***A rather different perspective ... and a single voice.***

They came in the night, of course, the discordant sound of trucks echoing around the shanties, waking the neighbourhood, a baby's sudden cry adding to the cacophony of boots, shouts and the crashing of breaking doors. I lay in the dark waiting, glad that Namono was away with her family, knowing that there was nothing to be done but wait. The chaos moved along the street, punctuated now by screams, the occasional burst of gunfire, the flashes of torches and storm lamps ... more cries.

My own door was not locked but they smashed it with a rifle butt anyway, four of them storming into the single room with AKs at the hip, one sweeping everything off the table, stamping on anything that would break, the others converging on me as I lay on the bed, hands above my head, pointlessly showing that I would not resist ... even as the guns were reversed, the blows raining down on my body ... my head ...

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

I did not die that night, unfortunately.

Instead, I came to in the back of a truck racing along a dirt road, surrounded by a mass of other bodies, some conscious and peering terrified into the night, others lying still but bleeding, yet others, clearly ... dead, necks at odd angles, gaping wounds without any blood flowing. One of the dead was lying across my legs, her dead eyes open and staring at me. I tried to close them but I could not move my arm. I saw it was hanging limply over my t-shirt, broken in many places. I closed my eyes, prayed, if you like, and perhaps those prayers were answered ... I became unconscious again.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

When I woke I was in the dark, not sure for a moment whether I was dreaming, whether this was just another of my recurrent nightmares – my nation's nightmares – but the feel of dirty straw I was lying on, the wet concrete underneath it, the constant buzzing of flies, was no figment of my imagination. I was in a large room, I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, possibly underground but lit from a couple of small, dirty windows high in one wall. I could not tell what time of day it might be ... or even whether the light might come from a floodlight of some sort and that it was night. 

There were a couple of other dim shapes on the straw which I took to be fellow humans, a rustling in the straw indicating the presence of rats, itching across my body that of lice. I was in a dungeon, then, probably the Government Information Centre in K____ ... a building we had all heard rumours of, some of us had seen through its high razor wire fences ... and that some had seen the inside of and survived to tell stories about. I was not surprised, knew that one day I would end up here, but I hoped that I had not brought too many of my neighbours with me.

I was also thirsty, so I went to stand up to see if I could find some water. I had forgotten my wrecked arm, had not previously known that my legs, too, would not work. I could not stand. There was no pain, which was strange, I thought, but I could see that both of my legs lay limp beneath me, a great deal of blood covering the shorts I had been sleeping in. I pulled myself over with my good arm, began to crawl towards the nearest body, hoping for news of where I might find liquid.
The body ... a woman, possibly a girl, no more than a teenager ... was dead, flies gathering on her sightless eyes. There was no water, I knew, then, and gave up my crawling, collapsed beside my companion, lay there and waited to die, if they would only let me.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

It might have been days, weeks or months later. The pain had come, eventually, and gone ... to some extent. I would never walk again, I knew, but my arm had healed to an extent – grossly malformed, but movable, usable if I should ever need it. I had been moved to smaller cell of my own, fed, at times, given water that had poisoned me until my guts got used to it, shitting blood for a while, vomiting constantly ... but kept alive ... after a fashion.

And in this place, that meant I was being kept alive for a purpose, and that purpose could only be one thing. None of my family – even if they were not somewhere else in this building or another like it – could afford to ransom me, no International would be lobbying on my behalf. Therefore, They wanted information, wanted me to feed their conspiracies: Give them names that would continue to spread the web they were smothering the country with. I was not able to kill myself directly ... there was nothing sharp, nothing to strangle myself with, nothing useful ... so I stopped eating, did not drink the foul water any more. This may have provoked them.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

They came in the night, of course. Boots kicking open the door of the cell, shouts, a torch shone directly in my face as they dragged me out into the corridor, threw me into a barrow, wheeled me away, guns pointed directly at me throughout. Did they think I could run away? That my one good arm could grasp the weapons, turn them against them ... or against myself? I did not know, I did not care. It was happening, I knew, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I hoped it would be quick, even as I knew that it would not be.

