Lament for the Fallen

by Gavin Chait

  ‘They smell terrible,’ says Daniel, to laughter.

  Gideon steeples his hands up to his chin. His fingers are long, the nails white against his skin, their edges neatly trimmed. ‘Why do they carry a radio without any batteries?’

  Joshua nods.

  Miriam coughs. She is older still than Gideon, almost eighty-five, an age few in the village reach. She was once fat, but now her skin is wrinkled and sagging. She looks tired.

  ‘The last river traders mentioned there was not much suitable metal available in Calabar. Perhaps there are no batteries to be had, even for men with guns?’ she says.

  Esther stands and fills a kettle at the sink. It is white and pot-like. She places it on the stove and then gathers mugs, teaspoons and sugar. Daniel hands her milk from the fridge.

  ‘But to carry it anyway? Do they think to scare us?’ says Joshua.

  ‘They hope others will not notice. It may offer some security,’ says Daniel.

  ‘It is possible. If such metal is more valuable, I am worried this will mean more militia searching for debris,’ says Joshua, smiling his thanks as he takes a mug.

  Daniel bites his lower lip as if he means to speak, but remains still. The scouts and sentinels are in place, and it would take a sizeable force to overwhelm the village.

  Joshua smiles at him, taps the table. ‘Never mind, they were convinced. Daniel has performed tremendous work,’ he says.

  Daniel grins happily. ‘We need to remain wary, though. I am increasing the number of maintenance crews on the sentinels from tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘It is a relief they know nothing of the sky person,’ says Gideon.

  ‘Sky people’ – their name for those in the orbital cities. They know very little of them, for they are even more remote and foreign to their lives than those living in Europe or the Americas.

  The others wrinkle their noses and look uncomfortable.

  ‘We moved him from the clinic this morning,’ says Miriam. ‘He is in one of Gideon’s storerooms near the market,’ nodding her thanks. He smiles back.

  ‘We have a rota of nurses who will visit every day and ensure he has what he needs. My granddaughter was with him today,’ says Miriam. Abishai’s eyes brighten at this unexpected mention of young Edith.

  ‘He is still in a coma. Today he asked for fish broth.’ She shakes her head. ‘I still do not know how to speak of this. “He” is in a coma, but “he” speaks.’

  ‘What did he say? Exactly?’ asks Daniel.

  ‘He says, “Feed him fish broth. He will need about four litres. Feed it to him over eight hours.” I was there. Edith put a funnel in his mouth and poured it carefully. He swallowed the lot. Very lively for a person in a coma.’ She sounds vaguely affronted.

  ‘We do not know how advanced their technology is. He could host a computer, like the sphere, and it is telling us what to do through him,’ says Joshua.

  ‘It is possible,’ says Gideon.

  Esther scoops loose leaves of tea from a tightly lidded container and into the boiling pot. The tannic fragrance fills the kitchen. She places it in the centre of the table for the others to help themselves. The scorching bottom adds another dark ring to the pattern of shared moments burned into the wood.

  ‘What does the sphere say about him?’ asks Abishai, pouring herself a mug.

  Ewuru is fortunate, for few villages can afford their own sphere. Its power is limited outside the connect, but it is a vital source of knowledge: a library of designs and methods that inform the printers, and its gene bank makes seed production possible. It is integral to village life.

  ‘There is little. Perhaps they do not share all their secrets,’ answers Gideon. He drums his fingers on the table, then stops as Esther raises an eyebrow. He smiles an apology.

  There is a lull as tea is tasted, savoured and given the contemplation it deserves.

  ‘I have never seen healing like this,’ says Miriam. ‘This morning Edith permitted me to examine him,’ she continues. ‘His limbs are straight and unmarked. He is breathing normally. The bruising is gone. His chest is shaped correctly. He has lost a great deal of weight, but he looks as if he could wake up at any moment.’

  ‘And he still weighs three times as much as any of us,’ says Daniel.

  ‘If he knew he was going to be this injured, perhaps he put on the weight in advance?’ suggests Joshua.

