzlement.

Is it a little girl?

It’s just a child.

Has Kronski gone mad? I knew he sang to himself, but this?

Then the Extinctionists’ eyes were drawn to the screen, which was displaying a feed from a camera clamped to the cage.

Oh my lord. Her ears. Look at her ears.

She’s not human.

What is that? What is it?

Tommy Kirkenhazard stood. “This’d better not be a hoax, Damon. Or we’ll string you up.”

“Two points,” said Kronski softly. “First, this is no hoax. I have unearthed an undiscovered species; as a matter of fact, I believe it to be a fairy. Second, if this was a hoax, you would not be stringing anyone up, Kirkenhazard. My men would cut you down before you could wave that ridiculous hat of yours and shout ‘Yee-haw.’”

Sometimes it was good to send a shiver down people’s spines. Remind them where the power was.

“Of course, your skepticism is to be expected, welcomed, in fact. To put your minds at rest, I will need a volunteer from the audience. How about you, Tommy? How’s that backbone of yours?”

Tommy Kirkenhazard gulped down half a glass of whiskey to bolster his nerves, then made his way to the cage.

Good performance, Tommy, thought Kronski. It’s almost as if we hadn’t arranged this little confrontation to give me a bit more credibility.

Kirkenhazard stood as close to Holly as he dared, then reached in slowly to tweak her ear.

“My saints, it’s no fake. This is the real deal.” He stood back, and the truth of what was happening filled his face with joy. “We got ourselves a fairy.”

Kirkenhazard rushed across to Kronski’s podium and pumped his hand, clapping his back.

And so my biggest critic is converted. The rest will follow like sheep. Useful animals, sheep.

Kronski silently congratulated himself.

“I will prosecute the fairy, as is the tradition,” Kronski told the crowd. “But who will defend? What unlucky member will draw the black ball. Who will it be?”

Kronski nodded at the maître d’.

“Bring the bag.”

Like many ancient organizations, the Extinctionists were bound by tradition, and one of these traditions was that the creature on trial could be defended by any member of the assembly, and if no member was willing, one would be chosen by lottery. A bag of white balls, with one black. The spherical equivalent of the short straw.

“No need for the bag,” said a voice. “I will defend the creature.”

Heads turned to locate the speaker. It was a slender young man with a goatee and piercing blue eyes. He was wearing tinted glasses and a lightweight linen suit.

Kronski had noticed him earlier, but could not put a name to the face, which disturbed him.

“And you are?” he asked, while swiveling his laptop so that the built-in camera was aimed at this stranger.

The young man smiled. “Why don’t we give your identification software a moment to whisper the answer to you.”

Kronski thumbed ENTER, the computer captured an image, and five seconds later it plucked membership details from the Extinctionists’ file.

Malachy Pasteur. Young French-Irish heir to an abattoir empire. Made a sizeable donation to the Extinctionists’coffers. His first conference. As with all attendees, Pasteur was thoroughly vetted before his invitation was issued. A valuable addition to the ranks.

Kronski was all charm.

“Mr. Pasteur. We are delighted to welcome you to Morocco. But tell me, why would you wish to defend this creature? Her fate is almost certainly sealed.”

The young man walked briskly to the podium. “I enjoy a challenge. It is a mental exercise.”

“Defending
vermin
is an exercise?”

“
Especially
vermin,” retorted Pasteur, lifting the lid on his laptop. “It is easy to defend a servile, useful animal like the common cow. But this? This will be a hard-fought battle.”

“A pity to be crushed in battle so young,” said Kronski, his lower lip hanging with mock sympathy.

Pasteur drummed his fingers on the podium. “I have always liked your style, Dr. Kronski. Your commitment to the ideals of Extinctionism. For years I have followed your career, since I was a boy in Dublin, in fact. Lately, however, I feel that the organization has lost its way, and I am not the only one with this feeling.”

Kronski ground his teeth. So that was it. A naked challenge to his leadership.

“Be careful what you say, Pasteur. You tread on dangerous ground.”

Pasteur glanced at the floor below him where ice water still sloshed in the pit beneath. “You mean I could sleep with the fishes? You would kill me, Doctor? A mere boy? I don’t think that would bolster your credibility much.”

He’s right, fumed Kronski. I can’t kill him. I must win this trial.

The doctor forced his mouth to smile. “I don’t kill
humans
,” he said. “Just animals. Like the animal in this cage.”

Kronski’s many supporters applauded, but that still left many silent.

I was wrong to come here, Kronski realized. It is too remote. Nowhere for private jets to land. Next year I will find somewhere in Europe. I will announce the move as soon as I crush this whelp.

“Allow me to explain the rules,” continued Kronski, thinking,
Explaining the rules puts me in charge and gives me the upper hand, psychologically speaking.

“No need,” said Pasteur brusquely. “I have read several transcripts. The prosecutor puts his case, the defender puts his case. A few minutes of lively debate, then each table votes. Simple. Can we please proceed, Doctor. No one here appreciates their time being wasted.”

Clever, young man. Putting yourself on the same side as the jury. No matter. I know these people, and they will never acquit a beast, no matter how pretty she is.

“Very well. We shall proceed.” He selected a document on his desktop. His opening statement. Kronski knew it by heart, but it was comforting to have the words easily accessible.

“People say that we Extinctionists hate animals,” began Kronski. “But this is not the case. We do not hate poor dumb animals; rather, we love humans. We love humans and will do whatever it takes to ensure that we, as a race, survive for as long as possible. This planet has limited resources, and I, for one, say we should hoard them for ourselves. Why should humans starve when dumb animals grow fat? Why should humans freeze when beasts lie toasty warm in their coats of fur?”

Malachy Pasteur made a noise somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. “Really, Dr. Kronski, I have read several variations on this speech. Every year, it seems, you trot out the same simplistic arguments. Can we please focus on the creature before us tonight?”

A tittering ripple spread among the banquet guests, and Kronski had to struggle to contain his temper. It seemed he had a battle on his hands. Very well, then.

“Most amusing, boy. I was going to take it easy on you, but now the gloves are off.”

“We are delighted to hear it.”

We? We?

Pasteur was swinging the Extinctionists his way without their even knowing it.

Kronski summoned every last drop of charisma from inside himself, flashing back to his youth, to those long summer days spent watching his evangelist daddy whip up the crowds inside a canvas tent.

He raised his arms high, each finger bent back until the tendons strained.