This time, I was taken to a clean room, thrown into a tiled area and sprayed with a fire hose, freezing water pummelling me against the walls until I was pulled into a sitting position and some chemical sprayed all over me – get rid of the lice, I thought, as I would get rid of you – and then left, naked, in a smaller room. This was tiled, too, with a steel door and an electric light from above. There was nothing else in it. I went to sleep. There was nothing else to do.
 
I woke strapped to a trolley, like you see in Western hospitals on the TV, with a man standing over me ... not an African ... attaching thick wires to my arms and chest, strapping them in place with canvas webbing. He made some comment to a man I couldn't see, in a language I couldn't understand, pushing my crippled legs around and laughing. I knew he was joking about the pointlessness of attaching his tools there and I hated him for it. Even as I was wheeled away, through to another room, this one lit by masses of lights so that it was brighter than the noonday in the mountains. My eyes hurt instantly but closing them didn't make any difference. I felt almost as much as saw a man attach the wires to a machine in the corner, reach towards a large red switch.

Despite myself, I screamed, the terror reaching me before the agony ... and the room seemed to become even brighter.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

When the light faded ... which it did quite quickly ... I found myself in a room that was anything but bright. In fact, it appeared to be entirely black and I was no longer on the trolley. I was lying on a soft padded floor ... also black ... and warm, warm for the first time in ages. I tried to focus my eyes, noticed some writing on the wall – not graffiti but something official. It said, in English, French, Swahili and, yes, even in Lingala ...
 
'You're not dead, you're not dreaming, you are alive.'

I did not understand, knew that it must be a threat, knew that this was just another phase in my long and painful death.

I did not try to move when a section of the wall opened almost like the peeling apart of two skins in the door of the shelters my grandfather had built ... and a white woman appeared, standing over me for a moment, scaning my naked body. I thought she must be CIA, perhaps French, Belgian, something similar ... I did not know that they were helping our government, could not believe that I was important enough to come to their attention even if they were. Had I broken under torture, told then what they wanted to know ... making things up to satisfy their paranoid fantasies? I wondered what sort of diabolical tools she would be able to employ, the technology she would be able to use, the power she had. Involuntarily, I scrabbled away from her, the floor smooth and soft beneath me. I was still staring at her in terror when she spoke for the first time, quietly, and in Lingala.

"I'm really sorry about the wait and the stuff you've been through in the past few weeks, we should have got you out earlier" she said, "but the wall's not a joke. You are safe, and the pain's all over. Now we just need to get you patched up, see what we can do to make things a little better for you."

And the room seemed to buzz ... and I was unconscious yet again.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

This time I woke in an actual bed, like I was in a hotel room only without the shoddy furniture or the sounds of others through the walls. The room was warm and the bed soft, the quilt raised over some sort of frame around my legs, my head and shoulders propped up, one arm bandaged heavily ... but back to its normal shape. I saw a glass of water on the table beside me, used my good arm to drink deeply, finding it chilled and utterly clear, so that it felt like the water of life itself. I was still drinking deeply, hoping that there would be more, that I would not regret drinking all of this in one go, when the door opened and another white person came in.

A man, this time, not the woman I had seen before, and nothing like as pleasant a sight. Whereas I remembered her as statuesque, authoritative in a quiet sort of way, this one was shambling, untidy, unimpressive. He was tall, for sure, but he was dressed like the Anglo charity guys who used to come to our country before the war ... come to patronise us with their advice and their spare change, acting like children playing at being poor while knowing – as we knew – that they were rich beyond our wildest dreams, could end their game without a thought. I would not dress like a tramp if I had their money and I would not respect a man who did ... who could not even get his hair cut, could not be bothered to shave. I knew that he must be in a position of total – life or death – power over me, but I despised him more for his disheveled appearance, at that moment, than anything he might be planning to do to me.