  ‘Where, though? He is about your size,’ says Daniel.

  ‘That silver fluid? It is not just in his blood,’ says Miriam, shivering as she remembers the extent of the injuries.

  ‘I think he will be awake soon; then he can answer our questions. The most important of which is, what do we do with him?’ says Gideon.

  Esther is yawning, covering it with one hand, her other holding an empty mug. Miriam’s eyes crinkle as she looks fondly on the young woman. She motions that the meeting should withdraw. There is a quiet scraping of chairs. Each takes Joshua’s hands and smiles to Esther as they leave, Daniel and Abishai going in different directions, Gideon and Miriam holding hands and looking as if they will be having another long night of tea-filled conversation ahead of them.

  Eventually, it is only Joshua and Esther standing in the kitchen. He closes the door and switches off the light.

  ‘My husband,’ she says, her voice low.

  ‘My wife,’ he answers.

  He takes her hands, pulling her gently towards him, surrounding her with his arms. Her body is slim and strong as she folds herself into him. He rests his jaw against her cheek, her head moulded into his shoulder. He holds her head in one hand. Their breathing slows, harmonizes.

  And they share each other there in the stillness and gentleness of the night.

  6

  [Samar.]

  The word is not so much spoken as simply present, as if time has been arranged so that it has been heard without it being necessary for it to be said.

  A headless torso floats in the darkness. It is hollow, ribs jagged, guts trailing out in the air leading towards it. Globs of blood and matter drifting around it. It is not fresh and has congealed into a sticky, ruddy mass in the sterile air.

  Howls of madness. Scrabbling scars on the metal walls where they were torn apart by the explosion and scratched by prisoners.

  Chill fear as he watches the survivor tearing at a desiccated leg, stripping off the meat and gobbling it down.

  Shadows against the wall advancing on them.

  [Samara.]

  It is not insistent, neither patient nor expectant. It is like a cursor on a computer screen. It tells you it is there, ready, and then it waits.

  Screaming and smashing his hands against the walls of the cell. Naked as he tumbles in space. His agony joined by shrieking and yowling from along the tunnels. Clutching at the torn holes where his ears used to be.

  Sobbing and slashing at the walls in outrage.

  [Samara.]

  Breathing, regular and deep. Falters. There is a lurch. A gasp. Only a moment, and then it continues, slow and regular.

  Her body dewed with bubbles, rising naked from the tawny depths. The green of her eyes, the warmth of her skin against his. His heart slows as he kisses her and his body relaxes, folding into hers.

  Calmer now, he drifts gently into consciousness.

  ‘I am awake.’ His mind is fogged, his immediate past unclear.

  ‘Shakiso. We were swimming in the summer lake. How long was I dreaming?’

  [I have maintained your coma for eighteen days. It will take another eight days of active healing for you to return to normal function.]

  ‘I can’t move yet?’

  [No, but the paralysis is part of the induced coma. It will wear off in the next few seconds. How do you feel? What do you remember?]

  The room is gloomy, a trickle of light filtering through the open window. Soon the day will brighten.

  The fibre mattress lies directly on the floor. The standard bed frame used in the village was not strong enough to support the m
an who lies there, and it was removed. A mosquito net is drawn tightly under the mattress, and a thin cellulosic sheet covers him.

  The man is on his back, his legs straight before him and his arms at his sides. He is tall, almost two metres, and his body – although slender and not overly bulky – is peculiar almost for its perfection. This is how a textbook would describe anatomy or the way a sculptor would carve a man in stone. His face long and angular, thin mouth, long thin nose, arched brows. His head is perfectly smooth.

  Even in the crepuscular light of the room he is alien. His skin gleams like matt metal: a titanium sheen that feels cool and unyielding.

  ‘I remember you bolting me in. It was dark. Cramped. Then you blanked me out for the journey.’

  [Yes. Your memory is fine, then?]

  For a moment he is back there. Hammering on the walls. Confinement. His ears. Shrieks and blood. A madman, human flesh between his teeth. The planet suspended.

