22

The announcements were being broadcast simultaneously in Swahili, Japanese, English, and French.

This close to New Nippon the crowd was disconcertingly mixed, thick with Afjaps. Never in his life had Aubry seen so many human beings—and more to the point, so many human beings of his own color.

It was a new sensation, and as he moved forward, and saw that many of them were cheering for him, for the feat of arms that they had just witnessed, something happened within him.

He looked down at his own skin color, and then up again at the people surrounding him. It seemed as if he were moving in slow motion. Flags waved in the air, hands saluted with the same holovid artificiality. A forest of dusky arms surrounded him. Countless faces with block-toothed smiles, glittering with pride and cheering, cheering.

Then he saw the platform ahead, where stood the most famous black African who ever lived. A man of power and genius and protean evil.

And on the word of men paler than either of them, Aubry was prepared to murder Swarna. Had striven to murder him. Had dedicated his life, and quite likely his death, to the cause of murder.

Hadn’t there been enough death? And what would replace this man? Even if he was evil, wouldn’t his death merely destabilize the continent further?

And what then?

But then the line moved forward again, and he was in the final approach.