When he spoke, I was hardly surprised any more that he, too, was fluent in Lingala.

"Mr Kimoko," he said, quietly, "Glad to see you awake. My name's Xavier and I'm sort of your host while you're staying with us. If you need anything, just let me know ... you'll see a call bell on the table beside your bed ... or you could just shout ... and I or a colleague will be here in a moment. Is there anything we can get for you now, though?"
I stared at him suspiciously ... his easy use of my own language actually increasing my feelings of vulnerability ... and I did not know how to react. I was frightened, of course, and also, I realised, extremely hungry ... but mainly I wanted to know what was going on. Who were these people, where was I, what did they want with me? I was sure that I was no longer anywhere near home – I hadn't been beaten for hours – but I had no idea how I might have got to wherever I was. I needed to know these things urgently, and while I had no reason to trust this Xavier, I also had no other way of finding the answers, so I asked him.

He told me. And he sounded sincere as he did so, answering the questions that I put to him without hesitation or evasion. We talked for perhaps half an hour, a dish of mwamba chicken arriving – I wasn't quite sure from where – while I was still trying to understand what I was being told.

Eventually, I became tired, told him so ... and he left me to get some sleep ... and to think.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

I woke to find food on the table beside my bed and ate it gratefully even as my mind whirled with the 'information' that I had been given. I was not sure that I entirely understood what had been said – Lingala did not have the words for everything and my English was not good enough to deal with very technical concepts – and I was not sure that I could believe it, even if I thought I ought to ... which was a question in itself.

Even so, the man had told me that I was no longer in my homeland ... or in Africa ... or even on the planet Earth. This did not seem to me to be likely – surely not even the Americans could do this? – but I had no other information to go on. As I was eating and thinking, I realised that I was holding the plate with my 'injured' arm ... which was no longer bandaged ... and seemed to be perfectly mobile, even if the flesh had shrunk and the bones were more visible than before. I stared at it for some time ... food forgotten ... and wondered what had happened. I had seen the arm as it was ... living with a useless appendage for weeks if not months. But now it was OK.
I did not understand.

When I put the plate to one side, I became aware that having eaten well for the second time in a few hours, I was now feeling in need ... in urgent need ... of a toilet. I did not see a bed pan, did not know what I was supposed to do. I remembered the bell, decided I had no choice but to use it ... I could not bear the humiliation of soiling the bed.
Mortifyingly, the bell was answered not by Mr Xavier but by the woman who I had seen when I woke in the dark room. I was speechless and could not tell her what my problem was, the idea seeming almost as humiliating as the alternative I had previously rejected. While I struggled with my embarrassment, the woman preempted me, apparently guessing – or sensing – my need. She smiled, reassuringly, told me that there was a toilet behind the door in the corner of the room. Still struck dumb, I waved a hand at my useless legs, at the distance across to the door in question. Did she expect me to crawl? Was this the beginning of a new humiliation? I could not have anticipated her response to my distress.
"Ah, yes," she said. "your legs. Xav really should have explained things better to you, but I think you'll find your legs are a lot more functional than they were a while ago. So you can get out of bed on your own steam, if you'd like, though I suspect you'll be a bit shaky for a while – there has been considerable muscle wastage and we couldn't repair everything all at once – so I'll give you a hand over to the bathroom if you'd like.

Astonished and amazed I took hold of her outstretched arm and – yes – found that I could move my legs, could walk ... and, after a short while, could do so unassisted.
Zara – as she had told me to call her – left me in privacy and I found I had even more to think about. I was no longer crippled, for a start, but I also realised that Zara had been speaking English throughout our conversation ... and that I had understood every word.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

It was only a couple of weeks later that I met with Zara and Xavier again to find out at last just why I was here. I had seen them in the interim, of course, Zara in particular spending time helping me with work in the gym – restoring me to a level of physical health that, to be honest, I had never even aspired to before – and showing me how to access the incredible archive of data they had about my own country and the world generally. Many things had been suspected about the regime I had lived under, about their actions against my people and their kleptocratic abuse of the nation and its future, but here it all was, in black and white, as they say ... and often in full colour ... and full motion ... as well.