  A sharp exhale and he brings himself back.

  ‘I remember. I don’t want to think about it until we’re home.’

  [I understand.]

  It waits until the man is ready.

  ‘Eight days to fitness? Why so long?’

  [The village does not have all the nutrients you will require to heal any faster.]

  ‘I understand. Very well, what has happened since I blanked?’

  [The first part of the journey was perfect. I fired the rockets in sequence to bring us into the atmosphere. We disconnected from the umbilical at 95,000 metres. The gyroscope shell remained stationary, and you were locked in place. I controlled our angle of descent with only light touches.

  [I then angled us across towards Africa.

  [At 50,000 metres, I repositioned the craft to induce spin. This gave us sufficient time to cross from the Pacific. We remained over the oceans, outside the connect.

  [At 14,000 metres, the wing started to develop a slight asymmetry.]

  ‘We expected this, though.’

  [Yes, just as we calculated your injuries. For the next 6,000 metres of vertical fall, the effect on the gyroscope was minimal.

  [At 8,000 metres, we depleted the energy required to maintain your external shell. That sloughed away. We were at sufficient altitude and you resumed breathing. Again, as expected.

  [A minor rotation developed. At 6,000 metres, I triggered the airbags as the rotation was becoming severe.]

  ‘Did they work? Did they hold me in place?’

  [Yes. They are a good solution. Unfortunately, the tolerances are not good enough. At 1,500 metres, the rotation became extremely severe. The tension on the airbags was too great. The one on your left side burst at 900 metres. Much of the damage you suffered occurred below 500 metres, when the remaining bags collapsed. The crash through the trees saw to the rest.]

  ‘And how close to the target zone are we?’

  [We are about 350 kilometres north of where we expected, in southern Nigeria, the Benue Peninsula.

  [We’re in the village of Ewuru, about 250 kilometres up the Akwayafe River and near the border with Cameroon. About 2,400 kilometres from the coast to the umbilical. Say 2,700 kilometres all told. Well outside the connect for our purposes, but that also means we rely on luck as to what is available.]

  ‘Tell me about Ewuru. How far can you detect?’

  [Only about five metres at the moment. I can get that up to ten to fifteen once you’re healed, but you will feel blind.]

  ‘I understand.’ He stops, his mind wanders, tracing her feel and warmth and heart. ‘I miss her.’

  There is tactful silence.

  ‘Ewuru?’

  [Not really a village, not really a town. Fortunately your nurses are a very talkative bunch. There are about 14,300 people here. Enough to support much specialization. They grow tea. You’ll like that. They have quite a diverse range of agriculture and, technology-wise, your grandfather would be proud. They have a river turbine, a range of fabricators, digesters and a sphere.]

  ‘Good, we were hoping for these. What have you learned?’

  ‘The sphere has been out of the connect for a very long time, but I have learned their language, food, customs. More than enough.’

  ‘And the turbine? Do they have spares?’

  [Yes. I think they have an entire replacement, and a smaller emergency turbine, but neither have seen use.]

  ‘So, we have propulsion. What will we do for energy? Fuel, batteries?’

  [Their fabricators are very basic and can produce simple structures only. This may be where we end up mired in local politics. Soldiers came through almost a week ago.]

  ‘Looting?’

  [No, they appear to have been looking for you.]

  ‘Someone saw?’

  [I brought us in from over the sea, but, yes, many people saw. Still, we have been very lucky. The village has no fear of the local warlords. Joshua Ossai, the village leader, led the soldiers to a large boulder they disguised as a meteorite. They cleaned it up a treat. Made it look as if it landed the same time you did. It is too big and shouldn’t have fooled them. Nonetheless, the soldiers seemed convinced and left.]

  ‘I owe him thanks. That is quick thinking.’

  [They’ve looked after you well. Only –]

  An unusual hesitation.

  ‘What?’

  [I don’t know. Technology, economy, society – there isn’t anything out of the ordinary, and yet this village is remarkably self-sufficient. More so than I would expect. Nothing unusual, just odd when one looks closely.]