I was by turns, amazed, shocked, and appalled but very soon I found any doubts I had about the veracity of the information faded away. It was just too detailed, too consistent, too real. I'd wondered why it was being shown to me, what they planned to do. And now, I hoped, I was about to find out.

In fact, I met with Zara and Xavier – the latter dressed more formally than I had ever seen him before – in the company of a second woman – Yvonne, as Zara introduced her to me – who was as tall and willowy ... and as blonde ... as Zara was curvaceous and dark. For some reason she sat on the floor in front of Zara's chair, keeping her eyes demurely cast down almost throughout the meeting. 

It turned out that there was another participant, too ... the 'Artificial Intelligence' that Zara had told me about ... but which now revealed itself to be capable of talking and responding directly, its voice appearing somewhat mysteriously from the middle of the room. 

The AI – I did not yet feel comfortable with calling it the Wisdom, as Xavier and Zara did routinely – took the lead. We had reached the stage when we needed to take action, it said, and the decision had been taken to start with my homeland, both because its crisis was most acute but also because it offered the chance to positively influence the entire region. To do this would require people to return to Earth and directly intervene with key individuals. It set out a detailed plan, naming people and places of which I had previously read only in newspapers – or heard on the underground rumour mill – describing how we would set them against each other, eliminating most through their own efforts while simultaneously promoting more honest and well intentioned individuals as positions became available. At the same time, a few individuals – in my country and others – would need to be addressed directly. I did not know exactly what it meant by that – or why Yvonne grinned the way she did, looking quickly round at Zara, as if for approval – but somehow I knew that I would be doing much of the addressing. 

I did not think this would be a problem, remembering my times in their prisons, the friends who had never reappeared. I was glad that my wife, Namono, was safe across the border with her family. Zara had promised that she would be Protected ... kept safe ... and that I would see her soon. I hoped that she would not worry too much about me in the interim.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

We talked in great detail for a long time: Xavier surprised me with his knowledge of my country and its politics, and Zara with her ability to map out consequences and after effects, the normally unpredictable ramifications of well intentioned interventions. I think I contributed local knowledge, insights into the inter-ethnic tensions within the 'state', personal experience of some of the people they had identified as 'positive players'. The woman Yvonne was mainly silent, but joined us in critiquing the AI's suggestions about what a future government might look like – not some transplanted travesty of a western 'democracy' but something more routed in local culture and history ... of which the details could only emerge as the process unfolded.

Good, I thought ... we needed to take control of our country and our future for the first time since the colonials arrived so many years ago.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

When we finished, Zara and Xavier returned to their quarters to discuss some future "prospects" – people who might also be brought across, presumably to serve some role in the forthcoming events – leaving me alone with Yvonne in the corridor. I was not sure what to do, never having met her before – and having learnt little about her from our discussions – but she took the lead.

"Seems we're going to be working quite closely, Patrice," she said, using my given name for the first time, "So maybe we should get to know each other. Fancy a drink with me?"
I was getting used to the way these people used alcohol – frequently and, in Zara's case, often with other recreational drugs – and saw no reason to decline the offer, so we went on down to one of the communal rest areas ... a collection of couches grouped around some tables and a small fountain, for some reason ... and Yvonne ordered drinks from the AI – tequila cocktails, which was another first for me. I took mine, sipped it, nodded in appreciation.

It seemed that her silence extended to more intimate settings, too, so eventually I asked her how she came to be here, what her role was within the set up. I suppose I wasn't too surprised to learn of her history of addiction and self destruction – all of these rich westerners seemed to have been hell bent on the same – but I did not expect her to be so candid with her description of her current employment.

"I'm an assassin, P, my job is to kill people, often in ways that make a point to others – quite imaginatively and messily, in other words. Other times I maybe put the fear of god up people, get behind all their elaborate – ha! – security and give them something to remember me by. We find it helps them to concentrate when Xav or Zara – or yourself, now – come round later to open negotiations."

I did not react, immediately, perhaps because my ability to feel surprised had been somewhat exhausted over the time I had been here. Instead, I looked at her as steadily as possible.

"Sounds a dirty job", I said, "But someone's got to do it."

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

She laughed at that, and I realised that she had been worried how I might react. To be honest, I was slightly surprised myself ... I was not a violent man, did not believe in violence as a solution to problems ... and had never before imagined a woman taking on such a role. And yet, I knew – had direct experience of – the men who ran my country and the lengths they were prepared to go. Which, it occurred to me, would involve killing any number of their fellow humans, but which never putting them, individually, to the slightest risk. And, it seemed, some sort of 'demonstration', as Yvonne was implying might well be the only way to ... influence them. So I asked who she thought would be the first target in my homeland, given that we had discussed a range of possibilities. She thought for a second, then answered calmly.

"Well, our friendly AI is anything but keen on just taking out the head honcho – your illustrious president for life – and its right ... the power vacuum could be problematic. So we should probably start with some of the grubbier state security types ... some of the bastards who almost killed you for instance ... and let their lords and masters get really paranoid ... not that they aren't completely fucked up already, of course. Oh, and there are a few people in Europe – bankers, arms traders – who've been supporting them and who it might be convenient to remove from the picture." 

She smiled grimly, ordering more drinks for both of us and then continuing. "Problem is, of course, that we also need to start building some sort of constructive alternative even as we're destabilising the current regime ... and from what you've said about the state of the opposition that is not going to be easy. Won't look good if we simply ship in a bunch of exiles – even if most of them weren't quite so corrupt themselves – but god knows there's not a lot to work on in-country at the moment." She paused.
"I don't suppose you'd like to be president, would you?"

I laughed ... not quite as shocked at the suggestion as I might have been. "I'm a teacher, Yvonne, not a politician ... except when my students are denied the right to think ... but not presidential material, that's for sure. Anyway, I'm from the mountains and we don't get to form the government ... its sort of understood. More to the point, I know far too much about you lot ... I could never be anything but a figurehead, aware that I had aliens overseeing my every move. No, whoever gets to lead my country must be able to pursue his own course ... make his own mistakes. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Well, it might keep an awful lot of people alive, for one thing, but I take your point. Except for your presumption that the leader figure has to be a man?"

I laughed at her piqued expression, then replied more seriously. "Actually, that's an interesting thought. One of the few things that the current junta haven't completely destroyed are the women's networks across the country ... some of our original peoples were pretty much matriarchal, before the colonials, and women have always had influence. But they were not seen as a threat ... not a physical threat, anyway ... so they've largely escaped attention from the Bureau and the rest. Which, of course, makes them a possible rallying point for the new order ... something we didn't really speculate on in our recent discussions, incidentally."

She looked thoughtful, then brightened. "Yes, well ... there are times, between you and me, when I wonder how creative our AI actually is ... seems to have a set of fairly standard assumptions about governments and organisation and stuff ... maybe built in prejudices – literally built in, perhaps, in its case. On the other hand, I really like the idea ... particularly as we have a rather fine example of local masculinity on hand to do some of the networking and awareness raising."

I was rather more shocked this time, unsure as to what she was suggesting but not liking the implications nonetheless. "I am also a married man," I told her, "and I do not think our women are so shallow as to be influenced by such trivial considerations as to what an emissary looked like. Nor to sell their cause on the basis of sex or sexual attraction."
"OK ... sorry ... I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort, directly ... but ... well ... if we were to go down this line we would be asking people to take pretty major risks ... to put themselves in considerable danger, at least apparently – we can hardly start describing to people in detail just how we could keep them safe, obviously – and sometimes its easier to give that sort of commitment on the basis of more than just respect for a cause or moral conviction. The personal can be political in more ways than one, if you see what I mean. And you are a very fine figure of a man, Patrice ..."