  ‘Something unique to this village?’

  [I don’t know. We’ve had no real information from this area in sixty-five years. Not since –]

  ‘Yes,’ Samara pauses. ‘What have you told them?’

  [Nothing. Only how to care for you.]

  ‘I will have explanations to make. Back to my question about energy. What is the problem?’

  [The village has no high-density batteries. The nearest city where you may be able to print something is Calabar. And don’t ask, the connect runs through the northern part of it. Dangerous to visit.]

  ‘Options.’

  [There is only one I can see at this stage, considering how far north we are from our target. We need to cross about 400 kilometres of oil. The ocean currents in the Bight push the oil zone into the coast. It is very thick here. We will need to double energy output and potentially use a small wing to plane over the surface, but only to cross the Bight. From there we should be fine.]

  ‘How long to make the journey?’

  [Eight days to travel to Calabar, print the battery and return. Then two and a half to get home. We need to concentrate on solving the battery problem immediately. First, though, eight days to exercise and heal.]

  ‘Very well.’

  [Something else. A griot came through here almost a week ago.]

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  [They call him Balladeer, but he sounded like Ismael to me. He sang a song that I could just hear which seemed to be for you.]

  ‘Let me guess, we are fallen?’

  [Something like that.]

  ‘He has a funny sense of humour, that man. It would be good to see him again.’

  [Yes, maybe in Calabar. I gather that is his next destination. The paralysis has worn off.]

  ‘Time to go.’

  Samara opens his eyes.

  7

  Edith is late and flustered as she arrives to look in on her patient. She also has a bag of unanticipated oranges. She is flustered because she takes her responsibilities seriously, and late because Abishai has a way of unsettling her unexpectedly.

  She is young and has little experience of intimacy. When she sees Abishai, though, she feels a confusing sense of emotion that she does not understand. An overly warm embarrassment and sudden clumsiness.

  It seems like only minutes ago that she left the home she shares with her parents. As she turned into Calabar Road, towards the market, she had seen Abishai talking to a man. She
barely noticed him, but Abishai. Her route would take her right past her. She had ducked behind a stall, pretending to inspect the fruit piled up there. She did not even notice what it was.

  ‘You buy my oranges,’ said old man Ejimole, filling a bag as he spoke.

  She tried refusing, but between the invisibility of the orange and juice cart, and the exposure of walking past Abishai, she was trapped. Yes, of course, she appreciates how difficult it is to grow oranges on the equator. It is impressive what those young geneticists at the university get up to. I am sure they are lovely, but they are quite expensive. And, oh no, would you look at the time?

  In result, she is late, flustered and carrying a bag of oranges. Hardly the state to be in for what she will see next.

  There is no light on in the small room and, as she opens the door, sunshine lances across the floor. Spotlit, in the act of standing up, is her patient.

  He is naked, his skin an even matt titanium, darker shadows as he moves, making him seem carved out of a single solid piece. His skin appears to be absorbing the light, sucking it down. Something she struggles to describe.

  His hands and feet, ideal forms. He has no sex, merely a smooth mound at his pubis.

  All this she has seen before, as he lay comatose, but now – awake, alive – he looks like a young god, fallen to earth.

  His eyes, as he stares at her, glow gold.

  She stifles a scream, then, ever professional, says, ‘Good morning, sir. Please, could you wait? I will fetch someone to help you.’

  He nods. Then, in accentless Efik, ‘Thank you. Would you have something I could wear?’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry, of course, I will bring something,’ she stammers, then turns and flees, leaving the door open behind her, her oranges clasped safely in one hand.

  Outside, he can hear a ripple of fear and excitement following the girl as she scrambles through the village. ‘He is awake!’

  [That went well.]

  ‘None of that. What must I look like to them?’

  [Scary. Like the dead come to life.]

  ‘Hmm.’

  [Put them at ease. Use that famous grace and charm of yours.] And there is gentle laughter somewhere in the back of his mind.