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

I thought about her words later, as I tried to get to sleep. I was not willing to make myself a gigolo – even for the sake of my country's very future – and yet I could see the sense in Yvonne's words. Sometimes it was easier to commit totally to a cause on the back of personal rather than just political relationships ... and sometimes the trust and closeness required in any covert, dangerous activity led to personal ... affection ... anyway.

I lay there for some time, grappling with the ideas, with the confusion that they caused me. I was missing Namono, of course ... I had not seen her for months, since she had fled to her brother's house across the border ... but I was thinking more about Yvonne. She, too, was a fine figure ...

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

Next morning, I found Zara and Yvonne in the gym, practicing some form of martial arts with an intensity and passion that surprised me. Both women wore loose white gis that were soaked in sweat, neither apparently bothered that their clothing exposed considerable amounts of flesh as they made their moves. I watched, fascinated by the commitment they were showing to their training ... and enjoying the brief flashes of breasts I was privy to ... Zara's quite large and mobile, Yvonne's much smaller and firmer. 

Eventually, I tore myself away, moved through to the weights room, began a circuit that the AI had designed for me. I was just completing this, thinking of heading for shower, when Zara and Yvonne came through from their work out, sat down watching me. I became slightly embarrassed, aware that I was wearing nothing more than a pair of shorts ... and remained slightly aroused from my earlier observations. However, I could not continue on the machines for ever and so turned to face them, finding Zara sitting on a bench with, again, Yvonne sitting on the floor in front of her, Zara's hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

"Muscle tone coming on well, there, Patrice," she said, not even attempting to disguise her appraisal of my near naked form. I shrugged, disconcerted, as she continued. "Well, come on ... you got a good eyeful of us earlier on ... only fair that we get a look of our own."

This time I was mortified, looking away and wondering whether there was any sort of hiding place available. Yvonne continued with the theme.

"Its not a problem, P ... god knows I'm liking what I'm seeing and I hope you liked what you saw, too." I looked up, at this, only to find that Zara had leant forward and undone Yvonne's tunic, fully exposing her breasts. She was grinning at me, eyes only too obviously taking in my growing erection, which I knew must be only too visible through my shorts. 

And then she stood up, turned away ... at the same time stopping Yvonne from standing up with her ... and said, as she was leaving, "Well ... I need to have a chat with Xav, so I think I'll take a shower at home ... maybe with him. Why don't you guys get on with getting to know each other?"
 
--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

As if ordered, Yvonne stood and stripped off her remaining clothes, standing naked before me as she said, "Well, you heard the woman ..."
"And ... do you always do as she instructs?" I asked ... gazing at her as my thoughts whirled in confusion.

"Oh, yes ... I find it ... helps." She paused, momentarily, went on. "And it doesn't look like you find the idea totally objectionable, so what would you like me to do?"
This I could not answer ... not even Namono – my wife - had ever spoken this way to me before. This woman was acting like the most brazen prostitute and yet ... it did not seem to be an act ... just an easy acceptance of the situation, of her own – and my – sexuality. Still, I could not speak and she smiled, slightly, knelt down before me, hands pulling down my shorts, and took my penis into her mouth.

--- ---- ---- --- ----- ----- ---

Later, we moved to her living space, more comfortable in her bed than on a hard gym floor and ... I learnt many things I had not known about women, about their needs and desires. I did not forget Namono but I could not feel guilty either ... somehow this was something that I knew both Yvonne and I needed ... and that it was entirely natural, however I might have judged such acts only a few days before.

Still, I thought, as I finally began to fall asleep beside her, quite what was Zara's role in all of this?